Sweat rolls down the side of your face and the back of your neck, making your hair fall in clumpy tendrils and your shirt stick to damp skin. It's not ideal, but you see the effect the heat has on the blokes around you—wet shirts plastered to firm chests, skin glowing with exertion—it's not a bad look, not here.
It's hot in the club, steamy and muggy from the summer heat and too many bodies packed into too small a space. It's undeniably uncomfortable, but you can't bring yourself to care. There's something joyous about it, something sexy and exhilarating in dancing away the frustrating heat beneath the pulsing flash of rainbow lights and the thud of a heavy bass track.
You remember when you used to hate summer, back when you were still in school. June was worst of all, signaling that first depressing month back with the Dursleys. It meant endless days of living a lie, making yourself small and invisible, suppressing everything about yourself until you were nothing at all. Nothing but a memory and a quiet hope for fall.
June's different now, the Dursleys and Voldemort left in the dust. Now June's hope and possibility, long summer days and hot, sultry nights for you to fill however you damn well please. It's still heady, this newfound freedom, even three years out from the war. It unlocked something in you, a hunger and desire you hadn't even realised you'd been burying.
Condensation pearls along the sleek curves of your beer bottle, fat droplets merging together until gravity drags them down to splash against your shins. The only part of you that's cool is the hand gripping your bottle, and you bring it up for a swig, before tilting your head and pressing the chilled glass against your neck. A bloke with pink hair and an eyebrow ring catches your eye as you do it, and the unmasked appreciation on his face as he takes you in makes your face flush. You look away and shiver. The press of your icy beer doesn't have much to do with it.
The song changes to some campy pop song from half a decade ago that makes the crowd cheer. Bodies shift and sway, and everybody around you begins to belt the lyrics, drunk and happy and effervescent with life, secure in the knowledge that they're surrounded by their people. You love it here, but it's a Muggle place. There's a subtle divide you can't help but feel between you and the dancing blokes around you, unavoidable whenever you have to suppress such a vital part of yourself. It's funny, in a sad kind of way, that even here, of all places, you're still hiding. But the flash of melocholy fades quickly, overcome by the inescapable atmosphere of giddy euphoria. This is where you're supposed to be. At least for right now.
You make your way to the bar, hoping to grab another beer before the one you have runs out. Maybe you'll catch somebody's eye, follow through on the promise of what brought you here in the first place.
Of course, when that happens, it's not at all what you expected. Or rather, not at all who you expected.
At first, you think your mind's playing tricks on you, but he's still there, even after you blink once, twice, a third time. He hasn't noticed you just yet, so you allow yourself a moment to take him in—painted on jeans, a loose black vest with a low cut neck and even lower cut arm holes. His hair glows technicolour neon beneath the rainbow lights, styled loose and wavy around his head like a halo. You swallow, the sound impossibly loud as blood rushes through your ears. He looks good.
Draco Malfoy looks fucking hot.
You haven't talked to him much over the past three years, but you've seen him around from a distance. Bill talks about him sometimes when you're all eating lunch at the Burrow, impressed with his apprentice's hard work and dedication. You're impressed, too. He's applied himself to helping mitigate the consequences of dark magic and curses, a noble calling. Everyone who's mentioned him in recent years has always spoken highly of him, and you can't deny you've been curious. You've thought about bumping into him accidentally-on-purpose a time or two, maybe asking for Bill's assistance with some of Grimmauld Place's dicier objects, but something's always held you back.
Seeing him here though...that's a shock. You'd heard the rumours, of course, that the Malfoy heir is as queer as a two-eyed Cyclops, on the brink of being disowned for refusing to marry an appropriate pure-blood witch. You've never put much stock in rumours. Even if they were true (as they appear to be now, at least partially), you still wouldn't have expected to run into him at such a thoroughly Muggle club. Then again, everything you've heard has made it clear Malfoy's made his peace with Muggles, and if you're going out to the gay clubs in London, this place is sure to be near the top of the list.
It's only been a few seconds since you saw him, but it feels like an eternity. You're paralysed with indecision, people buffeting against you as they writhe, breaking like waves on a rock. And then Malfoy's eyes rise to meet yours and the decision is taken out of your hands. Emotion ripples across his face, clear and quick. Recognition. Shock. A slow once over that makes your hands tremble and your belly quiver. Desire.
