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Harry Potter had survived a great many things—bludgers to the face, drunken Weasley stag nights, even a department-wide Polyjuice mix-up at the Auror Office.

But nothing, nothing, compared to the pressure of his mother’s voice echoing through the enchanted fireplace.

“You’re bringing someone to the party this time, Harry James Potter, or I swear to Merlin I will invite every single unmarried witch I know.”

Harry flinched so hard his tea sloshed over the rim of his mug. “Mum—”

“No, I’m done hearing excuses,” Lily said sharply, eyes narrowing from the emerald flames like she’d hex him through the Floo if she could. “You're twenty-three, handsome, successful, and still somehow single. I know you hate my parties, so maybe if you had someone to talk to other than Sirius—who flirts with everything—you’d have a better time.”

“I talk to Remus.”

“He brings Sirius. That’s not talking. That’s surviving.”

Harry groaned and slumped forward. “Mum, I’ve been working six days straight. Can’t I skip one party?”

“You missed Yule. You missed James’s birthday dinner. And you’re not skipping this one. It’s our anniversary.”

Oh bollocks. It was.

He rubbed his hand through his hair, already hearing his father's teasing voice in the back of his mind. The two of them had somehow never grown out of their youthful chaos, and now they hosted “celebrations” like they were still in Gryffindor Tower. Loud music, enchanted champagne fountains, and a guest list that somehow included Kingsley Shacklebolt and Celestina Warbeck.

Harry swallowed a sigh. “Fine. I’ll bring someone.”

Lily’s eyes gleamed. “Really? Who?”

Shit.

Who?

He could say no one and suffer the matchmaking nightmare. He could ask Ginny—but that was a disaster waiting to happen, and she was finally dating Luna. Hermione and Ron were together. Neville was married. Everyone was married.

Everyone except—

“Draco.”

Lily blinked.

Harry panicked.

“Draco Malfoy?” she said, her voice rising in a way that made Crookshanks next door meow angrily.

“Yeah,” Harry said, heat flooding his face. “We’ve, uh, been seeing each other.”

Lily’s eyebrows climbed so high they nearly disappeared into the flames. “You’re dating Draco Malfoy?”

“Technically, yes,’” Harry said weakly, immediately regretting everything.

His mother just stared at him, dumbfounded.

Then, slowly, she grinned. “Well. I can’t say I saw that coming. But she’s very pretty. And sharp. I like that in a woman.”

“Mum—”

“No, I approve!” Lily said, actually beaming now. “Bring her. Oh, imagine the look on your father’s face—Sirius will faint.”

Harry wanted to crawl into a hole and die. “I have to go. Auror duty. Paperwork. Bye.”

He cut the Floo connection with a loud whoosh and let his head thump against the mantle.

He’d just told his mother he was dating Draco Malfoy.

Who he hadn’t spoken to outside of professional events and the occasional, inexplicably loaded glance in nearly six months.

Draco Malfoy was, unfortunately, even more gorgeous in person.

Harry stood in the doorway of the apothecary-turned-private research office she owned near Diagon Alley, shifting nervously under her frosty grey stare. She wore high-waisted black trousers, a sleeveless grey blouse that matched her eyes, and not a single hair of her platinum braid was out of place.

He was already sweating.

“You want me to what?” she asked, crisp and cold as January air.

“Pretend to be my girlfriend. Just for one night.”

Draco tilted her head, gaze flicking down his body like she was sizing him up for a duel. “Potter, are you actually deranged?”

“I told my mother we were dating,” Harry muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “She threatened to set me up with every eligible bachelorette in the country. I panicked.”

“And you picked me?” she said, voice dangerously smooth. “Why?”

Harry hesitated.

He couldn’t say because I think about kissing you every time I see you at Ministry events. He couldn’t say because you looked so smug when you beat me at that Potion law debate that I had a dream about bending you over a desk afterwards.

So he said, “You’re the least likely person anyone would believe I’d date. It’s perfect.”

