Chapter Text
Harry didn’t remember leaving the arena. All he remembered was fire. It clung to him, inside his chest, in the back of his throat, in the way his hands shook violently after Madam Pomfrey had applied emergency cooling charms to dull the worst of the burns. The world felt too loud and too far away, like he was underwater, head held down by the expectations of the Wizarding World. Only, this was without the mercy of silence.
The applause rolled off him like waves. Thunderous. Relentless, and it took him several seconds to realise that it was meant for him. That the school had gone from hating his guts, wishing him to die in these games for managing to ‘bend the rules’ once more, to cheering and screaming their praises.
The dragon’s roar still echoed in his ears, raw and furious, and every time someone clapped too sharply, Harry flinched, muscles tensing as though flames might burst from the air itself. His broom lay abandoned at his feet, scorched and cracked along one side. The egg, golden, pristine, almost mocking, had been placed carefully into his hands.
He stared at it without really seeing it.
Someone shouted his name, someone else laughed, breathless and triumphant, as though this had all been one giant game. As if his life hadn’t just been on the line. As if they had been the ones to face off against a 1000-tonne raging mother dragon.
Harry’s knees threatened to give way.
Madam Pomfrey caught his arm before he could fall, her grip iron-strong despite her small stature. “Easy,” she said briskly, already muttering diagnostics under her breath. “Merlin’s sake, child, you look like you have been dragged through a blast furnace.”
He almost laughed at that. Almost. It wasn’t like she was wrong. He had just gone up against a fire-breathing dragon whose chain had snapped halfway through. He had been flying for his life while a giant reptile chased him, not only around the arena, but around Hogwarts itself. He was lucky that he was still alive, if a little crispy in places.
As Madam Pomfrey steered him toward the edge of the arena, Harry caught sight of the stands. Faces blurred together, Hogwarts students were on their feet, Beauxbatons’ fluttering blue and silver, Durmstrang shouting their approval. The judges were leaning forward, intent and calculating, parchments already in hand. Smiling like this was just another day, like they hadn’t been the ones to send a fourteen-year-old to their death.
He wondered briefly, distantly, if they could smell the smoke on him. If they could see how close it had been. The dragon’s fire had missed his head by inches. He’d felt it then, an abrupt, bone-chilling certainty that there would be no clever escape, no last-second miracle. Just heat. Pain. Just an ending he hadn’t chosen. An ending that would have been forced upon him by those who claimed to care about him.
The realisation hit him harder, sharper than the burns. I could have died. Not in the grand, heroic way people liked to imagine. Not sacrificing himself for anyone else, like he had been told he should do, not a noble speech on his lips. Just gone – snuffed out mid-air, another cautionary tale about dangerous traditions and bad luck. About how the Boy-Who-Lived couldn’t live up to their expectations.
And no one had asked him if he was ready. No one had even tried to help him find a way out. His name coming out of the Goblet had, apparently, sealed his fate, without anyone doing anything to save him. He was fourteen years old, not even 3 full years of magical education under his belt. Abandoned in the muggle world every single summer with next to no communication with the wizarding world. Until the next crisis appeared.
The applause grew louder as he was guided from the arena, but it felt hollow, distant. He searched the crowd without meaning to, eyes flickering instinctively toward the familiar splash of red hair he’d expected to see. But Ron’s seat was empty.
The absence hurt more than Harry wanted to admit. It pressed at his ribs, a quiet ache beneath the adrenaline. Ron should have been there, grinning, cheering, yelling something stupid and loyal and Ron-like. But he wasn’t. Harry wasn’t even sure they could still be called friends anymore. Not with how Ron had turned his back on him in seconds, not with the scathing remarks that had flown his way over the past few weeks.
And somewhere in that empty space, something else crept in. Relief.
The thought startled Harry enough that he almost stumbled. Without Ron there, without the constant reminder of what he should be, what he ought to be, brave, reckless, unthinking, there was room in his head. A sliver of quiet where his own thoughts could finally speak without being drowned out.
Madam Pomfrey steered him into the medical tent, the sounds of the arena muffling behind canvas and wards. The air inside smelt of antiseptic and potions. She sat him down firmly on a cot a begun fussing, tutting under her breath as she examined his hands.
“Burns along the palms, splinters too.” She muttered. “Singed eyebrows. You’re lucky.”
