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Draco nurses his third flute of champagne, wishing for the strong Pálinka Charlie had brought the last time he’d visited Potter at Hogwarts. He doesn’t realise how tight his grip on the glass is until Pansy appears on his right side, casually inquiring if he’s trying to get out of this by breaking the flute and cutting his hand on the broken glass.
“You know that wouldn’t work. They’d probably drag me out of here, have a house-elf fix me and my clothes, and throw me back in like prey to a hoard of hungry lions.”
That’s the most accurate description of his feelings tonight. Since Draco is about to turn thirty in less than six months, his parents — or to be more precise, his father — decided enough was enough and told him at Christmas that a ball would be held shortly after New Year’s to which all eligible pure-blood women would be invited. Such an old tradition. One of many Draco hates.
Along with finding a wife and producing heirs.
Draco doesn’t hate children, but he prefers to have them as fully formed students at school, or like Teddy before he started Hogwarts: for an afternoon, before returning them to their parents or guardians.
Also, Draco discovered — by means of looking long, intently, and frequently at Oliver Wood and Cedric Diggory — that his interests aren’t really part of the “Traditional Pureblood Heir Handbook”, so finding a wife had never been his intention.
Both his parents knew; he’d told them more than once, but while Narcissa seemed to believe him, Lucius’ ambitions for his son have remained unchanged. In an act of desperation, Draco firmly reiterated over his Christmas pudding that he was very gay and actually dating.
“Who?” his mother asked, and the weight of his father’s gaze caused him to blurt the name of the only single man he could think of.
“Harry Potter.”
Since he started at Hogwarts four years ago, there’d been no time or people to date. Then Potter came last year after quitting the Aurors, and Draco found himself eyeing his new colleague very closely, discovering in the process that the man was sex on legs.
“Having fun without me?” Millicent asks as she approaches Draco and Pansy.
“Tons. Can’t you tell?”
“Oh yes, Draco’s stiff posture and icy glare at his guests scream ‘successful party,’” Millicent remarks.
“Hi, girls!”
And here’s number three.
It’s quite ironic that of the ten women his parents have invited, three are in a relationship. With each other. It’s even funnier that his father had been desperate enough to invite Ginny Weasley. She is probably as interested in men as he is in women. She can also lift him up and carry him bridal style over a threshold. Which would have made for interesting wedding photos if they hadn’t both been horribly gay.
“When will Harry be here?” Ginny says in her quiet voice, which is about the same volume as a mermaid’s screech outside water.
“Any louder, Weasley? I think Flint’s sister hasn’t heard it yet,” Draco hisses back.
Millicent makes an attempt at pointing her wand at her throat as if to cast a Sonorus, but Pansy stops her mid-motion. “I think we’ve teased him enough. What do you think of Ernie’s sister, Draco? I think you’d have lovely children.”
“And imagine what arseholes they’d be,” Ginny offers.
Draco huffs. “You three can continue this game while I get another refill and try to steal some finger food from the buffet.”
Draco’s heart is beating so hard, he’s scared it’ll leap out of his chest. Strands of hair are sticking to his forehead, and there’s still a chance Potter will bail on him. There’s honestly no reason why he wouldn’t. Potter agreed to help him weeks ago and has never spoken of it since then.
It’s rather embarrassing how it happened.
After Flooing to Hogwarts post-Malfoy family Christmas dinner, Draco needed some fresh air. On his way outside, he’d literally bumped into Potter as he was checking the corridors.
“Watch where you’re going,” Draco snarled.
“Calm down, Malfoy. You were rushing through here like a wild centaur.”
“Just fuck off!”
Harry Potter is a very hard person to get rid of, as proven again that night. From what Draco learned later, he’d dumped his duty onto Neville before tracking and shaking down Draco with the help of his blasted map and a bottle of cheap Muggle spirits in his pocket.
With half-a-bottle’s worth of alcohol rushing through his bloodstream, Draco’s tongue loosened and he told Harry everything. Literally everything. From his gay epiphany at twelve to his father’s insistence on him finding a wife and making cute, blond babies.
