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“I’m gonna do it.”
There were many things that Harry had done in his life. There were many stupid things that Harry had done in his life. There was that time that Harry had tried running away from home, until he couldn’t buy fish and chips with his crayon-drawn currency, which was why he wanted to leave to begin with. There was that time that Harry put his tooth under his folded blanket—a substitute for an actual pillow—in the hopes of receiving a few pounds like Dudley had. Stupid things were a part of Harry’s life. This, however, had to be the stupidest thing he was most nervous about doing.
“Really?” Ron’s voice was muffled by the toast in his mouth, making him look less like a wizard and more like a squirrel. Specks of bread went flying out, but it was nothing Harry wasn’t completely used to. He could almost hear the chastisement from Mrs. Weasley, lecturing her son to have manners and wait until he was done chewing to speak. Ron was somewhat more coherent when he spoke again, asking, “Do what?” He stuffed the last morsel of toast into his overflowing mouth, his inner squirrel being awakened once more.
“I’m gonna ask him to the Yule Ball.” Harry nodded to himself confidently. He didn’t reckon he was too unsightly, and he had a decent personality to offer, but this was going to require a lot of Gryffindor courage on his behalf nonetheless. He had never asked out anybody, let alone a boy; despite the fact that girls were harder to impress, boys were an utterly different realm. Or maybe it was just this specific boy, who was completely out of his league. He made Harry much more nervous. How was he going to do it? The Yule Ball was two weeks away; was that too late? He was just about to ask his friend, but Ron had another question in mind.
In that suffocated, squirrel-cheeked voice, Ron inquired, “Cedric? About time! Blimey, you’ve been ogling him since third year—”
“No, no,” Harry’s face went hot, hand shooting up to cover Ron’s mouth. Cedric Diggory, a Hufflepuff almost four years older than him, clearly had his eyes on Cho Chang—who Harry also crushed on—so it was about time that he moved on from the two of them. This new boy was his one opportunity. “That Beauxbatons boy.” Harry slowly lowered his hand from Ron’s mouth, silently permitting him to speak.
Ron cocked his head to the side. “Archambeau? I dunno… He’s been cozying up to that Susa—“
Harry’s hand was over Ron’s mouth once more, hand getting covered with the bread crumbs on his friend’s face. Harry grimaced upon realising; he wiped his hand on his school robes and took a deep breath. “With the pinched nose and heavy accent. You know who I’m referring to, right?” He and Ron were standing behind a bookshelf. Harry had created an opening by removing a book in order to watch as the boy studied with Hermione, who was just about the only Hogwarts student that the blond consorted with. Most of the time, he was surrounded by his pretentious, gorgeous friends from Beauxbatons, judging everyone and everything in their vicinity. Harry could tell by the critical look that would coat Draco’s angular face.
Draco. His name was Draco. Harry had been absolutely fascinated with him since the day he spotted him in one of his classes—this trance-like feeling that left him weightless. On numberous occasions, Harry had made the effort to flirt, or simply banter, with Draco. And, on each of these occasions, there came no avail. He even once asked Draco if he had any Veela heritage, but Draco was not interested and Harry was brutally rebuffed. That day, Ron teased the hell out of him for his feeble conquest. Harry managed to shoot back by pointing out Ron’s failed seduction of Fleur Delacour.
“That Malfoy?” Ron grinned, indiscreetly amused. He peered past the bookshelf as well, catching a glimpse of Hermione and Draco studying together. Draco didn’t look as pinched that day; on the contrary, his porcelain complexion sat relaxed, grey eyes following the lines to a book on intermediate potion-making. Calm fared well on his face, and a foolish, lopsided smile tugged at the end of Harry’s lip just by watching him. Ron, on the other hand, chuckled tauntingly. “I thought you’d have given up on that bastard by now. He hates you.”
Harry snapped his head away from the bookshelf in order to glare at Ron; Ron’s sneer did not relent. “He does not hate me,” he bordered on whining, smacking Ron’s arm with a book. “Hate is a strong word. Our world would be so much better without it. I like to think that Draco is… he’s a tough shell to crack. But I’m getting close. Any day now—mark my words—he’ll open up to me.”
