He remembered it very clearly. How his perception of his own hair changes in a split second. He was eight years old, his birthday, which meant a new family portrait to display how he’d grown another year. Despite the fact he begged his parents to skip just this one year, promising he’d do it next year, Lucius insisted, saying that they’d done since he was a baby and wouldn’t be stopping just because he wasn’t up to it that particular day.
So, at eleven in the morning, he was sat between Narcissa and Lucius. His mother was picking at his curls, making sure they were in the perfect place, while Lucius was fixing his size-too-big suit, pulling the bow tie tighter until Draco complained and grabbed at his father’s arm to stop him. The man was ancient, and only did traditional portraits, paintings that took hours.
Distracting himself, Draco turned his eyes up to the mirror above the fire place, staring at his own reflection. He hadn’t quite grown into his curls yet, nor learnt how to take care of them, so half e time, they were thrown into the messiest ponytail possible and it showed, tangles were visible and there was a slightly bump where the curls would usually be tied down. Some of the curls weren’t as tight as the others and some weren’t curly at all.
The longer curls refused to stay in place and Narcissa gave up with a smile, saying her boy looked perfect anyway. They fell over his face, shrouding his pale face in a dark shadow casted by white locks. He still stared at himself, but when he lowered his head, his mood growing worse the longer he had to sit still, he realised he looked just like his aunt. He hadn’t hated Bellatrix back then, in fact, he adored her, she was the aunt that let him get away with pretty much anything and got him whatever he wanted when she came to visit.
Though, he hadn’t ever wanted to look like her. He found her unruly curls and blackened teeth unsettling and uncomfortable, creepy almost. And seeing herself in him made his heart freeze and a bolt of ice shiver up his spine. He shuddered, shaking his head and trying to hold the curls out of his face until the ancient man reprimanded him, telling him to sit still while he painted. Lucius’ hand tightened on his shoulder, a warning, and he stilled instantly, his leg stopped bouncing and his hand dropped to his lap, wholly and utterly still.
After his birthday, Lucius seemed to share his discomfort with his curls—though, he always had, he’d always showed a little disdain for Draco’s hair but Narcissa said he inherited it from her own mother, the same as her sister, but hat made Draco feel worse, he was thankful she was defending him, but he didn’t like the comparison, the similarity. A week later, he’d ended up begging his father to do something about his curls, saying he couldn’t take it any longer and he was sick of dealing with it.
Lucius bought the behaviour, he acted as always, an annoyed brat that was sick of doing something for himself. So, he in turn pestered Narcissa until she agreed to have something done to Draco’s hair.
Throughout the entirety of Hogwarts and afterwards, not a single curl sprang back—they tried, but Draco locked himself in the bathroom until he got sorted, which annoyed the other Slytherins wanting to use the dorm bathrooms, but none of them were going to confront a Malfoy.
Now, though, Harry had spent his morning meticulously picking apart his curls with his fingers and making sure they were all perfect. Though, usually, he woke up, wet them, and was done for the day. Seeing as it was an After New Years party at the Burrow though, he wanted to look nice. So, he sat on the floor beside the bed, where all of the hair stuff Hermione had gifted him lay on the floor in a pile.
Draco didn’t like how unorganised it was, but he agreed to stop trying to ‘fix’ everything when they moved in together. It was habit he fought hard to break beforehand, when he’d visit Harry and spend just an hour moving things back and forth until it felt right and was finally able to settle to watch something on the muggle TV—which he’d never admit, but seeing it for the first time both fascinated and frightened him. Moving pictures and paintings were fine, but the TV frightened him and the first day, he refused to even touch it.
Harry’s half broken mirror leant against the bedside drawers, he leant forward to see himself properly instead of moving back, but Draco digressed, as aforementioned, he’d stopped trying to ‘fix’ things when they moved in together. So instead, he busied himself with cleaning the rest of the flat until he found the mirror in the bathroom tilted.
He stared at it for a second, rationalising his thoughts before he couldn’t anymore and grabbed the mirror, straightening it, un-straightening it, then straightening it again, a few more times until it felt right. Then he found his reflection. He stared at his hair, it had begun to curl a bit recently, only at the root, it took him until last year to stop trying to straighten the wave out of it per Harry’s request.
“I think you should let it curl again.”
He startled, shooting around the voice and violently remembering that time in the boys bathroom, when he was confronted by Harry and burst open by the Sectumsempra spell. But he was brought quickly back to reality by a few rough fingers lifting his fringe from his forehead. He stared through it at Harry, head lowered, “I doubt it’s going to curl by tonight, and besides, it’ll look horrible..” He shook his head, crossing his arms as he sat against the sink.
“Hermione might know a few spells.”
“She doesn’t know my hair’s supposed to be curly and I don’t want her to,” Draco returned, moving his head back, pulling hair hair from Harry’s gentle hand. “Why is is such a big deal? Hermione’s got curly hair, why does it matter if you do as well? She’ll probably be happy to burden someone else with the abundance or products she buys,” Harry almost laughed, but Draco’s expression told him to do otherwise. He frowned and Draco huffed, rolling his eyes, “I feel I look too much like my aunt when it’s curly, it’s why it isn’t anymore.”
