@drarrymicrofic | prompt: Dream | wc: 507 |
Draco wakes as he often does: to warmth.
A solid body beside him. Limbs tangled with his own. Fingers clasped together beneath the duvet as if they had found each other in sleep and refused to let go.
For a moment, he does not move.
He lets himself surface slowly, blinking against the early morning light pouring through the sheer curtains, soft and gold across the room.
βMorning,β Draco murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
He turns, and there is Harry.
Messy-haired. Bare-shouldered. Warm-eyed.
βMorning, love,β Harry says. βSleep well?β
Draco hums, shifting closer until his face is tucked against Harryβs chest. He breathes him in: musk and skin and the faint, familiar trace of laundry soap. He kisses the bare skin beneath his mouth and smiles when Harry presses a kiss to the top of his head.
βLike a baby,β Harry replies. βHad this weird dream, though.β
βYeah, bizarre. You and Scorpius were making pancakes, and every time you flipped one, your outfit changed.β
Draco chuckles. βWhat outfits?β
βAll sorts. Really odd ones. At one point you were wearing Hagridβs coat, and then you were wearing nothing but those tight swimming shorts from our honeymoon.β
Draco pulls back, amused and offended in equal measure. βTight swimming shorts in front of our son?β
βDonβt blame me. I donβt control what my dreams do,β Harry says defensively, though he is smiling, gaze dipping down Dracoβs body as if heβs imagining them now.
βYouβre a heathen,β Draco says flatly. βA perverted heathen. Now youβve made me crave pancakes.β
He sits up on the edge of the bed, stretching until his spine clicks.
βMake me some?β Harry asks, moving behind him, thighs bracketing Dracoβs hips, arms wrapping around his waist. βThe fluffy ones.β
βYouβre on coffee duty, then,β Draco says, leaning back into him.
Harry kisses his shoulder.
Draco tilts his head, giving him more room. βThis isnβt making coffee, Potter.β
Harry hums against his skin. βNo, itβs much better.β
Draco sighs. βThatβll be Scorp. I bet you anything he sensed pancakes.β
βAlright, alright. Iβm coming,β Draco chuckles.
He stands, and Harryβs hands slip from his body.
Draco turns back to him with a smile still on his face.
He wakes as he often does: to cold.
The cold press of a stone wall against his back. A thin blanket twisted around his waist. Morning light spills weakly through the open barred window of his cell, grey and misty, smelling of sea-salt.
βInmate 3946,β an Azkaban guard calls through the door. βWake up. If you do not respond, we will enter.β
Draco lunges forward, heart battering against his ribs, breath tearing through him.
βIβm awake,β he calls, too loudly. βIβm awake.β
Heβd rather not be, because his dreams are a sweeter place. Even if they provide him nothing but the ache of a life heβll never have.
Draco presses his shaking hands to his mouth and closes his eyes.
For one impossible second, he can still feel Harryβs fingers tangled with his own.
