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Vasil let himself fall back with a sigh, slowing down his pants until he started breathing normally again. His delicate fingers thread through Draco's long hair as they lay together in crumpled sheets.
“Beautiful,” he said as he watched the strands part underneath his hands.
Draco didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say. Instead, he watched Vasil's eyes soften as he watched Draco's hair in amazement. Suddenly, just as quickly as it had come, the softness in his eyes was gone and instead replaced by a hard, considering look.
“I'll be going,” he said with his strong Bulgarian accent and got up. Draco just sighed. He knew this part all too well by now. Vasil would ignore him for days, suddenly show up at his flat or even at the Ministry once, where Draco had secured a job as a secretary, drag him off for sex, marvel over his hair and leave.
Draco honestly didn't even like him all that much, not really. He wasn't quite sure why he blindly followed him whenever he showed up. But he supposed that he liked the intimacy. Nobody wanted to touch a death eater, let alone make love to one. If that was even what they did. Vasil had shown up out of nowhere after the war. The son of the Bulgarian ambassador, rich, handsome and completely oblivious to the war that had taken place so close to his own country. He'd singled Draco out at a ministry visit with his father, whispered sweet nothings in his ear until Draco went home with him for the first time. He was easy, he was uncomplicated. He made Draco feel worthy of affection. And Draco liked making other people think that he was aloof, that he was above it all. In reality, a friendly touch was all he craved. A smile could sustain him for days. He felt like a Hufflepuff. He supposed that that's what being on the wrong side of a war did to you.
Draco sat up in his bed and reached for his hair band. He pulled up his hair and was just about to secure it, when Vasil's voice sounded too loud in his room: “Don't do that.”
Draco froze.
He looked up, right into Vasil's eyes and saw that he was furious. Draco knew that Vasil liked long hair. He was the one who suggested to Draco to let it grow in the first place. And Draco, desperate for attention and compliments, had done it. He'd let it grow. Even though he felt like it made him look like his father and even though he barely could look at himself in a mirror anymore, he let it grow. Just for those small moments where Vasil would look at him like he was the most beautiful thing in the world.
He just nodded and put the headband away.
“You look like a common whore if you wear your hair up like that, it's disgusting,” Vasil spat as he calmly buttoned up his shirt again.
Something in Draco stirred.
“Come again?” he asked, looking at Vasil and was hoping, praying that he'd heard wrong.
“You look like a street hustler with your hair up, I said.”
Draco blinked and something in him snapped.
He grabbed the band again and pulled his hair up. Vasil groaned.
“Draco.”
“No. No. You don't get to say something like that to me,” Draco hissed and flung himself out of bed. He reached the bathroom door and turned around.
“You better be gone when I return,” he ground out and locked himself in.
Breathing hard, he turned on the shower and let hot water wash over his sore body.
Vasil's words were etched into his brain on repeat, and he shuddered.
It wasn't the first time something like that had happened. Just the week before, they were lying in bed and Vasil had started to laugh.
“Last week I told some friends at home about you,” he'd said. Draco had felt flattered.
“They said that I should get together with you,” he'd snorted in obvious amusement and Draco had felt a knot in his stomach tighten. Was this not what they were? Together?
“I showed them a picture of you, and they still said that we should get together,” he'd snorted again, “fucking ridiculous,” he'd mumbled while crossing his arms behind his head in a relaxed manner.
Now, with the steam of the shower fogging the whole bathroom up, Draco had never felt so clear in his head. What the hell was he doing?
He wiped at the mirror in front of him and regarded himself. He let his eyes linger on his piercing grey eyes, and the hair that looked even longer now that it was wet. The dampened blond strands lay softly over his collar bone. In a heat of the moment decision, he grabbed his wand and held his hair in one hand, looking at himself again. He hated his hair. Hated how he looked with it. Hated how it made him look like the Pureblood that he was supposed to be according to his father. He whispered a spell and suddenly, his hair only came down to his ears.
