Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Harry tucks the last lock of hair into his carefully constructed coiffure, then slides his glasses up his nose. He turns his head from side to side as he washes the gel off his hands, making sure his hair is perfectly and firmly flattened, no strays or fly-aways making their escape. Satisfied, he dries his hands, then smooths his palms down over his slacks and takes a step back so he can look at himself in the mirror. Kickers, wool trousers, pressed button up, tie, blazer, glasses. Right. Ready for school.

His mum is already downstairs, ready with two mugs of tea and a plate piled high with toast, robe wrapped tight around her to ward off the chill as she huddles down into her chair.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she says sleepily as Harry slides into his seat at the table and drags the jar of marmalade over. He’s got about ten minutes before he needs to leave for school. He manages to eat three slices of toast and drink his mug of tea before pushing back from the table and brushing crumbs off his trousers.

“Gotta go, bye mum,” he says, stopping by her chair to press a kiss to the top of her head, then grabbing his backpack and jacket and racing out the front door. It’s already April, but it’s still chilly out, sky heavy and gray as England tries desperately to fight its way into spring. Harry pulls his coat on and buttons it up to his neck, then sets off toward school.

He’s only gone a block, is just passing the small market on the corner, whose owner always sits on a rickety old lawn chair out front and chain smokes from open till close, when someone trots up alongside him, then slows and matches his pace.

Harry doesn’t even bother looking up before saying, “Morning, Zayn.”

“Hey,” Zayn answers shortly, voice still gruff with sleep. Harry shoots him a sideways glance. He’s got his chin burrowed down into his coat and his hands tucked into his pockets, eyes cast down at the ground so that his lashes lay heavily against his cheekbones. “Niall wanted me to ask you if you did your maths homework.”

“Of course.” Harry frowns. “Why doesn’t he just ask me himself?”

Zayn shrugs. “He’s skiving off first period, I think. We were up late practicing for our gig next Saturday.” Zayn finally looks up and meets Harry’s eyes. “You’re coming, right?”

Harry doesn’t bother answering, just raises an eyebrow at Zayn and waits for him to roll his eyes and elbow Harry in the side, just like every other time he’s asked Harry if he’s going to watch them play.

“Oh, hey,” Zayn starts. “Isn’t today your big debate?”

Harry grimaces, then pats his trouser pocket to make sure his notecards are still carefully tucked away. He’s had two months to prepare for this debate, but he’s so nervous about it that he’s stayed up past midnight every night for the last two weeks practicing his argument against legalization of marijuana. Of course, it doesn’t help that he’s going up against Liam Payne, captain of the football team and most popular guy in school. Who also happens to be incredibly fit. Not that Harry’s noticed. Right.

Harry drops his chin and watches his feet as he walks, reciting his argument to himself in his head as Zayn natters on about what songs he and Niall are covering next weekend. “And we were gonna cover Umbrella by Rihanna, but I was thinking about changing it and singing No Air by Chris Brown, with Niall -”

Harry’s head snaps up. “Don’t sing Chris Brown.”

Zayn frowns. “Why not?”

“Because he’s not a nice person. Sing that slow version of Heartless by Kanye instead, the one you and Louis tried out the other week.”

Zayn stares up at the sky, a steely gray that Harry really hopes doesn’t mean rain, then nods slowly. “Yeah, I think we could do that. That’d be sick, actually. Hey, d’you want to come up and sing a song with us?”

Harry stares at Zayn, eyes wide. He’s never sung on stage before. “Um, I don’t -”

“Come on,” Zayn wheedles. “Niall and I will be up there with you, it won’t be anything like debate. We’ll even let you choose the song.”

Harry worries his bottom lip while he considers. Finally, he sighs. “Fine, alright. One song.”

“Sick.”

Zayn pulls his phone out to text Niall, and Harry looks back down at his feet. “Good, that’s settled, now let me get back to practicing.”

“What are you debating again?”

Harry lifts his head so he can send Zayn his fiercest scowl, and Zayn just bursts out laughing, breath coming out in bursts of white fog.

;;

Harry thanks every deity that comes to mind that debate is before lunch as he walks through the classroom door. Less chance of him hurling all over the front row that way.

Despite the fact that it’s been three hours since his purposefully light breakfast, he can feel nerves churning in his gut and his chest constricting a bit as he trudges over to his seat. Louis is already sitting in his usual spot, beautiful, steady Louis, and Harry focuses on the back of his head and tries to regulate his breathing as he walks. He can do this. He’s been practicing for two weeks. Granted, he’s been giving his side of the debate to a row of Gemma’s teddy bears and his mum, but he’s definitely got this.

“Morning, sunshine,” Louis chirps as Harry falls into the seat beside him. Harry just groans and drops his head into his hands, elbows propped up on his knees as he concentrates on inhaling and exhaling. He feels an arm drape across his shoulders, Louis’ small hand warm through his blazer and shirt as he leans in and says, voice low and confident, “You can do this, Hazza. Tell me your key points.”

Harry sucks in a breath and starts, “It would only encourage -”

“Alright everyone, settle down!” Harry lifts his head reluctantly so he can watch Mr. Walsh call the class to order. “Today we have Mr. Payne and Mr. Styles debating marijuana legalization!”

“Easy choice! We don’t even need to hear Styles’ side!” Someone calls from the back, setting off a chorus of laughs, and Harry blushes furiously when Louis turns around and hisses, “Piss off, George.”

Mr. Walsh sighs and says, “Pipe down, Mr. George. Just for that, Mr. Styles will be going first.”

Harry blanches and turns to look at Louis, eyes wide and panicky. Louis just squeezes his shoulder and says, “You can do this, Haz. You know your argument, you know everyone in here.” He lets go of Harry, then pats him on the back and says, “Smash it, babe.”

Harry draws in a shaky breath and pushes slowly to his feet, Louis’ encouragement falling away and nerves roaring in his ears as he slips out into the aisle and walks to the front of the classroom. He can feel everyone watching him, ears burning when he manages to trip as he climbs up onto the makeshift stage the woodshop kids had made last year. He can feel panic clawing its way up his throat, tightening his windpipe and constricting his lungs, and hopes desperately that he doesn’t have an asthma attack in front of everyone. As if the other kids need more ammo to tease him with.

Harry walks up to the podium and pulls his notecards out of his pocket with trembling fingers, fans them out across the little desk and sucks in a breath. “Um.” He glances up at the class, scans the sea of faces before coming to rest on Louis’. Louis gives him an encouraging thumbs up.

“Come on already,” Max George calls out, and Harry drops his gaze to the notecards, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“I think,” he whispers, then catches movement out of the corner of his eye, turns to see Mr. Walsh motioning for him to speak up. “I think that legalizing marijuana -”

Harry makes the mistake of looking up again, sees everyone watching him expectantly, Max George and a couple of his friends goofing off in the back row, and his throat closes up. He isn’t even aware that he’s wheezing, hands clutching desperately at the edges of the podium, until Mr. Walsh hops up onto the stage and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright, Mr. Styles?”

Harry shakes his head frantically, gasping for breath, and Mr. Walsh lets him stumble off the stage and toward his seat. His inhaler is tucked into the front pocket of his backpack, he just needs -

He can hear a few of the students murmuring quietly to each other as he falls to his knees by his seat, but Louis’ already got his inhaler out, face drawn in concern. Harry takes it gratefully and hunches over as he shoves it into his mouth. He can feel Louis’ hand rubbing soothing circles into his back, leans into it gratefully as he focuses on breathing in.

“Hey,” Louis murmurs, “why don’t I take you to the nurse?”

Harry bows his head, face burning with embarrassment. He doesn’t want to make even more of a spectacle of himself, but he’d rather die than face the class again, so he nods his head and lets Louis help him up, carefully avoids meeting his classmates’ eyes as Louis leads him out of the room.

;;

Harry lets Louis walk into the canteen first while he cowers behind him a bit, convinced that the few students already littered around the room are staring at him. News travels fast at their small school, and he wouldn’t be surprised if everyone knows about his asthma attack already, even though it’s only been a half hour since. They’re walking to their usual table when Harry hears someone say, “Hey, you okay, Styles?”

He turns to see who spoke and spots Liam Payne sitting at a table full of football players and cheerleaders, looking right at him, and stumbles over his own feet. A few of Liam’s friends laugh, and Jade, her long brown hair streaked with blue to match her cheerleading uniform, tugs on Liam’s elbow and says, “Come on, Liam, he’s obviously fine.”

Harry frowns down at his shoes and lets Louis lead him away. Niall is already sitting at their table, absently shoving chips into his mouth as he fiddles with a Nintendo DS. “Heard about debate,” he mutters, eyes still locked on his game. “Y’alright, H?”

Harry shrugs as he sits down, glances over at Louis and fiddles with the ear of his glasses for a moment before saying, “Yeah, I’m fine now. Thanks, Niall.” He bites his lip, drops a hand onto Louis’ knee and squeezes. “All thanks to Louis, really.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but Harry can see the corner of his mouth hitch up into a lopsided smile, hides his own smile by looking down at the table when Louis leans over and nudges their shoulders together. Louis opens his mouth to say something, but then Zayn comes clattering up, three trays balanced precariously in his arms and his book bag dangling off his elbow.

“Take it, take it, take it,” he hisses, so Louis swivels about and grabs two of the trays, deposits one in front of Harry and one in front of himself.

“Thanks Zaynie,” he coos, then dodges an ear flick by ducking right up against Harry’s chest. Harry laughs and shoves him off.

“Get out of my food, tosser. Thanks Zayn,” he calls around Louis, then tucks into his lunch while Zayn and Louis bicker next to him. His morning might have been crappy, his school situation might not be ideal, but he’s got the best friends anyone could ask for. Well. He looks up at Niall, who’s still playing on his DS but has moved on to blindly eating a burger, and shakes his head. Mostly the best friends anyone could ask for. Life could be worse.

;;

Harry sighs as he re-adjusts his hair net. It’s mid-afternoon on Saturday, and there’s only one customer in the bakery - one of their regulars, who comes in every weekend and sits at the last table against the wall and eats scones for hours while working on the daily crossword puzzle.

“What’s a seven letter word for ‘peaceful; calm’? First letter ‘h.’”

