Harry.
Harry’s not ashamed to admit he’s the clingy one.
Years of neglect interwoven with touch deprivation famished for something he’s witnessed but never experienced himself and his grief revitalised every couple of years—or weeks or days, depending on the state of the world—blossomed bone-rooted apprehensions with poisonous petals.
So, on the soil of yearning fertilised by the terror of permanent loss, physical touch blossomed as his love language and the most productive means of tranquilising his anxiety.
It’s not always something he does consciously; it’s a brush of his ankle against Hermiona’s during material revisions in the quaint cacophony of the library; it’s his shoulder against Ron’s as they walk through the corridors; it’s his body leaning towards his friends starved for the feeble warmth radiating off their bodies, the precious confirmation they are alive. It’s a brief moment of relief Thank Merlin, they’re alive. They’re here. And so am I. They’ve survived. And so have I. We all keep surviving.
They never speak of it nor ever address it. He enjoys the artificial obliviousness that they aren’t even aware of his peculiarity. All in all, the war altered everything and everyone.
With Draco, it’s different. More intense.
Considering their history, Harry feels justified. They’ve danced with death and caressed evil.
They’re rarely separated. Draco never remarks on Harry’s clinginess; moreover, he’s complacent and complicit, often forging circumstances encouraging it. Neither does he complain, and he’s a bloody shitty liar, regardless of what beliefs he likes to endorse, so Harry’d know if his friend was displeased with their proximity.
They spend their nights together. Engaging in their respective civil wars, with their treacherous minds yielding to trauma, both are acquainted with nightmares, so having a devoted companion proficient in temporarily exiling their struggles is comforting. Knowing is simultaneously helpful and anguishsome. It’s an aid to decipher the root of one’s ache and dwell on ointments. But there’s also a separate ache, carved by that knowledge, by the helplessness towards the past and anger for the stolen present clawed upon by the attention-seeking past. Harry’s grief, feasting on the night and darkness staining his memories, is less likely to try to devour him when Draco’s moon-white hair forms an aureola on the pillow and his pale fingers pressed against Harry’s skin form a shield. In return, the fatal guilt rarely strays into Draco’s heart when he’s embraced by the man known for conquering death.
Some days, Harry refuses to depart from the safety of his duvet. Those days— as he gracefully refers to them to avoid disillusioning the believers in his invincibility—are rare but persistent, indifferent to the fact that they’re living in the present consisting of the prayed and begged future conjured through blood and sacrifice. They’ve earned their peace, bloody hell. On those days, he grips Draco’s soft body, his fingertips leaving marks shaped like a crescent moon. He clings and clings, pressing his face into the back of Draco’s neck, soaking his skin with his tears, desperate to mould into Malfoy, to flee from the lead restraints of his body, to have his ache dissipated and shelter somewhere, preferably in Draco’s heart, where he knows he’s welcome and unattainable. Draco is always there for him, always a solid presence beside him, his eyes reflecting stars from the sky, Harry’s destination reached. Draco knows why Harry is so petrified of solitude. And Harry knows why Draco was sentenced to semi-solitude, with both of his parents chained and exiled in Azkaban.
Those days pass. Everything passes. Time. (People.)
During regular days, they’re scarcely Harry and Draco, and preferably them. Harry always finds a way to interlace his fingers with Draco’s, sometimes a discreet notion, stolen moments, stolen kisses, and stolen recklessness inappropriate for someone bearing his burden. Sometimes, it’s a secret spiced with a private smile, wordless banter of sparks plunging in their eyes. Sometimes, it’s an anchorage when fear nibbles on him, or there’s a moment of piercing awareness of the weight of his shoulders and how his knees buckle, and he is a human, and humans are feeble creatures of even more feeble consciousness, and—it’s unfair, it’s unfair, he’s not the Boy Who Lived, but the Boy Who Outlived, outlived his parents, and Syrius, and his peers…and who having outlived his time and glory is overstaying his welcome when death is so sweet and familiar, and all in all he’s encountered death more times than his family.