He let out a high pitched laugh and ran his hands through it. He smiled for the first time in what felt like forever. Somehow, it wasn't enough. He whispered the spell again, and again and again until there was no hair left to run his fingers through. It was short enough that he could feel the hair underneath his fingertips when he let his hand glide over his head but nothing more. For a second, he was shocked at himself. He'd never had hair so short it was almost non-existent. Just as quickly as the thought appeared however, it disappeared again and left Draco smiling giddily at his reflection. Somehow he felt much lighter. Somehow, he felt much freer. Somehow, he felt more like himself than he ever had in his life.
It didn't come to as a surprise to Draco that people stared at him wherever he went. They stared at him when he got take-away from the new Thai place in Diagon Alley. They stared when he went to Flourish and Blotts for new reading material and they stared when he came to work. Nobody ever said anything, but their eyes lingered. At work, the people coming to his desk were always polite, but he could see the puzzlement in their eyes when they greeted him and again when they left. Like they were trying to figure out what he was doing and whether or not he was up to something.
Draco wasn't bothered by their staring. He felt completely at ease, finally.
Trust Harry bloody Potter to break his peace.
It wasn't unusual for Potter to come to Draco's work. It was, after all, quite normal that the auror's would be summoned by the head auror from time to time – who, coincidentally was Draco's boss. When the heavy marble doors to the corridor in which Draco sat outside of Robard's office opened, and Potter came in, Draco wasn't surprised to find him doing what everyone else did: he stared.
Draco felt indifferent when everyone else did it. Knowing that Potter's eyes rested on him however, felt unnerving. Like ants running up and down all over his body. It might have to do with the fact that Potter's eyes were intense, always had been. It might have to do with the confidence Potter seemed to be oozing nowadays that made Draco feel on edge when confronted with it. Or – the most likely but least desirable option – it might be because no matter what he did, Draco couldn't seem to be able to get rid of the school boy crush he'd been harboring for days.
Whatever it was, it made his skin tingle.
“What can I do for you, Potter?” he heard himself asking while waving his wand around, preparing some office memos for take-off.
“Your hair,” was all Potter said.
Draco rolled his eyes.
“Yes, Potter, I had long hair and now I have ridiculously short hair, go on, say your piece and then pray tell, to what do I owe the pleasure of being graced with the Chosen One's presence this morning?”
He could feel his heart beating faster. He tried to steal himself for whatever Potter threw his way. The phrases “common whore” and “street hustler” swirled through his mind. Getting louder and louder and louder and...
“It's not.”
“Huh?”
Draco was confused. Actually, judging by the small crease between Potter's eyebrow, Potter seemed to be confused, too.
“Your hair,” Potter explained, “is not ridiculously short. I like it. It suits you.”
Draco slowly opened his mouth, trying to come up with a clever reply, but in that moment the door to the office behind him opened and Robards stepped out:
“Harry my boy, I've been expecting you.”
***
From that day on, Potter seemed to be a constant presence in Draco's personal space. He showed up at least once a day and asked about the strangest things.
“Malfoy, which floo address is this?” he asked and pointed at the long forgotten fireplace across from Draco's desk.
“Malfoy, who do I have to ask about ordering a portkey?”
“Malfoy, do I use the red or blue parchment for solved cases?”
“Malfoy, do you know when Robards will go on holiday? I have something important to discuss before that.”
To his face, Draco still smirked and snarled and huffed. Because that's what they did, wasn't it? On the inside however, he felt like lighting up whenever the door opened unannounced. He would never admit it, but Potter's two-minute visits were making his day.
It was no wonder that he immediately smiled when the door to his corridor opened on a rainy afternoon at the end of September. He was just about to look up from his current task of finishing a letter to the minister, when he heard a sigh and froze.
“Oh, Draco,” the voice mumbled softly, and then there was a hand on his scalp, roughly gliding over the short hair. Draco could feel blunt nails scraping over his head and he flinched. He hadn't seen his former lover in weeks. Of course, he knew that this confrontation would be coming sooner or later, but if Draco was being honest, he would have preferred the 'later' option.
“Vasil,” he stated in a neutral tone and stood up so that they were at the same height instead of hiding behind his desk. Vasil took his hand off Draco and leaned on the counter.
“Now you've done it,” he said sighing, as if he'd tried to prevent Draco from making the biggest mistake of his life all along.
“It's nice that they'll still let you work here. You clearly don't look presentable enough to have such an important job as secretary to the head auror,” he chided and couldn't keep his cold eyes from Draco's head.