“He literally ran away from you the other day,” Ron pointed out, and when Harry started protesting, Ron put his hand over his mouth to speak. Karma really was a stick up his arse. A big, fat, painful stick up his bloody arse. Harry smacked his hand away, and Ron continued speaking. “He claimed that he had to water his pet branch, Harry. Clearly, he isn’t tripping over himself to go out with you. Why don’t you try someone more accessible? … I heard Chandra Bali has had her sights on you for a good while now. She’s fit.”
Harry rolled his eyes. Ever since Harry had won the first Triwizard task, just about every other girl and their mothers had a crush on him—when only weeks prior, they couldn’t stand to look at him. He had always hated the attention that constituted being the alleged ‘Chosen One,’ but this animosity was being amplified exponentially. Perhaps that contributed to Harry’s feelings for Draco—Draco didn’t give a damn about Harry’s social status. Conversely, he probably thought Harry was an idiot. Someone that kept him in check was just what he needed, not Chandra Bali or Romilda Vane or any random admirer he had never spoken to. “You think Hermione is fit,” Harry shrugged.
“I don’t—”
“SHHH,” Madam Pince’s quelling interjection from the other side of the library, a spine-chilling, booming sound, made Ron shut up. Speaking above a whisper was another one of those stupid things that Harry had done in his life. The old hag was much stronger than her appearances implied; she had managed to haul Harry out of the library by the ear once, when he was a fresh-faced first year. Prompted by the recollection, Harry lowered his voice as he carried on.
“Yet, you still went after Fleur, whose probability of going to the ball of you rounds down to zero. Excuse me if you believe I’m making a fool out of myself for pursuing someone much more attainable,” Harry crossed his arms, still holding the book that he had removed from the shelf and used to strike Ron’s arm. Ron’s face twisted petulantly.
“Have you seen the way you act around him? Merlin, you’re worse than Ginny when she had that huge crush on you. He definitely thinks you got dropped as a baby. Everyone does.” And Harry was about to argue that his behaviour was perfectly fine when he was around Draco, but someone tapped on his shoulder. Harry whipped around, horrified to see a stone-faced Draco Malfoy.
Harry’s eyes went wide and he stumbled back, only for Ron to push him back forward. He shot Ron a look. “Oh, um, wow, alright, hi,” Harry sputtered out, that stupid smile back on his face as he faced Draco. Nervously, he asked, “How much of that conversation did you hear?”
“I doon’t know wat you zwo were saying, boot I could ‘ear your obnoxiou’ voices all ze way over zere,” Draco gestured to his and Hermione’s table and spoke in an aristocratic, French accent, as if flaunting his wealthy heritage whenever he made the choice to speak. If not, there was also his air of poise, the way he held his head up as if he was the most important wizard in the world. He regarded Harry with this investigative glint in his eyes, as if analysing him. Harry shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “I d’ubt you are aczually ‘ere to read… 101 Ways to Coupe Wiz Family Divorce, if ze rumours of your parentlessness are true.” Behind him, Ron couldn’t help but snigger. Harry elbowed him. Draco kept talking. “I zink it would be in everyone’s interest if you move’ed zis urgent conversazion else’e’where. Au revoir, mon cher.”
“That went well,” Harry sighed in relief when Draco ambled away, as if he had just been dug out of a grave in which he was buried alive. His face was ashen, because just being around Draco could get his head spinning and his stomach churning. He was convinced that he would get sick at any second, all over the carpeting of the library. Madam Pince would have his head for that. He decided against it. “What are you laughing about, Ron?”
“Oh. My. Godric,” Ron managed to force out of his vocal cords, as they were too busy laughing as quietly as humanly possible. One freckled hand was to his stomach, the other to his lips. He was all red. “Say, how many times did you actually get dropped as a baby? Oh, and,” he hissed, “he obviously hates your guts. Did you even see the way he was looking at you?”
Evidently, Harry and Ron did not have the same sense of humour. Harry blankly stared at his friend as Ron tried to suppress his laughter—the type of laughter in which he would stop, look at Harry again, and burst out laughing again. In the end, it took a solid two minutes for Ron to compose himself, while Harry wondered how in Merlin’s tits was this funny. He had genuinely believed they had a good, genuine tête-à-tête. The topic of a date could not be too far behind… correct?
