In this, like in most things, they are opposites. Harry wakes slowly, groggily. It often takes until after his second cup of tea before his eyes fully open and his brain accepts his upright and conscious state. During their first few overnights, Draco would watch with bemusement as Harry stumbled from bed to the tiny kitchenette in his flat to start the kettle boiling.
Draco, on the other hand, comes instantly and sharply alert. Now, when rose gold sunlight filters through the sheer curtains of their new, second floor bedroom and creeps across the pale, refinished wood of the floor, its soft, glowing light pries open his lids.
He stares up at the ceiling for a moment, orienting himself to his surroundings. It is not the first time he's woken up beside the sleep-slack, naked body of the Saviour of the Wizarding World. It's not even the first time he's done so in this bed.
It is, however, the first time the bed is not merely Draco's bed. Now, it is officially his and Harry's.
The sheets on the bed — ecru Egyptian cotton, their threadcount so high they slide against his bare flesh like silk — belong to him, but the thick, dark sapphire blue blanket currently wrapped around his softly snoring lover is Harry's. The furniture is an odd mixture of his own sleeker contemporary end tables and Harry's worn, comfortable, squashy leather chairs.
Strangely, they complement each other. Or perhaps not so strangely, given how well their owners suit.
A smile curls his lips as Harry shifts beside him, pressing the muscled curve of his buttocks back into Draco's hip. Harry's skin is furnace warm and dusted with dark, silky hairs. Draco knows intimately how they grow down into his crease, turning to curls over the plump pouch of his testes, between his thighs.
Draco himself is nearly hairless, except for his head, tufts under his arms, and a small patch above his cock, and he is fascinated by Harry's. Especially the riot of his pubic hair and the soft mat on his chest.
With a yawn and a stretch, he slides his right arm beneath the sheet (Harry has stolen all the blankets again) and strokes his palm over the thick swell of Harry's thigh.
"Mmmmmmm." Harry snuggles further into him, the sleepy mumble drifting off into soft snore.
It's still hard to believe they are here, that their lives have meshed so unaccountably well. Not that it has all been easy. It took what felt like forever at the time to get past their old animosities. But tucking the last few volumes of A Treatise on the History of Potions & Tinctures (handed down from Grandfather Abraxas) onto the library shelves next to Harry's tattered copy of Quidditch Through the Ages yesterday, tumbling exhausted into bed together, waking beside Harry this morning, it all feels worth it.
Later, they will throw open the doors of the newly renovated Grimmauld Place and welcome their friends into their home. There will be much too much food, cheesy Muggle music on the old wireless Harry insists on playing, and laughter. Weasley and Zabini will argue over who is better at Wizard's Chess again. Hermione will corner him and bring up no less than three Ministry issues that she would like his opinion on. Luna will no doubt discover an infestation of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks in the wine cellar. Pansy will declare the house 'quaint' and ask Draco yet again if he's 'entirely sure about Potter, darling?' (He is. More sure than he's ever been of anything.)
But for now, they have nowhere to be and Draco is more than content to drowse in bed with this man whose mere presence is all it takes to fire his blood.
He twists on his side, pillowing his head on one arm and draping the other over Harry's waist. He insinuates one of his longer, leaner legs between Harry's. His cock is half-erect already at the prospect of a lazy morning in bed, and the feeling of Harry's warm flesh cradling his thickening shaft is exquisite. His skin tingles all over.
Draco trails his fingertips over the flat plane of Harry's belly, tracing the line of hair up to where it widens over his pectorals. He nuzzles his nose into the curve of Harry's shoulder, inhaling the sweet, musky, sleepy scent of his skin.
It fills his chest with an almost painful bubble of emotion, the fact that he is the one that gets this. He, Draco Malfoy — ex-Death Eater, pureblood, all-around prat (just ask his friends) — is the only one who gets to know what Harry Potter's skin smells like first thing in the morning. His throat tightens.
When he threads his fingers through the soft curls of Harry's chest hair, he feels the steady, slow thump of the other man's heartbeat under his palm.
Harry, still mostly asleep, chuckles. One hand, the base of his fingers rough with callus earned in quidditch pick-up games and hardened during the restoration, curls around Draco's wrist and squeezes. Draco's obsession with his hair amuses him, even half-conscious. When Draco finds one of Harry's small, flat nipples, he circles it with his finger, enjoying the way the soft, pliable flesh hardens under his teasing touch.
Draco presses closer, rocking his hips. Harry arches back with a groan and a mumbled, "Draco".
He loves the sound of his name on Harry's tongue. Even when he is annoyed with him for getting caught up at work and forgetting to owl and snaps out a curt, "Malfoy".
Just like the old days, except now they resolve things by talking through them. Followed by a heated makeup shag.
Draco has never experienced sex like it is with Harry. Even the smallest touch can set him off like flash paper. Feeling him roll back into his body, rubbing his arse against Draco's still thickening cock, is better than all of the meaningless fumbles and frantic hookups.
