Chapter Text
For some reason Draco had actually expected Potter to be good at this. Because, all in all, there were very few things Potter didn’t excel at: well, potions, obviously - Potter was rather bad at that - but he was good at almost everything else and exceedingly good at Defence against the Dark Arts, which definitely wasn't the easiest of subjects. Furthermore he was an absolute force of nature on a broom, having been the youngest seeker to play for a Hogwarts team ever.
In fact, Draco was quite sure Potter would also have qualified as Hogwarts’ champion for this year’s Triwizard Tournament, if he hadn’t been conspicuously absent at the start of the school year, when the champions for this 1792 edition of the Tournament had been chosen.
Of course, there had been many rumours as to why Potter hadn’t been there, but none of those had actually made sense and Draco had stopped making guesses at it. It didn’t take away from the fact that Potter really was good at a lot of things though, which had led Draco to believe that Potter would also be good at this, would be able to manage something as straightforward as the choreography of tonight’s Yule Ball.
Draco now realised he’d been sorely mistaken.
Potter was embarrassingly inaccurate while dancing, taking steps that weren’t appropriate and making turns he wasn’t supposed to make, usually stopping in his tracks every time he belatedly realised he was getting it wrong, either because he didn’t see anyone else move in the same direction or simply because Ginevra whispered an annoyed warning his way.
Draco almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Draco himself knew exactly how these dances were supposed to be performed, of course: men and women opposite each other, moving in elegant, preset figures. And like most people of his stature, Draco was well-versed at them, hadn’t even needed the dancing classes that had been forced on all students preceding this ball.
Obviously none of that applied to Potter, though.
Perhaps it had to do with Potter’s parents moving to the Caribbean well before he was born. Perhaps they didn’t teach wizarding children there how to dance. Or perhaps it was just by absence of those parents that Potter hadn’t leant. For everybody knew Potter’s parents had been killed when he was just a toddler.
It made Draco feel a pang of pain, even though they weren’t friends, as it must have been difficult: growing up without parents. Because, yes, Draco knew exactly how demanding parents - well, fathers in particular - could be, but he still definitely preferred having them around to the other option.
Draco’s sympathy for Potter lasted exactly two seconds though, until he registered Potter’s dismal attempts at dancing again. It really was quite awful.
Perhaps they should have given Potter Draco’s spot in dancing class too, because Potter clearly hadn’t had enough classes: even if you were not great at moving, literally anybody could learn when to go where. It was just a question of counting and knowing the subsequent steps, really.
Well, to Potter it obviously wasn't that simple, which was why Draco was still stuck watching him embarrass himself.
“Atrocious, isn’t it?” Blaise now asked, clearly recognisable even if they were all wearing masks. Draco didn’t have to ask who Blaise was referring to.
“Yes, quite,” Draco answered, his trademark drawl arrogant as ever.
“You know he’s only dancing, because Ginevra practically begged him to,” Blaise confided next. “And look where that has gotten them. I think Ginevra is definitely starting to regret her decision.”
Draco smirked. “I think they’ll be done soon. Why don’t you save her.” His voice sounded just as amused as he felt: Blaise had liked Ginevra Weasley for some time now, but most of the time she seemed glued to Potter, so, Blaise hadn’t found the courage to do anything about his crush just yet. “This might be your chance,” Draco added.
Blaise smirked back. “I’d say it might be yours too, but I really don’t think there’s anything to save about Potter in this case.”
Draco’s face did something involuntary that he knew Blaise fortunately wouldn’t be able to see – thank Merlin for the full mask – but Draco’s voice sounded steady as he answered. “That’s not true either way. You know what he thinks of me.”
“Yes, that you’re a stuck-up git. Which, for the record, most of your friends agree on. Even Pansy and I think so most of the time.”
“Well, that’s-.”
“A fair point. Yes, thank you.” Blaise teased, adding more seriously: “But, Draco, really: we’re all wearing masks and everyone’s hair’s powdered to perfection for the occasion, making yours just as white as everybody else’s.” He looked at Draco pointedly. “So, this might actually be your chance.”
“But I knew he was Potter straight away, so he might-.”
Blaise impatiently shook his head at Draco’s ridiculously half-hearted attempt to undermine his reasoning, cutting him off: “Potter hasn’t bothered to tame his unruly hair into a near decent ponytail, so even I spotted him without much effort.” Blaise paused, probably smiling behind his mask. “Take a chance. Potter is renownedly imperceptive. I promise he won’t know it’s you unless you tell him.”
Then the music stopped and people stepped off to the sides of the dance floor. Potter all but fled the room and Blaise filled his void by bowing and asking Ginevra, if she would be so kind as to dance with him. To his surprise, and pleasure, Draco saw that she agreed.
And Draco really hadn’t meant to go out the same door that Potter had disappeared into, passing Pansy who just shot him a glance - eyes seemingly concerned behind her mask - but who didn’t say a word.
Draco just needed some air, the main hall rather stifling all of a sudden. Which was, of course, the only reason why Draco now found himself in the entrance hall of the castle.
Potter was sitting on the stairs, the only other person in the large hall.
“You needed a break?” Draco tried hard to make his voice sound French, applying French pronunciation rules to the English words, making him drop all of his H’s. He was quite successful, even if he thought so himself, hoping Potter would fall for it and think he was a Beauxbatons student.
It seemed to work, because Potter looked surprised for a moment, apparently taken aback by a French student addressing him. Then he sighed on a self-deprecating smile. “Yeah, well, you saw me in there. I’m awful at dancing.”
