Chapter Text
Then
It zips across the horizon: a bright blot against the vast desert sky, candy-apple red metal tearing through a wash of painted rocks and glittering stars.
Draco raises his fist. "Punch buggy, no take backs," he crows.
Harry grabs his arm and winces. The Volkswagen's headlights blaze a wide trail on the dusty roadway before fading from view.
"It's 'Punch buggy, no punch backs'. Remind me why I taught you this game?"
"Immersion in American Muggle—I mean, No-Maj culture," Draco recites, tilting his chin proudly. "I'm obviously a fast learner."
"You're competitive as hell, is more like it," Harry grouses. Draco knows there's no heat behind the words, however. Especially when Harry leans in, his lips soft against Draco's mouth.
Draco hums. Harry’s tongue grows more insistent, tasting of coffee, chocolate, and fast food. Draco can’t decide what’s more improbable: that he and Harry have survived the road trip with their relationship intact, or that they’re in a relationship to begin with. They’ve spent three weeks zig-zagging across the States, marvelling at the attractions with only a vague destination in mind. It’s been a two-fingered salute to responsibility, one sustained by their lack of money and the devil-may-care attitude that comes with being twenty-two.
Draco pulls away from Harry reluctantly. "I'm not ready to go back."
"Our Portkey isn't for another week." Harry teases, but his shoulders slump, just a little, and Draco knows he's feeling the heaviness of the trip's inevitable end, too.
Draco turns away, shifting back so he’s resting on his elbows. The wool of the blanket underneath them is soft yet scratchy against his sun-kissed skin. He stares up into the heavens—he never thought he would find one as magical as the night sky in Wiltshire, but everything seems more open in the Southwest. More intense.
He takes in a deep breath. The air is dry as it fills his lungs, along with the hint of smoky tar from the greasewood, but without the dampness of the leaves and tilled earth back home. "Wow." Draco points between the Libra and Sagittarius constellations and traces an 'S'-shaped figure with his finger. "I’ve never been able to see Scorpius like this before."
"Even from the Astronomy Tower?" Harry asks.
Draco shakes his head. "Scotland is too far north. It’s fuller here. Higher."
Harry settles next to Draco. The press of his shoulder against Draco’s body is solid and familiar. "I loved going to the Astronomy Tower, before…" Harry hesitates, then gives a little shrug as he continues, his eyes focused somewhere in the distance. "I used to sneak into the Tower at night. I knew little about constellations back then, but I enjoyed being among the stars. It's hard for me to be in closed spaces, given... you know." A shudder visibly ripples through him and his face grows hard before he blows out a long breath. "Anyway. Things got worse during fourth year. I couldn’t leave my room as often as I'd wanted, with everything that was going on, and because I was being constantly watched. The freedom I have now? I'll never take it for granted."
Something in the way Harry says that, with such conviction, makes Draco take notice. "You’re not just talking about your freedom after the War. You’re talking about what you’ve felt these past several weeks," he says slowly.
Harry looks at Draco. The shadows hide his face, but his silhouette is strong and beautiful. "I like it here."
"But…" Draco knows he has no right to feel possessive or hurt. They’ve only been friends for two years—after Ginny and Pansy’s brief but torrid fling threw their friend groups together—and more-than-friends for several weeks. "Everyone’s back home."
"I know. I’m just saying."
An awkward silence settles between them. Draco reaches out and threads his fingers through Harry’s. "Well, I can see the appeal. After all, with your horrible fashion choices, you fit in perfectly," he says, trying to lighten the mood.
Harry snorts and pulls up on the hem of his hoodie. Even in the dim light, Draco can see the delicious lines of Harry’s abs. The elastic band of his boxers is decorated with a multitude of Snitches and it sticks out beyond the waist of his jeans. "You mean I can’t go to the next Ministry Ball or press conference dressed like this?" He lowers his sweatshirt and Draco briefly mourns the loss of skin. "I wouldn’t mind, you know. Being somewhere different, where 'Harry Potter' meant nothing more than any other name."
"Harry, remember how rude that cashier was to us when we couldn’t figure out the exchange? Is that the anonymity you want?"
"People are rude to me, anyway. They resent me for what I did, or because they think I didn’t do enough. I’d rather have them be mad at me for normal things." Harry withdraws his hand from Draco’s and brings it up to Draco’s face. "I thought you would’ve liked the idea of going somewhere new. Of starting over."
Draco swallows. He thinks about the fancy dinners and parties he attended as a child, and the lavish lifestyle he’s lost due to his family’s choices and his own. They're not things he’s privy to now, but there are other factors to consider.
"I can’t. My father—Harry, I know the things he’s done are unforgivable, but…" He closes his eyes, unable to scrub the most recent image of his father from his mind. Eight months in Azkaban had destroyed Lucius Malfoy; his father’s skin was sallow, his once glorious hair thin and shorn, and his spirit broken and bitter. "He’s not well. And I need to be there for my mother, too."
