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Draco Malfoy was pretty sure he was going to die.
There was simply no other explanation for this terrible, horrible feeling.
His heart was racing out of his chest. His stomach felt like it was going to unload itself all over the pale green walls of his dorm room. He was nearly sweating blood from the immense stress he was under. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t sleep. All he could think about was you.
And it’s not like you were something worth thinking about, either. No, you weren’t some brilliant pureblood witch, nor did you believe in such philosophies. You were in Hufflepuff, for crying out loud. But you were quiet, almost as if you weren’t even present, and yet so effervescent and noticeable all the same. It was quizzical. It was maddening. Draco simply couldn’t figure you out, and he hated feeling like an idiot.
It’d been this way for a while now. Of course, he’d met you on the train on the way to your first year of Hogwarts, each of you reaching gingerly for another chocolate frog off the trolley. Your hands had touched, and he’d felt a spark unlike anything he’d ever felt. It was terrifying. He’d watched you walk away with a foreign sense of yearning, wishing he was brave enough to follow you. But Slytherins, in all their glory, are known not for bravery but for cunning – and Draco Malfoy was destined to be a Slytherin. So he watched in agonizing silence, turning to his friends who brought him little joy but much appreciation. His thoughts remained on you until the sorting ceremony, where you joyfully skipped to the Hufflepuff table upon the raggedy hat’s decision. His spiteful words to that boy in Madam Malkin’s shop rang through his head, then: ”imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?” – and alas, the first person to ever pique his interest was designated to be a blasted Hufflepuff. He cursed the damned hat and sat with a forced smirk as he heard it bellow his future within seconds.
That was years ago, though. Surely he would have forgotten about you by his fourth year, right? He was almost certain that would be the case when he heard the dreadful news of your placement, but his boyish heart was disappointed time and time again. As the years went on, it seems you were proving to be wise beyond your years. The two of you shared many classes because of it, forcing him into your close proximity more often than necessary. It was terrible for his health, truly.
He absolutely loathed the thought of it – of liking you. Of desiring you. Surely he had to be dying, because there was no way he would admit to having a juvenile crush on the Hufflepuff he met in his first year. It was a waste of time, a blemish on his otherwise spotless marks. Really – he was top of his class (though probably second to Hermione), son to two of the most powerful names in wizardkind, Slytherin’s seeker, Potter’s number one bully, and a general heartthrob. He was well aware of the way the girls in his common room would eye him – once or twice he tried to indulge, to distract himself, and yet his mind kept coming to you. To the way your eyes sparkled in herbology, or the tender face of concentration displayed in potions. It was in these moments you were quietest, and likely also when he noticed you best. But he liked to observe you during your loud moments, too. Sometimes he’d hover near your group of friends on a Hogsmeade weekend, acting as though he was in need of Honeydukes sugar when, in reality, he desired to hear your bittersweet laugh as another told you some dumb joke. Oftentimes he’d watch you in the Great Hall, absorbed in the way you would knock your head back in fits of laughter and fill the air with words when you were too afraid to stomach the quiet. He was a people watcher in nature, which is what he would say to justify his staring when prompted by Crabbe and Goyle’s incessant nosiness. He was simply scanning for blackmail, as a wise businessman always does.
Really, he just thought you were pretty.
He thought you were especially pretty in the candlelight of the Great Hall as the Triwizard Tournament was announced. He was intrigued, yes, but not so much by the idea of other schools joining the chaos of Hogwarts. No, he was curious to see why you were so excited, especially considering only six- and seventh-year students could participate.
Luckily for him, he soon learned of the source of your great fervor and zeal. There was to be a dance.
Alas, as news of the Yule Ball fluttered through every one of Hogwarts’ vast hallways, Draco Malfoy suffered a miniscule heart attack at the thought of another man taking you.
Beautiful you, in your Hufflepuff yellow and shimmering skin.
