At this point in time, everything was quiet. But not the quiet that you’d want, the quiet you’d hate. The type that would cause someone to go mad as it just looms dangerously above their head. You’d think that since the majority of Harry’s problems were gone, being Voldemort and such, he’d finally have time to relax. But the thing was, Harry didn’t know how to relax. He was so used to having someone else constantly in the back of his mind or so used to the possibility of being attacked. He didn’t know how to ease the tension away from his shoulders or calm his attentive eyes as they would flit about the room. Eventually, the watchful gaze faded but the tight shoulders remained. Harry was most definitely afraid. Not the same stomach dropping fear he experienced all throughout Hogwarts but the fear of not knowing what was going to come next. He didn’t know what he wanted to do with himself, he’d felt as if he’d been conditioned to fight and have a sense of everything that was going around him. But now that he’s out of the small bubble of Hogwarts and in the middle of London, which is quite large compared to the school, he feels tiny. Sure, the fame of being Harry Potter, the chosen one, the boy who lived wasn’t pleasant and he did crave for privacy. Every time he took a step out into the Wizarding world, people stared and some whispered and he was damn glad that Muggles weren’t aware. He didn’t know if he could survive having both worlds constantly watching his every move.
He’d been fighting for his freedom for so long and now that he has it, he doesn’t know how to weave it into his life. Sometimes, in times like these, he wishes he was 11 again, blissfully unaware that there was a whole movement of people out there that were hoping for his demise. At the time, sneaking off to Hagrid‘s with Ron and Hermione seemed to be the most scandalous, if you could even put it at that, thing he’d end up doing.
Harry’s been scared all his life and he just doesn’t know how to let go of his fears. Things were bound to change and he could accept that. The world was going to move and evolve and he felt like he was stuck to the ground, body changing but mind remaining the same. Voldemort was gone so there’s no need for him to still have nervousness swirling in his stomach when he’s by himself or still hesitate when he rounds a corner, right? He tries to convince himself that he’s being silly, that he doesn’t know what he’s scared of, but that’s not true. He does know and it’s so prominent because he feels it every day when his eyes open, if he decided to sleep that night. It’s pouring down on him in thick waves, never giving him a break, which is something he so desperately wants. Harry is quite frankly, terrified of the future. Of what’s to come next. Hermione is expanding her studies by going to some wizard university and Ron is slowly but surely climbing his way up the ranks of the Ministry. And Harry? Well, he lounges around the house all day doing absolutely nothing.
It’s been three years since the war and yes, he wants to do something with his life, but he doesn’t know what. Doesn’t know where to turn. He’s happy for his friends, of course, who would he be if he wasn’t, but he is most definitely not happy for himself.
When he was younger, he couldn’t wait to be an adult living in the real world. Young Harry was so bright and open to all the possibilities life would have to offer, but then the harsh reality of everything came crashing down and he was stuck in a constant state of pitying himself. He’s still plagued with nightmares of a particular stark white, noseless face and images of his deceased friends and family lurk behind his rarely closed lids.
He shifts beneath the covers and something stirs next to him, mumbling incoherent words. Harry glances over and smiles to himself. But not everything has been bad.
A little over a year after they graduated from Hogwarts, Harry was milling around in an empty park when he bumped into someone and that someone just happened to be Draco Malfoy. He remembers that day clearly. How they both stopped and stared at each other, too shocked to even come up with anything to say.
Draco looked quite the same, but also different, something newer and dare he say it, more attractive. He had still been wearing black and Harry remembers wondering if he wears anything other than that color. He expected Draco to tell him to ‘sod off’ and walk away, but he had done quite the opposite.
“Potter.” He had mumbled out, nodding curtly. Harry responded with his own nod and quiet “Malfoy”. They stood there for another few seconds, and then Draco had muttered out an excuse me and was gone.
Harry went home that day thinking of how he had missed Malfoy’s voice and steely blue eyes. Then he smacked himself in the head because, bloody hell, Harry, you just don’t think that. That was early October and three weeks had passed, each night the surprisingly gentle and off-guard expression Draco had worn bubbling up in his mind.
Then one cold Saturday morning, now mid-October, Harry found himself back at that park. He didn’t quite know why he came back, maybe there was a part of him that wanted to run into Malfoy again, or perhaps he just enjoyed it. He had stayed there for about an hour, idly flipping through a book when someone sat down on the bench next to him. He didn’t bother looking up for the first few minutes, but they then cleared their throat expectantly and Harry lifted his gaze.
