"Harry, it's time to come inside."

Spread out on the grass, Harry stared up at the stars.

"Just a bit longer."

"Harry…"

A few silent moments passed before he heard the click of the front door. Of course, Hermione was worried.

He raised the hawthorn wand, tapping each star one by one. Harry had been holding on for so long—steadfast and absolute—but the cracks were forming. He may never come.

Harry let his arm fall to the grass, grasping the wand loosely. The feel of the wood against his palm was a comfort. A reminder. He closed his eyes, breathing in the crisp air. It smelled like him.

"Potter?"

Harry froze, refusing to open his eyes. If he'd heard wrong, and he wasn't there...

Cool fingers traced along Harry's arm, settling to lace themselves with Harry's, the wand cradled tightly between them.

"You always were the sentimental sort."

Harry opened his eyes.

"Draco."

Draco's grip tightened as he leaned down to kiss him. It was so strange and yet so familiar. They'd never kissed before. It was a miracle they'd come out of the war as allies—friends. Harry had understood that Draco needed time. He had his own scars to heal.

Draco pulled back, silver eyes meeting green in silent question.

Harry smiled.

"Kiss me again."