Rewound (Drarry)

Cinnamon Feelings

Which was why when Voldemort had returned only days ago, and Draco had sat there with him on that cold floor in the chilly evening - when he'd definitely had better things he could be doing - Harry had clung to him like a drowning man clung to the shore.

And Draco had stayed.

They'd hidden away there, in that room. The same room that they'd nearly died in, the room that had held so many stories long forgotten. Harry wanted to be one of the things on the towering shelves, hidden away for nobody ever to see.

Draco had let him.

They'd stayed in the makeshift bedroom the room created for them, spending days just lying there on that bed, ignoring any of the outside world or the consequences of their actions, Draco just holding Harry, Harry clinging to him like a lifeline.

Sometimes they'd talk. Draco always let him start. Sometimes Harry would cry. Draco let him do that too.

Harry thought he'd probably startled Draco the first time he did. He'd sort of gone quiet for an hour or so after telling Draco what had happened, and then he'd asked if they could stay here instead of going back to the Common Rooms, and Draco had said yes. They'd just been about to climb onto the bed, because they were both tired, and sure it was at least midnight, and Harry had just started crying.

He never cried, and never in front of someone else. Apart from when Sirius died, but even then, his proper crying had been kept solely for behind closed doors. He couldn't let anyone else see him, because he was their hope, and if the hope seemed hopeless, was there even any hope at all?

But with Draco, it was different.

He didn't try to stop the tears coming, or make his sobbing soundless, or turn away or do anything else. He just started to cry, and Draco had looked up at him, alarmed, before walking over and embracing him in that way Harry had always dreamed about.

They'd laid down then, staying that way for what could've been hours, or days. Maybe even years. Harry wished that it had been, and that ivy would grow over them, keeping them wrapped like that forever - like some lost statue of lovers bound by fate.

Harry had hugged Ginny when they were together, and cuddled her and he'd even accidentally cuddled Ron once in the Common Room when they'd both fell asleep, but he'd never been held so gently as when Draco held him.

It was bizarre if he thought about it, the person who would treat him so carefully would be the same person he'd loathed throughout his formative years. It was funny how people could change, because when Harry blinked open his eyes and moved to look at Draco now, he couldn't possibly hate a single inch of him.

That was when Harry realised that actually, he loved Draco.

It was surprising, he supposed, but not like he would expect. He had always thought realisations of true love would be dramatic, a heart stopping moment and a confession which could turn seas.

But it wasn't like that.

It was actually a warm feeling in his chest, a feeling that spread throughout his whole body. It was like summer, when you were lying on the grass and you could hear people laughing but you didn't know where. The promise of happiness, of goodness of others.

And suddenly Harry understood why love lead people to write sonnets and ballads and songs, to cross oceans and fight wars, to stutter and fumble; because it felt wonderful, and even though Harry wasn't particularly poetic, it sort of made him want to try.

Draco was sleeping. The glow from the lamp on the bedside was painting his skin gold, his eyelashes were long and his face was very beautiful, but it didn't make him look feminine. He looked like a statue. Carved marble, intricately designed - or maybe a fairytale prince, something fantastical that didn't quite seem like it was meant for this world.