Harry sucks his bottom lip into his mouth as he considers, then calls out, “Halcyon.”

Mr. Turner mumbles to himself as he scratches the word into the puzzle, then aims a thumbs up at Harry as he continues on. Harry purses his lips and looks around the small room, taps his fingers on the counter to the beat of some song Zayn had been blasting out his earphones on the walk to school yesterday. He doesn’t even know the words, but the melody has been playing on a loop inside his head ever since.

Harry is snapping random photos of things behind the counter and inside the displays so he can text them to Zayn and Louis while he considers getting his biology homework out, just to have something to do, when the bell above the front door jingles. He whirls around, excited at the prospect of a distraction, then deflates when he sees it’s just his mum.

“Hi baby,” she hums as she stretches across the counter to press a kiss to Harry’s cheek. “Could you get me a couple of loaves of French bread, please?” She taps a finger against her lips as she considers the display of sweets, then tacks on, “And a black forest cake.”

Harry drops his phone onto the counter and sets about packaging up some bread, is just sliding one of the cakes out of the display and into a box when Anne says, tone casual, “Someone came to the house for you this morning.”

Harry looks up as he tucks the cardboard flaps into the box. He raises an eyebrow and asks, “Zayn?”

“No, actually.” She chews on her bottom lip for a moment as she watches Harry, then says, “Someone who works for your grandmother.”

“My grandmother.” Harry stares at his mum in confusion. His grandmother had passed away years ago.

“Yes, oh. Your father’s mum. She, uh. She’s sent one of her advisors here, he wants to speak to you. Today.”

“Advisor?” Harry asks, even more confused than ever. He’s never met his father’s mum, didn’t even realize she was still alive. Actually, come to think of it, he’s never met anyone from his father’s side of the family.

Anne hands Harry some cash and takes the bread and cake box off the counter, starts edging backwards toward the door. “He’s sending someone to pick you up after work. See you at home, love!”

Harry stares after her, baffled and vaguely uneasy at the prospect of being picked up by someone who works for an assistant to a woman he hadn’t even known existed until a few minutes ago. What is his mum thinking?

The rest of the day passes slowly as the sun slips across the sky, then slides behind the buildings across the street. Mr. Turner leaves a few hours later, and Barbara relieves Harry at the till at six. By the time Harry’s worked his hair net and apron off and has smoothed his hair back down, there’s a sleek black limo sitting by the curb, a stocky man with black hair and a pair of aviators perched on his nose leaning back against the door.

The man slides his glasses down a bit when Harry stops outside the bakery door, palms damp with nerves. “Mr. Styles?” Harry nods jerkily, and the man pushes off the car, approaches him with a hand outstretched. Harry hastily wipes his palm on his pants, then shakes the man’s hand. “I’m Paul, head of security for Mr. Winston. Are you ready to go?”

Even though he wants nothing more than to turn around and walk right home, Harry nods again, then slides into the back of the limo without a word when Paul opens the door for him. They’re only on the road for ten minutes before they’re pulling up to a beautiful mansion just outside of the citylimits, gates sliding open smoothly and silently so that the limo can pull up into the enormous driveway. There’s a fountain in the center of it, a marble sculpture of a cherub pouring water out of a jug, and even though the house is on a busy road, the trickling water and plush grass underfoot make Harry feel a bit like he’s in an oasis.

“This way, Mr. Styles.”

Harry gives the cherub one last look, then follows Paul to the front door. He’s flanked immediately by two security guards who start patting him down, digging through the pockets of his backpack like they expect him to be carrying a bomb or something, rather than his school work and a battered old iPod.

“Please don’t squash my banana,” Harry protests, ignoring Paul’s snort as one of the guards unzips the front pouch. Bananas are healthy. Harry loves bananas.

One of the guards mutters, “He’s clean,” and Harry turns to glare at him.

“Of course I’m clean, I’m a sixteen year old who works at a bakery. What did you expect to find?”

Neither of the guards say anything, and Paul fits a hand around Harry’s elbow and tows him away. “Come on, Mr. Styles. Mr. Winston is waiting for you.”

Paul leads Harry down a wide hallway and into a parlor. The room is cavernous, with arching ceilings and walls of beautifully carved bookshelves, delicately patterned sofas and settees, and a fireplace that could stand five adults comfortably. Harry trails his fingers across the gold filigree wallpaper as he looks around, and it takes him a moment to realize that they’re not alone.

There’s a man standing by the windows, hands clasped behind his back as he stares out at the garden, and Paul clears his throat to get his attention. Harry isn’t sure what he was expecting, but he’s positive that, when the man turns around, this wasn’t it. He looks young, thirty at the oldest, with dark hair and a close-cropped beard.

“Hello, Harry,” he says as he walks over. “Is it alright if I call you Harry?” Harry doesn’t respond. He’s still a bit shell-shocked and has no idea what he’s doing in this house. Mansion. Mr. Winston, presumably, watches him for a moment, then shakes his head and takes a step closer, studies Harry silently. “You look... intelligent.”

Harry rolls his eyes and pushes his glasses up his nose. What a clichéd assumption. Of course, he’s not wrong, but still. He takes a moment to study the man right back, then says, “And you look young, for someone named Winston.”

Ben sighs. “Right. I’m Ben Winston. I work for your grandmother.”

Harry blinks. Is that supposed to mean something to him? “I didn’t even know I had a grandmother until a few hours ago.”

Ben inclines his head in understanding. “Why don’t you have a seat, Harry?”

“I’d rather stand, if it’s all the same to you.” Harry crosses his arms defiantly, but Ben just sighs again. He and Paul share some sort of silent exchange that leaves Harry even more confused than ever, then Ben walks over to one of the settees and sits down.

“Well, Harry, this may come as a bit of a shock to you. Have you ever heard of the country of Castalia?”

Harry frowns and racks his brain, thinking back to all of his geography lessons, but comes up blank. “Is that in Spain?” Ben shakes his head. “Then no, I haven’t. Why?”

“It’s right here in Europe, nestled between France and Spain, and completely separate from what you’re thinking of, which is Catalonia. It’s a small country, not one likely to be written into history books.”

Harry shifts his weight from one foot to the other, at a complete loss. He’s fairly certain Ben is attempting to explain things, but all he’s doing is making everything more muddled. “And what does that have to do with me?”

“Well, your grandmother is The Queen of Castalia. Your father was the Crown Prince, before he renounced his title.” Harry’s stomach bottoms out. Queen. Prince. What. “The Queen is planning on stepping down from the throne in a few years, and you are the next in line.”

“What,” Harry gasps. He looks around, eyes wide with panic, certain someone is about to jump out from behind the curtains and yell, ‘Gotcha!’ All he sees, though, is Paul, watching him calmly from over by the door. “I don’t. I have a sister? Gemma is older, it’s -”

“Castalia is an old country, and as such has laws that prohibit a woman from taking the throne unless she is married. Your sister is not eligible, I’m afraid. The Queen has sent me here to speak to you, to convince you and train you, so that when she’s ready to step down, you can take her place. As King.” He shifts in his seat, reaching into his pocket and pulling something out. “This was your father’s before he renounced his title. Your grandmother wanted you to have it.”

Harry takes an automatic step forward and lets Ben drop the item into his hand. It’s a ring, the band thick and the top flattened into a disc, with the letter ‘S’ etched into the gold. Harry stares blankly at the ring for a moment, resting heavy in his palm. When he speaks it sounds like he’s underwater, like his own voice is coming from very far away. “This is a joke, right? You’re joking.”

Ben frowns. “I’m afraid not, Harry. You are a Prince of Castalia, prince by blood, and next in line to the throne.”

“But,” Harry sputters, coming back to himself with a great rush, so his head spins with it. “This is absurd. I can’t be a prince. I’m sixteen! I’m - I’m a nobody. People at school already think I’m a freak, now you want to add a crown?” Harry looks around again, gauging how far it is to the door. “Look, I can’t do this, alright? I have to go, my mum is waiting for me. Find someone else.”

He shoves the ring into his pocket without thinking and sprints for the door, intent on walking home, even if it takes him an hour, but Paul just follows him down the hall. Harry ignores him, not wanting to hear any more.

“Mr. Styles, you’re going the wrong way,” Paul calls from behind him, voice calm in contrast to the hectic beating of Harry’s heart. Harry stops and looks around, realizes he’s wandered further into the house, rather than toward the front door, and turns around.

“I knew that,” he mutters as he squeezes past Paul and heads back in the opposite direction. Paul just continues to follow him, right through the foyer and out the door. Harry whirls around once he’s reached the driveway. “I don’t need you trying to convince me, alright? I just want to go home.”

Paul just looks at Harry, expression nonplussed, and pulls a set of keys out of his pocket. He presses a button and the limo makes a clicking noise. “Let me drive you home, Mr. Styles. It would take you a long time to walk.”

Harry considers telling Paul to piss off, but decides against it, in the end. It’s already getting dark outside, and he doesn’t much fancy walking all that way alone. The drive back to Harry’s house is silent, the air thick with tension that Harry is unwilling to break, and he doesn’t bother asking how Paul knows where he lives, just mutters a thank you as he gets out and doesn’t look back.

Harry doesn’t remember the ring until he’s getting ready for bed that night. It falls out of his trouser pocket as he’s folding them and putting them away, hits the carpet with a thud. Harry crouches down to inspect it, turns it over in his palm and traces the ‘S’ with the tip of his finger, the light from his lamp glinting off the dull gold. With a sigh, he sets the ring carefully on his bedside table before getting into bed, falls asleep staring at the peaks and dips of the ‘S’ until his vision goes so blurry that they meld into one fuzzy swirl of metal.

;;

Sunday is a bit busier at the bakery, and by the time Harry gets home, he’s exhausted, feet aching and a headache brewing behind his eyes. He rubs furiously at them as he trudges into the kitchen, years of practice and the sound of mugs clinking against wood guiding his way.

“Mum? What’s for dinner?”

He drops his hands and lets his glasses fall back onto the bridge of his nose as he opens his eyes. It takes a moment for his vision to clear, but when it does, he sees his mum standing by the stove, Robin sitting in his seat at the table, and Ben sitting across from him.

