Salon de coiffure de François
They met Pansy and Blaise at the agreed location at ten on the dot (Draco had made sure of that) and Pansy was pleased with Harry's new hairstyle.
“If you look like this with just some mousse and a comb, imagine what an entirely new cut would do for you! How handsome you would look!” she had said while pinching his cheek.
Blaise had nodded firmly in agreement though Harry could tell he did it more to appease Pansy than in approval of him.
Draco seemed to notice too because he reassured Harry that Blaise just needed a bit of coaxing before he became comfortable around Harry.
Harry was just happy that Draco sat in between him and Blaise in the limo.
They arrived in London before noon and though Harry had been to London a few times before, he still couldn't help but peer out the window. Living in the rather dull suburbs of Woking with the Dursleys, Harry was charmed by the bustling nature of the city. It didn't smell great, but anything was better than the stench that wafted out of Dudley’s room, so Harry couldn't complain.
Pansy’s appointment was at 12 but they arrived at the salon twenty minutes early. Harry didn't know what to expect from the proclaimed “best hairdresser in South England”, but the salon looked incredible. On the outside, it was like every other building on the row, but inside everything was the softest of pinks. Gold trim ran along the walls’ protruding ridges and the subdued yellow lights that lined the in-wall shelves gave the room a dated, dreamy feeling. Not to mention the colour-coded hair products neatly arranged on the shelves looked like a perfectionist's fantasy. Harry felt as if he'd just stepped into a 19th century fever dream.
“Is that my favourite client, Miss Parkinson?” a voice said in a heavy French accent.
Harry turned towards the voice to find a tall man emerging out of his office, flashing them a smile of dazzling white teeth.
“Francois!” Pansy squealed and she leapt towards him, hugging him tightly.
The man returned her embrace though he had already begun to examine her hair as he combed his fingers through it and raised a few dark locks to look at.
When Pansy pulled away, the man spoke once more. “Punctual as always, Miss Parkinson,” he said and the fondness in his tone was obvious. His bright blue eyes looked up at the rest of them and he smiled warmly at them. “And she's brought ses amis and a new one. Mister Zabini, Mister Malfoy, comment ça va? ”
“Well, thank you, Francois,” Draco answered with a polite smile.
“And the new one?”
Harry didn't like to describe himself as shy, but it was hard to meet the man’s eyes without blushing and immediately breaking eye contact. “Um, Harry. Harry Potter,” he said.
The man’s brows raised slightly and the corner of his lips fell.
“Potter? As in Lily Potter?”
Harry’s eyes widened and the shyness left his frame. “You knew my mum?”
Francois nodded. “Though not well. She only came in a few times, once before her wedding with Mr Potter, and then two more times after. She wasn't the experimental type, though with beautiful red hair like that there's little left to be desired. But tell, mon garçon, why do you say ‘knew’?”
Harry couldn't help the disappointment that slipped into his tone. “Ah, well, she's dead. She and my father too.”
“My apologies,” Francois said with the pity Harry was oh-so-familiar with.
“It's all right,” he replied routinely. He looked at Draco beside him but was caught off-guard by the frown the blond had on.
Now what was that about?
“Let's not let the atmosphere die there!” Pansy said, bringing everyone out of the stupor that had fallen upon them. “Francois, I didn't bring Harry here for no reason. I'm sure you've already determined how desperately he needs a cut.”
“Other than your beauty, Miss Parkinson, it was the first I noticed,” the hairdresser said, causing Pansy to giggle and wave him off. “It would be entirely my pleasure to style the young Potter’s hair.”
“After me, of course,” Pansy added.
“ Bien entendu . Please, have a seat anywhere you'd like, all of you.” Francois smiled once more at them. “Let me fetch the cart.”
~*~*~
Draco had been thoroughly surprised by the fact Francois knew Harry's mother.
Francois wasn't a hairdresser regular people frequented and it was nearly impossible to book an appointment at his salon without some amount of fame or influence. So for Harry’s mother to have been a client of his meant the Potters were much more notable than Draco had originally believed.
Blaise seemed to share the same thought because they exchanged looks at Francois’ mention of Harry’s mother, and when invited to sit, Blaise shifted his chair closer to Draco. He leaned in closer and began to whisper.
“Do you know of the Potters?” his friend asked. “Have you known about him this entire time?”
Draco shook his head. “I know nothing. Neither Father or Mother have ever uttered the name. All I know is that Harry inherited the wealth of his father and it's rumoured to be on par with that of the Notts.”
Blaise wasn't the expressive sort, so the look of intrigue on his features was almost startling to Draco. “Mother's never mentioned a Potter either. Does he know anything about his parents?”
“Harry, you mean?”
“Yes?” Harry said.
Draco looked over at the brunet, who had perked up at the mention of his name. Harry gave him an unsure smile and Draco sat up in his chair to face him.
“Harry. What do you know about your parents?”
Harry's lips pulled back and his eyebrows knitted. “Not much. I know my mum was Lily Evans before she married my dad, James Potter. I know she had a falling out with her sister, my aunt Petunia. Apparently she disapproved of my mum's marriage to my dad. I don't know much about him though. He must have done well for himself if my inheritance is anything to go by,” Harry answered. “Why?”