You meet at the edge of the dancefloor, and he doesn't even bother asking you to dance, just pulls you in by your belt loops until your bodies are pressed flush. Dancing has never been your strong suit, but then again, you're not sure if what goes on in these clubs is really dancing anyway. He slots a firm thigh between your legs and slides a possessive hand beneath your shirt to settle along your ribs, another curving around the swell of your arse. You can't remember the last time you were so turned on, your head spinning and pulse racing as you meet his seductive, challenging gaze. You've never been one to back down from a challenge, so you grind against his leg, pressing a hand to the sweaty small of his back, relishing his tiny gasp of surprise. He glares at the smug grin on your face, but it’s not long before he's kissing it away, devouring your lips in an inferno of lust that burns hotter than the sauna-like club around you.
You dance like that for two songs, three, until the both of you are panting and moaning into your increasingly messy snog. His thigh is still pressed up against your erection, the friction delicious and maddening and not quite enough. He's hard, too. The thick weight of him burns like a brand against your hip. You want to see him, feel him, taste him.
When Malfoy lifts his thigh a bit higher, providing just a fraction more friction, you mewl into his mouth, too desperate for it to feel embarrassed by the noise. That little sound must be enough to set him off, because he growls before wrenching himself away and nipping at your ear.
"Unless you want to come in front of this room full of strangers, I think it's time for us to go."
They're the first words he's spoken to you, and the smooth cadence of Malfoy's tongue forming vowels and consonants sends a shiver down your spine. You nod, unsure if your tongue can manage the same in the state you're in. Luckily that seems to be all the confirmation Malfoy needs, and he takes your hand, dragging you off towards the exit.
The outside air hits you all at once like a Glacius to the face, cool and crisp and almost unbearably breathable after so long inside that stuffy hotbox of a building. Objectively, you know it's still hot outside, that it hasn't been that long since you watched steam rise off the pavement in air-shimmering waves under the baleful sun, but you suppose anything would feel cool after the stifling closeness of sweating bodies in a confined space. You have the strangest urge to laugh, and you don't bother holding it in, giddiness overwhelming you for brief, wonderful moment. Malfoy looks back at you, his expressive face clearly indicating his doubt of your sanity, and the sight just makes you grin wider. You're still noticeably hard, obvious to anybody who cared to look close enough, practically indecent on this public Muggle street as you're about to get off with Draco sodding Malfoy. You'd think it was all some kind of heatstroke-induced fever dream, but even your subconscious wouldn't be so utterly bizarre.
"Where're we going?" you ask, low and breathless. You don't think you can wait much longer.
Malfoy appears to be of the same mind. "Here," he replies, pulling you down an alley that's far too exposed. Before you can question him, he's got you pressed back against a rough brick wall as he slides his wand out of a concealed pocket. You're not sure why it doesn't cross your mind to be afraid—he's got you pinned against a wall with his wand pulled, completely at his mercy—but it doesn't. For some strange reason, you trust him. He casts a hasty Notice-Me-Not.
"Won't last long," he whispers against your lips as he stows his wand. "But it'll last long enough."
The kiss is just as mind-melting as before, maybe even better, because now you have the wall at your back to hold you up when your knees begin to turn to jelly. He makes quick work of your flies, and you eagerly return the favour, peeling back the skin-tight denim and fishing out his flushed cock.
The air around you begins to warm, the earlier chill dissipating entirely under the heat of your desire. Everywhere you're touching burns—your hand wrapped around the thick length of his cock, his lips sliding against your mouth, his hand resting casually against your throat, thumb rubbing maddening circles along your pulse point. When he finally gets his hand around you, you feel like you might combust. He begins to stroke, fast and eager and just a little too hard, and you know it's not going to take you long to reach your peak. You attempt to match his pace, though the awkward angle makes for a slightly stilted rhythm. It seems to work fine for Malfoy though, his hips hitching eagerly into your hand, and you don't want to stop kissing him for as long as it'd take to adjust your positions.
As predicted, it doesn't take you long to climax, just a skillful twist of Malfoy's wrist and you’re done for, moaning your release into Malfoy's talented mouth. The sight or the feel or the smell of it must do something for Malfoy, because seconds later he follows, coming in a molton gush that drips through your fingers.
You're lazy and content in the aftermath, easy and pliant as Malfoy licks into your mouth with slow satisfaction. Everything feels a little hazy and blurry. Your heart rate slows. Gooseflesh ripples across your arms as your sweat begins to cool. A burst of raucous laughter and the steady thrum of music washes into the alley, a clear sign that Malfoy's charm has given out. Neither of you make any move to leave.
