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The fourteen-year-old brain, Harry Potter was rapidly discovering, was a terrifyingly volatile piece of magical machinery.
Up until November of his fourth year, Harry’s primary concerns in life had been relatively straightforward: avoiding Lord Voldemort, staying alive during Quidditch matches, and trying not to get blown up by Hagrid’s Skrewts. But somewhere between the arrival of the Beauxbatons carriage and the looming threat of the Yule Ball, a horrifying chemical shift had occurred in his bloodstream.
Suddenly, the world was far too loud, his dress robes were far too itchy, and his hands felt three sizes too big for his arms.
It had started with the Beauxbatons girls. When they had swept into the Great Hall, draped in silk as light as gossamer and smelling vaguely of jasmine and powdered sugar, Harry’s brain had simply short-circuited. He had spent an entire double Potions lesson staring blankly at the back of Parvati Patil’s neck, wondering why he had never noticed how girls smelled like flower shops, before Slughorn’s memory—or rather, Snape’s harsh bark—snapped him back to reality.
Then came the desperate, agonizing quest for a date.
“I’m telling you, mate, it’s a strategic maneuver,” Ron grunted, attempting to tame his hair with a wooden brush that was losing its bristles. They were sitting in the Gryffindor common room, surrounded by an atmosphere of absolute, unadulterated panic. “You’re a Triwizard Champion! You can’t just go alone! You’ll look like an idiot!”
Harry, whose face was currently buried in a sofa cushion, groaned loudly. “I asked Cho.”
Ron stopped brushing. “You what?”
“I asked Cho,” Harry repeated, his voice muffled by the velvet fabric. “By the owlery. I cornered her, well, not cornered her, that sounds creepy, I stood near her while she was feeding her owl, and I asked her if she wanted to go with me.”
“And?!”
Harry lifted his head, his face a bright, miserable crimson. “She’s going with Diggory. She said... she said she was really sorry. She looked sorry. But she’s going with Ced-ric.” He pronounced the name like it was a brand of poison.
“Brutal,” Ron sympathized, sinking onto the hearth rug. “Absolute tragedy. Well, what about the Patil twins? Parvati’s been giggling every time you walk past the Gryffindor table. Hermione says it’s an invitation.”
Harry sighed, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. “I don't know, Ron. What if I trip on my robes? What if I have to dance? I don't know how to dance. What if I make a complete fool of myself?”
“You’re the Boy Who Lived, Harry,” Ron said with supreme, unhelpful confidence. “You fought a Basilisk. Dancing with a girl can’t be harder than that.”
The evening of the Yule Ball arrived with the weight of a doom-laden omen.
Harry stood in the Great Hall corridor, tugging at the high, stiff collar of his bottle-green dress robes. Beside him, Parvati Patil looked dazzling in bright magenta silk, though she was currently looking at Harry with the faint, nervous air of someone who had agreed to escort an unexploded bomb to a dinner party.
“You look very nice, Harry,” Parvati said politely, adjusting a gold bangle on her wrist.
“Thanks,” Harry mumbled, his eyes scanning the crowd of students filing down the marble staircase. “You too. Very... shiny.”
Then, the doors opened wide, and the Great Hall revealed itself as a glittering winter palace. Silver frost clung to the walls, hundreds of mistletoe garlands hung from the ceiling, and the atmosphere was thick with the scent of pine, roasted chestnuts, and expensive perfume.
And then, Hermione stepped down the stairs.
Harry’s jaw practically hit the flagstones. Beside him, Ron made a small, choking sound like a cat coughing up a hairball. Hermione’s hair, usually a wild, bushy storm, was slicked back into an elegant, shining knot at the back of her head, and she wore robes of a delicate, floating periwinkle blue. She was smiling—a bright, confident smile—arm in arm with Viktor Krum.
“Is that... Hermione?” Ron squeaked, his hand clutching Harry’s sleeve so hard the fabric strained. “What did she do to her face? Where did her hair go?!”
