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When Harry wakes, it’s because of the pesky, pale-grey morning light flooding the room.
He’d been trying to make it into a nightly ritual, to at least close the heavy-weight fabric curtains of the eighth-year boys dorm before he let himself fall asleep. He’d often do it with his glasses on, and out of pure exhaustion on those first nights back to the castle, when he was still plagued by nightmares that would have him waking in the middle of the night; screaming and smoke clouding his dreams and keeping him from resting properly at night.
He hadn’t been able to do much about that at first, but since the students had been made to attend Madam Pomfrey’s seminars on well-being, he’d begun trying to do little changes here and there. From making a point to brush his teeth and wash his face before he was inevitably too spent to get up and do it, to saying ‘no’ when he didn’t feel like joining the rest of the gang on Hogsmeade trips on the weekends, it had all slowly helped him feel a bit better about life in general.
They were small changes—and yet they helped more than he could have imagined, just like the way that having the so-called ‘eighth year’ class start their lessons later and giving them extended due dates for homework and assignments did. It had all made him angry at first, to be treated differently by the school staff when all he’d wanted was to go back to Hogwarts and have things be just like they were before the war. Before Voldemort came back. Before he was living on borrowed time and didn’t feel like his life was his own. Except— well. It had never been quite like that, had it? He'd caught himself thinking one evening, sitting on a sofa at the common room their class had been assigned, high up on a West Wing tower he hadn’t been aware of before.
There had only been about fifteen students interested in coming back, and not all of them had stuck around. To Harry’s surprise, Hermione hadn’t even considered it. He’d figured she would’ve jumped at the opportunity to prepare for her N.E.W.T.s, but she’d chosen to go to Australia with her parents, instead. It had left a bitter taste in his mouth, and it took him way longer than he’d be willing to admit to not see it as a personal betrayal. A nasty little voice in his head told Harry he was jealous of her for still having a family to come back to, and there were no mental gymnastics he could do to avoid it.
At least Ron had chosen to stay, Harry had figured, although they spent less time together than he’d like. Harry knew Ron had other things to worry about—the rest of the Weasleys, for one—but he also seemed to have found a place for himself at school, too, in a way Harry hadn’t expected. Ron seemed more focused than Harry had ever seen him, and the newly found confidence looked good on him. That and the final handful of inches he’d grown, in addition to the nice new haircut and the jeans they were now allowed to wear outside of class, as a part of the recent school policies.
Again, there was a hint of bitterness in the way Harry felt about it all, but there wasn’t much to do about it. He was happy for his friends, but he was also glad to just be, lounging around on his own and trying to figure out what to do now that he didn’t have a mission to accomplish (besides passing his exams, really).
The Headmistress had said something about unity when she placed the oldest students all in a tower together, boys in one room and girls in the next. They might have been staff rooms one day, or maybe they’d served as guest dormitories in the past, and the furniture felt even older than the ones in the Gryffindor rooms Harry had used. The sofas in the common room were upholstered in rich, purple velvet, with cushions that were smooth to the touch, and oh so easy to melt into.
So, for the first time in his life, Harry indulged. He skipped classes to nap in front of the fire and spent too much money on his favourite caramel chocolates from Honeydukes. He would spend hours parked in a corner, flipping through Quidditch magazines and ignoring the movement around him, taking ages to pick out a new broom from the catalogues he’d spread around him.
“This year’s Firebolt model is looking quite good,” he heard one day, from none other than Draco Malfoy, who’d been sitting rather stiffly on a sofa across from him for hours now.
They hadn’t exactly talked much since the summer, after the Death Eater trials. It had all been a blur of Wizengamot procedures Harry wasn’t familiar with, with lots of speeches full of words that made little sense when Harry tried to decipher them with his sleep-deprived brain and little knowledge of Magical Law. At the dark, cold chambers where the trials were held, he didn’t feel like someone who had just been at the centre of it all. It made him irrationally angry to see so many clearly evil people clinging to technicalities to try and avoid punishment, and most of what he felt those days was a crushing sense of impotence. There was nothing he could do now; it was time for the adults to take over, as he’d heard from someone in charge. Refraining from asking them where the fuck had all the adults been when he was busy (literally) dying, Harry had done what he could—he’d spoken on Malfoy’s behalf. He’d returned his wand. He’d told him he was glad to see him out of Azkaban, and that he hoped to see him back in Hogwarts in the autumn.
“Are you planning on getting one?” Harry asked that evening in September, immediately hoping he didn’t sound harsh. His voice felt hoarse as he spoke, after going hours unused.
“Still got my Nimbus,” Draco shrugged.
It was a decent interaction, Harry thought at the time, as their record counted. And it was followed by a string of new, small, equally decent interactions, which had gotten them from exchanging half a dozen words in front of the fire, to taking Harry’s new broom out to test it when it arrived, to seekers’ games played until they were sweaty and aching, but still unwilling to part ways.
