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***
Harry blinks awake to the feeling of sunlight on his face. It peeks through the gaps in the curtains, casting the room in patterns of warm sepia. He rolls onto his side and breathes in the strawberry scent of Ginny’s hair, wrapping an arm around her.
“You’re up early,” Ginny murmurs, voice soft with sleep.
Harry hums noncommittally, kissing the back of her head. “Good morning.”
She sighs. “I don’t want to get up.”
“Then don’t,” Harry says. “Let me make you breakfast today.”
Ginny turns to face him, smiling. Her freckles are faded in the haze of morning and her hair is mussed from the pillow. She’s beautiful like this, radiant. “Won’t say no to that,” she says.
Harry kisses her forehead once more, lightly, and pads to the bathroom. The air is chill despite the sunlight, but he doesn’t mind; he likes it like this. He splashes some water on his face, brushes his teeth, and pulls on a pair of joggers before making his way downstairs where Draco is waiting for him.
“You’re up early,” Draco says when he sees him. He’s already in the kitchen sorting through the cupboards, fully dressed, not a hair out of place.
“Funny,” Harry says, pulling him into a gentle kiss. “That’s what Ginny said.”
“Further proof of the matter.” Draco raises an eyebrow but he smiles. “Are you making breakfast today?”
“Yep,” Harry says, nudging Draco aside with his hip as he looks through the cupboards. “I’m thinking pancakes.”
“Make them strawberry,” Draco says. He stands behind Harry and curls an arm around his waist. “You know they’re her favourite.”
He’s right; they are. “They’re also your favourite,” Harry says knowingly, turning around.
Draco shakes his head. “I already ate.”
The dishes are washed, nothing out of place. But that’s Draco, he supposes. Always spotless.
He cracks a few eggs into a bowl and busies himself with making the batter. Draco pulls up a stool and sits by him, offering commentary while Harry stirs. He doesn’t volunteer help, but that’s okay, Harry thinks. It’s enough that he’s here.
“Good god, Potter,” Draco says, eyeing the bowl for the fourth time. “That’s hardly the right consistency.”
Harry brandishes the whisk threateningly. “I’m going to accidentally drop pink batter all over your new robes if you keep up with that.”
Draco’s eyes widen and he drags the stool to the corner of the room.
“You know I’m only kidding,” Harry says, setting out the strawberries to chop.
“I can never be too sure with you,” Draco says, but he scoots a little closer and doesn’t say anything else.
***
“Do you need anything from Diagon?” Harry asks Ginny later. “I’m headed there in a bit.”
“Yeah, actually,” Ginny says, looking up from where she’s coaxing Lily into her dress. It’s light yellow with a paisley print that Draco had helped pick out. He’d said it reminded him of Luna. Harry can see why. “I’m almost out of protein powder. Do you think you can pick some up from the Muggle grocer’s on the way back?”
“Yeah sure,” Harry says, picking out a shirt from his cupboard. “Might be a while.”
“Have fun,” Ginny says distractedly. Lily is still fussing over her dress, red hair flopping over her face as she shakes her head.
“D’you need some help with her?” Harry asks, frowning.
“No, no. I’ve got it.” She picks Lily up and sets her on the table firmly. Downstairs, Albus and James are playing together, tag combined with something else that involves jumping on elevated surfaces and accidental bursts of magic that leave messes everywhere. They’re stirring up a racket, yelps and thuds and howls. He exhales slowly, exchanging a glance with Ginny.
“If they break something, I’ll clean it up when I get back,” he says. He doesn’t mind doing these things and, after all, Draco always helps him.
He finds Draco in the hall, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. He’s watching Albus and James leap over sofas, chasing each other around the room with makeshift wands. There’s an odd expression on his face, part-amused, part-wistful. “Were we ever like this?” he asks Harry. He’s got his coat on, ready.
“No,” Harry says softly, beckoning for him. “No, I don’t think so.”
***
The walk to Diagon is peaceful. The sun’s rays fall weakly over the tarmac, filtered through opal-grey clouds and concrete buildings. Pedestrians walk to and fro, spilling out of shops as double-decker buses trundle by in occasional bursts of red.
“Hold my hand,” Draco says, almost a question. He registers Harry’s hesitation and says: “We’re still in Muggle London.”
“Right,” Harry says, intertwining their fingers. The commuters hardly blink. “Of course.” They walk a safe distance and then duck inside an abandoned alleyway to apparate to the Leaky. From there, it’s all chaos.
“Mr. Potter,” a man shrieks, waving a scrap of paper in front of him. “Mr. Potter, please will you sign this? My wife is such a big fan.” The rest of the patrons crowd around him in a semicircle, words turning increasingly jumbled as they speak over each other.