It was foolish to dream of taking a Hufflepuff to the Yule Ball as a Malfoy. He was, of course, expected to make an appearance which clarified the place of pureblood wizards in society. He was to arrive in elegance and fashion with a brilliant, wealthy Slytherin witch clinging to his arm as if he was her prized trophy. He was to smile only when absolutely necessary, and never by choice. He was to make his date shimmer and bring his family name honor. That alone was his role in the whole affair – the family “breadwinner,” so to speak. The beloved Malfoy heir, following in his father’s distinguished footsteps.
And yet, he found himself picturing you in stunning shades of pink which he’d never seen, hair falling gently against thin shoulders and bangs perfectly framing your face. He shivered at the thought of those bright eyes of yours shimmering beneath the candlelight for another beholder.
It was simply too much. Draco, in his infinite wisdom, felt that he had two options: somehow find a way to justify taking a half-blooded Hufflepuff with no inherent wealth or name to the Yule Ball (a once-in-a-lifetime event and a great opportunity for marketing), or simply pass away. Somehow Draco found himself leaning towards the latter option.
The fact of the matter was that it was damn near impossible to make it work. On the most rudimentary level of inappropriateness, you were a Hufflepuff. That alone should have been a done deal for the Malfoy heir. To make matters worse, though, which you seemed to be incredibly efficient at doing, you were a half-blooded nobody in the wizarding world – possibly lower than the Weasleys, though he didn’t speak to you enough to know exactly where your family stood economically. Then there was the bain of his existence: you certainly were nothing short of beautiful. Your splendor was enough to lure him, Draco Malfoy, in with one small interaction over a trolley cart years ago. Surely, then, he was completely at odds with taking you to the Yule Ball. It was only a matter of time until one of your dearest Gryffindor friends plucked up their famed courage and asked the most vibrant, ebullient witch he had ever encountered to the ball in his stead (albeit unknowingly).
And yet he wanted you so tangibly. His feelings were so irritatingly real, so persistent and unbending. It was the most foolish vestige he’d ever embarked on, this unspoken journey of wanting you on a level so unnecessarily profound that it physically hurt. He had never been one for affection, and yet he yearned for your touch as if he were an addict starved. It was a dangerous game, the thought of fueling the fire of his aching desire. He knew if he didn’t act soon his juvenile crush would turn into an all-consuming obsession, and he’d hate to ruin what little opportunity he had with you by being a borderline creep. After all, he already had so few friends.
A month passed before Draco found an opening to speaking to you about the Yule Ball. Of course, it wasn’t an ideal opening – he had been paired with you during potions and he had to force himself not to blow his potion up in his own face with how terribly in love he was – but a desperate man was not one to turn down an offer. He feigned an air of nonchalance as he plopped down beside you, praying to whoever would listen first that you didn’t notice the red tint of his ears (and even if you did, really, he’d just say it’s rosacea, because how would you know any better?).
Professor Snape had given each student a random partner, but the Slytherin was convinced that his guiding professor may have still been holding a vendetta against him for some dumb comment he must have made at some dumb point in the middle of his very dumb class. It was all rather… cretinous. Treacherous, too, that Snape would force him to endure such torture when he was meant to be his mentor. If only it weren’t a matter of Draco’s heart – otherwise, his father would certainly be hearing about this. Paired with a Hufflepuff. A Hufflepuff with pretty eyes, and a laugh like falling rain…
You looked at him with a quaint smile, moving your materials to make room for his egotistical presence. “Hello, Draco. It’s nice to see you.”
He wanted to do a bunch of really stupid things then, like kiss you or scream or run away. He settled for an uncharacteristically soft, “Good morning,” and focused further on Professor Snape’s dreadful monologue. They were to brew a simple Wiggenweld Potion, he said. As he droned on about the beauty of a simmering pot, Draco felt his body tense at the feeling of warm eyes drifting along his torso. He glanced over at you, sending your eyes fleeting and filling your cheeks with a lovely shade of red.
It was then that the Malfoy heir, in his extensive wit and endless wisdom, realized that the challenge of the day would not be completing the potion, or even discussing the Yule Ball and learning of your many possible suitors – no, the most difficult thing he would do today would be surviving this class with the girl he’s been pining after like an idiot for four terribly long years. Didn’t fate have a funny way of working like that? You were all he wanted, and yet he didn’t think he could survive being near you without accidentally confessing or telling you he hated you (a foul, dirty lie).
