dracognition
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Haughtily, he lifted his hand from his eyes and glared. “Oh. You.”
“Um,” said Potter.
“You’re in no place to judge,” Draco informed him. “Did you know half the frames they offer are modelled after yours? You’re lucky we managed to find ones that looked nicer, or it would be worse.” Potter evidently found him too horrible to look at, because he was staring steadfastly out the window, flushed over his ears and down his throat. Draco elected to ignore the cruelty of it in favour of asking: “Good god, why are you so red?”
“What?” Potter asked, his eyes darting to Draco’s before he turned redder, then, “I’m. Well.”
Draco gets glasses. Harry’s very normal about it.
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Draco would like to say that when Potter barged into his office at nine-thirty in the morning, locked the door, and demanded, “Are you in love with me?”, he sneered back and said something quite clever and cutting along the lines of please, Potter, I know we’re not trying to kill each other anymore but I have the good sense and, more importantly, standards not to throw myself at you or maybe at least I see your ego hasn’t gotten any more tolerable since school.
What he said in reality, though, was, “What? I—what?” He tried again. “Have you gone completely mental?”
A botched love potion makes it so that everyone in Harry's vicinity is madly in love with him—everyone except Draco, that is.