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They stumble into the cabin, half holding each other up, muscles shaky with exhaustion and left over adrenaline. It’s more of a shack really, the Ministry’s Galleon never stretches far enough. Draco would love nothing more than to let the steam from a hot shower soothe away the pain in his body but the part of him attuned to Harry after a decade and a half of partnership has him summoning their bottle of firewhiskey instead.
Harry sags into the chair closest to the hearth, the shadow of his profile cast in sharp relief where it flickers against the wall, flames making his hair look more tousled with every rhythmic tug of his fingers. Tonight had been a close call. They were outnumbered—five to two, the scent of spellfire still clinging to their robes.
Draco hands him a glass and settles into the other chair—a matched set—as he slowly exhales, rolling his head along the back of the upholstery.
“Do you remember our first away assignment? València?” Harry asks, voice gruff from hours of dueling.
“How could I ever forget? Two weeks watching a warehouse during the height of summer waiting for a shipment that never came. God, we were miserable.” An amused grin plays at the corner of Draco’s mouth.
Their days had dragged out under the unrelenting Spanish sun only finding relief at night, the intoxicating pull of the nightclubs sinking under their skin. Neon lights and pulsing music thrumming through their veins until the early hours of dawn, then fumbling back to their room in a press of hands and mouths propelled by the inescapable thrill of youth.
“We were unstoppable. Don’t you remember how alive we felt? You were—”
“Harry.” More than a name; a lodestar. He’s never found the right way to articulate what Harry means to him. How can he explain it without giving him false hope? He’s everything. His partner, his best friend, his green eyes the one constant throughout Draco’s life; always watching him, bearing witness to every triumph and failure. Draco sighs, lets the silence of what he doesn’t know how to say push between them, create distance.
“Dance with me again?” Harry’s eyes flick to him and away, fast enough to catch Draco’s unease before he can stifle it, tuck it out of sight.
“We aren’t twenty anymore,” he says softly.
Harry draws in a deep breath, nods down to his drink, idly tracing over the pale skin of his ring finger before he says quietly, almost to himself, “Sometimes I wonder if things could have been different.”
“You were three months away from getting married.”
“I should have—” Harry hesitates, cutting the thought off.
“Drinking makes you morose. Come on, let’s go to bed. I’ll sit with you until you fall asleep.” Draco extends his hand, dragging him up. He leads Harry to the bed furthest from the door, propping himself against the headboard and pulling the blanket over Harry’s shoulder. He lets his hand rest there a moment feeling the rise and fall of his breaths, his expression open as Harry’s eyes dart between his, searching. He knows Harry won’t find what he’s looking for but the whiskey seems to lend him an ounce more of courage.
“I had you, once.” He whispers.
“You have me still,” Draco smiles, a tender ache blooming behind his ribs. “I wouldn’t do this job without out you. Sleep, Harry.”
Later, he puts out the fire, rechecks the wards. The night is quiet, the darkness a comfort as he stares sightlessly into it for a few minutes longer, his only reprieve before he goes to his own bed, closes his eyes and sees green.