Lucky. Harry stared down at his hands as she applied a soothing salve, watching as the red, blistered skin slowly faded to something less angry. They trembled despite his willing them to be still. Lucky wasn’t the word he’d use. Then again, compared to Cedric, who met the flames of his dragon almost directly head-on, he supposed he could be. Compared to Fleur, who had almost been bitten in half by her own dragon, or to Viktor, who had managed to smash half the real eggs while retrieving the golden egg.
The adrenaline ebbed away, leaving exhaustion in its wake. His heartbeat slowed enough for thoughts to catch up with him, crowding in now that immediate danger had passed. He thought of the way the dragon had lunged. The way the fire had surged toward him like a living thing. The way his mind had gone terrifyingly blank for half a second, stripped of plans and spells and borrowed courage. In that moment, there had been no prophecy. No expectations. No boy-Who-Lived. Just a young boy on a broom, trying his hardest not to die.
The truth settled heavy and undeniable in his chest. If I keep waiting for their permission, their approval, I’ll die doing what everyone else wanted.
The thought didn’t come with anger, not yet. He knew that would probably come later. No, this thought came with a kind of cold clarity that made his stomach twist. Dumbledore hadn’t asked him if he had wanted to be a champion. The Ministry hadn’t asked if he was ready. No one had asked if he minded going against 3 of age witches and wizards with more than twice his experience.
Even his friends, his House, well-meaning, loyal- or they were supposed to have been. They had expectations of their own. Be brave. Be selfless. Be the hero. Do the right thing, even if it costs you everything you have. But they didn’t want him to be the hero. They didn’t want him to get the attention freely given to any champion that took part in this death sentence of a tournament. But jokes on them, because Harry would have happily given them his place if he could have.
Jokes on them because this was the last push. The straw that broke the camel's back. Harry closed his eyes. He was so tired of being shaped. Of being pushed forward into dangerous situations because someone else decided it was necessary. Of being told, implicitly and explicitly, that his wants and needs came second to what the world (a world that had abandoned him several times already) needed from him.
But what if he just… stopped? Stopped being their Golden Boy? Stopped pushing himself to meet their impossible expectations. Stopped being the Boy-Who-Lived? What if, for the first time in his life, he decided something for himself?
The idea was terrifying. But it also felt… freeing.
Madam Pomfrey stepped back, satisfied, and handed him an oddly pink draught. “Drink that,” she said. “And don’t move for at least ten minutes.”
Harry obeyed, the potion burning slightly as it went down. He lay back against his pillows, staring up at the canvas ceiling, listening to the muted sounds of celebration outside. They were cheering because he had survived, because he was tied for first place. They didn’t know how close he’d come to disappearing without ever having lived his life.
Harry breathed in. Then out. He was still breathing, for now. And for the first time since his name came out of the Goblet of Fire, he allowed himself to wonder – not what he was supposed to do next, but what he wanted to do. He let himself hope and dream about a future he chose for himself.
That question lingered, dangerous and insistent, and it wasn’t going anywhere. But in that moment, alone in the medical tent, protected from the narrow-mindedness of the wizarding world and of his peers, a thought came to mind. He knew exactly what he was going to do first.
-----
The library was near-empty around this time. It was an hour after dinner, when most students clustered in common rooms, reliving the First Task in loud, looping conversations – who had flown the best, who had nearly died, who had been magnificent, and who had ‘known all along’ that Harry Potter would come out on top. Harry had avoided it all with a practised ease, slipping away the moment he had finished eating. Ignoring all questions, congratulations and other empty words of praise from people who, just that morning, had sneered at him and called him a liar.
The quiet felt earnt.
He moved through the stacks without a destination in mind, the golden egg tucked securely under his arm, still warm despite the cooling charms layered over it. The high windows let in thin ribbons of moonlight, dust motes drifting lazily through the air. Somewhere deeper in the library, a page turned, unhurried, lazily.
Harry followed the sound.
He found Draco Malfoy seated alone at one of the back tables, half hidden by a tall shelf of restricted tomes. Draco had his back to the aisle, long legs stretched out beneath the table, one polished shoe hooked lazily around the other. A book lay open in front of him, parchment and inkwell scattered around him as well, though he didn’t seem to be doing much work.
Instead, he was staring at nothing. Eyes vacant as if recalling something he didn’t want to be focused on, but not being able to help himself. Harry stared.
He didn’t know what he’d expected – a sneering entourage, perhaps, or whispered commentary aimed in his direction. A few remarks about his sheer dumb luck or how they were surprised and disappointed that he had survived. Draco Malfoy was rarely alone by choice. Yet here he was.
