Oooh, if you’re still taking those “I love you” prompts, can I please have drarry + 15? Thank you! ❤️
Thank you for the prompt ❤️
The way you said “I love you” 15: Loud, so everyone can hear.
They fell in love on a Wednesday night like any other, almost without noticing.
It happened during what, years later, they would call “the spring that lasted a full year”. Harry had finally made his way back to England after half a decade of travelling, and they found themselves having dinner with what used to be their individual friend groups and had somehow, at some point, become a unit.
More often than either of them would like to admit, in those weekly dinner nights at whoever’s house had been offered the week before, they would end up in secluded corners, just talking, would have denied it if it weren’t for the fact that they were caught at it a handful of times — Theo walking into the kitchen where they were huddled together, whispering even though they were alone; Ron opening the bathroom door without knocking that time Draco cried into Harry’s shoulder; Hermione and Pansy stumbling into the cellar, where Harry and Draco sat on the floor, sharing a wine bottle, laughing and drinking themselves silly.
They were caught, and teased, and each time it happened Harry would give him a conspiratorial smile so bright Draco almost had to step back from it, but instead bore it stoically, with a flush to the tips of his ears.
The first time it happened, the last remnants of winter still clung to the night. Each time, it would let up a fraction, until buds sprung up in the middle of Draco’s belly, bloomed every time he learned something new about Harry, and then it was spring, it was always spring.
And so, they fell in love on a Wednesday night like any other, at Hermione and Ron’s minuscule flat in London, sitting side by side with the tips of their pinky fingers brushing underneath the dinner table.
They were the last ones to leave, that night, and when they did, the air felt thick with new beginnings and Draco’s side tingled where Harry pressed against it as they walked down the street. It was not raining, the first dry night they had in a while, but still their shoulders were covered in thin raincoats and their heads bent low. Draco knew something was happening, could feel it in the way his heart seemed to be fighting its way out of his chest, but he couldn’t have said what it was.
They fell in love quietly, not knowing it was love. The first kiss, when it happened, surprised them both.
It was me, Harry would say, years later, I kissed you first.
No, Draco would argue, I leaned in, it was me, it was me.
Truth be told, neither of them could tell — all they knew was Harry walked Draco home that night and in the space of a second, in between one moment and the next, their noses were brushing and their lips touching.
They were in love. It was spring.
Nobody could have predicted it, Draco least of all, but if he’d ever dared imagine it in his wildest dreams, he wouldn’t have pictured it the way it truly was. He would have thought, we’ve gone through so much, it will be intense and difficult. It wasn’t. Falling in love with Harry was the gentlest thing he’d ever experienced, easy as breathing, as if it had always been a part of him, a seed waiting to be nurtured and grow.
It took them nine long months to get to that kiss, summer and autumn and winter passed, but once they got there, they moved quick and without hesitation, went from kissing to touching to sleeping in each other’s beds to moving in together in the space of one spring.
They were sure their friends would be shocked, even prepared a speech to deliver at the next gathering, flashcards with several bullet points that ended up being useless, for Draco blurted it out as soon as they stepped into Theo’s, and everyone laughed and laughed and money was passed around to a chorus of About time! Took you both long enough!
It was love — the true kind — even if Harry tiptoed around the word, even if Draco was slightly terrified whenever he stopped to think about how much it meant to him and how destroyed he would be if anything were to touch it.
Fear made him coarse, sometimes. It would make him act up, yell whenever Harry did something reckless because he thought it would be fun and got himself hurt — too often, way too often — would make him break down and cry in the hallway of the hospital after Harry had crashed his bike, or fallen from a great height, or stunned himself while trying to perfect his charmwork.
Made him pack his bags and leave their flat one rainy morning, and that, too, felt like a message. Spring was over. It was time for summer rain.
He didn’t want to leave, but if he was going to lose Harry, he would lose him in a way he could control. I can’t see you die, he scribbled in his goodbye note, because he wasn’t strong enough to say it to Harry’s face, I can’t spend my days waiting for the hospital to call and tell me something’s happened to you, to say you didn’t make it this time.
They hadn’t said the words, so he didn’t write them. It had been six months, the happiest of his life, the scariest of his life, and he loved Harry but hadn’t said it yet and wouldn’t get to, because he was leaving. It was for the best.
Avoiding Harry proved almost more difficult than forgetting him. He seemed to be everywhere Draco looked for months after their break up.
Coincidence. I wasn’t following you, Harry would say, years later.
You were so following me.
I wasn’t, but if I had been, you should be grateful because otherwise you’d never have talked to me again and you know it.
If Harry wasn’t following him, it certainly seemed like it. Draco ended up walking out of dozens of parties and avoiding parts of London he’d previously frequented because he couldn’t stop running into his ex, who he hadn’t spoken to once after breaking up and whose letters he burned every morning.
That was not a sustainable way of life, of course, and it had Draco slightly unhinged, which was how, years later, he’d excuse that night’s actions.
Spring was around the corner again, and the numerous Christmas parties held by their friend group had begun. He couldn’t recall the exact series of events, but he remembered it happened (more or less) as follows:
They were at Blaise’s, there was music, the newest Weird Sisters’ album-
It definitely wasn’t the Weird Sisters, Harry would say, years later.
It was the Weird Sisters, Draco would argue.
So, the Weird Sisters played and Blaise had invited the entirety of London, it seemed, and Draco felt alone and miserable and couldn’t stop thinking about how, the year before, Harry and him had snuck out of the party and climbed to the roof of the house to stargaze.
He could see Harry across the room, looting the snack table, and it still hurt, not being able to walk up to him and hold his hand and knowing the only reason he couldn’t was his own damn pride.
What happened after was crazy, to say the least. Draco couldn’t remember what had driven him to make the decision, all he knew was that he had walked to the snack table, held the tablecloth in both fists and pulled, hard.
Definitely unhinged, Harry would say, years later, laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes. But he hadn’t laughed, when it happened, instead he stared at Draco, wide eyed as every plate crashed on the floor and Draco exploded in front of him.
You are infuriating, Draco had said, then, sounding insane. I can’t stand the sight of you, you drive me crazy, what are you doing here? Why have you been following me? I can’t do this, I hate you, I hate this food, I don’t want to see you ever again.
You said a few more things, Harry would say, years later, but he wouldn’t push because he knew Draco would be embarrassed about that episode for the rest of his life.
When it happened, though, the only thing Harry had said was, Are you done?
And it infuriated Draco so deeply that he turned around and made for the door through the crowd, trembling, on the verge of crying.
But the music stopped, just then.
It definitely wasn’t the Weird Sisters.
The music stopped, and Draco turned around and found Harry standing on top of the table Draco had just ruined, looking so upset and beautiful and hurt that Draco couldn’t leave the room after all.
Don’t go, Harry had said, then, breathed it out. Don’t go, I —.
It wasn’t just the music. The room had gone quiet, everyone staring at the two boys making a scene, but Draco almost wasn’t aware of them, felt them fade out as his entire being focused on Harry, the face he knew so well, and, for once, listened.
It’s been hell, why haven’t you answered any of my letters? I — And then he said it, loud, so everyone could hear. I love you. I loved you and I love you and I never wanted to hurt you, please don’t leave, please don’t go, please —
I didn’t beg that much, Harry would say, years later.
You did, Draco, Ron, Hermione, Theo, Pansy and Blaise would remind him, until he sighed and admitted Right, I did, I did beg very much.
But it was alright, in the end. Because after a very long winter came spring and with it, a love that had been put on hold bloomed again, brighter and stronger than ever before.
And then we got married, Harry would say, years later. And Draco would smile.
