Work Text:
Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should in despite of light keep us together.
—John Donne
Forty days after the second (and, one hopes, final) fall of Voldemort, Draco has neither emerged from hiding nor relocated from this slightly run-down flat in a Muggle neighborhood. He doesn't get the Prophet anymore, so he received the news of the Final Battle only when Granger showed up at his doorstep to inform him of it and ask if he wished to be released from the Fidelius Charm.
"Voldemort is—?" he'd asked.
"Destroyed," she said. "Utterly."
"Potter?" he ventured.
"He cast the spell."
"Is he—"
"He's in hospital."
"He's—"
"He'll be fine. It's just for observation, to make sure he wasn't injured in some way we can't immediately tell."
It wasn't until he started breathing again that he realized he'd stopped.
Granger smiled at him. "Would you like to go to St. Mungo's with me? I'm sure Harry would—"
He shook his head. "No."
"But—"
"I don't need that kind of publicity, Granger."
She drew back with a sharp frown. "I thought you—"
"It's none of your concern what I anything."
She glared. "Clearly I shouldn't have assumed." And she'd Disapparated.
She hasn't been back since. Neither has Potter.
* * *
It's still amazing to him that he's had any recent contact with Potter at all. When he left Hogwarts, he half-expected to die in the service of the Dark Lord, or that Potter would die in battle. Or both, really. He expected never to see Potter again. The night at the lakeshore played out over and over in his dreams—Potter's hard eyes and the tension of Potter's fist knotted in Draco's tie and the warmth of Potter's breath against Draco's lips. In Draco's dreams, Potter didn't step away, but pressed forward and sealed his lips against Draco's, tasting of lust and hope and damn-it-all courage, and Draco fell into him, body and heart. In his dreams, he didn't spend the night alone at the edge of the lake, watching the water swell with the movements of the Giant Squid, but spread Potter—Harry—against the grassy bank and explored every inch of him, lingering over the groove in his forehead, the mark of fate that tantalized and frightened Draco, then tracing reverent hands over face and shoulders and chest (too thin, Potter always was too thin) and lower. Not so reverent here—sometimes rough, sometimes gentle, touching Potter in secret places no one else was privileged to know (in his imagination, it was so—Potter was his alone, always had been his, always would be) and teasing or coaxing or jerking him toward orgasm until Potter cried out with the ecstatic agony of release, and Draco wanted to hear that sound forever, for as many tomorrows as Potter was willing to give him.
And then he woke up alone, and empty, and Marked.
* * *
Life in the small flat is dull, but not particularly difficult. Draco has learned to keep his use of magic to a minimum, lest Death Eaters somehow trace his magical signature and track him down in spite of the Fidelius Charm. It likely isn't as much of a threat now that Potter has offed the Dark Lord, but he didn't think to ask Granger about the state of the Death Eater ranks, so he keeps to his reduced-magic habits, just in case.
The Dark Mark remains on his arm, ugly as ever. He'd hoped that perhaps, with the death of Voldemort, the Mark might disappear, or at least fade. But no such luck. It hasn't burned since the Final Battle, though, so that's something. The magic connecting the Mark to Voldemort is gone, but the Mark, it seems, is permanently burned into his skin. He isn't all that surprised. The Dark Lord didn't do anything by half-measures.
Well, except, of course, for that time he sort of died, but not quite.
It's been six months since his trial, six months that he's been sequestered here, under the protection of Granger's Fidelius. He's exhausted the flat's meager selection of books, and Granger hasn't been around for nearly six weeks to bring new ones. She once offered to bring him some Muggle device that she claimed showed moving pictures with sound—"You might find Trinny and Susannah worth a watch," she'd commented, obtusely enough, with a smirk that made Draco narrow his eyes at her—but even his rejection of the Death Eaters isn't enough to make him embrace the full Muggle lifestyle. He no longer has even Potter's occasional, awkward visits to distract him.
It disgusts him that there's one chair in the flat that he unwillingly thinks of as "Potter's chair." On days when Potter would deign to stop in and take tea, he always sat in that one burgundy-upholstered chair by the window, where the light glinted on his glasses and his face was cast partially in shadows, delineating the sharper edges and cleaner lines that marked the difference between boyhood and manhood in Harry Potter's face.