Ron did not think so. “I’ll pay you 10 sickles if you can get him to go to the Yule ball with you. I reckon he would rather go with Ms. Norris.”
And Harry became more determined than ever.
“What were you boys discussing yesterday?” Harry tried acting clueless. She huffed. “In the library. We couldn’t focus on preparing for our NEWTs because of you lot,” Hermione complained, her rucksack slung over her shoulder and jammed with textbooks. NEWTs weren’t for another three years, but Hermione had already created a comprehensive study plan that included ten practice tests, 780 study sessions, and over a hundred books to read. Draco was her equally masochistic partner in crime. Harry frowned.
“How did you get Draco to like you?” Harry replied plaintively, completely dodging her interrogation. They were in a crowded corridor, what with the occupation of both Hogwarts and foreign students. There were the Durmstrang blockheads that walked unfathomably slow; the snotty Beauxbatons students that travelled in packs of six; the Hogwarts students that were busy eating each others’ faces off. Harry and Hermione were going to be late for History of Magic… Harry could live with that. Hermione couldn’t.
“By the time we make it to Professor Binn’s, the lesson will be over,” Hermione chewed on her bottom lip. Whenever she was anxious, her coiled hair would puff up worse than usual. At that moment, her situation was bad . What was so important about History of Magic, Harry didn’t know—the only thing he had ever learned to do in that class was plagiarise. He did know one thing for sure, however, and it was that Hermione was his friend. If she cared so much about a useless class, her feelings were valid. Harry put a hand on her shoulder.
“You can explain your situation and ask him for notes. Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.” Harry paused, trying to find a subtle way to push his question back into their chat. Upon realising that there was no way, he made the decision to be upfront. “Although… You didn’t answer my question.” God. He was the worst friend someone could ask for.
Hermione leered at him and Harry threw his hand up defensively. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” As they crossed paths with some girls from Beauxbatons, his voice dropped into just above a whisper, leaning into Hermione’s ear. “I just… No matter what I do, he just seems to want to rip my head off. What did I do wrong? Does he still hold a grudge from that Veela question? Because I really didn’t mean to mock him, okay? I was genuinely curious. Aren’t you? He’s like an enchantress, except he’s a bloke, I swea…” Harry snapped his mouth shut at Hermione’s face.
Hermione was exasperated at this point, and sighed. “Okay, okay. Draco doesn’t hate you. You’re… you’re not the sort of person he would congregate with. No offence—but it’s like you had been dropped on your head as a baby. Multiple times. Or maybe it’s that murder attempt. Maybe that killing curse was detrimental to your intellect. Since he aimed his wand on your head and all.” This ignited one of Hermione’s signature tirades. Harry knew it before it happened. “You’re a complete imbecile around him, and he isn’t particularly taken with imbeciles. If you want his attention, or his friendship, or something more, because I’ve seen the way you gawk at him in class, like he’s the only other person in the entire universe—you must get your act together. Instead of thinking so much about how attractive he is, make an effort to get to know him.
“He is so much more than a French beauty from the beautiful school. He’s smart, and he’s good at potions, and he’s actually secretly really insecure, and he’s close to his mother, who sends him food every day because he thinks the Hogwarts food is gross, and he looks up to his father, and… He’s as human as we are. The reason why he isn’t interested in you is because he thinks your feelings are superficial. Show him that they aren’t. Because just about every aspect of his life is superficial and he’s tired of it.”
Saying that Harry was speechless was an understatement. He blinked once, and twice, and three times, but his brain was yet to muster an articulate string of thoughts to properly express his feelings. There was only the comfort of now knowing what he had to do. He slowly smiled. “Erm, yeah, uh, thanks—thank you—Hermione,” he nodded. “Yeah. I will. Do that. I’ll do that… What are some things he likes—”
“YOU GUD-FOR-NOT’ING, EMPTY-HAY-DED—“
“Does everyone here think I’m an idiot?” Harry grumbled, swivelling around to face a red-faced Viktor Krum. Isn’t he one to talk, when everyone around them knew that he managed not to get a single NEWT. This was a collective notion that Harry kept to himself for the sake of Krum’s feeble pride. The famous Quidditch player had probably never heard a word of criticism in his life. What a—
“—SCOONDREL!”
