Draco woke at two with the sun seeping through their room, shaded green and limned golden round the plants, and several packages landing heavily on her stomach.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she said, without opening her eyes.
“I wish you wouldn’t frighten the mailman,” Harry said, and padded out of the room again. Draco opened her eyes in time to catch a flash of brown ankle and Harry’s hair, usually the first and last thing to leave a room in any case.
She picked up the parcels. They were humming slightly. When she wrenched the first one out of Amazon’s cheap packaging it was nearly squirming and she had to stroke its spine for two full minutes to get it to calm down. Then she stood up, heaved the others under her arm, tripped over the cat, and went into the kitchen. Harry was hidden behind a giant, unfolded, bumper edition of The Daily Prophet, her knobbly knees just poking through, feet tucked under a Holyhead Harpies flag. Draco eyed her, thumped the parcels down onto the table, and went into the bathroom.
Washing her face soothed her a little. She pushed her fine hair back with the tennis sweatband Weasley had given Harry as a joke, eyed herself severely, and used the the low-Ph seadust cleanser Luna had brought her back from Turkey. Luna had said something about mermaids, who were terrifying but didn’t seem to suffer from dry skin at least. She used the same moisturiser her mother always had, the cold cream from Salome, its heady rosemary smell. She bowed her head, running it over her collarbones, and when she raised her face to the mirror again Harry was reflected in it, cat slung over her shoulder, watching Draco with that careful, intent look that Draco couldn’t ever get used to.
“Nothing,” Harry said. She came over and slung an arm over Draco’s shoulders. “I like watching you.” She leaned in and pressed a friendly kiss against Draco’s cheekbone, then sputtered. “Ugh, what’s in that stuff?”
“Could have told you that would happen,” Draco said, satisfied, and scratched the cat’s head. Harry, who washed her face with coconut oil in the evenings on the odd occasions she remembered, rubbed her hand over her mouth and then sighed and hid her face against Draco’s t-shirt, pressed up tight to her shoulderblade.
Something big and strange moved up through Draco. She ignored it.
“The post guy was shaking when he handed those parcels over,” Harry said, voice muffled against Draco’s shirt. “What was in them?”
“Nothing! Just some books Pansy and I need,” Draco said. Harry’s hand slipped down over her hip, demanding. Draco said, “With - with just a little bit of dark magic. Just a very little bit.”
“I really regret the day Hermione introduced you to the internet,” Harry said.
“But I’m so good at it,” Draco said, and took Harry’s hand.