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"You came."
Harry can't remember the last time he's seen Draco like this-- grey eyes bright and sparkling and full of life, light blonde hair pulled up in a little bun, with a look on his face that Harry swears is reserved just for him, just for the two of them.
"Of course," Draco tells him, "Did you expect otherwise?" There's that slight tug on his lips that Harry has grown to love, but his eyes hold a deep sorrow that confuses Harry for a moment.
There's a hand brushing through Harry's hair-- gentle and loving, as if trying to soothe Harry into slumber, trying to soothe bad thoughts away like it has done years ago when it was just the two of them in a tent in the middle of the forest, or under the bright full moon while watching a hippogriff flap it's wings and a willow dance into stillness. There's another hand on his shoulder-- the grip is strong and reassuring, serving as an anchor like it has been since Harry was eleven, through chess boards and underground chambers and rows upon rows of glowing orbs of light.
There are hushed voices around the room, voices that Harry knows by heart and has witnessed come into this life and grow and learn and become-- voices that even Draco recognizes as he watches and listens silently. Waiting. They're all waiting. Harry's waiting-- has waited for almost seven years for this moment.
The voices grow muddled as Harry's heartbeat grows louder-- as if it's screaming for attention, as if it wants to reach out to every single person in the room and draw them in, hold them, keep them, until it can't. Some voices reach him better than others, but he knows all of them are warm and accepting and coated with more than enough love to chase all his fears and doubts and worries away. He knows they're talking to him. Telling him things that they've probably already told him before or wanted to tell him but never had the right opportunity to. He knows he should probably listen properly but he sees Draco come closer, and Harry is drawn away from voices to grey eyes that seem to sparkle in anticipation.
Honestly, Harry can't be arsed to listen properly because Draco's here, in front of him, and Harry aches with the need to keep him there whichever way he can.
And Harry realizes there's nothing to stop him from doing that now.
He reaches out and Draco answers the wordless question with the way he offers his hand-- cold, freezing, ice-- and the moment their fingers touch, Harry feels the last dredges of his magic explode in flashes of memories and colors of dark and light and love until it settles into a whisper and a sigh and is gently whisked away into another existence by a single breath.
Harry closes his eyes.
He doesn't know how long they're closed but when he opens them again, Draco's still in front of him with that soft smile that reminds Harry of the days spent lying outside and watching as night turn to dawn, of the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the mornings, and of soft sighs and hot, whispered pleas at night...
Of the days he's had to spend without them.
Of how the days had blended into weeks. Months. Years-- too many years.
A long, high-pitched whistle catches Harry's attention. He looks away from the pale grey eyes that he's been starving for since the day he's last seen them close and focuses on what materializes in front of them.
"It's time to go," Draco's warm hand squeezes his.
Harry smiles, feels the bubbling excitement in his stomach, and welcomes it like an old friend. "It is," he agrees.
They step off the platform and into the scarlet train.