Draco arched a brow. “So I’m a decoy. A diversion.”

“Exactly!”

She stepped forward slowly, until she was just inside his space. He caught a whiff of something subtle—peppermint and something darker. Her lipstick was plum-red. Her mouth was very close.

“Fine,” she said at last. “I’ll do it.”

Harry blinked. “You will?”

Draco smirked. “Under two conditions.”

“Anything.”

“One—if you’re going to fake-date me, you’re going to do it properly. That means hand-holding. That means compliments. That means pretending you want to be near me.”

Harry’s throat went dry. “I… can do that.”

“And two,” she added, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulder, “you will owe me one favor. Unspecified. Redeemable at any time.”

He knew this was probably how souls were sold to devils.

But she was smiling at him with feline pleasure, and he couldn’t look away.

“Deal,” he croaked.

“You’ve got it bad, mate,” Ron said, kicking Harry’s leg under the table.

Harry nearly dropped his fork.

They were in the Ministry canteen, and Harry had just told Ron and Hermione about his predicament. Except he’d left out the part where he already fancied Draco Malfoy and had fantasized about her at least thrice in the last week.

Hermione raised a brow. “You chose her for a fake relationship?”

Harry sighed. “It was either that or Daphne Greengrass.”

“Fair point,” she admitted.

“But it’s not just fake for you,” Ron said knowingly. “You’ve had a thing for her since that Auror gala when she showed up in that gold dress. You barely blinked all night.”

“I was just—”

“Trying not to drool,” Hermione added, sipping her tea. “Yes, we noticed.”

“I am not in love with her.”

They both just looked at him.

The night of the party arrived far too quickly.

Harry adjusted his dress robes in the mirror, heart pounding. He looked decent. Or at least not like he was about to throw up from nerves.

When Draco arrived at Grimmauld Place, it was like time stopped.

She wore a fitted black gown with a slit up one leg, silver accents at her ears, and a smoky look in her eye that said she was going to make him suffer—for fun.

“Are you going to stare all night, or will you offer me your arm, darling?” she said sweetly.

He offered his arm. She took it.

And then they Apparated to Potter Manor.

Lily was thrilled. James was speechless. Sirius dropped his drink. Remus just smiled knowingly. Everyone else buzzed with gossip.

And Draco played her role perfectly.

She leaned in close, whispered in Harry’s ear, laughed softly at his terrible jokes, and curled her hand around his bicep like it belonged there. Her perfume made his head spin.

By the third glass of wine, he was fully doomed.

“So tell me,” she murmured, lips near his ear as they stood near the garden terrace, “what exactly is your end goal here, Potter? Once the night is over, we simply stop pretending?”

He looked at her.

At the glitter in her eyes. The softness in her mouth. The way she was watching him, like she already knew the answer.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly.

Draco tilted her head. “Hmm.”

And then—without warning—she kissed his cheek.

He froze.

The skin burned.

“Practice,” she said, smirking. “Just in case someone’s watching.”

He didn’t move for a solid minute.

Because someone was watching.

And it was him.

Watching her.

Wanting her.

Worse still, wondering if she might want him too.

The morning after the party, Harry woke up with Draco Malfoy's scent clinging to his skin.

Which was maddening, considering she hadn't even stayed the night.

Not that he'd expected her to.

They’d put on a hell of a show—Draco touching his shoulder with maddening familiarity, slipping her hand into his at just the right moments, saying things like “You know how Harry gets after one glass of champagne” with a teasing wink that made his mother cackle.

By the time the night ended, half the wizarding world was convinced they were shagging in private broom cupboards.

But when Harry walked her back to the Floo, she'd just smiled and said, “That should keep them buzzing for weeks,” before disappearing in a swirl of green flame.

And then she was gone.

Harry groaned and rolled over, burying his face in his pillow.

There was definitely something underneath. Just… not the kind his mother could know about.

Draco had been perfection. Cool, sharp, attentive, devastatingly gorgeous. But she hadn’t just acted like she was interested. She’d made him feel wanted.

