Work Text:
What do you do when something has lost its shine? If it were Petunia Dursley's prized set of silverware, she would make Harry polish it for hours until it sparkled. If it were Harry's broomstick, he'd take out his servicing kit and, with a bit of time and care, it would be better than new.
But how do you restore a relationship when it is no longer shiny and new and has gone — what was the word Draco had used? — lacklustre.
"You just don't know when to quit, Potter. That's your problem."
True, he'd held on to his relationship with Ginny far longer than was wise or healthy, but that was because he had been afraid: of failing, of disappointing people, of being alone. It was different this time. This wasn't about fear. Letting go would be a terrible mistake.
Draco's problem was that he'd never learned that things shouldn't be so easily discarded once they'd lost their lustre, that you shouldn't cut and run as soon as things got a bit hard or a little dull, that things that mattered took work.
Falling in love with Draco had been like stepping out of a cave and seeing the sun for the first time. That initial burst of light had been blinding in its brilliance, all-consuming in its intensity. Harry had always known it wouldn't go on like that forever. It couldn't.
Didn't Draco understand? Sunsets are far more beautiful than the midday sun. The waning yet steady warmth of autumn is more bearable than the blaze of summer. Even after the darkest night, the coldest winter, the sun always rises, spring always comes.
If they just stuck it out, gave it the time and care it needed, together they could make this shine even brighter than it did before.