Lumos
Harry blinked once and was abruptly awake. For a long, still moment he simply strained his senses, searching out the scents and textures of the night to speak to him of where he was – when he was. Beneath the steady influx of visceral information beat the shadow-pulse of Harry's magic: flexing cat-like in the dark cave where it rested, never sleeping; now welling up like a faithful dog to brush against the sharp planes of his consciousness, solely for the purpose of reassuring Harry that this was not that when, it was this. Not that nightmare, but this dream.
Well, then.
From the corners of his blurry eyes Harry could spy a swathe of silky white-gold stuff trailing familiarly across one of his bared shoulders, half-concealing the pale slope of a high forehead and the arching shadows falling endlessly beneath an elegantly high slash of aristocratic cheekbone. A concentrated heat poured into Harry's skin through the tousled mass of spider-web strands; a banked fire feathered the edge of the hard, rounded line of a stubbornly angular jaw now softened only by sleep, lent itself to the barely-there blond stubble that grew only to enhance the velvet of a spa-pampered cheek, and finally coalesced into the bump pressed firmly into the juncture of Harry's armpit - the structured whorl of a man's ear, larger by a third than the average woman's but in this particular case just as delicately formed. Harry could hardly discern the hard protrusion of the tiny platinum stud that decorated the swell of that invisible earlobe; could clearly, intimately recall the non-taste of it, bland metallic, surrounded by skin plump and salted with sweat.
Further down, a long-fingered and exceptionally well-kept hand was spread purposefully across Harry's naked chest, the imprint of the thumb centering exactly over his heart, all rising and falling with quiet certitude in time to Harry's settling pulse. And farther down again, nearly at the very edge of his marred vision and completely concealed beneath the heaped mounds of eiderdown quilt, a length of muscled thigh lay draped possessively over both of Harry's own much hairier legs, immobilizing them between the press of an elegantly knobby knee and the sharp indent of the boney ankle entwined tightly around one available calf. The other leg, longer than Harry's by a constantly contested number of inches, was nudged snug against him all the way down to the point where Harry ended and the chill of tucked tight sheets began. Still, even Potter had to admit the remainder of Malfoy shin and ankle noticeably extended a fair length past the final curl of Potter toes, culminating ultimately in a manly curve of heel and sexily high instep and the distinctive Malfoyish second-toe-jutting-right-past-the-big-one-trait, the sum of it ice-cold and lonely by itself in the nether reaches of their king-size bed.
No doubt Harry would find that foot pressed into the back of his own knee the moment he rolled over, Arctic toes scarfing up all Harry's own personal warmth and delivering in return only some weird dream-like segment of sitting on a penguin or hunkering up to a snowbank.
His human blanket smelled of lime, musk and the ineffably exciting odor of spent sex – Harry's heart rate sped up again to keep time with that memory – and radiated a bloody amazing amount of body heat per square inch, as if the notoriously thin skin that shielded the currently quiescent whipcord strength was simply not sufficient to contain the sheer quantity of it. But then, Draco Malfoy was always being idiotically vehement about something, generally to do with him, so Harry was no longer surprised that his lover bore a certain practical resemblance to a portable cauldron. It was more than pleasant on a wretchedly cold Scottish spring night to have Malfoy so available. The problem was high summer, when it was humid and still and the air felt as if it were same temperature as Harry's own blood and just as sticky. But now, here, on this chill March witching hour, Harry was more than comfortable having his own personal furnace in residence.
No complaints, then. Despite Draco's little idiosyncrasies – But, Harry, I must have a Muggle microwave for the Potions Lab! But, Harry, I deserve all the closet space! Come on, Potter, don't you think it's perfectly obvious the Ministry needs a huge phallicly-inspired fountain to replace that fucking monstrosity Ol' Moldy installed? Of course you do! Of course I have to have my head on your shoulder when I sleep – that's the only way I'm comfortable! Of course I can't visit the Burrow now – much too busy! Of course, I still—I want—
I need. No! Just stop asking, Potter! Pushy git!
Maybe because of them, actually.
Harry dropped his chin, nuzzling hair that smelled wonderfully of orange rind and toffee. It clung to his own darkening five o'clock shadow and tickled his nose. If he put the tip of his tongue out, he knew it would taste as good as it smelled; Draco was a perfectionist at ensnarement, just as determined to keep Harry wrapped up tight now as he had been five years ago. Fifteen years ago.
If he rolled over, Draco would roll with him, as if magnetized. Harry marveled at that example of homing instinct, but he knew he was the same: anywhere that Malfoy went, Potter was, too. Hogwarts, studying for NEWTs in the weirdest eighth year class ever (What!? No Houses? What does McGonagall mean, no Houses!?), Diagon Alley, in adjoining flats, freshly diploma'd, trying and failing at Auror School, each of them sickened at the thought of more violence and drinking away their mutual disappointment together.