The two of you continue to snog leisurely in this alleyway under the stars, the sound of happy people on the street just yards away a low murmur in the background. Their shadows flicker through the lamplight spilling onto the pavement, like the shimmer of a heatwave in the desert.
You close your eyes and breathe deep, luxuriating in the crisp, dry air sliding across your skin, warmed with the scent of fresh baked bread and rich coffee from the café down the street.
"You really like Paris, huh?" Harry asks. You can hear the smile in his voice even with your eyes closed.
"I do," you say simply. "There's nothing quite like Paris in the fall, don't you agree?"
"Yeah, it's pretty great," he says quietly. Your cheeks heat beneath his steady gaze. He's not talking about Paris, and it's shocking and exhilarating how plain spoken Harry can be, how he can state his feelings and intentions so boldly, as if giving his secrets away doesn't cost him a thing. You clear your throat and look away.
"Yes, well, shall we?"
"Why are we here again?"
You let out a sigh of exasperation even as something tight inside you begins to melt with pleasure. He doesn't care where you are or what you're doing, as long as he's near you. You'd find the whole concept revoltingly sweet, except you feel the same way about him. Is this that first blush of young love all the books and songs go on about? You've never felt this way about anybody, and you'd be out of your depth regardless, but the fact that it's Harry Potter that makes your heart skip a beat brings its own set of complications. You wonder if you would have approached him in that club all those months ago if you'd known then where it all would lead, that it wouldn't be as simple as fucking him out of your system. If anything, the need for him just grew, passion raging between you in a hot sizzle of lust and desire as you screwed the summer away. You'd thought, then, that maybe that would be enough, a raucous summer fling, burning hot and bright before consuming itself with the force of its intensity. That seemed appropriate, somehow, for you and Harry.
The crisp winds of Autumn blew the heat of summer away like dandelion fluff on the breeze, and Harry was still there. Sticky, satiating nights became lazy morning breakfasts became something that was something. You're afraid to think about it too hard, examine it too closely, for fear the illusion might shatter in your inexpert hands. You wonder if Harry feels the same, like the two of you are perched on the edge of a precipice, unsure of what's waiting for you at the bottom if you jump, both desperately curious and terrified to find out. Probably not. Bloody Gryffindors never look before they leap.
"We're here so I can get some Christmas shopping done," you finally answer after a too-long pause.
"Christmas! But that's months away!"
"Some of us like being prepared," you say with a sniff. "You're the one who wanted to come with me."
Harry pouts. You try very hard not to find it attractive, fighting the urge to lean forward and kiss the pucker of his lips. "Paris for the weekend sounded exciting and romantic. I didn't know we'd spend the whole time shopping."
"Just think how nice it will be to buy your presents early. You won't have to brave the wild streets of Diagon on Christmas Eve." You pause and give him a filthy smile, pleased at the responding blush that spills down Harry's throat. "Besides, I didn't say we'd spend the entire time shopping. The shops close early after all. We'll have to find some way to spend our nights…"
Harry grins, his expression turning faux thoughtful as a light breeze ruffles his unruly hair. He's dressed casually as always in dark Muggle jeans and a charcoal sweater. There's a large knit scarf around his neck, burnt orange to match the turning leaves falling gently from the trees lining the street. It should look hideous, but, as always, somehow Harry manages to look both charming and sexy as hell. It's slightly infuriating. You wonder what people make of the two of you together, Harry's handmade woolen scarf next to the forest green of your cashmere one. It's a discordant combination, surely, but you can't help hoping that it somehow works, that the mismatched pieces of you combine into something unique and beautiful.
"All right, I'm in," Harry says finally, as if he was really considering any other option. You know what he's like once he's committed to something, and he was hardly going to abandon you in Paris because of a little shopping. Even still, you thrill a little at the confirmation. "But I'm not doing it without coffee," he declares.
You smile. "I wouldn't dream of asking you to."
Harry nods. "Good. Why don't I go into the café there and grab us something to drink? You can stay out here and get off some more on the autumnal Parisian atmosphere."
You can't stop the laugh that bubbles out of your throat. "You know I can't resist you when you use big words."
