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Summary
Loving Harry James Potter was this: soft, extended longing, stretching out forever in his heart, only faltered by the knowledge that having Harry Potter's love would be entirely different. It would be bright and coarse and real. It would be that brash Gryffindor nerve translated into feeling, and Harry's hands would be rough when they cupped Draco's face and his lips would be bitten raw and chapped with cold and perfect, perfect, perfect.
It would be. If he had it.