It had been Malfoy and all Harry could do was blink. When he spoke, he sounded annoyed.
“Are you just going to stare, Potter?”
Harry blushed at that, in that moment not knowing why, but looking back on the memory, he laughed at himself.
The silence stretched between them before Malfoy talked again and asked about the book he was holding. Harry replied saying Hermione had given it to him and he didn’t really know what it was about and Malfoy had smiled. It was small, but it was there. Harry thought about that smile for days.
The next week and the week after that, and so forth, the two wizards would sit on that same bench, making conversation. Sometimes there’d be a lull though as time went on, but it wasn’t unpleasant and Harry found himself enjoying it.
November rolled around and it got progressively colder and Harry hoped that wouldn’t stop their small rendezvous or whatever you’d label them.
Another day that’s so clear in his memory was when Harry went to Malfoy’s apartment for the first time, although not under the circumstances he’d want. It was end of November and about 15 minutes of Harry sitting alone on the bench had passed before it started to rain.
Now normally, he could’ve cast a spell to shield him from the rain but seeing as he was sitting in the middle of Muggle London, it was out of question. So Harry sat there, in the pouring rain waiting for Draco. At some point, he wondered why in the hell was he out in the cold waiting for his supposed rival from school. Maybe because you like him, you sodding idiot, were the first words that popped up in his head and Harry immediately brushed them off because one, Malfoy is well...Malfoy. And two, he’s a bloke, a guy, and Harry is definitely sure, er, pretty sure he’s straight. Most guys, sexuality aside can appreciate how another man can be pretty and can acknowledge the soft swoop of his strikingly white blonde hair or curve of his pink lips, right? Out of some convenience of the universe, while Harry was thinking of his seemingly soft skin and the quite lovely shade of his blue-grey eyes, Malfoy appeared in front of him, holding an umbrella.
“Bloody hell, what are you doing out here?” He had said, quite loudly, snapping Harry out of his silent appreciation.
“Waiting for you?” Harry replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Malfoy stared at him like he’d just confessed his undying for Umbridge and it was unsettling to say the least.
“You wanker! You’ll get sick or end up freezing your arse off!” Malfoy grabbed his arm and they had suddenly apparated into a homely room, tastefully decorated and Harry didn’t even pay mind that they had apparated out for any muggle to see, but to the fact that he was in Malfoy’s house.
“Undress. I’ll dry your clothes for you.” Malfoy snapped and turned round, out of the room. Despite being cold and shivering, Harry flushed and with shaking fingers stripped his wet clothing off of him. He left his boxers on because well, he was not standing in the middle of Malfoy’s living room butt naked.
He returned with a fluffy white towel and threw it at Harry, in turn picking up the pile of soaked clothes on the ground. There was a high blush on his pale cheeks and being the oblivious idiot he was, Harry didn’t understand why. He dried himself off, disappointed at the thought of Draco having white towels instead of black. He’d look more than good with a dark towel wrapped around his narrow waist, contrasting against his skin. And then he ended up thinking of Malfoy with water droplets traveling down the curve of his back or dipping in between his collarbone and shoulder blades.
He thanked god, Malfoy, whomever that he was alone at the moment because if he was in the same room as him, he didn’t know what he’d do. Minutes later Draco came back, this time holding a plain black t-shirt and grey sweatpants. He tossed them to Harry and told him to dress. Harry looked confused and Draco looked at him, clearly amused and asked him if he’d prefer to wander around his house nearly naked.
He’d blushed and quickly put the clothes on, settling down next to Malfoy on the couch. They continued their normal conversation as if they were on the bench in that park and sipping tea. It was dark but thankfully stopped raining when Harry left. By the time he’d lay down in his bed, he realized he was still wearing Draco’s clothes. That didn’t really help with all the thoughts whirling around his head. That night, he decided he wasn’t straight. Or maybe he was, it was just Malfoy. There was something about him, always had been that drew Harry closer.
He really had no way of contacting Draco, Malfoy, whatever, so he kept the clothes and returned them the following Saturday. Draco had smirked at him and asked if Harry really missed him that much, earning a playful shove to the shoulder.