“Oh.” He frowns. “I told you, I don’t want -”

“Just listen to him, Harry,” Anne interrupts, and they stare each other down for a minute, before Harry gives in with a sigh and takes the seat next to Robin. His mum deposits a mug of tea in front of him, and Harry murmurs a thank you without looking up, manners outweighing his resentment.

Harry listens while Ben rambles on about the history of Castalia and how Styles’ have ruled for generations, and if Harry doesn’t accept the crown, it will break the line, the crown will go to the head of Parliament, and the country’s traditions will be in ruin. In his periphery, Harry can see Ben fold his hands together on the table and lean over them in an attempt to get Harry to look at him.

“Harry,” Ben says quietly. “I beg you to reconsider.” Harry doesn’t answer. “Look, just... you don’t have to make a commitment yet, okay? Just let me train you, teach you about Castalia. There’s a State Dinner in two weeks’ time, with ambassadors and officials who are political allies with Castalia, it will be a wonderful opportunity for you to meet them. One week after that is a ball, and I’m afraid that you’ll need to have made a decision by then. I won’t try to force you, Harry. By the evening of the ball, you can choose to renounce the title, or accept. The decision is yours.”

Harry chews on his bottom lip as he considers Ben’s offer. On the one hand, it’s not a big deal. He can meet with Ben, learn about Castalia and get his mum off his back, then decline the crown at the ball. On the other, learning about Castalia might just sway him, and he’s just not ready to be a prince. Not ready to be a king.

He looks over at his mum. She’s still standing by the stove, expression hopeful as she watches Harry and Ben. Harry sighs and, for the first time since he’d gotten home, meets Ben’s eyes. “Alright, I’ll take the lessons. But I won’t change my mind.”

Ben nods. He doesn’t look completely satisfied, but he looks pleased, nonetheless. “Very good. Thank you, Harry. Really. Let’s meet after school, yes? Three times a week for now? Paul will pick you up from school tomorrow.” He pushes back from the table, smoothing down his suit as he stands and turns to leave. “Thank you for the tea, Anne. Oh, and Harry? Please don’t tell anyone about this.”

Harry snorts. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

;;

Harry wakes up Monday morning and goes about his daily routine of getting dressed for school and slicking back his hair, has breakfast with his mum, and meets Zayn on the corner, where Mr. Pike is already smoking his third cigarette of the day. He doesn’t notice the limo following him until Zayn casts an uneasy glance behind them and says, “Bro, I think we’re being followed.”

Harry sighs. “It’s just my... Grandmother.” He frowns at the lie, but figures it’s easier to explain than his grandmother’s assistant’s security guard. “She, er, is in town, and wants to watch over me, I suppose. She wanted to drive me to school, but I told her no. I guess this is her idea of compromising.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow at Harry and says, disbelieving, “You didn’t want a lift to school in a limousine? And wait, I thought your nan passed away in year seven.”

“Other nan.”

“Oh.” Zayn looks back at the limo, then says, “And why has she got a limousine?”

Harry sighs. “Don’t ask.”

It’s probably a testament to their friendship that Zayn actually drops the subject. He doesn’t even look at the car again, just goes back to talking about the gig on Saturday and how he’s convinced Louis to record the keys for a few tracks for them to use. Louis is sitting on the steps of the school when they get there, playing bloody knuckles with Niall while Jade and her posse hold court on the top step. They keep randomly breaking out into cheers for the school football team. He wishes they would be quiet.

Harry smooths his hair down reflexively as he sits down next to Louis, rolls his eyes when Louis turns to grin at him and gets his knuckles smashed by Niall. “Niall, bloody hell, not so hard!”

“That’s the point of the game, Lou, don’t blame me because you got distracted.”

Harry shakes his head, a fond little smile curling his lips, and watches as Louis reaches out, lightning fast, and slaps Niall on the back of the head, then scurries off the step and around to sit on the other side of Harry. He slings an arm across Harry’s shoulders and says, “So, Hazza. How’s life?”

“Can’t complain,” he muses, then thinks better of it and wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Although I’ve got PE today. I think we’re playing football.”

Louis hums, then reaches up to pinch Harry’s cheek. It’s not the most comfortable feeling, but Harry’s well used to it by now. “How about you come over today and I’ll play with you? We can see about improving your game.”

“It’s not about his game,” Zayn calls from where he’s sat on the step below them, leaning back against Niall’s legs as he sketches in his History notebook. “It’s about his coordination.”

“Or lack of it,” Niall snickers, and Harry turns to scowl at them, but Louis just pulls his face back around.

“Hey, don’t listen to them. Come over at five, yeah? We’ll play in the back garden.”

Harry smiles gratefully at Louis and nods. Screw Zayn, Louis is totally his favorite. “You’re my favorite.”

Louis grins so wide that his eyes squint nearly shut, then leans in to headbutt Harry in the temple. “And don’t you forget it.”

;;

PE is a disaster. To be fair, Harry had known it would be, going in, and is just grateful that it’s the last period of the day. That way he doesn’t have to endure the taunts of his classmates after falling over trying to kick the ball. Three times. At least Niall had been there to help him up and glare at Max George and his arsehole friends when they laughed uproariously at him. Even Liam had smiled a little, and Harry vows to fake an illness next time they have to play football in PE. Honestly, why football? Why not badminton, or golf?

Harry pulls his bike up outside of Louis’ house and props it up against one of the columns flanking the front porch. He doesn’t bother knocking, just walks in and veers straight back toward the kitchen. They have two hours before Zayn and Niall are due, and he’s still riding high off the embarrassment that was PE, is eager to get started. He stops halfway through the house, though, stops right in the archway between the entryway and the living room.

It’s a long, narrow room lined with overstuffed sofas, walls dotted with family photos and framed art projects. There’s an enormous television against one wall, angled toward the largest sofa, and shoved up against the far wall is an upright piano. It’s bright in the room, a combination of overhead lights and sunlight streaming in through the windows enough to throw the subtle wallpaper pattern into relief and paint long shadows across the rug, and Harry can see two people huddled together on the piano bench, can hear the stilted plinking of keys and murmurs of encouragement.

Harry watches them quietly while they finish up, too far away to hear what Louis is saying to the little boy sitting beside him, his back ramrod-straight as he fights to stretch his little fingers across the keys. He doesn’t have to wait long till Louis is closing the book of sheet music and helping the boy slide the cover down over the keys, and he tries to make it look like he’s been messing around on his phone, rather than watching them.

He thumbs aimlessly through his apps as Louis walks the boy to the door, trying not to scratch at the sweat drying in the small of his back. He hadn’t bothered showering or changing out of his gym kit after school.

“Hey Haz,” Louis greets with a squeeze to Harry’s shoulder. Harry straightens from his slouch and slides his phone into his backpack as he follows Louis to the kitchen. “Want something to drink?”

Harry shakes his head no, but Louis tosses him a bottle of water anyway. He’s already dressed in shorts and an oversized t-shirt, so they walk out to the back garden and past a children’s blow-up pool to where a dirty old football is sitting in the grass. Louis makes Harry run drills with the ball for a full hour before he’ll play one-on-one. He makes Harry dribble the ball the length of the garden, practice keepie-uppies, keep goal against Louis, and take penalty kicks with Louis acting as the goalie.

Even going easy one-on-one, Louis kicks his arse, flying past Harry with the ball at foot so easily that Harry resorts to illegal tackles that have them rolling across the grass, limbs tangled and breathless with laughter. By the time Zayn and Niall get there, shoving each other as they each try to get outside first, Harry is lying on his back in the grass, chest heaving and muscles aching.

“I hate you,” he gasps up at Louis as he stands over him, hands on his hips and a smug smile on his face. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his shirt is clinging to his chest with sweat, but he’s rosy-cheeked and glowing, while Harry probably looks like a drowned Great Dane. Harry hates him a lot.

“Are you finished yet,” Zayn huffs. “I’m hungry, let’s order food and start the movie.” Harry holds his hands up to Louis and pouts his bottom lip out, wiggles his fingers until Louis sighs and gives in. He takes Harry’s hands and hauls him to his feet, steadies him with hands on his hips when Harry stumbles and falls. Harry grumbles into Louis’ chest before straightening up, shivers a little when Louis drops his hands, skimming the outside of his thighs briefly before drawing away.

“You know, it would probably be easier to play football if you wore contacts,” Louis comments, tone mild, as they walk back toward the house. Harry shrugs and fiddles with the earpiece of his glasses, pulls them back where they keep sliding down the bridge of his nose, slick with sweat.

“Glasses are easier,” he mumbles, following Louis inside.

Zayn and Niall are already arguing over takeaway menus, so Louis pushes Harry towards the stairs. “Go shower, I’ll order food and use my mum’s shower.”

Harry washes up as quickly as possible, then pulls on a pair of Louis’ cutoff joggers and a t-shirt he’s nicked from the bureau. He always feels odd, wearing casual clothes, and briefly mourns the fact that he doesn’t have his hair gel with him, eyes the way his hair is settling into unruly curls in the mirror before sighing and heading back downstairs. The boys are already sprawled out in the living room, the DVD’s menu playing on a loop while they wait, so Harry drops onto the sofa between Zayn and Louis, wiggles around so he’s got his head in Louis’ lap and his legs draped across Zayn’s, and waits for someone to press play.

Halfway through the opening credits, Harry feels Louis’ hand slide into his hair, tugging gently, and he comments, “You should wear your hair curly more often.”

Harry wrinkles his nose and adjusts his glasses. “It’s annoying.”

Zayn squeezes his knee and says, “It’s nice.”

“Shut it, lads, the film is starting,” Niall gripes, so Harry just shrugs, turns his attention back to the television, and tries not to fall asleep, the gentle tugging on his scalp as Louis plays with his hair enough to lull him into a sleepy haze.

;;

When Harry stumbles out the front door of the school on Tuesday, the toe of one of his Kickers caught on the threshold so that he has to catch himself on the door frame, Paul’s limo is waiting just down the block. He mumbles something to Louis about seeing him later, irritated that this is cutting into the routine of Louis walking him home, then sighs and trudges toward the car, the heavy soles of his Kickers scuffing against the concrete as he drags his feet.

