just right
for @drarrymicrofic prompt: abrupt | lil t4t for u | cw: dysphoria | on ao3
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At the first click, the click of the door closing, he bolts from the top bunk to the foot of Draco’s bed.
A second click, this one a lock opening. All these trunks have the same security measures, and he’s already done this to the other two trunks—Ron’s and Zacharias Smith’s—in the boys eighth year dorm.
A third click, the latch gives way, and Draco’s trunk swings open. It’s like he’s stolen the sorcerer’s stone all over again; he feels young and giddy with the knowledge his whole life is about to change in some large, incomprehensible way.
He holds up Draco’s pants. Ron’s were too long, Zacharias’s too short, but Draco’s, well—he steps out of his skirt and into the black slacks. The length’s perfect. Then, quick, he slips out of his cardigan and into Draco’s shoes and white dress shirt and tie.
His heart races. He walks to the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. He closes his eyes. He defeated Voldemort; why can’t he just look at himself?
A fourth click.
“Fancy yourself a Slytherin?”
His brain whirls through a million iterations of it’s not what it looks like, trying to come up with something that doesn’t sound like I’m not what I look like.
“You’re not supposed to be back yet,” he lands on.
“Yes, and I forgot my tie. What ever would I have done if you hadn’t found it for me?” His mouth must be open, because Draco continues, “Close your mouth, Potter. Do you honestly think I’m going to tell? Let me guess: you snuck into our room somehow, probably earlier when the Weasel and Smithereens were playing chess and being too loud for anyone to think, let alone notice an intruder, and then you hid in the top bunk until all of us left for breakfast.”
Draco looks him up and down and back up again, his eyes stopping at the tie on his chest. Hopefully at the tie. And not at his chest.
“I tried something similar, when I first suspected, but I forgot Blaise is batshit about clothes. He has this special trunk that doesn’t have a lock, it just has this weird alarm spell I couldn’t ever figure out. So I ended up trying on Goyle’s clothes, which were enormous on me. It was all wrong, but also it was—enough to know.”
His gaze slides over to the mirror. The reflection is almost right, it’s so close, it’s all wrong, it’s too lumpy, it's—
“Do you know the spell?" Draco asks, his wand already out. “Pecticus.”
—flat. He stares at the tie lying flat on his flat chest. Breathes with his flat chest, and it might as well be the first breathe he’s ever taken.
Suddenly, there he is in the mirror. Exactly where he’s always been.
“What should I call you?”
“Harry,” slips out of his mouth embarrassingly quickly. It’s not as though he’s been waiting for someone to ask.
“Harry,” Draco says. Just right.
