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It is just another lazy Sunday morning at 12 Grimmauld Place. After a brunch in bed for two, the inhabitants finally move their activities out of said bed itself and are messing around in the adjoining bathroom.
“You can open your eyes now Harry,” Draco preens, pleased with himself and his handiwork. “I'm good — no — great aren't I.”
Harry blinks slowly, adjusting to the bright lights encircling the vanity mirror. “Wow...” he sits speechless for a moment, admiring the now artfully tousled tresses sitting upon his head. Draco had spent the last hour and possibly a whole bottle of Sleekeazy's hair potion taming his bird nest into... well, this amazing look!
Harry and Draco had been going out for nearly two years now. A tentative friendship had developed when they both returned for eighth year at Hogwarts. Things rapidly escalated from there, as was wont with all things Potter and Malfoy. Post-graduation, Harry couldn't envision his life without his daily dose of snark and sass and proposed them moving in together. Draco will never admit it, but Harry can and will swear upon his seemingly immortal life that he had saw tears in Draco's eyes when he said yes.
It has been just over a year of them being in Grimmauld Place together. Between their hectic training (Harry as an auror-in-training and Draco as a curse breaker trainee) and Draco's militant weekend renovation schedule, the old house was gradually evolving into a place they can call home and their relationship has never been stronger.
Since they were making such good headway on items number one and two on Draco's to do list, which were to 'Graduate as the best curse breaker trainee ever' and 'Make Grimmy more noble and less mouldy' respectively, he, has decided to proceed to the next item on his list. Somehow, 'Tame Harry's unruly beast' and 'Celebrate the demise of Harry's Merlin-give-me-strength-why-does-he-still-own-these-rags in a bonfire party' had made third and fourth, right above 'Become the youngest potion master ever'.
Draco stands just behind Harry's right shoulder, smugness seeping out of his every pore, “I told you. You just never—”
“Do you know—” Harry interrupts with a fond eye roll, extremely familiar with all iterations of this banter. “—how much time I've wasted trying to get my hair to not look like I just rolled out of bed every morning?”
“You forget I live with y—”
“Do you also know how many muggle—” Typical Potter, brought up by muggles, “—and wizarding products I've tried—” with no regard for polite conversation etiquette, “on my hair? They don't work! Nothing ever does!”
Potter throws his hands up in exasperation and almost takes Draco's beloved left eye with his theatrics. And people had the audacity to call Draco dramatic. Have they not seen Potter in action?
“Well I know you haven't because see what you can do with a little bit of eff—”
It is right at this very moment that the universe decides that Draco should eat his words.
A full 3 minutes after the big reveal, Harry's hair, seemingly sentient (and also rather rudely), starts unwinding and rearranging itself back into its default disheveled state. It was curling in all the wrong spots! Bending at all the wrong angles! And standing in all the wrong directions!
“No no no no no no NO!” Draco exclaims, fingers turning white with anguish around the innocent brush handle.
Harry watches with growing amusement at the reflection of Draco's mounting look of horror. Unable to hold it in, he bursts out in loud guffaws, head thrown back from the sheer hilarity of the situation. And Draco's expression.
“You told me so,” Harry sputters out between his chortles and gasps for dear life. “You told me so... I told You so!”
Draco hates being wrong. And mocked. By Potter, of course. But especially by non-sentient-possibly-sentient-beings-objects-things-hair.
With the reflexes and skills of a pureblood soiree veteran, he rapidly pulls himself together. Burying his mortification and gathering all his patience, Draco stokes the fire of indignation that has ignited within his belly. He will not be trumped by a mere mangy mop! He draws himself up and with a determined look, picks up another vial of the Sleekeazy's hair potion.
He had planned for this very scenario, instructing Harry to pick up half a dozen of the potion. Just in case.
He will not be defeated.
“Potter, you will stop moving right now. Quit it! One would think that I am dealing with a three-year-old,” Draco berates as he dunks half the bottle of potion on Harry's head, using his now brushless hand to massage it into the unruly tresses. “Stop laughing. I have a mission to accomplish!”
Draco couldn't even spare Harry (his face) a glance as his baleful look is fixed on the misbehaving strands now grasped between his elegant fingers. Harry watches with bemused affection as Draco carefully rubs every drop of Sleekeazy's into his hair, brows furrowing, lips pouting adorably and all the while muttering chastisements under his breath.
“...impertinent... no better than flobberworms... so distasteful... Merlin help me... wring you into shape— Potter!”
Harry jerks upright in his seat, now noting stormy grey orbs focused on him (his face).
“Sit up. Glasses off. Eyes shut,” Draco commands. “And stop grinning. It's unbecoming.”
Harry doesn't tamper down his grin as he removes his glasses. Settling back into the long agile fingers, he closes his eyes and relaxes for an afternoon of soothing head massage.
A few quiet moments pass.
Only soft breaths and the crinkle of hair being rubbed between Draco’s potion covered fingers echo in the bathroom.
Unbiddenly, scenes from moments before spring back into Harry's mind. Unstoppable laughter bubbles out from him, much to the consternation of Draco. Knowing an effective way to soothe the hurt pride of his huffing and glowering partner, Harry twists out from under his capable hands and pulls a non-resisting Draco down towards him.
“Thank you for making the effort. I love you,” Harry mutters, lips millimetres from the other’s.
Harry feels the tension leave Draco's body as he melts into the kiss. Smiling softly, Harry makes a mental note to preserve this moment in his pensieve later.