A While In The Life…: Quarter To Two On A Saturday Morning

Harry often found that quarter to two on a Friday night- well, Saturday morning- was an excellent time to record one's deepest thoughts.

Usually, everybody in the building was asleep, so there was no chance of disruption; he had his own little secluded corner where he could let himself go; because of the hour it was completely dark, so he could sit by his window and wrap himself in the curtains, so that he couldn't be seen. He would write using the light from the lamppost within a finger's reach of the window- and more often than not he would recall how often he opened the window and hit it, scraping off a bit more of its paint each time. Harry was sure it was a Health & Safety issue.

Tonight, he was stuck for words. He was suffering from writer's block, and couldn't think of anything to put his pen to. (Yes, pen. Harry liked to be awkward.) But then it occurred to him that, when recording one's thoughts, one doesn't have to think about it. One just writes what is in one's head. This is exactly what Harry therefore decided to do; write down what was in his head- which was that he had nothing in particular in his head to write about.

Right.

Well. . . I don't really have anything in my head tonight. Or this morning, rather … et plus. I simply couldn't think of anything to put down- but then I remembered that I didn't have to, I could just write about not knowing what I wanted to write. That's the beauty of it, see; because I'm just flowing my thoughts freely, I don't need to find something. I could just take my empty head and make it form words-

There was a rustle of sheets from the bed on the other side of the room, followed in quick succession by a heavy sigh and muffled groan. Harry stayed perfectly still, allowing himself to gaze out of the window blindly whilst listening to the sound of the duvet being thrown back, and soft footsteps padding across the carpet. His protection, the curtain, was rolled away, and two warm hands snaked around Harry's waist. They rubbed up his stomach and chest before ruffling through his hair, where a larger weight soon rested itself.

"Come back to bed," a sleepy voice whispered in his ear, "it's two in the morning. You don't need to be here... And I'm starting to get cold without you. … Come on. Come on, Harry. Come back to me."

Harry leaned into the soft lips at his ear and let out a contented sigh. But his reply was negative.

"No," he whispered, "I have to finish this."

"No, no you don't. … Do you?"

Harry nodded, once, slowly. The hands released him, only to take his chin and turn it so that he was looking into a pair of red-rimmed, sleep-lined eyes.

"Well then, do it in bed," they talked to him, pleaded with him, "you can have the lights on and everything, and I'll just lie there quietly. I need you there. I need you. Please come back to bed. You worry me."

Harry looked deep into those eyes, and saw their concern as clear as glass. He reached his hands up to trace the contours of the face in such close proximity to him, taking as much care as he would whilst handling fragile glass.

"Alright. Alright, Draco. I'll come back. Ok."

Draco smiled sleepily, and Harry dragged his journal and pen across to him with one hand, taking Draco's hand in the other. He leant forward to place a kiss, soft but passionate, on Draco's forehead. Then he got up and made his way over to his warm, appealing bed, stifling a yawn. Once in, he let Draco get comfortable (one arm splayed across Harry's chest, their legs entwined, his head resting under Harry's arms. He didn't seem to mind Harry's arm moving against him with the Muggle pen and closed his eyes.) before he re-opened the little leather book and resumed writing.

The next few minutes were content and quiet; the only sounds that could be heard were Draco's peaceful sighs and breathing, and the scratching of pen on paper as Harry wrote by the light of a small lamp on his side of the bed. Then;

"What are you writing?" Draco mumbled, his voice heavy with drowsiness, "Anything interesting?"

"No," came the reply from Harry, "nothing. Not anything you'd care to read, anyway."

And then, typical Draco; "Is there anything about me?"

Harry chuckled and lifted Draco's arm to kiss his hand, before replacing it on his chest.

"Yes. I'm writing about how you've persuaded me to come back here, and how you're now invading my personal writing bubble."

"Oh," the blond head replied drowsily, "Sorry." He didn't even open an eye.

Harry chuckled under his breath. This was what he loved.

"It's okay. Look, I'm finished now, so let me up to put this stuff away, ok? Draco?"

Draco reluctantly let his own limbs get moved off of Harry, and received a kiss to the top of his head.

"I love you, you silly Slytherin fool. Don't forget it."

Harry didn't catch Draco's mumbled reply, as he was busy replacing his pen and book to his desk. Eventually he slid back in beside the still, beautiful figure in his bed, and wrapped arms around him. He placed his chest under Draco's head just the way they liked it, carefully, so as not to wake him. Harry then relaxed into a sleepy mood, yawning as he checked the clock- half past two in the morning. He sighed contentedly, for this was the place he wanted to be more than anywhere. Just before he fell asleep, he stroked Draco's hair with the back of his hands. Ten minutes later, when it was sure that Harry was no longer conscious, a whispered sentence interrupted the two sets of calm breathing.

"I love you too, Potter."