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Although he got Australia in the sweepstakes, Harry’s not too bothered about whether they win Eurovision (and realistically, given their unfortunate lack of geographical voting bloc neighbours, they won’t). It is, however, very important to him that Norway don’t win, because if they do, Draco will be insufferable.
Everyone likes to put in some effort for Hermione and Pansy’s annual Eurovision party. Harry himself prioritises the food. He’ll freely admit his outfit is a bit lazy: surf shorts and flip flops (what else do Australians wear anyway?).
Draco, on the other hand, has done a full, unnecessarily accurate replica of the Norwegian act’s costume. Harry wonders if he conspired with Pansy to rig him getting the country that was both the bookies’ favourite and happened to have sent his doppelganger, some kind of emo singer with pale hair and cheekbones. He’s done something to his hair; it flops in front of his face and his eyes are more piercing than usual. There’s some sort of choker situation going on. He’s dressed head to toe in black: heavy combat boots, no sleeves, chains and buckles attached in ways Harry can’t figure out.
All in all, Draco’s outfit screams he’s taking the assigned countries far too seriously. This is supposed to be an evening of friendly competition. Getting so invested is not what it’s about.
Harry has his own problems. He has three platters of Australian food to squeeze onto the buffet table, and he needs to check the stasis charms. He shuffles a stack of crêpes — probably from Neville, judging by his beret and striped shirt — to make space for the tray of prawns.
“That all looks amazing, Harry,” says Hermione warmly. Her hair is about three times its usual size to match the intensity of her spangled bell-bottoms, and her eyeshadow is sparkling the blue and yellow of Sweden’s flag. “You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble. What are these?”
“Kangaroo steaks,” says Harry. “No trouble!” He does not mention just how much he’d had to bribe Johnno in the Ministry Archives Department to Floo them in from his family in Melbourne, or how many hours he’d spent in Grimmauld’s tiny courtyard hunched over a barbecue in not much more than an apron.
“You are aware this is a social gathering, and you don’t need to feed an entire army?” Draco has appeared at Harry’s shoulder and is looking at the platters. They are a little bigger than the rest of the trays on the table, but Harry likes catering. And it’s always more fun with a theme.
“Hello to you too,” says Harry. “The Bloody Baron called. He wants his chains back.”
Draco wrinkles his nose at Harry’s flip flops. “It’s impressive to make an entire continent look lazy at Eurovision. Are you too good for glitter, Potter?”
“What else do Australians even— never mind.” Preserving his dignity, Harry turns back to Hermione. “The fairy bread is gluten-free, if Charlie wants any. Actually—” he waves his wand to conjure up a little place card with a tiny ‘GF’ in the corner. “There you go.”
“Didn’t go for the old Wheatus Deletus, then?” says Hermione, grinning.
“That was one time!” Ron bellows from the kitchen. In true Wheezes tradition, the George-suggested spell had simply vanished the entire basket of fancy baguettes Ron bought from Covent Garden last year. He’d turned up with a tureen of onion soup instead and spent the evening insisting it was a good finger food.
Ron’s disaster pales compared to Draco, who has yet to impress on the buffet front. The first year, he argued passionately that the UK had no national dishes. The second year, he said that a potions accident in his house made any food preparation unsafe. His most successful contribution had been when he’d brought kebabs from the takeaway across the road and claimed an unlikely level of Turkish authenticity.
Harry makes up a few more dietary cards with Hermione’s approval and turns to Draco. “I can do one for you too, if you like,” he says innocently. “If you brought anything?”
“Mine’s already there,” says Draco, pointing at a suspiciously impressive display of cured salmon that he definitely did not make. “Can you spell gravlaks? Make sure you mark it for fish.” He takes a sip of his wine, eyes sparkling at Harry over the rim of the glass. Harry scowls and turns back to his cards.
Hermione silently corrects his spelling of gravlaks, and Draco slinks off to clink his chains at someone else.
*
The living room has been fully decorated for the occasion. Flag bunting hangs across the top of Hermione’s bookcases. “Only the countries that made the final,” she explains apologetically to Charlie when he asks where the Romanian flag is. There are mirrorballs enchanted to slowly circle above their heads, occasionally sinking low enough to brush the top of Ron’s head before he absent-mindedly pushes them away. Ten minutes before the start of the broadcast, Pansy wheels in a blackboard with the Rules.
“The drinking game is simple,” she announces. “You may choose your own beverage from the vast continental bar in the kitchen. Everyone drinks for a key change, dance solos, or for pyrotechnics.”