Harry should have turned around. That would have been the sensible thing to do. The safe thing. The thing everyone would expect from him at this moment in time. But that thought barely registered in his mind. He stepped forward instead, the echo of his boots loud in the stillness.
Draco looked up sharply. For a split second, something unguarded flickered across his face – surprise, maybe, or relief. Then the mask snapped back into place. “Well,” he drawled, lips curling into something sharp and familiar. “If it isn’t the Tournament’s favourite spectacle. Come to give me an autograph, Potter?”
Harry didn’t know what it was, but the insult rang hollow. Forced. Like a line read from memory rather than conviction. He didn’t rise to the bait; if anything, it strengthened his resolve to go through with his plan. He shifted the egg against his hip, smiled and said, “You’re an awfully long way from your cheering squad.”
Draco blinked, “Excuse me?”
“You aren’t with them,” Harry continued, nodding vaguely toward the direction of the Slytherin common room. “Figured there had to be a reason?”
Draco’s mouth opened, closed. He scoffed weakly and looked back down at the book. “Perhaps I enjoy peace and quiet. Shocking, I know.”
Harry pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down, his own expression contemplative. “Not really, you seem like the type who likes to observe. To strike when the time is right, not when people expect you to.” His words echoed like a dropped gauntlet.
Draco stared, “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
Harry shrugged, heart hammering far harder than it had when facing the dragon. “Sitting?”
“You don’t sit with me.”
“I am today.”
For a long moment, Draco just looked at him, really looked, as if seeing him for the first time. As if trying to spot the trick, the punchline, the reason this would inevitably turn into something humiliating for either of them. When nothing appeared, he leant back slowly in his chair.
“…You flew well out there,” he said at last, tone carefully neutral. ”For someone with a death wish.”
Harry huffed a short laugh. “That was a lot less intentional than it looked.”
Draco snorted despite himself, then caught the sound and tried to look nonchalant. “You outflew a dragon.”
“I don’t think I had much of a choice,” Harry pointed out, his face dropping with exhaustion, enough for Draco to notice. He crossed his arms and looked away.
“When the chain snapped. When you disappeared from the arena. When that monstrosity flew after you, I… I…”
“You were worried about me?” Harry questioned with a grin beginning to form across his features, immediately replacing the tiredness and the wariness.
“Don’t let it get to your head, Potter.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Silence settled between them, not awkward, like Harry had thought, but fragile. Like something that might shatter if either of them moved too quickly. He watched Draco for a long moment, something in his chest shifting when he realised that Draco hadn’t denied it, had, in his own Malfoy way, confirmed that he had been worried about Harry, more worried than anyone else seemed to have been, and that meant something. Harry broke the silence once he had swallowed the little pill down.
“I thought you’d enjoy the dragon,” he said. “In a vicarious sort of way.”
Draco’s eyes flickered to the egg. “I have never enjoyed watching people being forced into dangerous tournaments for ignorant sycophants’ entertainment. Not when it means the death of an innocent wizarding child.”
Harry allowed his smile to dim into something gentler. “Thanks.” He muttered, knowing that Draco wasn’t trying to lull him into a false sense of security, that the Slytherin Prince was actually telling him the truth, which was a lot more than he could say for half of those who claimed to be his friends.
There had been no heat behind his words this time round, as if admitting that he had been concerned for Harry had washed away the last of his guard.
Draco tilted his head, silver-grey eyes boring into Harry’s. “You’re oddly perceptive tonight.”
“I almost died,” Harry said simply, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s a clarifying experience.”
Something shifted in Draco’s expression then, the edges softening even further, his performance completely, uttering dissolving. “That tends to happen…” he admitted quietly.
They talked after that. About classes, how McGonagall was already assigning extra essays ‘just in case’, how unfair it was that Harry was exempt from homework because of the tournament. About the tournament itself, Draco’s scathing opinions on the judges, the dragon handlers, and Bagman’s commentary. About Quidditch, because of course, Draco complained bitterly about the Firebolt being rendered unusable while Harry defended it out of reflex. It still worked perfectly fine.
Time stretched. The egg grew heavier in Harry’s arms, less like a burden and more like an anchor – proof that he survived something he hadn’t chosen. Eventually, Draco leant back again, studying his rival with open curiosity.
“So,” he said. “Did you come over here for a reason, or am I just tonight’s near-death revelation?”