And that was the part Harry didn’t know how to recover from.

She sent him a note three days later.

Potter.
Apparently, word travels fast. You owe me coffee.
Don’t be boring.
—D.M.

It was written in delicate, looping script on creamy parchment that smelled faintly of bergamot and irony.

Harry stared at it like it was cursed.

Because she hadn’t said they were done pretending. She hadn’t said the act was over.

And if Draco Malfoy wanted to keep playing pretend, Harry wasn’t strong enough to say no.

They met at a quiet café in Knockturn Alley—not the dark side, but the gentrified edge where Unspeakables liked to take their dates and potioneers tested new blends in public.

Draco wore charcoal grey robes and a twisted silver ring on one hand. Her hair was pinned half-up, and she ordered coffee like it was a negotiation with the gods.

“You’re late,” she said, sipping delicately from her cup.

Harry sat, feeling about twelve years old. “I couldn’t find the entrance.”

“It’s marked by a green moth,” she said, arching a brow. “Hidden unless you know to look.”

“Ah,” Harry said. “Secretive. Just like you.”

Draco smirked, one corner of her mouth curling. “Tell me, are you always this awkward on second dates, or is it just with me?”

Harry blinked. “This is… a second date?”

“I was under the impression our relationship wasn’t over,” she said smoothly. “Unless, of course, you’re ready to disappoint your very enthusiastic mother.”

Harry flushed scarlet. “She owled me. Twice.”

“She owled me four times,” Draco said flatly. “Apparently, she thinks I’m ‘a wonderful influence.’”

“You are,” Harry said before he could stop himself.

Draco paused.

Harry quickly took a gulp of coffee to hide the way his throat had tightened. “I mean, you’re… good at pretending.”

Her voice dropped just enough to make him shiver. “Am I?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Because her foot brushed against his under the table.

Light. Deliberate.

And not by accident.

After that, things got more complicated.

They saw each other again. Once for drinks. Once for a gallery opening where Harry awkwardly held her hand and nearly passed out when she leaned her head on his shoulder during a sculpture presentation.

It was fake. It was all fake.

And yet—

She texted him jokes.

He brought her coffee when he was in the area.

She let him see her office, complete with bubbling cauldrons and dusty tomes and a surprisingly chaotic bookshelf labeled “Experiments Not To Be Touched (Potter This Means You).”

When he asked her what she actually did as a magical researcher, she looked at him with those impossible green-grey eyes and said softly, “I’m trying to invent something useful enough to make up for who I used to be.”

And Harry… understood.

He didn’t say anything then. Just squeezed her hand.

But that night, he thought about her for hours.

The first time the kiss almost happened, they were at Grimmauld Place.

She was sitting on his kitchen counter, legs crossed, eating strawberries from the bowl he’d left out.

He was explaining a field report. She was listening.

And then suddenly, the air shifted.

She looked at him.

He looked at her mouth.

“I think I like fake dating you,” she said softly.

Harry stepped closer. “I think I’m in trouble.”

Her laugh was a whisper. “We’re only pretending.”

“Right,” he breathed, watching her lips part. “Only.”

He leaned in.

Close enough to feel her breath.

And then his fireplace flared and Ron’s head popped in.

“Oi, Harry—wait—are you two—OH MERLIN—”

Harry cursed, Draco rolled her eyes, and Ron vanished like he’d been hexed.

They didn’t kiss that night.

But the tension was there now. Crackling. Waiting.

The second time, it was in Draco’s office.

It was raining. Harry had shown up unannounced, soaked and flushed from chasing a pickpocket through half of London.

Draco handed him a towel, made him sit, and then silently began drying his hair herself.

He didn’t stop her.

He didn’t want to.

Her fingers threaded through his damp hair like a prayer.

“You should take better care of yourself,” she murmured, voice barely audible over the storm.

Harry looked up at her, and everything in him ached.

“I’m trying.”

She smiled then. A real one. No smirk. No walls.