The taste of Harry's skin blooms on his tongue as he sucks at the tender spot beneath Harry's ear. It's like salted caramel, a creamy mixture of sweat and the remnants of the vanilla & brown sugar exfoliating scrub Draco makes and Harry insists he doesn't use.
Under the blankets, the air is humid with their combined body heat, bringing a faint slick of oily sweat to their skin. It makes it easier for them to slide languidly against each other.
Draco snakes his hand downward, squeezing Harry's hip in affection before questing further for the thick column of Harry's cock. Harry shifts his legs, parting his thighs to give Draco access, humming his pleasure and approval.
Harry's shaft is wide and throbbing, filling Draco's fingers as he strokes up and down. He tugs back the soft folds of foreskin, gathers the beads of moisture welling at the tip onto his thumb, and smears the lubrication against his palm.
"Oh, gah! Dracooo." Harry thrusts into Draco's fist, one hand flailing backward to grip loosely at Draco's thigh.
Draco grins against Harry's shoulder, feeling the thrill of Harry's wanton reaction zing through him, straight to the base of his spine. His own cock aches with the delicious friction as he slips back and forth in the valley between Harry's arse cheeks.
The brightening morning light is full of drifting dust motes and the sounds of their moans and gasps.
Draco moves slowly, his hand squeezing and caressing Harry's pumping shaft in time with the roll of his own hips. His lips skim Harry's back, the slope of his shoulders, and the curve of his throat. He brushes little sipping touches of his mouth over Harry's cheek and jaw.
He is not always good at verbally expressing how Harry makes him feel, but this… this he can do. He puts all the joy and happiness and thankfulness and love that swirl inside him whenever he thinks of Harry into his lips and fingertips and paints it onto his skin.
Harry's upper chest, neck, and face are flushed red with sleep and lust. He has yet to open his eyes; his dark lashes lie against his stubbled cheeks. His mouth is soft and red, parted on each deep moan and gasp of breath.
In a paroxysm of pleasure, Harry heaves the blanket and sheet away, baring them both to the golden sunlight. He grasps blindly at Draco, blunt fingers sinking into Draco's hair to pull his face further against the arch of his throat. His other hand curls around Draco's buttock, yanking him frantically closer as his hips arch and roll. He murmurs mushy, unintelligible words of longing; he begs, demands, affirms, encourages.
The only thing Draco understands is when Harry says his name, over and over. Each time makes his heart pound harder, sends a thrill of pleasure through his blood.
Beneath them, the sheets rustle and the bed creaks with their movements. The air warms as the sunlight intensifies, filling the whole room with a golden glow. It gleams off the slippery slick of sweat on Harry's tan skin and turns Draco's milky limbs to ivory.
Their mingled scents twine together, Draco's more green and astringent than Harry's soft sweetness. No matter how often he washes, the aroma of the herbs and plants he works with seems to stay in his pores.
He can feel his own pleasure building in the base of his spine and the cradle of his hips and the pit of his stomach. With every twitch and moan from Harry, Draco's heart jumps and his cock throbs. He scrapes his teeth over Harry's earlobe as Harry's head presses back against his shoulder.
"Oh, that's it, yes," he murmurs into the mussed black hair at Harry's temple.
Harry turns toward him, lips grazing his chin, seeking his mouth restlessly. His tongue trails over Draco's jaw. His body twists and bows as he clutches at Draco.
Draco wraps his free arm around Harry's chest, holding him close. Time stretches out like warm taffy between them. They writhe and press and arch until finally Harry sucks in a sharp breath and releases it on a guttural groan of ecstasy.
His shaft pulses between Draco's fingers as he comes, painting several stripes of creamy fluid over his belly and chest and Draco's forearm where it bands around him.
The sight of him like that, and the feel of him tensing and shuddering, sends Draco over the edge.
Pleasure washes through him in a warm rush, curling his toes and pulling an almost breathless cry from his lips. He grinds himself against Harry's skin, the orgasm long and slow and rolling. His eyelids flutter and fall, blocking out the now bright sunlight.
Under his arm, Harry's chest rises and falls unevenly. His heart pounds. Draco pants against the back of his neck.
Neither of them speaks as their breath returns to normal. Draco milks the last few drops from Harry's cock as he sighs, and then lifts his sticky hand to his lips. Harry's come is a burst of salt on his tongue. He licks his fingers clean, slides them back through the mess on Harry's belly and repeats the process until all that's left behind is a slippery sheen.
Draco loves the taste of him, and with each lap he moans. Harry twitches every time.
It makes Draco chuckle around the fingers in his mouth.
Once he has cleaned Harry to his satisfaction, he leaves his lover boneless and still breathing a little heavily in the bed. The floorboards are smooth and cool under his bare feet as he pads to the bathroom across the hall.
He splashes water on his face and chest, sucking in a breath at the shocking coldness, and runs a damp washcloth quickly over his groin. Thinking of the mess they made, he makes a mental note to wash the sheets himself later. Harry won't think of it, leaving the task to Kreacher, and Draco would rather not have the elderly house elf muttering about their sex life if it can be at all avoided. He wraps himself in the long, silk dressing robe his mother sent from Paris and stretches sated muscles still faintly buzzing with the aftermath of their play.