Hary’s stomach flipped. This was it; this was the moment he had been contemplating, willing himself to face since he came out of the arena. He could still back out, laugh it off and go back to doing what was expected of him, but the pain of Ron’s absence since his name came out of the Goblet still throbbed. The revelation he had still held true.
He thought of the fire, the burning hot inferno that very nearly ended his very short life. Of the heat that bubbled his skin. The certainty that there might not be another chance like this. That if he did back out, then he would be judged more than ever, forced back into expectations and moulds he didn’t believe in anymore.
Harry swallowed. “I… realised something,” he said slowly. “After the task.”
Draco’s gaze sharpened, surprised that his rival. Or is that ex-rival now? Actually, came over to find him for a specific reason, and by the way he was fidgeting in his seat, he was nervous. “Did you?”
“Ummm. Yeah.” Harry stared down at the table, at the grain in the wood, anywhere he could to avoid looking at Draco’s face. To avoid the penetration of piercing silver-blue eyes. “That there’s… something I have wanted to do for a while. And I haven’t had the courage before today. Because I knew people wouldn’t approve…”
“People?” Draco echoed dryly. “Famously reasonable creatures.”
Harry snorted, then winced. “Not these ones. They would throw a fit if they even knew I was sitting here with you, let alone-“ Harry shakes his head. “Dumbledore wouldn’t like it; he would tell me that I am ‘losing my way’. Sirius would probably panic, you know, say I am going Dark, that I am a traitor to my parents’ memories or something. My frien-” He stopped, breathed. “Ron and Hermione would have their two knuts to put in as well.”
“What happened between you and the Weasel?” Draco asked quietly; he had seen Harry wandering the castle on his own more often than not these past few weeks. There were rumours around the school that the Gryffindors were giving Harry a hard time, and even though the Slytherins couldn’t stand the golden trio and what they stood for, even they had felt sorry for the boy. No one should be isolated from the school, and they certainly shouldn’t be ostracised from their House.
“They don’t believe that I didn’t put my name in the Goblet. They think I did it for more fame, more glory. That I was jealous that the attention would be off me for a year…”
“That is absolute hippogriff shite.” Draco explodes before he can think about it. He knew Harry didn’t like his fame; it was obvious to anyone with eyes. Something his friends should have known with the amount of time they spent together over the past 3 years. Especially if Draco and half of the Slytherin house managed to catch every grimace, every wince when the ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ title was used, or when someone tried to get too close to Harry just because he was Harry Potter.
“Yeah.” Harry shrugged, fidgeting more in his seat.
Draco says nothing again, sitting back, content to wait for Harry to build up his courage to say what he had sought Draco out to say. After another stabilising breath, Harry forced himself to look up.
“I nearly died today. Without ever deciding anything for myself,” he finally admitted. “I have never wanted to be put in danger every single time I come to Hogwarts. I don’t want to be the chosen one, the Golden Boy, the Boy-Who-Lived. All of that was chosen for me, and I don’t want that to be how it ends.” When he finished, the silence stretched.
Draco’s voice, when it came, was careful. "And what is it you’ve been restraining yourself from doing, Potter?”
Harry’s hands trembled, enough that Draco could see. He watched as Harry set the egg down on the chair beside him, as if anchoring himself to the present. Making sure he had nothing to distract himself while he slowly raised his eyes to meet the inquisitive stare of his once classroom rival.
“This is going to sound so stupid, but please don’t hex me.” He warned.
Draco raised an eyebrow, a smirk fighting to break free. “I am resilient.”
Harry took another breath, biting his lip. Then, very nervously, very awkwardly, he said, “Would you… Would you go to the Yule Ball with me?”
Draco froze. Completely. Out of every possible scenario that had run through his head since Harry had confessed to having something he had wanted to do that would not meet the approval of the Light side, this hadn’t even crossed his mind. The silence that surrounded them was deafening as blood pooled in Harry’s cheeks.
His pulse roared in his ears as regret tried to claw its way up his spine. He stuffed his hands into his lap, fingers clenched around each other to try and stop the trembling. He rushed on, words tumbling over each other. “I know it doesn’t make sense, and I know I’m not – I mean, I’m not asking because I am desperate, or because I want to rebel, or because no one else would – well, no one has asked me actually, but that’s not- that’s because it hasn’t been officially announced yet…”
Draco held up a hand, and Harry bit his tongue to prevent any more from spilling from his mouth; his cheeks heated up more.