“Which aunt? Your family isn’t small, Draco,” he tried at humour, but it ran dry and he swallowed past the awkwardness. “You don’t look anything like her, I mean, she had black teeth and her hair was half matted—“
Draco had turned to face the mirror again, but moved Harry’s hand away from the side of his face, arms tightly crossed again. “It’s the length, too… I look too much like her.”
“You don’t—let me try, and if you don’t like it, we can turn it back straight,” he offered, carefully taking his wand from his belt, showing it to Draco, gently held in his loose fingers. They may have been past all those horrid interactions, but their physical and mental reactions weren’t—if either of them whipped their wand out too fast, the other was prone to casting some spell to either protect or harm and honestly, neither was preferred, so taking their wands out slow had become the norm.
Draco breathed out heavily, chest sinking as his heart hammered, his ears burnt and he felt mildly embarrassed, a reason he couldn’t pinpoint and when he searched for it, his stomach dropped. “Fine, but if I don’t like it, we’re turning it back to this,” he demanded, hm crossing his arms. Harry smiled, but refraining from pressing his bitten lips to Draco’s cheek and instead stepped back, holding his wand up, still a gentle hold.
Under his breath, he muttered: “Restorus,” he moved his wand in a vague figure-eight. The strands of hair brushed over Draco’s nape and made him shudder, it shortened his hair to probably just below his shoulders, but he didn’t look in the mirror to check, he turned to to Harry the moment he saw the first curl. “I don’t like it.” He shook his head, holding his hands on the sides of his face to keep himself from seeing the curls. Harry looked upset, but determined and Draco didn’t like that. “Turn it back, you promised you would—“
“I will, I promise, but please, let me do something to it first, maybe you’ll like it and if you don’t, I swear, I’ll turn it back straight after,” Harry practically pleaded, pressing his hands together. Draco wanted to protest but he thought it couldn’t hurt to at least try something, and Harry was a man of his word—most the time. So, maybe he would like it. He relented, letting himself be taken to the spot between the wall and the bed, in front of the broken mirror and all of Harry’s stuff.
His hands twitched against his thighs, but Harry turned the mirror around so he couldn’t see himself. “You can sort it if you want,” he said then and Draco busied himself immediately, standing up the tubs and the bottles, the spray bottles and the squeezy ones, ones of heat protectant, moisturisers or something, he couldn’t tell as he fixed them into positions he thought were as good as he was going to get in the small space. He was going to get Harry a vanity at this point, seeing as he was most certainly going to spoil him for his birthday and he was going to need space.
Draco kept looking to the mirror back, thankful and angry he couldn’t see what Harry was doing. He wanted to ask, but every time he opened his mouth, Harry told him to be patient. And he was patient. But Harry had clumsy hands and at one point, he began to grab at Harry’s hands and arms, telling him to just give up and turn it back. Though soon enough, only a few minutes later, Harry pulled his hands away and lifted the mirror.
He thought the person looking back at him was a stranger. Stray curls that were too short to reach to the comb Harry had pinned into his hair fell over his cheeks, but they didn’t remind him at all of Bellatrix, they were gorgeous and looked… Healthy, no longer than his collarbone. The comb was one of Harry’s mothers, old and made of jade. His hair had been twisted up and pinned, the comb settled on his crown and holding it up, the rest of the curls that hadn’t been twisted and pinned fell over the back of his head and rested on his neck, wavering over his collar and shoulders.
He felt handsome.
“Do you like it?” Harry sounded anxious, eyes fixated through those broken frames on the mirror, on Draco’s eyes. He couldn’t decipher Draco’s expression, he thought it somewhere between horror and mild disgust, but then Draco let out a quiet noise, before he turned and looked at Harry. “It looks amazing,” he said, breathing in sharply. He hesitated a second, then wrapped his arms around Harry’s shoulders, breathing in whatever cologne Harry had put on and swallowing his warmth radiating off him. Harry was always warm.
Pulling back after a minute or two, he felt the curl gently, “This was your mother’s, wasn’t it?” He asked, just to be sure. Harry nodded, heart pounding with relief, “She got it when she was eleven,” he said. Draco swallowed, “It’s very beautiful.”
Glancing at the clock, Harry spoke, “I think we need to get going, before we’re late.”
“Do I have to go? I bear no ill-will toward the Weasleys, but I still think they’re home is horribly crowded,” Draco was pulled to his feet and moved toward the wardrobe, pushed inside and made to get dressed. He huffed, it was just the Weasleys, and he knew the twins would end spilling something once they got drunk, so he decided he wouldn’t wear a suit he minded getting ruined. He knew that with his new hair, they’d most likely make comments, but he’d ignored everyone before and wouldn’t make it a problem this time either.
