AN: post-war, warning for swearing, warning for discussion around (poor) mental health

Title/Link: Leap of Faith
School: Beauxbatons
Theme: Fate - Write about a character facing or fighting their fate.
Year: One
Main Prompt: [Object] Engagement ring
Additional Prompt: [Emotion] Trust
Word Count: 2991

Harry's destiny was to die.

His mind wandered to that fact as it always did when he let his focus drift. The steady thudding of his feet against the ground resonated in his bones like a heartbeat from the universe. It synchronized with his own heart—a heartbeat that he wasn't supposed to have.

Frowning, Harry shook his head and pushed his muscles to go faster. He was supposed to have gotten over thoughts like that. Three years of sessions with Mind-healing had taught him that he would never be truly 'over' any of it, but he hated the fact that it was coming up right now. Today was not the day for depression.

These thoughts didn't fit with the engagement ring hidden in his dresser drawer.

He could blame it on the running. Adrenaline could do strange things to the mind, and he'd had a long week. The burning in his legs was fueling the combination of adrenaline, memories, and exhaustion that flung him back into his current emotional spiral.

But Harry was supposed to die. Dumbledore had said it was inevitable, the prophecy had confirmed it, and the bravest, drunkest souls muttered that he'd disrupted the balance of life. Harry Potter had survived against all odds and lived past his many fate-given expiration dates. He was supposed to die as a baby, he was supposed to die fighting Voldemort—and, now that he hadn't, every morning he woke up was an act of protest against fate itself.

Draco protested his fate every day.

No grand prophecies or magnificent plans were laid out for him. He was expected to become the perfect Malfoy heir and an obedient Death Eater, but privately, he'd always imagined that his destiny was broader. That pressure was less written-in-the-stars and more branded-into-his-flesh-with-hot-iron.

Instead, his destiny seemed to be made up of one word:

Isolation.

His father had always said it was lonely at the top, but, to Draco, it felt more personal. It was lonely being Draco Malfoy.

At first, he'd been an entitled brat, and he'd deserved his isolation. He didn't trust people, so they didn't trust him. He'd made himself an enemy of the Chosen One, a ruthless bully outside of Slytherin house, and an annoying twat within. Crabbe and Goyle had been sidekicks, not friends.

Now, though, his destiny was more self-imposed. People close to him had a way of dying or getting hurt, so he'd learned to avoid the risk. Those he hadn't lost had been slowly pushed away and barricaded from his life. No one else would die because of him.

Of course, Draco hadn't accounted for the Boy Who bloody Lived.

Harry Potter didn't die because of anyone or anything—let alone a disgraced, former Death Eater. If he was capable of being killed, Harry would have taken his last breath long before graduating. But Harry didn't bend to fate's will; fate bent to his.

Harry's lungs burned. Feeling alive and in the moment was supposed to help the panic attacks and the lingering depression, but it wasn't making these mental gymnastics any easier.

Sheer frustration pushed his mind towards the grounding exercises his Mind-healer had walked him through when he'd struggled with survivor's guilt after the war. The breathing part wasn't realistic, given his current pace, but the mental part was. His toes gripped the soles of his sneakers as he recited the mantra.

I am a person.

People are free, independent beings.

Voldemort was a person.

People are unpredictable.

My fate is my own.

I trust myself to create my future.

The words felt fake—as they had from the beginning—but he was supposed to 'fake it till you make it' or something, right? He was going to trust his gut, and his gut said his future was with Draco.

Was it crazy if that future came down to a circle of metal and a four-word question?

Draco hadn't planned on letting Harry back into his life. He'd meant to stay isolated, safe, and not at all dependent on other people for his happiness. His Mind-healer—who had originally been by order of the Ministry, but whom Draco now saw of his own volition—said he had trust issues.

He absolutely did, but that wasn't the point.

Harry's drawer handle was cold against his fingers, which were definitely not shaking. Moisture prickled in his eyes. This had nothing to do with trust, and everything to do with… what?

His other hand moved of its own volition. It reached out, grabbed, and pulled back. The faux black velvet that coated the little box stuck to the sweat on his palm. He could simply open it. For all he knew, it was a pair of cufflinks or an ancient brooch.

So why did it feel like he was holding the unbearable weight of his own prophecy?

Okay, maybe it had something to do with those trust issues after all.

"What are you doing?"

There was no anger in the voice, but Draco slammed the drawer shut and whipped around as if he'd been caught committing a crime. Harry was back early—he hadn't even showered yet by the looks of it—and here Draco was, snooping through their dresser like—

"How did you find that?"

Oh. Oh no. The grain of the little black box burned against his palm. Panic flooded through his veins, and his mind tried desperately to find an excuse, but Harry had caught him red-handed. Those emerald green eyes glanced from the box to his expression, then back again.

"I take it you're not thrilled."