“She looks great,” Harry admitted, feeling a strange, disorienting lurch in his chest. “Good for her.”
“Good for her?!” Ron hissed, his face turning the color of a ripe radish. “She’s with the enemy! Krum’s from Durmstrang! He’s trying to steal our tactics!”
“Ron, he’s eighteen and plays international Quidditch, I don't think he cares about our Arithmancy homework,” Harry muttered, turning his gaze away to scan the rest of the arriving crowd.
And that was when Harry Potter’s world shattered into an entirely new, deeply confusing frequency.
Stepping through the grand double doors, looking impossibly pristine and completely unbothered by the freezing temperature, was Draco Malfoy.
Now, Harry was used to Malfoy looking like a pompous, over-pampered aristocrat. He was used to the slicked-back silver-blond hair, the sharp chin, the permanent sneer that suggested he had just smelled something unpleasant under his nose.
He was not prepared for Malfoy in high-collared midnight-black velvet.
The robes were tailored so precisely they looked painted on, fitting smoothly over Malfoy’s sharp shoulders and narrow waist. A silver dragon-scale clasp pinned a soft silk mantle across his chest, catching the candlelight with every step he took. He wasn't sneering. He looked... bored. Indifferent. Impossibly, infuriatingly, disgustingly attractive.
Harry froze. His breath caught somewhere in his windpipe.
“Who’s Malfoy with?” Ron grumbled, scowling toward the doorway. “Pansy? She looks like a ruffled pink owl.”
Harry didn't answer. His eyes were locked on Malfoy’s group. Pansy Parkinson was there, wearing a violently frilly dress, but she was arm-in-arm with Blaise Zabini.
Malfoy, on the other hand, was walking flanked by two towering Durmstrang boys in heavy fur-trimmed scarlet robes. One of them—a tall, broad-shouldered seventh-year with dark, sharp eyes and a light dusting of stubble—leaned down to whisper something directly into Malfoy’s ear.
Malfoy didn't push him away. Instead, a tiny, slow, wicked smirk spread across Malfoy’s pale lips. He tilted his head up, his grey eyes flashing under the chandeliers, and murmured something back in a low, velvet tone that made the Durmstrang boy laugh—a deep, rumbling sound that echoed slightly over the orchestra.
Harry felt a sudden, sharp, utterly irrational spike of rage in his stomach.
What was that? Harry thought, his knuckles going white against his dress robes. Why is Malfoy talking to him like that? Why is he looking at him like that?! Since when does Malfoy smile at people from Durmstrang?!
“Harry?” Parvati asked, tugging his arm. “The Champions are supposed to form a procession. We need to line up.”
“Right,” Harry said blindly, his eyes still glued to the back of Malfoy’s black velvet shoulders as the Slytherin group moved toward the side of the hall. “Right. Procession.”
The dinner was a blur. The Champions’ dance was an absolute catastrophe of Harry trying very hard not to tread on Parvati’s toes while simultaneously trying to keep an eye on the far table.
Malfoy didn't dance with Pansy. He barely sat down. Every time Harry chanced a glance toward the Slytherin side of the room, Malfoy was standing near the towering ice sculpture of a castle, surrounded by three Durmstrang students. He was laughing—not his usual mean, cackling laugh, but a soft, quiet sound, holding a glass of sparkling butterbeer between his long, slender fingers.
The tall Durmstrang boy—the one with the stubble—had his hand casually rested on the back of Malfoy’s chair. Right over the black velvet.
Harry’s blood felt like it was boiling.
“I need some air,” Harry announced abruptly at ten o’clock, leaving a very annoyed Parvati sitting with her sister at a table near the punch bowl.
He didn't mean to follow them. He told himself he was going to the rose bushes near the courtyard to inspect for dark magic, or suspicious behavior, or... or something.
The courtyard was cold, dark, and dusted with fresh snow. Mistletoe hung from the stone arches, casting faint, shimmering light over the snowbanks. Harry slipped past a heavy stone pillar, holding his breath, his sneakers making no sound against the flagstones.