“Nothing of importance. I was simply curious,” Draco said. “Also, Harry, do you speak French?”
Harry shook his head.
“Good.” Draco turned back to Blaise, easily switching to the Romance tongue. “James Potter. That's his father’s name. Do you think you could ask Celeste and I'll ask my parents?”
“Don't use her name so casually,” Blaise said, scrunching his nose. “It’s weird. She's my mother.”
“I'm sorry. Your mother is very—”
“I know exactly how my mother is, thank you , and I'll phone her once we’re back.”
“So what happens if Harry is like us?” Pansy said and Blaise and Draco both fixed their gazes on their friend, who apparently had been able to hear their conversation even as Francois was washing her hair.
“You're not supposed to speak with the mask on, mademoiselle Parkinson,” Francois warned and Pansy hummed unappreciatively.
“Everything changes.”
“Nothing changes.”
Blaise glared at Draco. “What changes, Draco? He becomes one of us?”
“That is not what I meant,” Draco said. “It hasn't even been a day. There's no need to discuss this now.”
Blaise scoffed. “You always do this.”
Draco scowled. “Do what?”
“Avoid the topic at hand.”
“I am not. . .” Draco glanced at Harry who was staring wide-eyed at the two of them. He glared back at Blaise as he slipped into French. “We haven't yet determined Harry's pedigree. All I am asking is that we postpone this conversation until we are sure of who his parents were, then we can return to the matter. Do you understand?”
That seemed to satisfy Blaise, if only somewhat. “I understand,” he said, slowly sitting back in his chair.
“Great.” Draco sighed, closed his eyes for a short moment to recollect himself, and turned back to Harry.
The boy seemed very concerned about the interaction that had just unfolded in front of him. “Are you okay?”
“Of course. Nothing like a quarrel between friends,” Draco replied, slightly tilting his chin up as a show of tenacity.
“I mean that was some aggressive French,” Harry said.
“Oh please,” Draco said. “You might as well have told me I was conversing in Swedish.”
“Can you?”
“Självklart. I can speak four different languages.”
“That's. . . a lot,” Harry said. “So were you talking about me in French?”
Draco didn't falter. “It was nothing you should concern yourself with,” he said, “and asking will do you no good either.”
Harry pressed his lips together in thought but before he could continue, Draco interjected.
“Have you decided on a haircut yet?” he asked, making sure his tone was amicable and his face anything but.
Harry quickly caught on and Draco was thankful this would not become a contention between them. At least, not for the time being.
“Yes, actually,” Harry said. It was hard for Draco to hide his surprise as Harry pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to him.
Draco raised an eyebrow at him as he unfolded the sheet. It was a page that had been clumsily torn out of the spine of a magazine. On it was a boy he had never seen before and his hair was styled in a way Draco could only describe as very American.
Draco looked up at Harry, briefly studying his face before looking back down at the sheet. The style would suit him and with the right demeanour could be dignified, if not for those horrid round-framed eyeglasses.
But anything was better than the shag of black currently residing on the boy’s head.
Draco passed the sheet back to Harry. “I approve,” he said.
Harry grinned at that. “Really? I thought it might be too contemporary for your taste.”
“It is, but it's not my hair. As long as you look presentable, I have no complaints.” He found his gaze resting on Harry's forehead for a moment before he met his eyes. “I did notice, however, that it doesn't cover your scar.”
Draco had also noticed that once reminded of his scar, Harry impulsively felt his forehead, possibly as a comforting gesture. He had done so several times on the drive from Brighton and proving his suspicions right, Harry’s fingers reached for the scar right then. Before his hand could quite make it there, Draco grabbed it. “Stop doing that,” he said firmly. “It's unbecoming.”
Draco didn't expect Harry to be as startled as he was, his entire body flinching backwards and his eyes shutting tight.
Draco was learning a lot of new things about Harry today.
He let go of his hand and waited for the brunet to recompose himself.
The boy was embarrassed as he met Draco's eyes for a short second before looking down at his lap, squeezing his hands into fists. “Sorry. I didn't mean to pull away like that,” he said quietly. “I thought you were going to. . .”
Draco hummed. “A lot about you is beginning to make sense, Harry,” he remarked and Harry looked up, some of his hair having fallen back over his forehead. “And it's perfectly okay. But do know that I won't ever lay my hands on you. It's far too much work.”
That elicited an appreciative smile out of Harry. “Thanks. I'll keep that in mind.” He used his palm to push the hair strands back into place. “And you're right, it doesn't, but I guess this is my way of trying to weaken its hold on me. If I see it every day, eventually it won't affect me any more, right?”
“That's very mature of you,” Draco said and he meant it. “I fully support you on your venture.”
“Thank you,” Harry said and he sat up straighter at that, preening from Draco's compliment.
Draco thought about how good it was to see Harry harbour just the slightest bit of confidence. He would never admit it out loud, especially not to Pansy, but it made him even more attractive than he already was.