Dynamics
The war changes Potter. He becomes darker, meaner, chillingly focused. He doesn't flinch away from the jobs the ministry heaps upon him– the paperwork, the strategy, the public relations, and the violence, the fighting. The only thing he doesn't do is undercover, and that's because his face is too recognizable.
Draco remembers him at Hogwarts. He was short, sick-looking, furious, and nearly always shrouded by friends and admirers. Now, his face has a hardened look about it, the kind that wouldn't look out of place on a soldier (because that's what he is). Now he moves with power, though still without elegance. Draco can't help but wish, sometimes, that he could talk to him. The thought is quickly ignored in favour of breakfast, or business, or reality.
Most of Potter has been killed during the war. Every new picture in the Daily Prophet is slightly more blurred than the last, slightly more manic. Draco is hard pressed not to go to the main office and yell at them. 'You're all lazy scum! That last one was indistinguishable; he wasn't even looking. He was too far away. Was that even him? He has black hair, he's shorter, he's not that person (he's anybody else). Fuckers!'
Potter has killed dozens. When he kills Voldemort he disappears. Draco keeps the clippings he has collected throughout his years away and not here. Sometimes he spells the whine out of his aged scissors to cut out another article, but they become less frequent as the years go by and Potter doesn't return. Then one day he does. He looks old, nearly indistinguishable. Draco decides he is disappointed.
Unsighted
Harry learns quickly to appreciate Draco. His skin is soft like a baby, unlike any other person Harry has met above the age of ten. His hair is soft too, and when he lets it hang loose for Harry to run his fingers reverently through it each strand skims his tapered shoulders. Harry appreciates the concave of Draco's clavicle, and the jutting bones of his wrists. He sometimes listens for the wet thad thump, thad thump sound of his heart. He breathes in the scent of something quiet and vicious. The short half-moons of Draco's fingernails rake down his forearm, and Harry shudders, or laughs, or cries. His fingers lightly play concertos on Harry's stomach. Harry pulls his chest flush against Draco, or the other way around, and Draco talks about his father, and the war, and school. Harry tells him not to worry, and Draco says I'm not worried, fool, or something similar. Harry learns to appreciate stolen moments momentarily frozen – his foot dangling in the lake, brushing Draco's, Draco's voice rushing over the nape of his neck, his tongue tasting the victory and failure of a Quidditch match, Draco angry again. The experience of Draco is rapid and enraged, and Harry is hard pressed to wait for the telltale thad thump. Draco smiles, and lightly traces Harry's lips with his pointer finger. Harry reaches for him. He feels like papery satin, moves like tears, smells like Malfoy, sounds like power, tastes like magic. Thad Thump.