And he kissed her.

Soft. Careful. Almost afraid.

She let him.

For one perfect second, she leaned into it.

And then she pulled away—slowly. Gently.

“This is dangerous,” she whispered.

“I know.”

Her hand lingered on his chest. “Are we still pretending?”

He didn’t answer.

Because they both knew the answer was no.

It escalated after that.

Touches became lingering.

Goodnights became harder to walk away from.

Draco started leaving a toothbrush in Harry’s bathroom.

Harry started stocking her favorite tea.

And then, one night—two weeks after the party, four dates in, one real kiss, and too many almosts—Harry looked at her across the sofa and said the words he’d been too afraid to speak:

“I don’t want to stop pretending.”

Draco looked up from her book.

“I mean,” Harry rushed, “I don’t want to stop this. I know it started as a lie, but I—” He paused. Swallowed. “I want it to be real.”

She closed the book slowly.

Then stood.

Walked over.

Sat down next to him.

“You’re a terrible liar,” she said quietly.

“I know.”

Her voice was softer than he’d ever heard. “And a worse actor.”

“I know.”

“So when you kissed me…”

“That wasn’t fake,” Harry said. “None of it is.”

Draco studied him for a long moment.

And then she kissed him.

This time there was nothing gentle about it.

No pretending.

No pretending at all.

The kiss deepened quickly, too quickly. All of the pretending—the careful choreography of fake hand-holding and strategic cheek kisses—crumbled in the face of real, raw want.

Draco was warm against him, her fingers threading into his hair as she tilted his head and opened her mouth to him, and Harry swore he’d never felt anything like this before. Not in all his awkward attempts at dating. Not even in the heat of a good duel.

This was something else.

This was her.

She tasted like spiced wine and cool winter nights, like tension finally unraveling.

He kissed her harder, hands sliding to her waist, thumbs pressing against the exposed skin just above the waistband of her skirt. She made a low sound in the back of her throat, and Harry shivered.

“Draco,” he murmured, mouth brushing hers. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

Her eyes met his, sharp and brilliant, cheeks flushed. “Why would I stop when I’ve waited this long?”

That broke him.

Harry surged forward, kissing her like he meant it—because he did. Because he meant everything. Every lingering stare. Every imagined moment. Every second he’d spent convincing himself it wasn’t real.

It was real now.

He stood, pulling her with him, not breaking the kiss, not letting her go. Her arms looped around his neck, her body pressing close as he walked them slowly backward through the sitting room. When they hit the edge of the sofa, Draco gasped softly as he lifted her by the hips and sat her on the back cushion like it was instinct.

“You’re—surprisingly forward,” she murmured against his lips, half teasing, half breathless.

Harry grinned against her throat. “I’ve had time to fantasize.”

“Oh?” She leaned back slightly, tugging at his shirt buttons with elegant fingers. “And what did you fantasize, Potter?”

“That you’d let me touch you,” he whispered, brushing his lips across her jaw. “That you’d moan for me.”

Her pupils darkened. “Then take me to bed and earn it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

They half-stumbled into the bedroom, Draco still perched in his arms, kissing down his throat like she wanted to ruin him. Harry set her down gently on the edge of the bed, standing between her knees, hands braced on her thighs.

He looked at her—really looked.

Her lipstick was smudged. Her hair was half-loose from its braid. Her blouse was askew, the buttons uneven where she’d already undone a few. And she looked at him like he was her next spell to master.

“You’re so—” Harry began.

Draco raised a brow. “Say it.”

“Beautiful,” he said hoarsely. “Gods, Draco. You’re beautiful.”

Her lips curved slowly. “I like it when you say my name like that.”

“Draco,” he repeated, reverent this time, bending to kiss her collarbone. “Draco, Draco…”

She sighed and leaned into him, undoing the rest of her blouse buttons as his hands slid beneath, palms flat against her bare skin.

Her bra was delicate green silk. Of course it was. He traced the edge of the cups with his thumbs, eyes asking before his hands moved.

