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“More wine, love?” Harry smiles as he offers the bottle, Draco’s favourite.
“Thank you.” He always ends up drinking too much with Harry, eating too much, trying to prolong the evening.
It’s stupid. Draco doesn’t have to stretch dinner, doesn't have to try so hard to keep Harry.
Harry married him, didn’t he?
It’s stupid, but old habits die hard, and Draco smiles as Harry tops up his glass.
“How was your day, love?” Harry smiles at him, loving and attentive, even after all these years.
“Not great,” Draco admits; there is no point lying. “I visited my parents.”
Harry asked him, long ago, not to go anymore. They only upset him, he said, and he was right. Harry is always right.
“What did you do that for?” Harry frowns, expression flickering.
Draco drinks his wine; he never watches when Harry flickers.
“They refused the invitation.” As always. Shame; guests would do them good.
“Oh sweetheart,” Harry says, and Draco looks up. Harry smiles, shines too bright, but Draco is eager for the comfort.
“You don’t need them.” Harry squeezes his hand, eyes steady and resolved, unrelenting.
He’s right. Draco doesn’t need them. He has Harry, doesn’t he?
“More wine, love?”
Since when is his glass empty? Has Draco been terribly pitiful?
“Yes, thanks.”
Harry smiles and fills his glass.
“How was your day love?”
Draco doesn’t mention his parents again.