Marcus Flint raises his hand. “Pyrowhat-now?”
“Muggle fireballs.”
Marcus nods seriously and puts his hand down. It’s his first time here, squashed up beside Oliver on the loveseat, but he seems game for the madness. It helps that he knows Ginny and Gwenog from work, too.
“We all drink if a song is in a different language.”
“Different language than what?” asks Neville.
“Than the country’s official language. Won’t be an issue for France, obviously, but it’s likely to come up.”
“France always sings in French,” says Ginny to Marcus in a stage whisper.
“Or occasionally Breton,” adds Gwenog.
“For your assigned countries, you drink when you get any points, or if the commentator insults your act. Down your drink if your country gets douze points. Or if you bring up school.”
That last rule is one they have in place at most group gatherings, regardless of whether there’s a drinking game happening or not. It’s served them well.
There’s a frantic rush to the kitchen for everyone to fix a drink before it starts. The Fosters Harry brought sits untouched on the counter. Harry’s planning to take the evening slowly (Jägermeister taught him a horrible lesson last year). He mixes himself a weak Pimms with all the garnishes, courtesy of Dean who’s sporting a top hat, and claims a spot on the sofa next to Ron.
Draco takes a pouffe under the window and stretches his long legs out. His stupid studded combat boots are just tapping away out of the corner of Harry’s eye, buckles glinting in the evening sun.
On the hour exactly, Hermione dims the lights. A projection screen rolls down in front of the bookcases.
At one minute past the hour, the commentator makes a quip about Australia taking part in a European context, and (upon the room’s insistence) Harry drinks. A bit of cucumber hits his nose. He can’t help but grin.
It begins.
*
“So are the hosts always this rude?” says Marcus, taking his fifth swig caused by the ‘commentator insults’ rule. They’re only on the third entry.
“Yep,” says Hermione. “It’s part of it.”
“And that’s a… Muggle thing? A television thing?”
Hermione considers for a moment. “Mainly a Eurovision thing. They overlap less than you might think.”
“Why does anyone do it, then? If they know they’re going to get insulted?”
“Well, it’s fun, isn’t it?” says Harry. “They usually say what we’re thinking. And they know what they’re signed up for.”
Oliver elbows Marcus, who turns a bit pink. “He understands,” says Oliver, laughing. It’s odd, seeing them so close after so many pictures of them at each other’s throats in Quaffle Weekly, but apparently their relationship was only a surprise to journalists. And Harry.
Draco’s combat boots twitch, then start tapping along to the beat of San Merino’s entry.
Harry shovels a piece of kangaroo steak into his mouth and decides to boycott the gravlaks on principle. It’s a silent protest, but Norway can’t get away with everything tonight.
*
“Why don’t Scotland send their own entry? We do in Quidditch,” says Oliver. Harry can’t blame him. The UK entry is lackluster, and he can’t see it going down well on the continent.
“Agreed,” says Gwenog, jabbing a patata brava in the air for emphasis. “Wales would send a better singer.”
“Bring it up with the European Broadcasting Union,” says Pansy briskly.
“You’d have to qualify separately, if you split off,” says Dean. “We only get in automatically because we’re in the Big Five.”
“Good point,” says Oliver glumly.
“Big Five?” Marcus might be two new facts away from taking notes. Harry helps by passing over a plate of crudites. Marcus cheerfully takes a carrot.
“The countries who pay the most to fund the competition,” says Hermione. “They qualify automatically for the final.”
“That is preposterous!” Draco cuts in. Harry’s been carefully ignoring him, but in the meantime, he seems to have acquired a bottle of Fosters and his plate is laden high with kangaroo and prawns (point to Australia). The plate’s in danger of tipping over amid Draco’s indignation. “How is that system even allowed?”
Hermione bursts out laughing. “From you? Are you objecting to someone buying their way into a competition?”
“Drink, Granger! No talking about school!” crows Blaise.
“That’s not school! He tried to buy his way into a Ministry gala last week!”
“That’s what galas are for!”
“You were clearly there to advance your department’s case, Malfoy—”
“What’s the problem, if it gets the job done?”
Maybe there needs to be a rule for downing your drink for work talk.
Luckily, the room is saved from a Granger-Malfoy commotion when Oliver asks Dean why he’s only wearing a top hat for the United Kingdom. “Not very united, is it?”
“Dashing, though,” says Dean.