She nodded.

He slid the straps down gently, pressing kisses to each inch of revealed skin, until she was gasping softly, her fingers twisting in his hair.

“Off,” she murmured. “Shirt. Now.”

Harry chuckled, pulling back to strip quickly. Draco leaned back on her hands, eyes sweeping across his chest, slow and appreciative.

“You’ve been hiding this under Auror robes?”

He flushed, grinning. “Perks of the job.”

She stood, brushing against him deliberately as she unzipped her skirt. It fell to the floor in a whisper. Harry stopped breathing.

Her knickers matched the bra. Green. Lacy. Tiny.

He looked up at her, jaw tense. “You’re unreal.”

Draco smiled like she knew. “Touch me, Potter.”

He stepped forward and obeyed.

His hands slid down her sides, over the curve of her waist, around to her back. He pulled her close and kissed her again, deep and slow, as his fingers toyed with the edge of her knickers.

When she gasped into his mouth, he smiled.

“Tell me if I go too fast.”

“I’ll tell you if you go too slow.”

That was all the permission he needed.

He backed her onto the bed, kissing his way down her body as he went, pausing at her thighs. He looked up—waiting.

Draco’s eyes were half-lidded, cheeks flushed, breath unsteady. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, Harry.”

That was the first time she’d used his first name like that.

It did something to him.

He kissed the inside of her thigh, then dragged her knickers down slowly, watching her arch against the sheets. She was already warm, already wet, and when he finally leaned in and put his mouth on her, she cried out softly—his name on her lips like a spell.

“Harry—fuck—”

He groaned against her, fingers digging into her hips. Her legs trembled around him, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other buried in his hair as he worked her open with his tongue. Every noise she made went straight to his cock—hot and insistent against his trousers.

He brought her to the edge slowly, methodically, like he was learning her. Every shiver. Every broken moan. Every time her hips rocked toward him like she was chasing something only he could give.

When she came, she bit her lip to muffle it—barely.

Harry didn’t let up until her thighs trembled and she pushed gently at his shoulder, gasping. “Up. I need you. Now.”

He kissed her thigh once more, then moved up, letting her tug open his trousers with desperate fingers.

“Draco,” he murmured, brushing her hair from her forehead. “You’re sure?”

She met his eyes, soft and open and stunning.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

When he entered her, she gasped and clung to him, and he stilled immediately.

“Okay?” he whispered.

“More than okay,” she breathed. “Move, Harry—please—”

He did.

The rhythm built slowly, achingly, every thrust deep and careful. Her body welcomed him, wrapped around him, her fingers clinging to his shoulders, her breath hot in his ear.

“Gods,” he moaned, pressing kisses along her neck. “You feel so good—Draco—”

She arched beneath him, gasping. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

He wouldn’t have stopped if the house exploded.

She came first, shaking and swearing against his shoulder.

And when he followed, spilling inside her with a groan and a whispered, “I’ve wanted this for so long,” it felt less like a climax and more like a confession.

They lay tangled afterward, sheets kicked aside, hearts still racing.

Draco lay curled against him, one hand tracing lazy patterns over his chest.

“I think we’ve moved beyond pretending,” she murmured, voice low and content.

Harry smiled, eyes closing as he kissed the crown of her head.

“Definitely.”

The morning after changed everything.

Harry woke first.

The bedroom was dim, streaked with golden morning light slipping through the curtains. Draco was curled beside him, her bare back to his chest, one arm draped across his. Her breathing was slow and even.

She was still here.

It wasn’t a dream.

Her hair was a mess. Her thigh was thrown over his. Her skin smelled like his sheets and sex and bergamot.

And Harry… didn’t want to move. Ever.

So he didn’t. Not for a long time. He just lay there and breathed her in, his heart quietly thudding in his chest.

Eventually, she stirred.

A soft sigh, a slow stretch, and then her fingers closed around his wrist like she already knew exactly where he was.

“Mmm,” she murmured. “You’re staring.”