They exchanged numbers and addresses a couple weeks later and soon it was December. One night, as Harry lounged about in his kitchen, there was a series of rapid knocks at his door. On instinct, he reached for his wand and tucked it behind him as he approached the door. When he opened it, he found Draco standing there smiling giddily, cheeks bright red.
He stumbled into the house and latched his arms around Harry’s waist, the smell of booze strong in his face. Harry rolled his eyes, but he supposed in favor of being saved from hypothermia, he’d help Draco. So he brewed some tea for himself and got a glass of water for Draco, shoving it into his hands and making sure he drank it all.
It took some effort, avoiding Draco’s curious hands as he attempted to smuggle Harry’s glasses off of his face, but later that night, he threw a blanket over Draco’s shoulders as he had dozed off on the couch. Watching him sleep sent a string of warmth throughout his body. The normally sharp edges of his face were soft, his lips relaxed and almost curved up in a smile. The kind of smile that harbors secrets and understands everything about you. When he got up to go to his bed, Draco grabbed his wrist and tugged him down onto the couch, mumbling out incoherent words.
The blanket was lifted and brought down onto their bodies and Harry had felt too hot. But he didn’t want to disturb Draco, so he lay there quietly breathing with thin but strong arms wrapped around his middle and soft breaths blowing against his neck. Sometime during the night Harry turned completely round and was now clutching a curled Draco in his arms. When he woke, he found that every inch of his body pressed against Draco, who was still sleeping peacefully with his head burrowed against Harry’s chest.
He dared not move and decided to just lie there, examining the latter’s face. What had seemed like hours later, but in reality was only 20 minutes, Draco squirmed and his eyes fluttered open.
They were unfocused and bleary but eventually they zeroed in on Harry and caught his gaze. His thin brows pinched down in confusion and Harry wanted to press him thumb against the creases until they smoothed away. He also really wanted to kiss him, but that wasn’t important. Draco blinked heavily a few times, still laced with sleep and Harry watched his pale lashes brush his cheeks.
“Good Morning?” Harry had whispered, the thought of having morning breath slipping because he was just so entranced by the beauty that was Draco Malfoy. Draco’s mouth opened and closed, words failing to form.
“Har-Potter?” Malfoy swallowed and Harry could feel the movement of his throat against the arm that was curled around the back of his neck. He assumed Malfoy could also feel the pound of his heartbeat; it felt as if it was going to jump straight out of his chest. Without realizing, the two of them had begun to lean closer, if even possible, and Harry could feel the press of Draco’s slightly clammy forehead against his. His glasses were crooked, smudged from where Draco had grabbed them, and dug into his nose painfully, but he paid no heed to that. Harry tried to be subtle, but Malfoy smelled good, strangely good for someone who was absolutely hammered the night before. There was a bitter warmth, like lemons, but also a sharp kick of clean clothes, or maybe some sort of aftershave, although Harry wondered if Draco even shaved due to the soft, blank canvas of his skin. Harry let his fingers grip the back of Malfoy’s neck, only slightly, enough to feel the faint pulse of his veins and light wisps of his hair.
Harry’s admiring and wandering eyes met Draco’s, who was looking at him in a way that tugged familiarity at Harry’s gut. It gave off the same energy of the grateful and curious eyes of young wizards, but there was something more underneath the harsh grey, stronger and far more intimate. Hope, fear, the vague glint of longing. He could feel the soft consistent puffs of air that escaped the pink curve of Draco’s mouth against his own and it was frightening, to say the least. There was a moment where everything, past and present, hung between them and Harry was going to kiss him, he was going to do it. He could feel the tension shift dramatically and there were only three inches, two—and suddenly an entire void of something terrifying as the front door clicked loudly and Hermione’s voice was heard weaving throughout the hall.
“Harry? Are you here?” She sounded concerned and why was she here? What day was it? Friday—no, Saturday?
Saturdays he always has lunch with Ron and Hermione, but its always in the afternoon. What time is it now? Surely it couldn’t be past 2, they’d just woken up.
And just like that, everything that Harry had so luckily witnessed in Malfoy’s eyes was gone. The softness melded into a guarded, cold stare and the Malfoy that everyone had seemed to know returned. He shoved lightly at Harry’s chest, for a moment he was confused as to why, but then realized he was trying to wiggle his way out of the tightened clamp of Harry’s arms. Quickly he released him and sat up, scooting to the other side of the couch and clearing his throat loudly, hoping his flustered emotions wouldn’t seep through the words.