Harry flips you off as he walks towards the café, and you know you've got a ridiculously silly smile on your face, but you don't bother suppressing it. Nobody knows you here. Nobody cares. Back home it'd be different, of course. For one thing, you wouldn't be out with Harry at all, not like this, so close to the wizarding quarter. The two of you have been seeing each other for months now, but it's still fragile and new. Neither of you have told anybody about this relationship brewing between you. If it's ever going to grow into something real, and you can no longer deny that's exactly what you want, you know that will have to change, eventually. You'll have to deal with the judgement and the criticism from his friends and the wizarding public alike, the scorn and the disbelief and the constant thrum of nobody ever thinking you're good enough for the Golden Saviour. None of that is a surprise, it goes with the territory, but what is a surprise is that you're beginning to think it might be worth it. He might be worth it. For now, you're enjoying the relative peace of your secrecy, appreciating the soft joy of being with Harry without the rest of the world weighing in.
Pleasure warms your belly as Harry exits the café and walks towards you. Half-heartedly, you tell yourself it's all for the second cup of coffee in Harry's hand, the one he passes over to you with an electric brush of your fingertips. The coffee is hot and creamy and sweet, made exactly the way you like it. It shouldn't be a shock that he knows how you take your coffee, not with how many mornings you've spent together over the past several months, but you can't deny there's a sweet satisfaction in the knowledge that he's paid such close attention.
Silently, you head down the street towards the shopping area not far off. Harry falls into step beside you, a quiet, steady presence radiating warmth and security and a kind of contentment you didn't realise you could feel.
Fallen leaves crunch beneath your feet, a kaleidoscope of orange and brown and yellow crushed to pieces beneath your dragonhide boots. The heat radiating out from your coffee keeps your left hand toasty warm, but the cool air begins to chill the fingers of your right. You're contemplating the idea of slipping on a pair of light gloves, when a sudden warmth grips you and you almost trip in surprise. Cheeks flushing, you tilt your head to look down at your hand, now melded with Harry's, pale fingers intertwined with tanned ones. It's such a small, innocuous gesture, innocent, almost, but for the way it makes your heart pound. This feels like a statement, like intent, and when you turn and catch the serious look in Harry's eyes, you know that's exactly what it is.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. What is there to say? You squeeze his fingers instead, hoping he knows what you mean. He smiles, and then tugs lightly, pulling you close.
His mouth is on yours before you have a chance to blink, kissing you with soft lips. It's a sweet kiss, a chaste one, but you feel yourself melting into it all the same. He breathes against your mouth, a shaky, shuddering thing that belies the depth of his own feeling. You know you're not alone in this. You're not the only one who wants. Who's scared. You lean in and kiss him again, slowly, thoroughly, until all that exists in the world is the feeling of Harry's hand in your hand, his lips on your lips.
Around you, no one stares. Nobody's watching.
It's late when you finally get the owl. You knew she'd come, eventually, after it became clear that Harry wouldn't be meeting you at the restaurant as planned. He must have just now realised he stood you up. Again.
You take another drag of your cigarette, blowing smoke up into the frigid air, watching as it swirls with the snowflakes just now beginning to fall. It's cold, out on your balcony, even wrapped up as you are in your warmest fur robe. You could cast a Warming Charm to ward off the worst of the chill, but you don't bother. The cold has always been loathsome, but you're not particularly in the mood for comfort. Not now.
The owl hoots at you impatiently, and you take the letter from her leg. She sits there, after, staring balefully at you as white begins to dust her tawny feathers. Harry's expecting a response then.
The letter's contents are as expected. Sincere apology twisted up with the oh-so-noble excuse of an urgent Auror case that just couldn't wait. He begs you to come over as soon as you get his letter, to stay the night at his place the way you no doubt would have if he'd actually shown up for your date. Something inside you aches with wanting to see him. You want to warm yourself in the heat of his flesh, wake up drowsy and sated in a bed toasty with your shared body heat. He's had so many urgent cases lately, so many excuses that have left your bed cold and empty.
But the outside chill has already sunk into your skin, deep down into your bones. Ice crystallises in your blood, circulating through your heart until it, too, begins to cool. You consider sending back Harry's owl without a response—let him wait in suspense this time—but there's a strange gleam in the bird's eye, and you have a sneaking suspicion the pecking for an answer is only moments away. Instead, you pull out a second cigarette and transfigure it into a quill, turning over Harry's note to let him know you won't be joining him. Your words are sharp, precise, and even the delicate lines of them on the parchment look bitter and biting.
The owl takes off with a soft shuffle of wings, soundless once she's in flight. You watch as she disappears into the frozen night towards Harry, her form cutting swiftly through the falling snowflakes until the blackness swallows her up. How long will it take for her to cross such a great distance to Harry? It seems to you, as you sit here as cool and still as an ice statue, that the distance is surely insurmountable. It's a great, yawning chasm, an eternity of frozen tundra. What use are intentions and desperate wishing and persistent hope against such impossible obstacles?
