Harry is happy the war's over. He is. Really. It'd be better if he slept properly and wasn't so f*cking tired all the time, but, as the saying goes, you win some, you lose some. Eighth year was a nice distraction, but now that's over and Harry's ready to join Shacklebolt and his Aurors in the fall. Really. He is. Maybe he'll even get around to marrying Ginny. Yeah, that sounds good. Can't complain, can he?
So when Andromeda offers him a vacation, he leaps at it– even if it's just spending a summer at some remote, Barbie pink villa in Provence with some Blacks the war seems to have forgotten about.
Sure enough, Death doesn't seem to have a place here on the sunny French Riviera, but Harry's very sure that Draco Malfoy doesn't possibly know the secret to immortality. And he certainly doesn't have a clue as to the meaning of life. But, well, Harry might. Maybe. Possibly.
Whatever.
Or: Harry and Draco fall in love over and over again, no thanks to the universe.
xxx
A/N: This fic is rated M. While there is obviously nothing explicit, do bear in mind it deals with heavy topics and adult themes, word play/innuendos, references, etc. It was originally inspired by prompts from the Cottagecore Fest 2023, hosted on Ao3, but I'm bad at deadlines and ultimately scrapped a lot of the prompts. Just always like to nod inspirations. Updates occur first on ao3 and aren't routine. Cheers, folks.
xxx
Part One: Of Course It's Happening Inside Your Head
1999
Villa Noir was pink.
It was the dusty, blush horizon of a sunrise, stone in the sculptor's hands, shiny and ready to be carved. Summer was in full swing all over, and so while logically Harry knew there must have been brilliant days of sun and a handful of cacophonous thunderstorms, this is how he would always remember this part of his life: in the dawn of a new day.
The house was surrounded by wild fields of lavender, rows of grape vines, crumbling rock walls, rolling lush hills of the southern Provence coastlines. The harshest, most refined thing about it was the tumbling cliffside, jagged and rocky into the open Mediterranean below. Everything else, from the marble floors to the Rococo interior, from the house-elves that tended the winery to the villa's residents, were soft and unfinished, shadow paintings began anew and never completed.
This impression of life was another reason that Harry knew it wasn't real. That it was unreal, beyond real. A daydream and a fantasy, and one day, eventually, he'd have to wake up.
"Scared, Harry?"
He rolled his eyes at Draco's smirk. "You wish."
With a running start, he jumped off the cliff into the wild sea below.
Harry always woke up first.
He lay there under the sheets, head resting on his left arm crooked like a pillow, watching Draco sleep. The sunlight filtered into the room, dulled and soft by the bedding and Harry refused to move. He barely allowed himself to breathe, knowing as soon as Draco blearily came to the day would crawl to a start and he might get lost in it, might forget about the universe for awhile. But then the sun would set and the moon would rise and they'd collapse back into bed again and, lying there in the pitch darkness, Harry would remember that they were one day closer to the end.
As if reading Harry's deepest fears, Draco shifted slightly, a frown forming and his brow cinching. Harry couldn't resist– he reached out, pressing the pad of his thumb to the wrinkle, smoothing it away from where it didn't belong.
The movement was enough: Draco exhaled, grumbling something– Fuck off, too hot– his frown giving way to a lazy, sleepy pout as he rubbed his cheek against the bed. Harry laughed softly.
"Coffee?" he whispered.
"Mm, please," Draco murmured.
Harry rolled over, sliding out from under the sheets like he was walking to shore after diving into the sea, and behind him Draco patted at Harry's spot.
"Harry?" he called, and Harry looked back. His eyes were still closed, breath still even and movements sluggish.
"Hm?"
"Happy birthday."
xxx
The day moved from there like all others: lazy lie-ins turned into sweaty, sleepy summer sex, which gave way to showers, another couple cups of coffee, tea with Narcissa in the eastern sunroom as the sun broke mid morning.
The witch, pale like the moon, her long blonde hair reflecting white, required the routine, and Harry, honestly, appreciated it as well. Draco usually dragged his feet, and those solitary twenty minutes or so with Narcissa Malfoy were refreshing, like the mirage of an oasis in this summer haze.