Romania, where all Draco did was bitch at the smell and all Harry did was discover that he was not actually the innate thrill seeker he thought he was…well, only when it came to Draco did he push the actual envelope, but that was a necessary evil, 'cause Malfoy was a crazy, fucked-up bastard, just like him. Muggle France, Wizarding Gibralta, Muggle Canada, Wizarding Amsterdam, the last when the pointy git was askew on some kind of emotional bender about his own Death Eater inadequacy and Harry Potter, Saviour-at-Large, had to be there every single fucking minute, because Draco was his, all his, forever, and nothing, not even the Magical Sex Capital of the Wizarding World, nothing was enough to tempt Harry to look elsewhere.
Tibet, which was neither Muggle nor Wizard, and didn't need to be, simply to heal; make love on rising mounds of long wind-dried sweet grasses, gaze at stars more eternal than those found in any city, fall endlessly into eyes that were forever fixed on each other. And 'Malfoy' was no more, and neither was 'Potter!'' They were 'Black' now and the paparazzi dogged them with stars in their publicity-maddened eyes and big splash pages of long-range lens shots into the secluded Malfoy Manor gardens, tastefully decorated by Narcissa, five-tiered cake courtesy of Molly Weasley, honorary other mother-in-law.
And then Hogwarts again, answering the call of Duty, liking it, staying.
Settling in. To here and to now. This and not that. Draco and not Malfoy, as he was only Harry, as they were both but simple needy vessels when the ingredients of their mutual Potion were thoughtfully dissected: lonely, powerful, perceptive, apart; scarred, orphaned, damaged, interrupted. Blended endlessly into lust-filled, together, tolerant, (together), passionate, (together), loyal, (together), lost-without-you (together, together, together forever, Draco love. You know that, Harry. You know me.)
They enjoyed teaching. It gave them purpose. They enjoyed learning the boring secrets of the older Professors, keeping their own as Celebrity Professors (dashing, but really very ancient to the average Second Year) [Never boring, Harry! Can you even imagine me boring?! Maybe you, speccy Scarface, but not me – I'm a nouveau-riche Black, remember? I embody excitement!], all the while learning the subtle tricks of keeping the flighty Sixth Years on their toes with excessively challenging lessons and reams of inches and gently, deftly coaxing the First Years out of their left-over babyishness. They enjoyed heading rival Houses (Thank Merlin, Harry! Even McGonagall can't expect anyone to put up with inter-house unity forever!), Draco in toasty red-and-gold cashmere scarves and rampant-gryphon embroidered robes and Harry lean and dark and saturnine in cool greens and Slytherin silvers (the color of your eyes, Draco. How could I not love this? And yes, I wanted the damned pajamas, you tw—mmmm!)
Muggle clothes for weekends, a flat in London for winter hols, Narcissa's Cote d'Azure villa for a week or so in early June for Draco's birthday. Grimauld for Harry's birthday and Christmas if Draco hadn't planned something 'special' instead (read 'insanely expensive and brilliantly creative', wanker!) and Malfoy Mansion for the initial Bonding of the Century and all its many Anniversary Bashes.
In the here and now Harry's eyes drooped, drowsing, and a moment later he did actually roll over, as he knew he would, taking Draco Black with him, a limpet on a barnacle. Six seconds into the next 'now' Harry was asleep again and it was still most definitely the when it was supposed to be and where he had not dared to even hope for, twenty years ago, blood slipping queasily under his aching feet, red eyes burning before him. Two seconds after Harry relaxed back into Morpheus's embrace Draco Black's grey eyes snapped into gimlet-alert surveillance, studying the set of Harry's shoulders (relaxed; good!), the line of his spine (oh! I want to kiss that mole! Must make a note of that for morning!), weighing the exact curve of Harry's hand around his own fist lightly resting (nice flat stomach still, Harry, even now. Balls for middle-age crises league Quidditch, you lazy sod, but at least it's some exercise) and the gentle rumble of that steady heartbeat, the one that kept him alive—all was well again for Harry Po-Black
(and I will always have my head upon your shoulder, and I will always be your warmth in the cold, and I will always let you talk me into idiotic escapades, and help you godfather mewling red-headed Weasel bratlets, and bear you figure-ruining brats of our own {Fleur actually seemed to be doing well in Hugglepiffle House and so her loving, self-sacrificing father Draco would continue to struggle manfully (silently, sod it!) with the secret shame—and that smart-ass son of theirs had better straighten up and fly his broom right if he knew what was good for him or he'd see the flat of Harry's hand sooner rather later, the little blighter. No excuse existed that allowed a Black to nearly fail Potions!} as many as you want, you insatiable four-eyed wanker, and I will always be here and now for you, Harry. You are my light in the Darkness, Harry. You are always my light.)