Scattered Pieces (Drarry Fanfic)

Chapter Sixteen: Good Morning

Moonlight will fall.
Winter will end.
Harvest will come.
Your heart will mend.

Good morning.

You will find love.

— Good Morning by William Fitzsimmons

~oOo~

Harry sighs contentedly; his arm tightening around the bundle of warmth curled against him. He breathes in deeply; a tantalizing fragrance floods his nostrils, setting his senses alight. The scent is intoxicating. It is both comfortingly familiar yet strangely foreign. He frowns, struggling against the haze of sleep as he tries to remember it. He should be able to recall something that smells so bloody nice, right?

Coming up blank, Harry leans in, pressing his nose into soft, dewy skin, drinking in the faint whiff of vanilla and citrus. A rush of desire so potent comes unbidden. It inundates him, stealing the breath from his lungs.

Biting back a groan, Harry edges even closer; his body instinctively seeking more contact. He's already painfully hard; his burgeoning erection straining in the confines of his pants. Harry angles his head, lips lightly brushing against the luscious stretch of skin before him. He aches to leave a bitten trail of open-mouthed kisses, but something urgent niggles at the back of his mind.

Wait... 

Who—?

Alarm bells suddenly go off in Harry's head, dampening his arousal. He jolts awake, eyes snapping open. He stares, wide-eyed. His vision is filled with nothing but distinctive pale-blond hair. His face is practically buried against the alluring curve of Draco's neck. Horror, guilt, and shame surge through him, swallowing him up like a tidal wave.

Oh, fuck.

Heart in his throat, Harry gingerly lifts his arm from where it was wrapped possessively around Draco's slender waist. He doesn't breathe as he carefully moves away, inching towards the edge of the bed.

Harry is about to swing his legs onto the floor when Draco suddenly shifts, huffing a soft, sleepy murmur of protest. Harry stills. Everything seems to freeze; the only sound he can hear is the rush of blood pounding in his ears.

As Draco fidgets, Harry can only helplessly watch in mortified fascination, mutely praying to every single deity he can think of that Draco doesn't wake up.

Finally... finally, Draco sighs, relaxing back under the covers and Harry squeezes his eyes shut, struggling with his Occlumency Shields, fighting to calm his thundering heart and the insane urge to gather Draco back into his arms.

He's failing miserably.

With a muttered oath, Harry deftly rolls off the mattress. Muscles taut, he catches himself as he lands soundlessly onto the floor. Infinitely relieved, he grudgingly offers his undying gratitude to his most hated mentor during Auror Training—his former Stealth Maneuvers Instructor.

Harry smiles wryly, feeling utterly pathetic. If only the Wizarding public could see him now—the almighty Saviour using his much lauded 'Super Auror Skills' to skulk about his guest's bedroom.

Amused at his own predicament, Harry snorts a quiet laugh. He is, without a doubt, losing his marbles. "What the fuck am I even doing?" He softly muses to himself.