Harry’s quiet for a moment. "But if you could… If that wasn’t a factor, what would you want to do?"
"I don’t know," Draco confesses. "I can’t really think hypothetically, because reality is what it is. But part of me wants to stay in England. Merlin knows, I don’t want to go back to how life was before the War, but I miss certain things. I miss our friends. I want to spend a lazy afternoon at Flourish and Blotts and cheer for England and the next Quidditch World Cup. I want to wear the latest wizarding robes and have a box seat at the opera. But more than anything, I want to be respected. To restore my family’s name. And I can’t do any of that if I’m four thousand miles away."
"Okay, okay." Harry drops his hand. "It was all hypothetical, anyway."
A truck rumbles in the distance, its squeaking flatbed echoing in the stillness. Draco watches as it crawls along the winding road, with nothing but its headlights to guide it forward. "What’s next on the itinerary?" Draco asks, drawing his knees to his chest.
"Grand Staircase Escalante National Park looks brilliant. We could also do Bryce or Zion. And, of course, there's Vegas."
"What’s in Vegas?" Draco asks, wrinkling his nose.
"A comfortable bed and spa for you, and a cold bottle of beer for me," Harry says with a laugh.
"Ahh." Draco shifts so he’s in Harry’s arms. He's glad to see Harry smiling once more. "I thought Vegas was all about casinos and Elvis impersonators and such."
"Oh, it has those, too. Plus that place for quickie weddings. The one the celebrities use—The Little White Chapel, or something."
"A quickie wedding. Can you imagine? Quelle horreur!"
"Better than a wedding with three hundred guests, at fifty Galleons per plate and paparazzi sneaking behind the bushes."
Draco heaves a dramatic sigh. "It’s a miracle we’re even together. We’re like oil and water, you and I."
Harry rolls over and pushes Draco against the blanket, and silences him with his mouth. His body is a warm weight against Draco’s, and as he kisses Draco slowly, he grinds down with his hips. Heat builds in Draco’s belly and he arches up to meet Harry as a moan bubbles from his throat. When Harry breaks off their kiss, Draco feels breathless and flushed despite the dropping desert temperature.
"Oil and water, hmm?" Harry asks smugly before nuzzling Draco’s neck and marking him with his stubble. "I think we mix fairly well."
"Fine. Maybe I’ll keep you, after all," Draco concedes. He winds one hand behind Harry’s neck and urges him close, the other snaking its way past the waistband of Harry’s jeans as Harry lets out a groan. It effectively cuts off any further argument as they kiss and explore each other’s bodies under the stars. Draco knows they’ll figure things out. They’re young, they’re embarking on a new chapter in their lives, and they have all the time in the world.
Now
The coffee's too flat, the guest list is missing both the Duchess of Sussex and the daughter of a billionaire media mogul, and Draco can't get Pansy on the phone.
"Yasmin Eldridge isn't coming in for her fitting?" he asks his assistant Emma as he flips through the casting list. Fuck, he needs a cigarette or a stiff drink. Preferably both. He's starting to think that the socialite-turned-supermodel is more trouble than she's worth, and he'd recast her if her offscreen antics weren't so damned effective in keeping her relevant. "Tell her if she's not in by twelve, I'm replacing her with Saffron Taylor."
Emma's eyes widen as her jaw drops. "Saffron is Yasmin's ex, Mr Malfoy. They're mortal enemies. Like, on the level of the Montagues and Capulets."
"Exactly," Draco hisses between his teeth. He pushes his long-empty coffee cup and tablet back into her hands. "Ask Pansy to send out two more invitations. I'll figure out the seating arrangements later. And get me another coffee, but this time, with more foam." He lets out a long breath. With just one-and-a-half weeks left until New York's Fashion Week, he's going to be up all night making last-minute alterations and adding the final details after each fitting. A dull headache is already building in his temples. "What else do I have on the agenda today?"
"An interview with British Vogue at three—I already sent the illustrations and pantone selections to them, by the way—and Rita Skeeter from Witch Weekly is waiting for you in your office."
Draco freezes. He forgot that was today.
"What time is the meeting scheduled for?" he asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Emma winces. "Twenty minutes ago. I sent up some tea and a platter of finger sandwiches to keep Ms Skeeter busy."
"Sweet Merlin." Draco swears under his breath, not caring that Emma is giving him one of her quizzical looks, the ones she bestows upon him whenever he slips. He couldn’t care less that he's kept Rita Skeeter waiting. It's the thought of what she could do if left to her own devices in an unsupervised office that has him panicked. He brushes back his hair and straightens his cuffs as he hurries down the hall. There's no time or privacy for him to cast a light Cleansing Charm, and he sniffs at his collar cautiously, breathing a sigh of relief when he comes up with nothing untoward.
