Drarry One Shots

Flame (pt. 2)

I see you, Harry, I see you as you stretch out languidly in the bed in our Parisian apartment, our white sheets barely cover you exposing the line of dark hair which runs downwards from your navel and over your flat stomach.

'Morning, Dragon,' you say sleepily with half-closed eyelids.

Sometimes, I still can't believe how lucky I am, that you're here with me, that you've stayed.

I put your cup of tea down on the bedside table but, as I perch on the side of the bed, I still hold a plate of warm croissants direct from the patisserie. 'I've brought you breakfast.'

'Mmmm,' you moan softly.

It is our little treat on the weekend, a routine we have slipped into easily over the past five years. It wasn't my turn to go down to the patisserie on the corner and buy them straight from the oven while they're still piping hot, but you were late back from your trip last night so I let you sleep.

I watch you stretch again slowly, your muscles tautening, igniting the flame in my stomach and leaving me breathless. I put the croissants next to your tea and can't help reaching forward to brush your hair free from your face. You've grown it again. I persuaded you to grow it again. I like it longer; I like to free it from the knot you throw it up into and run my fingers through the tousled tendrils of raven-black hair. It reminds me of our final year at Hogwarts, when I used to watch you and dream foolish dreams. I tease back the greying hair at your temples, it hasn't changed since school and I rather like how distinguished you look. It's a reminder of how much you've given. Here, in Paris, it doesn't matter so much, you are still famous but people don't stare and pester you like they do in Britain, but I like to be reminded, reminded of how far we have both come.

'Mmmm, missed you...' you mutter.

Throwing off your sleepiness with a sudden glint in your eye, you catch my hands and smile wickedly, rolling us over so you lie on top of me and I am trapped, tangled in the bedsheets beneath your firm body.

You still train hard. You swim a lot. When you told me what that terrible family put you through as a child, I made up my mind to make it up to you. Maybe it was for my own atonement too. One of the first things I introduced you to was swimming, you had never learnt because when they had taken their precious Dudley to his lessons, you had to stay behind, locked in that appalling cupboard. I'm not allowed to get angry; you tell me not to, otherwise I'd be pounding on their sensible suburban door, seeking retribution for every cruelty they put you through. Instead, I try to spoil you and we go to theme parks, and to the seaside, we sample the creations of French patisseries and eat icecreams, go to the zoo and museums and to the theatre for every kind of show imaginable. I take you shopping in muggle Paris, not that you are keen to discard Sirius's bike jacket. You still wear it and ride that big black motorbike, though you've replaced it with a newer model. I even deign to get on the back. You call it riding pillion. Whatever. I pretend not to like it but it gives us freedom and it reminds me of Italy and our first summer together.

I have managed to smarten up your wardrobe a bit but, truthfully, I still love it in the hot summer months when you slop around in your lightweight combats and your scruffy flip-flops, wearing your tight t-shirts which show off your swimming muscles and that tattoo sleeve. It reminds me of Verona and I think of standing on Giulietta's balcony staring down at you when you put your hand on your heart and told me for the first time how you really felt.

'You were only gone for one night...' I heave out slightly breathlessly.

'Merlin, you're beautiful,' you murmur, making my stomach flutter with embarrassment at the compliment. I still struggle with accepting your overt flattery.