She was forgetful, disoriented on the worst of days, always in the sun but eternally chilled, swathed in silk ivory robes and sheer shawls. Her finger tips were often shiny with poppy seed oil and discolored with umber pigments. Half-finished oil works lay scattered around the villa, otherwise kept so pristine, the ancient marble and lavish rooms like a museum, a summer king's palace, a make-believe world where war– any war, every war– happened a long time ago and everyday since was warm, and sunny, and perfect.
She liked impressionism, the heavy brushstrokes and gentle whites– "They make the world so bright, don't you think?" Harry had no idea, but he liked Van Gogh and that painting with the swirling starry night. He liked the sunflowers, too, and the man and woman sleeping in stacks of hay. "Terribly prickly, hay is," Narcissa informed him. "But yes, a nap in the sun sounds perfect." And she rose, excusing herself to the conservatory in her private quarters, where she'd pass into a light doze on a chaise in the warm glow of the sun and layers upon layers of protection charms.
Draco, having arrived just in time, left again to walk her there, and, just as Harry himself was nodding off, he was back. He huffed, whacking Harry's foot perched on the ottoman with the rolled up Prophet. Harry jumped awake, rubbing his face as Draco dropped into the chair Narcissa had previously occupied, accio'ing the charmed tea cup and leaving it to hover beside him as he pretended to scour the pages. Nobody actually read the Prophet these days, but Draco feigned it on the occasion Harry was in the mood to be riled up.
Harry's mood had been amicable, but a glimpse at the front page immediately ruined it:
LONG LIVE THE SAVIOR
"Why look, Harry, you gave an interview," hummed Draco. Harry scowled. "Harry Potter– Chosen One Extraordinaire- turns nineteen today. Our hero, remarkable for his defeat of the Darkest Wizard ever known, You-Know-Who– who do? You do. The power of voodoo–"
Harry snorted. "That's not how it goes–"
"Really, the only thing remarkable here is that there's nineteen photos of you and your hair's a disaster in each one."
"Oi! You like my hair."
"I do, that's true, but really, must you share its je ne sais quoi with the masses? Bad enough that you're– what is it that Witch Weekly wrote? Humble and charming, bleh– but effortlessly good-looking? Someone's bound to assassinate you on principle alone." Draco folded the paper and vanished it, satisfied with the banter. "Really," he drawled on, pinching his cup from the air, "what I'm suggesting could save your life."
"Yeah, well, when you figure out how to shut Skeeter up, let me know."
"Does your moral compass allow blackmail?"
Harry cocked his head, blowing a few strands of hair from his face pensively. Had he ever told Draco about Hermione? He wasn't sure, he didn't think so. "Let me think on it."
Draco heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Before you redirect all of your brain power, did you decide what you wanted to do today?"
And this was how the rest of every day went: they'd bicker idly over how best to pass the afternoon, and then, like seven years at Hogwarts, it would pass– all at once, over an indefinite period of time. Much too soon and yet, when it was over, Harry would wish it to start all over again.
Except today was Harry's nineteenth birthday, a rather unremarkable one really, and Draco was being nice. It was weird.
"You'd take me swimming in the Seine?"
"I don't recommend it, we'll need a dash of that Gryffindor daring, but if that's what you'd like to do, Harry, then that's what we'll do."
"But– but you hate Paris."
Draco wouldn't look at him as he disagreed: "Mon dieu! Hate is an exceptionally strong word. Minor dislike for the hustle and bustle, but for you, it's a burden I can endure."
Harry scoffed. "My hero. Nevermind, I don't want to go to Paris, anyways."
"Well, you have to choose somewhere–"
"Why don't we just stay here today?"
Draco's expression was unreadable, though the idea had seized Harry and wouldn't let go.
Since when was Draco aware of what day it was? Since when was he paying attention to the passing of time? Was he counting down the days, too? Was he thinking about the end of summer, about what came next, about what they were doing and what they would never get to do– did the idea of it all ceasing to exist, fading into oblivion as unspoken memories, did he feel it in the same way? Harry hadn't ever thought so–
"Oh, honestly, never a dull moment with you is it? I'll take you to the innermost chambers of the Pyramids at Giza, just choose a bloody place before I have to choose for you."
Harry sighed, but flashed a grin at the whiny git. Not nice– that was better.
xxx