Love is waking up very, very early in the morning and needing to take a piss really badly and being really quiet because if you wake him up, he won't be able to go back to sleep and you want him to sleep well more than anything else.
It is managing not to wake him on your mission to take a piss quietly, even though you are quite, quite clumsy; because his sleep is enough of a motivation to make you careful.
It is waking up a few hours later, knowing with absolute certainty that he's up, he's dressed and he's walking around the house as he does every morning.
It is knowing that when you sit up and call his name, he'll come to you and when you ask what he's doing, he will say he is figuring out breakfast and ask you what you want.
It is his slight look of frustration when, as always, you are unable to decide what you want and you ask him what he wants hoping for inspiration.
It is knowing how to make his tea.
It is knowing that he will always look askance at for using a heating charm on the water for your coffee instead of heating it the 'proper' way, using a saucepan.
Love is when you know that if your everyday started like this, you would be happy forever.
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Love is having screaming matches about his history and yours, and the fact that you were never supposed to work in the first place, so why does he think this could possibly work for one day, leave alone for the rest of your lives?
It is arguing with him that you have every right to be proud of your history, no matter how twisted and rotten it became because of blind faith and superstition; because of megalomania and tribalism.
It is fighting with him even when you know he is right, because it is just so annoying that he thinks he is always right and always has the answers.
It is being so filled with anger and rage and love all tied up with each other that you inevitably burst into tears, all the while telling him that you're crying because of how angry you are and not because you want him to feel bad for you.
It is him continuing the argument with you as tears stream down your face because he knows you, he believes you, he respects you, and so when you say you are capable of fighting anyone, even him, with tears streaming down your face, he takes you at your word.
It is knowing that you can fight viciously because you trust him to not leave you and he trusts you the same way and even the most vicious fight can't change that.
Love is holding close to your heart the fact that he trusts you. You. He trusts you, you who deserve trust from no one, least of all him, but he trusts you all the same.
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Love is having an intimate idea of what he smells like. It's a bit gross actually, if you think about it too long. You know how his sweat smells, his musk smells.
It is having a rhythm to your love-making. The almost predictability of the coordination between you. How long hugs invariably end with him half-hard and you with your head in the nook of his chest, unable to resist giving him small licks.
It is knowing that because he becomes almost comatose with sleep after coming, he makes sure, without fail, that you come first.
It is all the different types of kisses you have – the small, gentle touches of your mouths which are a reminder of love, the loud smacking kisses you like to place on his wonderfully soft cheeks, the soft almost-kisses you rain on his face and body as symbols of your devotion.
It is the exchanged 'how was your day's and 'I love you' which you never forget to say to each other at night. The 'thank yous' after your (invariably mind-blowing) orgasms.
Love is knowing each other's bodies so intimately, so deeply, that even if you lost your sense of sight, your mind has a perfect map of his body. He is so deep within you, so imprinted on your soul, that you will never, ever forget.
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Love is the fact that his name is so precious in your mouth that you blush every time you say it. You can hear it in your mind, but you call him by his name so rarely. Maybe because it feels almost unbelievable that you have the right to say his name. Maybe because you think your face cannot hide how you feel about him when his name is on your lips so you just don't take it. Maybe because you think you only have a finite number of times you can say his name, so you're saving them to last this lifetime and beyond.
Love is hearing him say your name, softly, as rarely as you say his. Your name has never sounded as good as it does when he says it. He doesn't say it very often either. You discussed it once, but neither of you are very sure why you don't take each other's names. That's just how it is.
Love is not the big things that you have done for each other, you pretending not to recognise him, him saving your life, your mother saving his. Love is the everyday, the simplicity, the familiarity, the security of having someone to whom you come first.
Love is how your names sound together. Draco and Harry.