Draco paused, stopped fixing his navy-blue tie and focused on the reflection in the floor-length mirror, except he didn’t look at his image but Harry’s.
His husband was still in bed, looking somewhat sleepy but utterly content.
The fact that Harry was awake this early in the morning after a twenty-four-hour stakeout was a small miracle. But if there was one thing Harry couldn’t resist, no matter how tired he was, then it was freshly brewed coffee.
He sat upright on his side of the bed, propped up against several pillows, some of which were Draco’s, with both hands wrapped around his favourite oversized red coffee mug.
Naturally, Draco hated the mug.
Harry’s post-shower hair was a damp dishevelled unruly tangle of raven-coloured locks that stubbornly refused to conform to any sort of norms, and Harry’s glasses were slightly askew, though it didn’t seem to bother him.
He brought his mug up to his lips, but before taking a sip, he lifted his gaze off the duvet covers that pooled low around his hips, and met Draco’s eyes.
Harry’s eyes sparkled like bright, magnificent emeralds, and a lopsided grin curled around his slightly parted lips.
Draco swallowed hard.
He fiddled with his tie but unable to focus on producing even a semi-even knot, he left it undone and dropped his hands to his sides.
That look in Harry’s eyes reminded him of hot midsummer nights in July, spent fooling around with Harry after they’d escaped the oppressing heat of London to travel the world.
A different place each year, sometimes several.
They’d been forever wild, partying, drinking, strolling down dark, deserted beaches, and making love up against a crooked palm tree or walking through unknown forests on the cusp of dawn, to find a secret place to get frisky with one another.
Those had been the crazy days; it had all happened shortly after the war.
Initially, they’d tried to be sensible.
They’d both gone back to Hogwarts for their eighth year in the hope that playing Quidditch, burying themselves in textbooks and listening to the professors going on and on about Magical History, Charms, and Transfiguration would somehow mend the scars Voldemort’s reign of terror had left behind.
But before the end of the winter semester, and the Christmas holidays, they’d both realised that they no longer felt happy and free at Hogwarts.
Dark memories and remnants of dark magic and death had lingered in the corridors and clung to the castle’s massive stone walls.
Soon enough, they’d become more interested in each other than anything their fellow classmates and professors had to say to them, and a month before the final exams, they’d booked a Portkey to New York, deciding to leave Britain for an unspecified amount of time.
Draco huffed out a breath of air and watched as Harry’s smile grew into a cheeky smirk.
Draco rolled his eyes but said nothing, didn’t rise to the bait.
They’d spent three months exploring all the magical places in the city that never slept, and once they’d been ready to return to London, Harry had somehow managed to convince him to head to Godric’s Hollow to restore Potter Cottage.
It had taken them three whole years of incredibly hard work to restore the ruins to their former glory and work out how to remove, replace, adjust, and add individual protective charms to the wilful magical abode.
They’d taken each summer off the explore the world, travelling as far as Australia and Asia, and then as far north and as far south as the globe allowed them to. Upon finishing the work on the cottage they’d celebrated with the promise to marry one another, and everyone around them had called them fools.
The Prophet had tried to convince the entire Wizarding World that he’d put a love spell on their saviour, and in response Harry had flipped the whole nation the proverbial finger. He’d gone down on one knee in the centre of the Ministry’s Atrium and proposed properly and they’d signed the marriage papers later that afternoon.
There hadn’t been a party, and they hadn’t invited anyone to witness the ceremony. They’d just gone and tied the knot. It had been casual, simple, and unlike anything, Draco ever thought his wedding to another person might be like.
Draco chuckled softly at the memory.
He didn’t have any regrets over how he and Harry had gotten married.
They’d been twenty-three, stupid, and in love, and he’d been convinced that their insane union wouldn’t last more than ten days.
He’d told Harry as much, more than once even, and being the stubborn and thoroughly headstrong Gryffindor that Harry was, he’d, of course, made him eat his words.
They’d celebrated their twelfth wedding anniversary just last week, and despite a rock-solid track record, Draco was still convinced that there was no away their union would last much longer.
Sure, they loved each other, but they weren’t children anymore, yet they still argued like teenagers, threatening to hex the other, and the only reason their explosive shouting matches couldn’t be heard all over Britain, was because Draco had made sure to weave super-strength silencing charms into the cottage’s many wards.
Pushing the flood of memories into the back of his mind, Draco watched Harry’s reflection take a sip of his coffee.
Harry lowered his mug again, and smiled at him over the rim of it, licking his lips and savouring every drop of the hot liquid.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked.
Harry had always been able to read him. For some strange reason, his iron mask of indifference worked on everyone except Harry, who always, without exception, saw right through it.
Draco pressed his lips together.
Every fibre inside of him told him that he was silly and that there was no point to even ask the question that burned on his lips, but he couldn’t help it.
“Will you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful?”
The question clearly gave Harry pause, for he took several seconds to digest it.
Then he simply set his mug down on top of the coaster on his nightstand and threw the bedcovers back. He got out of bed, allowed himself a stretch and Draco couldn’t resist licking his lips when Harry’s shirt rode up and revealed a beautiful line of perfectly tanned flesh between the hem of his t-shirt and the low-riding waistband of his boxer shorts.
Harry looked straight at him, then slowly approached him, and unceremoniously wrapped his arms around him, snuggling into him from behind.
Draco relished in the tight hug and the warmth of Harry’s body and relaxed into the familiar embrace.
Harry pressed a lingering kiss to the side of his neck, then rested his chin on Draco’s shoulder and looked at him through the mirror.
“You know I will,” he said.
His voice was low and husky, and it sent a shiver of excitement down Draco’s spine.
He let out a soft sigh.
“I told you, Malfoy, you signed on the dotted line, there’s no getting out of this union. You’re stuck with me forever and always. I’ll fight with until we both taking our dying breathes, and when you’re old, wrinkly, and achy, I’ll still love you.”
He placed his hands above Harry’s and squeezed lightly.
“Are you sure?”
Harry hummed in response.
“You’ll always be beautiful to me, and I’ll always love you, I swear.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
“Sorry, I'm silly.”
“You are. No matter, I find you hot no matter what you are.”
“There’s a word for that, Potter, it’s called being biased.”
“Been biased for nearly twenty-five years then,” he said.
Draco rolled his eyes at him.
Harry’s freed his hands, and letting them travel upwards, he reached for the two ends of Draco’s tie, and looking into the mirror, he expertly created a full Winsor knot. It wasn’t an especially standard knot, and it wasn’t especially easy to tie either, but somehow Harry always managed to ensure that particular knot turned out absolutely even.
Draco smiled at him.
“You’re welcome. Can I drag you back to bed?”
“You wish, Potter.”
Harry shook his head.
“No, I don’t wish. I want, very desperately so.”
“Insatiable. Get some sleep. I’ll be home for lunch.”
“Will you bring something? I can’t be bothered cooking.”
“Sure. Any special requests?”
Harry shook his head.