“You,” Draco said slowly, disbelief bleeding through every word, “the thing you have wanted to do for ages… the thing that your pet Lions wouldn’t approve of… is asking me to the Yule Ball?”
“Well… not exactly. I wanted to be your friend back in first year… but Hagrid told me about Voldemort and how not a bad witch or wizard wasn’t in Slytherin. Then Ron told me how evil they were and I stupidly believed them… I felt so bad… when I rejected your hand, but by then it was too late. You hated me, and I was the ‘Gryffindor Golden Boy’.”
“And how does wanting to be friends turn into you asking me to the Yule Ball?” Draco asked incredulously, trying to see if this was some existential crisis, some elaborate scheme cooked up to humiliate him later on.
“Because I wanted to?” Harry said, the inflexion in his voice making it sound more like a question than he wanted.
“Voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
Draco leant back, running a hand through his hair. “You are aware that you’re the Boy-Who-Lived, right? Figurehead for all things Light and Good?”
“I’m aware,” Harry said quietly. “I’m also aware that that title wasn’t my choice, that I don’t want to live up to the expectations of people who only want me around when they can get something from me, or I can save their sorry arses.”
Draco studied him then, really studied him, searching for mockery, ulterior motives, cracks, but all he found was a brightening flush trailing down Harry’s neck and up his ears the longer he stayed silent. The fidgeting of the other boy which proved just how nervous he was over asking his supposed enemy to the Ball.
“I… should say no.” Draco said at last, because of course he should, this was Harry Potter, the boy who defeated the Dark Lord, the boy who was the symbol for everything Light and ‘good’ in the world but… Draco paused and watched Harry for a second, because this was a boy just like him. Curried for favours because of his name, a boy who hadn’t really had the chance to be a child and that resonated with Draco.
Harry’s heart sank. “But… you don’t want to?” He questioned.
Draco’s lips twitched despite himself. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t.” He exhaled, long and shaky. “I may have, hypothetically, had a crush on you since last year, some time.”
Harry blinked. “You what?”
“Don’t make me regret this,” Draco muttered. “And I am not agreeing publicly. I will not deal with that circus just yet.”
“Secret. For now. I can handle that.” Harry nodded immediately, still too stunned to make more than simple responses, as his mind tried to keep up with the events.
Draco met his gaze, steady, almost competitively. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”
Harry felt something in his chest loosen for the first time since stepping out to face the dragon, something tight and old finally giving way. He smiled, not the practised, public one he had taken to using even with his close friends, but a real one. And for the first time since the dragon’s fire had scorched the air around him, Harry knew with absolute certainty that this was his choice. And it was only the beginning.
-----
Harry noticed the change the next morning. It wasn’t dramatic, not a big shift, not at first. No shouting in the corridors, no confrontations, no Daily Prophet headlines slapped onto the breakfast table. It was much quieter than that. Subtler. The sort of thing you would notice when you had spent the majority of your lifetime being watched and judged.
People looked at him twice. Whispers followed him through the halls, not the usual ones – champion, cheater, how did he survive – but something sharper, more curious. Conversations cut off when he passed, quietening down when he arrived at the classroom. A Ravenclaw fourth year stared openly at him in Charms, quill frozen mid-word as a large pool of ink ruined their notes.
Harry kept his head down. He told himself that it was all about his performance in the first task. How they were disappointed that he hadn’t died, hadn’t been injured worse than he had been. Hadn’t failed so spectacularly that he must have cheated again. About the dragon breaking free. The scores and the speculation.
But when he slid into his seat at lunch and caught sight of Draco Malfoy already seated at the Slytherin table, alone, no Crabbe or Goyle in sight, only Blaise Zabini on his right, leaving at least two seats between them and a sandy-haired boy to Blaise’s left. Draco looked up as if he could sense the gaze on him and met his eyes without sneering.
Something fractured. Not loudly, but enough. Draco didn’t acknowledge him beyond that look. Didn’t smirk, didn’t insult, didn’t even perform his usual tirade. He simply went back to his tea, posture relaxed in a way Harry had never seen before. And for some reason, Harry found this infuriatingly reassuring.
Ron, who hadn’t spoken more than two words outside scathing since the choosing of the Champions, glanced up at Harry, food particles dripping from his mouth as he turned around to see where the other was staring. His scowl deepened when he caught sight of the blond, an angry flush already appearing high on his cheekbones.
“What was that?”