You worked quietly beside him, preparing ingredients as necessary. Draco was grateful for the bone you seemed to have tossed, thankful for the quiet opportunity to bathe in your presence and gather his thoughts. In the most miniscule of ways, it thrilled him to see the way the two of you worked perfectly in tandem, as if you were merely one lowly, dedicated being. It was a unity outside of his realm of understanding, and he marveled at the feeling it provided.
Of course, he should have remembered that the object of his adoration had a terribly difficult time staying quiet for long. Just as Draco had begun a mental catalogue of the feeling of your air in his presence, you opened your mouth to lead him astray. “So, Draco,” you started, addressing him as if he hadn’t always clung to your every word, “do you have any plans for the Yule Ball yet?”
The boy found his wisdom falling short. He simply didn’t know how to respond – tell you he planned on dying because he simply can’t bear the thought of you with another? No, that’d be far too cliche. Be caught speaking with a Hufflepuff on terms out of the realm of decidedly necessary? Why, his father would have a fit! But to ignore you would be simply horrible, even for someone of his descendance. Any Hufflepuff could be deemed easily ignorable by a Malfoy (especially one below pure-blood status), but you captivated him in a way which was wholly incomprehensible and excruciatingly aggravating and exactly what he needed to wreck his plans. Before he could stop himself (and, more accurately, before he could scare you off), he found himself answering in earnest: “I haven’t a partner yet, no. I’m not sure it’ll be much of a good time. And you?”
Your eyes sparkled, likely due to the shock of his response, and he found himself biting his lip until he tasted blood to hold back from smiling. He turned his attention back to the textbook but listened intently. “Not yet, no,” you sighed. “I was asked twice, but I declined.”
Really?
“Really? Whatever for? Certainly it’s much better to attend the ball with a partner than alone.”
“Well, yes,” you sighed, “but I’m waiting for a particular person to ask me. I doubt he ever will though. I’d rather go alone than have to pretend my heart is truly in it.”
The Slytherin’s heart sank, but his face remained unshaken. It was foolish to have hoped for anything more, of course. Draco knew this would occur – you were simply too bright to waste your time with someone as dull as himself. Your radiance would be drained by his shadows, and you deserved someone who added fire to the flame rather than taming it. Letting you go would be the selfless thing to do.
Draco Malfoy was a selfish man.
He never spoke to you again – not unless strictly necessary, of course – but the gray in his eyes still tracked you in passing, filing each stolen glance into the mental notebook he dedicated to dreaming of you. Every moment his friends spent discussing their current fascinations he spent longing to be rid of the horrid feelings he harbored for you and you alone. Four years of being surrounded by intelligent Slytherin witches with money and values, ladies his mother would approve of, and all he could be bothered to think of was you. You were a disease, and he simply loved being ill. It was almost poetic, in a twisted way.
The Yule Ball came around as he knew it would, and Draco Malfoy found himself with a date. He was to attend the ball with Pansy Parkinson out of sheer convenience. Pansy, a dear friend of his since childhood, may have been infatuated with him. If she was, he was terribly uninterested. However, he knew she was simple, pleasing in his mother’s eyes, and easy to lose in a crowd. It was the convenient choice, if not the most merciful. There was no one he had wanted less than Pansy Parkinson, yet the one he wanted was likely already betrothed or signed away. Quite frankly, it wouldn’t have been a horrid idea for the Malfoy’s son to end up with Pansy if one disregarded his strong distaste for the girl’s entire existence. If she stood at least ten feet away and kept her mouth shut, however, she was awfully good company – at least, that’s how Draco saw it.
Though he dreaded the Yule Ball, a quiet, more desperate part of his soul ached to see if your ensemble matched what he had pictured countless times. Surely enough, he watched you enter the Great Hall on the arm of a man he had never seen – certainly a gentleman from Durmstrang – dressed in silks which reflected the gentle blush on your face. Though your body was attached to him, your eyes found Draco’s in an instant. A soft, almost melancholy smile appeared on your face, disappearing just as fast. Draco felt heavy bile rise in his throat as he watched the man place his hands on your waist, pulling you into a waltz.
