Dreams come to tell us something about our lives that we are missing." ― James Redfield,
This time Draco woke up late, it was near midday, by the sun. By the time he was dressed, Harry was in the kitchen preparing lunch. He was wearing a pale green button-down shirt and grey trousers. He was barefooted and his, still somewhat damp, hair was sticking in every direction. It was vulgar and everything about it went against Draco's upbringing. It shouldn't have been endearing.
Harry was singing under his breath. It wasn't that it was disagreeable so much that it was unusual to Draco's ears. Obviously it was some stupid muggle song. Draco wanted to hear more.
Harry was mixing things with a certain dexterity that made Draco wonder how he could be so bad at potion. It was a mysterious process for Draco, how one could turn various ingredient into a meal. House elves had always done it for him, but he found that he was curious about what Harry was doing.
Sitting at a stool, at the kitchen counter, Draco watched Harry chopped carrots and parsnip, toast bread and season the soup. Harry was chatting about something Weasley's mother had once done, but Draco didn't mind listening to weird stories while he watched Harry effortlessly making lunch.
As Draco was dressing the table, still vaguely listening to Harry endless chatter, he realized that somehow even listening about the demented Weasley's twins adventure wasn't so bad. He couldn't figure out why Harry seemed surprised by his table set up tough. He didn't placed the salad forks at the wrong place, did he? Or maybe the water glasses went on the right of the plate?
As they sat at the small kitchen table, eating vegetable soup and bread, Draco couldn't help thinking about how nice it was to be part of something. Even if his contribution had been minimal, he could help feeling he had helped with the lunch. And it was a surprisingly nice thought.
When Harry finished his meal and put his hand on the table, what bad manners, Draco felt an irresistible desire to touch his hand. And why wouldn't he ? He was a Malfoy he could do whatever he wanted. And there was no reason for his hand to be shaking like that as he put his trembling hand on Harry's hand.
When the other man gripped his hand and flashed him a brilliant smile. He suddenly knew why he wanted to touch his hand. And it didn't matter that he was shaking, because Harry seemed to be shaking as badly. He entwinedhis fingers with Harry's, and couldn't help but smile back. And why wouldn't he? He was a Malfoy, he could do whatever he wanted.
Even smiling back at Harry Potter while holding his hand, in a dream-house by the sea.
HPDMHPDMHPDMHPDM
To say that Harry was surprised when he received a note from Malfoy at the dinner table, would be an understatement. He didn't expected Malfoy to contact him. Not ever, but especially not now. The boundaries of their relationship were still so blurred.
There was a single sentence written in an elegant script on the slip of parchment.
Will you walk with me? - DM
Luckily Ron and Hermione were too engrossed in each other to notice the owl. He mumbled an excuse that nobody paid attention to and went outside. He waited quite a while in the cold autumn twilight and when Draco finally arrived, Harry was bitterly regretting not to have taken the time to go up and get a warmer sweater and gloves.
Malfoy had bundled up against the cold. He took one look at Harry and produced black gloves, a green scarf and a dark grey cloak. Apparently Malfoy had an idea to dress him in Slytherin colors but Harry was too grateful for the warm clothes to complain about the colors. Or to ask why Malfoy carried extra clothes with him.
He put the cloak on Harry's shoulder and slowly wrapped the scarf around his neck. There was something submissive and intimate in letting someone else dress you and Harry blushed under the attention, but he was forced to admit than he liked it. Draco smoothed the material of the cloak over Harry's shoulders in something that was awfully close to a caress and Harry blushed harder. If he let himself, he could nearly had describe Draco's gesture as "tender". But Harry didn't let himself think that. Not really.
Draco handed him the gloves and minutely replaced the scarf around Harry's neck.
"The color suit you. With eyes like that, you should have been in Slytherin."
There was something unsure under Draco's usual tone. As if he was afraid that the compliment would not be well received.
I nearly was. Harry thought to say, but it would bring too much anger back to speak about that day, for now. The day he had rejected Draco's friendship. He still tough Draco had been an ass that day, but now he realized that he had not been better. He had accepted Draco at face value without bothering to find if there was something worthwhile under the haughtiness and the hardness. One day he would tell Draco of the hat's decision and he would laugh at his reaction, but not now. Instead he smiled and bowed his head.
They walked around the lake. The cold was biting, but Draco was walking so near that Harry could feel his heat seep through his clothes. And the cloak was smelling woody and spicy and sweet, a mix so uniquely Draco, it defied description. The smell and the light touches made something swell and heat in Harry's chest.
Despite the wind, the cold and the falling light he wasn't in a hurry to get back inside at all.
