Drarry Songfic Oneshots

by magic8ballzz

Summary:

I have a playlist that I'm using to write a collection of oneshots.

Here's the playlist:
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4Q07kI9mxfyRU4KL5SLXHe?si=1ae87977e2b74765

If you have any suggestions for songs to add, let me know.

Chapter 1: "10,000 Hours" by Dan + Shay and Justin Bieber

Draco Malfoy had always prided himself on his keen observation skills, though in his youth, they’d mostly been employed for mockery or tactical advantage. He’d thought he knew Harry Potter: the arrogant Gryffindor, the Boy-Who-Lived, the insufferable Golden Boy. A simple equation.

Now, years after the war, years after the shaky truce had morphed into a reluctant camaraderie, and then, inexplicably, into something far more profound and terrifying, Draco found himself meticulously deconstructing that equation. And the more he learned, the more he realised he knew absolutely nothing at all.

He found himself counting. Not in Galleons or Quidditch points, but in hours. Hours spent watching Harry across the Auror bullpen, hours sharing lukewarm tea in the breakroom, hours stretched into long, silent evenings in Harry’s surprisingly cluttered flat after a particularly gruelling case.

He wanted to know what made Harry’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he genuinely laughed – a soft, breathy sound, not the booming, attention-seeking guffaw Draco had always expected. He wanted to catalogue every minute variation in the colour of those green eyes: the stormy jade when he was angry, the bright, sparkling emerald when he was amused, the almost melancholic olive when he was lost in thought, staring out a window, a wisp of smoke from a shared cigarette curling upwards.

"Potter," Draco drawled one rainy Tuesday evening, watching Harry absentmindedly trace the rim of his teacup with a thumb. "Do you ever wonder why you always put your glasses on the left side of your desk, even though you’re right-handed?"

Harry blinked, startled, then glanced at his glasses. "Never thought about it. Just… habit, I suppose." He shrugged, a small, endearing gesture that made Draco's chest ache.

Habit, Draco noted mentally. Another data point. He was building a compendium, a living, breathing dossier on Harry Potter, a project he’d unwittingly undertaken for… well, forever, it seemed.

He remembered the Muggle song Astoria had once played for him, a syrupy-sweet thing about "10,000 hours." At the time, he’d rolled his eyes. Now, the lyrics echoed in his mind, a surprising anthem to his quiet obsession.

I'd spend 10,000 hours and 10,000 more... to learn that sweet heart of yours.

He wanted to know the cadence of Harry’s breathing when he was asleep – light, rhythmic, occasionally punctuated by a soft sigh. He wanted to know the precise degree of his flinch when a particularly loud bang sounded from the street below, a subtle tremor that told Draco the war was still an open wound, even for the hero. He wanted to know the specific blend of tea Harry preferred when he was stressed versus when he was relaxing (Earl Grey for stress, peppermint for relaxation, by the way).

He’d already logged hundreds, maybe thousands of hours. The way Harry would absently scratch the back of his neck when he was uncomfortable. The way he always offered the last biscuit, even if he clearly wanted it himself. The soft, almost imperceptible hum he made when he was particularly pleased with a spell's execution. The way his scar faintly pulsed sometimes, a ghostly throb that only Draco seemed to notice.

It wasn't about finding fault anymore. It was about understanding every beautiful, messy, contradictory detail. He used to think Harry was an open book, stubbornly heroic and infuriatingly noble. Now, he saw the layers: the quiet anxieties, the profound loyalties, the self-doubt hidden behind the brave front, the fleeting moments of loneliness that etched themselves onto Harry's profile when he thought no one was watching.

He’d spent his entire life judging Harry Potter. Now, he just wanted to know him.

One evening, after a particularly trying day, Harry leaned against Draco’s shoulder on the sofa, half-asleep. Draco’s arm was draped loosely around him, his fingers tracing the worn fabric of Harry’s jumper. He felt the steady beat of Harry’s heart against his arm, a comforting rhythm.

"You know," Harry mumbled, sleepily, "I never thought we’d end up like this."

Draco’s breath hitched. He squeezed Harry gently. "Neither did I."

He looked down at the messy dark hair, the faint freckles on Harry's nose, the almost imperceptible tremor of his eyelashes. There was a lifetime of discovery in that face, in that soul. And Draco, for the first time in his life, found himself utterly, completely willing to dedicate every single hour he had.

He’d spend 10,000 hours. And then another 10,000. And a thousand more after that. Because Harry Potter wasn't a simple equation; he was an infinite universe, and Draco Malfoy was finally ready to explore every star.

And if he never saw the end of it, well, that would be the greatest adventure of all.

Chapter 2: "All My Loving" by The Beatles

The international Portkey terminal buzzed with a low hum, a confluence of magical currents and whispered goodbyes. Draco Malfoy, always impeccable even when his world felt askew, stood with his auras-detection spell-bound luggage floating discreetly beside him. His usually sharp features were softened by a quiet apprehension, his silver eyes scanning the sparse crowd, restless.
Harry Potter, on the other hand, was all restless energy, shoving his hands into his pockets, then pulling them out to smooth his already messy hair. He wasn’t good at goodbyes, especially not ones that promised a year-long absence.
“You’re sure you have to do this, Malfoy?” Harry finally asked, the question laced with a familiar mix of annoyance and something much deeper.
Draco managed a weak, almost self-deprecating smile. “It’s Malfoy-Potter now, isn’t it? Or at least, it will be, eventually.” He paused, a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze. “And yes, Potter. I have to go. A year, away from… everything. To study, to… breathe.” To escape the ghost of his name that still clung to him like a shroud in Magical Britain.
A year. A whole year in mainland Europe, away from the pointed stares and hushed whispers, away from the stifling pressure, and away from Harry. Their quiet, burgeoning relationship, still a secret to most, would be put to the ultimate test.
“You’ll write,” Harry said, not a question, a demand.
Draco’s smile tightened, a hint of his old arrogance mixed with genuine affection. “Wouldn’t miss the opportunity to mock your atrocious handwriting, Potter. And I expect detailed accounts of your Auror training failures.”
Harry scoffed, but the challenge warmed something in his chest. “Only if you tell me every scandalous detail of your Parisian professors.”
Their hands brushed, a fleeting, charged contact that spoke volumes of unspoken promises. Then, with a deep breath, Draco stepped forward, the Portkey’s shimmer engulfing him. One last look, one shared glance that held a universe of meaning, and he was gone. Harry was left standing on the cold stone, the hum of the terminal suddenly feeling deafeningly empty.

