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The fire had burned almost all the way down, the rest of their companions long returned to the little house they’d rented, but Harry and Draco still lingered—Draco, for his own inscrutable reasons, and Harry, because Draco did. Outside of the small circle of golden light still cast by the remaining flames, everything disappeared into velvety black, broken only by the pinpricks of starlight and the faint beacon of a lighthouse far down the beach from where they sat. The night-chilled air smelled of salt, sand, and woodsmoke, and the only sounds were the crackling logs, the wind rustling through the tall seagrass, and the waves crashing invisibly against the shore.
Draco’s face was half in shadow, half dappled in shifting gold, the flickering flames gilding his pale lashes and eyebrows and threading shining ribbons through the pale strands of sea-tousled hair brushing his shoulders. His head was tilted back, watching the sky as Harry watched him.
“It’s almost like music, isn’t it?” Draco looked down to catch Harry’s eye, seemingly unperturbed to find him staring, and Harry wondered if he’d known all along.
“What is?”
“All of this. The sea, the wind, the stars.”
Harry laughed. “The stars don’t make noise, you weirdo.”
“They do,” Draco argued. “You just have to know how to listen.”
Harry raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“No, really! Close your eyes and just listen.”
Sighing, Harry closed his eyes and tipped his head back like Draco had done. Waves, wind, softly cracking branches, and the beating of his own heart were all that broke the night-calm quiet. “Still not hearing it,” he admitted after a few moments.
“You’re obviously not doing it right, then. Keep your eyes closed.” Harry did as he was told, jumping slightly when a hand brushed against his.
Draco’s voice came from much closer; mere inches from his face. “Come on.” He tugged Harry to his feet, holding him steady as he wobbled in his sightlessness before wrapping one arm around his waist and taking Harry’s hand with his own free one. On instinct, Harry brought his free hand to Draco’s shoulder, his night-chilled thumb brushing against the warm skin of Draco’s neck, making him shiver. Harry wanted to ask what they were doing, but he couldn’t—this moment felt made of glass; the wrong word could shatter it into a million pieces.
Draco began to sway, rocking Harry gently to the rhythm of the waves and a melody that only he could hear. Harry was conscious of every tiny point of connection: palm meeting palm, fingers pressing through knit to shoulders and waists, chests so close together that he could feel the static building like lightning.
“Do you hear it yet?” Draco murmured in his ear, and Harry shivered but shook his head. His eyes fell open as he felt Draco’s face retreat, worried that he might have inadvertently caused those first hints of a hairline fracture, but Draco pulled back only far enough to meet Harry’s nervous gaze. Draco’s eyes searched his, unreadable under the gold-flecked reflections obscuring their usually-familiar silver. He freed Harry’s hand, reaching up to cradle the side of his face, stroking his cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. Leaning back in, never breaking eye contact, he whispered, “What about now?”
And as his lips brushed Harry’s, the stars sang.