“I’m sorry,” Harry says apologetically. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.” He doesn’t let go of Draco’s hand as he fields more requests, stepping out of the Leaky and into the bustling mayhem of Diagon. They’re getting more looks now, turning more heads. It bothers Harry to no end so he pulls Draco aside and glamours himself.
“Don’t you get tired of it?” Draco asks, reaching out a hand. Harry accepts it after a moment, reasoning with himself that nobody can see.
“I got tired of it a long time ago,” Harry says. He smiles, but there’s nothing cheerful about it.
“Well,” Draco begins, leading him down the well-worn path to Quality Quidditch. “You could always just– stop.”
Harry looks at him sideways. “What do you mean?”
“Whatever you don’t like. Whatever’s bothering you. Just let it go,” Draco says. “Wouldn’t that be easier?”
“Easier than what?” Harry says, though he knows he’s being petulant.
Draco sighs. “Never mind.” He smiles at Harry placatingly and Harry smiles back, genuinely this time. He never could stay upset with Draco for long.
They spend the rest of the day threading in and out of shops. Parchment from Scribbulus for Harry’s office, tea from Rosa Lea for Ginny. By the end of it, Harry’s arms are laden with bags, and any watery shadows they had cast on the ground have long since disappeared. Harry looks up, wondering as to the time. The sky has turned thick, clouds spinning from wisps of cotton to cloth, sooty, opaque.
Draco laughs at him, and his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “Have you forgotten you’re a wizard?”
Harry feels himself flush, ducking his head. “Right, right. Sorry.” He shrinks the bags and stuffs them inside his pocket, to Draco’s continued amusement.
“The most powerful wizard of our age,” he teases lightly.
“Shut up,” Harry says, struggling not to smile. “Ice cream?”
“I’m not really hungry,” Draco says, “but if you want to have some I don’t mind.”
Harry doesn’t fully believe him, but they make their way down cobbled streets and chimneys letting out bursts of coloured smoke until they reach Florean’s. His feet are starting to hurt now, just a bit; he’s looking forward to sitting down. He orders a scoop of plain chocolate with chocolate sprinkles on top while Draco levels him with an imperious stare.
“Three hundred and thirty six flavours,” Draco says, staring at the cone in Harry’s hand like it’s personally offended him. “Three hundred and thirty six flavours and you choose chocolate.”
Harry shrugs. “I’m a simple man,” he says, and then takes another exaggerated bite out of his cone without breaking eye contact.
Draco rolls his eyes, but he grabs Harry and pulls them into a dark corner. It’s then that Harry becomes aware of their seclusion, the emptiness of the shop. He lets Draco caress the side of his face and he leans into the touch. There’s no one here, he reminds himself, pulling Draco close. It’s just them, just the two of them.
“You taste like chocolate,” Draco says in between kisses.
“I should think so,” Harry says, laughing a little.
They step out a little later, Harry licking the last drops of ice cream off his fingers. He sees Draco’s eyes darken, and it sends a shiver through him.
“Home?” he asks.
“Home,” Draco confirms.
They make it back to the Leaky and this time there’s no trouble, but by the time they step out onto Charing Cross Road, it’s raining. Harry starts as the first droplet of water falls on his shoulder, and he turns his gaze upwards.
“I was wondering when it would start to rain,” Draco says contemplatively. He doesn’t seem to be fazed by it. But the drizzle doesn’t abate, and soon rivulets of water are beating down on them both, soaking through their clothes until they’re wet and cold and sticky.
Harry curses under his breath. “We could’ve apparated from Diagon.”
“It’s too late now,” Draco says, rolling his shoulders like he’s preparing himself for something.
“Draco,” Harry begins suspiciously. “What–”
But Draco cuts him off, casting a quick drying charm on his glasses. “Race you to the end of the road,” he says, voice full of mischief, and then dashes off.
“Draco!” Harry splutters, chasing after him. The rain continues to pour incessantly, almost in time with the pounding of their feet on the slick tarmac. They get the odd look here and there, but Harry doesn’t care. The wind whips against his face and the water drenches his clothes and he doesn’t care at all. There’s something exhilarating about this, something wild. Like the speed of his broom as he chases the Snitch, like the power that crackles before he casts. He can feel it dancing at the edge of his fingertips; he wishes he could have this forever.
Draco reaches the end of the road. Harry thinks he’s going to stop, but he doesn’t. He rounds the corner and disappears, and Harry groans. He’d almost had him there. Just out of reach, and isn’t that familiar? He redoubles his efforts, and his thighs burn with the strain, but Draco is gone, camouflaged by the roving crowd. Harry sighs. He’ll meet Draco at home.
He slips into the nook of an abandoned shop and disappears in a cloud of black smoke with a sharp crack. No one seems to notice anything.
***
Harry carries the thrill with him over to his house, shaking out of his coat and draping it over the coat rack haphazardly.
