Unbeta'd as always, so. Hope you enjoy.
Harry, Draco had observed, loved windows. He didn't make a show of it, but he liked to sit in the window seats of alcoves, or perch himself on the sill and look outside, watching the sky absently. Draco couldn't count the number of times he had silently entered a room and found Harry on the other end of it, standing still, with his hands flat at his sides, simply looking outside, deep in thought. He couldn't count the number of times he had gone to him, sliding silently forward on the balls of his feet, and slipped his arms around Harry gently, one arm on the flat of his chest, the other curling around his waist; the number of times Harry had reacted only with a soft sigh, and leaned his head back slowly as Draco buried his nose in his neck and basked in the warmth of him; the number of times he had felt a burning possessive desire to wrench Harry's mind off of whatever it was he saw out that window, and the pervasive nagging doubt, no matter how many times he was able to turn Harry away and pull the curtains shut around them, that he had failed to do it.
Draco never stopped to look out windows. If he wanted to be outside, he'd be outside. If he wanted to think about whatever was beyond the room he was in, then he'd go there. Harry, he had a feeling, never really moved from place to place as much as carried all rooms with him everywhere. Draco knew, because word of these things leaked out somehow, part of the ever-growing and expanding Mystery that was Harry Potter, that Harry had grown up in a cupboard, and had been shut away from the world by force. Maybe that was why: it had always been Draco's choice to shut himself away; it would always be Harry's choice never to voluntarily close a door behind himself again.