@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.
“Morning,” Draco murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
He turns, and there is Harry.
Messy-haired. Bare-shouldered. Warm-eyed.
“Morning, love,” Harry says. “Sleep well?”
Draco hums, shifting closer until his face is tucked against Harry’s 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.
“You?” Draco asks.
“Like a baby,” Harry replies. “Had this weird dream, though.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, bizarre. You and Scorpius were making pancakes, and every time you flipped one, your outfit changed.”
Draco chuckles. “What outfits?”
“All sorts. Really odd ones. At one point you were wearing Hagrid’s coat, and then you were wearing nothing but those tight swimming shorts from our honeymoon.”
Draco pulls back, amused and offended in equal measure. “Tight swimming shorts in front of our son?”
“Don’t blame me. I don’t control what my dreams do,” Harry says defensively, though he is smiling, gaze dipping down Draco’s body as if he’s imagining them now.
“You’re a heathen,” Draco says flatly. “A perverted heathen. Now you’ve made me crave pancakes.”
He sits up on the edge of the bed, stretching until his spine clicks.
“Make me some?” Harry asks, moving behind him, thighs bracketing Draco’s hips, arms wrapping around his waist. “The fluffy ones.”
“You’re on coffee duty, then,” Draco says, leaning back into him.
Harry kisses his shoulder.
Draco tilts his head, giving him more room. “This isn’t making coffee, Potter.”
Harry hums against his skin. “No, it’s much better.”
Knock-knock-knock.
Draco sighs. “That’ll be Scorp. I bet you anything he sensed pancakes.”
Knock-knock-knock.
“Alright, alright. I’m coming,” Draco chuckles.
He stands, and Harry’s hands slip from his body.
Draco turns back to him with a smile still on his face.
Then—
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.
Knock-knock-knock.
“Inmate 3946,” an Azkaban guard calls through the door. “Wake up. If you do not respond, we will enter.”
Draco lunges forward, heart battering against his ribs, breath tearing through him.
“I’m awake,” he calls, too loudly. “I’m awake.”
He’d rather not be, because his dreams are a sweeter place. Even if they provide him nothing but the ache of a life he’ll never have.
Draco presses his shaking hands to his mouth and closes his eyes.
For one impossible second, he can still feel Harry’s fingers tangled with his own.