The first letter arrived three days later, carried by a sleek, grey owl with intelligent, amber eyes that seemed to belong to Draco himself. The parchment was thick, expensive, and filled with Draco’s elegant, precise script. It was a detailed account of his journey, the rather dreary weather in Northern France, and a polite, almost formal inquiry about Harry’s first week of Auror training. It was almost like old times, almost guarded, if not for the barely perceptible tremor in the ink of his signature, as if the quill had faltered on the ‘M’ of ‘Malfoy’.
Harry wrote back immediately, his own hand pressing harder on the quill than necessary, gouging the cheap Ministry-issue parchment. His letter was less polished, more direct. He told Draco about Ron accidentally blowing up a training dummy, Hermione already outsmarting half the instructors, and the crushing, almost suffocating silence of the small flat now that Draco’s particular brand of fussy tidiness wasn’t there to annoy – and secretly, comfort – him. He ended with a blunt, “Don’t pretend you’re not missing my atrocious handwriting already.”
The replies became a routine, a lifeline. The grey owl would arrive every Tuesday, sometimes Friday, a silent, graceful messenger. Harry’s owl, a scruffy, perpetually ruffled creature he’d named Hedwig II (much to Draco’s written disdain), would depart with Harry’s scrawled replies.
Months passed. The letters gradually shed their initial formality, becoming less about daily events and more about the quiet confessions of the heart. Draco wrote of the ancient libraries he frequented, describing the scent of old magic and forgotten knowledge, the peculiar customs of French wizards, and the unexpected loneliness that gnawed at him, even as he found new purpose in his studies. He admitted, in a hastily added post-script one time, to sketching Harry’s profile in the margins of his textbooks, a secret he would have died before revealing in person.
Harry, in turn, confessed to late nights staring at the ceiling, re-reading Draco’s flowery descriptions of sunsets over the Seine, imagining himself there, beside him. He wrote of his own struggles in Auror training, the frustrating bureaucracy, the moments of doubt, and the quiet fear that still sometimes gripped him – the fear that Draco wouldn’t come back, or that he’d find someone else, someone less… complicated, someone easier.
One rainy afternoon, a letter arrived from Draco that made Harry pause. “I’ve been listening to some of your Muggle music,” Draco had written, something Harry had introduced him to before he left. “There’s a song, ‘All My Loving,’ that keeps playing in my head. I find myself humming it.” He then proceeded to quote, “’I’ll often think of you, and often come to see you; and then I’ll send you all my loving, every day in a letter.’ Though for now, the seeing must be in these silly scrolls, Potter.”
Harry felt a warmth spread through him, chasing away the chill of the rain. Draco, quoting the Beatles. It was so unexpected, so perfectly them. He picked up his quill, a fierce determination settling in his chest. He wrote back, filling the page with his thoughts on the song, on Draco’s admission, on the ache of missing him. He ended, deliberately, with a bold underline: “And then I’ll send you all my loving every day in a letter. Consider it a promise, Malfoy.”
Each letter Harry received was a lifeline, a tangible piece of the man he loved, sent across borders and oceans. It was Draco laying his heart bare, page by page, promise by promise. And each letter Harry sent back was his own heart poured out, a shield against the miles, a bridge across the separation. They were their quiet vows, whispered across the continent, sustained by ink and parchment and the tireless wings of their owls.

The day finally arrived. Harry stood on the same international Portkey terminal platform, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. The air thrummed, just as it had a year ago, but this time it was with anticipation, not dread. Ron and Hermione stood a respectful distance away, offering quiet support, knowing this moment was just for Harry.
The Portkey shimmered, a distorted ripple in the air, and then Draco was there. He looked thinner, perhaps, his cheekbones a little sharper, but undeniably him. His usually impeccable hair was slightly wind-tousled, his silver eyes wide as they found Harry’s. A year of distance, a year of letters, condensed into that one breathless moment.
No words were needed. Harry covered the distance between them in three long strides, pulling Draco into a hug that stole the air from both their lungs. Draco, for once, didn’t stiffen at the public display. He buried his face in Harry’s shoulder, a shudder running through him, a silent sob escaping him. The expensive parchment, the elegant script, the witty remarks – they were nothing compared to the solid, undeniable reality of Draco in his arms.
When they finally pulled apart, eyes shining with unshed tears and overwhelming relief, Draco’s voice was a rough whisper against Harry’s ear. “I meant every word. Every single one.”
Harry traced the line of his jaw, his thumb brushing over the ghost of a tear track. His own voice was thick with emotion. “I know. I felt it in every single one. All my loving, Malfoy. All my loving.”
And for the first time in a year, their lips met, a tender, desperate kiss that sealed every promise, every whispered confession, every loving word sent across the miles. The song, once a sweet melancholy, now simply a celebration of a love that had truly, stubbornly, forever been true.