“Harry?” Ginny’s voice calls from somewhere inside. “Is that you?”
“Yeah,” Harry says, voice raised to reach her. “I’m gonna take a shower. I’ll be down in a bit.”
He dashes upstairs, peeling out of his clothing and throwing it by the foot of the bed. Draco is already waiting inside the bathroom, shampooing his hair naked. Foam slides down his neck and over his back, and his skin glistens pink from the heat of the water.
“Took you long enough,” Draco says without turning.
“You left me,” Harry returns, stepping into the shower. He runs a hand down Draco’s sides, heat emanating off him. Draco turns the water back on and they both stand under it as Draco rinses his hair.
“I’m sorry,” Draco says. “I didn’t mean to.” He takes the shampoo bottle, the strawberry-scented one, and beckons for Harry to turn. He works the soap into Harry’s hair slowly, deliberately, massaging his scalp.
“Is that good?” Draco asks.
“Yeah,” Harry says, eyes closed. “Yeah, that’s good.”
Draco turns him around and rinses his hair until the last of the foam has disappeared. And then he crowds Harry against the wall. “I’ve been waiting for this,” he says, and kisses him.
It’s so soft, at first, so sweet. He places a hand by the side of Harry’s neck and leaves the other on his waist and kisses him so gently. Mouthing at his neck, nipping at his jaw, sucking light bruises onto his collarbone. Harry sighs, melting into the feel of him, reaching up to twine a finger through his hair.
It’s when Draco drops to his knees that Harry has to bite down on his fist to stop from moaning.
“Don’t do that,” Draco murmurs, looking up at him from under long eyelashes. “I want to hear you.” He casts a wandless Muffliato and Harry’s head thunks against the wall. Then he takes Harry’s cock, sucking him fully hard until Harry’s thighs are trembling with the effort of holding himself up.
“Fuck, Harry,” Draco says, pulling off and stroking Harry with his fist. “I’ve wanted to do this all day.”
“Yeah?” Harry gets out. “Get on with it then.” He threads his fingers through Draco’s hair, damp and silky under his touch, tugging it gently.
“Bossy,” Draco says, before bending down to suck lightly on the head. Harry moans, his hips bucking forward into Draco’s mouth.
“God, Draco, you feel– I don’t even– I can’t–” he continues to ramble, words blurring into each other until he no longer understands what he’s saying.
“Yeah,” Draco breathes against his hip. “Keep talking.” He nuzzles Harry’s balls, trailing light kisses over his inner thigh, and Harry whines at the loss of friction.
“Stop teasing me,” he says, gasping.
Draco smirks, but his eyes are glazed over and he’s already taking Harry’s cock back in his mouth. He licks up the shaft and Harry jerks forward. He seems so hungry for it, so desperate, like he can’t get enough. He licks each of Harry’s balls, sucking them one by one, and the pressure is heady and intense and just right. Harry closes his eyes, trying to prolong this, trying to make this last, but Draco is kneeling before him with his golden hair taut against Harry’s fist and Harry’s cock buried in his mouth and it’s too much, it’s too much for Harry. When he comes, he comes with his hands cradling Draco’s head and his body bent forward nearly in half. Draco swallows him down, sucking hard, the sounds wet and loud and messy. And after he’s finished, Draco strokes himself fully hard and gets himself off, breathing shakily against Harry’s hip.
Harry smiles; he feels himself turning giddy with it. This feeling of joy that threatens to bubble out of him.
“Was that good?” Draco asks, soft, a little uncertain.
Harry drops to his knees, cradling Draco’s face in his palms. “Of course it was,” he says, kissing Draco, tasting himself in his mouth. “It’s always good with you.”
***
The floor is a mess. Harry is sprawled over the carpet and Albus sits on top of his back. James is on the other side, an unfinished puzzle between them. Draco watches from the sofa, cross-legged, occasionally chiming in to direct where a piece should go. They’ve been at this for an hour now, and the lopsided image of Hogwarts swims before Harry in blurry fits.
“Alright, lads, how about we take a break?” he asks, spine protesting a little under Albus’ weight. He’s too old for this, he thinks. He shouldn’t love it this much. Running about in the rain, kissing in public. But he misses the days when they did this all the time, when his back didn’t ache for days after and his legs weren’t sore from the strain.
“Stop it,” Draco says, cutting through his thoughts. “You’re never too old for these things,” he says again, and it’s easy for him to say it. He looks just the way he had at eighteen, at twenty. His white-blonde hair now darkened, slightly, the slope of his nose, the architecture of his jawline. His frame, slender yet strong, that sharp posture of his. He’s sat on the sofa opposite the window, and the waning light from outside slants over his body as if the sun itself has broken through the clouds to shine a spotlight on him. It’s always been easy for Draco.
Harry smiles at him wryly. “How do you always know exactly what I’m thinking?”