Voices carried over the quiet night air.
“Du bist viel zu stolz, Malfoy,” a deep, accented voice murmured. You're far too proud, Malfoy.
“Je ne suis pas stolz,” Malfoy’s smooth, sharp voice replied, carrying that faint, melodic French tilt he always used when he wanted to sound superior. “Je suis simplement sélectif.” I am not proud. I'm simply selective.
Harry peered around the edge of the stone archway.
They were standing in the shadows of the arched corridor, barely two feet apart. The tall Durmstrang boy had Malfoy backed slightly against the cold stone wall. His large hand was rested on the wall near Malfoy’s head, leaning down close.
Malfoy wasn't pulling away. His head was tilted back, his silver hair catching the starlight, his grey eyes bright and defiant.
Then, the Durmstrang boy leaned in.
It wasn't a polite cheek kiss. It was a full, slow, heavy kiss squarely on Malfoy’s mouth.
Harry’s heart didn't just drop; it executed a terrifying, violent gymnastics routine against his ribs. His hands went clammy. He couldn't move. He couldn't look away.
He watched Malfoy’s eyes flutter closed. He watched Malfoy’s slender hand reach up, his fingers curling into the heavy fur collar of the boy’s scarlet robes, pulling him a fraction closer. The sound was soft—the quiet rustle of velvet and fur in the snow.
Harry stumbled backward, his boot catching on a patch of ice. He hit the stone pillar with a dull thud.
Malfoy’s eyes snapped open instantly. He pulled back from the Durmstrang boy, his expression sharpening into a deadly, cold mask as he scanned the shadows.
“Who’s there?!” Malfoy barked.
Harry didn't wait to find out. He turned and sprinted back toward the Great Hall, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, his mind a chaotic, screaming vortex of pure, unadulterated shock.
Malfoy. Malfoy was kissing a boy. Malfoy was kissing a BOY.
And... and why did it look like that?! Why did Harry’s stomach feel like it had just been dropped from a firebolt?!
Harry burst back into the warm, noisy Great Hall, panting as if he had just run three miles through a swamp.
He grabbed Ron by the shoulder, hauling him away from the food table where Ron was sulking over Hermione’s periwinkle dress.
“Ron,” Harry whispered fiercely, his eyes wild behind his glasses. “Ron, I need to ask you something. It’s very important.”
Ron blinked, a half-eaten sausage roll suspended near his mouth. “What? Did you find a secret death eater plot?”
“No!” Harry hissed, looking around frantically to ensure no one was listening. “Ron... have you ever... thought about snogging a boy?”
Ron froze. The sausage roll dropped from his fingers, landing with a soft plop onto his plate. He stared at Harry as if Harry had suddenly sprouted three heads, all of which were singing the Beauxbatons anthem.
“Have I... what?” Ron whispered, horrified.
“Snogging a boy!” Harry repeated, his voice rising in panic before he quickly lowered it again. “Like... just to see what it’s like! To explore options! Puberty options!”
“Harry,” Ron said, reaching out with a trembling hand to feel Harry’s forehead. “Did Viktor Krum hit you in the head with a Bludger? Do you have the dragon pox? Are you dying?”
“I’m fine!” Harry snapped, pulling away. “It’s a hypothetical question! I’m just curious!”
“Well, un-curious yourself!” Ron shrieked softly. “No! I haven't thought about snogging a boy! I’m trying to figure out how to get Lavender Brown to look at me without laughing at my dress robes!”
Frustrated, Harry turned around and spotted Padma Patil standing near the entrance, looking bored. Driven by a sudden, desperate urge to test his own internal compass, Harry marched straight over to her.
“Padma,” Harry said directly.
Padma blinked at him. “Yes, Harry?”
“Do you want to snog?” Harry asked, stating it with the emotionless precision of a man ordering a loaf of bread. “Right now. Out in the hallway.”