Chapter 3: "You Ain't Woman Enough" by Loretta Lynn

The clinking of crystal glasses and the murmur of polite conversation were usually enough to make Draco’s teeth ache. Ministry galas, especially these post-war ‘unity’ affairs, were insufferable. Yet, here he was, propped against a pillar, a half-empty glass of terrible champagne in hand, watching Harry Potter.
Harry, who looked vaguely uncomfortable in his tailored robes, was doing his duty – smiling, shaking hands, patiently deflecting compliments. He was a magnet, of course. Always had been. And tonight, the iron filing in his orbit was Elara Vance, a bright, ambitious Head of Department from Magical Law Enforcement. She was all sparkling wit and artfully tousled auburn hair, leaning a little too close, laughing a little too loud at Harry’s subdued jokes.
Draco watched Elara's hand drift, just for a moment, to Harry's arm. Harry didn't flinch, just offered a polite smile, but Draco saw the almost imperceptible stiffen of his shoulders, the fleeting glance around the room, as if searching for an escape route. Harry was too nice, too bloody Gryffindor, to outright dismiss anyone. And Elara, with her calculatingly naive eyes, knew it.
"He's been telling her about the Withered Arm case," Pansy murmured, appearing at Draco’s side, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. She always knew when Draco was reaching his boiling point. "She’s quite 'enamoured' with his problem-solving skills, apparently."
"She's enamoured with the Boy-Who-Lived," Draco sneered, not taking his eyes off the pair. Elara was now gazing up at Harry with an expression that verged on adoration, her fingers toying with the delicate chain around her neck. "And she thinks she's just the witch to mend his lonely, heroic heart."
Pansy merely hummed, taking a sip of her own drink. "Well, she certainly looks the part. Smart, charming, good family. The Ministry would approve."
Draco's grip tightened on his glass. He didn't care what the Ministry approved of. He cared about the way Harry sometimes tangled his fingers in Draco's hair late at night, the vulnerable look in his eyes when he talked about the war, the quiet, almost domestic peace they found hidden away in Draco’s absurdly opulent London townhouse. Elara Vance knew none of that. She saw the scar, the spectacles, the savior. She didn't see Harry.
He watched Elara lean in again, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, undoubtedly inviting Harry to some 'private consultation' or 'further discussion' over dinner. Harry, bless his oblivious heart, was probably just trying to figure out how to politely say no without offending her.
That was it. Draco had seen enough. He pushed off the pillar, smoothing his robes with deliberate slowness.
"Darling?" Pansy's voice was laced with amusement. "Don't do anything you'll regret."
"Regret is for the weak," Draco drawled, already striding across the polished floor. The crowd parted for him, as it always did, anticipating the inevitable Malfoy drama.
He moved with purpose, a predatory grace that turned heads. He bypassed two Ministry officials, a gaggle of giggling witches, and arrived beside Harry and Elara Vance just as she was batting her eyelashes, a suggestive smile on her lips.
"...perhaps we could discuss the finer points over a late supper, Harry?" Elara purred, her hand now resting firmly on Harry’s forearm.
"Oh, I hardly think so, Vance," Draco's voice cut through the air, sharp and clear like shattering ice.
Elara startled, pulling her hand back as if burned. Harry's head snapped around, his eyes widening slightly as he saw Draco looming beside them. A flicker of something – surprise, relief, a hint of something else – passed through his gaze.
"Malfoy," Elara said, her smile faltering, replaced by a tight, practiced polite mask. "I didn't see you there."
"Evidently not," Draco said, his eyes scanning her in a way that made her visibly uncomfortable, from the tips of her perfectly coiffed hair to the expensive heels on her feet. "Though I suppose one needs to be paying attention to notice things, doesn't one?"
He then turned his gaze to Harry, and his tone softened, almost imperceptibly. "Finished being accosted, Potter?"
Harry’s lips twitched. "Just... networking, Draco."
"Networking," Draco scoffed, turning back to Elara, his voice now laced with venomous sweetness. "Such a quaint term for a rather transparent attempt at poaching."
Elara’s cheeks flushed. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me," Draco said, stepping closer, his height advantage suddenly more pronounced. "You've been circling Harry like a Kneazle around a canary, haven't you, Vance? You think because he's polite, because he smiles, because he's not currently engaged in a life-or-death battle, that he's fair game. That you, with your Ministry connections and your 'late suppers', are going to be the one to tame the great Harry Potter."
He paused, letting his words hang in the air, drawing the stares of curious onlookers. Harry was now pointedly looking at his shoes, a faint blush on his own cheeks, but a tell-tale spark of amusement in his eyes.
"Let me tell you something, Elara," Draco continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, though still perfectly audible. "You can offer him all the polite conversation, all the sensible advice, all the well-behaved, publicly approved affection you like. You can flutter your eyelashes and discuss policy all night long. But you won't get through to him. Not really."
He leaned closer, his eyes like chips of ice. "You see the hero, the scar, the legend. You want the man who saved us all. But you don't actually see Harry. You don't know the way his hair always falls across his forehead even after three styling charms, or how he hums old Muggle songs when he thinks no one’s listening. You couldn't begin to comprehend the kind of chaos he thrives on, the bite he needs, the utter, unholy mess that makes him whole."
Draco straightened, a sneer twisting his lips. "You think Harry Potter, the man who stared down the Dark Lord, wants a witch who fits neatly into society’s little boxes? Someone who offers him a safe, predictable, utterly bland existence? He doesn't need a golden retriever, Vance, he needs a bloody dragon."
He gestured vaguely at her, then back at Harry. "You're a pretty bauble, I'll give you that. But you aren't strong enough. You aren't clever enough. You aren't witch enough to handle my Harry. Because Harry Potter doesn't need to be saved from the dark; he needs someone who understands it, who's lived in it, and chooses to stand beside him anyway."
Elara was speechless, her face crimson, her mouth opening and closing uselessly.
Draco finally turned his full attention to Harry, a different kind of intensity in his gaze. "Come on, Potter. I think we've had quite enough 'networking' for one evening."
He reached out, not quite touching Harry, but offering an implicit invitation. Harry, after a moment's hesitation, finally lifted his eyes, the amusement now openly sparkling, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. He took a subtle step towards Draco, a silent affirmation.
"Right," Harry said, his voice quiet but firm. He spared Elara a glance that was not apologetic, but dismissive. "Good evening, Elara."
As Draco turned, pulling Harry gently by the elbow to steer him away from the stunned Elara Vance and the buzzing crowd, he felt a familiar warmth spread through him. Harry didn't protest, didn't argue. He simply came.
"A dragon, Malfoy?" Harry murmured, once they were out of earshot, a quiet laugh rumbling in his chest. "How very humble of you."
Draco merely smirked, giving Harry's arm a possessive squeeze. "Someone had to put her in her place. She clearly didn't understand that some things, Potter, are simply… taken."
Harry chuckled softly, leaning into Draco’s side, a gesture so intimate, so inherently theirs, that it silenced any lingering doubt. "Just making your claim, then?"
"Always," Draco exhaled, his eyes locking with Harry's. "Now, let’s go home, Potter. I think I’ve just worked up an appetite for something much less bland than whatever Elara Vance was offering."
And as they walked away, leaving the whispers and shocked expressions behind them, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, finally felt a comfortable, chaotic peace settle over him, knowing that some battles, thankfully, didn't always have to be fought alone. Especially when you had a very territorial dragon on your side.