He pushes in the door of his office and plasters a smile onto his face.
"Rita, darling," he says, bussing her on both cheeks.
She returns a smile that's as feigned as his. "Draco, love. What an exciting time for you! With the smashing success of last year's Paris shows, you must be eager to show everyone what else you have up your sleeve."
Draco glances down at his left arm. His shirt sleeve is cuffed, the line of it hovering above his plainly visible Dark Mark. He feels the heat creep into his cheeks, and he hates that his complexion allows Skeeter to know she's affected him already. He gestures for her to sit.
"I'll be glad to tell you," Draco says as he joins her. "Unless you already have the scoop. There aren't any bugs in here, are there?" he asks, baring his teeth.
"Would I discover something interesting if there were?" Skeeter answers with a wide grin of her own.
Draco waggles a finger at her—half playful, half in warning. Sometimes he wonders whether it was a good idea to maintain a relationship with Witch Weekly— and Skeeter, in particular. Despite the increasing numbers of young wizards and witches buying his designs each year, his sales are predominantly to Muggles, so it's not as if it would affect his bottom line. But the accolades for Draco's work started accruing five years ago, at the same time the rags had been filled with articles of his father's passing. Draco couldn't bear to see his family's wrongs dredged up for the thousandth time and was all too eager to cast the Malfoy name in a different light.
Skeeter purses her lips as Draco waits. She pulls out her Quick-Quotes Quill from her bag.
"If I may," Draco says, pulling out a Self-Writing Quill from his back pocket and charming it to size. "This quill is made from a Thunderbird's feather and its ink is Amazonian gold. Consider it a gift, from me to you." Draco knows she couldn't refuse such an extravagant offering without appearing incredibly rude.
Skeeter purses her lips once more, her bright-red lipstick bleeding at the edges. "How thoughtful, Draco. Thank you." She takes a moment to pull out her pad and seems to regroup. "You created quite a stir with last year's collection. Critics have proclaimed it 'decadent' and 'a brilliant configuration of layers and patterns that are as feminine as they are strong, establishing an overwhelming feeling of androgyny'. Given the collection's universal praise and commercial success, it must be difficult to switch tracks. What is your inspiration for this year's autumn and winter lines? Are you keeping some of the same elements? And how is it different?"
Draco thinks carefully before replying. "Last year's collection was truly a labour of love. It was an homage to the things I loved as a child, as well as the history of wizarding fashion. This year's collection is an evolution and expansion of those ideas: bold designs using luxurious and voluminous fabrics, jewelled accessories, and references to tradition."
Skeeter tilts her head and nods. "Yet to Muggles, such opulence and excessiveness risks having your designs viewed as theatrical—or, at least, considered art that's unwearable. Of course, we expect the element of a show, especially in haute couture, but how do you pare that down when it comes to your other lines?"
Despite his apprehension, Draco relaxes as the discussion turns to the actual clothing. He's always had an eye for fashion, having had access to the fanciest boutiques as well as his mother's closets when he was younger, and designing feels like second nature.
"People are disillusioned. They are frustrated with lawmakers who put politics above the good of their constituents, media that is biased, and protests that get shut down. The past gets romanticised; reaching out to the past to downplay modernism feels fresh. Perhaps even subversive. The trick is to know just how much history to include in the fabrics, the textures, and the style. It's a bit like Potions-making: adding a little of this and a little of that, but knowing when it's the right moment to stop."
Skeeter makes a small noise of agreement. She flips over her notepad, the prior pages already filled by the quill. "Your designs are also making inroads in the wizarding world, especially among those in their twenties and thirties. Do you think the same rationale applies to your popularity there, even though you're courting an entirely different demographic?"
Draco hesitates. "There's a slight difference, perhaps. I think it's the touches of modernism and practicality, as seen in the prêt-à-porter line, that's appealing to wizards. Muggles are drawn to the traditional elements, while wizards appreciate the nouveau."
"An edginess, then." When Draco nods, Skeeter continues. "Youth has always been searching for something of their own. Even now, almost fifteen years after the Second War, there's a restlessness. Things are the same, yet they're not; the heroes they grew up with are fallible and mortal. Even Harry Potter, the War's saviour and poster boy for justice, has disappeared from public view—"
Draco sucks in a deep breath, the blood draining from his face as Skeeter drones on. He's not sure how much Skeeter knows of his and Harry's past relationship, but at this point, even Draco would call Harry a stranger. It's been nearly eight years since they've spoken—which is putting it generously, since it was Draco who had been screaming while Harry merely sulked, his ex as silent and uncommunicative as ever.
"—but of course, it's not just the clothes. After all, you are a symbol for it, too, aren't you, Mr Malfoy?"
