d.
It's only when he sleeps that you can look at him and really see him. When he's awake he can always sense you looking at him, but when he's asleep he can't tell.
You don't think he's aware of how deeply he sleeps. He's always claimed himself as a light sleeper, but you know better. He may have been a light sleeper – having the outcome of a war resting on your shoulders when you're just a teenager probably does that to you, but since you've been sleeping next to him since that night you know better.
When you were still at school and managed to get a few stolen nights together, he never slept more than two hours in a row. If he did, he would get a nightmare and wake up any way.
You have been a light sleeper since you were four years old and your mother was gone for the night and your father made his way into your room and… (and into your bed and did those things that you're desperately trying to keep out of your mind but every time Harry touches you in certain places you flinch and both him and you know why and he doesn't touch you there for some time and you both know why but you never talk about it because it makes you sick and it makes you feel so dirty just to think about it). You never understood (don't understand) why, but you've been a light sleeper ever since. And it didn't pass away just because he did.
It gives you some kind of morbid satisfactory, watching his scars.
There's the one on his forehead. The obvious one, the one that kind of made him who he is. The one that made him famous.
He's got another scar on his head, too. The one he got from Ginny when he told her a second time that they couldn't be together. It's placed right under his left ear. They had been standing in the kitchen at the Burrow. It was the celebration dinner, and it had been late before Harry and Ginny got any time alone. (Of course, you hadn't been invited, but Harry had told you everything, just like he always tells you everything.) They had tried really hard to get some quality time together all evening. For entirely different reasons, of course, but urging to see each other nether less. She had hit him with a frying pan when he told her. The bleeding hadn't stopped for two days. They hadn't talked to each other ever since, even though Harry had been over at the Burrow several times for dinner.
It's a humid heat in your bedroom due to the storm that's predicted to be over London by the morning. He's pushed the duvet down to his waist. He's lying on his back and he's sleeping so deep he doesn't even snore. Not that he ever snores, at least not that you're aware of (and honestly, after seven years in the same bed you should know).
The words on his hand have almost faded, it's hard to see them if you don't know they're there. You know they're there, and they're the marks on his body that hurt you the most to see. You really don't know why, but they do.
Then there are all the scars across his upper body. War injuries, all of them. Somehow you think of them as beautiful. It's like they're saying that he's lived his life. Somewhere in your mind lies the thought that an unmarked person is a person who never lived. That scars make you alive. You've never told him this, though, 'cause you know he would freak. Or at least look at you with sceptical eyes and make you uncomfortable 'cause you know he thinks you're a freak when you say things like that. And you don't like being a freak in his eyes. He's perfection for you.
You want to be perfection for him, too.
His breathing is so even and calm as could be, but it hitches when you drag your index finger along the extra long scar that runs from his right collarbone to the smallest of his left ribs. You place your hand above his heart and feel the beating. You will never forget (you can't forget, no matter how hard you try) how your own breathing stopped and how you screamed (although it was drenched by McGonagall's outburst) when you for a few minutes thought you would never see him again. How your world fell apart and how your soul broke and how alive you had never ever felt before when you saw him move again.
You put your head down beside his on the pillow and study his face. He won't let you look at him like this when he's awake, so you take the chances you get when he's asleep.
It makes you tired, but it's okay. You've been tired for years and years. You manage to pass for "silent" instead of "tired" when you're out amongst people. He makes you tired, but it's okay, 'cause it's not really his fault. It's not like he forces you to stay awake and look at him. Although he would probably blame himself if he knew.
You kiss him at the corner of his mouth and close your eyes. As if he could sense you drifting off to sleep, he shuffles closer. His body fits perfectly against yours. There's a light tapping on the window and it's the first raindrops from the storm. You just hope you'll fall asleep before it breaks out fully.
h.
You make a mental note to yourself to ask Hermione about a Dreamless Potion combined with something that makes you sleep as long as you need, and slip it in his tea. Draco is awake watching you again. You can feel it. You don't like it, but still you let him do it. You know he's watching your scars and it makes you uncomfortable but you don't move because you want him to believe you're still asleep.
It's true, you're not that much of a light sleeper that you once were, but you still doesn't sleep too well. Especially when someone's watching you.
You don't understand why he looks at your scars almost every night. It's probably because you can't stand to stare at his. You know that you're the cause of the most vivid ones across his stomach and while you didn't really do it on purpose and he has forgiven you time after time, you still blame yourself.
You do that a lot, blame yourself. You know it drives him crazy when you do it, but old habits die hard and after years of blaming yourself for everything, it's hard not to.
There's a storm coming. You can feel it in your toes, and in the humid heat that lingers in the air. You shuffle closer to him, and just hope he falls asleep before it breaks out.
~fin