The sunlight filtered through the half-closed curtains, golden and lazy, crawling over Harry's bare shoulder as he lay tangled in the sheets. His hair was messier than usual, a lock falling over his forehead, and the soft rise and fall of his chest told of the deep sleep he'd fallen into after everything—after him. Draco. The memory ghosted across his skin like a second warmth.
He barely stirred as the door creaked open.
Hermione stepped inside, eyes immediately scanning the room. Her gaze flicked to the bed, to the shirtless figure beneath the wrinkled blankets—and then away, very quickly, jaw tightening.
"Is he still asleep?" Ron asked loudly from behind her, stepping in with the subtlety of a stampede. He kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot and groaned as he dropped his bookbag by the door.
"Apparently," Hermione murmured, not glancing again.
"You won't believe what Boot did last night," Ron said, tossing himself into one of the armchairs by the fireplace. "Absolute madman. I'm convinced he chews his own quills."
Harry shifted slightly, blinking up at the noise, his vision adjusting. He hadn't expected visitors. He certainly hadn't expected them.
"Morning," he croaked, voice thick.
Ron grinned. "Oi, you're alive. Barely. You look like you lost a duel with your bed."
Harry rubbed his face, trying to sit up without grimacing. Every muscle in his body was still protesting.
"Long night?" Ron added with a smirk.
Hermione shot Ron a warning glance. "Ron."
Ron waved her off. "No, seriously. You're flushed. And shirtless. And half under the covers like a bloody romance novel."
Harry stiffened but forced a grin, pulling the blanket higher. "Maybe I just like sleeping shirtless."
Ron raised a brow. "Or maybe you're just… needy. Y'know. Did what blokes do. No judgment, mate. Been there."
Harry choked on his own breath.
"Ronald," Hermione snapped, but her cheeks were flushed too now.
Ron leaned back in the chair with a dramatic sigh. "I swear, if Boot makes one more comment about his 'self-care routines', I'm hexing him in his sleep. I caught him doing yoga at midnight. In our room."
Harry let out a strangled laugh.
"On the floor. In his pants."
Hermione groaned. "Please stop talking."
But it worked. The subject changed. No one asked why Harry's lips were swollen or why there was a faint mark blooming near his collarbone. No one knew he'd fallen apart under Draco Malfoy's touch, that every ache in his body was a silent testament to a night he hadn't known he needed so desperately.
And Harry intended to keep it that way.
"So," Ron continued, "what's for breakfast?"
Harry exhaled and reached for his wand. "Hopefully something less awkward than this conversation."
And just like that, the moment passed.
But Harry could still feel the lingering burn where Draco's hands had been.
Harry sat up slowly, only to wince as a sharp ache shot through his back and down his thighs. His entire body felt heavy, spent. The moment he shifted again and felt the soreness between his legs, he slumped back against the pillows with a huff, the blanket slipping down to his waist. His head tilted toward the door, half-hoping no one would barge in again.
He needed to get up—at least try. Maybe splash water on his face and pretend he was human again. But the moment his foot touched the floor, a low groan escaped him. Nope. Not happening. He knew then and there that walking all the way to the Great Hall for breakfast would probably have him limping like an injured hippogriff. And with his luck, someone like Lavender would point it out.
He lay back again with a sigh. "I think I'll just sleep more," he said out loud when Ron poked his head in again, half a bread roll in hand. "Not hungry."
Ron squinted at him. "Not hungry or not able to walk?" The teasing tone was unmistakable, and Harry didn't even try to come up with a convincing lie.
Harry groaned and dragged the blanket higher, muttering, "Don't."
Ron chuckled and leaned on the doorframe, tossing the rest of his roll into his mouth. "Mate, I know that look. And that walk—or lack thereof. You could've warned us. We'd have cleared out last night and given you the room."
"Ron!" Hermione's voice came from behind, followed by the sound of a hand smacking a forehead. She stepped inside, shot Harry a glance—just a glance—and then turned straight back around. "You two are impossible," she muttered, already halfway down the corridor.
Ron laughed harder, clearly unbothered. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. But do yourself a favor, mate—stretch before round two. You're gonna need it."
"Get out," Harry grumbled, burying his flushed face into the pillow.
Ron grinned, giving a dramatic salute before sauntering off. "Rest up, lover boy."
The door finally clicked shut, leaving Harry red-faced and groaning softly. Round two, huh? Merlin help him.
The door creaked open with a familiar rhythm, and Harry didn't even bother lifting his head from the pillow. The scent of warm toast and cinnamon wafted through the room a second before Draco's voice followed, casual and low, almost amused.