“Who says they’re gonna be cute?” the prick had the nerve to ask.
“Have you looked at me? Of course, they’d be cute.”
“And awful gits.”
“Only to Potters,” Draco smiled.
Harry bumped against his shoulder. “When’s the party going to happen?”
“Second Saturday in February.”
“I’ll be there. After all, I’m your boyfriend now.” It was the last thing Potter said before taking a swig from the bottle and returning to the castle.
Draco takes a flute from the table, downs it, and reaches for another. By the time Potter arrives — if he arrives — Draco might have alcohol poisoning. Stealing food from the buffet hasn’t worked. The food is sealed under charms until the hosts officially greet all the guests.
He stands around morosely, putting on his best air of “don’t talk to me”. It seems to be fairly successful because although there are potential brides aplenty in the Manor ballroom, none of them have approached (save Ginny, Pansy, and Millie, but they don’t count anyway).
At least he can enjoy the confusion of his father as to why the food remains unsealed. Draco has seen his father watching him like a hawk, so Lucius knows that Draco has at least acknowledged all the guests — that is, the guests that Lucius invited.
Evidently, the confusion is too much, and it would look too gauche to undo the charms, because Draco hears the live musicians begin the dance music.
He gazes mournfully at the buffet. He’d been looking forward to demolishing the salmon en croute.
Well, no one says he has to ask anyone to dance. Draco resolves to stay in his corner until he is literally dragged onto the dance floor.
He goes to take a swig of champagne, but the glass slips from his fingers as someone grabs his arm and drags him onto the dance floor.
He has a scathing remark ready on his tongue to accompany the tinkle of shattering glass, but he abruptly shuts his mouth when he sees the face of his kidnapper. Or rather — quite literally — his saviour.
Harry Potter has evidently deigned to show up, and his outfit is as dramatic as his entry. His robes are black as night with Glitter Charms woven into the fabric, turning him into an enticing figure draped in inky night sky that holds Draco captive. His face is obscured by an elaborate masquerade mask, at odds with the dress of all the other attendees, but it fits with the overall aesthetic. Somehow, he has tamed his hair into an attractive sweep of curls that rings the mask and his bright, bright green eyes perfectly.
Draco had thought Potter would show up, the two of them would put on a show of being lovers, and then they’d return to Hogwarts and carry on with their separate lives. The pounding thump of his heart as he gazes at Potter tells him that that’s a stupid idea. Instinctively, his hands clutch harder on Potter.
Potter takes this as his cue to begin dancing. Draco has no idea when Potter learned how to do that either, but he can feel himself getting swept away and not just because of the rhythm of the music. He can’t seem to look away from Potter, those magnetic green eyes, the seemingly soft skin of his cheeks, his lips.
He can’t help but notice that Potter hasn’t looked away from him either.
The music swells, and Potter’s steps quicken. Draco keeps up effortlessly, and his hands slide up Potter’s arms.
As the finale crests, Potter steps forward, bending Draco over in a theatrical dip, and Draco takes the opportunity to tilt his chin upwards, clearly indicating a kiss. Potter’s eyes widen, his pupils getting big and dark, and he leans down to meet Draco halfway.
The kiss goes on and on and on. Draco revels in the feel of Potter’s lips on his and vows to repeat this kissing-Potter-thing. Regretfully, he pulls away (because he’s not exactly an athlete and maintaining the dipped position is hell on his core muscles) and stands up straight.
Around them, the entire crowd is standing in a ring of shocked faces. Or shock and anger, in Lucius’s case. Draco smirks, turns to face Potter, and says, “Everyone, please welcome my boyfriend, Harry Potter.”
The shimmering charms on the buffet table dissipate, but Draco doesn’t see, busy as he is grabbing Potter’s hand and Apparating them back to Hogwarts.
He’s got a fake boyfriend to convince into becoming his real boyfriend.