𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆

Saturday

Harry’s night went by peacefully, a few minor pangs of worry over his impending conversation with Hermione looming over his dreams, but overall, his weekend was shaping up rather well. He was musing over their immanent talk; Hermione had owled him earlier that evening, telling him to expect her around lunch on Saturday, and even in writing you could tell when argument with Hermione was totally futile.

But there were going to be good things about this weekend, he could just tell.

There was the promise of an entire day to lounge around his flat, and he had wanted to get a bit of flying in on Sunday, and maybe grab some dinner at a new place that had opened up down the street.

And then there was all the wonderful Draco-ness that was coloring his thoughts; Draco on a Saturday, undoubtedly sleeping past noon, Draco helping him arrange some form of brunch in his small kitchen. And there was also all the Draco already lying next to him, fast asleep, but occasionally reaching out and touching him in the night, swift, affectionate moments of silence and brushing of skin, and once Harry thought he heard his name on Draco’s lips and maybe he was dreaming of their weekend together in his sleep the way Harry was dreaming about it awake…

Harry thought he liked Draco best by moonlight; there was something about the blue reflection and softness of night that made Draco look ethereal; his sharp jaw line casting dramatic shadows over his neck, his hair so pale that the color of the blackened skyline was completely absorbed and adapted and worn with such natural beauty, as if he was completely at home darkness and mystery of night, and his eyes that always looked so narrow with contempt during the day appeared open and expressive and curious by night, catching any fraction of light and magnifying it and looking at Harry as if he, too, were a bit of a mystery.

Harry didn’t realize he was drifting off until he awoke the next morning, sun shining brightly through the curtains, and Malfoy nowhere in sight.

He rubbed at his eyes sleepily, attempting to waken his senses, and reached out for his glasses on the night stand. He put them on, but he knew, even as the world fell into focus before him, that Malfoy was not only absent from the bedroom, he was out of the apartment entirely.

There was a thrumming liveliness that came off of Malfoy in vibrations of energy and magnetism, and Harry knew, from the still quiet of the morning, that Malfoy was gone.

There were no sounds of movement from downstairs, no muffled water splashing from the bathroom, no haughty tones dancing in the air- because Malfoy could never stop talking, regardless of whether or not he was the only conscious person for miles- there was just nothing.

Harry sighed heavily, a distinctly sinking feeling taking hold of his stomach.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to physically shake off his disappointment, silently berating himself for being so unthinkably crestfallen over Malfoy’s absence; it wasn’t like they were…boyfriends…or anything…not like there was any spoken commitment between them, and….and Harry wasn’t going to be such a girl about it….

Harry heard the front door slam shut, and felt his heart speed up so quickly it was a medical miracle that he managed to survive.

Malfoy was in the house, and Harry knew, because he could feel the change in atmosphere, almost like Malfoy was part of the weather, and he could hear his voice, light and offhandedly condescending and commenting on the Muggle traffic even though he had no way of knowing that Harry was listening or even awake….

Harry felt foolishly and uncontrollably happy, reassurance and excitement colliding and completely erasing any semblance of manly indifference he had attempted earlier.