“In here, ‘Mione.” There was the rapid click of her shoes against the floor and her large bush of hair came into view.
“Oh, thank goodness. Why are you on the couch?”
Harry’s eyes flickered down to Malfoy, who was still lying down on the pillows frantically trying to button up his shirt, which had somehow unbuttoned itself during the night.
“Um. Late night.” He blinked and smiled, though it wobbled slightly. He assumed that the watchful gaze that Hermione always wore caught it and there would be a chat later—if Malfoy’s presence didn’t disturb anything. She squinted looking around the living room, and her eyes widened into shock, maybe embarrassment as her cheeks reddened slightly. Harry froze and followed her gaze, which was focused on the elegant black coat that was strewn over the coffee table. Malfoy’s leather gloves and dark green scarf rested on top and Harry felt his stomach drop. Malfoy was still pressed into the cushions, staring anywhere except Harry and he wondered if he would just stay there until Hermione left. He turned back to Hermione who was looking around the room, probably searching for a sign as to where the owner of the fancy items was.
“New jacket?” Harry tried, but Hermione snapped back to look at him and narrow her eyes. Was worth a shot, he thought.
“Who..” She began, but was interrupted as a crashing sound came from behind her and she whirled around to stare. Harry could hear Malfoy wince and press his fingers to his temple just as Ron came bumbling through the door cursing to himself.
“Bollocks, Harry. Clean up your hallway.” He ran a hand through his floppy hair and made his way to the couch, leaning against it.
“I—“ Harry started but was cut off, by Ron, who made a startled noise in his throat and fell to the ground.
“What in Merlin’s bloody name, is Malfoy doing on your couch?” Ron squawked the words out and shot to his feet, eyes widening by the second.
Harry couldn’t speak, he just looked back at Malfoy, hoping his caught-in-the-act look would reach him and he’d do something. Malfoy narrowed his eyes at Harry, a blush steadily rising up his pale cheeks and he hoisted himself off the couch, landing gracefully on his feet. The two other wizards stood there, slack jawed and Harry scrambled off of the couch to stand next to Malfoy.
“Close your mouth, Weasel, Granger. You’ll catch flies.” The words didn’t hold as much ice as they used to back when they were younger, but a layer of defense was still detectable. They blinked at him for another moment, then Hermione shook her head, seemingly attempting to compose herself. Harry could see the gears turning inside of her head and the moment they clicked as well.
“Right then. The two of us best be off, Ron.” Her hand found its way towards Ron and it was clear they were about to apparate away.
“Wait! No, it’s not, um, not like that!” Harry ran over to the other side of the couch hoping to catch her arm before they left, but he was too late. Now it was just him and Malfoy.
With a heavy sigh, he turned back to face Malfoy, heart sinking in his chest as he saw him buttoning up his coat.
“Where are you going?”
Malfoy didn’t answer until his coat was buttoned up completely.
“Some of us have jobs, Potter.” He bit his name our forcefully, lips curling up into a sneer.
“It’s Saturday.” The glare hardened.
“Then, I have a cat at home that needs feeding. A shower would also be nice.”
At this point, he felt himself just blurting out whatever came to mind, slightly desperate for Malfoy to just stay.
“I have a shower.” Malfoy looked taken aback for a split second, but his facade was back up and he narrowed his eyes.
“What are you playing at Potter?” He bent down to tighten his boots. “I thought this ‘wasn’t like that’.” He spit the words out like they were spoken by the Dark Lord himself.
“I—.” He shut his mouth and just stood there looking at him. Was that why he was upset? Did he-,Did he want something to happen out of this? Malfoy straightened up and waited, raising a brow at Harry’s speechlessness.
“As expected.” He grumbled, so quietly that Harry barely heard it.
“No! I, I said that, yes. But that doesn’t- I never said that I didn’t want it to happen.” Harry spoke so quickly, he’d be surprised if Malfoy even understood one word from that.
“I know what you said!” Malfoy snapped, his cheeks reheating once again and he tugged at the collar of his coat.
“Oh, I just—“ Harry didn’t know what was going to come out of his mouth and was grateful when Malfoy talked over him again.
“What do you mean?” He stayed planted in his spot, but Harry could tell he wanted to drift closer, so he took the chance and stepped towards Malfoy.