You're on your third cigarette and contemplating the likelihood of hypothermia when you hear the chime of your Floo. It's well past midnight, which means there's only one likely culprit. The gelid center of you contemplates letting it ring and ring and ring, unanswered, but you know how persistent Harry is. He'll be pounding on the door to your flat next, causing a ruckus and waking the neighbours. Better to deal with it all now before it comes to that. Besides, it's long past time for you to go inside.
Your body moves with sluggish intent, snowfall sliding off the shoulders of your fur robe as you stand and make your way to the door. The air inside your flat feels like an inferno, your hands and face and throat burning with the sudden intensity of it. Your eyes water, and you allow yourself a moment to take a steadying breath, blinking away the tears as the Floo continues to chime. No need for Harry to think you've been here crying your eyes out over him.
The ringing seem to pick up in intensity, and you let out an angry sigh before making your way to the sitting room. A savage slash of your wand is enough to lift the wards, and you feel a vicious bite of satisfaction when Harry comes tumbling head-first through the Floo, ending up in a coughing heap on your floor. He pushes himself awkwardly to his feet and flashes you a nervous smile. You stare impassively back. Your heated flat may have warmed the surface of your skin, but the depths of you are still glacial.
"Fuck, Draco," Harry says after a long silence. "I'm so sorry. I lost track of time again, but I'll do better, I promise."
"I've heard that before."
Harry winces. "It's not like I can control when there's a break in a case."
You give him a wintry smile. "There are other Aurors, are there not? Or does every criminal need to be arrested personally by the Saviour?"
Harry's eyes narrow and you can hear the thread of tightly controlled anger vibrating beneath his words when he replies, "You know I don't like it when people call me that." He sighs and runs a hand through his fringe. "Of course there are other Aurors. This was actually Fredrick and Julian's case, but they needed back-up. When they asked, I couldn't exactly tell them 'No, sorry, I've actually got a date' could I?"
Harry's gaze turns incredulous, "You know how much they all love gossip. They'd never have stopped hounding me, trying to figure out who I'm seeing. It'd only be a matter of time before the press caught wind, and then we'd never have a moment's peace."
Your lips twist, bitterness snaking through you like icy poison. "Of course. Somebody might find out it's me you're fucking. Can't have that."
Time seems to slow as the two of you gaze into one another's eyes. You know on the outside you appear even and placid, but who knows what cold depths Harry reaches when he looks into your soul. Threads connect you to him, more and more of them everyday as your relationship grows, but something about the connections feels delicate and brittle, like a frozen tree branch, ready to snap and fracture with the slightest pressure. You wonder how easy it would be to cleave them all, if it'd be as easy as casting a Severing Charm.
"I thought we agreed we were keeping things private for now," Harry says quietly, his expression pained. "Isn't that what you wanted?"
The snow in your hair has begun to melt, icy rivulets of water sliding down the side of your face and the back of your neck. You shiver. You're so, so tired. "We decided that months ago. I suppose I thought it would change, eventually. That maybe we'd tell our friends, at least."
You can't bare to look at him, to see his expression and know his thoughts one way or another. Instead, you look out the large window to your right, the swirling eddies of pale snowflakes in the night strangely soothing, calming. It's easier for you to contemplate this nature-made chaos than confront the possibility of a romance cooled. Behind you, Harry lets out a shaky, shivering breath. You wrap your sodden fur robe more tightly around yourself and close your eyes.
Maybe there's nowhere else for the two of you to go from here.
Maybe this is all there is.
The tea in your hands is still piping hot as you ease into one of the creaky chairs just outside the back door of Grimmauld Place. You settle, watching the steam rise off the scalding water before dissipating into nothing in the cool spring air. It's early yet, the sun just beginning to crawl up over the horizon, illuminating rooftops and trees and the tiny patch of garden at your feet. Despite the early chill of the morning, the day promises to be beautiful and warm, one of those perfect spring days that London sees far too few of.
You blow on the surface of your tea, your breath creating cooling ripples before you raise the cup and take a hearty sip. It burns going down, but it's a good kind of burn, the kind that warms you up from the inside out, making you feel awake and alive. Birds chirp merrily around you, calling to one another as they wing from tree to tree. Dew pearls heavy on the too-long grass of your lawn, and you make a mental note to take care of it later this weekend. You briefly contemplate casting the modified Cutting Charm that Arthur taught you now, but you're not confident enough in your memory of it to risk the garden you've worked so hard to cultivate. And honestly, you just can't be arsed this early in the morning, not before you've even finished your first cup of tea.
