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"Draco?" Harry whispers with a wavering voice, padding quietly on socked feet into the living room. "Is that you?"
Harry can just make out the outline of Draco turn towards them in the dark. Lit only by the faint glow of the dying fire, he has his knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them.
"Yeah,” Draco says just as softly. "It's me."
There’s a feeling of unreality in their movements, the nightmare still somewhat superimposed over reality, as Harry makes their way carefully through the room, sitting down beside Draco on the floor. They automatically cast a quick muffling charm so they don't wake up any of the other residents of 12 Grimmauld Place; a habit born of many other similar sleepless nights in front of the fire with Draco dating back to the Eighth Year common room.
"Nightmare?" Harry asks.
Draco makes a muted sound in the affirmative, tipping over slowly, so that his shoulder presses into Harry’s. In return, Harry lets some of their weight rest against Draco.
"What else?" Draco asks sardonically.
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not tonight, I don’t think. D’you?"
“Just the same dream,” Harry mutters bitterly.
Draco presses their shoulders more firmly together.
Harry should probably be used to this particular nightmare by now, since variations of it haunt them at least half the time that they dream, but they still wake up in a cold sweat every time, adrenaline pumping through their body. They’ve long since given up on getting back to sleep.
“I wish…”
“Me too,” Harry says.
Draco shifts, unfolding his body from the tight pretzel and pulling away from Harry’s side slightly. Before Harry can mourn the loss of Draco’s warmth against him, he pats the floor in front of him.
“C’mere.”
A small spark of warmth. No matter how many times Draco does this for them, it never fails to beat away some of the slimy coldness from The Dream.
Harry crawls between Draco’s spread legs, sitting with their back to Draco and their legs straight out in front of them. As soon as Harry’s settled, Draco’s hands are in their hair. He scratches slowly at their scalp, pushes a strand of hair behind their ear, loops some around his fingers. Just little touches, but warmth trickles down from their scalp into the rest of their body.
They fell in love with Draco to this comfort; quiet moments and deep conversations while he played with their hair. Lately, it’s been getting harder to resist turning around and seeing what would happen if they kissed him.
Draco’s fascination with Harry’s hair began when they had first moved into Grimmauld and they were still adjusting to a friendship outside the bubble of Hogwarts, before Harry’s hair had much of a chance to grow out. He explained once that it helped him ground and calm down too.
They both get lost in their own heads. Harry watches the last small flame of the fire flicker and dance, slowly burning lower. Time is always strange at this time of night, seeming to ebb and flow like a sea of molasses. Their heart rate gradually slows under Draco’s hands, the majority panic receding and some of the tiredness that should exist at this time of night returning.
“Can I braid your hair?” Draco asks an indeterminate amount of time later.
Harry twists around quickly, tiredness disappearing. “Do you think it’s long enough?”
“Should be.”
“More than those flimsy tiny half falling out braids girls like to tie guy’s hair into in First Year?”
Draco laughs softly. “Yes H. It’s probably been long enough for months now.”
Harry turns back around. “Then go ahead.”
“Oh well, if you insist, Your Highness.”
“Hey! You were the one that offered—”
Harry stops talking when they feel Draco’s hands back in their hair, combing through it with his fingers, before separating a section of it near the top of their head.
“I didn’t know you were so keen on having your hair braided,” Draco comments as he does some pulling thing with Harry’s hair.
Harry hums. “I didn’t either, until you suggested it. But…it means it’s properly growing out, doesn’t it? And I always used to admire girls’ complicated braids when we were younger. Though looking back that was probably as much jealousy as admiration.”
“Be honest H, was it my braid you were admiring?”
“Er…” It definitely had been one of them, though Harry had been quick to dismiss the feeling as scorn for the attention Draco had obviously paid to the long sleek line of it. “Yeah,” Harry admits sheepishly. “I like your hair better now though.”
“Thanks.”
Harry revels in the smile they can hear in Draco’s voice, knowing that the nightmares that have them awake at this hour have faded to the background.
“It’s amazing what liking your hairstyle can do for the way it's perceived.”
“I hear that.”
“Mother used to braid it every day for me before Hogwarts,” Draco offers. “She didn’t even use a spell—I think that’s the part I liked best. Having her gentle hands combing it out. But that was when I was really young. She told me, the summer after First Year, that wearing it so severely pulled back all the time made me look like a boy. Shockingly, that didn’t convince me to wear it any differently.”
Harry snorts. “My aunt hated how fast my hair grew for the same reason. Thought I looked like a little girl.”
Draco’s hands brush Harry’s neck and they shiver at the touch.
“Almost like adults shouldn’t police their children’s hair,” Draco murmurs.
Harry squeezes Draco’s knee. They’ve talked before about how he was forced to keep his hair long.
“Okay, done,” Draco says. “I’m guessing you don’t have an elastic?”
Harry shakes his head.
“Give me your hand then.” Draco guides Harry’s hand so they’re holding the bottom of the small braid, then pulls out his wand and quickly transfigures a hair elastic out of a loose string pulled from the carpet. He deftly ties it off.
“Go look.”
Harry jumps up, lighting up the tip of their wand to be able to see in the small mirror over the fireplace. They grin at their reflection. Draco has made some complicated braid that starts high on Harry’s head and curves down. It only goes a twist or two below their scalp but they adore it.
They make eye contact with Draco in the mirror, and see their wide smile reflected there. Harry turns and throws their arms around Draco.
“Thank you.”
Draco’s hand comes up to rest high on Harry’s back. “Anytime.”
Harry pulls back slightly, arms still tight around their friend.
It’s late. And Harry’s tired; their impulsive control worn away. The love they have for Draco, always a deep pool inside them, bubbles up. They forget every reason allowing it to is a bad idea.
Harry kisses him.
Draco returns it.