“Have you already finished that bloody project for Potions?” Draco inquires, but Harry’s mind is rendered half-useless. His senses fixate on the tender movement of Malfoy’s fingers in his hair as they rub shampoo into his scalp, and he’s reduced to a pliant body leaning toward Draco’s.
Horcruxes were Voldemort's greatest weapon and weakness. Draco’s greatest weapon, and subsequently Harry’s greatest weakness, is playing with Potter’s hair. He vividly remembers the time, the first time, when both of them were preoccupied with coursework. Harry was sitting on the floor near Draco’s chair when suddenly there were fingers in his hair, moving absent-mindedly yet deliberately affectionately. He froze. His heartbeat threatened to deafen him. Tears wet his paper, the letters blurry, his chest raw with an ache he didn’t know existed and required tending to. He sat there, crying silently, withholding sobs, until Draco looked down to see him shattered and shaking. Coursework forgotten, it was an evening of whispered confessions, of swaying his hands in the muddy waters of his memories he wishes to forget, but they tint his mind.
Although now it’s an almost regular occurrence, it took some time for the emotions to subside, so now Harry does not tear up whenever Draco’s hand travels into his hair. The Slytherin never judged him, permitted him to feel whatever ought to be felt and let go of, never ceasing to continue his ministration and remaining alerted, with comforted words on his lips ready to be pressed to Harry’s skin like ointments.
The water hums as it splashes onto his skin. He must have closed his eyes because he’s tucked into a pleasant darkness, but with Draco by his side, he’s assured of the existence of light.
“I’m so happy you’re not listening to me.”
“I am,” he murmurs, his words drowned out by the water and Draco’s neck. “Don’t talk about Potions now.” He kisses the warm skin, tasting the soap.
When Draco presses a particularly sensitive spot, he gasps, his eyes rolling behind his eyelids.
“Don’t you dare fall asleep on me.”
“I won’t.”
“Mhm,” he senses the irony pouring into his words. “Don’t think I’ll carry you to bed, Potter.”
Harry pouts, nibbling on the skin of Draco’s neck.
“You act like a spoilt puppy. Biting won’t get you anywhere.” Despite his complaints, he doesn’t stop playing with Harry’s hair.
Once he’s done, he carefully removes the shampoo, conscientious not to let anything fall into Harry’s eyes. Harry doesn’t want to leave. He’s too comfortable to return to the real world. Through employing his mastered art of manipulation and persuasion—“In bed, I can keep petting you.”—Draco forces him out of the shower.
It’s one of those indulgent nights when Harry takes his sweet time drying Draco, rubbing the towel over his exposed body, admiring his complexion, marking it where it won’t be too offensive for sensitive eyes. Draco yields to Harry’s ministration, shifting his position to grant the Gryffon more access. “Be good. We’ve just showered,” he chastises Harry, but there’s a coy smile on his lips. “Hands over the duvet.”
“Pray tell me, how do you expect me to cuddle you with my hands over the duvet?” He smirks, stepping closer.
“Now it’s not the appropriate time to be a know-it-all. You’ve had seven years for that.”
Harry kisses him. Draco’s astute remark that they’ve just showered lingers in his mind, dissuading him from destroying the results of their efforts. But Draco’s right here, soft and solid, half-naked, smelling of vanilla and something so distinct, something he’s grown to refer to as Draco. He’s a wizard, not a poet. (Sometimes he does wish he were a poet, sufficiently skilled to accurately capture the shade of Draco’s eyes, to immortalise through ink the very essence of Draco, all, his darkness and lights, and the in-betweens, the adorable frown, the purse of his lips, his cadence and his swiftness of movement.)
They make it to the bed. Harry barely had his own bed, and now, most nights, he’s sharing one with a boy whom he loves and who reciprocates the sentiment. Draco, determined to maintain a facade that they were not disgustingly dependent on each other, insisted on separating occasionally. Harry, sue him, is too enamoured to oppose whatever his boyfriend wants. His efforts usually prove fruitless since neither rests without a companion and sharing the bed is more convenient.
Draco’s already lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. Harry feels his hand stretch impatiently.
