sparsenicjade
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Harry comes to him sometimes, at night, when nightmares have kept him from sleeping.

Draco's pretty sure he doesn't deserve the hands that press into his back like safety, like nothing else, like strength maybe. Pretty sure. Only, Harry says, "Hey, I'm here," and doesn't sound put out over it, so there's a small possibility that there's a reason for that.

There was a time when Draco didn't want anything small, had been trained to think he could have anything, anything at all, and everything he wanted was large. It took a long time for him to notice that the training was mostly just that, that the things he was given, the things he took, the things he ran into were never large. He was lucky when they were small.

Until afterward, when Harry and he somehow got stuck in the same room at Mungo's -- they must have been overcrowded, intensely, to put him in the same room with the Boy of the Hour. Boy of the Last Seventeen Years. Either way.

But afterward. Afterward when Harry had woken up, tired eyes and unsure smile and, "Did I really?" and Draco answered, "Big fire show. Very impressive, Potter."

Harry hadn't stopped smiling.

Now, when he comes, the smile is generally with him, the smile and those hands. They turn Draco over and untangle the sheets and sometimes settle in his hair or on his hips as Harry lays down to stay for a spell. So he says.

Draco almost always finds him still there in the morning. Smiling in his sleep.


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Skin by egelantier, photo by microbophile