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People might say that Draco spoils his lover.
That maybe a thousand love notes in a month is too much, or that perhaps the man doesn’t really need his morning coffee every day to be decadent with foamed milk and a sprinkle of nutmeg and charmed steam that forms into little hearts that burst in the air. Perhaps it’s a little extra to shampoo and condition and dry and comb his hair for him each day. Maybe over the top to attempt - attempt - to make every possible curry in the world just to find his very favourite one.
But those people don’t know what it’s like to have Harry Potter devoted to them.
Well. They do. They just don’t know it.
They don’t know the things Harry sacrificed for them, the way he’d lived - starved - to stay hidden from the evil dogging his steps. Or how hard he fought in every confrontation, never surrendering, never giving up hope. No one could know what he felt walking alone into a dark forest, knowing he wouldn’t walk out of it.
No, they don’t know it. They aren’t aware of how fiercely Harry loved them.
Harry’s love is constant, though. The strength of it - the amount of it - never changes, but what requires his love changes. The world doesn’t need him to love her anymore. She doesn’t need him as her guardian. He’d done it once, he won’t have to do it again.
Draco will be certain of that. Never again.
And so, Harry has all this love, this overpowering, blinding, excruciating love.
It fills him until it’s pouring out of his eyes and seeping from his pores. He is a creature of love.
Harry has his family - his new family, that is. His dearest friends who’d suffered with him. The parents who’d brought him in when he was too small and too hurt to ask for anything he’d been denied. The half-giant who’d taken him away from the terrors of that house to the castle he’d call home.
They all receive his love - plenty of it. Too much, his dearest friends might say, as their hearts and bodies are filled with Harry’s vibrant, beautiful adoration.
But there’s still more to give. So much more. Bottled inside of him, spilling over. Flowing out of him like a deep, powerful river that would sweep a man off his feet and carry him away.
The man, of course, is Draco Malfoy.
He’d been easily swept, happy to be taken.
It’s intoxicating, to be loved by Harry. To look into his eyes each morning and be asked how he slept. Did he dream. Was he warm, was he comfortable?
There’s nothing to be hidden from Harry. He wants everything - especially the things Draco least wanted him to see. He wants to touch the brand on Draco’s arm that puckered the flesh and still stings with ghostly pain. He wants the cutting little remarks Draco says without thinking. He wants the socks wadded up at the bottom of the bed that Draco never remembers to wash. He wants the gross wet sobs as they watch a talking pig herd sheep. He wants the hours-long debates over silly things that don’t really matter, but once Draco’s talking, he can’t stop. He wants the over-toasted rice that sticks to the bottom of the pan. He wants the cold toes pressed against his as they settle in to sleep.
He wants it all. He has it all.
Draco is happy to give it to him.
And in turn, Harry adores him.
It’s in his eyes when he listens to Draco, chin on his hand, eyes never wavering from Draco’s face.
His hands as he soothes the aches of the day from Draco’s muscles.
His voice as he murmurs sweet nothings against Draco’s neck.
To be loved by Harry is to be seen and understood and held and teased and to laugh and to smile and to weep and be fed and be touched and be warm and be soft and in awe and in joy and in love - in love, and to live richly, always, and swept away by the torrent of it
Not everyone can hold Harry’s love, but Draco is happy to bear the burden.