There was something there, and Harry knew it from the day in November when they’d had to give up their game and go back to the castle to escape the thin, frozen rain that hardened their fingers and made it impossible to see too far ahead. As Malfoy stood there with the old Nimbus 2001 on one shoulder and a hand over his squinting eyes, he looked magical in a way none of Harry’s classes had been able to explain. His hair glimmered like pale gold as the sun that fought through the clouds touched it, and Harry—who had never thought of anyone else in the world in such a way—knew then there was more than just an improbable friendship growing between them. Something that spoke to the urge to run his fingers through Malfoy’s fair hair; to find out if it would actually feel as soft as it looked, as fluid as it seemed when it fell over his eyes in the loose, careless waves he wore it in now.
“You’re staring at me,” Draco says, in the present, just as he said that morning, about a month ago. It’s the first Saturday of the Christmas holidays, and there’s no one else in the room.
And this time, when he complains about Harry’s staring—his heart swells at the thought—Draco sounds sleepy and warm. He’s got pillow creases on his cheek, and a pink flush spreading from his neck to the tips of his ears.
“This is my ‘I’m terribly fond of you’ face. We’ve been over this,” Harry teases, boldly. He reaches to touch Draco’s cheek, and it feels warm to the touch. His eyes look paler in the morning light, more blue than grey. Harry knows he’s watching him once more.
“You’re staring again,” Draco laughs, rubbing a hand over those eyes. Harry feels like he’ll never get used to him looking bashful, of all things.
“That’s because I think you look good,” Harry smirks, barely able to hold back a chuckle. He lets his hand fall from Draco’s cheek to his neck, and down to his collarbone that’s peeking from the V-neck of his posh button-down pyjama top.
“You’re awfully forward this morning, Potter."
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended your delicate sensibilities,” he says, not apologetic at all, leaning in to leave kisses where his fingers have just been.
“Yes, consider me thoroughly offended,” Draco sighs, making no effort to move away. He does reach for his wand, though, casting a quick Breath-Freshening Charm before leaning in for a proper kiss on the lips.
“Better now?” Harry teases again, going for a full-on kiss now that there’s nothing to complain about.
“Quite,” Draco laughs, softly, like he is unable to hold it back.
It all feels quite dreamy; to have his heart flutter in his chest and his mouth corners tilt up on their own as Harry looks at Draco in the magically-enlarged dorm bed. It feels silly, too, and that’s something Harry hasn’t ever thought of himself as. He might’ve been brave, or resilient before, but not silly. Certainly not the kind of person who’d feel their throat closing and their mouth drying around someone they liked, leaving him with an urge to squish them close, and cover them in kisses.
“I’ve become a sap,” he declares, leaning in to kiss Draco on the lips once again.
“You’ve always been rather daft,” Draco teases, but he hasn’t got much of a chance to continue speaking when Harry props himself up on both elbows, leaning in closer. It’s an odd angle, but none of them seems to mind, as Draco himself reaches up to touch Harry’s hair, his cheeks.
They kiss softly for a moment, until Draco draws him closer. They have done this a few times, but never so unhurried. It’s always been a bit frantic; passionate kisses traded in hidden alcoves once they’d finally realised that’s where all the new, sweet tension between them was leading. But with all of their dorm mates gone for the holidays, there is no one to interrupt them, or catch them in the act.
Still, Harry can feel his boldness from before quickly give way to a bit of a panic, as he becomes unsure of what to do with his hands that are slipping on the sheets as he props himself up. Before he can actually lose it, though, Draco is breaking their kiss to speak, quiet and calmly in his ear.
“Come here,” he says, only the least bit shaky.
Draco guides Harry to lie on his side, close enough for them to share the plush, white pillow. It’s his turn to be bold, then, entwining their legs before he leans in to continue their kissing. The first touch of their lips is electric, and Harry can feel it all over his body. He can feel where they’re touching everywhere: to the thick flannel of his own pyjama bottoms to the silky material of Draco’s. Harry feels the warmth from the mid-morning sun as it illuminates the back of his head, and closes his eyes to both the clarity and the sight of Draco so close. By eliminating the extra stimulus, he’s able to feel his own breathing slow down, and lets himself be kissed.
It’s easier, then, to lose himself in it, in the best of ways. He senses the lemony cologne Draco wears, and tastes the mint of the Breath-freshening charm when their lips finally part. It’s a whole new level of warmth when he tilts his head and deepens the kiss, earning a soft, breathy sound in response. It ignites something in him; makes his blood rush down, and awakens some part of him that wants to keep Draco like that forever, and have him make that noise over and over again.
“May I…?” He begins asking, inching his knee up to try and get them closer so he can get some friction, trying not to give into his most inelegant urges.