Chapter 4: "My Girl" by the Temptations

The rain lashed against the window of their small, but undeniably charming, flat in Islington. It was one of those miserable London days, grey and relentless, the kind that usually settled a familiar melancholy deep in Harry's bones. He’d always been susceptible to the weather, a childhood spent under a perpetually overcast emotional sky making him keenly aware of the gloom.
But not today.
Today, there was a warmth radiating from the kitchen, the scent of cinnamon and brewing tea curling around him. Today, he’d already had a gentle nudge awake, a soft kiss pressed to his temple, and a quiet, almost domestic, murmur about getting breakfast started.
Harry leaned back against the sofa, a book forgotten in his lap, and simply watched. Draco Malfoy, in an impossibly soft cashmere jumper that Harry had definitely stolen more than once, moved around their kitchen with a quiet grace that still sometimes took Harry's breath away. He was humming, a low, tuneless sound, as he poured tea into two mismatched mugs – one a chipped Gryffindor lion, the other a sleek, silver serpent.
I’ve got sunshine on a cloudy day.
Harry remembered cloudy days. Oh, he remembered them vividly. Days when the war felt too heavy, when the weight of expectation was crushing, when he felt utterly alone in a sea of well-meaning but ultimately distant faces. He remembered the cold, the gnawing anxiety.
And then, impossibly, came Draco. Not with a sudden flash and bang – not at first. More like a slow, unexpected dawn after a long, dark night. It had started with tentative apologies, shared glances across Ministry corridors, a hesitant coffee that turned into weekly dinners. Then a confession, clumsy and raw. And then, a quiet surrender from Harry.
When it’s cold outside, I’ve got the month of May.
Draco turned, catching Harry’s eye, a soft smile gracing his lips as he held up the Gryffindor mug. Harry pushed himself up, feeling a lightness in his step that no amount of rain could dampen. He took the mug, their fingers brushing, and the warmth spread through him, not just from the tea, but from the simple, shared moment.
I guess you’d say, what can make me feel this way?
He’d asked himself that question countless times over the past few years. What was it about this? About the man who had once been his nemesis, his rival, his tormentor? The man whose sharp wit and even sharper tongue could still occasionally exasperate him, but whose steady presence and unwavering affection had become the bedrock of Harry’s entire existence.
It was Draco. It was always Draco.
Draco settled beside him on the sofa, pulling a blanket over their laps with a practiced flick of his wrist. He didn't ask what Harry was thinking; he just sipped his tea, his shoulder warm against Harry's.
I’ve got so much honey, the bees envy me.
Harry thought about the richness of their life together. Not just the big gestures – the romantic weekends, the spontaneous trips – but the quiet, everyday abundance. The way Draco remembered his favourite biscuits, the way he’d subtly nudge a new book towards Harry if he sensed a slump. The endless, intriguing conversations that could span anything from ancient runic theory to the best way to get a stain out of silk. It was a life overflowing with small, perfect joys.
I’ve got a sweeter song than the birds in the trees.
He thought of Draco’s low chuckle, the way he hummed off-key when he was concentrating, the gentle cadences of his voice when he read aloud. It was a melody that settled Harry’s restless mind, a constant, comforting refrain. It was the sound of home.
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the rain a steady backdrop to their peace. Harry watched the water streak down the pane, thinking about the life he’d built, the one he’d never dared to dream of when he was younger.
I don’t need no money, fortune or fame.
He’d had all that. The gold in his vault, the hero worship, the constant clamour of the wizarding world. It had been heavy, unsatisfying. It had never quite filled the hollow ache inside him. He’d chased purpose, meaning, a quiet life, a place to simply be.
I’ve got all the riches, baby, one man can claim.
And Draco, with his silver hair and his sharp tongue, his surprisingly tender heart and his steadfast love, was those riches. He was the sunshine on the cloudy days, the warmth in the cold, the honey, the song. He was everything Harry hadn't known he was missing until he found it.
Draco shifted, turning his head to look at Harry, a faint question in his grey eyes. "Penny for your thoughts, Potter? You look entirely too blissful for a rainy Tuesday."
Harry turned to him, a wide, genuine grin spreading across his face. He reached out, cupping Draco's cheek, feeling the soft skin beneath his thumb.
"Just thinking," Harry murmured, his voice thick with a happiness so profound it still sometimes startled him, "about how lucky I am."
Draco's lips quirked into a familiar, almost smug, smile – but his eyes were soft, reflecting the deep affection that simmered between them. "Oh? And what, pray tell, has led to this sudden epiphany?"
Harry leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Draco’s lips, tasting tea and a hint of cinnamon. He pulled back just enough to whisper, his voice a low, loving hum against Draco's ear, a secret shared between the thrum of the rain and the beat of his own full heart.
"You, Malfoy. Always you. My Draco."