“Can you blame me?”

She turned her head, blinking at him with sleepy eyes and a raised brow. “I suppose not.”

“Morning,” he said softly, brushing hair away from her cheek.

Draco studied him for a long moment.

“Still real?” she asked.

He nodded. “Very.”

She looked…relieved. Almost imperceptibly. But Harry saw it.

He kissed her forehead.

“I liked waking up with you,” he said.

She smiled faintly. “Well. Good. Because I’m starving, and I’m not going anywhere until you feed me.”

Harry laughed. “You just had your hands all over me five hours ago, but now you’re holding my kitchen hostage?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she said primly, sitting up and stretching with absolutely zero awareness of what her bare torso did to his focus. “I’ll just summon something if you’re useless.”

She did, of course. A perfectly plated breakfast appeared a few minutes later, and she sat cross-legged on his bed, wearing only one of his old t-shirts and humming happily as she picked at toast and eggs.

Harry stared at her, completely wrecked.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he said aloud before he could stop himself.

She looked up.

Then—softly, cautiously—“Too late. You already ruined me first.”

That day, things didn’t go back to normal.

They went forward instead.

Draco kissed him before she left for work, her fingers lingering in his hair.

He sent her a joke over owl during lunch. She sent back a doodle of a smug-looking Hippogriff labeled You, whenever I compliment you.

That night, she came back.

And the next.

And the next.

By the fifth night, she was leaving potion vials on his bathroom counter and calling Grimmauld Place home under her breath when she thought he wasn’t listening.

He was. Always.

And he didn’t stop her.

Because he wanted that too.

The papers found out two weeks later.

POTTER AND MALFOY? NOT HIDING ANYMORE??

The headlines were everywhere. Rita Skeeter quoted anonymous “friends” and detailed a timeline suspiciously close to the truth. Photographs from the original party resurfaced, now with red circles around every touch, every glance, every smile.

Harry was livid.

“I’m sorry,” he said that night, pacing the kitchen while Draco calmly stirred her tea. “I didn’t mean for it to go public. You didn’t ask for—”

“Harry.”

He stopped.

Draco turned to him, face unreadable. “I’m not ashamed of you.”

His breath caught.

“You’re not?”

“I’m many things,” she said dryly. “But not a coward. Let them talk.”

Harry reached for her. “You sure?”

She set her tea down, stepped close, and looked up at him.

“You think I’d be in your kitchen every night, using your toothbrush and letting you make me terrible coffee, if I didn’t mean it?”

“I make great coffee.”

“You make chaotic coffee.”

He laughed, pulling her into a hug, burying his face in her hair. “You’re mine.”

Her voice was quiet. “Yeah. I am.”

Meeting the Potters as a real couple was another story.

Lily had tears in her eyes. James clapped Harry on the back and muttered something about finally, and Sirius made inappropriate jokes that made Draco snort wine out of her nose.

It was good.

It was too good.

Harry waited the whole dinner for it to fall apart.

But it didn’t.

Draco held his hand under the table and squeezed once when his mother started asking questions about children. She even helped with the dishes.

“She’s good for you,” Lily said later, watching her from across the room. “She softens you.”

“No,” Harry said, smiling. “She knows me.”

Weeks passed.

There were arguments. Harry left his socks everywhere. Draco forgot to label dangerous potion ingredients. They bickered over who used the last of the tea. There was a minor explosion in the upstairs bathroom.

But every night, they fell into bed together.

Not always to have sex.

Sometimes just to hold each other.

Sometimes to talk.

Sometimes to kiss slowly until the past didn’t matter anymore.

One night, Draco lay against his chest, her voice soft.

“I’ve never done this before,” she admitted. “Let someone stay.”

Harry kissed her hair. “Me either.”

Another night, she brought home a silver key.

“To the lab?” he asked.

“To us,” she said. “I want you to have a key. In case I ever…run. Again.”

He took it.

Pressed it to his heart.

“I’ll always come find you.”

