Work Text:
The summer after the war had scrubbed Draco’s entire personality raw, the heaps of trauma so insurmountable that he simply chose to shove it all aside and start his life afresh.
After all, how else could he have possibly survived being eighth-year roommates with Harry Potter?
This was how he found himself at the bathroom mirror with a healthy dollop of purple face mask on his fingers, and Harry, toothbrush in hand, beside him. Civil. Cordial. Affable, even.
“I think you missed a spot,” Harry informed him, and Draco peered at his face in the mirror of the otherwise deserted eighth-years’ bathroom.
“Where?”
When Harry didn’t reply, Draco glanced at him, only to see him stifling a cheeky grin. Lord, four weeks of that grin and Draco still hadn’t adapted.
“You dare tease me about my skincare routine?” He glared at Harry before continuing to smear the purple product diligently over his forehead. “Some things are sacred.”
Harry snorted. “I promise you, skincare potion definitely isn’t one of them.”
“Perhaps not for you,” Draco countered. “One of these days you’re going to find wrinkles ‘round those emerald eyes of yours, and then you’ll be positively begging me for my potions.”
“And you’ll say no, while you laugh in my haggard face,” Harry continued for him, casually leaning against the counter as he brushed his teeth.
“Yes, you’re absolutely right,” Draco assured him, spreading the mask onto his chin as he sighed. Harry was staring at him, and it made Draco feel quite self-conscious.
“God, I hate my nose,” Draco muttered, without thinking, just to fill the silence.
Harry snorted again before turning and spitting into the sink in a rather uncouth fashion. “No you don’t.”
“Excuse me, yes I do,” Draco replied, tapping the product carefully into the hard-to-reach creases of his skin. “It’s too big for my face.”
Harry said nothing, but Draco caught him rolling his eyes. After another spit into the sink, Harry rinsed his mouth, set his toothbrush on the counter, and picked up Draco’s potion, reading the label.
“No, don’t use any,” Draco chided him, snatching it from his hand. “I’m running low already.”
“Well maybe you’re using too much, you narcissistic little prat.”
Draco turned to face him, his product-laden finger hovering over his cheek. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me,” Harry said, grinning. “Or is your old arse experiencing both wrinkles and hearing loss?”
Draco shook his head in bemusement, but to his own shock, he could feel himself smiling back. Before he could stop himself, he reached over and impulsively smeared a dollop of the product from his finger onto the tip of Harry’s nose.
“Oi!” Harry spat, leaning away from him too late. He fixed him with wide eyes. “What—?”
“There, serves you right,” Draco said, blushing against his will and attempting to cover it with a smirk. “Complements your eyes. Anyway, that amount should suffice, given that you have much less nose-area to cover.”
Harry huffed in surprise, still staring at Draco as if he wasn’t sure whether to hit him or laugh. Draco’s eyes remained rooted to Harry’s, daring him to choose. God, he looked adorable with that splotch of purple on his nose. Draco lifted an eyebrow and hoped with all his might that Harry would pick laugh.
“I thought you weren’t willing to share your face potions?” Harry finally asked, the tiniest grin once again sprouting up on his face.
“Yes, but you’re just so pitiful, Potter,” Draco retorted, triumphantly smirking again as he resumed applying the mask with much shakier fingers than before. “Your face can use all the help it can get.”
“You calling me ugly, Malfoy?” he asked playfully, leaning closer to the mirror and gingerly massaging the smear of potion into his skin.
Draco didn’t reply to that question, because he didn’t trust himself in the slightest.
“Wow,” Harry said, grinning at him in the mirror. “Resisting the urge to fire off a scathing insult, even after I set one up for you so perfectly. My, how you’ve grown.”
“Only my nose has grown,” Draco mumbled to himself, which made Harry laugh. Which made Draco blush. Which made Draco want to die.
“You know, your nose really isn’t all that big,” Harry said kindly after a moment of silence.