Chapter 5: "Some Broken Hearts Never Mend" by Don Williams

The scent of old parchment and forgotten spells always made Harry think of him. Not the opulent stink of Potions labs, but the quiet, dignified aroma of the restricted section, where they'd first truly seen each other, huddled in the shadows, sharing forbidden texts and even more forbidden glances.
It had been years since the war, years since the rushed trials, years since the last time he’d seen Draco Malfoy face-to-face, not counting the distorted images in the Prophet. Harry was a successful Auror, lauded, respected, but there was a hollow space in his chest that no amount of public adoration or heroic deeds could fill. He was alone, truly alone, in a city teeming with life.
Some broken hearts never mend, a familiar melody drifted unbidden into his mind, the mournful twang of an old Muggle song his Aunt Petunia had inexplicably loved. Some memories never end. His most vivid memories were fractured shards of Draco: a sneer that concealed a tremor, a hand that brushed his almost-accidentally in a darkened corridor, the surprising softness of a kiss stolen behind tapestries, the devastating finality of a whispered "We can't, Potter."
Their love had been a secret, a rebellion against their very natures, blooming in the toxic soil of rivalry and war. It had been passionate, reckless, and ultimately, impossible. The war had ripped them apart, leaving wounds that festered long after the physical battles ceased. Harry had tried to move on. He'd dated, he'd laughed, he'd built a life that looked complete from the outside. But some lonely people never be free, and he knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that he was one of them. He was free of Voldemort, free of the Dursleys, but not free of him.
One blustery October afternoon, chasing a minor dark artifact lead to a dusty, forgotten antique shop in Knockturn Alley – a place Draco would have once sneered at. The bell above the door jingled, announcing Harry’s unwelcome presence. He scanned the shelves, a meticulous Auror, but his eyes snagged on a figure in the back, meticulously polishing a chipped porcelain tea set.
Draco Malfoy. Or at least, what remained of him.
Gone was the sharp, tailored arrogance. This man wore a simple, dark jumper, sleeves rolled up to reveal slender forearms, and trousers that sagged a little at the waist. His silver-blonde hair was longer, falling across his forehead, and there were faint lines etched around his eyes – eyes that were still that piercing shade of grey, but now held a weary depth Harry hadn't seen before.
Draco looked up, startled by the jingle. Their eyes locked, and the air crackled with a forbidden magic, not of spells, but of recognition, of shared history, of a pain so profound it felt like a third presence in the room.
"Potter," Draco said, his voice a low, rough murmur. The sneer was gone, replaced by a vulnerability that twisted Harry's gut.
"Malfoy," Harry replied, his own voice hoarse. An antique shop. This was how the mighty had fallen. Or perhaps, how they had found peace.
I know how it feels to be alone, the song whispered in his head. Harry suddenly felt a kinship with Draco that surpassed their old animosity, surpassed even their forbidden love. They were both survivors, both carrying unhealed scars.
"Looking for something specific?" Draco asked, gesturing vaguely at the shelves. His movements were hesitant, almost shy.
"Just… investigating a lead," Harry managed. He gestured at a tarnished silver locket. "That's a bit… dark for an antique shop."
Draco picked it up, his fingers tracing the intricate, if sinister, engraving. "My uncle’s. Found it hidden amongst some of my mother's things. Figured it was better off here, out of the Manor." He offered a weak smile. "My way of contributing to the 'greater good,' I suppose. Selling off family curses to Muggle collectors who think they're 'quirky.'"
The bitterness was still there, but it was muted, seasoned with a strange kind of humility. Harry found himself unable to move, unable to look away. He saw the faint purple shadows under Draco’s eyes, the slight tremor in his hand as he put the locket down.
"You look… different," Harry said, the words slipping out unbidden.
Draco managed a short, dry laugh. "Time does that, Potter. Especially to those who once believed themselves untouchable." He met Harry's gaze directly then, and in those grey depths, Harry saw the echo of his own longing. "You look… tired."
Harry nodded. "It's a lonely job."
Draco sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of years. "It's a lonely life, Potter. For some of us." He didn't elaborate, but Harry understood. I know for a fact that love can hurt, it can leave a scar that won't disappear. Their love had left a particularly brutal scar.
"I… I often wondered how you were," Harry admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Draco's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "Did you?" He scoffed gently. "I assumed you'd forgotten all about a certain regrettable interlude. Moved on to greener pastures, as it were."
"I haven't," Harry said, the honesty stark and raw between them. "I tried. It didn't work." He took a step closer, drawn by an invisible thread. "Did you?"
Draco looked down at his hands, then back up at Harry, a flicker of hope, or perhaps just simple, profound sadness, in his eyes. "No, Potter. I never did."
The air was thick with unspoken words, with the ghosts of their past and the phantom ache in their chests. The song’s melody returned, but this time, with a different emphasis. But I also know that love can heal, it can mend a heart that's broken and real.
"This shop," Harry said, needing to break the intensity, yet wanting to prolong their encounter. "Do you… do you own it?"
Draco nodded. "A quiet life. Away from… everything. It suits me."
"It's nice," Harry said, and he meant it. He saw the care Draco put into arranging the objects, the faint sheen of polish on the wood, the quiet pride in his posture as he talked about his new life.
A small clock on a nearby shelf chimed softly, breaking the spell. Harry knew he should leave, report back, continue his search. But he couldn't. Not yet.
He took another step, closing the distance between them until they were only inches apart. "Malfoy…" he started, unsure how to finish.
Draco’s eyes searched his, a potent mix of fear and longing mirrored in their depths. "Harry," he corrected softly, an invitation in his voice.
Harry’s breath hitched. That name, from him, felt like a caress. "Harry," he repeated, testing the sound. "I… I don't know if some broken hearts ever mend, Draco."
Draco reached out, his hand hovering uncertainly, then gently cupped Harry’s cheek. His touch was warm, surprisingly tender. "Perhaps not all of them, Potter," he murmured, his thumb stroking Harry's skin. "But maybe… maybe ours just haven't tried hard enough yet."
The scent of dust, old magic, and Draco’s familiar, faint cologne filled Harry’s senses. This wasn't a happily-ever-after, not yet. It was simply a beginning, found amongst forgotten things in a forgotten shop. But it was a beginning, and for two men who had lived with broken hearts for so long, it was everything. The song ended, but a new one, full of tentative hope, had just begun.