"What?" Draco's attention snaps back to Skeeter, but it's too late. He can tell that she's found a vulnerable spot, and that she's itching to dig in the knife further. He stares down at where the quill is hovering over the parchment, waiting. "Could you repeat the question?"
"The convergence of past, present, and future. You, with your checkered past, have managed to flip the dialogue as fashion's new darling: a bad boy playing fast and loose with rules and tradition. Yet, paradoxically, it's this very attitude that's allowing you an entrance back into wizarding society."
Draco folds his hands in his lap and tries to stop them from shaking. "Whatever do you mean?" he chokes out with his haughtiest sneer.
"Why, your upcoming nuptials to Blaise Zabini, of course!" Skeeter titters. "A childhood acquaintance; the only son of a viscountess whose lineage is pure yet whose name remains unsullied despite the War, and a rising star within the Department of International Magical Cooperation. To borrow a Muggle term, you couldn't dream of a more perfect Prince Charming!"
"I know," Draco manages, the words sticking to his throat.
"I hear everyone who's anyone will be invited to the nuptials." Skeeter leans forward, nearly falling out of her seat. "Any hints as to who we may see on the guest list?"
"Well, myself and my betrothed, of course. As to the names of anyone else, you will just have to wait until the actual wedding in June."
The prospect of gossip seems to invigorate Skeeter. Her eyes grow sharp, her laugh turns delighted, and her words grow barbed and wicked. "And the viscountess? It's also rumoured the Dowager Lady Zabini is less than delighted with her son's choice of a husband. As much as we try, we can't always escape our past, can we, Draco?"
Draco laughs mirthlessly. "My future mother-in-law will be much more upset upon hearing you refer to her as 'The Dowager' than the prospect of being related to me. But I am not trying to rewrite the past. I've learned from mine, and although I certainly wish I had made better choices in my youth, it's made me who I am today. I like to think that I've grown and that I'm moving on. Which is something Blaise has been incredibly supportive of."
"So, Draco Malfoy, the prodigal son, has returned to the fold. After enduring over a decade of public humiliation and scorn, you now have success, admiration, and wealth, not to mention an engagement to someone as powerful and charming as Mr Zabini. It's quite the fairy-tale ending, indeed."
"Indeed. I am a lucky man." Draco takes a deep breath, willing himself to believe.
~*~
"Hold still," Blaise murmurs as he catches his lower lip beneath his teeth. He folds down the edge of the silk square, his fingers lingering along the fabric before pulling back. "Perfect."
Draco looks at the silver handkerchief decorating his suit pocket. "A perfectly executed Dunaway fold. I'm impressed."
Blaise lifts a shoulder, his mouth curling into a pleased expression. "I'd rather be pinning a boutonniere to your lapel right now, but I guess I can wait."
Draco curls his hand along the back of Blaise's neck and draws him in for a kiss. It's brief and soft, and some of his restlessness settles. "Four more months," he says, after he pulls away. "That is, if your mother doesn't find some way to break us apart."
"She adores you, darling. Fine," Blaise concedes when Draco shoots him an incredulous look. "She tolerates you."
"Barely."
"More than anyone else I've ever introduced to her."
"That's not saying much. You've only brought home one other." Draco recalls the gossip in the rags the next day, along with the photograph of Blaise's then-girlfriend leaving the Zabini estate in tears.
For the first time, Blaise looks uncomfortable. "It's only been Mother and me for so long. She's just… overprotective. Don't take anything she says personally. Besides, it's you I'm marrying, not her."
Draco suppresses a shudder. "Promise me we'll find a home far, far away from her once we're married."
Blaise lets out a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "What about Paris? Le Seizième, more specifically." His grin grows larger as Draco's jaw drops. "I've been told that they're considering me to be a delegate for the International Confederation of Wizards. It's not a done deal, but I have it on a good word that the Supreme Mugwump has me on the shortlist of candidates."
"Blaise, that's… " Draco's head is swirling from the news. He's thrilled for Blaise, of course. It's been everything he's been working towards, and at thirty-two, Blaise will be one of the youngest delegates in modern wizarding history. But Draco's studio—along with all his personnel—is based in London. It's not impossible, but with New York Fashion Week and Blaise's mother occupying his mind, it's a lot to process.
The smile slowly slides from Blaise's face. "Draco?"
"I'm sorry. I'm so proud of you. Your mother will be thrilled."
"She was. I called her as soon as I heard. I told her we'd look for a flat for two."
Draco pastes on a smile that feels strained along the edges. He's not sure what he's more miffed about: that Blaise seems to have made plans that involve them both without any serious discussion beforehand, or that Blaise saw fit to tell his mother first. "That sounds lovely, darling." He looks down at his hands and brushes off an imaginary speck of dust from his trousers.
