Work Text:
Draco closed his eyes, shaking his head to clear it. Surely, he thought to himself, he was seeing things. Upon opening them again, however, he found that the scene before him had not changed. He was, indeed, looking at Harry Potter. However, this was Potter as he had never looked before.
In the four years since the war had ended, Potter had grown into himself. Although he was still tall and thin, he no longer had the malnourished skinniness to him that he had carried throughout most of their school days, nor the hollow pallor of the months immediately after the war. Instead, he had developed a light layer of muscle, and his skin carried a constant bronze glow as though he spent a great deal of time outdoors. He had also done away with his habit of wearing oversized clothes that looked like he had picked them from a crumpled heap on the floor, instead opting for simple but stylish jumpers and jeans, with the occasional blazer thrown in, or well-fitted suits for formal Ministry occasions. He’s also updated his glasses, moving away from the signature round frames to a more stylish rectangular pair. All in all, he’d become quite visually appealing, Draco was forced to admit. These changes, however, Draco was accustomed to. He saw Harry around the Ministry frequently, after all, and they had overlapped at enough social occasions that they had become something resembling friends. What was new, however, was…
“What happened to your hair?!” Draco found himself blurting out as a grinning Potter approached him across the crowded bar where they were supposed to be meeting their friends for pub quiz. At Draco’s outburst, however, Potter’s face fell, and his hand — which had been raised in greeting — moved self consciously toward his curls. His tamed curls. His usually-a-horrific-bird’s-nest-that-now-looked-sleek-and-professional-somehow curls. He looked… tidy. Paired with his grey blazer, white shirt, and dark jeans, he looked professional. Older. Less like a charmingly awkward schoolboy and more like a grown man. Draco just blinked.
Harry grimaced. “Is it that bad?” he asked self consciously. “Only, Hermione and I’ve been doing some research on my family, and found out my granddad came up with that Sleekeazy’s stuff she used on her hair at the Yule Ball fourth year, so we thought maybe it would work well for me, since… you know… it was probably made for my type of hair.” He was blushing now, and not meeting Draco’s eyes.
A twinge of guilt twisted at Draco’s gut at the dejected look on Potter’s face. He cleared his throat. “No, of course not,” he backtracked quickly. “I’m sorry, I was just… surprised, is all. It’s very different. And…” he bit his lip, hesitating, before rushing out a final statement before he could second guess himself. “And I liked how it looked before.”
At this, Harry looked up, surprise written across his face. “You did?” he asked, confusion evident in his words, “But you’ve always made fun of it!”
Draco blushed and grimaced. “It’s… grown on me,” he admitted sheepishly.
At this, Harry’s grin returned. “Has it, now?” he asked, his voice amused but also… was Draco imagining it?... slightly flirtatious.
Draco rolled his eyes, unwilling to admit how that slight note of interest in Harry’s tone made his stomach flutter. “Yes well, the general disarray of it reflects your overall attitude in life, so it… suits you.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, but his grin widened. “Good to know,” he replied, his gaze flicking quickly, and almost imperceptibly, up and down Draco’s body.
“Shut up, Potter,” Draco grumbled, blushing again as Harry slid onto the bar stool next to him.
“Hmm,” Harry mused, faking a pensive frown, “Only if you agree to go to dinner with me this weekend.”
Draco pretended to consider the offer, ignoring his heart doing backflips in his chest. “I suppose. But only if you agree not to do that to your hair again. Deal?”
Harry smirked, but held out his hand to Draco, holding onto it for just a moment too long as they shook on it. “Deal.”