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Draco watched him from the sidelines, his friends egging him on as he built up the courage to go talk to him.
Potter.
In the middle of the dancefloor, swaying alone and the most ethereal thing Draco had ever seen. The pulsing lights worshipped him alone, throwing him in and out of relief, and causing Draco’s heart to stutter whenever Potter came back into stark view. Like the reality of him was a constant shock. The surprise of him.
Pansy, Draco’s biggest supporter and largest critic, threw an arm around his shoulders and laughed in his ear.
“Admit it, Draco. You’re too dragon shit to actually go chat him up. You haven’t got the bollocks.”
Draco rolled his eyes, though he didn’t take them off Potter. The view was better. Still, he couldn’t let that remark stand.
“Hold my butterbeer, you cunt.” And off he went to engage the divine.
