Regency AU. Harry courts Draco and Draco accepts.
The first time Draco saw Harry Potter again, it was across a ballroom.
Candlelight spilled gold over everything—silk, jewels, polished floors—and the orchestra carried the soft rise and fall of a waltz through the air. Draco stood at his father’s side, posture perfect, expression carefully neutral, as befitted the heir to a Duke.
He was not expecting to forget how to breathe.
“Commander Potter,” someone whispered nearby.
Draco’s attention snapped toward the entrance.
And there he was.
Harry Potter—no longer the scrawny, sharp-faced boy Draco remembered from childhood summers and stiff, distant visits between their families. War had carved him into something else entirely.
Broader. Steadier.
Dangerous, in a way that had nothing to do with violence and everything to do with presence.
His dress uniform was dark, severe, cut to fit him perfectly, medals catching the light at his chest. But it wasn’t the uniform that held the room.
It was him.
Draco’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around his glass.
“Well,” Lucius Malfoy said beside him, voice cool, “it seems the hero returns.”
Draco didn’t answer.
Because Harry was looking at him.
Not glancing.
Looking.
And then—
Harry started walking toward him.
Draco’s pulse stuttered.
“This should be interesting,” Lucius murmured.
⸻
“Malfoy.”
Draco inclined his head just enough to be polite. “Potter.”
Up close, it was worse.
Harry had always had green eyes—but now they were sharper, steadier, like they had seen too much and come back anyway.
“You’ve—” Harry paused, like he was recalibrating. “—changed.”
Draco arched a brow. “So have you.”
A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crossed Harry’s face.
“Yes,” he said simply.
An awkward silence threatened.
Draco hated awkward silence.
“So,” he said, “I hear you’ve been playing soldier.”
Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “Something like that.”
“Commander, isn’t it?”
“For now.”
Draco tilted his head. “Modest.”
“Realistic.”
Another pause.
Then Harry did something entirely unexpected.
“Dance with me.”
Draco blinked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Dance,” Harry repeated, gesturing toward the floor. “Unless you’ve forgotten how.”
Draco stared at him.
Around them, the room seemed to sharpen, attention quietly shifting.
Lucius’s presence at his side felt suddenly… very pointed.
“You’re serious,” Draco said.
“Yes.”
Draco exhaled slowly.
This was a terrible idea.
This was a very terrible idea.
“…fine,” he said.
⸻
Harry’s hand was warm.
Steady.
Entirely too sure of itself where it settled at Draco’s waist.
Draco forced himself not to react as they stepped into the rhythm of the music.
“You’re staring,” Draco said under his breath.
“So are you,” Harry replied.
Draco looked away first.
“This is highly inappropriate,” he muttered.
“Probably.”
“And yet here we are.”
Harry’s grip shifted slightly—subtle, guiding.
“Yes,” he said. “Here we are.”
Draco risked another glance.
Harry was watching him like the rest of the room didn’t exist.
It was… disconcerting.
“You’ve made quite an entrance,” Draco said, grasping for something safer.
“Wasn’t trying to.”
“No, I imagine it just happens naturally.”
Harry smiled—small, but real.
“Something like that.”
They turned.
The music swelled.
And for one brief, ridiculous moment—
Draco forgot that this was Harry Potter.
Forgot the war. The distance. The years.
There was just—
This.
Then the music ended.
Reality rushed back in.
Draco stepped away immediately.
“Thank you,” he said, cool and composed once more.
Harry inclined his head.
“My pleasure.”
Lucius’s gaze was waiting when Draco returned.
Sharp. Displeased.
“Explain,” he said quietly.
Draco lifted his chin. “He asked.”
“And you accepted.”
“Yes.”
Lucius’s expression darkened.
“Be careful,” he said.
Draco didn’t answer.
Because he already knew.
⸻
Harry did not leave him alone after that.
Not in the intrusive sense.
In the… persistent one.
Walks in the gardens.
Conversations that started polite and ended somewhere sharper, more interesting.
A letter.
Then another.
“He’s courting you,” Hermione said bluntly.
Draco frowned. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Am I?”
Draco hesitated.
Because—
“Yes,” he said finally.
Hermione just looked at him.
⸻
Ron Weasley was less subtle.
“This is a terrible idea,” he said, arms crossed.
Harry didn’t look up from where he was writing.
“Noted.”
“He’s a Malfoy.”
“I’m aware.”
“He’s trouble.”
Harry paused.
Then, calmly:
“So am I.”
Ron groaned. “That’s not reassuring!”
⸻
Lucius was worse.
“He is not suitable,” he said coldly.
Draco met his gaze. “According to whom?”
“According to sense.”
“He’s a decorated commander.”
“He’s new money,” Lucius snapped. “New power. Unstable.”
Draco’s lips twitched faintly.
“Sounds familiar.”
Lucius’s expression hardened.
“This is not a game.”
“I know.”
“Then act like it.”
Draco didn’t respond.
Because for once—
He didn’t want to.
⸻
The summons to court came unexpectedly.
Harry stood before the Queen, posture straight, expression unreadable as the chamber watched in hushed anticipation.
“For your service,” she said, voice clear and carrying, “and for your loyalty to crown and country, we bestow upon you lands and title.”
A pause.
“Rise, Duke.”
The word rippled through the room.
Harry inclined his head.
“Your Majesty.”
Draco, watching from the side, felt something shift.
Not surprise.
Not exactly.
Just—
Recognition.
Harry had always been meant for something like this.
⸻
“You didn’t tell me,” Draco said later.
Harry shrugged lightly. “Didn’t think it mattered.”
“It matters now.”
“Does it?”
Draco stepped closer.
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“You outrank me.”
Harry huffed a laugh. “Is that what this is about?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Silence stretched.
Then Harry said:
“Marry me.”
Draco stared at him.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It could be.”
Draco’s pulse quickened.
“This is—this is reckless.”
“Yes.”
“Inadvisable.”
“Probably.”
“A terrible idea.”
Harry stepped closer.
“Almost certainly.”
Draco swallowed.
“Then why?”
Harry met his gaze.
“Because I don’t want to stop.”
Silence.
Long.
Heavy.
Then Draco exhaled slowly.
“…you’re impossible.”
Harry smiled.
“I’ve been told.”
Another pause.
Then, softer:
“And you’re still here.”
Draco looked at him.
At the boy he’d known.
At the man he’d become.
At the future standing right in front of him, asking—not demanding, not taking—
Asking.
“…yes,” Draco said.
⸻
The wedding was not quiet.
It could never have been.
But it was theirs.
Ron looked resigned. Hermione looked pleased. Lucius looked like he was reconsidering several life choices.
Harry looked—
Happy.
Draco adjusted his gloves, glancing sideways.
“This is still a terrible idea,” he murmured.
Harry squeezed his hand.
“Definitely.”
A pause.
Then Draco allowed himself the smallest smile.
“Good,” he said.
And stepped forward anyway.