“I meant that uh,” He wasn’t planning on tell him this way. Then again, he wasn’t planning on telling him at all. He’d talked himself into thinking that Malfoy would probably hex his balls off if his attraction was shed into light. Not that he’s homophobic, just, he’s Harry Potter. Malfoy has never been particularly fond of him. He swallowed and continued.
“I meant that I like you, okay?” He paused at the blank expression on Malfoy’s face. “I like like you, Malfoy.”
“We’re not 12, Potter. Tell me. What. You. Meant.” Those grey eyes narrowed further but he could see that at this point, it wasn’t genuine.
“I’m attracted to you! I want to kiss you and touch you and I don’t know, be your boyfriend. Or something.” Harry felt himself turn red and he willed himself to hold Malfoy’s gaze. He wasn’t going to look away. He could do this. He killed Voldemort, so he could tell someone he liked them...right? More specifically, he could tell the person he was sure hated him for the majority of their teen years that he was devastatingly attracted to him.
Harry moved around the couch until he was in front of Malfoy and waited. There was the slightest nod from him and Harry drifted closer. Another nod, another step. Soon Harry had stopped within a few inches, the tips of their shoes touching and their shaky exhales mingling. Harry stared deeply into Malfoy’s widening eyes, brushing their noses together. The swoop of Malfoy’s hair tickled his forehead and then—
“Bloody hell, Harry.”
Malfoy’s hand tightly grasped the back of Harry’s neck and crashed their lips together. Instantly, he was overwhelmed. The bitter sweetness of Malfoy attacked his senses but the softness of his lips seemed to cradle him. He wrapped an arm around Malfoy’s waist and pressed him closer. The curve of his body was hidden underneath the slightly scratchy coat that was draped over his figure and with fumbling fingers, he unbuttoned it. He tugged it off his shoulders and let it fall to the ground, a satisfied grunt escaping him when he could feel the undulating waves of heat from Malfoy’s skin.
There was a swipe of something warm and wet against his bottom lip, and he gasped, feeling it invade his mouth when it parted.
He remembers that feeling all too well, every time it happens a pool of warmth starting ti prickle at his groin. He also so clearly remembers the way Malfoy had skillfully pushed inside of him, rolling his hips over and over a particular spot buried deep inside of Harry’s arse. He remembers being held tightly against his chest as he was tipped over the edge and later on running his fingertips over the pearly white scars that crisscrossed over his chest. He had whispered so many different apologies, kissing each scar gently until Malfoy was blushing and shoving him off of the couch.
The memory of when they exchanged their ‘I love you’s’ was something Harry wishes he could extract from his mind and place into a pensieve. The sudden halt of his heart and the way everything just went into hyper focus, the only thing on his mind was Draco Draco Draco.
Somehow, the word had gotten out that the Wizarding World’s lovely savior, Harry Potter, was dating Draco Malfoy, the son of a convicted Death Eater, who also happened to sport the dark mark. Ron and Hermione were the only two that held the truth and although Ron had taken longer to become accustomed to the idea of Harry with Draco, he knew that that Ron would never let it out if the two of them weren’t ready.
The most probable cause, was that there was a wizard among (muggle) London that spotted the two draped over each other or happened to catch sight of Harry peppering kisses all over Draco’s face. Despite their public affections, they hadn’t been prepared to handle every magical eye upon them, so when the Daily Prophet decided that it was their duty to report on everything within Harry’s life, it shed old feelings and words they thought they were past into the light again.
Rumors that Harry was under the influence of Imperius, Draco’s to be specific. Or that he was being forced into being with him. Others took it into their own hands by sending hexed letters to Draco, god knows how they came in contact with his address. It put a strain on their relationship and Harry could feel Draco begin to drift away.
Sometimes he would wake up to a cold and empty bed, even if he had fallen asleep curled around Draco. It was the little things that most people wouldn’t pay attention to that started to fade. The reason for the tension to finally snap was unclear to Harry then and even now he doesn’t quite know.
He’d walked through the front door, after a calm outing with Hermione and found Draco on the couch, crumpled papers littered around his hunched figure.
“What’s wrong?” The apartment lulled in a thick silence and immediately Harry was crouched next to Draco, prying his whitened fingers away from the most recent publication.
“Why?” Draco had whispered and then looked up at his boyfriend, grey eyes scared, confused and hurt. Harry later came to learn that Draco’s eyes harbored his emotions.