***
The Burrow was a nice home, Draco wouldn’t deny, a nice family that actually loved each other and always made everyone feel welcome. Though it was difficult for Mr and Mrs Weasley, Ron and Ginny to be comfortable around him, Fred and George saw him as a new target for pranks and treated him no different from everyone else. Of course, they had their phase at the beginning where they ignored him entirely, but when it became clear that Draco wasn’t going to be retaliating little comments and tricks with a forbidden curse, they saw him as fair game and pushed his buttons every time.
As expected, when they arrived and Ron was made to open the door, wrangling his little niece back into the r house, his jaw dropped in shock and he only stared for about five minutes before Hermione came to find them, wondering what was going on and why the door hadn’t closed. Draco’s face contorted, uncomfortable at the sudden addition of attention. “Oh, your hair looks lovely,” Hermione said, smiling as she pulled Ron out of the way, “come on, come in before you both freeze to death,” she waved her hand, pushing Ron’s head up to close his jaw. “That’s Mrs Potter’s comb,” he muttered.
“Oh, you’re a bit dense, of course it’s her comb, Draco’s almost her son-in-law,” Hermione hit his arm gently. “Almost?!”
“You don’t pay attention to your best friend at all,” she rolled her eyes, closing the door and joining the others in the living room and the garden.
Molly had, in her typical fashion, grabbed Draco’s face and pulled him down to kiss his forehead, like she always did and still does with Harry. “You’re hair looks absolutely beautiful, did Harry curl it for you?” She asked, turning her head to look at his hair from all angles. “No, my hair is normally curly, I’ve just.. Straightened it for years,” Draco nodded weakly, waiting for the judgement that didn’t come, but Molly was soon whisked away by Ginny complaint about something—the staring in shock at Draco, before she too was whisked away by Hermione, reprimanding both her and Ron for ‘crowding the poor man.’
“Now, just the twins,” Harry smiled. Draco made a face, “What about the others? What’re their—Charlie, Bill.. Percy?”
“Well, Charlie’s in Romania still, he sent a Howler apparently, but they couldn’t barely hear him over the dragons roaring, Bill’s dealing with his new twins and Percy’s trying to reel Oliver in after the Quidditch loss…”
“But that Quidditch loss was ages ago.”
“It’s Oliver, are you that surprised?” Harry tilted his head. Draco furrowed his brows but then sighed, “I suppose not,” he was about to move, but then a pair of bangs beside both his ears startled him almost out of his skin, hands shooting up to cover them before the twins uncovered themselves, holding exploding pops in their hands. “Well, well, hello, Draco,” George said, smiling as Draco rubbed an ear and huffed, ears burning with embarrassment. Harry glanced at him, then to the twins as they greeted him, wrapping him a bone-crushing hug at once. He wheezed out a hello and was more than grateful when they let go.
Then, they went off to scare Ron with the same exploding pops.
It was past midnight by the time everyone was in the garden, downing drinks. Draco’s cheeks had flushed, he was tipsy, but not wholly drunk just yet. Harry said he didn’t want to get drunk that night, which meant Draco had full rein to get shit-faced. He’d cling to Harry’s arm the whole night once he started drinking, not wanting to get separated in case he got lost in the field and Harry was more than happy to keep him close and away from the twins’ pranks—Ron ended up absolutely soaked only an hour ago and they’d made Ginny’s hair go all purple in their newly drunken stupor.
Ron, now dry, was going around asking for food, but everyone was too busy listening to the muggle music Arthur had brought home. He’d gotten answers from Hermione and Ginny, Fred, but no George, strange, Arthur was damn near passed out from the drinks, so he didn’t even try. So, he turned to Draco, grabbing his shoulder with an exasperated expression.
Though, he hadn’t expected Draco to go completely rigid, for the glass in his hand to almost drop and his back straighten, face going blank. He looked to Ron, but avoided his eyes. “Uh,” Ron made a weird face and Harry pulled his hand from Draco’s shoulder, “Don’t,” he mouthed, “finish your drink,” he nudged Draco and got him to move again. “I just wanted to see if you wanted food,” Ron said, shoulders slumping, “it’s such a hassle trying to get to everyone’s answer…” He complained.
Harry leant his head down, asking into Draco’s ear if he wanted food but he shook his head, “I’ll have some,” he said then, nodding at Ron. He looked so relieved to have a straight answer and went off to find his mother.
Eventually, Draco was fat to drunk to stand, and Harry took that as their sign to go home. He thanked Molly for having them, giving Ron and Hermione and hug before he left. Apparating with a drunk Draco was a difficult thing, but he managed and got him inside the flat, flopping him down onto the double bed as he muttered on and on about his hair was going to get ruined.
Harry carefully took it down, and Draco didn’t complain about having it up all day hurting his head, so he continued to undress Draco from his suit and put him in his pyjamas—designer, of course, Draco would accept nothing less. But they were comfortable, so when Draco had bought his way back, Harry accepted his offer for a matching pair. He got changed into those, making sure Draco was asleep, dead asleep before he went to sleep himself, rubbing his eyes and thankful for the blackout curtains.