“Don’t look so beleaguered, Mr. Styles. It’s just a couple of hours with Mr. Winston, you’re not being sentenced to a firing squad.” Harry rolls his eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Paul opens the door for him and he slides into the back seat. “It’s nice to see you, too, Mr. Styles.”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “You can call me Harry, you know. I’m only sixteen, I’m too young to be Mr. Styles.”

“Alright, then, Harry. Seatbelt, please.”

Even though the windows are tinted, Harry ducks down in his seat as they cruise past the school and only straightens back up once they’re safely out of range of any students walking home. Paul raises an eyebrow at him in the rearview mirror, but doesn’t say anything. In fact, he doesn’t speak the entire drive, so Harry tugs his phone out of his bag and pulls up Angry Birds.

The guards at the mansion don’t bother checking his bag this time, just wave them right through, but instead of heading to the library like last time, Paul leads Harry further into the house, through a massive bedroom, and into the ensuite. Harry frowns as he looks around the bathroom, all polished marble and chrome.

“I don’t need to use the toilet, actually -”

“Ah, Harry.” Harry whirls around just as Ben walks into the bathroom, followed by a woman with pale purple hair and an enormous canvas bag clutched in her hands. He moves aside so that the woman can step forward. “This is Lou. She’s a stylist, she’s going to work on you today.”

“What?”

“A makeover, babe,” Lou says kindly, holding her bag up.

“But,” Harry says slowly, confusion clouding his thoughts. “I don’t want a makeover.”

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Ben says, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder. “Lou will take good care of you. It will be painless.” He pauses, gaze drifting up to Harry’s eyebrows. “Well, mostly painless. I’ll be back when Lou is done, see you soon.”

Harry watches Ben turn out of the room, watches Paul follow as shock settles over him. He doesn’t even realize that Lou is talking until she touches his elbow. He comes to with a start and focuses in on what she’s saying. “Why don’t you have a seat, love?”

She points to a stool perched in front of the vanity, so Harry drops his backpack, takes off his blazer, and slumps over to it reluctantly, chewing on his thumb nail as he waits for Lou to spread her bag across the counter and pull out various tools. Some of them look quite scary, actually, and he eyes what looks like a pair of enormous silver prongs with distrust.

Lou pauses when she turns around, Eyes Harry critically and says, “Do you want to take off the pullover first?”

“I’m okay,” Harry mumbles, plucking at the front of his sweater vest self-consciously.

“Right, then,” Lou says cheerfully. “We’ll start with your eyes, I think. Ben ordered you some contacts, I think they’ll make a world of a difference.”

Harry scowls, turns his gaze on his reflection in the vanity mirror. What’s wrong with his glasses? He presses a finger to the corner of his frames, like holding them there will change Lou’s mind. “What’s wrong with my glasses?”

Lou clucks her tongue and reaches out to tug them off. “Nothing, dear, but they swallow your lovely face. Here.” She holds a contacts case out to Harry. He stares doubtfully at it, and Lou sighs. “Do you know how to put contacts in?”

Harry wrinkles his nose as he takes the little case from her and starts to unscrew one of the caps. “I know how.” It takes him a few minutes to put them in, but he gets it eventually. They feel foreign, as if one blink and they’ll pop right out, but he flutters his lashes experimentally, and they stay put. “How’s that?”

“Fabulous. I’m going to do your eyebrows now, alright?” She waves a pair of tweezers around. “This might hurt a bit.”

‘A bit’ is an understatement. By the time she eases back, Harry’s eyes are watering with pain and he’s squeezed his hands into fists so hard he has crescent moons etched into his palms from where his nails bit into his skin. He can’t see much of a difference when he looks in the mirror, but when he tells Lou so, she just pats his shoulder and says, “That’s alright, love, everyone else will.”

Lou busies herself cleaning the tweezers over the sink, and Harry says, a hopeful lilt to his voice, “Are we finished?”

He’s a bit insulted when she laughs.

Harry sits through a brief set of instructions on shaving his face, feeling a bit like a child being lectured, then twists his head around obediently while she shaves it for him. “Hmm,” she tuts. “It’s mostly just your upper lip, don’t worry about your jaw for now.” She pats his arm, and he catches a hint of a smile out of the corner of his eye when she says, “The rest will come in eventually.”

“Now are we done,” he asks, impatience making him jittery. He watches Lou as she cleans out the razor, bites back a groan when she aims a smile at him over her shoulder.

“Just one last thing.” At Harry’s raised eyebrows, she clarifies, “Your hair.”

Harry slaps his hands over the top of his head protectively. “What are you going to do to my hair?”

“Oh, relax,” Lou laughs. “I’m not going to shave it all off, or nothing. Just trim it up a bit and give it some... body. I think we need to wash that Brylcreem out first, though, come on, love.”

Harry stands up and lets Lou drag his stool over to the sink, leans back against it while she washes his hair with minty shampoo that makes his scalp tingle. It actually feels quite nice, has him relaxing against the counter despite the hard marble digging into the back of his neck as she massages the shampoo into his hair, and he’s actually disappointed when she taps his shoulder and waves him up.

“Well,” she murmurs as she dries his hair, then combs it out. “It’s quite long, isn’t it?”

Harry scowls at his reflection while she snips off ends seemingly at random for the better part of a half hour, and when she sets the scissors down, he cranes his neck to look down at all of the hair clippings scattered around the base of the stool, feeling vaguely nauseous. She shoves her hands into his hair and fusses with the roots a bit, fluffing it up and squeezing fistfuls of it so that, when she pulls back, it curls a bit madly around his ears and the nape of his neck.

Harry studies himself in the mirror while Lou tugs on a lock of hair behind his ears, grabs for the scissors, and takes another centimeter off. He looks... different. Harry cocks his head to the side once Lou has moved away to wash her hands, unsure of what he thinks of the transformation. He’s never put much stock in how he looks, never really cared enough to put in much effort past getting his hair out of his eyes.

He chews on his bottom lip as he considers the change. His eyes look bigger without the glasses, and his hair frames his face quite nicely. It will take getting used to, that’s for sure. Lou steps back over and angles herself toward the mirror, brushes her fingertips over the ends of his hair and says, “Well? What do you think?”

“It’s different,” Harry says slowly, and he watches Lou’s eyebrows shoot up in the mirror, rushes to add, “No, not bad different, just... I’m not used to it?” He reaches up and pushes a curl off his forehead. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to replicate this.”

“Just use a tiny bit of your gel, just a drop, and rub it between your palms, then run your hands through your hair and scrunch it, like I did. It looks nice parted down the side like this, too.” She flicks her fingers across Harry’s fringe. “Draped across your forehead. It’s lovely. You’re proper handsome now, love.”

Harry frowns, not sure whether he’s just been complimented or insulted. Lou lets out a short laugh.

“Not that you weren’t handsome before, I don’t mean it like that. But you can see your face properly now! Look how beautiful your eyes are!”

Harry focuses back on his own reflection, blinks slowly as he considers what Lou has just said. He eyes himself critically, noticing just how large his individual features are. They don’t strike him as particularly handsome. Eventually, he just shrugs and says, “I trust you.”

Lou gives him a beaming smile at that and squeezes his shoulder. “Right, I’ll go fetch Ben. He’s going to be very pleased.”

Pleased is an understatement. Ben is ecstatic. He spends twenty minutes walking circles around Harry, hand cupping his chin as he studies the changes, then pats Lou on the back and nods at Harry. “Wonderful.” He glances at Lou and says, “Clothing now?”

Oh, no. Apprehension wells up in the pit of Harry’s stomach and he shakes his head frantically, momentarily thrown by the way his hair swishes around his face before he gets out, “Wait, what clothing? I have clothes!”

“Dear,” Lou says with a smile. “You dress like my granddad.”

Harry frowns down at his wool trousers and sweater-vest. “They’re comfortable,” he mumbles sadly.

“You look like a librarian from the fifties,” Ben puts in. “No offense. We’ve gotten you some casual clothes, as well as some suits, but you won’t be needing those until the dinner in two weeks.”

Lou opens a door Harry hadn’t even noticed and wheels out a rack of clothing stuffed to bursting with jeans, jumpers, t-shirts, henleys, and a handful of suits on the end. There’s a selection of boots and trainers on the shelf at the bottom, as well. Harry sighs and mentally bids his old wardrobe goodbye.

;;

The next morning, Harry wakes up to an overwhelming sense of dread. His whole life, he’s dressed the same, styled his hair the same, worn the same oversized glasses, and he was happy that way. He doesn’t want attention. Okay, maybe sometimes he wishes that Liam would notice him, but he likes his small group of friends who never judge him for how he looks or for caring more about school than dating.

Unfortunately, he’d come home yesterday to discover that three quarters of his clothes had been replaced, the cupboard in his bathroom stocked with boxes of contacts, and most of his hair gel confiscated. Harry sighs and watches the clock on his bedside table, watches the blurry numbers count down time until he absolutely needs to get up and get dressed for school if he doesn’t want to be late.

Harry plods toward the bathroom to put his contacts in and get ready. It’s a struggle to remember not to squeeze out a handful of hair gel, but by the time he’s done messing with it, he thinks he’s managed to imitate Lou’s work fairly well. He pulls his new trousers on - absolutely no wool to be found - and a new button-up, taking care to leave the top two buttons open, like Lou had instructed. His new shoes feel oddly light on his feet, and Harry stumbles a few times going down the stairs, too used to overcompensating every time he picks his feet up.

By the time he gets to the kitchen, his mum and Gemma are sitting at the table, eyebrows raised as they watch him stagger into the room. “You alright, Harry?”

Harry huffs out a frustrated laugh and rolls his eyes at his mum. “New shoes.”

“Yeah,” Gemma comments. “I can see that. They look about half the size of your old ones, imagine that.”

Anne shakes her head and smiles encouragingly at Harry. “You look wonderful, love. Here, have some toast.”

Harry slumps into his seat and grabs a handful of toast, slathers jam onto a slice, and shoves it into his mouth as he nips a few rashers of bacon off the plate in the center of the table with his free hand. He’s got about five minutes before he needs to leave. Ben had insisted on having Paul drive him, now, and in turn, Harry had insisted that they pick Zayn and Louis up, as well. He’s jittery with nerves, just thinking about how Zayn and Louis will react to his transformation.

