Chapter Text
Epilogue
They spend all of St. Valentine’s day playing a Seeker’s game.
Harry had planned for them to go to a coffee shop, maybe go back to his shop to dance around for a bit to songs that’d make Draco complain about his cheesy taste. Instead, as soon as Harry catches the Snitch Draco demands a rematch, and it’s not until it’s twenty minutes before 7pm that they give up on their fourth round, the Snitch lost somewhere in the forest.
“I’m going to murder Byrne in his sleep,” Draco grumbles when they land as he pushes his damp hair out of his face.
“Just a few more weeks,” Harry says, although he feels pretty much the same. It’s a pain in the arse having to part ways with Draco every single time they go on dates. Especially so when Draco has to pull back in the middle of a kiss. “Then we won’t have to say goodbye every bloody night.”
“Technically you could stay over.” Draco rolls up his soaked trousers. “I asked.”
“What?” Harry says. And again, staggered by Draco’s offhandedness, “What?”
“As long as we’re there by seven and don’t get out till eight in the morning, they don’t care. That’s what I was told.”
“But—wait. Do you want me to?”
Draco huffs.
“Of course I do, I’m just mad that you caught the Snitch twice and I only caught it one time. And also a little bit pissed off that I brought this up like this. It was supposed to be romantic.”
Harry walks up to him. Puts a hand on his arm so that he stops trying to rub the mud off his knees and fix his hair and fumble with his pockets. When Draco looks up at him, he says, “Let’s go, then. I’ll owl Hermione when we’re there to tell her I won’t be coming back tonight.”
He can barely believe they’re really going to do it, even as he Side-Alongs Draco to Diagon and they make their way to the Leaky. He’s still in a haze as he scribbles a quick note to Hermione and ties it to Tom’s owl and thanks Tom, who looks weirdly excited about the fact that Harry’s staying the night there.
As they walk up the stairs, Harry barely resists the urge to flip two fingers at Byrne, who is glaring at them like he’s about to start yelling—then forgets about it entirely when they reach the first floor and Draco guides him to his room.
The first thing Harry notices upon walking in is the stack of books Draco has borrowed from him piled on the bedside table. Then the double bed, neatly covered in blankets, and the purple stuffed dragon placed on the corner of the pillow.
“Awww,” he says, walking up to the bed to pick it up. “I didn’t know you slept with a stuffed toy. What’s its name?”
“Tintin, if you must know,” Draco grumbles, snatching the dragon from Harry’s hands.
He’s still on the defensive, then.
“Hey,” Harry says, brushing a strand of hair from Draco’s temple. “Wanna talk?”
Draco’s shoulders sag.
“It’s okay. Sorry. I just—I feel like I’m doing everything wrong. It’s one of those days.”
“You’re not.” Harry lets his hand fall—touches his knuckles to Draco’s waist. “But I get it. Those days suck.”
Draco rests his forehead on Harry’s. Sighs.
“This is what we’re going to do,” Draco says after a moment. “I’m going to take a long, warm shower, and then you’ll do the same, because we’re both drenched in mud and sweat and I don’t want us anywhere near my bed like this. Then I’ll start over and not fuck up.”
Harry chuckles—brushes their lips together before letting go of Draco.
“Sounds good to me.”
***
The shower that Draco takes is, indeed, long. Harry entertains himself leafing through his own books to find the little notes he’s written in the margins of his favourite scenes, then checking the books more carefully once he realises Draco’s been doing the same, his messy handwriting just a bit smaller and pointier than Harry’s.
When Draco steps out of the bathroom, enveloped in a giant bathrobe and a cloud of steam, Harry puts Pride and Prejudice back down and turns to him, waiting for him to walk to the edge of the bed and sit down before asking, “Feeling better?”
It’s silly, but he still surprises himself with how soft his voice comes out whenever he talks to Draco.
“Stop being cute and go clean yourself,” Draco says, a smile playing on his lips.
“Okay, okay,” Harry laughs, retreating toward the bathroom, “But I know that’s a yes!”