Chapter 6: "Blue Christmas" by Elvis Presley

The Burrow was, as always, a riot of festive chaos. Garlands of holly and mistletoe were strung with cheerful abandon, tinsel shimmered on every surface, and the scent of pine, gingerbread, and Mrs. Weasley’s particularly potent eggnog hung heavy in the air. Carols, sung with varying degrees of tunefulness by the assembled Weasley clan, blasted from a magically enchanted gramophone.
Harry, perched on the edge of the sofa, watching Ginny attempt to teach Ron a rather complicated Muggle dance, offered a polite smile when Charlie clapped him on the back. He laughed when George demonstrated a particularly impressive exploding cracker. He even managed a genuine chuckle when Hermione scowled at Percy for correcting her pronouncements on the history of Yuletide traditions.
But the laughter… it didn't quite reach his eyes. Not fully. A hollow ache resided in his chest, a peculiar kind of loneliness that felt sharper amidst such overwhelming warmth. He glanced at the magnificent Christmas tree, twinkling with scarlet and gold baubles, and felt a pang. Decorations of red on a green Christmas tree…
Last year, Draco had scoffed at the Weasleys' "plebeian" decorating style, then, with a huff he pretended was exasperation, had subtly rearranged a few ornaments, adding a single, exquisite silver bauble he’d conjured to the very top, declaring it was "the only thing that gives this monstrosity an ounce of dignity." Harry had simply kissed him then, right there in the living room, shielded by the chaos, a secret, gentle press of lips that tasted of pine and peppermint.
This year, there was no Draco.
He was in France, or so his incredibly formal, bordering-on-cold owl had informed Harry three weeks ago. "Urgent Potions commission, Potter. Unforeseen complications, requires my continued presence over the holiday period. My apologies for the inconvenience." Inconvenience. Harry had reread the note a dozen times, each time feeling the words chill him a little more. He knew Draco’s particular brand of standoffishness, his habit of retreating behind formality when something genuinely troubled him, but it still hurt. It felt like a dismissal.
He imagined Draco now, at some pristine, elegant French chateau, perhaps, or even back at Malfoy Manor. A Christmas of cool silvers and frosty whites, impeccable and quiet. No raucous carols, no exploding crackers, no messy tinsel. He pictured Draco, perfectly composed, sipping a fine, vintage wine, perhaps discussing obscure alchemical theories with some equally detached French wizard. You’ll be doing alright, with your Christmas of white… The thought twisted his gut. It made him feel impossibly small, discarded.
He heard a tap on the window. Large, feathery flakes of snow had begun to fall, drifting lazily down, illuminated by the warm glow from inside The Burrow. They looked beautiful, ethereal, but to Harry, they felt heavy. And when those blue snowflakes start falling… he thought, looking out at the deepening twilight, that’s when those heartaches begin.
"Alright, Harry?" Hermione's voice broke his reverie. She was standing beside him, a concerned frown on her face. "You've been staring at the window for ten minutes. And you haven't touched your eggnog."
Harry forced a smile. "Just thinking. Beautiful snow, isn't it?"
Hermione gave him a knowing look. "He’ll be back, you know."
Harry just shrugged, trying to project indifference, but his heart felt like a lump of cold lead. "He’s busy. Important work."
"Right," Hermione said, her voice laced with skepticism. She squeezed his arm gently. "Try to enjoy yourself, Harry. Don’t let it ruin your Christmas."
But it already had. Everything felt tinged with a faint, pervasive sadness. He was surrounded by people who loved him, yet he felt utterly, profoundly blue. He missed the precise curve of Draco’s lip when he was amused, the dry wit that always managed to make Harry snort with laughter, the quiet, almost hesitant way Draco would reach for his hand beneath the table. He missed him.
Later, as the others were settled into their post-dinner food coma, exchanging final gifts, Harry offered to help Mrs. Weasley clear the kitchen. The familiar clatter of plates and cutlery was a welcome distraction. He carried a stack of empty pudding bowls towards the sink, his mind still replaying fragments of Draco's letter, wondering if he’d simply been a passing fancy.
He pushed open the kitchen door, stepping into a dimly lit hallway, and froze.
Standing there, shedding a fine dusting of snow from his dark travelling cloak, was Draco Malfoy. His usually impeccably styled silver-blond hair was slightly dishevelled, a few damp strands clinging to his forehead. His elegant scarf, a deep, rich green, was askew. His usually sharp grey eyes, however, were fixed on Harry, and they held an uncharacteristic softness.
"Potter," Draco said, his voice a low rumble. "You look utterly miserable. Truly, a picture of Yuletide despair."
The stack of bowls nearly slipped from Harry’s numb fingers. "Malfoy? What… what are you doing here? I thought you were in France."
Draco took a step closer, the scent of fresh snow and something subtly expensive—Draco's cologne—wafting towards him. "My commission, as you might have inferred from my terse but necessary owl, concluded rather abruptly. One might even say I… expedited its conclusion." A ghost of a smirk touched his lips, but it quickly faded. His eyes searched Harry’s face. "Granger sent me an owl. Apparently, you've been moping like a lovesick calf."
Harry felt a rush of heat to his face, part embarrassment, part overwhelming relief. "Hermione did what now?"
"She informed me," Draco continued, ignoring Harry's question, "that you were having a rather 'blue Christmas.' And while I appreciate the dramatic irony of the sentiment, I found I couldn't quite stomach the idea of it." He took another step, closing the distance between them. "My 'Christmas of white,' as it were, was also remarkably sterile. And surprisingly quiet without your incessant, grating optimism."
A shaky laugh escaped Harry. He dropped the bowls with a soft thud onto the counter, heedless of the crockery. He reached out, not quite believing, and touched Draco’s arm. He was real. Solid. Here.
"I thought you were perfectly fine," Harry mumbled, his voice thick with emotion.
Draco let out a soft, almost tender scoff. "Nonsense. I found myself rather… preoccupied. Imagining you here, without me, trying to navigate the Weasley chaos alone. It drove me to distraction." He lifted a hand, and his fingertips brushed Harry's cheek. "I was having a blue, blue, blue, blue Christmas myself, you idiot."
Harry didn't hesitate. He pulled Draco into a fierce hug, burying his face in the expensive fabric of Draco's cloak, inhaling that unique scent that was purely Draco. Draco stiffened for only a second, then his arms came up, wrapping tightly around Harry, holding him close.
"Happy Christmas, Harry," Draco whispered into his hair, his voice rough with an emotion Harry rarely heard from him.
"Happy Christmas, Draco," Harry breathed back, his own voice cracking.
They stood there for a long moment, simply holding each other, the muffled sounds of the Weasley Christmas party a distant, comforting hum. The "blue" had dissolved, replaced by a warmth that spread through Harry’s chest, chasing away the ache. He realized now, looking at the man in his arms, that the truest Christmas colours weren't red and green, or silver and white, but whatever hue Draco Malfoy brought into his life. And right now, it was a brilliant, shimmering gold.