He’s just about to ready a fourth slice of toast when a car honks from out front, so Harry drops the bread and pushes back from the table, hands gone clammy and throat dry. He grabs his blazer and backpack on the way out the door, barely manages to shout a hasty goodbye to his mum and Gemma as he dashes out the door. Harry ducks his head when Paul says, a note of approval in his voice, “Good morning, Mr. Styles.”

“Harry, please,” he mumbles as he climbs into the back seat. He feels a little impolite, though, so he tacks on, “Good morning, Paul.”

It’s just a short drive to Zayn’s house, and Louis lives only two houses down from there, so Paul parks the limo halfway between. Harry gets out of the car to wait, leans back against it and fiddles with his phone to distract himself from his nerves. He hears a door swing shut to his right but is too scared to see Zayn’s expression, listens closely as he approaches, and only looks up when the footsteps stop abruptly.

“Harry?”

Harry shoves his phone into his pocket and coughs nervously, ruffles his own hair, then offers Zayn a weak smile.  “Surprise?”

“What...” Zayn steps over to Harry, only stops once they’re toe to toe, and reaches a hand out to touch the ends of Harry’s hair. “And your...” He drops his hand a bit and presses the tips of his fingers to the corner of Harry’s eye. Harry can feel his cheeks heating up, is glad for the distraction when he sees Louis approaching from the periphery. “Why?”

Harry jerks his shoulder in a weak imitation of a shrug and says, “It’s a long story...”

He turns to look at Louis, watches nervously as Louis looks up from where he’s tapping something out on his phone. Louis glances up briefly, back down at his phone, then immediately back up at Harry, eyes wide with shock. He opens his mouth, then closes it, stops a foot from Harry and just. Stares.

Harry chews on his bottom lip and shuffles his feet, says, “Alright, Lou?”

“What’s...” Louis’ voice comes out high and reedy. He cuts himself off, cheeks flushing pink, and clears his throat. “What happened to you?”

“Oh,” Harry whispers, hurt blooming in his chest. Not quite the reaction he had been expecting.

Louis opens his mouth to speak, but then the driver door opens and Paul steps out. Zayn and Louis both turn to look at him, eyes widening at his broad shoulders and aviators, his unsmiling face. “Lads, sorry to interrupt, but we need to leave if you want to get to school on time.”

Harry turns to crawl back into the limo and scoots down so that Zayn can sit beside him, but not before he hears Louis say, “Are you MI6?”

“No,” Paul answers shortly.

“That's what someone in MI6 would say.”

Harry sighs. He’s not going to hear the end of it, from Paul or the boys. He doesn’t look at Louis while he slides into the car, busies himself with buckling his seatbelt and dragging his book bag between his feet, so he jumps when he feels someone touch his thigh.

“Hey,” Louis says quietly, leaning across Zayn so he can look Harry in the eye. “I didn’t mean anything by that, you know. You look great.” His eyes flick up to Harry’s hair, then back down to his eyes. “Really great.”

Harry relaxes a little, teeth sunk into his bottom lip to hide his relieved smile. Zayn rolls his eyes and elbows Louis out of his lap. “So, H. Why are we in a limousine?”

Harry shoots a look at Paul over his shoulder, then sighs. “Well, I’m not really supposed to tell anyone.” Zayn just stares him down, though, so Harry leans in and whispers, “So remember how I said I was meeting with my nan? She’s not actually here? She sent her advisor...” He pauses, not really sure how to word it so it sounds... real. Harry clears his throat and continues, twisting his hands nervously in his lap. “The reason I never met her is because she’s The Queen? Of a small country near France. And like, she wants to step down in a few years and, well. I’m next in line.” He pauses, watching Zayn’s face. “For the throne.”

Zayn blinks at Harry, expression completely blank, then says, “Cool, bro.”

Harry lets out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s it?”

“Yeah,” Zayn shrugs. “I mean, you’re still coming to the gig next Saturday night, right?”

Harry opens and closes his mouth, at a loss for words. Another reaction he had not been anticipating. He turns to look at Louis instead. Louis is just watching him, expression unreadable. Harry reaches out to touch the back of his hand, says quietly, “Lou?”

Louis is quiet for a moment, then says, “Does the gig come with a tiara?”

Harry lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, looks back and forth between Zayn and Louis. “You’re not angry, are you?”

“Don’t be daft,” Louis scoffs.

“You’re an idiot,” Zayn says, expression fond. “This is like, the coolest thing that’s ever happened to us. Probably even cooler than that time we filled up Joe’s Pub for one of our gigs.”

Harry blinks. “Joe’s Pub holds like a hundred people.” Zayn raises an eyebrow at him. “How on earth is that cooler than me bring a prince?”

Louis rolls his eyes and flicks Zayn’s ear. “Don’t listen to him, Haz. It isn’t.”

“So,” Zayn starts casually. “Everyone at school is going to be surprised when they see you.”

Harry grimaces. “Please don’t remind me.”

“You’ve got maths first, as well. Only Niall in there with you, mate. They’re all going to think you’re trying to fit in,” Louis sneers, like fitting in is something akin to growing a second head or contracting leprosy. “No one will be there to defend you.”

“Ah,” Zayn sighs, laying a hand over his heart. “Our little bean is growing up, Lou. Learning how to defend himself to the popular kids.”

“The bean is sprouting,” Louis coos, reaching out to pinch Harry’s cheek. Harry doesn’t even blink.

He makes Paul let them off a block away and shoves sunglasses on before they come into view of the front steps. They’re not exactly inconspicuous, but they’re less noticeable than no glasses. No one pays him any mind as they climb the stairs and make their way inside, and Zayn hisses, “I don’t think anyone recognizes you, bro.”

Perfect, Harry thinks. The less people notice him, the less attention he’ll get about the makeover. They only have a few minutes to get books from their lockers and get to class, and Harry slides into his seat beside Niall in the maths classroom a moment before the bell rings. Niall looks up from where he’d been doodling on the desk and raises an eyebrow.

“Hey, bro. Nice hair.” Harry scowls down at the desk, sure Niall is ribbing him, but Niall reaches out and nudges him, says, “No, really, it looks good.” He shrugs and offers Harry a lopsided grin and an eyebrow waggle. “I would.”

Harry bursts out into surprised laughter just as Mrs. Hastings calls the class to attention. She’s drawing the quadratic equation on the board and is explaining it as she goes when one of the cheerleaders throws her hand in the air and calls out, “Mrs. Hastings!”

Mrs. Hastings turns around, eyebrows raised. “Yes, Jesy?”

“He’s wearing sunglasses in class,” Jesy accuses, pointing at Harry. Harry can feel heat creeping up his cheeks and sinks down in his seat, not sure whether to be more mortified about the fact that he’s being called out in the middle of class, or that Jesy clearly doesn’t recognize him.

“Harry,” Mrs. Hasting chides, “no sunglasses in class.”

With a sigh, Harry fumbles the shades off of his face and sets them on his desk with a clatter, face flushing even more when he hears his classmates start mumbling to each other. He can’t understand most of what they’re saying, but he keeps hearing his name and ‘what’ repeated over and over, in varying tones of shock and disbelief. He’s a bit insulted, actually. Not that he’d necessarily considered himself attractive before, but this reaction is a bit unwarranted, he thinks.

“Settle down, everyone,” Mrs. Hastings calls out. “This is maths, not Gossip Girl.”

The class lets out a collective groan, and Mrs. Hastings turns back to the board. Harry spends the rest of class hunched over his desk, taking half-hearted notes. Halfway through class, he scribbles out an explanation to Niall and slides the paper across the desk, waits for Niall to read it, then rips it up into tiny pieces while he tries to ignore the weight of everyone’s stares.

The rest of the morning continues in a similar vein. Harry sits through two more classes while everyone stares blatantly at him, and ignores the whispers as best he can. By the time lunch rolls around, though, he’s irritated. His face has been in a state of permanent flush for four consecutive hours, and he’s just over it.

Until he gets to the canteen.

It’s his turn to get Zayn’s lunch, and he’s standing in line with two trays, so focused on trying to become invisible that he doesn’t even realize he’s standing in front of Liam until - “Harry?”

Harry whirls around, color flooding his face again when he comes eye-to-eye with Liam. He barely manages to whisper, “Hi, Liam.”

“Wow,” Liam says, eyes wide. “You look... wow.”

Harry stares blankly at Liam, completely bowled over and unsure of how to respond. It takes the lunch lady three tries to get his attention, and he stammers out his request while trying desperately not to look back at Liam or over-think his reaction. It didn’t mean anything, he was just surprised. Just surprised.

By the time Harry gets to the table, everyone is already seated. He drops Zayn’s tray in front of him, then slides in between Zayn and Louis and says with barely concealed excitement, “Liam likes my makeover. He told me so, in line just now.”

“Hey, cool, yeah,” Zayn says around a mouthful of what’s supposed to be Chinese-style chicken of some sort. “You look great, of course he does.”

Niall hums his agreement as he fiddles with his DS, food completely forgotten in front of him. Louis is suspiciously quiet. Harry turns to look at him, finds him weirdly focused on separating his carrots and peas. Harry frowns and nudges him with his elbow. “Lou?”

“Yeah.” Louis’ head snaps up and he looks around, eyes unfocused. “What?”

“Liam,” Niall supplies helpfully, and Harry watches as Louis’ face folds into a scowl, brows furrowing and mouth pinching into a firm line.

“Just remember, Haz,” Louis says, tone soft and serious, “that Liam is straight. He’s never going to date you.”

Hurt twists in Harry’s chest like a serpent, wrapping around his lungs so it feels like he can’t breathe. He drops his gaze to his tray, suddenly not hungry at all.

“Louis,” Zayn says warningly, but Harry shakes his head, reaching out blindly to pat Zayn on the arm.

“It’s okay,” he mumbles. “He’s right.”

The rest of lunch passes quietly, everyone tense and unsure what to do about it. Harry pushes his food around on his plate, appetite lost, and ignores all of Zayn and Niall’s attempts to draw him into conversation, just focuses on not touching Louis. For once, Harry is grateful for the warning bell, shoves back from the table and turns away wordlessly to toss his uneaten lunch in the bin and drop his tray off.

