Something Like Forever
Draco Malfoy had once believed that love was a death sentence.
That it would consume him, suffocate him, take everything away.
And for a while, it had.
Until Harry Potter gave it back.
Until Harry Potter saved him.
Until Harry Potter loved him back.
And now?
Now, love was something else entirely.
Now, love was this.
Love was waking up slowly on a lazy Sunday morning with Harry tangled around him, his breath warm against Draco’s neck.
Love was the way Harry refused to let go, even in sleep.
Love was the way Draco no longer wanted him to.
Draco shifted slightly, stretching.
Harry made a noise of protest, burying his face deeper into Draco’s neck like an overgrown cat.
Draco huffed.
“Potter,” he murmured.
A grumble.
Draco rolled his eyes.
“You’re smothering me.”
Harry tightened his grip.
“M’keeping you warm,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep.
Draco felt his stomach flip in the most embarrassing way possible.
“Harry,” he tried again.
“Mmm?”
Draco turned **just enough to see his face—**his messy hair, his sleepy green eyes, his ridiculously unfair smile.
And—God.
Harry Potter was the most dangerous person alive.
Draco sighed.
“You are the most infuriating human being on the planet,” he muttered.
Harry beamed.
“Yeah,” he said smugly, pressing a sleepy kiss against Draco’s jaw.
“But you love me.”
Draco’s chest tightened.
Because—yes.
God, yes.
So he just rolled his eyes, ignoring the way his heart was trying to beat out of his ribs.
“Unfortunately.”
Harry laughed softly, his grip loosening just enough for Draco to breathe.
But he didn’t let go completely.
And Draco?
Draco didn’t make him.
They stayed in bed longer than they should have.
Draco was half-draped over Harry, letting himself soak in the warmth, the softness, the ridiculousness of the fact that this was his life now.
That this—**this—was his.
That Harry was his.
And then—a soft murmur.
“What are you thinking about?” Harry asked, tracing slow circles against Draco’s back.
Draco sighed.
“How ridiculous it is that you still look like an overgrown Golden Retriever even in the morning.”
Harry snorted.
“You’re thinking about my hair?”
Draco smirked, running his fingers through the mess of curls on Harry’s head.
“It’s an atrocity,” he said.
Harry grinned.
“Yeah?”
And then—his hand slid up Draco’s side, fingertips warm and teasing.
Draco’s breath hitched.
“Harry, don’t you dare—”
Harry laughed.
And then—**he tackled Draco into the pillows, burying him under a mess of limbs and kisses, pressing soft, stupid, ridiculous affection against every part of him.
Draco let him.
Because he could.
Because this was theirs.
Because this was real.
And for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.
For the first time, he just let himself fall.
They made breakfast together.
Well—Harry made breakfast.
Draco complained about the mess.
Harry threw a pancake at him.
Draco threatened murder.
Harry kissed him until he forgot why he was mad.
And that—that was life now.
Soft. Stupid. Good.
Something Draco never thought he would have.
But now—now, he wasn’t letting it go.
Because Harry had fought for him.
Because Harry had stayed.
And Draco?
Draco was staying, too.
For as long as Harry would have him.
(Which, if Harry had anything to say about it, would be forever.)
And for once—Draco believed him.