“Please,” Draco tells him, in a proper tone that is mostly teasing. He reaches for Harry’s leg, bringing it up to wrap around his own thigh, getting them so close together that Harry can feel everything now.
Feeling his ears burn with a mix of excitement and nerves, Harry lets out a shuddering breath and rolls his hips experimentally, and is immediately rewarded with a low sound from Draco as their clothed erections rub together. Were he able to string the words together, Harry might call the sensation exquisite, but instead all he can think of is to do it again, slowly, trying to build up a rhythm that might make it last longer, rather than have it be over before he can even enjoy it. Or before Draco can, really.
“This is nice,” Harry breathes, barely able to hide the tinge of awe in his voice.
“Shhhh,” Draco quiets him, rolling his hips to match Harry’s, who feels it like a magical pulse, making his head light and his cock impossibly harder.
Harry doesn’t mind being shushed, as he doesn’t feel like he’s got much to say other than a string of curse words and quite a bunch of soppy nonsense he’s even more scared of. So, he happily trades speaking for kissing, sucking gently on Draco’s bottom lip, leaving love bites on his neck.
There’s no need to care about making the trip to the loo before anyone can see the marks he’s bound to leave there, as they’re finally alone, and Draco is free to make those soft little noises that are driving Harry insane.
“I might…” he tries to explain, squeezing his eyes shut to try and keep his act together when Draco adds a little extra thrust to the way he gyrates his hips, making Harry leak a fat drop of precome onto his own briefs.
“It’s okay… I’m… I… too—”
Somehow, Draco’s less than eloquent words make it even harder to resist holding him closer, making Harry abandon the task of kissing as it seems to take too much motor coordination. Instead, he hides his face onto the crook of Draco’s neck, biting down onto the soft, sensitive skin. He loves it here, loves the way he smells, but mostly the way he squirms underneath his hands as Harry holds him tighter, closer.
He wants to swallow Draco whole, which might be both impractical and unhelpful, but that’s what it feels like; wanting to never let go of him, or this moment.
“Oh, I—” he stumbles, scraping his teeth over Draco’s collarbone. Harry can feel his toes curl in his socks, and he tries as best as he can to hold on, feeling his muscles tense from his thighs to his core, until—
“Harry—” Draco moans—there’s not another word for it—and Harry feels his movements stutter and still. Draco is coming, clinging onto Harry’s back and actually coming in his pants, and Harry really really doesn’t mind it at all.
With his head still spinning over the way his name just sounded, spilling from Draco’s lips like a dirty prayer, Harry keeps on moving; keeps on coaxing it from him while letting himself tip over the edge as well.
There’s no need to hold back anymore, and so he doesn’t. Harry ruts against Draco’s thigh, not wanting to abuse any oversensitive parts, and it doesn’t take long before he’s taken over by his own climax.
Still, the intensity takes him by surprise. Harry feels warm all over, as every bit of tension slowly uncoils. He breathes fast; small shallow breaths that slowly calm down as his lips once again mould into kisses to Draco’s neck, cheek, lips. It feels silly, to want to cling to him like that; to wind his arms around Draco’s middle and just breathe him in, letting the warmth spread through his body. Harry doesn’t know how to name these feelings, and it makes him feel self-conscious to try. Right here, though, he doesn’t need to. As their racing hearts slowly start to beat in synch, there’s no urge to name anything. No rush. Just the pale-grey light that comes through the window he forgot to close last night.
“Am I crushing you?” Harry eventually asks; his face still hidden on the crook of Draco’s neck.
“You are. But I don’t mind it,” Draco teases. He cards his fingers through Harry’s hair, gently undoing the knots in his curls.
“Do we have anywhere to be today?”
“Looks like the weather should be good for flying, if you fancy it later,” Draco tells him, idly.
“I’d like that.” Harry smiles. He shifts a bit in place, suddenly aware of his damp underwear and the way it’s sticking to his skin. Almost as if reading his mind, Draco pulls out his wand to cast a silent Cleaning Charm, and Harry feels his magic like something familiar, something right .
“We shall, then.”
The simplicity of the statement doesn’t match the way Harry’s stomach swoops when he hears it, but he quickly decides that he’s fine with it. There hasn’t been much space for these sweet, airy feelings inside him since before he can remember, and now he is actively choosing to embrace them. To touch when he’s able to touch, to kiss when he’s able to kiss. To look the way he’s wanted to look but wasn’t allowed to, and to enjoy all the embarrassing, soppy sensations he has never allowed himself to experience.
“You’re staring at me, Potter,” Draco says, for the third time this morning.
“I am.”
“Do go on, then.”
They laugh. Draco’s hair looks like pale gold in the winter morning light, and Harry can’t help but think of how fond he is of him.
It’s going to be a nice Saturday for them.