Written for the QLFC, Season 5, Round 1.

Position: Beater 1
Position Prompt: Beater 2's NOTP.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Title: The Small Things
Word Count: 920
Beta(s): The Wanderers

Prompts:
7. (object) broken wine glass
14. (quote) The problem with people is they forget that most of the time it's the small things that count. - Theodore Finch, All the Bright Places

Go Wanderers!

Harry's phone buzzed on the floor next to his mattress. In his haste to grab it, he knocked over an empty wine glass from the night before and broke it. He swore softly, but unlocked his phone to read the message he'd been waiting for all night:

Draco Malfoy
It's done.

Sent at quarter to eleven. It was half past midnight now. "Finally." Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Without thought, he got up to put the kettle on and almost stood on the broken glass. With a quick wave of his wand he repaired it, picked it up and set it on the kitchen counter. He absentmindedly put the kettle on for them.

Ten months was a long time. Or it was for them, at least. The longest they'd gone without each other was six. The rare times they did encounter each other, looks were exchanged, brief touches, sneaky texts, soft whispers too low for any but them to hear. What he'd do to him when they got their hands on one another at last.

The kettle boiled, but Harry left it alone. It was late. Draco might not even want tea – he'd probably be exhausted after today. Draco was about to lose his family for good, which was never easy. Harry could certainly sympathize, but he knew for a fact that their situations were also vastly different.

Sighing heavily, he looked over at Hedwig, "Ten months to tell 'em, huh, Hedwig," he mumbled as he lay back down on his bed. Hedwig chanced it for a second and put her paw on the end of the mattress, Harry shot her a look and she shuffled miserably back into her doggy bed. She was always chancing her luck like that; she knew better.

He'd barely gotten back into his book when the front door swung open and the tall blond stepped inside. Harry remained where he was, but left his legs slightly parted, keeping an eye on him.

Draco shuffled by the door for a moment, and Harry waited eagerly to have his book taken from his hands, for the inevitable to happen. He'd been waiting for months.

But Draco said nothing as he crawled onto the bed and settled himself with his head resting on Harry's chest. "…mine," he mumbled, one eye opening to examine a portion of the garment Harry wore.

"Then why was it in my wardrobe?" Harry raised his eyebrows, running one hand through Draco's hair while the other still held the book.

Draco scoffed, "Because you stole it earlier."

"True." Harry sighed.

"I'd say it looks better on you, but I'd be lying." Draco glanced up at him with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"And you never lie, Malfoy."

"Never, Potter."

Then Draco took a deep breath and said something Harry didn't quite catch, but he didn't ask. Draco was exhausted. He was probably dozing off right now.

"Is now a good time to mention I may have missed you?"

Draco smiled, "Oh, of course you did."

"Weird not reading out loud. Hedwig doesn't appreciate my theatrics nearly as much as you do."

"Go ahead then…if you must torture me so."

Words weren't a thing they did. Big gestures weren't either. Harry had certainly felt like jumping to his feet and flinging his arms around Draco as soon as he walked in the door. He could have wept and kissed him, held him with both arms where they lay and told him a thousand different variations of the words he didn't even dare to think of.

Instead, Harry read his copy of 'Dark Lies the Island' to Draco as he ran a hand through his silky, silvery hair. He'd pause between the short stories, just in case Draco wanted to get up, but he didn't. Draco just lay there, occasionally closing his eyes or sighing. Harry pretended not to notice how shaky his breaths were sometimes. Draco seemed happy enough to stay like that all night, and Harry wasn't about to complain.

He decided he'd call in sick tomorrow. Or maybe take the week. Surely Hermione wouldn't mind if he missed the week; Harry hadn't taken any holidays at all this year. He'd missed Draco. He'd missed him too much. It was killing him not to say it properly. He missed the snarky comments, the dumb puns or sarcastic comments about how Draco was An Almighty Pureblood and he was a Filthy Half-blood. The hour-long rants Draco would go on about politics within the Wizarding world, the infuriatingly knowing little smirks he'd throw at Harry when he knew, the way he'd curl up with Harry like a cat. God, he'd even missed the montage of one hundred random facts about house elves. Of course Harry had missed holding him, kissing him, knotting his fingers in his hair as he fucked him senseless and swore when he did something he liked a little too much.

But this - this. Draco was stroking the side of Harry's arm, the same way Harry was running a hand through Draco's hair: they both moved out of habit. Draco was lying with him because hey, Ikea memory foam mattresses were extremely comfortable. Whatever Draco had mumbled earlier was probably something about his father. This shirt did look better on him. He'd never lie to Harry, and he'd care so much if he did. By "mine," he was talking about his shirt. What else would he be referring to? These small, quiet moments they both pretended meant absolutely nothing at all. This was what he'd missed.