“Don’t insult me with well-intentioned white lies, Harry Potter,” Draco answered, casually brushing off the compliment. “I’m not nearly so naive as to believe you.”
“I’m not lying,” Harry laughed. “And either way, I think it’s kind of nice, your nose.”
Draco rolled his eyes.
“I’m serious,” Harry said gently, his eyes warm and soft. “It’s genuinely a good nose.”
“Piss off,” Draco mumbled, flicking on the tap in order to rinse the excess potion from his fingers.
“No, wait!” Harry said, quickly closing his fingers around Draco’s wrist. “Don’t waste it; put what’s left over on my face.”
Draco lifted an eyebrow at him and tried to ignore the tingling heat flooding up his arm. “What did I tell you? Already begging for my potions.”
“Please?” Harry said, pouting at him. “It’s only a bit, and you’re finished with it anyway.”
“Oh, very well, but only because you’re all sorts of pathetic.” And because that pout is unconscionably irresistible, Draco added silently.
“Do my forehead,” Harry commanded, hopping up and sitting on the countertop.
Obediently, Draco stepped closer and rubbed his fingers over Harry’s broad forehead. He willed his hands to remain steady as he focused on spreading the meagre amount of product as evenly as he could. Harry’s rich brown skin felt hot to the touch.
“You’re going to have glabellar lines when you’re older,” Draco declared, just to fill the silence once more. Being beside Harry in silence was simply too much for his senses to handle.
“What’s that?”
Draco reached up and tapped Harry’s forehead with one long, white (and purple) finger. “It’s a wrinkle here, between your eyebrows, like a little number eleven.”
“How do you know I’ll have it?”
“You frown with your eyes,” Draco explained. “Really, you frown with your entire face. It’s the mark of an overly stressful life.”
“What are you on about, my life’s been a breeze,” Harry joked lightly.
Draco smiled but said nothing, concentrating on Harry’s skin when, in truth, all he wanted to do was close the distance between them and kiss those cheeky little lips. He tried to trace his finger over the lightning bolt on Harry’s forehead without it being obvious. He’d never really looked at it before. Not from this close, anyway. Come to think of it, he didn’t remember ever being this close to Harry at all. He could smell the spearmint toothpaste on his breath.
“You won’t have wrinkles,” Harry mumbled. Perhaps he was struggling with the silence as well, and that made Draco want to hug him.
Draco risked glancing at his eyes. Mistake. They looked even greener from so near, and they were staring right into Draco’s.
“I know,” he replied haughtily, ignoring his swift pulse.
“But you’ve had a stressful life as well,” Harry pointed out.
“Yes, but I’ve taken precautions to prevent the stress from showing up on my face,” he declared proudly. “For one thing, I’ve been using this potion since I was a child.”
Harry snorted. “That’s so weird.”
“It isn’t weird,” Draco argued, diligently rubbing Harry’s skin in a circular motion. “My mother and I… Well, it’s how we used to bond. She would sit at her vanity every night and apply all of these rich-smelling, luxurious products, and I always thought it was so glamorous. I would sit beside her and just watch, and she would listen to me talk about my day, and I remember thinking how nice it was, just the two of us, being together.”
“That is nice.” Harry was gazing at him with a (rather infuriating) knowing smile.
For a moment they were silent. Draco could feel Harry’s eyes on him; he tried hard to disguise his quickened breathing and hoped Harry couldn’t hear his pounding heartbeat from so close. Draco had never told anyone that before. He didn’t fully understand why he’d wanted to confess it now.
“You look like your mother,” Harry finally said.
Draco paused and glanced at him in delight; that might’ve been the kindest compliment Harry could give him. “Do you think so? I’ve been told since I was born how much I look like my father.”
“Huh, no idea what that must be like,” Harry quipped, smirking.
Draco smiled back and pulled his fingers away from Harry’s face. “There. You’re done.”
