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Throughout his entire life, Harry has felt indifferent towards books. He didn't love them as Hermione did, nor did he hate it with a passion as Dudley did. He just… enjoyed reading whenever he wanted to read and didn’t when he didn’t want to read.
But if there is one thing Harry knows for certain, it's that he loves how books can never fail to bring a smile to his fiance's face.
Draco Malfoy.
Sure, they'd been enemies and, sure, they had different opinions about the rights and wrongs in the Wizarding World. But, at the end of the War, they were the closest thing that the other had to comfort. And then they just sort of clicked afterwards.
Hermione was the one to help Harry piece it all together. After all, she was one of the witnesses to how Harry had obsessed over him during their time in Hogwarts and how he knew the things about Draco that nobody else did. Things not even those in Slytherin knew about. And then she was one of the witnesses to how Harry’s eyes were always glued onto him no matter where they were. And how he was the first one to realize that Draco was coerced into taking the Dark Mark because he feared for his mother’s and father’s lives, and he was the first to forgive him.
Ron was also another of the main witnesses, but he was as oblivious as usual. He didn’t even detect something was off until they started dating, and Ron’s reaction went something along the lines of ‘I thought you would’ve dated Seamus first’ and ‘what do you mean I’m not your type’.
Now, like he does every night, Harry propped himself up on the bed using one arm, smiling softly as his fiance thumbed through the pages. He loved this after-scene, or whatever it’s called, since it’s one of the only times he can admire Draco’s beauty without being yelled at.
So, taking this rare opportunity, Harry watched as his lover’s slender fingers traced the lines as he read. His pink lips were mouthing the words as he read along, and his charming, silver eyes were transfixed on the printed ink. Every time he turned a page, his eyelashes fluttered ever so prettily as if he was readying himself for the next piece of information he’s about to take from the book. The light from the lamp on the bed table illuminated his side profile, making him appear prettier than necessary after sex. Throughout all of this, Draco’s eyebrows remained furrowed— which was probably due to some part of the chapter that he found unsatisfactory— like they always did whenever something felt odd to him…
Surprisingly, there was just something about his eyebrows that made Harry want to get a reaction out of him. It's probably because his eyebrows seem to tell the most about him.
Not his eyes, like some romantic dumbfuck might say, but his eyebrows.
Each eyebrow had a significant meaning for Draco’s feelings: both of them up meant he was surprised, both down meant that he was frustrated, both slightly slanted downwards meant that he didn't care and, his current favorite of the year, one arched meant he was trying to be challenging.
And for him to show any emotion at all always made Harry feel like he’d just unraveled a mystery.
And he desperately wants to uncover all of them.
“Stop staring at my eyebrows,” Draco abruptly said.
Jolting but unwavering, Harry grinned. “Why?”
“Because it's bloody creepy!”
He chuckled. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry.”
Sighing and muttering something about how ‘he couldn’t believe he’s in love with a wizard who fetishizes eyebrows’, Draco returned his attention to the book. Smile growing wider now (that, yes! Draco’s in love with him), Harry picked up his wand and conjured a cup of black tea. He handed it to Draco, who thanked him silently. He watched him sip from the cup and read for several more minutes before he decided to speak up.
“Hey,” he said softly. Draco looked up from his book, fingers marking their place in it. “Did I ever tell you how much I like it whenever you read?”
Draco sighed. “Yes, love.”
Harry’s told him this so many times, Draco doesn’t even have the will to reply that ‘he likes it when he reads too’ in a snappish attitude. All those other occasions ended with Harry kissing his lips softly— as if saying he was no longer affected by Draco’s bluntness and wish to continue reading— and continuing to speak anyway. Draco has accepted his fate by now.
“Well, did I ever tell you that you’re the only thing I like about books?”
“Love, that doesn’t make sense. I’m not even a book,” he deadpanned. He rolled his eyes, finishing the last of his tea before placing it on the bed table.
Snickering, Harry replied, “I know. But you’re like something out of a fantasy novel.”
Your prettiness (not to be mistaken for ‘pettiness’), your love, your devotion…
A faint blush accented his cheeks, spreading all the way to the tips of his ears. Body shifting, Draco covered his face with the book to hide his reaction, but it was too late. Harry had already seen his shy smile.
“... I long for the day that you’d stop being cheesy,” he grumbled.
Harry just grinned. “You’ll long for a very long time.”
“Good thing we’re getting married then.”
“A very good thing.”