Whatever that was. “Did you just call me a scooter?” Harry regarded his fellow Triwizard Champion with crossed arms, and when Krum didn’t say anything else, he shook his head. “What is my crime this time, Viktor? What sins have I committed, in which I must be persecuted in the middle of a crammed corridor? What have I done that you could not wait to discuss privately? Take your time. I know how difficult words can be.”
Viktor did not take to that comment, storming over to face Harry and snatching him by the collar of his school robes. “You dirty woman’zer. I confeeded in you my depp secrit, and in retorn, you hab dechided to beh-tray me by gai’ning Hermoon’s affec’ions. I new see that you are my competicion.” Viktor towered over fourteen-year-old Harry, and yet, Harry still found himself suppressing his laughter. Trust Viktor to be so dramatic about a misunderstanding. The only thing missing now was that he challenged Harry to a duel.
“I challogne you to a du’el! A baytle to death! A fayght wit’ barr hands! ‘he winner is ‘he man who is deserving of Hermoon’s low-ve.”
There it was.
Hermione stepped in and yanked Harry away from Viktor’s calloused hands. She looked up at Viktor with wide eyes as Harry tried processing what had just happened to him. Viktor tried yanking him right back in as if he were a toy that two children were feuding over. How did his life amount to this? He traced back every decision he had ever made—from what was the expiration date of the milk he was fed 13 years ago—to now. “What is going on?!” Hermione scoffed. “I really thought you were better than this, Viktor. For goodness sake…”
“Viktor told me that he wanted help in romancing you, ‘Mione,” Harry said, surprise lingering in his disbelieving eyes. “I don’t know where all this, erm, hostility began. You know Hermione’s my friend, right? I was just talking to her—Merlin, I’ve known her longer than you have. She’s like a sis—“
“Donut use ‘hat excuse!” Viktor roared menacingly. What a miraculous gift it was to feel no shame. They were under the searing shine of the limelight and Harry could definitely hear one or two cameras flash. This was bound to be on the front page tomorrow. ‘Triwizard Tournament Turns Lethal for Harry Potter?’ ‘Viktor Krum Under the Spell of Scarlet Woman Granger?’ Harry didn’t know if he could ever recover.
“You wer’e joost talking to her. But you wer’e whisparring to her ear’e. And put’ting your’e arm on her shoulder. And similing at her. If you wer’e a troo friend’e of mene… You wood hab realsed that you are too close. And not in a browter way.” The plaintive voice in which his voice lowered almost made Harry feel bad for him. But he kept on talking and ruining everything for Harry.
“You have taiented o’r comriderie. Soo we moost finish what we started. Poesicions!”
“What—“
Viktor snapped into the duelling position, taking no time for the pleasantries such as bowing; evidently, he fancied himself too good for that. Pressured, Harry also took on the position, wandless wand arm over his head with the other stretched out. He spread his feet apart as well. In spite of himself, he continued to protest.
“I don’t like Hermione like that!”
“BUT THE PROPHET—“
“You are a decitfool woman’zer!”
There was a FLASH! and SNAP! of a camera.
“I was talking about asking someone else to the Yule Ball with her—“
“Ooh.”
“YOU WER’E GOONG TO ASK HER TO ‘HE YOOLE BAWL?!”
“No! He’s planning on asking someone else! Someone from Beauxbatons! I was giving him tips on how to get said date to like him back!”
“Harry’s in love with a French beauty? I can’t blame him for that.”
“You are aiding hym in haes liyes?”
FLASH! SNAP!
“Will someone please pitch those cameras out the window?”
“I’m not aiding him in his lies! I’m defending my friend from your clutches. And even if he did like me, that’s no excuse to—“
“Incendio!”
“SOO YOU ADDEDMIT IT?”
“WHO BURNED MY CAMERA?! IT WAS A GIFT FROM MY—“
“WHO CARES?!”
“Now I have first degree burns on my hands! My perfect, perfect… OW!”