Harry slid back off the countertop and turned to study himself in the mirror. “I don’t think it’s doing anything.”
“Well, of course not; you need regular usage before you see any real difference. It’s really more preventative anyway.”
Harry sighed. “I’m not patient enough for this rubbish.”
“You don’t say,” Draco joked, placing the lid back on the small bottle of purple potion.
“Well, your skin is nice.”
“I know,” he answered with a smirk. “Nearly makes up for my awful nose.”
“Stop saying that,” Harry said, nudging his arm. “I like your nose.”
“Sure, Potter.”
“I do. It’s… nice.” He folded his arms in front of him and shrugged.
“Lord, do you not know any better adjectives?” Draco rolled his eyes as he packed the rest of his potions neatly into their silk pouch. “You’re only serving to amplify my nose complex.”
“Okay then… Sexy?”
Draco turned to him in surprise. “Excuse me?”
Harry shrugged again. “Yeah.”
Draco furrowed his eyebrows and tried to determine whether Harry was telling the truth or having him on.
“It is,” Harry repeated, smiling at him. “Honest.”
“Who knew Gryffindors were such liars?”
Harry laughed, and Draco picked up his cosmetics pouch to avoid staring. He started towards the door at the same time Harry did, only for them both to pause immediately. They looked up at each other, and Draco felt his heart stutter.
“I suppose we’re heading the same direction,” Harry murmured with yet another shrug, gesturing towards the doorway with his thumb.
“I suppose we are,” Draco agreed.
"Well... shall we?"
“After you.”
"Cheers," he murmured, stepping through the door. “Who knew Slytherins were so polite?”
“Fool.”
Harry snickered (rather devilishly for a Gryffindor, Draco thought), and they began walking slowly down the hallway towards their shared dormitory.
“Can I ask you something?” Harry said quietly a moment later. “Something a bit odd?”
Draco thought to himself how very dangerous that question was, how Harry’s next words could lead them down a hundred different pathways, all of which had the potential to break him in half. But it was fruitless to resist. He knew perfectly well that he no longer had any choice in the matter. “I suppose so.”
“Do you think… Well, do you think we would’ve been friends?” Harry asked awkwardly. “Before everything, I mean. If things were different.”
“If things were different, would things have been different?”
“You know what I mean,” Harry muttered, absently scratching his thumb along the stubble of his jawline. “Don’t you ever think about it?”
“Think about what?” Draco sighed, though he already knew.
“You know,” Harry sighed back. “What might’ve been. With us. Me and you.”
Draco swallowed and genuinely considered how he would answer. He could lie. Of course he could. But why bother anymore? Harry saw through him, as easily as if he’d stood in front of him naked with his chest ripped open. Draco had fallen in love with that fact. He’d fallen in love.
“Of course I think about it, Harry Potter,” he said quietly. “It haunts me. It could drive me mad if I let it.”
Harry didn’t say anything for a long moment, until he finally grumbled back, “Maybe you should let it.”
“What on earth does that mean?” Draco said, smiling rather than letting it eat away at him. “As usual, you make no sense.”
“I mean… I don’t know what I mean,” Harry replied, moving up closer to Draco’s side, so that the hair on his arm tickled the skin on Draco’s.
“When do you ever?” Draco murmured, allowing himself to feel it.
“When do I ever?” Harry agreed, letting his hand brush up against Draco’s. They had somehow gotten so close together, close enough that Draco felt nothing but heat, nothing but the warmth and pressure of Harry.
“Yes,” Draco finally said, meeting his eyes for only a moment. “I’m quite certain we would’ve been friends.”
He was quite certain they would’ve been more. He was quite certain, in fact, that if they hadn’t been more, Draco would have pined for Harry for his entire life. He would’ve fought for him, pursued him, wooed him, convinced him that to be together was all that they were both created for. But Draco thought, in this electric silence, that it would’ve been easy to convince Harry of that. Draco thought anything he ever did with Harry would be easy.
