“So which of us is going to change their name?” Harry asks one night, smiling as though it’s a joke, a secret, undressed and glowing against the white sheets on their bed.
(They’ve been engaged for four days. Draco asked; after dinner one night and almost by accident, because he never could shake the feeling that Harry might pull someone better out of thin air, on a whim, move into an apartment in Westminster with a rich banker, an artist, someone who’d never broken his nose or hated him deeply or tried to kill him.)
(Draco sometimes thinks: he’s so stupid for this and how could he love me and maybe something’s gone awfully wrong and my whole life is just some eighth-year post-war fever dream and I’m going to wake up any second in my bed in the dorms.)
It’s not a joke, Draco doesn’t think. And it’s not a dream, either.
“Me, obviously,” he replies seriously, rolls his eyes a bit. A long time ago the answer would have been different. They both know it.
Harry frowns, just a little. “Yeah?” he asks. “You don’t want to keep your name?” he says, and even though he’s making it sound like a question, it isn’t really a question.
Draco looks at him and thinks about Harry with his name, and how it would sound in his mouth. Malfoy. Years and years and years of history in those two syllables, most of it awful. It was his father’s name, and his grandfather’s name, and once it would have been the name he gave to his children.
“Not particularly,” Draco says, and kisses Harry’s bare, brown shoulder, because it’s there and because he feels like it. Then he amends himself. “Not at all actually, not in the slightest.”
Draco feels sick at the thought of Harry having to go anywhere near it. The Malfoy name doesn’t deserve a person like Harry. He’s done more good things in his short life than have occurred in the entire history of Draco’s family, probably.
They’re both silent for a moment. “You just want to be a Potter,” Harry says lightly, instead of any number of other things, and Draco is abruptly grateful for him. He’d probably die if Harry decided to leave him for a banker, even though that prospect is looking less and less likely as the years pass.
“Yes,” he says instead, helplessly, helpless to deny it. “I’d like to be a Potter.” Because it’s your name.
And it almost hurts, baring himself, until Harry grins at the ceiling like that’s the best thing he’s ever heard. And maybe it is.
Draco says it again, just in case.