"What do you usually do?" Harry asks, closing dry eyes under the cool kiss of the van’s air con, stretching his legs out under the seat in front of him. Beside him, Draco is half-turned to the window, elbow against the door, chin in hand. His hair ruffles against the breeze from the vents, and Harry has to sit on his hand to stop himself from reaching out to touch it, to adjust Draco’s little bun or take it out all together, because Draco looks so nice with his hair down.