Draco sticks his tongue out at him.
“Idiot,” he quips. Then, “There’s a towel for you on the sink!”
Harry takes his time rinsing the dirt from his face; looking through Draco’s Muggle shampoos, conditioning masks and body lotions. There’s coconut, citrus, lavender…Harry chooses the last one for his body, promptly deciding he feels like smelling of flowers. He makes puppy eyes at the shampoo that smells of roses, but instead uses the only bottle of shampoo that is specific for people with dandruff even though it smells of nothing but, well…shampoo.
When he steps out of the shower, he realises the towel Draco left him is much smaller than the bathrobe he was wearing, so he just dries his hair with a spell and uses the towel to dry his body instead. Then, tucking it around his waist in favour of putting back on his muddied clothes, he steps out of the bathroom.
He finds Draco sat at the edge of the bed. Harry comes to a halt, tucking the towel properly around his hips as Draco stands up and makes his way to him, a blur that quickly sharpens into focus when he steps into Harry’s personal space.
They stand there for a few seconds, Draco scanning Harry’s face, Harry letting him. He looks nervous, Harry realises—a vulnerable kind of expectancy painting his features as if there’s something he wants to say. Something he can’t quite phrase. He’s still in his bathrobe, although it’s tied more loosely around his waist now.
After a moment, Draco’s eyes leave Harry’s and trail down his chest.
“You have a scar,” he murmurs, touching two cold fingertips to the space between Harry’s collarbones.
“Yes,” Harry says. “It was Voldemort.”
It’s only after he’s said it that he realises he has never told anyone before.
Draco trails his fingers down the middle of Harry’s chest—plays with the line of hair under his navel.
“You don’t have any scars,” Harry points out after a moment, the gap of Draco’s bathrobe wide enough for him to see.
“Madam Pomfrey mostly healed them in time.” Those fingertips trace the line of Harry’s waist just above the towel with a feather-like touch. “You can still see them in the light, though.”
Harry lets out a sigh when Draco roves his hands back up, palms soft and warm against Harry’s waist, his ribcage—his shoulder blades. Then he groans when, with two fingers, Draco traces the valley of Harry’s spine and rests his hands over the towel. Just above Harry’s buttocks.
Harry leans closer, holding on to Draco’s hips, and Draco traces the edge of the towel again. The air is humid, and hot, and so is Draco’s breath near his temple.
Even though he’s not looking, Harry feels the moment Draco’s finger hooks under the towel, then lingers. He holds his breath. Finds Draco’s eyes, watches them shine with lust as Draco slowly, hesitantly untucks the towel from around Harry’s hips and lets it slip to the floor.
He’s holding on to Draco’s waist, but as Draco’s eyes devour him—all of him—he trails his hands up Draco’s chest and pushes aside the openings of the bathrobe. Without a word, Draco lets Harry push the robe off his shoulders—lets Harry glance down at them, too, palms pressed against Draco’s warm sides.
When Harry looks back up, a question at the tip of his tongue, Draco closes the distance between them—presses his body flush against Harry's—and touches his lips to Harry’s jaw. Trails them down, slowly. Exhales against his throat.
Harry breathes raggedly. The room is warm, but he’s trembling, and he strengthens his hold on Draco’s waist to have something to hold on to as he feels—hears, the smallest of sounds—Draco’s lips part against the curve of his neck.
As he feels a hand cupping the back of his neck, hot and firm and perfect.
He doesn’t know how long they stand there, Draco’s mouth wet and hot on his skin, Harry’s breath caught in his throat—Draco’s hips waving slowly, almost imperceptibly, under Harry’s needy touch. All he knows is when Draco raises his head again he’s desperate, delirious, sensitive in every corner of his body that’s touching Draco’s. Half-hard.
“Draco,” is all he can manage, a broken murmur, as their eyes meet. Draco shuts him up with an open-mouthed kiss, fingers playing with Harry’s hair as the ball of his palm holds Harry’s nape.
“Bed,” Draco breathes against his lips, and then he catches them in another kiss as Harry walks him backwards.
