flower crowns | drarry

thirty three

thirty three
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draco couldn't sleep.

there was something about the stillness of the slytherin common room at night that just got to him. it didn't used to be that way. he used to love the common room just as dearly as he loved his house, but in the months after the war, the cold, dark feel of the silent dungeons began to unsettle him. it reminded him a little too much of the silence following voldemort's arrival at malfoy manor, the quiet anticipation of dread. nights were restless for him now, and the call of sleep felt treacherous rather than inviting.

he would toss and turn beneath his cold sheets, fending off the intrusive thoughts invading his brain and fighting off sleep and the terror that would come with it.

blaise had gone to bed hours ago, so it had just been draco, the only one left awake in the dorm. and he hadn't been able to stand it.

he'd taken to scouring the castle, working off the itch of relentless energy beneath his skin by walking the frigid halls, pacing from one end of the corridor to the other. he would have gone to the greenhouse, but harry wouldn't be there.

once, that wouldn't have mattered. and yet, now the thought of heading down to the greenhouse and weaving flower crowns by himself seemed strange and unnatural to him, and he couldn't bring himself to do it.

his fervent thoughts soon drifted to the topic of the boy in question, to harry's soft emerald eyes and his quiet smile and the way he said his name. he'd never thought there would be a time when he could freely think of harry potter like this...he'd always thought his attraction to harry was cliche, irritating. inconvenient considering the people harry chose to spend his time with.

under his father's dictating rule, he'd learned to think of harry as an enemy soon to be struck down, a celebrity undeserving of his title. he'd been such a desperate and naive little boy, he was willing to believe anything his father said if it meant he would have his love, if it meant he was worth the malfoy name.

now, the malfoy name meant little to him, and the thought of harry potter did not spark animosity and shame, but longing and affection.

standing in the middle of hogwarts castle in his pajamas, cold and restless and tired, all he could really think of was how nice it would be to touch harry again. to hold him and bask in his heat. to brush through his hair and fall asleep with their legs intertwined, with their arms locked around each other.

he desperately wanted to see harry now, even though he knew he was sleeping. it felt as though seeing harry was the only thing that would ease the churning in his stomach and soothe the itch beneath his skin.

with a sigh that seemed impossibly loud in the vacant hall, he allowed his mind to wander. wander to the quiet nights in the greenhouse, talking in hushed whispers about constellations and flowers and memories. he thought about how soft harry'd felt in his arms. the way he rushed to help him with no hesitation, pressed him against the stone wall and pinned him with intensely determined eyes, the steadiness of his hands around draco's shaky ones.

he remembered how flustered he got at hogsmeade, how he'd blushed and shied away from draco's attention, how uncertain he'd seemed in the face of compliments.

he thought about all this, and draco allowed himself to want. he allowed himself to want with a fierceness that almost startled him. he wanted to see harry right now. he would not be able to rest until he did.