“What was what, Weasley?” Harry sighed, his appetite diminishing when he saw the half-mangled food in the redhead’s mouth, fork hanging limp in his fingers.
“That,” Ron demanded, jerking his head toward the Slytherin table. “You just did that thing with Malfoy.”
Harry shrugged his shoulders, dropping his eyes down to his bowl of porridge. “We made eye contact across the Great Hall. It happens.”
Ron frowned. “Since when?”
“Since forever?” Harry sighed again. “Why is this any of your business?”
“Of course it’s my business. You are my best friend.” Ron tried to deflect, waving his hand in the air as if waving away a bad smell. The disregard and the nonchalance ignited Harry’s anger.
“Come off it, Weasley. You haven’t been my friend, best or otherwise, since my name came out of the Goblet of Fire and you labelled me a traitor and a liar.” He snarled, slapping his spoon down with a loud clatter. Loud enough that Malfoy glances back up again, despite sitting on the other side of the Great Hall. "In fact, you've barely said two words to me since. Don't kid yourself."
Hermione raised an eyebrow at Harry’s response, guilt furling in her chest at the accusation. She glances at Ron, placing a hand on his forearm to stop whatever spiteful retort he was building in his mind. “You’ve been… different since Halloween,” she said slowly.
Harry raised an eyebrow at her in return. “Different how?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Quieter. Distracted.”
“That tends to happen when the entire school has decided that you are a deranged liar who only cares about his next fix of fame. That can happen when the two people who are supposed to have my back in the entire school are at the forefront of the insults. That can happen when you are fourteen years of age, with 3 years of magical education under your belt, and you are forced against your will to face a nesting Mother Dragon.” Harry glares across the table at his two ex-friends, a sneer that would make any member of the House of Snakes proud. He turns and stalks out of the Hall before anyone can utter another word.
“I haven’t changed, Granger. You forced me to become like this when you chose a sheep’s mentality over your supposed friend who is being forced, yet again, to face public danger while the rest of the Wizarding World sits back to enjoy the show. And you know what? I am done with all of you.”
-----
By the time afternoon classes rolled around, the whispers had grown teeth. His outburst in the Hall that morning probably did not help his case, but he was beyond caring. He caught fragments as he passed through the corridors outside Defence Against the Dark Arts.
“…He really said that-”
“…Potter of all people-”
“… Probably just a rumour-”
“…They are his friends-”
He didn’t slow down. He didn’t stop to hear more, but something inside him bristled. Not fear, not shame at possibly being discovered, but ownership. A calm sense of peace and pride settled in his chest.
That afternoon, he found Draco where he half-expected to. The library again, though this time closer to the windows, sunlight slanting across the table. Draco had a scroll spread in front of him and looked genuinely annoyed by it.
Harry hovered for half a second, debating before he sat down. Draco didn’t look surprised.
“Took you long enough,” he joked lightly. “You’d think that the Harry Potter would be better at sneaking around. I heard you have done it often enough.”
Harry smirked back. “You’d think The Draco Malfoy would be less obvious about waiting for someone in the library.”
Draco glanced up, his eyes bright. “I’m making a statement.”
“So am I.”
They worked in companionable silence for a while. Not touching, not speaking much, just existing in the same space, something that felt strangely radical, but right all at the same time. Eventually, Draco spoke without looking up from his parchment. Quill still scratching notes.
“They’re talking about you.”
Harry nodded. “They always do.”
“Mostly idiotic theories.” Draco continued. “Some hopeful at the fracturing of the Golden Trio. Some think you are being a diva. Some of them worried because of what you said, scared that you really are going to make them fend for themselves the next time something happens.”
“Good, because I meant what I said. I am done with the lot of them, with being a scapegoat, a punching bag for them to throw in front of whatever threat they can’t be bothered to face themselves.”
Harry nodded again; he could only imagine what Draco had heard walking through the Slytherin common room. He didn’t delude himself into believing that everything they knew about Slytherin house was wrong; he just knew that not all the children in Slytherin had Death Eater (or ex-Death Eater) parents. He had known what people would think if they ever caught wind that he was civil to anyone from that House of Snakes, but he truly didn’t care anymore.
“Any good comments I should know about?”
Draco snorted. “My personal favourite is that several students are waiting out the tournament until you are revered again so they can replace Granger and Weasel as your best friends.”
“As if that is going to happen. Why would anyone think I am going to befriend anyone who spent an entire year calling me a cheat and a liar?” Harry laughed bitterly, dragging a hand through his hair and staring down at the table.