Chapter 7: "Sherry" by Frankie Valli & the Four Seasons

Harry tapped his foot beneath the table at the Leaky Cauldron, the clatter of tankards and boisterous laughter a dull roar around him. Ron was regaling Hermione with a particularly embarrassing anecdote about George's latest prank product, and Hermione was attempting to look disapproving while a smile tugged at her lips. Harry, however, was miles away, mentally rehearsing lines he’d never actually say out loud.
Draco, Draco baby, a voice in his head sang, not quite his own, but a frantic, insistent rhythm. Draco, can you come out tonight?
He pulled out his charmed, Muggle-esque mobile phone – a gift from Hermione that Ron still eyed with suspicion – and stared at the contact: Draco Malfoy. He’d typed a message and deleted it, typed another and backspaced.
"You're not listening, are you?" Hermione’s voice cut through his thoughts, a knowing arch to her brow.
Harry startled, pocketing the phone. "What? Yeah, course I am. Blimey, Ron, a toilet-brush wand? Really?" He tried for casual indignation, but his heart wasn't in it.
Ron snorted. "Told you. You look like you're about to spontaneously combust, mate. Still stewing over that… thing?"
He meant Malfoy. They always meant Malfoy. For months, their truce had morphed into something… tetchy. Filled with barbed compliments and lingering eye contact, accidental brushes of hands and a simmering, unspoken tension that Harry both craved and loathed.
Harry sighed. "He just… he never replies. Or he replies with something utterly dismissive. It’s infuriating. I just want to… see him. Talk to him. Without some official Ministry business looming."
Draco, can you come out tonight? Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, Draco baby.
"Just ask him properly, then," Hermione suggested, ever practical. "Don't hint. Don't play games. Just say, 'Malfoy, I want to see you.'"
Harry scoffed. "And what if he says no? What if he laughs? He practically invented the art of the condescending laugh." But the need was a gnawing ache in his stomach. He’d seen Draco that morning in Diagon Alley, a fleeting glimpse of platinum hair and a ridiculously tailored cloak. And ever since, it was like a record stuck in his head. Draco, Draco, can you come out tonight? His own 'party' wasn't really a 'party' at all. It was just an excuse to see him, to find some neutral ground where they could just be.
Why don't you come out to my party?
His 'party' was a half-empty bottle of firewhisky and a comfortable armchair at Grimmauld Place. Pathetic, really. But he wanted Draco there. He needed Draco there. His mind was a loop tape of Draco’s smirk, the way his eyes narrowed when he was amused, the unexpected grace of his movements, the faint scent of expensive potions on his robes.
Can't get him off my mind. Can't get him off my mind.
"I need to go," Harry blurted, pushing back his chair. "I can't just… sit here."
Ron blinked. "Where are you going? George is bringing more Butterbeer."
"Somewhere else." Harry was already heading for the door, mind made up. He wasn't going to send an owl. He wasn't going to send a text. He was going to Apparate.
You're my boy. You're my boy. The thought, startling and undeniable, echoed in his mind. He liked Draco. More than liked. He was utterly, helplessly smitten. And he was done being subtle.
He landed with a soft pop outside Draco’s flat, a surprisingly modest (for a Malfoy) but stylish place in a quiet Muggle-friendly part of London. He took a deep breath, the frantic beat of the song still humming in his ears. He raised his hand and knocked.
A moment later, the door creaked open. Draco, hair slightly mussed, wearing silk lounging trousers and an unbuttoned shirt, looked utterly bewildered.
"Potter? What in Merlin's name—"
"Draco," Harry cut him off, the name tumbling out, raw and urgent. "Draco, baby." He hadn't meant to add the "baby," but it felt right, desperate. "Can you come out tonight?"
Draco's eyes widened, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them – surprise, annoyance, interest? "Potter, it's—" He glanced at a clock on the wall behind him. "It's almost midnight. And what exactly are you inviting me to 'come out' to?" He leaned against the doorframe, a faint, familiar smirk playing on his lips, though it lacked its usual bite.
"Anything," Harry said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "My place. Your place. Just… out. I can't think straight. I keep thinking, Draco, Draco, can you come out tonight? And I just… I had to come here."
Draco stared at him, the smirk softening, curving into something almost tender. "You came all the way here because you couldn't send an owl?" There was a hint of amusement in his tone, but no real malice.
"I needed to see you," Harry admitted, feeling utterly exposed but also strangely liberated. "I've been trying to get you to just… come out. To talk. To argue, even. Whatever." He took another step, closing the distance between them. "I've tried everything else, haven't I? Please, Draco. Please come out tonight."
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words and rising tension. Then, Draco pushed off the doorframe, stepping back slightly, but not shutting the door. He ran a hand through his hair, a small, wry smile now gracing his lips.
"Potter," he said, the name a soft sigh, "You're absolutely mad." He paused, then his eyes met Harry's, and the look in them was undeniable. "Give me five minutes. And you're buying the drinks."
Harry felt a grin spread across his face, wide and relieved. The frantic song in his head finally quieted, replaced by a triumphant, joyful hum. "Anything you want, Draco. Anything at all."
He leaned in, emboldened by the sudden lightness in his chest, and pressed a quick, soft kiss to Draco's surprised lips before Draco could even fully process what was happening.
"Definitely five minutes," Draco muttered, a blush creeping up his neck as he disappeared into his flat. "And you're still buying."
Harry just leaned against the doorframe, smiling into the quiet hall. Draco, Draco baby. You came out tonight. And it was just the beginning.

Chapter 8: "Could I Have This Dance" by Anne Murray

The scent of lilies and Elderflower cordial hung sweet in the air, mingling with the subtle magic of a hundred suspended fairy lights that shimmered like captured starlight above their heads. It was a perfect summer evening, made even more perfect by the chorus of happy chatter and the clinking of champagne flutes in the Ministry’s newly renovated Atrium – now, for this night only, a transformed ballroom.
Harry adjusted the knot of his emerald green tie, his breath catching as the soft, acoustic strains of a lute and a gentle harp began to fill the space. It wasn’t a Muggle pop song, but a beautifully enchanted piece that carried the same timeless melody, the same heartfelt yearning. Their song, as Hermione had affectionately dubbed it, after Harry had shown her the Muggle equivalent that had somehow, inexplicably, resonated so deeply with him.
He turned, and there he was. Draco. Impeccable in midnight blue robes, tailored to perfection, his silver-blonde hair gleaming under the magical lights, his grey eyes currently fixed on Harry with an intensity that stole the air from Harry’s lungs. The man who had once been his fiercest rival, then his most exasperating colleague, and now… his husband.
Draco offered a hand, fingers long and elegant, a slight curve to his lips that was no longer a sneer, but a soft, private smile. “Potter,” he murmured, the name a relic, a fond teasing.
Harry grinned, taking the offered hand. Their fingers intertwined, familiar and comfortable, as if they were made to fit. “Malfoy,” he replied, the same playful echo.
They moved to the centre of the cleared floor, the other guests, a mix of wizarding world luminaries and their closest friends, politely giving them space, their gazes warm and expectant. Harry gently placed his free hand on Draco’s waist, feeling the firm silk of his robes, the warmth of his body. Draco’s hand settled on Harry’s shoulder, light at first, then firm, his thumb brushing the fabric of Harry’s jacket. Their other hands remained clasped, thumbs tracing idle patterns on each other’s skin.
The music swelled, a gentle, flowing current, carrying the unspoken question of the song. Harry met Draco’s gaze, their eyes locking, and the rest of the world faded into a soft-focused blur. All the noise, the people, the years of strife and misunderstanding – it all melted away, leaving only this moment, this dance.
Could I have this dance for the rest of my life?
The silent question hung between them, already answered with their vows just hours ago, but felt anew in the tender sway of their bodies. Harry’s heart ached with a profound, almost dizzying happiness. He thought of all the dances they hadn’t had, all the years they’d spent circling each other, sometimes with daggers drawn, sometimes with wary respect, until that one fateful coffee shop encounter had changed everything. A simple accidental bump, a spilled latte, and a shared, exasperated laugh that had somehow cracked open the door to something more.
Draco’s eyes, usually so guarded, were open and vulnerable, reflecting a similar depth of emotion. He leaned in slightly, his breath ghosting Harry’s ear. “Remember the Yule Ball?” he whispered, a hint of his old mischievousness in his tone. “You looked like you’d been dressed by a particularly aggressive house-elf.”
Harry snorted, a laugh bubbling up from his chest. “And you looked like a peacock trying to court the entire room, Malfoy. Point being?”
“Point being, if someone had told me then that one day I’d be dancing with you, like this,” Draco straightened a fraction, his voice dropping, “as my husband… I’d have had them committed to St. Mungo’s.”
Would you be my partner every night?
Harry squeezed Draco’s hand. “Funny,” he murmured back. “Me too. Though I think mine would have been a more violent reaction.” He sobered, his gaze drifting over Draco’s face, tracing the elegant line of his jaw, the faint dusting of freckles Harry only noticed when they were close. “But I wouldn't trade a single moment of it, now. Even the awful parts, if they led us here.”
Draco’s grip tightened on his shoulder. “Nor I, Potter. Nor I.”
They swayed, a silent conversation passing between them in the gentle rhythm. Harry remembered the first time he’d seen Draco truly laugh, uninhibited, at one of Ron’s terrible jokes. He remembered the quiet, intense way Draco would focus on a particularly tricky potion, or the unexpected tenderness he showed towards a stray Kneazle. It wasn’t a sudden lightning strike, their love. It had been a slow, insistent burn, like embers tending to flame, until it had consumed them both, leaving them warm and whole.
When we're together, it feels so right.
It did. More than right. It felt like home, like finding the missing piece of his soul. With Draco, Harry felt seen, truly seen, not just as the Boy Who Lived, but as Harry. And he saw Draco too, beyond the Malfoy name, beyond the historical baggage, to the clever, loyal, surprisingly soft man beneath.
Draco’s head tilted, his silver eyes catching the light. “You know,” he said softly, almost to himself, “my father would be turning in his portrait frame at the sheer audacity of this entire affair.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Good.”
Harry chuckled, a genuine, heartfelt sound. “I’m banking on it.”
And then, as the music faded to a lingering note, Draco pulled Harry a fraction closer, their chests brushing. His gaze held Harry’s, deep and unwavering. “Potter,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “may I have this dance… for the rest of my life?”
Harry’s breath hitched. It was the question, the song made real. He felt a tear prick the corner of his eye, quickly blinked away. He leaned in, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to Draco’s lips, tasting champagne and a lifetime of hopeful promise.
“Yes, Malfoy,” Harry breathed against his mouth, his voice thick with devotion. “Every single one.”
And as the music swelled again for the next dance, Harry tightened his hold, pulling Draco into the rhythm of their shared future, already knowing that with this man, every step would be pure magic

