He’d guessed Draco’s favourite colour correctly the first try.
Truth be told, Draco never had a favourite colour to begin with. He’d never stopped long enough to think about it; it wasn’t as though it would ever be of any value. But, when he found himself sitting next to his loser of a boyfriend — the loser thing wasn’t so true, he loved Harry dearly — and talking to one of the Weasel’s offspring (“After two years of us dating, Draco, is it still necessary that you still name Ron that?”) who called him “Uncle Drake”, he found himself in a little bit of a predicament.
You see, they were colouring to begin with. Draco, with as much grace as a fully grown man could have, had crammed his limbs into a kiddy sized chair to join Harry who was helping the red-head colour a small picture of some miscellaneous magical object. The Gryffindor was dreadful at it, scribbling over the lines in a messy fashion; even the infant could colour better than him. The colouring (or scribbling, in Harry’s case) had eventually spiralled into mindless chit chat about whatever seemed to occupy the mini Weasley’s thoughts, leading to the inevitable questioning of: “Uncle Drake, what’s your favourite colour?”
The child had said it with so much curiosity, so much innocence, that Draco actually found himself thinking long and hard. Fortunately, though, his knight in muggle jogging bottoms stepped in to put him out of his misery, exclaiming happily that it was finally a question he knew the answer to. Draco looked to his lover and waited with his eyebrow raised.
The colour yellow didn’t have any significance until that moment. He’d actually thought of it as quite bland until he saw Harry, a shit eating grin spread across his face, announce definitively that yellow was Draco’s favourite colour. Suddenly, the colour yellow was brighter than before, more beautiful. The way Harry sat there, looking so elated and proud of himself — Draco loved him so much. He never saw the colour yellow the same way again.