Blaise's hand circles his wrist. "You look gorgeous, Draco," he says as their cab comes to a stop. "But you always do—whether you're in or out of your clothes." He flashes the driver a brilliant smile, pays the tab along with a handsome tip, and exits the taxi with his hand extended to Draco.
The clamour of shouts and bright lights that greet them in front of the restaurant blinds Draco momentarily. He remembers the thrill he got from the adulation at first—the joy of being valued, of finally being wanted— but now he can't go out for a simple meal without a microphone being shoved in his face or some paparazzo skulking around the corner. The Muggles seem to be as enamoured by celebrity as those in the wizarding world, even though they only think of Blaise as someone who works in public relations who also happens to be Draco's fiancé. Papers like The Prophet, however, feed the wizarding public with the full details of their lives, and Draco only imagines the frenzy increasing as Blaise gains yet another political foothold.
He tries to focus on the comforting weight of Blaise's hand against the curve of his back as they push their way past the crowd. Once they finally make it through the double doors of the restaurant, Draco takes a deep breath. As his eyes adjust to the darker surroundings, they unfortunately land on Daphne Zabini, with her perfectly penciled brows drawn down and blue eyes glittering sharply.
"Sorry, Mother," Blaise says, bussing her cheek as they reach her table. "The paps were hungry tonight."
"That's quite all right, darling. After all, I know it's not you who's courting all this ridiculous attention."
"It's only because Fashion Week is in three days. Draco has been doing a lot of press over the past month for his new collection," Blaise explains.
"Actually, it's probably because we just announced a last-minute casting change for the show. It caused a terrible uproar among the models," Draco jokes. He goes to kiss Blaise's mother as well, who leans back a fraction and waves him into his seat.
"Your show, your models. It's one and the same," Daphne says dismissively. Draco sits, folding his napkin into his lap as his cheeks heat.
The hostess comes by with their menus. Draco can tell she's avidly listening in to their conversation even as she tries to maintain a facade of professionalism.
"Well, there's no such thing as bad publicity, right?" Blaise says once the hostess leaves. "Your show will be the highlight of the week, I'm sure."
"I'd rather it be for what's being shown on the catwalk than the drama backstage." Draco sighs. He glances at the menu, trying to decide whether he wants the Saint-Pierre with daikon or to say to hell with his diet and order the beef wagyu.
"I saw Rita Skeeter's article in Witch Weekly," Daphne continues. "The designs seem nice, if a bit… understated."
Beef wagyu, it is. And a Bordeaux—preferably one that's incredibly expensive. Draco places the menu back on the table and signals their server. "A glass of your 2016 Château Angélus, please." He turns his attention back to Blaise's mother. "I plan on showing in Paris in September. It's too time-consuming, given the detail and showmanship required for haute couture, to do a proper job in addition to planning both a ready-to-wear line and our wedding. Since the Fédération requires all couture pieces to be shown in Paris, I felt my current line would fit better in New York, away from the flashier shows." Their server returns with their drinks and Draco takes a sip, one that's larger and longer than is proper.
Lady Zabini eyes Draco with distaste. "Even so, it would have been nice for you to show in Paris. Perhaps one day, you'll become an official member of the Chambre Syndicale, especially given Blaise's promotion."
"Now mother, it hasn't been confirmed yet," Blaise says, smiling into his glass.
"I have all the faith in you, darling. The guest list is nearly finalised. Prince Sébastien will attend, by the way. Such a handsome man; why, it seems like just yesterday that you were both playing in the gardens. And the florist would like to speak with you tomorrow to confirm the arrangements for the reception."
Draco closes his eyes. He's spent more time planning this wedding than he has his own show, and the guest list feels like it's ten times longer. This was nothing like the first time, when he and Harry—
No. He’s not going there. What's past is past; he and Harry are done, and Blaise is his future.
Blaise reaches out for Draco's hand from under the table. Draco opens his eyes and smiles, returning Blaise's reassuring squeeze.
"Don't worry, mother," Blaise says once Daphne finishes. "We'll take care of everything. If there's anything urgent while Draco is in New York, I'll handle it."
"Well, make sure you both meet with your lawyers before Draco leaves," Lady Zabini huffs.
Draco looks at Blaise, who shakes his head. "My lawyer? For what?"
"Well, the prenuptial agreement, of course." Daphne turns to Blaise. "You didn't tell him?"
"I'm sorry, love. I didn't want to bother you with everything you had going on," Blaise says to Draco, his eyes filled with guilt. "We can talk about it more when you get back. The pre-nup is not a given."
Draco looks between Blaise and his mother. The whole concept of a premarital agreement is the definition of irony, given the fact that Lady Zabini had acquired her titles, monies, and estates by marrying extremely wealthy men before becoming a widow.
Seven times over.