“Bit too bourgeois, I reckon,” says Seamus.
“Couldn’t agree more,” says Gwenog.
Seamus, Gwenog and Oliver pull their wands and descend gleefully on Dean, and even Draco and Hermione stop arguing to look. He emerges from the scuffle with top hat still in place and newly adorned with a large shamrock. His trousers have been turned into a kilt and he’s grasping a dubiously large leek.
“There you go,” says Seamus, hands on hips. “Now you’re truly representing the UK.” Oliver wipes away an imaginary tear of joy.
Dean takes it all in stride. He spreads his legs wide in the kilt, winking at Seamus, who grabs the leek to whack his bared knee.
*
“It’s embarrassing, frankly, that this is such an Anglocentric show that countries feel the need to send songs in English,” says Draco.
“Your feelings are noted, but you still need to drink,” says Blaise, pointing at the screen where Slovenia, singing in English, are doing a sort of… writhing choreography.
Draco lifts his Fosters to his lips, but pauses before he drinks. “In fact, most people in this room couldn’t sing in another language.”
“I could,” says Charlie.
“Do you speak Romanian?” asks Neville next to him.
“Enough to get by. And I know several Romanian drinking songs, which are the main thing I need.”
“My French is decent,” says Hermione.
Draco pouts. “It’s a sad state of education, that’s all—”
“Your second language is Latin, you prick,” says Blaise.
“And my Gregorian chants are a delight,” says Draco. “The fact is, only—” he starts counting the people in the room, squinting slightly before he gives up — “a fraction of people here could — Look. Potter can save the world but can’t even sing Happy Birthday in another language. It’s tragic.”
“I can sing Happy Birthday in another language,” says Harry. The Pimms might be getting to him.
“No, you can’t.”
Harry scrounges together what he can remember of Parseltongue, and lets out a strangled hiss. He feels a bit bad for not paying attention to Slovenia, but Marcus, their representative, doesn’t seem too bothered. No one can understand him, so he wishes Happy Birthday to Bertie, the plant Neville gave Pansy as a housewarming gift. Going by his wilting leaves, Bertie could use some love.
“That’s completely different, Potter,” says Draco. The drink might be getting to him too, because his cheeks are darker than usual and he looks a little confused all of a sudden. “Parsel is not a country.”
“The important thing,” says Blaise, reaching over to push Draco’s can into his face, “is that we’ve all had a drink for language, and you still need to. Two sips. Nice and easy. There you go.”
*
When the commentator announces Belgium, Ron looks around the room and slams his plate of crepes down on the coffee table. “Hermione! Where’s Hermione?” He strides out to bang on the door of the cloakroom. “Hermione! Belgium! It’s Belgium!”
There’s a muffled shriek from the toilet. “These bloody trousers!”
Hermione emerges a few moments later, breathless, smoothing down her spangled outfit. “Have I missed him?”
“You’re good,” says Ron, settling back down onto the sofa. “They’re still playing the postcard.”
Hermione perches next to him and pats his arm. “Thanks for looking out for me.”
“I'll bite,” says Marcus, staring at them. “What’s up with Belgium?”
“Belgium,” says Ron solemnly, “sent Henri.” He gestures at the screen.
Harry does not understand the fuss about Henri. The group chat has been going wild over him for the last three months, and he’s not unattractive. Harry just doesn’t see what’s so special about him. He’s got dark hair and dark eyes and he’s smouldering away at the camera like a dying fire.
“Oh good, now he’s crooning,” mutters Harry. “Time for me to top up.” He gets to his feet, grabbing his almost-empty glass.
Ron gasps. “Mate, you can’t leave. It’s Henri!” He’s got much better at rolling the R.
Harry shrugs. “He’s alright. Not my type.” He goes to move to the kitchen and is blocked by Pansy’s legs.
“Alright, Potter,” she says, eyes narrowed at him, but still flitting back to the screen to where Henri is stroking the microphone with too much gusto. “If not Henri, who is your type?”
“You know me, I like the more upbeat songs.”
“No one’s looking at Henri’s musicality, Potter. I’m talking looks here. Who’s got your Snitch fluttering?”
This is a dangerous game to get into with Parkinson. Harry can withstand the Imperius and his Occlumency is way better these days, but Pansy just has to glance at him to know when he's not completely honest with her. Hermione arranged a surprise birthday party for her once and she knew about it within eleven hours, despite Harry’s best efforts.
