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‘It does not do well to dwell on dreams and forget to live.’
But dusk breathes his name.
It offers a life so achingly distant.
I immerse myself in dwelling.
He is We are just a dream.
A foolish indulgence in hidden fantasy.
Concealed desire for the unobtainable.
It does not do well to dwell,
To nurture futile wishes
To cater in vain to idle hope.
It is a secret, unspoken.
That the shattered fragments
I use, to piece together dreams,
Are in your shades of grey.
Draco’s fingertips traced the verses as he read, cherishing each line. Shutting his eyes, a 19-year-old Harry Potter sat before him. Sincere, determined, and robust as ever. But his stare, so intensely green, burned into Draco as it always had done.
He understood, now, what burned- the wistfulness, the yearning, the hunger. Barely distinguishable from his own adolescent pining.
“You were rather dramatic at nineteen, weren’t you?”
A mess of dark hair emerged from beneath the duvet, and bright green eyes. They gazed fondly at Draco, squinting in the absence of their notorious glasses. Despite their years together, he was always rendered speechless by Harry.
“Sure, but you’ve been dramatic since conception, so don’t bother trying to make fun.”
Draco shot a smirk towards his partner and ran his fingers through the inky tresses.
“That’s fairly accurate,” He placed a kiss beside the lightning scar, “I like it. You should write another one since you aren’t so lovesick anymore.”
Throwing a muscular arm over Draco’s waist, Harry tugged him further into the sheets, burying his burning face into the dip above his collarbone.
“Reckon I’ve exposed enough of myself for today at least.”
Draco tossed the piece of parchment to the bedside and slid his hand to Harry’s lower back, a coy smile creeping onto his face.
“Not nearly enough, darling, you’re still preposterously overdressed.”