"I have plenty of money of my own," Draco says, tilting his chin. "That's not the reason Blaise and I are marrying."
"Then you should have no issue with signing one," Lady Zabini counters, meeting Draco's gaze. "And it's not just a matter of money. Blaise's career is taking off, and he needs someone steady by his side. Someone who will be his constant support, no matter where his work takes him."
"I support him always," Draco says. He slides his hand out from Blaise's grasp, his voice shaking. "Whether I am in the same room as him, or in another city or country, that doesn't change."
"And what if things get difficult? It is not easy, being in the public eye. Even the best politicians can't please everybody. You know as well as anyone else what it means when you, or your family, face scrutiny. Yet you took off years ago while your father was imprisoned, disappearing for nearly three years and leaving your mother to fend for herself."
Draco bangs his fist on the table. The wine sloshes in his glass and the silverware rattles. "I needed time. She understood."
Lady Zabini laughs, her mouth curling into something cruel. "Perhaps she and my son are more understanding than I am. Tell me, what happens the next time you have a crisis of identity? Forty is not so far away. Will you abandon Blaise then, too?"
"Mother, please," Blaise says quietly.
Draco pushes away from the table, his chair skittering out from behind him. "I am thirty-two years old. I've won British Designer of the Year and have had my dresses worn at the BAFTAs and Oscars. I have storefronts in fifteen major cities, on five continents, and a social media account with over ten million followers. I have no uncertainty as to who I am or what I've accomplished, and I don't need you to tell me otherwise." He looks up, his face flushing hot when he realises that the other diners are staring and he's already halfway out of his seat. "Excuse me," he mutters to Blaise as he makes his way towards the restroom, blinking furiously.
He's splashing water against his face and trying to figure out how he's going to make it through the next hour or two when he hears a soft knock on the door.
"Draco?" Blaise asks. When Draco opens the door, Blaise gathers him in his arms. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, pressing a kiss against the corner of Draco's mouth. "You know I couldn’t care less about some silly pre-nup. I just didn't want to argue with her, and I figured any discussion could wait until after you returned from New York. I never expected it to be such a big deal."
Draco snorts. "Big deal? I can only imagine tomorrow's headlines after the scene I made." He takes one of the towels and dries his face and hands. When he catches his reflection in the mirror, he's surprised to see the dark circles under his eyes and the unhappy lines framing the corner of his mouth. Suddenly, he feels years older. "If we could get married in a different way—run away from it all—would you?"
He's not sure if he's asking himself privately or if he means for the question to be spoken out loud, but once it's out, Draco finds himself holding his breath for Blaise's answer.
"Run away? And give up all the lovely gifts and the chance to have an enormous party?" Blaise teases. "Besides, I love my job and Mother is here. And your offices are here, too. Why would we want to be anywhere else? Well, aside from Paris," he adds with a wink.
"You’re right. Of course, you are," Draco adds, his guilt flaring when he sees the concern in Blaise's eyes despite words to the contrary. "I'm sorry. I think it's just jitters from the upcoming show."
"Everything will be all right. You'll see." Blaise pulls Draco in for a kiss, his lips soft and warm. Draco allows himself to sink into the security of Blaise's arms and shuts out the rest of the world.
~*~
Draco loves New York City, but he hates JFK. The airport is nothing like Heathrow; the corridors are old and not as brightly lit, and the energy, while just as palpable, is more frenetic. To make things worse, he hasn't eaten or slept in the past twenty-four hours. Airplane food, even that served in first class, hardly counts, and it's difficult to fit his six-foot-two frame in the seat despite being fully reclined. His nerves are frazzled, and he finds himself teetering on the razor-thin edge between hysteria and euphoria.
He lets out a long sigh as he fiddles around in his pocket for his phone. America—and New York, in particular—holds too many memories that remain sharp and bitter despite the passage of time.
"Ms Parkinson called," Emma says as she scrolls through her mobile. Her auburn hair is thrown into a loose bun; she looks fresh and wide-eyed despite the bumpy flight, and Draco envies her, in that moment, for her youth and resilience. "The designs have already arrived at The Pierre; Tristan is unpacking them as we speak. I've confirmed your four o'clock with the rep from Jaguar. I've also ordered a light spread and some green juice—"
"No green juice. Coffee," Draco says with a groan. "I need caffeine. Lots and lots of it. And I'm giving the rep fifteen minutes, max. I don't have time to pander to some suit just because Pansy likes the idea of some ridiculous, publicity-driven collaboration." He pulls his scarf up higher around the lower part of his face as they move past the baggage claim into the transportation area. His platinum-blond hair has always garnered a lot of attention, and the last thing he needs is to be called out for being less than cordial to some stranger when he's been sleep-deprived for the past thirty-six hours.