Draco falls on his bum on the mattress, knees buckling, then pulls Harry into his lap as he crawls backwards, hand chasing Harry’s head again, lips parted when they catch Harry’s in another quivering kiss.
They haven’t gone past kissing each other senseless in the corner of Harry’s shop, and Harry’s heart skips a beat when he realises where Draco’s taking them. When he realises he’d let Draco have him any way he wanted to.
It’s been so long since he’s been in love.
Draco lies on his back, and Harry follows, kissing his jaw—his throat, the tip of his ear. Draco, panting through slightly parted lips, touches Harry hungrily, warm fingertips tracing the sides of his stomach, his waist; the dip of his spine at his lower back. He touches Harry with his legs, a foot brushing his, a thigh pressing against his bum—with his lips, kissing Harry’s cheeks, his nose, his chin; sighing against Harry’s temple when Harry brushes a thumb to his nipple.
Draco touches him, most of all, with his gaze.
It’s like he wants to see everything, to memorise everything: the movement of Harry’s biceps as he caresses his way up Draco’s arm, the rise and fall of Harry’s chest as he breathes. The flutter of Harry’s eyelids as Draco catches Harry’s hand and brings it to his lips, as he sucks the tip of a finger into his mouth and ghosts his tongue over it.
Harry is so overwhelmed by it all—by how slow it is, and how gentle it is, and how new and hot and yet comfortable and familiar it all feels—that it takes him a moment too long to realise that Draco is rutting against him. Rutting slowly, almost absentmindedly—but rutting all the same, the hair of his pubes tickling Harry’s stomach. His hard cock pressing against Harry’s hipbone.
Harry exhales a shaky breath, and he feels it blend with Draco’s own right before Draco brings their lips together again.
It’s not so much a kiss as a play of lips, Draco nipping at Harry’s upper lip and then Harry sucking at Draco’s lower one and sighing unevenly as Draco’s fingertips tickle his lower back, the top of his crease, his buttock. They’re touching in so many places that Harry’s sure Draco can tell he’s hard too, but he’s too enraptured in the moment to do anything other than quiver with every brush of skin on skin—anything other than keep kissing and biting and licking Draco’s lips as he caresses and pulls at his silken hair, resting his weight on his forearms.
And then Draco’s hand moves from the curve under his arse to his hip, to his groin. Harry pushes his knees up to leave space for Draco to sneak his hand between them—moans into the kiss when a few knuckles brush his shaft, a tentative touch, then disappear again.
“Did you,” he whispers, letting go of Draco’s lower lip as he remembers Draco’s expression when Harry walked out of the shower, “Did you want to tell me something?”
Draco presses two fingers to Harry’s lips, shushing him. As he trails them down, Harry’s lower lip rolling down and then jumping back up, he looks Harry in the eye. His hand disappears between them again.
“Just touch me,” he exhales.
Okay, Harry mouths, soundless, just as Draco chases his mouth for another kiss.
He touches Draco everywhere, kisses him everywhere. His hair cascades all over Draco’s chest as he drags his lips down to Draco’s stomach—as he kisses down his hips, around his waist; as he catches the hand that is cupping his cheek and laps at his fingers. Draco pulls him up, kisses him, kisses his collarbones, then groans out a laugh when Harry’s hair gets in his mouth—a sound that melts into a sigh when Harry rolls his hips, when he takes Draco’s mouth again, when he touches Draco’s arms as Draco stretches them to grab his arse to keep Harry’s body slotted against his as they move—gasping, their movements turning hurried.
Reaching out blindly, Harry manages to get the covers open enough for them to crawl under. He barely manages to get his legs inside the bed before Draco pushes him on his back and crawls atop him. Kisses his neck, hungrily so.
When Harry presses his hands to Draco’s head, fisting them in his hair, Draco pulls back—looks him in the eye. Says, “What do you want?” And then, brushing Harry’s hair out of his face, “Tell me what you want.”
Harry moans incoherently when Draco undulates his hips against him once again. He uncurls his fists to cup Draco’s head properly, to stroke his temples with his thumbs.