It could still be anything inside the box, but the seriousness of Harry's tone confirmed what Draco had already guessed. If he opened it, there would be no cufflinks or fancy watch or medallion. It would be a ring.

"You might as well look at it before you chuck it into the Thames."

Draco was extremely aware of the fact that he had yet to say a word or even breathe. Harry was clearly upset, and Draco could only imagine that he'd ruined some big surprise or plans that his boyfriend had wanted to carry out. Of course, he'd ruined it! He always ruined things like this.

Did that mean Harry was rethinking the whole idea? This entire situation felt unstable in the worst way. On the other side of the room, Harry had cast a quick cleaning charm on himself and was changing into his typical sweatpants. There was a tension crackling in the air around him. It seeped into Draco's skin and coiled in his gut, poised and waiting for the inevitable explosion.

"You look like a deer caught in headlights," Harry muttered, only half directed towards him. "Use your words."

From anyone else, that sentence would have been condescending and unwelcome at best. Between them, though, and after three years of trying to process and heal together, it had become a technique. Neither of them was very good at feeling their emotions—let alone expressing or communicating them.

'Use your words' was something Harry's Mind-healer had come up with. It was a routine to fall back on when bigger, harder sentences with explanations or reasons were too much for their brains.

"Scared," Draco managed to choke out. "Shocked, really fucking overwhelmed, and disbelieving."

The last one made Harry look up. He'd nodded at the first few and winced in agreement on 'overwhelmed'. But, knowing Harry and his triggers, the dark-haired man had probably been expecting to be met with rage. They'd known each other for over a decade, but Harry still sometimes forgot that Draco wasn't the type to lash out in anger.

"Disbelieving?" He was looking straight into Draco's soul.

Draco paused, trying to find a better description in the mindset of the flood of emotions that threatened to drown him. 'Shocked' was too severe—though true—and both 'suspicious' and 'skeptical' had too negative of a connotation.

"Yes, disbelieving. Or maybe… distrusting? That sounds harsh, but—"

"You don't trust it?"

Harry frowned at Draco's shrug.

"Which part?"

Which part? As far as Draco was concerned, there was only one, huge, overwhelmingly intimidating whole: he was holding a bloody engagement ring. His confusion must have shown on his face because Harry took a deep, slow breath and tried again.

"Which part do you not trust? The promise? The ring? Or… me?"

"I trust you."

He said it automatically, instantaneously, with the ease that came from having said it a thousand times before. They'd been together for years, now! Of course, Draco trusted him. But Harry cocked his head, glanced at the shaking hand still clutching the little box, and raised an eyebrow.

"What are you afraid of?"

The question wasn't accusatory, but Draco couldn't help recoiling a bit under the intensity of Harry's gaze. What was he afraid of? This was supposed to be what people hoped for and dreamed of—it was a forever with the love of his life, for Merlin's sake! So why did it feel so wrong?

"I'm supposed to be alone."

Draco didn't realize how true the words were until they hit the air like a curse. He'd always known deep in his gut that he would end up alone. Things with Harry were good—great even—but in the back of his mind, he'd been waiting for it to fall apart. Relationships and friendships were great while they lasted, but he was Draco Malfoy, and Draco Malfoy was destined to be alone.

Harry was clearly interested now. He seemed far less angry than Draco had expected and much more curious, despite the pinch of pain at the corners of his eyes.

"Says who?"

That was the question. No one had ever told Draco that he would end up alone, or even that he should be. He didn't need to be told. He was a Malfoy—elite—and it was lonely at the top.

"People who get close to me get hurt."

It sounded like the most rational answer and the least likely to be picked apart. Who could argue that people around Draco seemed to drop like flies? At the very least, their lives fell apart, or they suffered more than they'd ever deserved to. His parents, Pansy, Blaise—hell, even Harry had been at the other end of Draco's wand more than once.

"You think that people who get close to you are destined to die?"

"Or get hurt."

Harry bit his lower lip the way he always did when he was struggling to find the words. He'd done it since Hogwarts. It would have been cute, or even endearing, if Draco hadn't been so afraid of what he might say.

"So you think that if I get any closer to you, I'll be destined to die? The same way I was supposed to die as a baby? The same way I was supposed to die fighting Voldemort?"

Draco winced, and he tried to play it off as a reaction to the name, but Harry knew he'd long since become desensitized to the name. In reality, it was the thought of Harry dying. The thought of Draco causing Harry's death by getting close to him. Harry had escaped his own fate, but what about Draco's?

"I get it, you've never been one to go along with what the universe dictates. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm…"

"Supposed to be alone?" Harry suggested. "Why, then? If you're not worried about me, if you trust me enough to build a life with me, why are you supposed to be alone?"

Harry asked it like Draco hadn't just given him two very good reasons or like there was another, more painful reason beneath it all. The longer he thought about it, the more valiantly that third reason fought to be said. Harry was right—the git—and Draco had exhausted any of the excuses that would have worked on anyone else. That left him with one option.