But the shock of messy hair never changed, nor the hypnotic green of Potter's eyes—eyes that always seemed to be searching for something, but Draco was never sure what. Certainly if Potter were searching for naked lust, he'd have been hard-pressed not to find it lurking in Draco's face and manner. Some days it was all he could do not to grab hold of Potter and pin him to the wall or the floor or any convenient surface, really, and get to know the man from the outside in. But although at times he thought he saw an answering spark of interest in Potter's eyes—especially when Draco knew he'd been caught staring for too long—it was never more than a glimmer, quickly concealed, and never clear enough for Draco to risk this hard-won trust, this potential for more. Besides, everything Draco felt was already out in the open, thanks to the Ministry hearing and the painstaking testimony of Granger and the werewolf, not to mention Draco's own foolish selection of a protection spell based on love, for fuck's sake. He might as well have Potter's name in a heart tattooed next to the Mark—just as ugly. Just as deadly.
So he let Potter sit in the wine-colored chair in a patch of sunlight and slurp his tea and eat the biscuits that appeared in the pantry every week and leave crumbs all over and natter on about nothing and everything—about the Ministry and the war and Granger and the Weasel and the Weasel's missing sister and Draco's cousin Nymphadora and the werewolf, and about everything except the real reason Potter kept showing up on his doorstep.
He sits in Potter's chair, leans back, and closes his eyes against the sun.
* * *
There are occasional games Draco plays with himself to keep from going stir crazy. For instance, every week he tries to guess what food will magically appear in the pantry or in the icebox. Generally, it's the same things over and over—bread, cheese, pumpkin juice, tea biscuits. Sometimes there are pleasant surprises, though, like strawberries or almonds or muffins or blackberry jam. Granger had to teach him how to cook when he first came here, and he's proven surprisingly adept now that he understands the terms and measurements in the Muggle cookbooks on the shelf. It's a little like potions, only tastier and slightly less hazardous to life and limb.
Sometimes he plays "what if" games with himself. What if he hadn't joined the Death Eaters? (Easy answer: His father would have disowned him, possibly been commanded to kill him. Although Draco never doubted his father's love, such as it was, he also was never ignorant of his allegiances.) What if he hadn't found the spell to communicate with Ministry Intelligence? (He likely would have died an unlamented Death Eater, and almost certainly never would have found the courage to save Potter.) What if he'd never met Harry Potter? (He stops, shakes his head. Some things are impossible to contemplate.)
He doesn't like to admit it, but he's spent a lot of time masturbating in the last six months, imagining his hands belong to someone else, that he can feel the weight of another body pressing into his, that the harsh breaths he hears are panted into his ear by a mouth not his own. He hasn't wanked this much since he was 16 and surrounded by a school full of other teenagers, including dozens of fit young men poised on the cusp of adulthood. Then, his thoughts danced from boy to boy like a bee in a field of flowers. Today, there is one. Just one.
Granger made sure the flat was stocked with parchment, ink, and a quill, so he can jot notes or write letters (if he were foolhardy). He thinks sometimes about writing his memoirs, but suspects the wizarding world has got its fill of Death Eaters. Besides, there's little he could reveal that hasn't already come out during the Ministry hearings, excepting, perhaps, which way he hangs. And someone doubtlessly could bribe his tailor easily enough to get that.
After all, the rest of wizarding society has its own sorts of games.
* * *
It's odd to be so cut off from the rest of the wizarding world. Even when Aunt Bella kept him trapped in his father's secret library, at least he could count on the thrice-daily appearance of house elves bearing food, and occasional checkups from Bellatrix herself to determine his progress. Even six weeks ago, he knew he could expect visits from Granger at least weekly, and occasional visits from Potter, the only person to whom Draco had allowed Granger to reveal his secret, and who always seemed a little surprised to find himself on Draco's doorstop once more. But he would take his tea and settle into his chair without the slightest hint of unease or discomfort.
Potter always seemed a little reluctant to leave, often hovering in the open door, as if waiting for Draco to say something or do something. But Draco suffered for years after the last time he knowingly opened himself up to Potter, so he held off, stepped back, and allowed Potter to leave, time and again.
Sometimes he wishes he had Potter's courage. Or just his ability to survive. He's not sure he would survive another chance at Potter.
Not that he wouldn't like to try.