“TELL US WHO YOU FANCY, HARRY!”
“GODDAMN IT, I FANCY DRACO MALFOY!”
“MALFOY?!” Multiple people collectively gasped. The colour and warmth drained from his face as his words dawned upon him, a realisation that he drowned in. He felt as if he were gasping for air to no avail, having just admitted to everyone in the school and more about his unlikely muse.
On the flip side, at least his altercation with Krum wouldn’t get featured on the front page. His admission would take the media by storm instead. Harry racked up ways he could abscond from the magical world to America, Canada, or India. There was no way he could recover from this. No way he could recover from the world finding out before Draco—
“Je suis désolé, wat ?”
Correction. At the same time. Mortified, Harry whipped around. So it seemed that the shit-show had a new attraction—witnessing Harry Potter officially confess to someone completely out of his league. What’s more, they could watch as he blundered through the entire confession before being denied in the most ruthless way possible. This could go down in history, if Harry’s scar didn’t buy him into the books already.
Again and again, Harry reminded himself of who he was and where he came from. Gryffindor. Son of James and Lily Potter. Punching bag of Dudley Dursley. Housekeeper of Petunia Dursley. Another subject to ramble about of Vernon Dursley. Godson of convicted felon, the invincible Sirius Black. Best friend of some bloke obsessed with food and the girl aforementioned bloke unwittingly pines for. Now, the actor in the spotlight of his derisive peers.
He could do this. He was Harry bloody Potter. But Draco took the stage first.
“Iz zat why you alwayz act od around me?” Harry nodded quickly. “Woow.” Some of the students in the crowd appeared confused, unable to decipher whatever the hell it was that Draco was saying underneath his heavy accent. Even in another language, he sounded—expensive. Elegant. Merlin, Harry was so into him. Wasn’t it a pity that Draco wouldn’t give him a second thought.
“I assume-ed zat you we’e juzt… missing a frontal lowbe o a hypot’amalus o’ deux,” Draco professed, and laughed at himself. Harry couldn’t blame him for minding him an idiot, seeing as he had actual grounds in doing so— “Should we be in Frawnce, and zey would hab had you locked up somewhere alridy.” That, however, was overkill. Harry blinked incredulously. Noticing the offended expression on his face, Draco shrugged. ‘’o can blame me?’ Draco didn’t ask. Instead, he continued to divulge.
“Actually… I guess zat’s why I was cold around you. Been in your vicinity me’ely reminded of ze wit-‘harpening poción I’ve been meaning to make for you. I couldn’t get around to doon it until today.”
“Draco. Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. I don’t… I don’t need a wit-sharpening potion, or a replacement hypothamaulus or frontal lobe or whatever.” Harry ignored the awkward coughs that came from the crowd. He reminded himself to search up an answer for why everyone thought he was an idiot. He was average in intelligence, thankyouverymuch. “I just… really like you. Seriously, I do. And not just for your looks—though that’s definitely how I noticed you in the first—“
“Harry,” Hermione hissed.
“Okay, okay. What I’m trying to say, Draco, is that I like you because you’re clever and attentive and I’ve heard that you’re family-oriented and, believe me, I am too, and I would like nothing more but to get to know you better. Honestly. There is no one I would rather go to the ball with but you. So… What do you think? Want to get to knew each other better at the Yule Ball? December. December 25th. 20:00. 1994. Yeah?”
For the first time, Draco almost seemed lost for words. He simply smiled at Harry, and smiled a little more, and then chuckled, and then shook his head. “I still suspect that you need the wit-sharpening potion. However… I suppose there’s no harm in one night together. It’s not like you’re proposing marriage.” The students couldn’t fathom this. Many of them saw the Yule Ball as their one opportunity to find love. It was ridiculous. Just another thing Harry liked about Draco.
“I’ll go with you.”
Harry Potter, victorious! Except, then, he felt something being handed to him. He looked down, and it was a silk rucksack with something heavy inside. Inquisitive, Harry shoved his hand into the bag and pulled out a bottle of a violet-hued solution. He peered up at Draco, who was already walking away.
“You should keep the potion nonetheless. I’ve seen your marks. You certainly need it.”