“My-My waist,” he says weakly.
“What about it?”
Harry bites his lip.
“Can you kiss me there?”
With a chuckle, Draco disappears under the covers.
Harry waits. Draco wiggles down slowly, trailing his lips down Harry’s ribs along the way, then over his stomach. He’s holding on to Harry’s thighs for purchase, and probably feels them clench at the first brush of his lips against Harry’s waist—barely noticeable, and yet somehow overwhelmingly arousing.
Draco, apparently determined to make him lose every last thread of coherence, takes his time to explore every single centimetre of the curve of Harry’s waist, and doesn’t stop to lap properly at his skin until he finds the spot that makes Harry’s knees shake—that makes him moan, gasp, pull at Draco’s hair and press his waist to Draco’s mouth in desperate need for more.
When he pulls back from the kiss with a loud sucking sound, Draco doesn’t crawl back up. Instead, he kisses Harry’s stomach again, moving down to his hipbone and then his thigh, which makes Harry laugh because he’s ticklish.
Then, as he moves back up, Draco slowly, tentatively, laps his way up Harry’s shaft with a wet tongue, from the base to the leaking tip.
“Fuck,” Harry groans, bucking his hips even as Draco resurfaces from under the covers. “You’re going to drive me insane, you beautiful bast—”
Draco cuts him off with an open-mouthed kiss.
When they pull apart to catch their breath, Draco rests his head on Harry’s chest, a leg draped over Harry as he lies on his side on the mattress. Harry kisses his head, pushing Draco’s hair from his forehead and playing with it, feeling Draco’s head rise and fall with his own ragged breaths.
“What do you want to do?” Harry asks, achingly hard and impatient.
“Doze off for a bit,” Draco mumbles. “‘M a bit tired.”
“Okay,” Harry says, voice soft. But a moment passes, and his cock just throbs, and it’s clear his erection isn’t going away anytime soon. “Would you mind if I touched myself, then?” he asks, voice croaky from arousal and just a tiny bit of embarrassment.
At that, Draco looks up at him.
“That depends,” he smirks, his fingers ghosting over Harry’s thigh under the covers. “Would you mind if I felt?”
Fuck.
“Not at all.”
“Mm. Then go for it.”
Resting his head on Harry’s shoulder again, Draco finds Harry’s hand as Harry caresses his way up his own thigh, and holds it, tangling his fingers with Harry’s. He stays like that as Harry fondles his balls, as he presses his palm to his cock and rubs the ball of it up and down his shaft. Then, when Harry grips himself, Draco lets go, and instead trails his fingers up and down his forearm. Feeling the movement of his muscles as Harry pumps his fist.
The thought makes Harry groan, and he moves his fist faster.
Images of Draco flood his mind, mixed and unfinished and incoherent. Images of Draco sinking back down under the covers to take him in his mouth—of Draco pulling Harry into his lap like he did before, but this time placing his hands under Harry’s thighs to help Harry slowly, slowly sink down onto his slick cock. Images of Draco cuddling him from behind under the covers and fucking him slowly—teasingly, lovingly, until Harry is on edge. Until he’s coming untouched.
Focusing on that last thought, Harry comes, and Draco’s head lulls on the ball of Harry’s shoulder as Harry shudders through the spikes of pleasure. Draco’s fallen asleep, Harry realises, feeling Draco’s fingers slip from his forearm to rest on his stomach as he slowly touches himself through the last of his orgasm.
Harry can barely cast a cleaning charm, can barely pull Draco fully onto his chest so he doesn’t fall, before he’s dozing off, too—heart full and limbs heavy.
***
Harry half-surfaces from a dream when someone pushes at his chest with a grumble. It takes him a few seconds to realise he’s rolled onto Draco in his sleep and he’s snoring lightly as his open mouth presses to Draco’s forehead. He rolls to the other side, groaning, and the last thing he can feel before he sinks back into his dream is a body moving behind his. An arm chasing after him and being draped over his waist and pressed to his chest, a hand finding Harry’s and clinging to it.
