Hello, everyone! I know I haven't posted anything in a while and this is a little peace offering. I hope to post more fics soon. Also, I'm sorry if I haven't responded to any of your reviews, I really appreciate all of them. I'm just not on here very often but I'm really chatty on Ao3 (loveglowsinthedark) and you can come follow me on Tumblr now:- (if that link doesn't work, just search for: l0vegl0wsinthedark)!

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[Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the work of J.K. Rowling and is not my intellectual property. I intend no copyright infringement and seek no financial gain from this work. This work of fiction is purely for entertainment purposes.]

Draco's nightmares aren't filled with death and pain. He doesn't see red eyes and bursts of light as curses fly by. He doesn't hear maniacal laughter and screams of fear.

Draco dreams of fully furnished rooms of which he's the only occupant. He dreams of dining at a table set for just one. He dreams of sitting on a park bench on a brilliant spring day with not a single other soul around. He dreams of empty streets. He dreams he is old and shrivelled with nobody beside him in bed. He dreams of endless, echoing silence.

Draco doesn't feel in these dreams.

Nor while awake.

They meet by the scented candles.

Potter picks out a set of rose and bergamot tea-lights. Draco reaches for one of the chamomile and sage pillars.

Draco needs it to help with his insomnia. Potter wants to give Lovegood a housewarming present.

Potter smiles at Draco; it's almost unnerving. Almost.

Draco helps him pick out a glass bowl for the tea-lights. Potter asks him to dinner.

Draco says yes and later, back at home, the candle seems to burn a lot brighter than usual.

Harry likes to hold his hand a lot. His hands are perennially warm and when they're wrapped around Draco's fingers, he feels like he'll never be cold again.

Harry's mouth is soft and warm and his kisses are long and patient. He pins Draco to himself and kisses him like it's his absolute favourite thing to do.

Well, it's Draco's favourite thing anyway.

He loves Draco's hair and plays with it when he thinks Draco is asleep. Draco pretends to be asleep a lot.

Harry sings to him; he sings softly, surprisingly tuneful, as he holds Draco pressed firmly to himself and clumsily waltzes him around his living room, knocking into the furniture and tripping over the rug. His laugh is nearly as melodious as his singing and Draco can't decide which he loves more.

He reads aloud to Harry every night; it helps them both sleep. He reads by the light of the candles that Harry remembers to stock up on. They always burn so bright when he's around; Draco hates to blow them out.

When Harry is inside him, moving deeper with each thrust, it all feels startlingly real; it terrifies him. Harry breathes words into his skin; words heavy with honesty, words that he isn't sure he even understands in the first place. Harry seems to know the meaning; Harry seems to mean it.

Harry seems to feel it.

The reporter spits in his face and Draco turns away to wipe the stickiness with shaking fingers. When he looks around, Harry has blood on his fists and the reporter is babbling apologies. The incident is in the papers for weeks. Harry cheerfully cancels his subscription.

"I don't think we should see each other anymore," Draco greets him one morning while Harry fries up sausages.

"Do you, now?" Harry's kiss tastes of sugary coffee. "Sit down, love."

The table is set for two.

But then the ache inside Draco grows unbearable and so one night, as Harry sleeps, Draco collects his things. He's barely reached out for the Floo Powder when there are arms are around his waist, so tight that Draco instantly feels the ache ease away.

"I don't know if I can do this," Draco whispers in the dark.

"Then stay until you know for sure." Harry takes him back to bed.

From then on in his dreams, Draco is never alone on that park bench.

There's something between the two of them now that claims a presence of its own. It is something blindingly bright and stiflingly warm and seems to fill every inch of every space.

It gently lulls him to sleep and carefully nudges him awake. It seems to shine out of his very pores. It dazzles Draco and he carries it around like a talisman.

It's what he tastes in Harry's mouth. It's what he sees in Harry's eyes and it's what he hears in his laughter. It's in the words Harry breathes into his skin and it's what makes Draco whisper them back without hesitation.

Draco feels breathless with it. He feels fear and he feels recklessly bold. He feels hope. He feels the hope finally blossom into something intangibly infinite. He feels content.

Draco feels.

~end~