Emma nods, her fingers flying as she texts. "Done," she says as she receives an answering ping. "By the way, Pansy also insisted that I book a massage for you because, and I quote, 'you know how you get with those headaches, so do the right thing for once, darling'. I booked you a five o'clock; I figured it was early enough to ease some of the tension from travel, but not too late to prevent you from doing anything after."
Draco arches a brow, amused at her efficiency despite his exhaustion. "Is that all?"
"Not quite." Emma places a hand on Draco's arm and steers him away from the traveler who's paying more attention to the display at Dunkin' Donuts than the rest of her surroundings. They head towards the line of limousine drivers with their placards held against their fronts, when Emma suddenly stops. "Blimey! I can't believe they're having a Griffin Evans exhibition at the Whitney! Maybe I'll have time to see it after the show," she adds wistfully.
"Hmm?" Draco asks absentmindedly, jerking his head up when Emma points to the electronic billboard next to the Hudson News stand.
"Griffin Evans! Most of his works are in private collections. They rarely go up for auction or are even available for public viewing. I've been obsessed with him ever since I saw one of his works at the Mandarin Oriental in Paris. Evanescent Son literally spoke to my emo heart—"
Draco looks Emma up and down, his eyes trailing over her cardinal-red Burberry jacket and the pair of leather gloves and boots of his own design. "Emo, Emma? Seriously?"
"Emo doesn't mean listening to My Chemical Romance or looking like you're Robert Smith's doppelgänger," Emma says. "It's like… being in tune with things that stir your emotions. Being in touch with your feelings or experiences from your past." She eyes him critically. "God, how old are you again?"
Draco's brows creep further up towards his hairline. "Excuse me?" he huffs. "Who's signing your paycheques here?"
"You love me and my organisational skills, and you know it. It's what allows you to live in that magical head of yours. Oh, here's our ride now," she adds, waving at a man holding a sign that reads 'DM Shacket'.
"No, you did not," Draco says, groaning as he sees the pseudonym Emma used for their reservation. It's a flashback to the discourse that followed in the wake of his interview with Elle magazine, when he lambasted the shirt-jacket hybrid fashion trend in a video that went viral.
"You secretly love it, admit it," Emma teases. She pulls up their reservation online and shows it to their driver, who takes their luggage and leads them to a sleek black Cadillac.
"Thank you," Draco begins before he's interrupted by his phone. Merlin, he hasn't been on the ground for fifteen minutes and he's already being bombarded with calls. He looks at the screen as he and Emma pile into the back street of the limousine, frowning when he sees Millicent's number. He makes a quick decision and picks up.
"We just landed, Millie. If this is about the pre-nup, can it—"
"It's not about the pre-nup, Draco." Millicent sounds different, her usual brash confidence reduced to hesitation, and something cold grips Draco's gut. "But if this doesn't get sorted, there will be no pre-nup to discuss."
Draco turns towards Emma and points to his ears. "Emma, darling. Do you mind?"
Emma plucks out a case from her handbag and puts in her AirPods. She turns up the music to a volume loud enough to rival that of an Expulso. "What? Sorry, I can't hear you," she shoots back, grinning.
Draco gives her a grateful nod before turning his focus back to Millie. "All right, you have my undivided attention," he says, his words turning businesslike and formal. If this is one of Daphne Zabini's last-minute attempts to meddle in the wedding, he's going to call Blaise and put his foot down. "What did that harridan do now?"
"It's not Lady Zabini. Draco, your wedding to Blaise is in jeopardy because you're still married to Harry."
Draco was at Michael Fassbender's infamous Mayfair party and has Lady Gaga on speed dial. There aren't many things nowadays that can leave him speechless.
"What?" It's quiet inside the cabin of the car, aside from the tinny sounds from the music that leaks out past Emma's AirPods, yet all Draco can hear is the pounding in his ears.
"When I sent out the divorce papers to Harry seven years ago, I never got them back. I thought… Well, I thought that you and Harry had changed your minds. After all, it's not like the two of you haven't had this back and forth between you for most of your lives."
"Millie," Draco growls out in warning.
"Right. Sorry. So, you never inquired after the papers. I'd just obtained my practising certificate and was lucky enough to get an in-house position with Hutchinson's group, which kept me ridiculously busy. It honestly slipped my mind until I got the call from Blaise's lawyers."
"But, Millie… " Draco's voice trails and he scrubs his face, suddenly feeling ten times more weary. "I've been with Blaise for almost two years. Our engagement's been all over the papers for the past eight months. Why is this only coming up now?"
"We didn't keep in touch over the years, Draco. Truthfully, I was shocked when you reached out to me last year to deal with that bit in The Sun— not that I'm not grateful—and that you've asked me to handle your premarital agreement. I'd assumed your divorce was finalised after all this time. After all, you have the largest law firms at your beck and call, now that you're a celebrity."
