#gameofdrarry2019

No, it wasn’t, she tells him. It was an experimental curse, she tells him. As far as they can tell designed to heighten all senses until the recipient is incapacitated from sensory overload, she tells him. It should go away on its own in a few days, and after she takes another blood sample, Harry will be free to go home, she tells him. He might want to stay indoors until everything is back to normal, she tells him.

”Fuck,” Is the only thing Harry says. And then, “God. Okay. Please don’t tell my husband.” The nurse snickers. “Don’t tell my husband, he says.” 

-

“Don’t tell your husband, you said?” Draco asks when he walks into their room that night, furious and leaning heavily on his cane. Harry can hear every stilted step, the padded bottom of the cane thumping against the floor, Draco’s hip bone creaking where it was blown to pieces in 1998. “You ask the nurses not to tell their boss that his husband arrived unconscious again? I’m the only Curseologist in the country! I was the one who looked over your test results to find out what had happened! You should know better.”

It feels as though the reprimand is playing through speakers placed inside Harry’s eardrums, turned up to eleven, Draco’s voice louder than he has ever heard it. He grimaces and clutches the sheets next to his body, but it’s too much, the feel of them against his skin, and he has to let go.

“Love, can we not right now? I’m kind of—“

“Harry James Potter, look at me right now.” Harry groans before opening his eyes, because he knows what’s coming. Bright light floods his sight, and he can feel the muscles of his irises contract, his pupils closing and closing and closing until they’re nothing but a dot, a freckle, a hint of black in a sea of green. Draco leans over him, the corners of his mouth turned down. A whiff of his cologne washes over Harry, the faint scent of St. Mungo’s antiseptic. He can count the faint freckles on his cheekbones, can see the curve of every individual eyelash, see the tiny, nascent hairs on his chin. “I will always find out when you’re hurt. After 16 years, I thought you’d know that.” “I do. I do know that.” “Good. Glad we’ve settled it. I’m really tired and my hip has been acting up again, please scoot over.”

Harry sighs. “Okay, give me a second,” and begins the tortuous journey to his side of the bed, wanting to cry out at every brush of the covers against his naked skin.

-

It’s not until the next morning that he finds, fascinated, what hearing enhancement truly means.

The chirping of the birds outside his window is so loud that it’s as if they were right next to him, hopping around his bed. He can hear someone mowing the lawn a few streets away, the wooden floors of the first floor living room clicking and expanding as the cool night gives way to a warm morning, the hum of their muggle fridge engine, the buzz of the bees circling the flowers in their garden, Draco’s heartbeat loud and clear, Draco’s blood, as it runs through his veins.

He keeps his eyes closed, tries to see through sound, tries to block out every scent he catches, everything he can feel, and focus on what he can hear. Children laughing, the neighbors chatting at the end of the street, a dog barking.

Draco’s heartbeat picking up, just a little, his blood running faster as he shifts in his sleep, nearing consciousness. He hears the rustling of the sheets as they brush against the fabric of Draco’s jumper, which is in fact Harry’s, the green one he got for Christmas thirteen years ago. He hears the weight of the jumper shift, can almost picture it riding up, revealing Draco’s soft tummy. He learns to identify the sound of the thick yarn Molly used to knit it as it moves with Draco’s every breath, as his chest expands and contracts with it.

He hears the rush of air as Draco breathes in and out and understands, just then, that this is exactly what home sounds like. His husband, mellowed with sleep, with the years, sleeping peacefully next to him, wearing Harry’s clothes.

A sigh escapes Draco’s lips. An “I know you’re awake,” scratchy, mumbled, but so loud it resonates in every cell of Harry’s body.

Harry smiles, and he hears that, too, his own heartbeat picking up in response to Draco’s voice, rising up to his teasing.

Yes. This is what home sounds like.

Word count: 716 - No Warnings - This is my second prompt for Drarryland! I had so much fun writing from this POV.  Thank you so much to @dracoismytrashson for the speedy beta. I hope you enjoy as much as I did ❤️

“You used to look at me like that, you know.”

She catches him off guard, catches him looking elsewhere, across the ballroom. “What?” he asks, blinking. “What did you say?” It makes her smile, the familiar bat of his eyelashes as he brings himself back to the present, tears himself away from his thoughts. “Earth to Harry, are you in there?” She taps his temple with two fingers, fighting a smile. His eyes snap to hers, and he seems to catch onto her amusement. “Gin.” His smile leaves his mouth but not his eyes. He’s arresting in his suit, breathtaking in the jacket she picked for him, in the tie that so perfectly matches his eyes. “I was looking for you; it’s five minutes till midnight.” “I know. Where’s Nev?” “With Blaise. Where’s Ron?” “With Hermione. Seamus?” “With Dean,” they both say, and immediately laugh about it. The New Year’s party is beautiful. Golden flowers and garlands hang from every inch of the ceiling. The floor has been enchanted to look like marble, and an enormous clock floats in the middle of the room, counting down the seconds until the New Year. It smells like glory and new beginnings, and Ginny loves it, all of it; the scent of the flowers, watching Bill dancing with their mum, she even loves Harry’s eyes like this, pulled away from her as if by a magnet. It’s a time for new beginnings, she remembers, and he, more than anybody, deserves one. That realisation comes to her as a knot in the throat that ties and unravels itself, leaving her breathless. “Harry,” she whispers, then pulls on his arm when he only hums in acknowledgement. “Listen to me, I’m not going to say this again.” He turns to her, frowning. “Is everything—?” “Yes. You know I love you, right?” “Oh.” “Not like that. Come here,” she reaches up, caresses his cheekbones, looks at him, cradles his head between her palms. “I love you. You’re my Harry. I’m yours. We’ll always belong to each other, with each other. We’re family.”

His eyebrows are curved, his mouth twisted to the side in confusion, and she wants to shake him.

“Do you understand? Harry. We’re family.” “Gin, are you drunk?” “No! You idiot.” Around them, people walk towards the dance floor. It’s almost midnight. She pulls Harry close to press their foreheads together. “I see the way you look at him. I remember you looking at me like that, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t like this.”