Your thoughts drift, sliding inevitably, as they always seem to do these days, back to Draco. He was still in bed when you got up less than an hour ago now, warm and sleep-soft, grumbling and burrowing further under the covers as you rose for the day. Of all the Dracos, morning Draco is one of your favourites, open and affectionate in a way that Draco so rarely allows himself to be when he's fully awake. You think you might go back upstairs when you're finished with your tea, steal a few moments with an unarmoured Draco before the rest of the day begins to intrude. Your days always seem so much brighter when they've begun with Draco's hands on your skin.
Your heart swells when you think of Draco, and you're no idiot, you know what it means. Things had been rough between you a few months back, tense and strained in a way that you weren't sure the two of you could survive. It had terrified you, the thought that all this feeling inside you still wouldn't be enough, that no matter how much you wanted it, maybe you and Draco just weren't meant to fit. But things are different now. Better. Stronger. The ground between you began to thaw, brought on by long talks into the night, the both of you laying down all of your cards. Neither of you are all that great at talking about how you feel, at exposing the vulnerable underbelly of your emotions, especially with all the history between you. You're getting better at it, though, and so is Draco. It'll take time, but you're starting to think the both of you will get there. The thought steadies something inside of you, grounding you with the knowledge that Draco isn't somebody you're willing to lose, not without a fight. More miraculous, even, is that you think he'll fight for you, too, just as fiercely.
It's still early, but you can't help but check your watch, nervous that lunch time will have arrived already. Ron and Hermione are coming over at noon, and though there's not much to do before then, you still want to be ready. It's the first time they'll be meeting Draco as your boyfriend, lover, partner, whatever Draco is to you, and you think it'll be fine, but it doesn't stop you from being anxious. You know Draco's more of a wreck over it than you, and it won't do him any good to see you unsure of this, so you sip your tea slowly, hoping to release all the nerves before you join Draco back in bed. It's not as if Ron and Hermione don't already know—you told them last week—and they'd taken the news better even than you'd expected. Lunch will be fine.
You're sure it'll all be fine.
You want it to go better than fine.
Ron and Hermione have been the most important people to you for so long, they always will be, but you're beginning to realise that Draco is climbing his way through the ranks, winding his way inextricably around your heart. Draco's so much different than you thought he would be, so changed from the terrible person you'd all known as children. You won't be able to blame them if they're unable to get past who he was, but you hope they can. You hope they'll be able to see what you see in him. At the very least, you know they'll try. They love you. And you love him. Even if nobody but you knows it yet.
Despite the undercurrent of jittery nervousness, a feeling of happy calm blankets you as you finish your tea and watch your garden begin to stretch itself awake. No matter what happens, at least you're moving forward, growing. You hadn't realised it back then, but life had felt so routine, stagnant, until Draco came along, bright and vivid and impossibly vibrant.
A patch of sunlight begins to spread and grow, creeping across the grass and illuminating a lone magical daisy at the edge of the flowerbed. The flower's leaves unfurl, the bud opening and shifting towards the sunlight. The entire plant quivers and sighs in pleasure, the petals glowing with an ecstatic iridescence as the sun caresses it.
"Harry?" Draco's voice carries out beyond the partially opened door, and you think you know exactly how that daisy feels. Your entire being lights up, heartbeat racing in anticipation of Draco's presence.
He's in the doorway a moment later, his eyes softening noticeably when they land on you, still sitting in your chair. His hair's messy with sleep, his eyes a bit puffy, and he's wearing one of your oversized Cannons shirts over a pair of black pants. He's ridiculous and lovely and you want to pull him close, taste the warm salt of his skin and feel the strong beat of his heart beneath your hands.
"There you are," he says with a smile. "Now come in here and make me some toast. I'm hungry, and you know all of your Muggle appliances hate me." It's half plea, half-demand, and entirely Draco.
I love him, you think as your lips spread into a giddy grin. Too giddy, judging by Draco's quizzical gaze, but the look of puzzlement only makes you smile wider.
You think you'll tell him how you feel soon, whisper the words against the hollow of his throat and the arch of his foot and the jut of his hip bone. Press the truth of them against his lips.
But first, you have toast to make.