Three months later, Harry came home late.

Exhausted. Bleeding slightly from a field op. Ready to collapse.

The lights were on.

Draco was curled on the sofa with a book and a cup of tea, already in his sweater, one leg tucked under her, her glasses perched low.

She looked up.

“Long day?”

He dropped his coat. Nodded.

She stood, walked over, and pulled him into a kiss—slow, sure, home.

“I missed you,” she said against his mouth.

Harry stared at her.

And then he said the thing he’d been holding for weeks.

“I love you.”

She stilled.

“Draco,” he said again. “I love you.”

She breathed once. Twice.

Then reached up and touched his face.

“I was afraid I’d ruin you,” she whispered. “But you… you made me real again.”

He held her tightly.

“You are real. You’re mine.”

And this time, when he kissed her, it wasn’t about pretending.

It was about finally, finally, being found.

Epilogue:

Two years later.

It started like any other Sunday.

Draco was sitting cross-legged on the couch with a mug of cinnamon tea and The Prophet open across her lap, wearing one of Harry’s hoodies and nothing else. Her hair was up in a messy bun secured with a wand, and she was scowling at the crossword like it had personally insulted her.

Harry walked in from the kitchen with two slices of burnt toast and a sheepish expression.

“Don't say it,” he said, offering her a plate.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were.”

“You set off the fire charm again, Potter.”

He dropped next to her, pressed a kiss to her cheek, and stole her tea. “It’s endearing.”

Draco snorted. “You are extremely lucky you’re handsome.”

“Am I? Even after nearly incinerating breakfast?”

She turned toward him, one brow lifted. “You didn’t incinerate me. That’s the bar, apparently.”

He grinned, leaned over, and brushed their noses together. “You love me.”

She kissed him.

“God help me,” she murmured. “I do.”

He sighed dramatically, flopping against the couch. “Well, I was going to ask you something romantic, but now I feel like I should check whether I’m dating you or just barely surviving your insults.”

“You thrive on them.”

“Yeah, I do.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the quiet of their shared flat broken only by the sound of owls outside and the soft whoosh of the fireplace.

Then Harry cleared his throat.

And pulled something from his pocket.

A tiny, green velvet box.

Draco blinked. “Harry—”

He held up a hand. “Don’t say anything yet.”

She sat upright, lips parting.

“I didn’t plan this,” Harry admitted. “There’s no dinner reservation. No elaborate charm show. It’s just… today. Because I woke up this morning, and I watched you mutter in your sleep about potions paperwork, and I thought: God, I hope she’s here every morning for the rest of my life.”

Draco stared at him.

“And then you made that face at your crossword, and I thought: This is it. This is the person I want to love for the next sixty years. Maybe longer, if we don’t blow ourselves up by then.”

She was still staring.

“I know we started all this as a lie,” Harry said, his voice cracking slightly. “But it hasn’t been fake in a long time. I love you, Draco. I’ve loved you since you wore that ridiculous black dress and told my mother I was shit at dancing.”

“You were,” Draco said, voice trembling.

He laughed softly. “Yeah. And you’ve made everything better since. So. Will you marry me?”

A long silence.

Draco stared at him.

Then she took the box, opened it, and stared at the ring inside.

It was simple. An enchanted emerald that glowed faintly, flanked by tiny golden stars. Not flashy. Not extravagant. Just… them.

She looked back up.

And then she smiled—a slow, steady, beautiful smile that made Harry’s chest ache.

“Of course I’ll marry you, you idiot,” she whispered.

Harry exhaled in relief and leaned forward, capturing her mouth in a kiss that tasted like sunlight and tea and everything he’d ever wanted.

“Good,” he murmured, kissing her again. “Because I already told my mum.”

Draco groaned and shoved him back onto the sofa, crawling over him with dangerous intent.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

“I really, really am.”

She kissed him breathless.

And somewhere between laughter and limbs and burning toast, Harry thought:

This started as a lie. But it’s ending in something like always.

THE END