“I don’t like that we aren’t,” Harry muttered, just when Draco thought for sure that he’d been about to change the subject.
Draco stared intently forward.
“Nor do I,” he heard himself whisper.
They walked the rest of the way to the dormitory without speaking.
***
Draco crawled into his bed a short while afterwards, tucking his warm blanket up under his chin. He listened to Harry shuffling into the bed beside him. He listened to Harry clearing his throat, and again. He listened to Harry placing his glasses on their shared nightstand, taking a quick sip of water and setting the cup down again, lying down on his back and heaving an audible sigh, like he always did. And then Draco held his breath and waited for Harry to say…
“Well, goodnight, Draco.”
Draco turned his head and squinted in the dark, trying to see if he could make out the shape of Harry’s profile without it being obvious. He didn’t want to say goodnight yet. He wanted Harry to stay up with him, talking until the sun rose. He wanted Harry to tell him why he kept one of his legs out instead of leaving them both covered beneath the bedding. He wanted to know if Harry felt sad when he listened to Draco talking about a childhood that included a mother. He wanted to discover what parts of Harry he’d been right about in his imagination. He wanted to hear why Harry thought Draco’s nose was sexy.
“Maybe you won’t get glabellar lines.”
That wasn’t what Draco wanted to say, but it’s what came out nonetheless. He rolled his eyes at himself.
“What?” Harry answered, and Draco could see his face turn towards him in the moonlit room.
“I don’t know,” Draco sighed. “I don’t know why I said that.”
He could feel Harry smiling across from him. “Maybe because you feel bad about calling me ugly earlier.”
“I never called you ugly, you fool.”
Harry snorted. “Sorry some of us haven’t been using skincare potions since we were born.”
“Only since I was four,” Draco corrected, turning onto his side so that he was facing Harry's bed. “And you don’t really believe that you’re ugly.”
“Well… I mean, I’m not you.”
“I beg your pardon!” Draco scoffed, embarrassed. “That’s incredibly rude, Potter.”
“What? Rude how?”
“You just called me ugly!”
“What? No I didn’t!” Harry objected, aghast. “I said… Oh, fuck, that is how it sounded, isn’t it? But, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant it like, the opposite of that.”
Draco furrowed his brow, trying to tease out the meaning of Harry's words.
“I mean, I’m not you, in the sense that… it must be nice, looking like a bloody Veela,” Harry muttered, shifting in his bed as he rubbed the back of his neck, so that he and Draco were facing each other. “Not all of us are so lucky. That’s what I meant.”
The silence of the room seemed to thicken, and Draco’s heartbeat once again pounded wildly in his ears. He didn’t quite know what to say to that, because he didn’t quite know if he’d understood properly. Surely Harry wasn’t comparing him to a Veela. Surely.
“Sorry,” Harry mumbled quietly. “That was a weird thing to say. I don’t… Ergh. And also the thing I said about your nose in the bathroom… And then asking you about things being different… God. It was all weird. Sorry.”
Draco still had no response, so he slowly buried his hand underneath his pillow and traced his eyes over the outline of Harry’s shoulder. He was still trying the words on for size. They seemed to fit him well.
“I’m sorry, Draco,” Harry said once again. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just wanted to make sure that you knew.”
“Knew what?” God, he whispered it.
“Knew. That. That I didn’t say that you’re ugly. That I was trying to say… that you’re not. That you’re really, really far from it, in fact.”
Draco took a deep breath and then released it. He held the compliment in his hands for a moment, and something in him ached to reassure Harry that it was very deeply heard.
“You may not look like a Veela, Potter,” Draco said softly. “But you’re certainly not hideous.”
“High praise,” Harry said, chuckling under his breath.
“Fine then,” Draco said, before his nerves could stop him. “You’re handsome.”
“Handsome?”
“Handsome.”