He sighs. “Norway’s all right,” he mumbles. He ignores her triumphant smirk and refuses to look anywhere near Draco’s pouffe. He steps over Pansy’s legs and, once he’s confident she’s not going to trip him up, bolts to the relative safety of the kitchen.
He can still hear Henri crooning over the hum of the fridge, but it’s not quite as suffocating. He opens the fridge door and leans into the cool air, taking deep breaths, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. After a few moments, he grabs the lemonade and the Pimms fruit, and almost drops them when the fridge door swings closed to reveal Draco standing right there.
“So you like Norway, Potter?” he says without preamble.
“Put a bloody bell on your collar,” grumbles Harry, turning to the kitchen island. He sets the orange down on the chopping board next to the remnants of some crushed mint and Alihotsy that Luna’s been using to garnish her Giggling Gimlet.
Draco watches him slice the orange. “You didn’t answer my question.” He slides onto the bar stool, all long legs, and rests his elbows in front of Harry. Harry’s grip on the knife tightens.
“You didn’t ask one.”
“Do you like Norway or not?”
“I’ve never been. Heard the fjords are lovely.”
Draco scoffs. “Not the country, Potter, the act.”
Harry rests his hands on the edge of the island. “They have some merit. Lots of people think so, that’s why they’re the bookies’ favourite. What of it?”
Draco shrugs. “It’s just interesting, that’s all.”
“Is it?”
“To some, it might be, yes. Blaise said I was a dead ringer for him in this makeup.”
“Mmm,” said Harry noncommittally, picking up the knife again. “Well, we’re talking about the act, not you, right?”
Draco shrugs. “Just curious.”
“Well,” said Harry carefully, “that might depend on what Norway thinks about me.”
Draco cocks his head and slithers down from the bar stool. “Fascinating.” He leans over and grabs a bottle of Peroni from the ice bucket in front of Harry.
“So?”
“So what?”
“What does Norway think about me?”
“I’ve no idea, Potter,” says Draco. He takes a swig from the bottle and sashays towards the door. “You’d have to ask Norway.”
He disappears back to the living room. Harry stabs savagely into the orange.
*
“Norway! It’s Norway! Prepare to watch your victor, people,” says Draco loftily, as if he’d choreographed it himself. He snaps his fingers at Charlie and Neville, who have their heads close together.
“We were just talking about Romanian botany—”
“Pay attention! You’re missing brilliance!”
Harry desperately wants it to be terrible, to be one of those years where he doesn’t get why anyone would ever vote for it. But it’s catchy, and the staging is impressive, with fireworks that start a small squabble over the definition of pyrotechnics. And it’s not a competition of attractiveness, but the man on screen is definitely not putting anyone off. He looks almost as good as Draco does. Better, even, because he’s not as abrasive and pointy.
Harry quite likes the look of leather on musicians, which he blames on a particularly compelling photoshoot of the Hobgoblins that got passed around the common room in third year. Norway’s thick leather cuffs draw the eyes down to his flexing forearms as he screams into the microphone.
It’s a shouty sort of song, but that’s got its fans at Eurovision, and Harry is forced to admit that Norway might be in with a chance.
Draco thinks he’s already won. He’s mouthing along to the lyrics, and if there were more space in the room, he’d probably be doing the dance break too. Harry’s in no doubt he knows the choreography.
“And that’s how it’s done,” Draco says smugly as the last scream reverberates around the arena and the crowd goes wild. “Choreography, check. Voice, check. Looks — check.” He looks pointedly at Harry as he says it, and something inside Harry snaps.
He slams his glass down on the table. A small strawberry bounces out. “Being a massive bellend, check.”
Draco is shocked at his outburst for a moment, then recovers. “You’re just jealous, Potter. Australia shouldn’t have sent such a—”
“It’s not about the competition,” says Harry, gritting his teeth. “It’s about decency. You can’t just be a — a prick all the time and get away with it because you’re stupidly hot.”
Draco opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. The rest of the room has gone quiet too, though most are studiously pretending to watch Portugal. Their entry is aptly depressing for how Harry’s currently feeling.
“Norway,” he says lamely. “Norway shouldn’t be a prick all the time. I heard— never mind.” He pushes past Ron’s legs, and thankfully no one stops him this time. The living room door slams behind him.
*
Hermione’s hallway is painted a shade of coral that is infuriatingly similar to the gravlaks. Harry sits on the cheap lino just around the corner, near the main bedroom door, out of sight of the living room door. He can still hear the television and boisterous reminders to drink.
