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Leaning against the balcony wall, Draco looked out over the Docklands and took a sip of wine. How did I get here? he mused. Middle of Muggle London, sharing a flat with Hermione Granger, and now...this. Setting his glass on the elegant wooden patio table set for dinner, he tucked his hands in his pockets and watched the summer sun slowly beginning to set.
He had no idea how he’d ended up in this situation, to be honest. Potter’d gotten him drunk one night and blindsided him with Granger’s tale of woe. How Weasley’d had some mid-twenties crisis and decided to sell their flat and use the money to travel 'round the world sans Granger. By the time he’d sobered up the next day, Granger had been standing on his front doorstep, looking mutinous and brandishing a drunken scrawl signed by Draco indicating that she could stay in his spare room.
‘I’m not pleased with this either,’ she’d said, carting suitcases through the door while he stood there in shock. ‘And before you get any ideas, I am not desperate or incompetent, I am simply too busy at work at the moment to be flat searching and Harry doesn’t have any room. Well, grab a bag, then.’
That had been nearly a year ago and somehow she’d never stopped being 'too busy'. In the beginning it had all been very clearly defined; 'yours' and 'mine'. Your apartment, my room. Your Beef Wellington, my Spaghetti Milanese. Your wingback, my armchair. They didn’t share anything. And then things at work had gotten so bad that she’d had to take work home in the evenings, borrowing his study so that she could work on a desk. Borrowing his study and then leaving pens -she found quills and ink to be needlessly old-fashioned - and scribbled notes and abandoned hairclips on odd bits of his desk.
It’d never been the same after that; she’d started migrating into the public rooms. He kept finding her books mixed up with his on the bookshelves. He came home one day to find the fridge reorganised; food shifted from 'mine' and 'yours' shelves to a more traditional division. That night, she cooked for both of them and they shared a bottle of wine. The next day he cooked, to say thank you. They talked properly, discovering all things they had in common.
And now they were here. His turn to cook dinner, but this time he had a couple of things to show here that were definitely 'yours' and 'mine'.
‘Draco?’ she called, breathless after her climb up the stairs.
‘Balcony,’ he replied, turning back to watch her as she made her way through the kitchen.
‘Hi,’ she said, reaching up to give him a quick kiss. He held her against him, winding both arms around her waist until she ran out of breath and had to break off, smiling at him warmly.
‘I don’t know why you don’t just Apparate,’ he said. He said it every day, actually, and she always said the same thing.
‘I don’t need to, I’ve got legs,’ she replied. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she cuddled against him, looking out at the setting sun as she spoke. ‘Beside,’ she added, oblivious to the fact that he was mouthing along with her, ‘it’s the only exercise I get.’
‘Well, then,’ he said, squeezing her lightly around the waist, ‘better keep it up, then. Don’t want my woman getting fat.’ He could practically feel her roll her eyes.
‘Oh, don’t be such an arse,’ she retorted, smiling in spite of her tone.
He laughed, and released her. ‘Why don’t you have a glass of wine,’ he suggested, his nervousness – temporarily displaced by the familiarity of their routine – coming back full force.
‘Oh, good boy,’ she grinned, tweaking his waist affectionately as she headed over to the table.
‘I am a man, I’ll have you know,’ he retorted. She grinned at him over her shoulder.
‘Well, man,’ she said, adopting an awful hippyish accent, ‘which glass is for me?’
‘Oh, I can’t remember,’ he said, waving a hand with affected indifference. ‘Check the wine charms.’ At the base of each wine glass was a small charm that was meant to identify which glass belonged to which guest. They both had their own particular charm, a leftover from the 'yours' and 'mine' days.
‘Okay,’ she said, a little stiffly. ‘Bad day at work?’
‘Not especially,’ he said, eyeing her anxiously as she leant over the table to check the glasses. ‘Why d’you ask?’
‘Because you’re being a bit of a git,’ she responded bluntly. Before he could say anything, she added, ‘These aren’t our normal charms.’
‘No,’ he croaked, feeling as if his heart was in his throat. ‘They’re not really wine charms at all,’ he managed. But she had already figured it out. He heard her gasp as she noticed the 'charm' around her glass.
‘Draco,’ she whispered, holding up a long gold ribbon with a slender band at the bottom. On top of the band, there sat a heart-cut emerald. She watched him with wide eyes, waiting to hear what he had to say.
‘It seemed appropriate,’ he said quietly, lifting the ring from her numb fingers and gesturing to the gem. ‘My heart,’ he added, ‘is yours. If you want it.’ He was so scared, he wanted to look away, watch the sunset or the dangling ribbon dancing in the gentle summer breeze, but now was not the time to be a cowardly Slytherin. Now was the time to be brave. He forced himself to look into those big brown eyes and found himself overwhelmed with the love he found there.
‘Of course I want it, you stupid ferret,’ she said, dashing tears from the corners of her eyes. He grinned at her; stupidly, goofily, happily.
‘Mine,’ he said, sliding the ribbon out of the ring and holding it out. ‘Yours,’ he said, sliding the ring onto her finger.
She smiled at him and lifted the thicker, plain gold band from the other glass. ‘Mine,’ she said, holding it out to him. ‘Yours,’ she finished, sliding it onto his pale finger.
He pulled her to him, pressing a kiss on her willing person and then holding her flush against him, as close as two people could be with all their clothes on. She wound her arms around his waist, squeezing him back. Tilting his head down, he pressed a kiss against her soft curly hair. ‘Mine,’ he whispered.