Chapter Text
~΅~ 18 months later ~΅~
Harry stares at the stocky woman, swallowing loudly as he gathers the courage to speak.
“Un gelato alla fragola e al limone, per favore.”
There. Done it, he thinks. He ordered his ice cream in perfect Italian.
Harry is terrified he’s going to fuck up again and end up with the wrong flavours—Merlin, he hates melon ice cream with a passion. But the woman smiles and moves towards the strawberry ice cream, and Harry feels so ridiculously relieved. He has just placed his very first order without Draco’s help. Harry turns to look at the blond, when the lady asks a question.
“Lo vuoi nel cono o nella coppetta?” she says, and Harry freezes.
He has no clue what she just asked, and she spoke way too fast. Why do they always have to sound like bloody trains when they speak?
“Draco,” Harry says desperately, looking at his boyfriend for support. “What did she ask me?”
Draco chuckles and steps closer.
“She just asked if you want your ice cream in a cone or in a paper cup,” Draco explains, looking supremely amused.
“Oh, cone, per favore,” Harry says and the woman looks a bit confused, until Harry points at the pile of cones and smiles sheepishly.
He orders an ice cream for Draco and then they head for the beach. It’s a hot summer’s day, the aromatic scent of myrtle permeating the air. Harry has never noticed the smell of the air, but it seems to be always changing here in Sardinia, and he likes it.
As their feet sink into the hot sand, the warm wind ruffles Harry’s hair and he shields his eyes from the late afternoon sun.
“Your Italian is getting better,” Draco comments, holding his hand as they walk along the beach. There’s barely anyone around since there aren’t any tourists in this part of the coast.
“I have the best teacher,” Harry says, wiggling his eyebrows at him, until Draco snorts and elbows him.
Harry’s ice cream starts melting way too fast, so he licks some of it as it trickles down his fingers, noticing the way Draco’s eyes linger on him, so blatantly hungry that Harry feels a shiver running down his spine. They had sex in the morning before heading out, but it never seems to be enough for either of them.
As they sit with their feet in the water, Harry suddenly has a déja-vu.
Draco’s slim elegant feet splash in the water, his pale skin glistening in the sunlight. The scars on his face and neck are visible, and he looks beautiful and happy. Harry thinks he’s dreamed about this, about him and Draco being together here, happy and relaxed. In love.
“Don’t eat too much gelato, otherwise you will get a stomach ache,” Draco warns, but Harry tries to steal some of his instead, making Draco huff indignantly.
“Eat your own, and don’t you dare take mine, you Gryffindor menace!” Draco warns, looking affronted as he glares at him under pale eyebrows. His hair is even lighter than it used to be, and there’s a sprinkle of freckles on his face. His pale skin is so sensitive that he tends to get sunburnt, so Draco is always covered in sun cream. Harry likes helping him put it on his back before they leave for the beach, letting his fingers run across pale skin as Draco relaxes under him.
Harry loves their life here. He loves the fact that no one knows who they are, that they can simply be Harry and Draco, instead of the Saviour and the Death Eater.
He loves their home, a little house on the beach, not far from the university campus.
Their neighbour left them her kitten when she had to move abroad. He’s a little tabby cat called Briciola (Draco told Harry the name means “crumb”), who loves Draco to bits, so much so that Harry sometimes is stupidly jealous of them, which Draco finds hilarious.
Their friends sometimes come to visit, but most of the time it’s just Harry and Draco. And it’s so easy to be together, especially here. To go to the market on Saturday to buy fresh fruit, to get some fish at the harbour in the morning, before going to university. To cook together, and study side by side. To cuddle and have sex. To feel alive together.
“I love you,” Harry murmurs, kissing Draco on the cheek, and leaving a sweet sticky patch on Draco’s skin. The blond rubs it off and pretends to be affronted, but then Harry snogs him for what feels like half an hour, and Draco melts against him, little needy sounds leaving his mouth every time their lips part for air. Draco tastes like pistachio ice-cream and strawberries. He tastes like home and love.
“My ice cream has melted,” Harry complains afterwards, looking like a lost puppy as he washes his hands in the sea water. It never fails to amaze him how clear it is. He can see tiny fish swimming around their feet.
“I’ll buy you a new one on our way back,” Draco promises, looking so happy that Harry just has to reach for his lips and kiss him again.
“Will you?” Harry asks, his face lighting up with joy. Draco laughs and nods.
“What time is your appointment with the Mind-Healer?” Draco asks, a familiar glint in his grey eyes as they roam across Harry’s body.
“At half past six. What time is yours?”
“She had to move it to tomorrow,” Draco replies, licking his lips.
“So, we have at least two hours,” Harry points out, a cheeky grin on his face. “The perfect amount of time for a naked cuddle at home.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Draco asks, amused, raising an eyebrow at him. Harry laughs and stands up, offering Draco his hand to haul him up.
“Whatever you want to call it,” Harry says, “I know you love it. And I’ve seen the way you were looking at me. Shall we go?”
Draco’s gaze lingers on him for a few seconds, but then his eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles.
“Let’s go home, my love.”