Luci spente e paglie accese

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SUCCULENTS

FOREST

MOON BLUE

OCEAN

PURPLE HAZE

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SAKURA

BLOSSOM

ROSES

PUMPKIN SPICE

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drarry | 10 years after | 589 words @drarrymicrofic | prompt: halcyon

My Masterlist

The old house creaked awake around them like it always did — pipes groaning, floorboards settling, Kreacher muttering downstairs about “messy habits” — but up in the master bedroom on the second floor, none of it mattered.

Harry lay sprawled on his stomach, face half-buried in a pillow that smelled faintly of Draco’s expensive cedar-and-bergamot shampoo. Sunlight striped across the bed through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains, catching dust motes and turning them into lazy golden sparks.

Draco was already up (barely), propped against the headboard with the Sunday Prophet spread across his lap. He wore nothing but reading glasses and a pair of Harry’s old Quidditch shorts that hung low on his hips. Every few seconds he turned a page with an unnecessarily dramatic snap.

“Anything interesting?” Harry mumbled into the pillow.

“Rita Skeeter’s retired,” Draco said, not looking up. “Apparently she’s writing a tell-all memoir. The Prophet’s running a poll on whether anyone will buy it.”

Harry snorted. “I’d buy ten copies just to burn them.”

“Bloodthirsty. I approve.”

Harry rolled over, stretched, and stole the Sports section from Draco’s knee. “Cannons won yesterday. Three hundred and ten to twenty.”

Draco made a dismissive noise. “Against the Wimborne Wasps reserves. Hardly a triumph.”

“Still a win. Ron’s probably framing the front page.”

Draco folded his section neatly and set it aside. “Speaking of Weasleys, Granger owled yesterday. Wants us over for brunch next weekend. Something about testing a new recipe for treacle scones.”

Harry grinned. “You’ll go just for the scones.”

“I’ll go because you’ll sulk if I don’t,” Draco corrected, but he was smiling as he slid down the bed to lie beside Harry, head propped on one hand. “Besides, I like watching you try to keep up with their chaos. You get that little crease between your eyebrows.”

“I do not.”

“You do.” Draco reached out and smoothed the spot in question with his thumb. “Adorable.”

Harry caught his wrist, tugged him closer until Draco was half-draped over him. “You’re in a good mood.”

“It’s Sunday,” Draco said, as if that explained everything. “No work, no Ministry owls, no one trying to interview us about our tragic redemption arc. Just this ridiculously creaky house and your terrible bed hair.”

Harry ran a hand through Draco’s perfectly mussed hair in retaliation. “You love the creaky house.”

Draco hummed, nosing along Harry’s jaw. “I love that it’s ours. I love that Kreacher grumbles but makes those little lemon biscuits when he thinks we’re not looking. I love that the ghoul in the attic learned to knock before throwing pipes around.” He paused, lips brushing Harry’s ear. “And I love that these mornings feel positively halcyon. No drama, no dark lords, just you hogging the duvet and leaving tea rings on my antique side tables.”

Harry laughed quietly. “I’ll buy coasters.”

“Too late. I’ve already charmed them to repel you.”

“Liar.”

Draco kissed him then — slow, warm, tasting of the peppermint toothpaste he was obsessed with. When they broke apart, Draco rested his forehead against Harry’s.

“Breakfast?” Harry asked.

“In a minute,” Draco murmured. “Let me enjoy the halcyon a bit longer.”

Harry wrapped his arms around him, pulling him fully on top. Downstairs, Kreacher started clattering pans with unnecessary force, but up here the world stayed quiet and sunlit and theirs.

They stayed tangled together until the smell of frying bacon finally lured them out of bed — barefoot, laughing, stealing kisses in the hallway like teenagers.

Just another Sunday at Grimmauld Place.

Perfect.