Chapter 9: "Breaking Up id Hard to Do" by Neil Sedaka

The boxes sat like silent, mocking monuments in the corner of their shared living room, each one a testament to another broken piece of their life together. Harry stared at the faded inscription on one – "MISC. BOOKS (DRACO)" – and felt a familiar ache spread through his chest. They’d agreed. They’d decided. It was over.
Draco, perched on the arm of a velvet armchair that was far too grand for their modest London flat, was meticulously polishing his wand with a silk cloth. The rhythmic swipe-and-buff was the only sound, cutting through the heavy silence like a dull knife.
"Are you quite finished with the dramatic performance, Potter?" Draco's voice, when it finally came, was a silken whisper, but it carried an edge. "Your angst is beginning to scuff the floorboards."
Harry turned, his gaze meeting Draco's cool silver eyes. They were guarded, as always, but he could see the tremor in the hand holding the wand, the slight rigidity in Draco’s posture. It wasn’t just Harry who was putting on a performance.
"Just trying to process the fact that we're dismantling three years of... this," Harry said, gesturing vaguely around the room that had seen everything from furious rows to whispered confessions under the early morning light. "It's not exactly like returning a faulty Quidditch broom, Malfoy."
"No, it's far more tedious," Draco drawled, but his eyes flickered, betraying him. "And infinitely more expensive, I imagine, once we divide all the ridiculous Muggle possessions you insisted upon."
Harry’s jaw tightened. "We agreed, Draco. It's not working. The fighting, the… the distance. We tried." He sounded firm, even to himself, but the words felt hollow.
Draco’s wand-polishing ceased. He looked up, his silver eyes piercing. "Did we, Harry? Or did we just get tired? Is that all we are, then? Something to be discarded when the shine wears off, like a cheap bauble?"
Harry felt a pang. "That's not fair. We both know it's more complicated than that." He took a step closer, then another. "It was getting… toxic."
"Toxic?" Draco scoffed, but there was a tremor in his voice. "Or just real? Relationships aren't all giddy smiles and shared treacle tart, Potter. They're hard. They're messy. They're us." He stood up, finally, the wand forgotten. "And now you want to just... untangle it? Like a knot in a shoelace?"
Harry watched him, his own resolve wavering. It was true. Every time he looked at Draco, at the way the light caught his silver hair, at the familiar arch of his brow, at the way his lips always curved just so when he was about to deliver a cutting remark – or a soft kiss – his carefully constructed arguments for separation began to crumble. Oh, breaking up is hard to do. The unspoken thought hung heavy in the air between them.
"We can't keep doing this," Harry whispered, but even to his own ears, it sounded weak, more a question than a statement.
Draco closed the distance between them, his hand reaching out, not quite touching Harry, but hovering. "Can't we?" His voice was low, raw. "Because every time I think about you walking out that door, about seeing a life without your idiotic grin brightening my mornings, a life without your hand in mine, without your ridiculous obsession with late-night Quidditch matches..." He trailed off, his gaze fixed on Harry's. "It feels like... like breathing is just too much effort. Don't tell me it's over, Harry. Not really."
Harry's breath hitched. He knew that feeling. The mornings felt emptier already, the future bleak. He’d tried to be practical, to be sensible. He’d told himself it was the right thing to do, that their constant friction was doing more damage than good. But with Draco standing so close, his vulnerability laid bare, Harry felt his carefully built resolve shatter. He remembered the first time they’d confessed their love, whispered in the darkness, clumsy and hesitant. He remembered shared laughter, shared tears, shared secrets under the protective charm of their home.
"I love you, Draco," Harry admitted, the words escaping before he could stop them, a desperate plea of his own. "I still do."
Draco's eyes, wide and searching, met his. "Then please," he whispered, finally reaching out, his fingers brushing against Harry's arm, a spark of familiar magic igniting between them. "Please stay. Don't leave me. We can fix this. We have to. Breaking up… it's just too hard."
Harry's hand found Draco's, intertwining their fingers. He looked at the packed boxes, at the dismantled life around them, and then back at Draco, whose silver eyes held a mirror of his own desperation. The rational arguments, the sensible path, all of it faded into insignificance. All that mattered was the electric current running between their joined hands, the ache in his chest that only Draco could soothe, and the terrifying, beautiful realization that letting go was simply not an option.
"I know," Harry breathed, pulling Draco closer, until their foreheads rested together. The scent of Draco’s expensive cologne, always so distinct, filled his senses. "Merlin, I know."
And in the quiet, shattered aftermath of their almost-breakup, surrounded by the remnants of a life they’d nearly abandoned, they held onto each other, clinging to the hope that, yes, maybe they could fix it. Because some loves, no matter how difficult, were simply too hard to break. They had to try again. They just had to.