“Hmm,” Harry muttered. “What was that you were saying earlier about well-intentioned white lies?”
Draco laughed. “I may have many flaws, Harry, but dishonesty is not one of them. And anyway, we both know I’ve never been able to lie to you.”
There was a pause, a longer pause than Draco liked. It felt surreal to be having this conversation in such a way: quietly, in the dark of their bedroom. Draco thought the moment was monumental, one that someone should be taking a record of for the history books. But at the same time, what on earth could be more mundane, more normal, than he and Harry lying together in the dark, telling each other everything?
“So you really think I’m handsome?” Harry asked, disbelieving.
“So you really think I’m beautiful?” Draco replied, in order to avoid gushing.
“Who said beautiful?” Harry teased. “When did I ever say beautiful?”
“It was implied,” Draco said haughtily. “Veela are beautiful.”
“Alright, fine then,” he said through a chuckle. “Of course you’re beautiful. Happy?”
“Elated.”
“So…” Harry said uncertainly, “we’re going to move on now and never discuss this conversation ever again, yeah?”
Draco chuckled again, although the comment only made him sad. “Agreed. I suppose.”
There was a long pause again, one where so many unsaid things seemed to whisper themselves into the darkness.
“Or we could just… not move on,” Harry said slowly.
Not move on. The words lit up the room like fireflies.
“Yes,” Draco eventually replied, every inch of his body shooting off sparks. “That is another possibility.”
Everything suddenly hung in the balance. Draco didn’t know what came next; he only knew it would change life as he knew it.
At long last, Draco watched as Harry’s arm reached out towards him, his hand open and inviting.
“Draco…” Harry sighed, as if the name was hard to say. “I think about what might have been, with us, but… but maybe it could still be. It couldn’t be, then, but maybe now… maybe it could be… maybe we could be.”
“Hmm,” was Draco’s answer, the only thing that he could think to say, because Harry was reaching for his hand, and without a moment of thought, Draco was doing the same. Without any hesitation, out of nowhere, they were weaving their fingers together slowly, tentatively, on top of the nightstand. Draco’s knuckles brushed against Harry’s glasses, and it was all so very normal, so very real.
Draco could feel Harry’s nerves, could feel his own as well, but he tightened his fingers around Harry’s, giving him permission. Lord, he knew he would give Harry permission for anything now. What a terrifying and wonderful realization. “Yes. We could be.”
Draco knew that when he thought back to this moment in future, it would seem strange, as if it all came out of the blue and without any warning signs. But it wasn’t strange at all. He couldn’t for the life of him think of why they hadn’t been holding hands from the first moment they met.
“Your hands are like silk,” Harry whispered, stroking his calloused thumb along Draco’s palm.
“Potions,” Draco explained stupidly.
“Mmm,” Harry replied, a smile in his voice. “Right. Not just for your face.”
“Well, the hands always betray a person,” Draco said softly, letting his fingers settle between Harry’s. “You can always tell one’s age by their hands, you know.”
“Your hands are young,” Harry chuckled. “And nice.”
“And you have the hands of a middle-aged labor worker.”
Harry laughed. “You never did learn tact, did you?”
“Of course I did,” Draco replied, smiling. “But with you, I always seem to forget everything I ever learned.”
“Because we’re both idiots,” Harry answered. “And we’re starting over now.”
Draco lovingly brushed his finger along Harry’s thumbnail. Lord, he was perfect, his stupid words, his nonsense, his everything. It was all Draco ever wanted, ever again. He laid there watching Harry’s eyes drift closed, the silence blanketing them. Everything was a promise now, everything was possible.
“I wasn’t lying earlier,” Draco said softly a long while later, half hoping that Harry was already too far away to hear him. “When I called you handsome.”
“Nor was I,” Harry whispered back, without opening his eyes. “Lovely nose.”
Draco fell asleep with a smile on his face, thinking about Veela, possibilities, and Harry’s purple skin.