***
It’s snowing outside when he wakes up in the morning, and he promptly remembers dreaming of flying over white mountains at some point in the night—dreaming of Draco holding on to him as they soar through the skies in his broom. The air cold, so cold. The flames so far away.
He turns to look at Draco—the real Draco, the one curled by his side, hand falling from Harry’s waist as Harry turns—and thinks he’s happy. That he could wake up like this everywhere, anywhere, and feel happy.
Then Draco stirs—frowns—and sneezes right in his face.
Groaning, then belly laughing, Harry rolls back onto his back.
“For the love of—” Draco sits up, as if he’s been awake for hours. “Sleeping starkers, never in the history of—” He climbs off the bed, almost falling in the process. “If I freeze to death I will blame your perky arse!”
Harry slips his glasses on and smiles at him from the bed, lazily.
“You think my arse is perky?” he asks, watching Draco stumble around the bedroom.
“I’ve thought your arse is perky longer than Nicholas Flamel has—where the fuck did I put my pyjama bottoms?”
“They’re hanging from the bathroom door,” Harry tells him, smile widening.
Once Draco has properly covered himself, washed his face with warm water, and brushed his hair and teeth, he turns his attention back to Harry.
“Are you not going to get ready?” he asks from the bathroom door, eyebrow raised.
“For what?” Harry asks. “It’s a Sunday morning. You should come back to bed.” He makes a point of leaving room for Draco; of lowering the blankets for him a bit, uncovering himself until the duvet is sitting low on his lap.
Draco’s cheeks go pink, and he looks like he’s going to complain, but in the end he slips back under the covers with a pout.
“At least cover yourself up, you’re going to get a cold.”
“Mmm,” is Harry’s answer. “C’mere. You can be my clothes.”
Draco’s groan quickly turns into a cackle as Harry buries his face in his neck, embracing him, bringing him close. He has no clue why Draco would brush his teeth before breakfast, but his kiss tastes nice, so he doesn’t complain.
A while later, they’re lying on their backs, Draco mindlessly playing with Harry’s chest hair and Harry tracing circles on Draco’s hip, when Draco says, “I think I know what I want.”
Harry turns his head and finds Draco is already looking at him.
“I wanted to talk about it yesterday, but…yeah. One of those days.” He curls a strand of Harry’s hair around his finger. “I want to stay in London for a bit after my trial and find somewhere to live. Doesn’t have to be anywhere fancy, or permanent, just—a flat, maybe. In Muggle London. Just so we have a place for us while we’re here.” His own words make him smile. “Then I want to spend a few weeks with you in Paris. We can go for morning walks and have ice cream for lunch and you can laugh at me slaughtering French because I haven’t studied it properly in fifteen years.”
Harry kisses the tip of his nose, unable to resist the urge. He cups Draco’s warm waist under his hand, brushes a foot to Draco’s shin.
“Then, in summer, we’ll go to Spain—that’s where you said you’d seen a meteor shower before, right?”
“It is.”
“Good. Merlin knows we’ll be doomed if we try to see it in this pissing excuse of a country—whoever decided that England deserved to be cold and cloudy all the time? Oh, and in autumn we can go to Prague if you want to.”
“Why, thank you for thinking so much of me!” Harry jokes. “I’m glad my plans get at least one season!”
“Please, as if you don’t love the idea of making my dreams come true.”
“I do,” Harry says slyly. “That’s why I’m dating you.”
Draco snorts—pushes Harry’s face away when Harry tries to steal a kiss, rolling on top of Harry as he groans, “You’re a child.”
Harry leans up and steals that kiss anyway.
“And you are the most annoyingly charming prat I have ever chosen to spend my life with.”
Draco’s eyes find his again.
“So you’re choosing me.”
Harry presses a thumb to the sharp tip of Draco’s nose.
“Yup.”
“At least for now, that is.”
“At the very least, yes.” Harry smiles, and then he presses a hand to Draco’s nape to properly kiss him, murmuring against his lips, “At the very, very least.”