“When Harry stirs into consciousness, he's so comfortable that he's fairly certain he doesn't want to move ever again. Head pillowed against a firm, soft, gently lifting something, he's warm, secure, and utterly calm. He sighs and allows his eyes to blink open. When he sees nothing but blank darkness, his stomach tips and cold horror grips him for several seconds before he remembers. Remembers the crash and the darkness and being cold and afraid, remembers being half-dragged up here and snarked at by traced letters and remembers that he's lying on a Slytherin who smells like lemons and... is still holding his hand.”

(...) "Breathing in and out with slow, deep tranquillity, he drags the citrus scent into his lungs and smiles, grateful that it's dark and almost certain he's going mad. He doesn't even like it when people try to take care of him. In this instance, he's not sure if it's because he doesn't have much choice in the matter, or because god, it just feels good. A firm hand strokes up and down his spine and he sighs softly, turning his face into the soft fabric. He feels ridiculously warm and safe in the arms of this person. This Slytherin. My Slytherin, he thinks sleepily, and he might just have to obliviate himself tomorrow, but for now, fuck it.”


I dedicate the german version to Kicke, Werner, der Medi Meeresbande + Mik.