Niall catches up with him at their lockers, knocks their elbows together and says, “Don’t worry about Louis, alright? He’s just being a twat, he’ll get over it.”

Harry shrugs, shoving his textbooks aside with more force than necessary as he looks for his English book. “It’s fine,” he mumbles. “I’m fine.”

;;

Harry squeezes his way through the crowd of students leaving school as quickly as possible, desperate to get away before he has a chance to run into Louis. Paul is parked down the block underneath a tree, reading a book as he leans against the side of the limo.

“Afternoon, Harry,” he says, eyebrows raised but tone mild, as Harry reaches out wordlessly to pull the door open. He’s not really in the mood. “Everything alright?” Paul asks, watching him in the rear-view mirror as he pulls away from the curb.

Harry shrugs and stares down at his hands, the corners of his mouth pulled down into a frown as he tries not to think about what Louis had said at lunch. Paul doesn’t push it, so Harry relaxes into the upholstery and tips his head to rest against the window, watches the buildings slide past as they weave their way through town. The limo is turning onto the street when Harry’s phone buzzes in his lap.

Brow furrowed, Harry fumbles the phone right side up and unlocks it to a text message from Louis. His heart lurches in his chest, breath going a bit ragged, and Harry huffs out an embarrassed laugh. It’s just Louis, honestly.

            4:08pm

            Louis: hey haz sorry about earlier, i was being a prat. just don’t want you to get hurt x

Harry reads and re-reads the text three times over, blows out an unsteady breath as his joints unlock and his stomach unknots. He can’t quite suppress a grin as he types a response.

            4:09pm

            Harry: twat

After a brief moment’s hesitation, spent staring blankly out the window, bottom lip sucked into his mouth as he thinks, Harry sends a second message that simply reads: xx

Ben is waiting for Harry in the library, sat at a massive desk while he talks quietly into his phone in a language Harry doesn’t recognize. He spots Lou lounging on a chaise by the windows, bouncing a baby on her knees. Lou grins when she sees Harry, waves the baby’s little fist and coos, “Hiya, Harry!”

Harry drops his bag by the door and walks over to Lou so he can kneel by the chaise. “Hi, little baby,” he whispers, ghosting his fingers over her fluffy blond hair. “What’s your name?”

“This is Lux,” Lou says, lifting Lux up into the air so she squeals and giggles and flails her little hands and feet. Harry reaches up, strokes his finger over her instep.

“Can I?” He glances at Lou to make sure she isn’t uncomfortable with him holding her baby, but she just smiles at him and hands her over. Lux goes willingly, reaches a hand up immediately and grabs a fistful of Harry’s hair as he balances her on his lap. “Lux,” he grins, drilling a finger into her soft belly so she laughs. “Like light.” He leans in so he can nuzzle her and blow a raspberry against the side of her neck, grinning delightedly when her laughter rings through the room. “Are you just a little ball of sunshine, baby?”

Harry is sprawled out on the carpet with Lux perched on his chest, taking photos of her with his phone, when Ben walks over. “Hello, Harry,” he greets, peering down at him with an amused expression on his face. “I see you’ve met Lux.” Harry grins and bounces Lux in response, lifts her foot and pretends to eat it while she giggles and squirms in place. “As adorable as she is, though, you’re not here to babysit. Come on, let’s get to our lessons.”

Harry hands Lux back to Lou reluctantly, then pushes to his feet with a sigh. Ben rolls his eyes, but offers Harry a smile.

“Don’t look so apprehensive, Mr. Styles. It’s just etiquette lessons, not a form of medieval torture.”

Ben leads Harry over to a table he hadn’t noticed before and spends nearly an hour teaching him about all of the pieces of a place setting, instructing him on which utensil to use first, what course is served on which plate - all while making sure he’s sitting up straight, shoulders back and head held high. It’s a bit much, the names and shapes and sizes of the cutlery and dishes all swimming around in Harry’s head, but he follows along as best he can, nodding to show Ben that he’s listening and snapping to attention when Ben catches him slouching.

“And this is your dessert spoon.” Ben lifts a tiny little spoon that barely looks big enough to feed a baby. “As the name suggests, you use it to eat your dessert.” He sets it down, pulls forward a slightly bigger spoon. “Not to be confused with the sorbet spoon, which is for your palate cleanser.”

“Palate cleanser,” Harry mutters, lining the two spoons up side-by-side, then glancing over at the other twelve pieces of cutlery. At this rate, he’s going to need a cheat sheet.

“It’s not terribly complicated,” Ben encourages, reaching out to pat Harry’s shoulder. “We’ll go back over it the day before the State dinner. Let’s take a break, shall we? I’ll have someone bring in some sandwiches.”

“Oh,” Harry protests, “that’s not -”

But Ben cuts him off with a raised eyebrow and says, “We’re not done here, Mr. Styles.”

Lou and Lux join them for sandwiches and tea, then Lou puts Lux on the floor with some toys and Paul to watch over her and waves Harry over to a bit of open space between sitting areas. Ben is already standing there, his hand resting on a small stereo. Harry stares from the stereo, to Ben, to Lou, suddenly very nervous.

“What’s this about?”

Ben presses play on the stereo, and the opening strains of a waltz drift through the speakers. “You’re going to learn how to dance. Come here, Harry.”

“Oh,” Harry stammers, heart rate spiking with nerves and dread. “I don’t really think that’s necessary, I’m not going to -”

“Harry, you will have to dance at the ball. Come here.”

Harry shoots a pleading look at Lou, but she just holds her hands up and inclines her head toward Ben. Traitor, Harry mouths, then drags his feet across the rug as he trudges over to where Ben is standing expectantly. When Ben holds a hand out, Harry stares at it dubiously for a moment, then looks over his shoulder at Lou. “Shouldn’t I dance with a girl? I mean, so I know how to lead.”

“I’m just going to show you correct posture and timing, then you’ll dance with Lou.” He wiggles his fingers impatiently, so Harry sighs and closes the gap between them, takes Ben’s hand and lets Ben maneuver him into position. They spend twenty minutes waltzing across the carpet, their hands clasped and Harry’s other hand in the small of Ben’s back while he tries to keep Harry from trodding on his toes.

By the time Ben turns Harry over to Lou, he’s hobbling a bit, and Lou says, an easy smile on her face, “You don’t mind if we start out with some space between us first, eh?”

Harry offers her a wry smile in return and says, “No, it’s okay.” He glances down at the floor and mumbles, “I was born with two left feet.”

“It’s alright,” Ben says from his spot on a sofa. “Practice makes perfect.”

It’s dark out once Ben lets Harry go, and Harry collapses into the limo seat, tips his head back and lets his eyes slide shut. He’s exhausted, hours of sitting and standing with his back ramrod straight, place settings and waltz positions flitting through his head and getting all jumbled so that, by the time he gets home, he can barely manage a mumbled goodnight to Paul before stumbling up the stairs and toppling right into bed.

;;

Thursday morning is tense, Harry unsure of where he and Louis stand, despite the fix-it texts. But when Louis slides into the limo, he offers Harry a tired smile and scoots right up against him so he can rest his head on Harry’s shoulder and doze off, and Harry blows out an unsteady breath, relief like a literal weight off his shoulders.

Paul picks him up for prince lessons after school, ignoring Harry’s protest about sore muscles as he shuts the car door behind Harry. They go over the place setting for the State dinner again, then Ben takes Harry through the proper way to bow and wave. Harry feels completely ridiculous, waving at a wall of books, but when he mentions the fact, Ben raises an eyebrow and says, “Would you rather practice waltzing again?

Harry snaps his mouth shut with an audible click and forces a smile onto his face as he keeps waving. He’s fairly certain it looks more like a grimace, but Ben doesn’t mention it. The sun is just starting to set when he lets Harry go, but before he can get out the library door, Ben calls out to him.

“You have the weekend off, but I’d like you to practice waltzing, please. We’ll waltz on Monday. Have a good weekend, Harry.”

Harry completely forgets about waltzing, caught up in his school work and a trip to the swimming pool with Zayn on Saturday. It isn’t until he’s tucked into bed Saturday night that he rolls over to check the time and catches sight of the ring Ben had given him, the lamplight glinting off the curves of the ‘S’. Harry thinks about asking his mum to waltz with him, and his face burns with embarrassment. The thought of asking Gemma is even worse, though, and he’s considering just writing it off, when he realizes. He fumbles his phone off the table and calls up his text messages.

            11:38pm

            Harry: Hey Lou, you busy tomorrow? Need a favour xx

Harry wipes his hands on his jeans as he dashes down the stairs, tripping on a bunched up bit of carpet as he goes. He rolls his eyes at himself as he straightens up, both hands on the railing to steady himself. As if he doesn’t go up and down the same set of stairs, with the same raised bit of carpet, fifty times a day. Honestly.

Another knock sounds on the door as he approaches it, and he lifts a hand to smooth out his hair before remembering he doesn’t slick it back anymore. With a huff of breath, Harry shakes out his fringe instead and shoves it off his forehead before peeking through the peephole to make sure Louis is the one waiting outside, and not some random solicitor, or Paul there to pick him up for a surprise prince lesson.

He’s still a bit shocked Louis had agreed to this, thinks vaguely that he owes Louis a whole lot of... something, he’s not sure what just yet, for helping him out with football and now dancing. Not that Louis knows how to waltz, but just the fact that he’s willing to put his toes in danger is worth quite a bit, in Harry’s book. He tugs the door open and smiles down at Louis, moves aside while he climbs the steps and squeezes inside.

“Hey, Lou.” He watches Louis prop his bicycle up against the wall. “Thanks again for doing this, I know it’s kind of -”

“Of course.” Louis aims a grin at Harry over his shoulder, his eyes bright, even in the dim overhead lighting. “Where else am I going to get the opportunity to learn how to waltz?”

Harry shakes his head and drags his fingers through his hair, says around a self-deprecating laugh, “Oh, I don’t think you’re going to do much learning. I’m rubbish.”

