Sunday Morning

Rain had just started to fall when Draco pushed open one of the huge front doors and walked out onto the steps that lead down to the lush green Hogwarts grounds. Breathing in the clean bright smell of fresh rain, he stretched again and started out into the grounds. Draco loved being in Slytherin, but hated being in the Slytherin dungeons. Down where there were no windows, it took no time at all for the air to get stale and heavy, all doing nothing for the boy's mild claustrophobia. Draco was sure he wouldn't last very long in those dark, stagnant dungeons without the open air of the grounds to balance everything out.

It was still too early for most of the students at Hogwarts to be up and around--especially on a Sunday--so Draco was free to roam in peace. Rain glinted like diamonds off of each blade of grass, every leaf in the Forbidden Forest. Before being swallowed up by the lake, each heavy drop gave birth to a hundred tiny ripples, which spread lazily until they folded into each other. As Draco took in the aesthetic effect a good rain had on the grounds, he was in return taken in by the rain, wetting his clothes and turning his hair the color of sun-bleached straw and collecting until it ran in soft trails down his face and neck.

The air was hung with silver as a ray of sun fought its way through storm clouds and lit the far end of the Quidditch pitch. There, Draco saw a figure on a broom, dancing a smooth, elegant waltz across the sky. The blond watched, with only very slight envy, as the broom's dark-haired rider turned sharply to the right and left again, as if trying to weave his way between drops of rain, illuminated--just like Harry always seemed to be--as though God were telling all around him to take notice. And Draco did.

***

Emerging from his study for the first time all afternoon, Draco went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. As he passed through their living room on his way back, Draco tossed a distasteful glance at the laughing redhead sitting on the couch next to Harry.

"Draco, love," Harry called after him, still chuckling. "Wait a second. What's your best and worst day?"

"Excuse me?" was Draco's only reply.

"You know," answered Ron. "What are the best and worst days of your life?"

"I hardly have the desire to play silly games with you, Weasel."

"Come on, Draco," Harry whined. "Please. I want to hear your happiest memory."

"I really don't want--."

"Fine," Ron cut him off. "Your worst then? That's easy, Malfoy. People always remember the bad stuff. Pick a memory."

"Okay, Weasley. My worst memory? Sunday, June the twenty-fifth, 1995. I was woken up by one of the Malfoy owls pecking at my chin. It was carrying a tear-stained letter from my mother." Draco sighed, "I can still remember nearly every word.

"'I wanted to tell you before you heard it from somewhere else. Draco, darling, this afternoon, wizards from the Ministry of Magic arrested your father and have taken him to Azkaban. They came and took him right out of his study. Mere minutes later, they charged into the Manor and stampeded around like a herd of cattle. That filth from the Ministry going through all of our things... They broke your great-grandmother Zelda's vase and even tore the Malfoy Family Tapestry when they were in your father's study. It was horrible, Draco, darling. When I think of what they did to him, how they treated him--,'" Draco cut himself off.

"That was the last time either of us saw my father alive."

Harry remained silent, looking down at his hands guiltily. Desperate to change the subject and lighten the mood as quickly as possible, Ron asked uncomfortably, "What was your best day?"

Having started to turn and walk away, Draco paused momentarily, tilted his head slightly to the left, focusing on an imaginary spot on the wall over Ron and Harry's heads, and answered, his voice barely a whisper, "The same day."

***

Slowly, knowing that he could devote every day for the rest of his life to the task, Draco ran the fingers of his left hand down over the lightly tanned skin, starting at the right temple and gently brushing over his bottom lip before following the curve of Harry's chin and snaking over his Adam's Apple. Turning his hand over, Draco used the back of his slender fingers to trace the path from Harry's right ear back to his collarbone. Seeing Harry's steady pulse flickering under the skin, Draco bowed his head and kissed the point, looking, to Harry, as though he hadn't even noticed he'd done it.

Harry was used to this ritual. Of course, there were occasions when their love-making was fast, desperate, and utterly carnal, having no time for such ministrations, but for the most part, it had always been this way with Draco. That first night they had been together--after a particularly rough Quidditch game--they'd met in an empty corridor at Hogwarts, and spent what felt like days just staring silently at each other from across the hall, fuming in the palpable tension until they simultaneously lunged and met at the lips. Harry had led them to the Room of Requirement, but because he hated the idea of Harry leading him anywhere, Draco had thrown Harry against the wall at intervals along the way, pinning him there with a thigh pressed firmly between Harry's legs and biting Harry's lips in retaliation.

Harry had pulled the door open and Draco had walked to the threshold of a huge room that was totally empty. The walls were a rich cream color, with two borders of brilliant gold weaving elegant designs around the room along the ceiling and at roughly thigh-height. The floor, with tiny specks of gold splashed against a striking scarlet, was a dramatic contrast to the walls, and, stepping slowly onto it and sinking down a little, Draco found that it seemed to be made of some sort of soft foam. Shutting the door, Harry had followed Draco inside and looked around the room he'd created. "Merlin, Potter. It looks like Godric Gryffindor threw up in here."

Harry had stilled Draco's lips with his own and, remembering who had created the room, pushed the other boy hard, knocking him onto the floor. "'Into' would be a better word for it," he would later say, and he was right. Shocked, Draco sank a few inches into the soft material and bounced a little before reaching out a hand and tripping Harry, who fell next to him. The boys wrestled on the huge floor and, after finally having gotten Draco's clothes off, Harry marveled at the effect the dark red had on that alabaster skin, leaving him a bit breathless.

Despite the urgency in each kiss, once Harry was undressed, Draco stopped and looked at him as though trying to commit every curve and ridge to memory. Before making love to Harry long into the next morning, Draco worshipped Harry with his hands. Whether Harry was walking away from him, raising his wand to hex him, stretching on his broom to catch the snitch, or--Draco's favorite thing to watch--just flying alone, Draco had paid close attention to Harry's every movement since the day Draco watched Harry's hand not take his own. Now every muscle, which had allowed six years worth of movement, was laying freely before him. Draco would not to take that for granted, and he never did.

Now, nearly seven years later, Draco kept that vow, tracing each line with slow, purposeful fingers, relearning every inch of Harry's body. Glancing over at the clock on the table beside the bed, he muttered aloud to himself distractedly, "It's Sunday. We've got all day."