Muggles ✧ Drarry

᥊᥊᥊

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 5.2ᴋ
ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ: ᴍᴀʀᴄʜ 21sᴛ, 2022
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Even in extreme heat such as this mid-July swelter there was a sense of continual refreshment that came from being in love. It mattered not how the warmth thrown by the sun burned, nor how the clouds seemed to be chased from the sky by the summer day. It mattered not how the word breeze seemed nearly permanently absent, nor how the temperature maintained itself even into the night when the moon pushed the sun from its space in the sky. There was still a sense of coolness that came from being able to look to your left, or to you right, or to your front, or even, though it took a great deal of effort to do so, to your back, and to see eyes looking at you with an adoration so unmatched that it makes mid-July seem to be the centre days of December.

Draco Malfoy still got the chills, essentially, from seeing the glimmering green of Harry Potter's eyes. He still felt his skin perk up into goosebumps whenever his hands were brushed by that of the Wondrous Golden Boy. He worried that he was ill — though, for the sake of keeping this man at his side, knew that he should complain only to himself in his mind. If he were ill, then let him be ill, for being sick with love felt surely special.

It was their second July together, though the first had been something of an unsightly nightmare, what with magic being but a figment of the imagination and Draco having known nothing of his sure ardour for the man that now sat next to him.

Harry Potter, with raven hair and eyes greener than the grass that he had popped their picnic up onto, was something of a vision. Something of a miracle. Something of a fantasy. Having experienced the killing curse twice, having saved every life imaginable, and having done so with a heart purer than freshly-mined gold? All of that warranted every speck of ardour that Draco could muster up, as well as the addition of much much more.

And he loved Draco. His golden heart, his beautiful mind, beat and thought for Draco Malfoy. A Death Eater, though the Boy Wonder so often assured him he was not. Draco wondered how he had gotten so fortunate as to have the most exemplary boyfriend in all the land.

The sun was peering down onto the two men, sitting so calmly on their worn picnic blanket, melting the ice in their drinks despite the preservation charms that had been cast. Draco watched with some sort of deflated awe as a bead of water drip-dropped itself along the side of the transparent lemonade glass. It landed with as heavy a thump that could be mustered by a single drop of water could, soaking into the fabric of their blanket and making the patch just the tiniest bit darker.

A hot hand fell onto the shoulder of the Healer, and he turned to see his dear Harry Potter staring right at him. His perfect lips formed words that Draco almost forgot to listen to, getting utterly distracted by the shapes that they formed instead. It wasn't until the words were repeated several times that he remembered to pay attention.

"Love, I think we should move this into the shade."

Draco frowned. He had been expecting more of a declaration of love to match the mood of his daydreams, but resolved that perhaps he liked this version of Harry better. Actually, he assuredly liked this version of Harry better. This was the real Harry.

Draco leaned in and kissed him gently.

"I know you want to recreate this picnic as best you can," Harry said, tilting his head to the side to give Draco a small strained smile. "But, this sun..." he looked up into the star for a moment before holding a hand to block his eyes from the sunlight. "It's way too hot. Like, way too hot."

Draco didn't mind the heat. He used to, when he was more coldhearted and had no reason to brave the warmth. But now that he had Harry, he didn't care if he had to spend the rest of his life under the direct glare of the sun; he would do it, so long as they remained comfortably together.