* * *
Forty days after Granger's last visit, just before sunset, three knocks sound at the flat's door, and Draco freezes before making his way across the living room. When he opens the door, Harry Potter stands glowering at him, looking disheveled and strangely alluring in ratty Muggle clothing. Draco stares.
"Malfoy," Potter says.
"Potter," Draco returns, not even attempting to work up a sneer. He's been so long without human contact that the very presence of another person leaves him feeling at sea. Even the deeply ingrained Malfoy manners desert him, and he merely stands in the doorway, feeling blank.
Potter stares back for a few moments, then raises his eyebrows. "May I come in?"
"Oh, I—yes. Of course." He nearly bites his tongue. There is no of course about it. This is his home. There's no law saying he has to invite Potter in. Unless there is now, given Potter's newly reclaimed status as Savior of the World. Draco hasn't exactly been keeping up on wizarding news since the fall of Voldemort.
Potter moves closer, as if to slide between Draco and the wall, and halts with his chest nearly brushing Draco's. Startled, Draco lifts his eyes to meet Potter's and sees curiosity there, speculation. Interest. And maybe, in the half-instant before Potter lowers his eyelids and moves past Draco, a hint of desire, buried deep.
Draco shuts the door and closes his eyes briefly, his back to Potter. He turns around when he is relatively certain his mask is back in place. "I hear you've finally rid the land of the scourge of Voldemort."
Potter is standing in the middle of Draco's living room, and makes no move to sit down. "You do know, then."
Draco sneers. "Even we shut-ins get news occasionally, Potter."
"From what I hear, it was your choice to remain a shut-in."
"Perhaps it was my choice to remain hidden from Death Eaters still at large."
Potter shows no sign of feeling abashed. Not that Draco had expected him to.
"That didn't mean you had to stay here," Potter replies, spreading his hands in a quick, angry motion.
"What's the matter, Potter? Don't care for my sense of interior design?"
"I don't give a fuck about your interior anything," Potter snaps, then, abruptly, clamps his mouth shut and blushes.
Draco lets the silence hang for a few moments, then replies, slower, calmer, "This isn't about the Fidelius Charm, is it?"
Ever the Gryffindor, Potter meets his eyes. "No."
Draco waits him out and, not surprisingly, Potter speaks to fill the silence. "Hermione said you wouldn't come to the hospital," he accuses.
Inwardly, Draco cringes. "I didn't think it was a good idea."
"You didn't want to see me."
"It wasn't like—"
"It was, Malfoy. It was exactly like that."
"For Merlin's sake, Potter, do you think I would have been welcome there? The 'reformed' Death Eater just popping in for visit to the fucking savior of the—"
"I would have welcomed you."
Draco's jaw snaps closed. Potter just stares at him, almost defiantly, and finally, Draco manages, "Were you even conscious, Potter, because, you know—"
Potter growls, and before Draco even realizes his intentions, Potter has lunged forward, pinning Draco to the door with his hands on Draco's shoulders. "God, Malfoy, I am so fucking tired of this," he says, and then his mouth is on Draco's.
It's a little surreal to Draco at first. He's thought about this so many times, dreamed about it, even thought it in the past already when he'd had amnesia and dreams somehow became reality in the labyrinth of his mind. It was as if he'd willed knowledge of Harry Potter's kiss into his past.
He always figured Potter would kiss like this—aggressive, a little awkward, as though determined to be forceful, yet unsure of his welcome. When Draco opens his mouth under Potter's, Potter gasps and Draco can taste a hint of the coffee Potter must have consumed that afternoon, bitter and slightly stale. He closes his eyes, feeling Potter's fingers flexing on his shoulders, digging deeper, almost clinging, even as Potter's palms hold him fast against the door. Potter's tongue strokes his, curling around it, drawing it into Potter's mouth, sucking. Draco gasps and feels himself grow helplessly hard against Potter. Potter's hips press into his, and the answering hardness he feels there makes him moan.
Potter detaches himself from Draco's mouth and leans forward, pressing them together from shoulder to knee as Draco shudders and Potter whispers into his ear, voice low and rough and urgent. "Wanted you for so fucking long. Want to make you come so hard you don't remember anything but me."
"Yes," Draco gasps. "Yes." He knows what it's like to remember nothing but Harry Potter, and thinks it perhaps not so dire a fate.
