The two boys lay there side by side in the grass for a while, fully dressed again but more than slightly rumpled up, watching the clouds drift blissfully over their heads.

Harry's head was dangerously close to Malfoy's shoulder, their hips and waists and ribs aligned  so perfectly it seemed criminal not to touch, their hands just heartbeats apart - but they didn't touch. Not yet.

There was a light breeze in the air which ruffled  the wildflowers and sent a heavenly sweet scent over the scene, and birds could be heard singing softly in the trees above. A small shade was cast in a diagonal blanket over their bodies, and it was cooling and calm.

"This is a good spot," Malfoy admitted quietly, taking in the elements. "And it's ... it's a good day. I didn't think I could have those any more."

Harry's eyes pricked with tears of sympathy. "You should always have good days," he whispered.

I love you, you sad, broken mess of a person, his brain added belligerently. I love you so much I forget to breathe. I want to give you all the good days in the world.

"I want my art stuff," Malfoy announced after a second, staring at Harry with a strange expression. "I don't want to talk about what you've seen in the book, but I - I can't just not draw you, the way you look right now."

Harry's heart fluttered. "How do I look?" he mumbled, slightly scared of what he might hear in the answer. Please don't hurt my feelings.

Malfoy paused. He wondered if he should tell Harry the truth.

You look perfect, he thought, you look like hope, or at least you could do, if you weren't so blurred by whatever it is in my fucking brain that wants to hate you so badly.

You look like all the words my tongue doesn't know, the ones my ears won't let me recognise in your voice, though my heart knows the truth in them so well.

You look like something I'd die for.

But he didn't quite manage to say that. Instead, "You look sun-strewn," he replied quietly. "And vulnerable. You look like you shouldn't be looked at, like it would hurt if I did for too long. You look like you've just been fucked, and like you liked it. You look like ... you look like someone who wants to save me."

"I am that person," Harry whispered. "And you know what I think, don't you?"

Malfoy nodded awkwardly. "I don't want you to say it, though."

An uncomfortable silence ensued, the unsaid three words ringing in the air like a chapel bell. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Harry cleared his throat. "Those paints, then," he offered, an attempt to move on from the awkwardness.

Malfoy nodded. "Accio paints, Accio brushes, Accio art book," he said, not meeting Harry's gaze.

As soon as the items landed in his lap, he opened the book roughly to find a clean page, and began to sketch. Quick, fluid lines over the paper, only glancing up now and again to capture the thoughts on Harry's face.

Harry watched in awe as his own image began to reflect back at him off the page.

"Is that really what I look like?" he asked.

Malfoy ignored him for a second, his hand moving faster.

Then, "It's similar," he responded. "I can never capture much of you. But I get the sense."

"Are you going to write on this one?"

"That's none of your business." Cold, closed off again. Harry could tell he'd gone too far.

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

This particular picture of Harry was drawn with less heavy strokes than usual, that was the first thing he noticed.

The colour was the second.

The Charmed paints he'd bought for Malfoy were evidently recognising the gentleness in his feelings at the moment rather than the usual rage, and this was reflected in the subconscious splash of sea greens and pearly blues they produced on the page, mingled in with the odd blush of pink.

Harry had never seen himself in such a light before. It was bewitchingly pretty.

"Give me another kiss," he whispered, a rush of affection and admiration overwhelming him.

"I'm busy," Malfoy shook his head.

"What, you can't kiss and draw at the same time?" Harry asked cheekily.

Malfoy sighed loudly. "Why do you insist on bothering me when I've told you I'm busy?"

"It's my special day," Harry pouted, and with that Malfoy gave in, leaned over, and kissed him hard. If only to shut him up, he thought.

But as he leaned in, Malfoy left his brush pressed to the parchment, and on the corner of the page, bolts of lightning appeared to shoot out from the tip. Radiant colour spilled over the book, vibrant hues that felt oddly familiar to Harry, and when he saw them down on paper his mouth fell open.

"The paint- it's reading you!" he gasped. "Malfoy! I think I know that feeling!"

The other boy blushed darkly at the sight. "That doesn't... I don't know what that means," he insisted.

"Yes, you do!" Harry protested. "You know it's Charmed to pick up on your emotions, help with your self expression. And look what it's expressed! Don't you see?"

Malfoy glared down at the incriminating page, boldly bright against his feigned indifference. Evidence of his feelings for Potter, evidence of the effect he could have on him.

"It's just colour," he shrugged. "It could mean anything. Don't get so ahead of yourself. I bet it's just a response to a kiss, anyway - if I was to kiss Pansy later it'd show the same thing."

"Oh, that's an option, then, is it?" Harry snapped, irritated now. "And kissing me is the same to you as kissing Pansy?"

He didn't want this to spiral into the usual argument and ruin the lovely day, but still, he was annoyed.

"If you think Pansy can do as good a job of you as I can, then by all means go and fuck your best friend," he continued hotly. "As you keep constantly reminding me, Malfoy, I'm not your boyfriend and I have no claim to you whatsoever. You're perfectly entitled to kiss whoever you like-"

Harry's rant was stopped by the feeling of warm lips pressing against his, and slowly he relaxed against them.

"I am entitled to kiss whoever I like, you're right," Malfoy whispered, leaning his forehead against Harry's in a way he'd always wanted him to. "And who I like - against my will - is you."

***

Later that night, while Malfoy slept soundly beside him (quiet, freshly showered, and warm), Harry's mind drifted back to the vivid colours that had spilt on the page when the two of them kissed earlier.

Why had he recognised the feeling so instantly, the second he saw the colours? Where had he seen them before?

Then it hit him, all at once, like an electric shock.

Ecstasy.

Harry knew those colours and that feeling, because that's what ecstasy had done to him when he took it at the Slytherin Midwinter party.

There was no way Malfoy had been actually high today - he was lucid, present, and seemed every inch his authentic self. He certainly hadn't struggled with getting it up. And besides, Harry knew he would've seen him sneaking a tab or a line if the occasion had arisen.

But the colours meant something must have had that effect on him.

So no, he realised, it hadn't been ecstasy in Malfoy's system.

It had been Harry.

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a/n: thanks for reading! if you're here from tiktok then hello good to have you ☺️

please vote and comment if you enjoyed! love always

~ paradisedraco