Work Text:
Time stretched into the late hours of the night. An evening full of birthday toasts in honour of Harry had been enjoyed, and now, in a moment of calm, Harry cast his gaze over the lazy sprawls of each of the sitting room’s inhabitants.
Ron broke the silence first. “So. Decided to grow a ferret on your chin, eh Malfoy?”
Draco reacted instantly, shooting him an indignant glare. But before he could reply, Hermione scoffed. “Honestly, Ron, it’s no different than having Crookshanks’ bushy tail on yours!” Draco cackled as Ron spluttered in protest, hand flying up to his own ginger scruff. Hermione’s eyes gleamed; Harry knew that look. “Besides, Draco makes it look rather sophisticated.”
Ron, who’d just taken a disgruntled gulp of his firewhisky, choked.
Draco preened at the praise. “Trust Granger to keep Weasley in line,” he jeered.
Harry decided now was probably the time to step in.
“Don’t worry, Ron,” he said. “No one would call him ‘sophisticated’ if they’d seen all his attempts to grow it out.”
Almost two months previous, Draco’s fortieth birthday had come and gone, leaving him with the impassioned urge to “change something, Harry!”
(Having now reached the forties himself, Harry felt no similar impulse.)
The obvious first step had been to stop shaving. Harry had watched Draco’s smug anticipation wane as days had passed and his facial hair settled permanently into the faintest of five o’clock shadows. Then came the lavishly expensive potion, which to Draco’s shocked dismay left his chin just as sparsely bristled as the original Cleansweep. The disaster of Rogaine followed. Draco had apparently thought that crushing the pills up and rubbing their powder on his face was the appropriate stimulus for hair growth. Not that consuming them was any better; “It’s so itchy,” Draco had lamented to Harry in bed that night, scratching at his irritated chin.
Harry had gone to Diagon Alley after work the next day, stopping in at Slug & Jiggers and chatting at length with the saleswoman, learning exactly how to apply a—reasonably priced—Sleakeazy’s balm for best results. Then he’d come home and massaged the potion into Draco’s face himself, ignoring the mumbled complaints as he did so. Not that Draco had been complaining two days later, when his crows of delight from the loo had startled Harry awake.
By the time Harry had finished recounting the story, Hermione and Ron were clutching their sides in fits of giggles. Meanwhile, Draco had about him a haughty air of nonchalance, belied by the glaring flush on his cheeks as he stared across the room at nothing in particular.
Harry took Ron and Hermione’s distraction as an opportunity to lean over beside Draco’s ear. “You do look stunning,” he admitted, relishing the heat he could feel rising against his face and the unfamiliar scratch of hair against his cheek. “Although... I could’ve mentioned the pubic hair predicament that one potion gave you...”
Harry was already laughing as Draco shoved him aside.