Draco turns his head and finds himself eye-to-eye with Potter, green eyes burning with strange fire behind the barrier of his glasses. This close, Draco can see the pores across Potter's flushed cheeks, his spiky black eyelashes, the ragged edges of the scar that still cuts across his forehead. How Draco once hated those eyes, that scar and everything it stood for—power, sacrifice, opposition to all Draco's father raised him to believe. He'd hated everything Potter ever did, every word he ever spoke. Hated the way Potter said his name, even the way he breathed.
He closes his eyes and breathes Harry Potter's breath. And when Potter whispers "Malfoy" against his jaw, Draco is thinking about anything but hate.
Draco shudders as Potter's tongue drags along his jawbone, and his hand alights on Potter's waist, touching the soft cotton of a worn t-shirt, warm from Potter's body. He strokes his hand upward along the length of Potter's back, feeling tense muscle, lean strength, ribs that are still too prominent. When he tugs the shirt out of Potter's waistband and presses his fingers against warm skin, Potter's hips jerk against his, and Draco moans again as Potter sucks at his neck, hard. "Oh, God, Potter, you—"
Potter has one hand curled tight around the back of Draco's neck, the other pressed to Draco's chest, the heel a maddening pressure against his nipple. Potter's leg slides between Draco's, and it's all Draco can do not to scream out how good it is, oh, God, right there—
Potter bites his neck, and Draco bucks hard against him, riding Potter's thigh, feeling sweat trailing down the line of his back, his balls tightening, his cock so hard he can't think. He gasps and moves, thrusting against Potter again, again, again, as Potter's hand slides behind him and onto his arse, gripping tightly. "Ah!" Draco cries as Potter pants onto his collarbone, rubbing himself against Draco's hip as Draco moves hard, harder, harder.
"Potter—" he says. "Almost—almost—"
Abruptly Potter pushes away, breathing hard and obviously grasping for control.
Before he can even think, Draco shouts, "Bloody hell, Potter, not again!"
Potter gapes at him from just outside Draco's reach, his face flushed, eyes brilliant green and cloudy with lust, shirt untucked and glasses askew and hair…well, much more rumpled than normal, at any rate. Draco has never wanted anything more in his life than he wants this man, right at this moment—this gorgeous, reckless, irritating man, who's staring at him in shock.
Draco feels something twist, hard, inside of him at Potter's blank look—at the realization that Potter clearly doesn't understand what this means to him, how much of himself he's risked to get to this point.
"Do you know," Draco says, not certain where the words are coming from, "how many times I've watched you walk away from me now?"
Potter's eyes widen.
"You turned down my offer of friendship. You turned down—whatever it is we had seventh year."
He watches Potter take a deep breath.
"You come here for tea, again and again, and all you do is eat biscuits—and leave."
Potter's eyes snap at that. "Look, Malfoy—"
"If you don't fucking want me," Draco continues relentlessly, his voice rising with every word, "then stop making me think you might, then taking it away!"
There's something tense and angry and wonderful in Potter's expression as he reaches to grab Draco's hand and, with one sharp tug, pulls Draco against his chest. "You idiot," he murmurs, and kisses him.
It isn't like before. Before, it was all heat and urgency. This is slower, an exploration, an invitation. "I want you," Potter whispers against his lips. "Of course I want you—but I want this to be more than just a quick shove up against the door." Potter's fingers curl around Draco's, holding their hands clasped between their chests. He can feel both Potter's heartbeat and his own, thumping in counterpoint as Potter's mouth moves slowly against his, lips warm and slightly rough in texture. The fingers of Potter's other hand have settled on Draco's cheek, lightly, just holding Draco still while Potter kisses him in fleeting touches. Draco's breathing hitches, and Potter sighs into his mouth.
"Potter," Draco says, and why does his voice sound frightened? "Potter—"
Potter's tongue is slow and deliberate against Draco's. "Malfoy," Potter whispers, pressing his lips to the corner of Draco's mouth, then lifting Draco's hand to his lips while Draco watches, helpless. The feel of Potter's mouth against the back of his fingers makes him shiver, but the insinuation of Potter's warm, rough tongue between his fingers nearly makes his knees buckle. Potter's eyes hold his, a challenge and a promise all at once. "Draco," Potter says. "I'm not walking away this time."
Harry Potter, Draco knows, has a habit of keeping his promises.
