Harry loved him as certain things were ever meant to be loved — with a certainty and a promise that he adored him as he was.

Being touch starved is like having an itch, where every fibre of your being wants you to do something about it. And no matter how much you squeeze or apply something against yourself, nothing hits you quite like someone who's just holding you until you're whole again.

Flick, flick, flick — it's the twisting and the turning of a lighter beneath his thumb, with flecks of blue and amber coming to meet him as he was, while Theo stood there and stared here as he lounged where you couldn't find him. Because he was curled with a blanket, charmed to fit him — Illusiont, stealing minutes from a gala that could go on without him.

While the night sweeps a corner and envelops them in its stupor, Harry's itching for attention and for some loving from his boyfriend.

Missing Scene from OoTP: Much like a virus when it infiltrated and began to fester within his body, this anger left him trembling and exhausted on every front. Until there was no longer a fire nor a hurricane when he spoke; but rather, the bitterness of a rattle until he screamed out his window.

It's rare that it happens and it's annoying when it does, but he wouldn't trade it for anything as Harry falls into his arms. So he could feel him, breathe him, hold him like the world — forget that mornings do exist while moments last forever.

In a small crooked cottage, finding root in Devonshire, there lives a witch and her little one and all the love within their world. There isn't much they have between them, but there's enough to chase the cold.

It came as no surprise that Harry was evil in the bedroom, evil in that he was playful and was fascinated with Tom's reactions. Especially when his partner had been edged since forever and if Tom wasn't a saint, he would've flipped to get this over with.

Tom Marvolo Potter is a man of simple pleasures: give him an afternoon of tummy time with his favorite little godson and like clockwork, he's wobbly to every manner of affection.

Curfew fell upon them as they left for the dormitories and fortunately for Harry, his boyfriend was a 'saint.' Or more accurately, a 'prince' and a charming one at that when you considered Tom carrying him through the corridors on his back.

From a sliver of their own lives, as they weather the pandemic: sometimes humor and hugs are what makes it easier to get through.

Above the stirrings of a finger, finding purchase around another's, Harry whispers in a language that moves him a little closer. And even though it's just a word, it's meaningful when Tom hears it: it's luring him from his pillow until he's settled beside his boyfriend.

This isn't often a habit, but he wouldn't mind if it did — as he's tucked here and hugging, watching Harry fall asleep.

Encroaching him as he reads is not the sunlight from the window, neither the heat of the afternoon or the Daily Prophet as he follows; but rather, it's a softness that even he is no stranger to. Barely glancing up from his paper, he's soon smothered by a cuddle.

It wasn't often he fell asleep as early as he would rise from it, but there was something about the sheets and about Tom that were lulling him — further and further down until he collapsed into his pillow, fuzzy and content, with arms wrapped around his loved one.

As winter encroaches and teeters near their window, you hear a breath of laughter — followed by curses for a stubbed toe. Because they're rocking back-and-forth and you could hardly call this waltzing: not with the rhythm off-kiltered and the addition of a hip, shimmying all the way, drawing a frown from the other's lips.

From a moment within their day, as they're getting ready for a date, Draco catches a wave of blushes as they adorn Harry's face.

He's never been one for early mornings and you can't blame him for being grumpy, especially on a weekend meant for catching up on sleep. But fortunately or unfortunately, he's dating a morning dove who has his ways of helping him see the beauty in getting up. Or more accurately, teasing him until Harry can't sleep anymore.

'You'll find another, roughly about your same age. Someone mild, beautiful; someone you'll whisper all your days. Someone who'll tremble at your fervor, someone who'll crave for your touch, someone whose eyes are like a poem that you could wander in for a while. And someone to melt for and to melt to — every time you see them smile.'

You wouldn't strike him as a fool unless you saw him that morning, and you wouldn't mark him as a romantic unless you heard him, heard his breathing: for the papers had been read; for the coffee had been drunk; for his hair was a mess while his partner was undone.