Downstairs, the kitchen is empty and spotless, the gingerbread Italian tiles that he helped Harry pick out warm and burnished by the morning light. In fact, the whole kitchen seems to glow, the sun flickering off the stove's hammered copper backsplash.
There's no sign of Kreacher, but the kettle is just about boiling and Harry's favorite mug — an enormous thing with zooming broomsticks chasing each other around the outside that Teddy Lupin gave him for his birthday — rests beside a delicate looking cup on a saucer bearing the Black family crest.
Draco supposes it's meant in welcome.
While he waits for the tea to be ready, he scans the cabinets and shelves, marveling at the mixture of Harry's mish-mash of china and his elegant dishes. He's not sure he'll ever be able to explain to anyone how it felt to unpack them the day before, slipping his things in among his boyfriend's stuff.
Despite how long they've been dating and how many times their bodies have come together, there was something shockingly intimate about hanging up his clothes beside Harry's in the armoire, dividing up drawers, hanging his favorite pieces of artwork on walls Harry had redone over the winter. Co-mingling their lives.
It fills Draco with a sense of belonging to a place he hasn't felt before, even at the Manor.
This feels like his place, his home. But it's not because of the things, Draco knows. Though they are a visual representation of the fact. No, the feeling comes from the man upstairs, still sprawled naked on his — their — Egyptian cotton sheets.
A smile teases the corners of his mouth as he fixes the tea. Harry likes his milky with only two sugars. Draco prefers his sweeter, but a darker tan. Harry often laughs about this, but when Draco asks why, he shakes his head. Draco doesn't mind the laughter, even though he knows it's a bit at his expense, because it makes the corners of Harry's eyes crinkle and his green irises sparkle.
He carries the mugs carefully up the stairs.
Harry hasn't moved. He is still lying half on his side, one arm flung over his head, blanket tangled around his feet. His eyes are half-slitted and when Draco enters he gives him a sweet, lazy smile.
"Take that off and come back to bed," he mumbles, flapping a hand in Draco's direction.
Draco circles the bed to set Harry's mug within arms' reach. It is a good thing he has steady hands, because Harry rolls suddenly toward him and lifts the robe to bare Draco's thigh. He curls forward and presses his mouth to the tender spot where Draco's hip meets his leg. He flicks his tongue over the skin there.
"Harry…"
The cup trembles on the saucer in his hand. Harry murmurs against Draco's flesh, his eyes closed. His hands pluck deftly at the tie on the robe and push it open. Draco chuckles.
"Let me set down my tea, or I'm going to dump it on your head."
With a grunt, Harry relinquishes his hold. Draco shrugs from the robe, lets it fall to the floor. Normally, he would hang it back up, but with Harry naked in their bed and the prospect of further lazy lovemaking, he can't be bothered just now. He can feel Harry's sleepy gaze on him, so he takes long, unhurried strides, swinging his hips a bit because he knows Harry likes the view. His mouth tugs sideways as Harry groans.
"Bloody hell," Harry growls. "Your arse is a work of art."
"I know."
Harry snorts and rolls his eyes. Draco sets down his cup, careful not to spill, before sliding back into the warm, mussed sheets. Harry's arms wrap around his shoulders immediately, pull him close. Their legs tangle automatically. Draco rubs his toes over the back of Harry's furry calf. Harry combs his fingers through Draco's hair.
He rubs his nose against the side of Draco's, drawing him closer until they are chest-to-chest, belly-to-belly. Their mouths meet, press softly, cleave, meet again. The kiss deepens, lips parting. Draco's tongue teases Harry's into unhurried play, curling, twining, flicking.
It goes on for long minutes, their hands caressing each other absently.
Harry draws back first, his eyes finally open wide enough to show the emerald irises. He blinks at Draco, bringing his face into focus. Or so Draco assumes. He's not really clear how bad Harry's eyesight is this close.
The broad, slow smile that spreads across Harry's face is goofy and sappy. It makes Theo roll his eyes whenever he sees it. Ron pretends to retch and mutters, "Had to be bloody Draco Malfoy, didn't it?"
Draco secretly adores it.
His own mouth curves in response. Harry brushes his lips over Draco's again, tasting his smile.
In response, Draco kisses him, nibbling and sucking at his lips. Harry presses in as close as possible, as if he'll be able to melt into Draco's skin. This time, when the kiss ends, he buries his face in Draco's throat and breathes him in.
Draco toys with the soft hairs at the nape of Harry's neck.
"Good morning, Harry."
Harry grumbles against the skin of Draco's collarbone. The words are muffled, a bit disgruntled, but full of feeling.
"Good morning, my love."
As his hands skim down either side of Draco's spine to his arse, where they rest briefly before kneading gently, Harry peppers kisses up Draco's throat back to his mouth. Desire begins to build again, rising like sap.
Outside, the sun is fully up. Kreacher ambles around the back garden, picking deadheads with his long, waxy fingers. Harry and Draco's tea grows cold.
No one inside 12 Grimmauld Place cares.