* * *
Later, Draco will reflect that perhaps the living room floor was not the most conducive spot for his first time with Potter, but it certainly is handy, and requires the least amount of effort to get there.
It's an especially short fall when he's already on his knees.
Draco lowers himself in front of Potter, their gazes still locked, a sense of wonder dawning in Potter's eyes as he realizes Draco's intention. Draco presses the heel of his hand against the bulge in Potter's trousers and watches Potter's eyes flutter closed. Impatient, Draco flips open the button on Potter's trousers and tugs down the zipper, his fingers eager to discover Potter after years of memories, dreams, and relentless fantasies.
Potter's cock is hot and throbbing in his hand. He curls his fingers around the shaft, brushing his thumb against the damp head, and strokes. Potter's response is a groan that seems to vibrate through Draco's own cock, making him shiver again, even more so when one of Potter's hands settles on his head, trembling fingers sliding through his hair. Draco leans forward to take Potter's cock into his mouth, and Potter's whole body jerks. It's almost a surprise to realize that Potter tastes so normal—salt and heat and helpless desire. He strokes his tongue along the underside, then curls it around the head, sucking lightly as one hand continues stroking the shaft and the other presses delicately against Potter's balls. Potter makes a low, unintelligible sound and his knees tremble. Draco experiments, sucking momentarily harder, and is rewarded by Potter's exclamation of "Ah!" accompanied by two hands clasped to Draco's skull, not holding him close, but trying to draw him away.
"No," Potter gasps, "no, Draco, going to—"
Draco eases away, settling back on his haunches, one hand still curled around Potter's cock, and looks up. Potter's face is deeply flushed and he is panting. "Christ, Draco." He falls to his own knees and without finesse presses his mouth to Draco's, his tongue surging forward even as his hands make short work of Draco's clothes. Before Draco is fully aware, he finds himself on his back, absent his shirt, while Potter's frantic, shaking hands yank Draco's trousers and pants off his hips. Draco can't remember ever being this hard.
But when Potter seals his lips around Draco's erection, he realizes he didn't even know the meaning of the word hard.
Potter's tongue has more to recommend it in sheer eagerness than real skill, but Draco's not about to hold that against him. Being locked in one's childhood home for months on end teaches a person to be grateful for what he can get. And when what he can get is the man who's haunted his fantasies for years, well, Draco is already about as grateful as a man can be.
"Fuck, Potter," he groans.
"Harry," Potter whispers against his desperate skin. "Say my name."
"Harry," Draco gasps, and Potter lifts his head and smiles beatifically. He sits upright to peel off his own shirt and toss aside his glasses, then crawls up Draco's body, sweet friction in every movement of his body against Draco's, before diving into Draco's mouth for another long, exploratory kiss. Draco curls his arms around Potter's back, reveling in heat and wiry strength and—god—the pressure of Potter's weight against him. Potter's hips are moving purposefully against his, and the repeated brush of their cocks sends such shocks of pleasure through Draco's body that he's not sure he'll be able to last much longer if Potter keeps moving—just—like—that—
Suddenly, Potter stops, and Draco manages to pry open his eyes to see Potter gazing down at him with wonder and eagerness and pure, unadulterated lust. "Can I—" he gasps, looking frantic and frightened all at once. "Is it—can we—"
Now it is Draco who laughs, quietly, joyfully, as he draws Potter's face down to his and kisses him. To think that he's the one who's brought Harry Potter to this state—to know that Harry Potter wants him so much that he's shaking with it— "Fuck me, Harry," Draco murmurs against his lips, and Potter shudders, then kisses him fiercely.
"Lubricant?" Potter murmurs when he breaks the kiss.
"Bedroom," Draco says.
Potter Summons it wandlessly, a feat that somehow leaves Draco even more turned on, if that's possible at this point.
Potter's explorations with his potion-slicked fingers are slow and careful, for which Draco is grateful. The first gentle entry of one slippery finger makes him shiver, and the feeling only intensifies as Potter moves that finger deeper, adds another, curls the tips, strokes, and oh, Draco hadn't forgotten this sensation, but memory pales greatly in comparison. Having found the right spot, Potter strokes again, and Draco jerks helplessly, whimpering. Potter grins in sheer delight, bending to kiss him again. Draco draws Potter's tongue into his mouth hungrily, sucking hard, and now it is Potter's turn to whimper. Draco arches against him, and Potter groans, tearing himself away from the kiss. He sits back and tries to bring his harsh panting under control as Draco watches him, knowing his desire is naked in his eyes.