There are pictures framed on the wall. Hermione and her parents on an Australian beach (wearing surf shorts and flip flops, though being right about the clothing doesn’t feel as good as he’d like). Hermione, Harry and Ron in a dozen different years, a dozen different outfits, a dozen different cafés, holding tightly to one another in each one. Hermione and Pansy in Paris, cheek to cheek in front of the Eiffel tower.
“You’re missing Australia.” Marcus’ voice is soft.
“Oh no,” says Harry. “I’m in with such high chances.”
Marcus chuckles and passes him a glass of water. Harry takes it gratefully. Marcus scratches the back of his head.
“Look, I don’t mean to overstep here. I know you think he’s a prick.”
Harry raises his eyebrows. Marcus chuckles, and leans on the wall next to Harry. “He really wanted you to like the salmon thing.”
“What?”
“He kept going on about it. Preordered it from some fancy market, made sure it was actually Norwegian fish. He knows you like nice food, he wanted you to like it.”
“Did he actually say that? Or did he just want to make food into a competition too?” says Harry mulishly.
Marcus sighs. “Well. You know.”
Yeah. Harry knows. “Did Oliver tell you to come and talk to me?”
“Hermione,” says Marcus sheepishly.
Harry’s about to say something cutting, but his eyes drift back to the picture of her in Paris, cheek squished against Pansy’s, beaming.
“Does it always feel like fighting?” The question slips from Harry’s lips before he can claw it back. It sounds childish and raw, and not the type of thing you ask another man you’ve barely spoken to.
Marcus doesn’t seem to mind. He pauses to consider. “I guess someone needs to make the move. To decide to not fight, to see what else is there. And,” he adds, with a wry smile, “if you are fighting, the losing can be a lot more fun than you think.” There’s a shadow in the corridor, and he straightens up and clears his throat. “Anyway. Erm. Go Australia.” He pumps his fist in the air and gives Harry a solemn nod before walking back to the living room.
Draco rounds the corner and leans casually against the wall, still holding his paper plate. He looks down at Harry, slumped in front of the display of photos.
Harry was right about him. He is stupidly hot. And a prick.
Harry raises his eyes to meet Draco’s, and gives up the fight. “I might not have been talking about Norway.”
Draco, for once, doesn’t say something snarky. Instead, he pushes off from the wall with one foot and sits down next to Harry. He’s close. One of the buckles digs slightly into Harry’s hip. The chunky combat boot brushes up against Harry’s flip flop.
He holds out the plate. “Gravlaks?”
Resigned, breathless, hopeful, Harry takes a piece.
Hermione likes hosting Eurovision. She thinks it might be the best thing she’s ever done for integrating Muggle culture into wizarding society. Albeit a very specific part of Muggle culture. But she’s reeled them in, one by one, over the years. Harry can keep hosting Christmas if he’s that bothered, but this one’s hers, every last glittery mirrorball.
When another round of votes comes in from Sweden, solidifying the Nordic bloc, it looks like Norway’s victory is certain. Usually, this would be when Draco insists he be crowned immediately (or that voting was rigged, if it isn’t going his way).
Hermione leans over to Pans. “Where are Draco and Harry? They’re missing the votes.”
Pansy’s eyes narrow. “Leave it with me.” She slips out into the corridor.
“You said this was going to be like the Quidditch World Cup,” says Marcus to Oliver.
“It is,” says Oliver, a bit too gleefully. “Loads of flags. Drama. And the UK’s losing.”
The commentator announces a measly one point pour le Royaume-Uni, and Dean downs the rest of his Campari with a smack of his lips.
“You only have to do that on twelve,” Hermione reminds him.
“Oh well.” Dean reaches for the bottle next to his chair. “Best top up again, just in case.”
Just as he pours, a door slams and Pansy’s shouts echo through the corridor. “You two get nil points for subtlety!” She storms back into the living room. “The spare room will be unavailable until further notice,” she announces to Charlie. “You’ll have to find somewhere else to crash.”
“No problem,” says Charlie, grinning, just as there’s a smashing sound and a smattering of glass.
“Sorry! Sorry,” says Neville, fumbling his wand from his pocket to try and stop the sangria from spreading too far across the pale sofa cushions.
Hermione absently casts a non-verbal cleaning spell and turns to Pansy. “Are they all right?”
“Well, Norway’s finally giving Australia douze points.”
“Wow,” says Blaise solemnly, “These geopolitical alliances get more surprising every year.”