Horcruxes were Voldemort's greatest weapon and weakness. Harry’s greatest weapon, and subsequently, Draco’s greatest weaknesses, are forehead kisses, which he requires to maintain his well-being. It started accidentally, as the two of them were lying on the bed, Malfoy’s back pressed to Harry’s chest, a book in Draco’s hands, as they idled the evening away. Draco started to doze off, worn out from the productive day, and Harry watched him shamelessly and fondly. Sensing that soon his companion would dive into dreams, he gently pried the book away from Draco’s grip and pressed an absent-minded kiss to his forehead. Unexpectedly, Draco tensed in his arms, inhaling wetly and deeply. (“Again,” his voice is barely a whisper, rigged and heavy. “Please. Again. Please. I—” he doesn’t have to finish for Harry to know.)
It’s the next day, and they’re finishing their breakfast. Harry is in no hurry to embark on an aggravating day full of classes. He reaches for Draco’s drink—that’s also their thing; sitting next to each other at mealtime, they do it because they can, and because both enjoy indulging in typical couple activities—and encounters an objecting gaze. He rolls his eyes.
“You had your mouth on my—”
Draco clears his throat. Message received.
“I’m just saying, making a fuss about sharing a drink with me is stupid considering—”
Draco clears his throat again. Harry throws his hands in capitulation. He gathers his things and kisses Draco’s cheek, his way of saying see you later. Goodbye kisses are one of the few things he’s been consistent with. Before, he didn’t realise there were many types of kisses. Now enlightened, he differentiates between good morning kisses, please shut up kisses, I missed you kisses, and more. He considers writing an essay on it, but he has yet to figure out which class would be suitable for it. It’s become his habit, so it’s rare for him to forget about the kiss. Once engrossed by his thoughts and muttering the directions to the book he’d been seeking, he departed the room without kissing Draco. He remembered a couple of minutes after his departure, and suddenly, flared by terror, all his non-Draco-related thoughts dissipated. The uncertainty of when the last exchange of words, the last glance, or the last minute is in someone’s presence might be, aggravated him, so he couldn’t bear to disregard this little self-imposed duty should he have no more opportunities to be around Draco. People are fragile and ephemeral creatures. He’s lost too many of them to risk wasting time. He ran back, indifferent to the book and his schedule, chased by worries and bitten by catastrophising thoughts. Draco quirked his brow upon seeing Harry’s flushed face and his forehead glimming with sweat. Before he managed to bless Harry with a snarky remark, Harry planted two kisses on Draco’s cheek and wordlessly departed again, hesitating whether not to add three in I love you or Please never leave.
By the end of the day, as he predicted, he is dead on his feet. He drags himself to Gryffindor’s common room, itching for peace.
“Your boyfriend is here,” one of the boys says as Harry enters.
Well, that’s a pleasant surprise. Against his reason and his barely preserved dignity, glee kindles inside him.
Draco’s still weary of being in Gryffindor’s spaces. Harry understands, of course, he does. Things have changed, but prejudices and grudges prevail long after people perish. With bouncier steps, he approaches his bed, covered by a curtain for privacy. Words dangle on his tongue when they’re cut off. Draco’s here, precisely like he was told, but no one mentioned that Draco’s resting on Harry’s bed, lying on his blanket, his silver hair messy on the pillow, his cheek resting on his palm.
Oh.
Well.
That’s new. New does not equal unwelcome.
Draco’s still weary of exposing his humanity. He conceals whatever he perceives as weakness, maintains his guard even when he’s on his own, is distrustful of shadows and the moon, and attentive to whispers and melodies of wind-caressed silence.
And yet, he’s here, in Harry’s bed. Asleep. Undisturbed. Harry wonders if this is the eighth wonder of the world. It could be.
He knows better than to wake him. For insomniacs, sleep is sacred, like water on a dune. Careful not to disturb the sleeping boy, Harry pulls another blanket over him, succumbing to the protectiveness blossoming inside him, its flowers threatening to pierce through his skin. His fingers linger on Draco’s shoulders, where he additionally adjusts the blanket, just to be certain.
Harry joins him, face to face. His eyelids are heavy, not as heavy as the burden imposed on him shortly after his birth, but he finds refuge in Draco’s warmth, his regular breathing, the mere fact of his existence, and the softness of the mattress.