“Why what?” By then, just glancing around the room, anyone could’ve deduced what was the problem, but for some reason Harry needed to hear it coming from Draco’s lips.
“Why do they hate me? Why can’t they forgive me? I haven’t meddled with anything magical or remotely dangerous since the war. I’ve minded my own business, so why can’t they?” Draco paused, breath hitching. “They’re right, I’m not good enough for you. Why would Harry Potter, their saint, be in his right mind to be with someone like me?” Harry’s hands found Draco’s cheeks and he turned his face towards him, pressing his thumbs tightly into the underside of his jaw. When their gaze met, his memory momentarily flickered back to a dimly lit bathroom with eerily echoing noises and the now invisible stain of Draco’s blood. Harry had seen this certain look on Draco once before. It had only been brief, when green met grey in the grimy mirror that Draco’s bony shoulders were hunched over. Harry had tried to forget, but he just couldn’t.
Draco had looked so lost and helpless, eyes rimmed with red, the fresh track of tears against his colorless face and now, the expression worn by his older counterpart was gut wrenchingly similar.
“They’re all mental. A bunch of sodding idiots that don’t know wrong from right and don’t know you like I do. I’ve forgiven you and I don’t fucking care if they get their knickers in a twist at the fact that their perfect savior,” rolling his eyes, he took a small breath, then continued, “is in love with you. I, for one, think you are beautiful and wonderful and rightfully amazing.” Harry had more to say, so much more, but he stopped for Draco’s eyes were widening and his cheeks were steadily turning red. He remembers wracking his brain, trying to remember what he said that would’ve caused such a reaction, and when he found it, the room seemed to still.
Similar to months before when they were confessing their attraction to each other, the air grew thick and heavy and Harry contemplated holding his breath, worried it would break it too early. Maybe two minutes or five seconds passed, but Harry found it within himself to speak again.
“I mean, well, no, I meant—“ Harry stopped to think, for just a moment. He hadn’t really thought about, whether he was in love with Draco or not, but as the words rolled around in his head, it felt right and complete. “No, I mean it. I love you. You are good enough, completely perfect for me and if I could refrain myself from returning to the wizarding world forever just to make you and us live in peace together, then I would.” At that point, he figured he had said enough, so he released his hold on Draco’s face and settled back against the couch, carefully watching Draco.
“You…love me?” Draco angled his body towards Harry, blinking quickly, like he was making sure this wasn’t a dream. Harry smiled softly and nodded, reaching for Draco’s hand and cradling it gently in his palm.
“I love you.”
“I—“ Harry shook his head, squeezing the long fingers that lay hotly in his hand.
“You don’t have to say it back.” There was a pulse of sadness within his heart, but he didn’t want to force Draco into saying anything he didn’t want.
“No! I do too. I love you too.” Draco surged forward and wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck, pressing Harry tightly into his chest.
Bitter lemons and fresh clothing was all Harry could smell but he didn’t mind.
As the minutes passed into days, into weeks and then months, Harry was still rooted deeply within everything Draco and at moments it got overwhelming. Sometimes he’d take a step back and just look around and breathe because Draco Malfoy was his boyfriend. His boyfriend.
Harry shifts onto his side and lets his eyes adjust to the shadows of darkness and feels his lips spread into another wide smile when it becomes clear. Draco is splayed out across the bed, blond hair still silky and flared around his head. Like that first night two years ago, his expression is soft and unguarded and god, Harry loves him so much he can feel his heart squeezing tightly. Draco’s nose twitches and his lips purse.
“What are you looking at, Potter?” His voice is deep and gravelly and melts Harry’s spine into goo.
“My lovely boyfriend. Don’t know if you’d happen to know him, Malfoy?” Draco’s eyes open and they slide over to watch Harry. It’s near silent, their mellow breathes filling the air.
“Wouldn’t want to.” He replies, yawning loudly before continuing. “Anyone you date probably sucks.” Draco turns over to face Harry and spreads his arms, burying his nose in the mess of Harry’s hair when he moves to snuggle into Draco’s chest.
“Shut up. You’re amazing and you know it.” Harry mumbles, pressing a tender kiss to Draco’s collarbone, relishing the small shiver he gives off.
The two quickly drift off into sleep and Harry knows that he’ll wake up well rested and happy. When he’s held tightly against Draco those are the nights were his nightmares fade away into mere memories and the both of them know that the future will be filled to the brim with better ones to come.