The look Louis gives him as he turns back around is immeasurably fond. “Two left feet, yeah?” Harry ducks his head, cheeks flushing. Well, at least Louis already knows what to expect. Louis reaches a hand out and squeezes Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Haz. My toes can handle it.”

“Toes of steel,” Harry murmurs, and Louis laughs.

“Something like that, yeah. Must come from kicking a football around for so many years.” He looks around the living room, then peers around the corner to the kitchen. “Are we doing this in your room?”

“Oh, we can, if you want.” He waves a hand toward the coffee table. “I brought the radio down -”

“Louis!” Harry sighs at the sound of his mum’s voice. He’d been hoping she would stay in her office so she’d never find out about this. “Are you here to study with H?”

Louis grins at Harry before turning to Anne. “I guess you could say that, yeah.” He nods his head at the stereo Harry had set up for them. “Waltzing lessons, innit. I’m surprised he’s not got you practicing with him, actually.”

Harry closes his eyes, praying his mum won’t say anything.

“Waltzing? Well, I would’ve, but he didn’t even ask.”

When Harry opens his eyes again, Anne is watching him, a curious look on her face. Harry scowls, cheeks burning, and mumbles, “I can’t waltz with my mum.”

“Teenagers,” Anne says with a sigh, then turns to Louis and offers him a friendly smile. “Would you like some tea, love?”

Before Louis can respond, Harry waves his hand at her and says, “No, thank you mum, I’ll get him some tea later. We need to practice now, goodbye.”

With a roll of her eyes and a wink at Louis, Anne disappears into the kitchen. When Harry sneaks a glance at Louis, he finds Louis looking at him, lips curved up into a private little smile that has something like nerves fluttering in Harry’s belly. He pushes them down, irritated with himself. It’s a smile he’s seen hundreds of times, it’s not like there’s anything different about today. He jerks his chin in the direction of the living room. “Ready?”

Harry leads Louis into the room, and Louis waits quietly while Harry switches the music on, then turns to face him, suddenly extremely unsure of himself. Louis is watching him expectantly, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans as he waits for instruction. His trousers are rolled up at the ankle, like always, and he’s wearing Chucks, the toes coated in a thick layer of scuffed rubber. A precautionary measure, Harry supposes. Probably a good move. Harry looks down at his own feet - left bare, in an effort to preserve Louis’ - and considers putting shoes on. He’s thinking about a pair of brown leather boots Ben had given him when Louis clears his throat, and Harry jerks his head back up. Right. Barefoot is fine.

“Okay,” Harry mumbles. “I’m leading, so you need to stand here...” He reaches out, grips Louis’ waist and drags him closer. “Put one hand on my shoulder, and take my hand with the other.”

He leaves one hand on Louis’ waist and waits for him to get into position. Louis’ hand is smaller than his, fingers slender and cool, but he can feel Louis’ body heat seeping through the thin material of his t-shirt at his waist, pooling under his palm. It’s not weird. It’s not. He tries not to think about the fact that he can feel Louis’ ribcage expanding and contracting with each breath and focuses on counting off the music in his head.

“Follow my lead, alright?”

Louis smirks up at him, sunlight streaming in through the skylight glinting off his irises and turning his eyes a wintery gray. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Wanker,” Harry counters, and he ignores the way his heart skips at Louis’ answering grin, wide and bright, the sharp points of his canines digging pale little stars into the pink of his bottom lip. He tugs Louis into the dance.

It’s clumsy at first, the two of them taking turns trodding on each other’s feet, but Louis gets the hang of it rather quickly. Certainly faster than Harry had, and he tries not to dwell on that for too long, a grumpy tilt to the corners of his mouth. Once they’ve gotten the hang of the waltz, they manage to move well together, Harry’s hand curved comfortably around Louis’ hip and Louis’ fingers brushing over the back of his neck.

“You’re quite good at this,” Louis comments as they skirt around the edge of the coffee table. He tangles his fingers in the curls at the nape of Harry’s neck and gives them a sharp tug. “You’re a very good waltz leader, Harry Styles. Ben will be very proud.”

Harry snorts, digs his fingers into Louis’ side and grins when Louis squirms away. Their steps falter and Harry stumbles over Louis’ feet, presses a laugh into his shoulder as they try to right themselves and slip back into the dance. “And you’re very good at following,” Harry says with a smirk. “You’ll make the perfect princess someday, Louis Tomlinson.”

Louis tilts his head and says, expression unreadable, “Does that make you my prince?”

Harry misses a step, but manages to correct it right away, face burning at the mistake and at Louis’ question. He stares down at their feet while he tries to come up with an answer, but is saved from having to when the music stops. He drops Louis’ hand immediately and steps away, glances up at Louis, then back down at the carpet.

“D’you want some tea?” He mumbles, palming the back of his neck.

“Sure.”

Harry lets Louis lead the way into the kitchen, takes the opportunity to close his eyes and inhale, trying to will his blush away. In the kitchen, he waves Louis toward the table, then sets about filling the kettle and getting two mugs ready. He’s feeling distinctly awkward by the time he sets Louis’ mug on the table, then sits down across from him, his own mug in hand, but Louis just smiles at him and says, “Cheers. So, you’ve got more prince lessons this week?”

Harry nods as he hunches over his mug, inhaling the scent of the jasmine tea and letting the steam blur his voice as he responds. “Monday, definitely. Probably every day this week, actually. The State dinner is this Friday.” He glances up at Louis through his fringe, offers him a wry smile. “Got to make a good impression on the ambassadors and Parliament members.”

“Yeah, of course,” Louis murmurs, eyes wide as he watches Harry. “Parliament members, Christ.”

They sit in silence for a moment, letting their tea cool, then Louis reaches out, presses the tips of his tea-warmed fingers to Harry’s wrist.

“Hey, since Friday night’s going to be so stressful, let’s do something Saturday night. Take your mind off it all, yeah?”

Harry blinks at Louis for a moment, trying to wade through his jumbled thoughts and the distracting press of Louis’ fingers against his pulse point. “Yeah,” Harry nods. “Sure, yeah. Thanks.”

Louis’ answering smile is brilliant, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the force of it, and Harry feels his own mouth curve in response, turns his hand over without thinking to grip Louis’.

“Good.” Louis curls his fingers down over the back of Harry’s hand and squeezes. “It’s a date, then.”

;;

Monday morning dawns gray and cloudy, the light pouring in through the windows hazy and dim. The gloom, coupled with the aching of Harry’s muscles from all the waltzing, makes it hard for him to get out of bed once he’s fumbled his alarm off. He slumps back against the pillows and thinks about the fact that he has debate and P.E. today. Not the best schedule to look forward to.

He waits until the very last moment to roll out of bed and pad into the bathroom to get ready, just barely has enough time to shove his hands into the sleeves of his blazer and grab a handful of toast off the table before he has to run out the door. “Morning, Paul!”

Paul raises an eyebrow as he shuts the limousine door behind Harry. “Well, someone’s cheery today.”

Harry shrugs and settles back against the seat, unlocks his phone and calls up his text messages. He’s got a message from Zayn - a bizarre assortment of words that he thinks might be lyrics to a song - and one from Niall that’s completely garbled and involves an impressive number of exclamation points. He’s got no clue what any of it means, though, so he closes it and turns his attention out the window.

Louis and Zayn are already waiting outside when they pull up, and Louis takes a step forward, climbs into the car before Zayn can get in and crowds up against Harry’s side with a sleepy grin. “Morning, Haz.”

Zayn rolls his eyes as he settles down on the bench across from them, kicks his feet out and stomps deliberately on Louis’ toe.

“Oi!” Louis scowls at Zayn, pulling his foot up and rubbing at his toes through the canvas of his Vans. “What was that for?”

“For pushing. Didn’t your mum teach you manners?”

They spend the rest of the car ride bickering like children, so Harry tunes them out and distracts himself by looking up cameras on his phone. He’s been saving up for one, has nearly enough banked to buy a proper D-SLR and maybe an extra lens. He’s reading the specs on a particularly lovely Canon when the limo slows to a stop down the block from the school. Harry looks up from his phone, then frowns.

There are cars stopped all along the street, backed up to the corner, and when he twists around to look toward the school, there are vans with news station logos splashed across the sides parked in front of the building and a crowd of people out front, what looks to be a mixture of students, teachers and... reporters?

“What’s going on,” Harry asks, turning to look at Paul.

“I don’t know,” Paul mutters, but he’s already fumbling his seatbelt off and pushing open the car door. He turns to glare at the boys and says, voice firm, “Stay here.”

The three of them watch, eyes wide, as he stalks down the street toward the school, raising a cell phone to his ear as he goes.

“He doesn’t really expect us to just sit here, does he? We have to get to first period.”

Harry turns back to look at Zayn and shrugs, shoves a hand through his hair. “He sounded pretty serious to me.”

When he turns to look at Louis, he catches the tail-end of some sort of silent conversation going on between him and Zayn, and he’s about to complain when Zayn unbuckles his seatbelt and grabs the strap of his bag. “Well, I don’t know about you lads, but I need to get to class. Later.”

Louis pats Harry on the knee. “Yeah mate, I have Binns first period, she doesn’t excuse lateness. Sorry.”

Harry watches them climb out of the limo, and before he’s thought it through properly, he finds himself grabbing his own bag and following them. “Hey, wait a sec!” He jogs to catch up with them, then holds onto the strap of Zayn’s backpack to steady himself as they watch the crowd outside the school loom closer. Paul catches sight of them right before they step into view of the building, and Harry sees panic flit across his face as he waves his hands at them and tries to point them back toward the limo.

Someone on the fringes of the crowd catches the movement and looks over at them, and Harry watches in confusion as their eyes go wide and they turn to say something to the person standing beside them. A ripple goes through the crowd, and then the gaggle of idling news reporters all turn in their direction. In a flash, Paul is in front of them, shielding them from the mob of reporters who are approaching, microphones and cameras outstretched. Harry just stands there, hand white-knuckled on Zayn’s bag, and gapes while they all start shouting things at them. Things that all start with -

“Harry, Prince Harry! When did you find out you were a prince?”

“Prince Harry, when are you moving to Castalia?”

“Prince Harry! Do you have a princess yet?”

