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The queue for the Ferris wheel is 20 people deep, at least. Harry waits, dirtying the toe of his Chuck Taylors in the fairground dust. The carnival had come to town a week ago, setting up in the field next to the Weasley Farm, ushering in Fall. Harry could see the multi-colored lights and hear the excited hollers from the loop-de-loop from Ron’s attic room.
After dark, he, Ron, and Hermione had walked across the field to the carnival’s entrance, Ron chattering on about the girls they would meet. And boys, Ron amended with a punch to Harry’s bicep and a nudge to Hermione’s shoulder. Hermione had given Harry that look — the exasperated, pleading one. Harry wonders, slightly mortified, if this is how he looks when he sees a particular blond boy.
Ron kicks his shoe. “Earth to Harry. The queue has moved, mate.”
Harry trots to close the gap, pulling his letterman jacket closer around his neck. The autumn days were still perfectly warm this early in the season, but the sun had set hours ago and the night was cold. Above him, the spidery spokes of the Ferris wheel rise high, so high it seems as if from the top he could lasso a star — a wish to keep in his pocket.
“If you could catch a star,” he asks, “what would you wish for?"
Ron peeks at him from inside his hood, his fringe of red hair curling in the breeze. “A warmer bloody hoodie.” He jumps up and down.
“Do you want your jacket back?” Hermione asks, clutching the jacket tighter.
“You keep it,” Ron says, oblivious to Hermione’s blush. “Blimey, Harry, do we have to ride the wheel? It’s going to be cold as a witch’s tit at the top.”
“Just once, yeah?” Harry scans the crowd, hoping to glimpse white blond hair.
The line advances, and Ron contemplates Harry with narrowed eyes. “I bet I can guess what you’d wish for.” He taps his chin. “A snog with a certain pointy git you fancy, perhaps?”
“I don’t fancy him,” Harry protests, hearing the lie in his voice.
Ron groans. “Yeah, but Malfoy, mate? He’s exasperating and always sniffing the air, like he’s looking for breakfast.”
“He’s exasperating, yes,” Hermione concedes. “But he’s also Captain of the tennis team,” she ticks off on her fingers. “And a debate god. And valedictorian,” she adds deflating a bit. “And to answer your question, that would be my star wish.”
“He’s ahead by a measly one hundredth of a grade point!” Ron laments. “You should be number one, ‘Mione.”
“You are number one, in our book,” Harry says.
“Yeah, well he is all those things and he hasn’t taken his eyes off you all night, Potter,” she says grinning.
Harry feels his ears heat despite the cold. He ruffles the hair at the back of his head. “I don’t know why but every time I see him my palms sweat and my tongue goes stupid. I just... ugh!” He flails.
Ron and Hermione exchange a glance.
“Like at the hot dog stand,” Harry says, voice cracking, “we both reached for the mustard at the same time—”
“And you apologized in unison,” Ron interjects, sighing.
“In unison!” Harry cries.
Hermione points at Harry. “And his eyes, don’t forget.”
“Grey.” Harry melts. “And in the Tilt-A-Whirl? There he was again, right next to me. You can’t tell me it’s not destiny. Our pinkies were literally touching! I should have made my move.”
Ron nods knowingly. “You shoulda made your move, mate.”
“Is that the lad you’re talking about?” asks the lady standing ahead of them in line. She points to a second queue that meets Harry’s at the gate.
Harry cranes his neck, and his heart leaps into his throat. Malfoy stands, hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket, shoulders hunched against the cold. The night air lifts his fringe and exposes a deep frown he’s leveling at a short girl with a dark pixie bob.
“Yeah, that’s him,” Ron says. “And Parkinson,” he adds, voice flat.
The bloke holding the lady’s hand counts bodies. “Ah, but I don’t think you’ll match up. Here, switch with us!” He and the lady wave away all protests. “If my counting is correct, then you’ll meet.”
“And you can make your move!” The lady smiles excitedly, eyes sparkling. “Like destiny!”
Couples exit the ride pink-cheeked and breathless, and the queue shortens as pairs alight the gondolas, giggling and expectant. Harry’s traitorous eyes keep straying to Malfoy. His heart lurches and stops like the Ferris wheel’s movement with every glance met, with each step forward.
“Oh look,” Parkinson drawls when the queues merge at the entrance. “It’s the Weasel, the salutatorian, and Draco’s green-eyed lacrosse captain boyfriend he won’t shut up about.”
A muscle in Draco’s jaw clenches, and his frown etches deeper between his impeccable brows. “Shut it, Pans,” he growls. He strides forward menacingly and takes hold of Harry’s hand, yanking him through the gate.
Harry allows himself to be pulled into the gondola, glancing over his shoulder at his friends. Hermione is smiling, and Ron gives him two thumbs-up. “You two ride together next,” Harry calls out. Hermione’s smile falters, and Ron flushes pink.
“I’ll make sure you two stop at the top,” Pansy smirks. The safety bar closes, and Malfoy gives her two fingers as the Ferris wheel jerks forward.
Harry’s heart vibrates around in his chest like a spinning merry-go-round horse. His hope had been buoyed by his friends and the lovely couple in the queue, but now… he steals a glance at Draco. He’s staring straight ahead, frown still in place. Worry plants in Harry’s gut, pulled deeper as the wheel travels upwards. The ground shrinks away at a dizzying pace, much like his courage.
They ride in silence — Harry, unable to speak with his heart in his throat, and Draco…? Harry peeks at him again. He’s resting his chin on his hand, deep in thought, scowl still firmly in place. He’s wearing a pale grey jumper and black jeans, and fuck if he doesn’t take Harry’s breath away in that bloody leather jacket. The ache in Harry’s gut is so fierce he forces himself to look away.
In the sapphire sky, the Milky Way glitters, a brilliant smudge winking whites and greens. The Ferris wheel stops at the summit and the gondola swings, physics at work. A star shoots across the sky, and Harry closes his eyes.
He realizes he’s still holding Draco’s hand.
“Harry,” Draco says, voice quiet, almost reverent. Harry looks at him, pale in the moonlight, perfect. The gondola sways back and forth, urging Harry toward fulfilling his wish. “I— "
Harry surges forward, sliding his hand across Draco’s jaw, thumb grazing his mouth, halting Draco’s words. Draco curls his fingers into Harry’s jacket and pulls him close, pressing warm lips to Harry’s, opening him up with his tongue, deepening the kiss. He tastes like sweet cotton candy and rich leather.
The gondola has stopped swinging when they finally pull apart, and Draco grins. “I’ve wanted to do that for ages.”
“That’s a first for me,” Harry says, breathless.
“Kissing a bloke?” Draco’s brows knit together. “The notes on the bathroom wall inform me otherwise.”
Harry laughs. “Yeah, well, only believe some of what you read.”
Draco lifts an interested brow and reaches out to caress Harry’s smile with cold fingertips. “Is that so,” he says, his voice hushed.
Harry’s heart flutters, and his smile fades. “It’s the first time my wish came true.”
Draco’s eyes sparkle like a star trailing stardust, leaning back in. “My wish came true, too.”