“Better than some Slytherins, I suppose.” Draco rolled his eyes. “One of the upper years spotted us in the library the other day and spread round the common room that I have blackmailed you.”
Harry laughed softly this time, his frown smoothing into something that didn’t quite resemble a smile. “Into being your friend? Or just doing your bidding? Because as tempting as that sounds. You’d be terrible at it.”
“I’d be excellent.” Draco protested. “I’d have you following my every command before you could even blink, Potter.”
Harry smirked, raised an eyebrow, before sobering up. “If it ever gets too much for you-”
Draco cut him off with a sharp look. “Don’t.”
Harry blinked. He hadn’t expected the harsh tone, nor the dark glare he was receiving from the Slytherin Prince.
“You asked me,” Draco said quietly. “And I said yes. I am not taking it back just because fickle people in this school are bored and have nothing better to do with their lives, other than meddle in the affairs of others. Us going to the Ball together is going to get out eventually,” he continued, not unkindly. “I would prefer it to be at the ball, but we never know with this lot.”
Harry felt something warm settle in his chest. “Okay,” he whispered. “Good.”
Draco hesitated for a beat, unsure about the soft, almost tender quality to Harry’s voice, then he added casually. “We should probably talk about the Ball.”
Harry choked. “Already? It hasn’t even been officially announced yet.”
Draco’s mouth twitched. “I refused to be unprepared. Especially since we will need to coordinate our robes for the evening.”
They exchanged a look, shared, conspiratorial. Neither one of them wanted to back out of this, whatever it was shaping up to be, but they also wanted to be ready to face anything. The backlash from the Gryffindor students when they found out that their Golden Boy was fraternising with the enemy. Or the fallout from the Slytherins if they think that their Silver Prince is turning to the Light, Merlin forbid.
In that moment of shared understanding, Harry finally understood something. The cracks were spreading, and through those cracks, something truer was beginning to show. Nothing monumental, at least not yet, but the beginning of something that would shift the world as he knew it. The version of himself everyone thought they knew. The obedient, sacrificial, endlessly accommodating boy was starting to splinter, and Draco could see it too.
He didn’t know where it could lead, but for once, he wasn’t afraid to find out.
Harry leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. The chair creaked under his weight, the sound too loud in the hush of the library. He hadn’t realised how tightly wound he was until that breath left him, slow and deliberate, like easing pressure from a wound he’d been ignoring. “I haven’t really thought too much about all of it yet. Though I must admit that Bill Weasley helped me to pick out my dress robes. Black and emerald green…”
Draco’s quill paused mid-stroke. He didn’t look up at first, but the faint curve of his mouth told Harry he’d expected that answer. “That doesn’t surprise me; Bill Weasley has always seemed the more tolerable of the Weasley clan,” Draco said dryly. “My father had me fitted for Emerald green robes with Silver accents; we should match perfectly fine.”
He placed his quill on the table, giving Harry a very small, very rare smile, which had Harry relaxing minutely. “I can always show you them later. I am sure we can find a way to adjust the colours or add some silver detailing to mine to better match.” Harry offered, settling further into his seat.
“We will have a look later,” Draco responded, pleased that Harry seemed to be taking this as seriously as he was. “The Champions are expected to gather separate to the rest of the student body. The Great Hall will be filled to the brim with curious students just dying to know who Harry Potter has chosen.”
The image rose unbidden, hundreds of students packed together beneath enchanted ceilings, voices echoing, anticipation humming like static in the air. Harry’s stomach tightened, not with dread, but with the sharp awareness of being seen. “We are expected to go in last.”
“Yes, the champions with their dates. Arm in arm.”
Harry swallowed. His throat felt suddenly too small, like the words had lodged there before he could stop them. The simplicity of it was worse than spectacle, no hiding, no plausible deniability. “Everyone will see. They will be staring, whispering.”
“They were always going to, no matter who you ended up taking,” Draco replied evenly. There was no judgement in it. No challenge. Just a fact. Draco finally looked up, then, eyes steady, unflinching, as if daring the world to try and take something from him.
Harry hesitated, fingers curling against the edge of the table. “I am nervous about what is going to be said about us… but this is the first time they will be whispering about a choice I made. And I can deal with that.” This mattered more than he’d expected: the details, the posture, the message it would send to the world. “Do you want to lead?”
Draco blinked. Just once. The surprise was small, but genuine. “What exactly are you asking me?”