"It's my punishment."

Harry's face immediately fell. His eyes darted to the little box as if he might take it back, but he sank down onto the edge of the bed and just stared at Draco instead.

"For what? The war?"

As if that were even a question. Between them, there was no pretending or hiding the truth. Harry had seen the worst parts of him, and they'd fought on opposite sides during the war… Was he really asking what the punishment was for?

"For everything," Draco mumbled. "From the very beginning—all of it."

At that, Harry really did reach out and take the box back. He handled it so much more easily than Draco had—like it wasn't heavy with the promise of their future—and directed his eyes at it rather than Draco.

"Don't you think you've atoned enough?"

Silence.

"Okay," Harry conceded, opting not to rehash that argument at the moment. "Well that's definitely something to bring up with Emma at some point, I think."

The name of Draco's Mind-healer made the current situation real. Until now, some part of him had been caught up in the ring and the whirlwind of what this all meant for the future. It hadn't sunk in that he was standing here and having this argument with his boyfriend.

Was it an argument? Harry didn't look angry. He hadn't Vanished or Incendio'd the box, though that was likely a monetary decision rather than an emotional one. Draco blinked, waiting for a bigger reaction.

"I need you to be completely honest with me, Drake. If all of this weren't an issue and we could have our perfect happily-ever-after, would you want that?"

"Yes."

The word didn't feel like enough. It came out half-hearted, conflicted, and chained down by guilt. Draco wanted to scream it from the top of the Astronomy Tower and carve that word into the toughest bricks just to convince Harry that he did want that future with him. He couldn't tell if Harry believed him or not.

"And do you think I've atoned enough since the war?"

Harry always did this. He tried to compare their actions or make Draco see things from an 'outside perspective' when that wasn't the point. It wasn't his actions that had—

"I just need a yes or a no. Have I atoned enough not to deserve punishment now?"

"Yes." Of course you have. There was never anything for you to atone for. You saved everyone, you idiot! Draco's inner torrent of denial was interrupted, though, by Harry suddenly nodding and flicking the box open.

"So, let me get this straight." His voice had turned contemplative and laden with emotion, but not angry. "I want a future with you, and you want a future with me. According to you, I don't deserve to be punished with loneliness—but you do. You want to punish yourself for your past actions, but you can't without cutting me out of your life and hurting me, too. I assume you don't want to hurt me. Am I correct so far?"

Draco nodded, his neck stiff and his head feeling odd on his shoulders. He didn't have the emotional capacity to anticipate where Harry was taking this, so he responded to each of the individual statements. He didn't want to hurt Harry.

Harry ran his finger over the ring which Draco still hadn't seen.

"Then," he started again, "it sounds like the only option here is to trust me when I say my happiness strongly correlates with your presence in my life. I think you just have to take my word for it that you deserve happiness, too—at least until you and Emma can work on it and get you to a place where you believe it. If we can agree on that, then I only have one more question."

This time, Harry waited for an answer.

The words felt jumbled in Draco's mind, and he was desperately trying to find a loophole or a flaw in his boyfriend's logic, but there wasn't any. He didn't want to hurt Harry—the whole point was to avoid that—and he wasn't willing to punish himself at Harry's expense. Which left him with only one option: trust Harry.

"We… yeah, we can agree. And I do trust you—you know that. What's your last question?"

Harry's face broke into a smile, which softened at Draco's obvious anxiety. Gently, the Gryffindor reached out and took his hand, keeping the little black box in the other. For a moment, Harry glanced between Draco's face and then at the box in his hand, and paused. Draco's chest seized. Was this all just an act to lower his defenses before Harry lashed out?

Draco forced his mind to stop and consider. He trusted Harry. Harry wouldn't hurt him, and Harry wasn't cruel like that. His grip tightened anxiously on Harry's hand.

As if reading his thoughts, Harry smiled and turned the little black box towards him. Inside was a delicate, ornate ring of swirling silver and obsidian that took Draco's breath away. It was the most beautiful piece of jewelry he had ever seen.

Draco's heart hammered in his chest. Harry had to be joking, right? Sure, they'd been together for years, and yes, they'd just had an entire debate about their future together, but Harry wasn't actually proposing to him, was he?

"Draco Malfoy, I'm begging you to take this leap of faith with me."

"Are you asking…"

Draco couldn't even finish the sentence. Fear overwhelmed him, but there was a new undercurrent of hope to it. Harry laughed, got down on one knee, and presented the ring again with a flourish.

"My apologies. Nothing but tradition for the Malfoy heir, of course..."

There was a teasing quality to the words, and Harry was still smiling. This was real. Harry was kneeling here, asking him to trust, and asking him to go against his fate. Teasing and arguing aside, Harry was actually—

"Draco Malfoy," that rich, familiar voice tried again, "will you marry me?"

And, fate be damned, Draco leapt.

Thanks for reading!