All nonchalance fled from the sick man’s body at the terrible sight, leaving him nearly fuming. By this point he had already slipped away from Pansy and had nothing to remind him to cling to what he knew. Years of training, of reprimands, of hazy introductions fled as Draco forced himself to take three deep breaths.
He had two options: one, walk across the cavernous Great Hall and ask you, a lowly Hufflepuff with the most beautiful eyes and glimmering skin, to dance; or, two, die on the spot and pray he makes it to Heaven afterall. There no longer was an option to sit back and watch. After three more deep breaths, the pride and joy of the Malfoy name made his descent into disappointment. His steps felt heavy, each breath feeling more labored than the last. He had no idea what he was doing – he hadn’t even rehearsed! And yet, his body moved on its own to where you stood, dress hugging your frame just enough to tease and face lifting in confusion at the sight of the blonde Slytherin’s panicked concentration.
Your smile was calculated, questioning. “Hi, Draco,” you began, but your words were cut off by a cold, palmy hand grabbing yours.
“Forgive my lack of manners,” he stumbled, “but I don’t know what I’m doing. Will you spare me a dance?”
He looks at you, eyes pleading with a taste of reckless abandon. He is a sight one can only dream of seeing – eyes wide, the sincere gray covered by blown-out pupils; face flushed, hands clammy in hesitation. He knew he likely looked like a madman, and promised himself he would find the time later in the evening to critique his every poor decision which led him to choose the senseless road on his split pathway (which, he was quickly learning he had a penchant for doing). For now, though, he focused on the widening of your focused pupils as they traveled across his warm body. “Of course,” you finally answered, albeit a bit breathless.
Despite knowing the two of you had dates to attend to, his hand found your waist as he had dreamt of doing all too frequently and his other joined yours in the air. As the music began, you stepped together immediately despite his fumbled brain and your lack of air. His eyes met yours in a gaze dripping in intensity and poorly concealed desire. “I–” he started, stumbling like a fool. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
The confession was shocking and rather unwarranted. “You seem to be a great dancer to me,” you offered calmly. Which, of course you did – it’s just who you are.
“No, no,” he sighed in frustration. “I just– I have a date. I’m expected to dance with a Slytherin. I just… something just came over me, seeing you with him. And I know it’s unbecoming of me to come in here and ruin your night–”
“You aren’t ruining anything–”
“– and garnish my family’s hard-earned reputation, but I can’t stop thinking of you! I haven’t for years.”
Your movements slowed, eyes a dull sparkle. Draco felt as though he had been punched in the gut. “What?” you asked, sounding small.
Another sigh escaped his lips as a desperate attempt to get the earth to swallow him whole. His father had always taught him, though, to finish a fight he started. In order to keep any remaining respect he still had – after all, he was incredibly aware of the whispers around them which were cast at his back like daggers – he finished his mournful confession. “I don’t understand it. It isn’t me, to care like this. You’re nothing like me and you hold none of the same standards as I am expected to. And yet, something about you fascinates me. I just can’t figure it out, and it drives me mad. And seeing him here, holding you, looking into your eyes which I know so well, it… it was maddening, too. My father would never approve of this. But…”
Your eyes met again, though this time they appeared brighter. You pulled yourself closer into his embrace and danced despite yourself. “It doesn’t have to make sense, Malfoy. Just dance with me.”
He knew when his father heard about this, he would receive living hell. He knew, also in his infinite wisdom, that he may never see a chance such as this again. So Draco Malfoy, juvenile and (maybe) dying, danced. And when you took him by the hand to sit beneath the stars, he allowed himself to follow blindly. He listened eagerly like a thirsty dog, licking at every bit of information you would provide on your life to add to his catalogue. When you stole a tender kiss, he pretended not to like it (and he most certainly didn’t enjoy the second one he stole in tandem).
Draco Malfoy was not dying, nor was he all that sick. He especially wasn’t a dancer. He was, however, a selfish and juvenile man, and you were a beautiful witch with a heart brighter than the sun and, for once, he found himself enjoying the sweet taste of indulgence.