Everyone thinks its the color, but it isn't. Lots of people have hair that color. And none of them have the same effect on Harry. It isn't that pale spectrum of feather light strands, a color better suited on tiny children or exotic birds. It's how that color makes Harry feel. It feels new. Bright. Electric happiness. Draco Malfoy's hair, feels like a new start. Like Harry could always start over. It was a lovely reminder, and it was something unique to only Draco.
His father, Lucius, had the same color hair, and it didn't make Harry feel good. It made him feel unsafe. That a completely different mind could mimic the quality of something he loved, and not be the thing he loved. Sure, he hadn't gotten along with Draco in the beginning. It takes time to get used to constantly being confronted with something you haven't yet learned is vital to you, and that's why it gets under your skin. You aren't sure that it's really yours and that you can have it. That's why you can't stop staring at it. That's why you stalk it.
There were promises made before their lives began. No one deals with that very well when they're only eleven.
He has had enough time and years to come to know the facets of Draco's hair. Whether trimmed to straight edge, right-angle perfection, or allowed to stray into messy, half-curls lawlessly touching his collar, it always held a message for Harry. You see me. You feel me. I am a code that unlocks you. I wear these colors for you, and you have entrusted me to keep the code to your soul.
It was a signal that they both agreed on before coming into this world. I'll wear our connection. That's how you'll know me if we get lost in this whole human farce. That's how we'll find each other again.
Even Wizard children are not taught how to deal with that.
But that's how he'd always known that Draco belonged to him, and he'd had every right to be the one to claim him. Even when he hadn't known, he'd known.
End.