“Savage,” he muttered and tutted.
Draco felt himself growing hot. He was just about to say something, anything, when Vasil delivered the final blow:
“You know how you were always desperate for affection? With that hair, you’ll have to be the one to pay people to give it to you.”
Draco swallowed, hard. Despite his better judgement, he felt restless, he felt small and anxious. He felt ugly.
He averted his eyes to the documents on his table and started shuffling them around, when he heard a familiar voice piping up behind Vasil.
“Actually,” the owner of the voice cleared his throat, “I'd rather you didn't go seek affection from anyone else, Draco.”
Draco's head shot up so quickly, he was quite sure that he almost snapped something in his neck. His eyes landed on piercing green ones and he swallowed, hard.
“Potter,” he whispered, unable to get out anything else.
Vasil's eyes opened at the name, and he put on his most charming smile when he turned around.
“Mr. Potter! It is such an honour, Vasil Angelov at your service,” he bowed a little bit and Draco would have laughed at the display, if Potter's eyes wouldn't hold his gaze captive still.
“Pleasure,” Potter ground out, making it obvious that it was anything but. He stepped forward and stood between Vasil and Draco, as if making himself a human barrier.
“I was just coming down to confirm our date tonight?” he looked at Draco intently.
What the hell are you doing? Draco wanted to ask.
Instead, he answered: “Yes, of course.”
Potter nodded. “Lovely, I'll pick you up after your shift.”
Potter turned to Vasil.
“Oh, I'm sorry, was I interrupting?”
“Not at all Mr. Potter. You may interrupt any time you wish,” Vasil said with his smile still plastered on, even though he looked a little unsure now.
Potter nodded.
“Good. In that case you won't mind me asking you to leave, will you? It's nothing personal Mr. Angelov, it's just... you were quite rude to my boyfriend just now and I'd really rather you weren't anywhere near him.”
Vasil spluttered.
“Boyfriend? You can't be serious?”
He clearly wanted to say something else, but the look on Potter's face seemed to make him stop and reconsider. Draco itched to know what was going on, but Potter had his back turned to him, so Draco could only guess.
With a last grunt, Vasil left the room in a hurry and slammed the door behind him.
Slowly, Harry turned around and ran his hand through his hair before grinning lopsidedly at Draco.
“He's charming.”
“Why did you do that, you shouldn't have...” Draco paused and scrunched his nose up, “you didn't have to...”
Potter interrupted him: “I didn't have to. But he's a class A twat and I've been trying to ask you out anyway, so... it seemed like a good idea.”
Draco huffed.
“Always the Gryffindor...” he trailed off before his eyes snapped up to meet Potter’s. “Did you just say you were trying to ask me out?”
Harry continued to grin and propped his elbows up on the counter, seemingly completely at ease.
“Yeah, did it work?”
Draco blinked at him.
“No,” he sounded outraged even to his own ears.
“You haven't even asked me properly, yet!”
Harry's smile had begun to slip, but was back in place.
“Will you go out with me?”
Draco absentmindedly let his hand glide over his head, stroking the short hairs.
“Despite my hair?”
Harry snorted.
“Contrary to popular belief, I don't really care about your hair.”
Draco blinked at him.
“Say that again,” he whispered.
“I don't care about your hair.”
A bright smile spread over Draco's face and he didn't even remember to keep his mask in place. Because Harry Potter was standing in front of him, asking him out on an actual date and telling him that he didn't care how he wore his hair.
He nodded enthusiastically.
“I'd love to.”
***
Ultimately, Draco let his hair grow out a bit again. Not for Harry, not for anyone else, for himself. It was still short at the sides but he let the hair on his top fall on his face in soft waves. He let grow it back mainly because he liked how he looked with it hanging half into his eyes on one side. He also liked the way Harry would run his hands through it softly when they kissed and how he would tug hard on it in the privacy of their bedroom.
Draco started to like what he saw in the mirror. Maybe because he was starting to make peace with himself. Maybe because he started to believe in the way Harry looked at him. Like he was priceless, like he was precious. Maybe he just finally found his own voice.
But it all came down to this: Cutting his hair had been the best decision of Draco's life.