"Have you finished with that book yet?" Draco asks, letting himself into his rooms without bothering to check that Harry is actually there.
He will be. He always is on Monday afternoons, curled up in Draco's favourite chair by the fire and attempting to enjoy a moment of peace before flying lessons with the first-years. Draco glances out at the lashing rain beyond the window and shivers. He is certain that the lesson will go ahead, and equally certain that Harry will return here dripping to use Draco's shower and leave wet towels all over his bathroom floor, as is the way of things.
In the living room, the fire is crackling nicely, sending flickery shadows along the walls and filling the room with the scent of woodsmoke.
"Harry?" Draco tries again, but there's no response. Neither is there any enthusiastic tacking, nor the usual sensation of a large and excitable beetle bumping around his shins.
He frowns. Harry is definitely there; he can see the tufts of ridiculous hair poking over the back of the chair, the book resting comfortably open on the arm.
"You better not be ignoring me, you horrible bugger," he mutters, striding across the rug and peering down at Harry with his arms folded.
The sight that greets him is one of utter contentment, and though he wants to sigh and shake his head, his mouth is tugged into a reluctant smile. Harry is fast asleep, sprawled out across the red corduroy in peaceful oblivion, glasses askew and mouth slightly open. With each long, steady exhalation, a piece of unruly black hair lifts and shivers in the air before falling softly back to his forehead, and something about it makes Draco's insides warm and twist quite without his permission. When Harry's naptime companion tacks softly in his sleep and scrabbles his little feet against the soft green wool of Harry's jumper, Draco lets out the sigh, still smiling, and glances at the clock on the mantel.
There are fifteen minutes before the next lesson. He could make some tea or mark some homework... he could even start the book he's been waiting forever for Harry to have time to finish. Harry is completely out of it--he could just reach over and tug it out from under his arm. On the other hand, he could just make himself comfortable in his second best chair and watch them sleep for a little while. It's so rare that he gets to see Harry completely at peace these days; he's a ball of chaotic energy, rushing here and there as though trying to reclaim those months lost to forced inactivity. Now, though, face relaxed and limbs stretched out, one hand curled protectively around Stanley, all is still, and for a moment or two, Draco considers stripping off his outer robes and curling up with them. The chair is big enough, but then again, so is his NEWT Transfiguration class, and he thinks they might notice if he doesn't turn up.
"They'd probably be thrilled," he mutters, and Harry stirs in his sleep.
"Shh, Stanley," he mumbles before letting out a startlingly loud snore.
Draco snorts. He lowers himself to the arm of the chair and rests his head against Harry's, burying his nose in his hair and breathing in his familiar warm scent.
"Just for a minute," he tells himself, closing his eyes and listening to the rhythm of the rain against the windows. "Or ten."
Stanley flips his antennae lazily against Draco's arm.
"Pull up the broom handle to slow down," Harry advises him.
"That doesn't make any sense," Draco says, letting out a contented little sigh.
"I love you," Harry mumbles. He shuffles closer and begins to snore lustily.
Draco opens one eye and then closes it again. It isn't as though he's late for class very often...