Fuck. Draco wishes he could take out his wand and cast a Muffliato. He glances over at Emma, who seems enraptured with whatever music she's listening to, her fingers drumming a beat against her thigh. The privacy glass between the front and rear seats is up, likely at Emma's request. "I asked you to take on cases of a personal matter, Millie, because of our history. And because there are only a handful of people who know what happened ten years ago, and that includes you, me, and Harry." The Manhattan skyline looms large in front of them, and Draco's headache grows. His marriage to Harry was reckless and impulsive, like everything else in their relationship, and the act is still haunting him ten years later. "Blaise… his legal team. How much time do we have to get this all sorted?"
Millie lets out a long breath. "You and Harry never registered in the UK and you kept your names, so there's no record of your marriage here. But make no mistake," she adds as Draco opens his mouth to interrupt, "your Las Vegas wedding is fully legal. If you are to have any shot of legitimising your marriage to Blaise, we have to rectify this now."
"So, send Harry another set of papers to sign. I'll sign them when I return."
"Yeah. About that. After I confirmed the status of your marriage with the Clark County Marriage Bureau, I sent the divorce papers through the international post, return receipt, to the last address we had on file. They came back this morning. Harry had received the documents and returned them. Unsigned."
"He what?" Draco squawks. His mind is still trying to wrap itself around the fact that not only is he still married, but his soon-to-be ex-husband is still living in the same house they had built together and refusing to move on. He must have made quite the sound, since Emma turns to him with a perfectly arched brow.
Draco signals that he's all right, even though he's feeling anything but. "You're in New York, Draco," Millicent reminds him. "Go upstate and talk to Harry after your show."
"It's been seven years since we've spoken," Draco whines. He clutches the edge of the leather seat as his pulse spikes, a mixture of uneasy anticipation and nerves.
"It's the fastest way to resolve this," Millicent says matter-of-factly, "and you know it."
Deep down, there's a part of Draco that knows it would always come to this. That he would have to, at some point, confront Harry. They had parted on the worst of terms, their volatile relationship rubbed raw and left open with no true closure. That they're still here—with Harry refusing to sign the divorce papers and Draco's own obliviousness to the state of their marriage—is proof of the truth in Millicent's words.
"Fine. Send the papers to The Pierre along with Harry's address," Draco says with a sigh, even though he remembers it fully.
"Stiff upper lip, Draco," Millicent says. "You've made it through more difficult things than this."
Draco tilts his head back against the headrest and takes a deep breath once they disconnect. There's still one more call he has to make.
"Darling," Blaise answers, sounding chipper as ever even though it's late back home. "Miss me already?"
Draco tries to reply with a quick quip of his own but it dies in his throat. "We're almost at the hotel and my schedule's packed. I'm not sure how much time I'll have to call over the next several of days, but I wanted you to know that… I miss you."
"Well, the obvious solution is to have a smashing show and hurry home. We'll have a lot to celebrate: your fabulous success and, if all goes well, mine too. The Supreme Mugwump is announcing her choice of delegate tomorrow."
Draco's heart plummets. He might not be available to congratulate Blaise when the news first breaks, given the unpredictability of his days. "Call me as soon as you find out. I'll try to make myself available. But as for the celebration, we may have to wait a bit. I… I'm going to be in New York for a little longer than I thought. Not too much more—perhaps two or three days at the most." The iconic outline of The Pierre comes into view and Draco barrels on, desperately. "It's something I have to do before the wedding."
"Oh?" Blaise says, his voice ticking up with interest. "Are you going to tell me what it is, or leave me in suspense?"
Draco's face heats. "Well, the thing is—"
"Hold on," Blaise says as a drawn-out beep interrupts their conversation. There's silence on the other line, followed by a small sigh. "I'm so sorry, darling, but Mother's calling. She's making dinner arrangements for tomorrow in anticipation of the announcement."
The relief Draco had felt in delaying his confession is obliterated by the news. "A celebration without your fiancé," he says flatly.
"It's only a small thing," Blaise says, his voice soothing. "Five or six people, at the most. We'll celebrate properly when you get home, all right?"
"I have to go, anyway," Draco says as the Cadillac pulls up in front of the hotel. "Call me when you hear the good news."
"Of course. And you, too."
"I love—" Draco starts, before realising Blaise has already disconnected the call.
Emma removes her AirPods and returns them to their case. "Everything all right, Mr Malfoy?" she asks as their driver opens the door. The noise from the city fills the cabin, the blare of the horns and conversations of passersby adding to its palpable energy. Draco's been to New York City since he left Harry, but this time it feels different. As if he's on the precipice of something life-changing.
"Not quite." He follows Emma out and takes a deep breath when he spies the Fashion Week banners lining the street. He's been through hell and back to make it where he is today, and he won't let a mistake from his past ruin everything. "But it will be."