Draco just shakes his head, a little resigned.
Ginny appears by the doorway, then, a little flushed from the kitchen, but she’s smiling at the scene. “Come on, boys,” she says, gesturing to all of them. “Food’s ready.”
***
Dinner is the same as always. Harry sits with James on one side and Albus on the other. Ginny and Draco sit across from him, Lily between them as Ginny tries to coax her into eating.
“Did you get me my protein powder?” Ginny asks as she cuts up the chicken into little pieces for Lily.
“Shit,” Harry says, fork pausing halfway between the plate and his mouth. “I forgot.”
“I knew you would forget,” Draco says, smirking, and Harry glares at him.
“You could’ve reminded me!”
Ginny lets out a soft breath, blowing a strand of hair away from her forehead. “You know what, it’s fine. I’ll just get it tomorrow.”
“No, no,” Harry says, setting his fork down. “I’ll do it first thing in the morning, I promise.” He lifts three fingers in the air like a salute. “Scout’s honour.”
Ginny shakes her head, smiling. “Alright.”
“Hey,” Harry says, suddenly guilty. “Here, switch with me. I’ll make sure she eats.”
“Are you sure?” Ginny begins, but Harry waves her protestations away.
“Yeah, yeah, of course. I’ve got it.”
They switch seats and spend the rest of the evening talking about the Harpies’ chances against the restructured Tornadoes team and whether Puddlemere has a shot at the League this time.
“They’ll make it to top four,” Harry asserts. “They’re looking good this year. Oliver’s a great coach.”
“He’s young,” Draco says, dismissing him. “Too green. They need someone seasoned to pull them out of this funk they’re in. He’s good, I’ll give you that. But is he good enough?”
Ginny hums softly. “Right, yeah,” she says. “He is good, but I have my doubts about him. He’s only been coaching for, what, a year? Two?”
“Two and a half,” Harry defends. “And he’s been with the team for much longer.”
“Playing is hardly the same thing as coaching,” Draco says, sitting back. “But alright,” he concedes. “Top six. They might have an outsider’s chance at the QA cup.”
“Nah, I don’t see it,” Ginny says. “But who knows?” She pours herself a glass of water. “Maybe he’ll surprise us.”
“Can we talk about something else?” James complains, setting his fork down and crossing his arms. “You always talk about Quidditch.”
“Alright, alright,” Harry placates. “We’re sorry,” he says, and they steer the conversation to more important things, like the latest prank-toy Ron gave them and the new kid at school with the wicked, blue hair. He watches the way Albus shuffles all his carrots to one side of the plate and then exchanges them for James’ potatoes under the table. They think they’re being discreet; he’ll deal with it tomorrow, he thinks. He’s tired.
“No, you can’t dye your hair blue,” he tells James later, when he’s tucking him into bed and James is trying to get some last-minute cajoling in. “Not purple either,” he says over James’ impatient protestations.
“But Dad–”
“Okay, how about this. You promise to go to sleep now and I’ll promise to think about it tomorrow.” He really will, Merlin help him. He might even let James do it. What’s the harm? he thinks.
James seems to sense the shift in his demeanour because he mellows, voice turning softer. “Fine.” He lies down.
Harry folds the blanket over him, bending to kiss his forehead. “Goodnight, James. I love you.”
“I love you too, dad,” James says, burrowing into his blankets and making himself comfortable.
Harry ruffles his hair a bit and gets up to leave. Draco is gazing at him by the door, eyes shining with soft admiration.
“You’re a wonderful father,” Draco says, reaching out to caress Harry’s jaw in his hand. “They’re going to grow up to be kind and brave and fiercely affectionate, just like you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Harry says, closing his eyes, but he leans into Draco’s touch. It’s important, he thinks; it’s important coming from Draco. Ginny came from a home that overflowed with laughter and life and maybe they’d wanted, but never for love. Not like Draco, not like Harry.
He opens his eyes, adjusting to the dark. The room is lit by the flickering glow of moonlight and, in this dim, Harry can barely make out Draco’s features. He brings a palm to Draco’s cheek, tracing his cheekbones with his fingertips, trying to map the lines of his face.
They draw apart when Ginny arrives, changed into a tank top and a loose pair of shorts. “They’re asleep?”
“All three,” Harry affirms, whispering. “Go on, I’ll be up in a bit.”
Ginny gives him an odd look but she leaves him by the stairwell, letting her hair down from her bun as she climbs up.
Harry turns, brushing his fingers against Draco’s cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?”
“Sure,” Draco says, smiling sadly. “I’ll be here.”
“Harry,” Ginny's voice rings, loudly from the top of the stairwell. “Who are you talking to?”
Harry jogs up the stairs, placing a palm on her back. The feel of her stays solid beneath his fingers. “No one,” he says, pausing to look over his shoulder. “No one at all.”
***