Padma looked at him for three long, agonizing seconds. Then, she let out a loud, high-pitched laugh that drew the attention of three nearby Ravenclaws. “Oh, Harry. You’re hilarious. No thanks, I’m going to get some punch.” She turned and walked away, still giggling.
Harry stood alone near the punch bowl, his chest heavy, his mind completely utterly wrecked.
He didn't want to snog Padma. He didn't want to snog Parvati. He had wanted to snog Cho, but now... now every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was midnight-black velvet, silver hair in the starlight, and the sight of Draco Malfoy being pressed against a stone wall by a boy with broad shoulders.
It was horrifying. It was unnatural. It was Draco bloody Malfoy.
By midnight, the Yule Ball was winding down. Harry had slipped away early, walking up the quiet, deserted staircases toward the Gryffindor tower in a state of profound psychological chaos.
The common room was empty, the fire dying down to a dim, amber pulse.
Harry went up to the fourth-year dormitory, kicked off his stiff dress shoes, and collapsed flat onto his four-poster bed without even bothering to take off his green robes.
He stared up at the red velvet canopy.
Malfoy.
Why Malfoy? Out of all the people in Hogwarts—out of all the witches and wizards in the entire world—why had the sight of Draco Malfoy snogging a Durmstrang boy sent Harry into a complete existential tailspin?
He closed his eyes.
In the dark behind his eyelids, the image returned, vivid and sharp: the smell of the cold snow, the tight fit of the black velvet coat, the way Malfoy’s throat had arched back, pale and long under the starlight...
A sudden, warm jolt shot straight down to his stomach. Harry gasped, his hand clutching at the duvet.
Oh no, Harry thought, his eyes snapping open in absolute terror. Oh no, no, no.
He sat up on the edge of his mattress, his breathing fast and ragged. He looked at his own trembling hands. The realization didn't come like a gentle wave; it hit him like a rogue Hungarian Horntail crashing through the roof of his skull.
He didn't just find the scene surprising. He wanted to be the one pressing Malfoy against the wall.
“I’m bi,” Harry whispered aloud to the empty room, his voice squeaking slightly on the vowel. “I... I think I like boys.”
The sheer absurdity of the statement hung in the air of the dormitory. Harry Potter, the Savior of the Wizarding World, the Boy Who Lived, had just had a sexuality crisis over his arch-nemesis’s choice of ball attire.
A sudden, reckless, utterly unhinged surge of adrenaline seized him.
He couldn't stay in this bed. He couldn't sleep. He had to do something. He had to say it. He needed to look Malfoy in his stupid, pale, aristocratic face and put the terrifying weight of this realization onto his shoulders where it belonged.
Harry leaped off the bed. He pulled the Invisibility Cloak out from his trunk, throwing it over his head, and grabbed the Marauder’s Map.
“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” he muttered, his voice shaking with a dangerous mixture of panic and determination.
He scanned the parchment frantically until his eyes found the Slytherin dormitories in the dungeons. There, sitting in a small, isolated square labeled Draco Malfoy’s Room, was the tiny ink dot.
Harry slipped out of the Gryffindor common room, moving like a ghost through the dark, silent corridors of the castle.
Down, down, down he went, stepping over the cold stone steps until he reached the damp, chilly gloom of the dungeons. He reached the blank stone wall that served as the entrance to the Slytherin common room.
Normally, getting inside would require a password. But tonight, luck—or absolute madness—was on his side.
A pair of sixth-year Slytherins, slumping home late from the ball, stumbled out through the concealed doorway, arguing loudly about a spilled glass of Firewhisky. Harry slipped through the closing gap before the stone could reset, his heart hammering against his ribs like a drumbeat.
The Slytherin common room was dark, lit only by the greenish glow of the lake windows. Harry navigated the leather couches and silver ornaments, relying on the Map to guide him down the narrow stone corridor toward the private dormitories.
He stopped outside a heavy, dark oak door with a silver crest carved into the center: Malfoy.