“You know it really isn’t that hard,” Draco heard himself say next, emboldened by the fact that Potter hadn’t recognised him, that they actually seemed to be talking rather smoothly. “I suppose you just need practice.”
And then Potter asked something that Draco hadn’t at all expected, damned Gryffindor courage: “Are you offering?”
Draco was so shocked he needed a moment to catch up. “You mean-?”
“Yeah, well, we could actually practice. You know, here,” Potter clarified, sounding like he was smiling while obviously also stubbornly finishing what he had started.
“Okay,” Draco answered, because under the circumstances there really was no other answer that would suffice. It looked like this actually would be his chance. And he wouldn’t pass up on it, even if it was only for tonight.
So, Draco stood, walking further up the stairs of the entrance hall towards the flat landing at the top.
Harry followed, a bit surprised. “Why are you-?” he asked, not really asking, because he didn’t even finish.
Draco answered him anyway: “I just thought you’d want to practice somewhere out of sight. Here we won’t immediately be spotted by people coming out of the Great Hall.”
There was a brief silence. Then Harry said: “Thank you.” Simple and genuine and Draco felt it vibrate somewhere deep down, in a place he’d hidden away, a place he hadn’t even told Pansy about, a place only Blaise was probably somewhat aware of.
“Well,” Draco heard his voice crack a little, almost forgetting his French accent, “let’s do this.” He sounded much more certain than he actually felt.
***
Draco had lost all track of time. He’d been talking Harry through the steps of the dance that he’d messed up in the Great Hall just now, making him count and remember. And Harry had proven to be surprisingly easy to work with, taking everything Draco said for granted, laughing at his own many mistakes and actually making a lot of progress in the process.
“Now you’re failing on purpose. You need to turn right, behind the person you’re next to, then back, but you know that already,” Draco said on something that was more of a full-on laugh than the annoyance it probably should have been. He felt relaxed and, well, happy, in a way that he hadn’t for a long time.
“What if I did,” Harry answered, something teasing to his tone, while he stepped back, their hands touching while they turned around each other. “I just thought I’d see if my teacher was paying attention.”
Harry’s hand was warm and pleasantly there for just a moment too long - or, perhaps something like a lifetime too short - the green of his eyes vibrant and alive behind his mask.
And Draco realised he would have recognised those eyes anywhere, mask or no mask, unruly hair or no.
“Well, he was,” Draco answered, just a beat too late, while they took a step forward side by side, then back again, Harry miraculously remembering exactly what he was supposed to do.
“Yeah, he was.” Harry answered and his voice had a low to it that hadn’t been there before. Then he turned slightly, watching Draco full-on, even though the dance definitely didn’t call for it, and Draco felt himself mimicking the motion without consciously wanting to.
Which was how they ended up standing opposite each other, closer than they should, somehow still holding hands. It was the first time Draco actually regretted his mask, because they were so close, but they couldn’t-.
“Will you stay?” Harry asked and Draco honestly didn’t know what he meant. “You know, when the masks disappear at midnight, will you still be here?”
Oh. Yes. That was what Potter had meant. Fuck. But Potter was right: all masks were going to come off at midnight, magically, thereby revealing everyone’s faces at the same time.
And suddenly Draco realised he didn’t regret his mask, not at all. Because Harry shouldn’t see, couldn’t ever know who he’d been talking to, who he’d been dancing with.
Because Harry would be appalled.
They’d never really gotten along, being in rivalling houses here at Hogwarts, their friend groups hardly overlapping. And although they had been able to be in the same space without taunting each other for the last few years and had even talked to each other in a civilised way for at least the last year, they weren’t friends. Not by a long shot. And they certainly weren’t anything beyond that.
So Harry couldn’t know. Not ever.
“Well, I don’t think-,” Draco started, but there seemed to be a disappointment in Harry’s eyes that was very difficult to ignore, not to give into. And Draco had to remind himself again, resolutely, that Harry didn’t know it was him, that he wouldn’t want to know.
“I think I should leave.” It really was the only thing left for him to say, but Draco couldn’t help but notice how quiet his voice had gone, adding just as softly, French accent still firmly in place: “Thank you. You know, for tonight.”
He meant it with all his heart.
Then he purposefully turned, making himself go, trying to find his strength, his dignity, as he went.
“No, thank you,” Harry replied from behind. “See you around?” His voice sounded overly bright and somehow tentative at the same time.
Draco didn’t turn back.
***
Draco’d only been just in time, because the moment he was leaving the entrance hall to get back to the dungeons, he heard the magically enhanced voice of the headmistress announce that in a minute it would be midnight. Which was when all masks would come off.
He all but ran to his dormitory, starting to feel the mask give way even before he got there. Fortunately no one else had come back early and he had the room all to himself, sitting down heavily on his bed and shutting the curtains around his four-poster as a precaution, even though everyone else was still out.
He didn’t think he could cope with seeing anyone right now, not even his friends. Well, probably especially not his friends.
Next he let himself fall back onto the bed, the softness of the green eiderdown underneath only of little comfort.
So, Draco had danced with Harry. And it had been pleasant and comfortable, making him feel-. Draco forcefully stopped his own thoughts, huffing a rueful laugh at himself and his own foolishness, because he was being ridiculous. He was quite aware of how things stood and that it wasn’t going to change any time soon. That was just the way it was.
And, well, on the bright side, at least they were in their last year of Hogwarts now, after which they would both go their separate ways anyway.
Draco just needed to make it through the rest of this school year somehow.
How hard could it be?