“I am not good at being in the public eye, as you are probably already aware. I hate it. I get nervous and start overthinking, and I know I am going to mess everything up. Can you lead us into the Ball?” Harry said, voice low. “I know you pretty well, I would say, and I know that I can trust you to lead me right. Besides, you are the Heir to the Malfoy family; you have probably been to several of these things that you could lead me in with your eyes closed.”
For a heartbeat, Draco simply studied him. Then something eased in his expression, not softness exactly, but recognition. Recognition that Harry needed him in that moment, not to lean on, not because he was weak, but because he had been expected to be strong too often. Because he was recognising Draco’s own strengths. An understanding between equals. An understanding between two people who had been forced to be enemies under everyone’s expectations. “Then I’ll lead. You’ll keep pace.”
“Okay.”
Draco nodded once, decisively. “Once we enter, the staff will begin to take their seats, and we will follow them.”
Harry’s gaze dropped to the grain of the table beneath his fingers. The idea of it, of sitting there, elevated, exposed, put on display like some spectacle to be gaped at, made his shoulders tense. “At the head table,” he muttered. “On the raised Dais at the very front of the Hall.”
“With the teachers.”
Harry grimaced faintly, lips twisting despite himself. He imagined the weight of a hundred watching eyes, the long stretch of table that would separate them from everyone else. “Brilliant.”
Draco smirked, clearly enjoying this far more than he ought to. There was a spark of something bright in his eyes now, anticipation, perhaps, or the thrill of refusing to shrink. “Dinner comes first.”
Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, the tension easing just a fraction. “Thank Merlin.”
“Then the opening dance.”
Harry froze. It wasn’t dramatic. No gasp, no flinch, just a sudden, absolute stillness, like his body had decided movement was no longer optional. His spine went rigid, every muscle locking as if he’d just heard the crack of a starting pistol pointed the wrong way. “The what? I haven’t been told about a dance.”
“All champions and their partners. It has been a tradition of the Triwizard Tournament since its establishment. Opening the Ball officially with the first Waltzes.”
“But…I can’t dance.” The words came out flat, honest in a way Harry rarely allowed himself. Not self-deprecating. Not joking. Just truth.
Draco frowned, properly this time, irritation flickering across his face as if he were already mentally cataloguing problems and solutions. “Not even… You’ve never been taught?”
“No. I have never been taught. Never needed to know. I grew up in the Muggle world; there wasn’t much use for dancing when you live with Muggles who can’t stand your existence.” The word cut cleanly through the space between them. Harry hadn’t meant it to be sharp, hadn’t meant to spill as much as he had, but something made him trust Draco with this. His words landed that way regardless, final, immovable, born of years of being laughed at and left behind during things that were supposed to be easy.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and charged. The library seemed to lean closer, shelves looming, the quiet pressing in like a held breath. Draco’s fingers stilled on the parchment. He exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was bracing himself for an unavoidable headache.
Then Draco sighed. “Merlin, help me.”
“What?” Harry’s voice came out wary now, waiting for ridicule that never arrived.
“It means I’ll be teaching you.”
Harry stared at him, incredulous. Of all the possibilities he’d imagined, this hadn’t been one of them. He had expected a little bit of mockery, for Draco to brush off his comment about the Dursleys with an easy dismissal, the same way everyone else did. But he didn’t; he acknowledged it in a way that was subtle. “You?”
“Yes, me.”
Harry huffed, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. The sound was half disbelief, half something warmer. “You are enjoying this.”
“I enjoy being prepared.”
There it was again, that careful pride, that refusal to leave things to chance. Harry hesitated, the moment stretching as he weighed the offer. Then he nodded. The decision settled in his chest with surprising ease, like something clicking into place. “Okay. But if I step on your feet—”
“You will.”
“—you don’t get to hex me.”
Draco smiled, sharp, fond, unmistakably pleased, the kind of smile that wasn’t meant for anyone else in the room. It softened something in Harry’s ribs he hadn’t realised was still tight. “No promises.”
They held each other’s gaze, the rest of the world receding until it was just the two of them and the quiet certainty passing between them. The future pressed closer, loud, watching, unavoidable and filled with whispers, judgement, and expectation.
And for once, Harry didn’t brace himself against it. He didn’t know where this would lead. He didn’t know how much it would cost. But for the first time, the uncertainty didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like a possibility. For the first time, he was doing something he wanted to do without regret, without judgement.