Harry didn't knock. He didn't hesitate. If he hesitated for one second, his brain would regain control, and he would flee back to the Gryffindor tower to spend the rest of his life hiding under a blanket.
He reached out, turned the silver handle, pushed the door open, and stepped inside, whipping the Invisibility Cloak off his shoulders in one violent motion.
“Malfoy!” Harry announced, his voice ringing out in the quiet room.
Draco Malfoy was standing near his four-poster bed. He had removed his black mantle and his silver clasp, and was currently halfway through unbuttoning his black dress shirt. His hair was messy, his pale chest partially exposed, and he held a silver shoehorn in his hand.
Malfoy spun around so fast he nearly tripped over his own boots. His eyes widened in absolute, staggering shock as he stared at the Boy Who Lived standing in the middle of his private bedroom at one o’clock in the morning.
“Potter?!” Malfoy shrieked, his voice cracking into a high, aristocratic register. He instinctively raised the silver shoehorn like a wand. “What the bloody hell are you doing in my room?! How did you get in here?!”
Harry stepped forward, his green eyes blazing, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He looked flushed, rumpled, and entirely out of his mind.
“I saw you!” Harry declared loudly.
Malfoy blinked, his brows drawing together in confusion. “You... what?”
“I saw you in the courtyard!” Harry shouted, taking another step closer. “With the Durmstrang guy! With the fur coat!”
Malfoy’s face went from pale to a sudden, violent shade of pink. He lowered the shoehorn an inch, his jaw dropping. “You were spying on me? You stalkerish, unhinged little freak!”
“I wasn't spying! I was looking for air!” Harry yelled back, waving his arms dramatically. “And then I saw you! And then you snogged him! And then I went back into the hall and asked Padma Patil to snog me and she laughed at me!”
Malfoy stared at him as if Harry had just recited a passage from a book written entirely in goblin-gobbledegook. “What on earth are you talking about, Potter?! Have you been drinking pure Firewhisky?! Get out before I summon Snape!”
“I’m not leaving until I say it!” Harry barked, stepping right into Malfoy’s personal space, stopping barely a foot away.
Malfoy froze, looking up into Harry’s flushed face. Up close, Harry smelled like pine, cheap pumpkin juice, and pure, chaotic energy.
“Say what?!” Malfoy hissed, trying to maintain his intimidating stance despite wearing half an unbuttoned shirt.
Harry took a deep, terrifying breath, pointed a sharp finger directly at Malfoy’s pale chest, and yelled:
“Malfoy! You are my bi awakening!”
The silence that followed was so loud you could hear the lake water lap against the dungeon glass outside.
Malfoy stood there. His mouth opened. It closed. It opened again. His silver-grey eyes were dilated to the size of Galleons. He looked down at Harry’s finger pointing at his chest, then back up into Harry’s bright, insane green eyes.
“I... I am what?” Malfoy whispered, his voice stripped of every drop of Pureblood nobility.
“You heard me!” Harry panted, his chest heaving, looking immensely relieved now that the words were out in the world. “Your dress robes! The velvet! The kissing! It made me realize I like boys! And now I’m going back to my dorm to sleep for three days! Goodnight!”
Before Malfoy could formulate a sentence, before he could raise his wand, before he could even process the sheer scale of the absurdity that had just occurred in his bedroom, Harry threw the Invisibility Cloak back over his head, turned on his heel, and sprinted out the door, slamming it shut behind him.
Inside the room, Draco Malfoy stood entirely alone in the quiet dark, holding a silver shoehorn, his shirt half-open, staring blankly at the empty space where Harry Potter had been.
Slowly, carefully, Malfoy raised his hand and pressed his palm to his own forehead.
“I’m dreaming,” Malfoy whispered softly to the empty room. “I’m having a nightmare. That was a Boggart. A very confused, green-eyed Boggart.”
And high up in the Gryffindor tower, Harry Potter collapsed onto his bed, pulled his duvet over his head, and smiled into the dark, entirely satisfied with his evening’s work.