"You look dead," Draco said, closing the door behind him with his foot as he carried in a tray of food. "Actually, correction. You look murdered."
Harry cracked one eye open, groaning as he tried to adjust himself. Every part of his body reminded him of the night before, the intensity of it, the ache still singing in his muscles. "Feels about right," he mumbled.
Draco smirked, setting the tray on the side table with a bit more flair than necessary. "I brought you food. Toast, eggs, a croissant that I nearly had to duel for, and some tea. You're welcome."
Harry glanced at it longingly but didn't make a move. Draco raised a brow. "Don't tell me you're actually incapable of sitting up."
"Not incapable," Harry said, flushing. "Just… weighing the pain-to-reward ratio."
Draco chuckled, genuinely amused. He plopped down beside Harry, stealing a piece of toast from the tray and taking a bite. "You should stretch more often. I'll consider making it part of our warm-up routine."
Harry groaned again, shoving his face back into the pillow.
Draco leaned closer, lips hovering just over his ear. "Did I break the Chosen One?"
"Draco," Harry warned, voice muffled.
But Draco was grinning like a madman, eyes glittering with mischief. "Oh, come on. This is poetic. You, completely wrecked. The Savior of the Wizarding World, laid low by yours truly."
Harry rolled his eyes but couldn't quite suppress the upward twitch of his lips. "You want to hear something worse?"
"Always."
Harry sighed. "Ron and Hermione walked in earlier."
Draco blinked. "They what?"
"They walked in."
There was a pause. Then Draco burst into laughter. Loud, unfiltered, head-thrown-back laughter. "Oh, that's brilliant," he managed between gasps.
"It's not," Harry grumbled, trying to disappear into the blankets.
"Tell me you didn't just lie there like a blushing virgin."
Harry's cheeks flamed. "I couldn't even sit up! Ron made a comment, Hermione facepalmed, and then they just left. It was mortifying."
Draco wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. "I wish I had seen it. Really, Potter, this is gold. I might frame this moment in my memory forever."
Harry glared at him through the curtain of hair falling over his eyes. "Next time, I'm just stunning you and hiding under the bed."
Draco leaned over and pressed a kiss to his forehead, laughter still dancing on his lips. "There's going to be a next time?"
"Just eat your bloody toast," Harry muttered, but his lips curved up against his will.
They sat like that for a while—Draco snacking with far too much satisfaction, and Harry lying there like he'd survived a war. Again. And for once, the silence between them wasn't awkward. It was warm. Safe.
Harry had barely managed to sit up when Draco tugged at his hand with that stupidly smug smile again.
"Come on, Potter. You've been lying there like a prince recovering from battle. Time to stretch those heroic legs," Draco said, smirking as he leaned closer. "Unless you're scared you'll wobble."
Harry groaned, tossing a pillow at him. "I will wobble, thanks to someone who apparently doesn't know the meaning of restraint."
Draco caught the pillow with ease, casually sitting beside him, much too close for comfort. "You didn't seem to mind last night. In fact, if I recall correctly, you were very enthusiastic."
Harry flushed, ears already burning. "Shut up, Malfoy!"
"No, you shut up instead, Potter!" Draco murmured, voice lower this time—smooth, lazy, dangerous. "Or I might be forced to test your limits again."
Their gazes locked, and suddenly the teasing curled into something heavier. Harry could feel the way the air shifted, magnetic. His breath caught just slightly as Draco leaned in, lips just a breath away from brushing his again.
"Don't start something we can't finish," Harry whispered, heart thudding.
Draco smiled lazily, "Why not? That's half the fun."
And that's exactly when the door burst open.
"Oi! You're still in here?" Ron's voice boomed before his brain registered the moment. Hermione stepped in right behind, freezing at the sight of the two.
Draco pulled back slowly, grinning like a cat. "Well, well. Perfect timing."
Ron looked between them, confused. "Why does it feel like I walked in on something weird?"
Harry, face flushed, grabbed a throw blanket and stood up far too quickly for his sore muscles.
"You always walk in at the best parts," Draco muttered with a wink, walking off as if nothing happened, leaving Harry to deal with a suspiciously quiet Hermione and a thoroughly baffled Ron.
Hermione balanced a tray of food carefully in her hands as she stepped into the room again, her brows pinched in mild concern but her voice calm. "I figured you might get hungry eventually, Harry. So we brought you something. Eggs, toast, fruit—don't worry, I made sure Ron didn't touch anything."
Ron, already halfway through an apple he had snuck from the tray, gave her an indignant look. "Oi! I was just making sure it wasn't poisoned. Basic friend duties."