If Draco was crisp folds and ironed slacks, Harry was coffee-stained t-shirts and converse sneakers with rips in the soles.
If Draco was a snowy winter night, Harry was the spring thaw that came with the first morning of March.
If Draco was a crowded bar and drunken dancing, Harry was a well-lit cafe with live jazz music.
If Draco was polite whispering and small talk with relatives, Harry was the roaring crowd at the Quidditch World Cup.
If Draco was the quiet page-turning of a beaten-up old book, Harry was every single Saw movie in one night.
If Draco was soft kisses and caressing fingertips, Harry was rough sex in a questionable bathroom stall.
If Draco was forgotten anniversaries and birthdays, Harry was burnt toast and burnt eggs and burnt everything.
If Draco was hurt, Harry did the fighting.
And as long as Draco was happy, so was Harry.