Draco continues to watch as Potter reaches for the lubricant again, coating his fingers and spreading it over his cock. Potter's no bigger than one would expect from a wizard of his not-terribly-impressive stature, but Draco's never wanted anything more. When Potter crawls between Draco's knees once more, Draco reaches down to grasp Potter's cock. Potter shivers uncontrollably as Draco strokes it once, twice, and then guides it into position.
For all Potter's careful preparation and the practiced angle of Draco's hips, Potter's first slow inward thrust burns. Draco can't control his gasp of pain, but when Potter tries to withdraw, Draco clamps his legs more tightly around Potter's hips and holds him still. "It's just—been a long time," he manages.
Potter kisses him, trembling as he holds himself still. "For me, too," he says. "Just—tell me when—"
Draco takes a breath and moves his hips slightly. Potter's erection is thick and heavy inside of him, its presence somehow both shocking and a homecoming of sorts. This is what he's wanted. This is what he's needed. This is what he thought he'd never have, not in a million years, not as long as men like Potter fought the Dark and men like him fell in with it. "OK," he whispers, and tries to tell himself that it is, really, in all ways. "OK."
Potter braces himself above Draco and draws himself slowly, slowly out, before pushing back in. The burn is still there, low, less intense, but Draco groans at the heady sensation of being filled once more, and by Harry Potter, whose face is sheened with sweat above him and whose eyes are glowing with passion and, Draco thinks, other things Draco's never counted himself lucky enough to hope for.
Potter's thrusts pick up speed, and Draco throws his head back, reveling in the heat of Potter on top of him, the force of his movements, the eerie sense of completion he's never felt before, not with anyone else. He curls one hand around his own erection and gasps at its sheer sensitivity. From Potter's inarticulate cries above him, he guesses this might be one of the shortest sexual encounters of his life, but given how close he is to coming already, that's not exactly going to matter.
He slides his other hand onto Potter's backside and holds on, loving Potter's strength, Potter's forcefulness. His entire body is thrumming with tension, and if he doesn't come soon, he fears he could very well die.
Potter's movements are becoming jerky, his rhythm erratic. His hips slam against Draco's, and Potter groans. "Love you," Potter gasps. "Love you—so long—so—"
Then Draco's coming with such force that it almost feels as though everything inside of him has come out, through his cock, through his skin, through his mouth. And then he realizes it has—that he is chanting, "I love you, I love you, I love you," and Potter is shuddering against him. Finally, Potter collapses against him, and Draco doesn't even mind the hot, sticky weight of him, not when Potter's eyelashes are fluttering against his neck and Potter's lips are soft against his shoulder as their breathing slows.
Draco stretches, feeling Potter wriggle on top of him but ultimately stay put. Every part of Draco's body is going to ache in the morning, he can already tell. And the rug burn—he rolls his shoulders and winces.
"Next time," he ventures, murmuring into Potter's ear, "we'll have to try this in a bed."
There's a moment of silence, and Draco feels the old fear start to take hold. Then he realizes Potter is chuckling against his neck. Potter props himself up on his elbows over Draco and drops a kiss on Draco's lips, before saying with a sly smile, "I don't need to be invited twice."
Draco thinks perhaps he has only just begun to discover how much it's possible to love Harry Potter.
* * *
Later, as they lie together in Draco's bed, Draco listens to Potter's slowing, satisfied breathing and feels a momentary rush of alarm at all that hasn't been said. "You know, I'm not going to be your dirty little secret anymore, Potter. I won't be—"
Potter kisses him swiftly, then again, lingeringly, his palm resting over Draco's heart. "No," he says, "you won't be. No more hiding. Not for either of us."
It's growing late, and Draco can see that the fading sunlight that crept through the blinds when they came in here has been replaced by the glow of Muggle streetlamps. He feels Potter's fingers begin to trace the edges of his scar, reverent in their slow exploration. Draco lifts a hand and lays it over Potter's. "Harry. Stay with me?"
Potter's eyes are bright as he turns his hand to weave his fingers through Draco's.
* * *
When Draco wakes, Harry Potter is snoring next to him, and the early morning sun is slanting through the dusty blinds. It's going to be a beautiful tomorrow.