Harry feels something circle his wrist, looks down to see Louis’ familiar hand wrapped tight around his arm. When he looks up, Louis is watching him with wide, worried eyes. He mouths, are you okay? Harry shakes his head slowly, not sure what he’s feeling. He’s been so careful.

Paul jostles him as he slides a hand around his shoulders and tugs him forward. Harry lets go of Zayn’s backpack, but turns his other hand around to grip Louis’ wrist in turn, reaches back to tap Zayn and make sure he’s following them as Paul ushers them through the crowd and up the front steps of the school, shouting, “No comment! No comment! Step aside, please, no comment!”

It’s blissfully quiet inside of the school. It seems the entire student body is still outside, teachers included, so when they hear the click of heels on tile, the four of them turn toward the noise, not sure who to expect.

“Who are you,” Paul barks out, voice low and threatening, and Zayn steps forward quickly, rests a hand on Paul’s shoulder.

“That’s the headmistress.”

Paul takes a step toward her and holds his hand out. “Hello, Headmistress, I’m Paul Higgins, Mr. Styles’ security guard.”

Zayn shoots Harry an amused look as he moves back to stand at Harry’s side, and Harry rolls his eyes in return, leans over a bit so he can push their shoulders together.

“Hello Mr. Higgins, I’m Headmistress Watson. Let’s step into my office.”

She waves the boys forward, then leads them back down the hall and into a large room dominated by an enormous desk. There are only two chairs facing the desk, and one of them is already occupied.

Confused, Harry says, “Niall?”

Niall whips around in the chair and looks guiltily up at Harry, eyebrows drawn and fingers twisting together in his lap.

“Why don’t you have a seat, Harry,” Headmistress Watson says, pointing at the chair next to Niall. Paul moves to stand directly behind it, rests his hands protectively on Harry’s shoulders.

“What is going on,” Paul demands. “No one knew about Harry, no one was supposed to know.”

Headmistress Watson sits back in her chair, hands folded across her lap, and just nods at Niall.

“I didn’t mean to,” Niall starts. “I thought everyone already knew, no one told me it was a secret!”

Suddenly, Harry understands the illegible text message. He sighs and twists around in his seat to look back at Paul. “I told him about the prince thing, it’s my fault. I didn’t tell him it was a secret, don’t blame Niall. He would never do something like this intentionally, he’s one of my best friends.”

He watches Paul scrub his hands over his face, then dig the heels of his hands into his eyes as he thinks. When Harry turns back around, Niall is watching him, teeth set into his bottom lip and brow furrowed with worry. Harry reaches across the gap between their chairs to squeeze his arm.

“It’s okay, Niall. Don’t worry about it.” Niall opens his mouth to protest, but Harry just squeezes again and insists, “Really, it’s fine. We’ll figure it out.”

Finally, Paul speaks up. “We’re going to need a security detail around the school. I don’t want any reporters harassing Mr. Styles, taking photos, trying to get interviews or statements.” He stares Headmistress Watson down. “At all. Is that clear?”

Headmistress Watson bristles. “I know how to run my school, Mr. Higgins. This morning was unexpected. I can assure you there won’t be a problem after today.”

“I need to go call my boss, get security over here now. Excuse me.”

Paul slips out of the room, already punching a number into his phone and leaving complete silence in his wake. Harry looks around the room, eyes landing on Zayn and Louis where they’re huddled together in the corner trying to be inconspicuous. Zayn blinks at him, eyes wide and uncertain.

“Um.” Harry turns back to the headmistress. “Do we need to stay in here?”

Headmistress Watson sighs. “Until we can get everyone back into the building and the reporters off the property, I think that would be best. I have to go handle the... situation, but you four stay here.” She raises an eyebrow as she steps out from behind her desk, looks pointedly at her file cabinets, then back at them. “I think I can trust you to keep your hands and eyes to yourselves?”

As soon as the door swings shut, Niall reaches out for Harry’s hand. “I swear I didn’t mean for this to happen, Haz.”

Harry shakes his head and smiles at him. “Niall, really. It’s okay.” He glances around the room again. Still only two chairs. He turns his hand over so he can tug at Niall’s wrist and says, “Come on, let’s get comfortable. Who knows how long we’ll be in here.”

They spend half of the morning sprawled out on the floor of the headmistress’s office, Harry’s head pillowed on Zayn’s stomach, Niall on one side, and Louis curled up against his other side, head resting on his shoulder. Harry is nearly asleep by the time the headmistress comes back, one hand loosely gripping Zayn’s knee and the other wrapped around Louis’ shoulders. The headmistress stops just inside the door and gapes at them for a moment, then shakes her head and says, “Security is here, the reporters are gone. Third period classes will be starting in ten minutes.”

Everywhere Harry goes, people stare at him. He spends debate hunkered down in a seat in the last row, Louis looming protectively over him, daring anyone to say a word to them. The entire canteen goes silent when Harry walks in, and he wants nothing more than for the floor to open up and swallow him whole, but when he meets Zayn in line for food, Zayn kicks at the side of his shoe and whispers, “Don’t give into them, Haz.”

So Harry walks to their usual table with his chin up and ignores the stares as best he can, tries to enjoy his lunch period with his friends and not think about the fact that the cheerleaders are watching him with thinly veiled interest that they’ve never shown before.

By the time the final bell rings and Harry makes it out of the building - definitely ignoring the suit-clad security guards circling the building - he’s exhausted. He falls into the limo with a huff and lets his eyes slide shut as Paul pulls away from the curb. Everyone at the mansion is subdued when Harry gets there, even Ben, and when Harry moves over to the stereo that’s been set up for their waltzing lessons, Ben puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder and shakes his head.

“I think we can skip waltzing for today, Harry. Let’s take a walk. I haven’t given you a tour of the house yet, have I?” Harry hesitates, confused, before shaking his head no. “Well, come along, then. There’s a lot to see.”

;;

By Thursday, Harry is fed up with the way everyone keeps staring and whispering, the way they follow him with their eyes, but never make eye contact. A few of them try and talk to him between periods and during PE, people he’s never spoken to in his life and has no interest starting now. Even Liam approaches him every once in a while, all genuine smiles and awkward, stilted conversation. It’s nice, he supposes, if not completely transparent, but it’s also exhausting. It doesn’t stop the little thrill when Liam trots up to him in line for food in the canteen that day, though.

“Hey, Harry. Alright?”

Harry bites his lip and looks down at his tray, picks at a bit of peeling paint before looking up at Liam and smiling at him. “Yeah, I’m okay, thanks. You?”

Liam shrugs, but his smile is genuine. “Did you hear about the bonfire Saturday night at Leigh Anne’s house?”

Of course he has. Everyone in school has been talking about it for weeks, but he and his friends have never been invited to one of the cheerleaders’ parties before. He shrugs noncommittally.

“You should come,” Liam says, bumping their shoulders together. “I can drive you, if you’d like. It’ll be fun.”

Harry’s stomach flips over, and he can’t quite mask his grin when he whispers, “Yeah, alright. That would be nice.”

“Cool. Get me your address, I’ll pick you up at six.” Harry tries not to look too eager when he nods. “Right. Well, have a good lunch. See you in PE, Harry.”

Harry spends the rest of lunch in a euphoric haze, oblivious to the curious glances Louis keeps shooting him. He gets distracted, though, when a text comes through from Ben. He frowns down at his phone as he reads it, all thoughts of football players and bonfires forgotten.

            12:32pm

            Ben: Last prince lesson before the dinner, don’t forget your suit.

Harry convinces Zayn to skive off fourth period, right after lunch, and meet him out on the football pitch. No one has PE right after lunch, so the field is wide and empty and very, very green, early afternoon sunlight sparking off the goal posts where the paint has worn away. They sit in the grass, still damp from the rain the previous day, and watch birds peck at mushrooms that have sprouted fresh from the rain.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

Harry keeps his attention on the birds, their little heads bobbing up and down in the grass as they dig for worms, even though he can hear the rustling of fabric as Zayn turns to look at him, can feel the weight of Zayn’s gaze. Neither of them speak for a few minutes, then Zayn says, “Why not?”

Harry drops his head into the bracket of his arms where his elbows are propped up on his updrawn knees, lets his fringe fall over his eyes and obscure his vision. His head feels heavy. “It’s too much. It’s so much, Zayn.”

“Hey.” Zayn reaches out, wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulders and tugs him in close. “You are the smartest person I know, and definitely the nicest. You’d make a pretty great king, if you ask me.” Harry rolls his eyes. “Let’s make a list of pros and cons, okay?”

Harry doesn’t respond, just lets Zayn take the lead. He snuggles into Zayn’s side, ignoring the way the damp is spreading up the side of his trousers, and watches out of the corner of his eye as Zayn lifts his free hand and starts counting off.

“Cons: you’ll probably hardly ever have privacy, you’ll always have to look put together, you’ll probably have to find a way to not be so... clumsy.”

Harry snorts. “So not too much, really. Any pros?”

“Hmm. Well, you’ll have a lot of money.” Harry groans and tries to pull away, but Zayn just holds him tighter. Harry can hear the smile in his voice when he continues, “And your own jet, probably. A castle, a lot of really nice clothes and shoes, lots of admirers. A crown. I guess you’ll probably have fancy cars and, like, butlers and chauffeurs and shit.”

Harry huffs out a breath and pinches Zayn’s side, then squirms away while Zayn is distracted.

“Harry,” Zayn sighs. “Harry, I’m joking. I mean, those are perks, but listen. It’s not gonna be easy, but Ben wouldn’t be working with you this hard if he didn’t believe in you. Like, it’s easy enough to just hand the crown over to the next person in line for the throne, maybe someone who’s lived in Castalia their whole life, but he chose you.”

Zayn reaches out again so he can squeeze Harry’s shoulder, slide his hand into Harry’s hair and scratch at his scalp. Harry leans into him automatically. “What if I mess up,” he mumbles, voice going fuzzy as he relaxes into Zayn’s touch. “I don’t know anything about Castalia. Or politics.”

Harry can feel Zayn’s shrug in the tug on his scalp. “So you’ll learn. Ben will teach you. He’s your nan’s advisor now, he probably knows what he’s doing.” Harry chews on his lip, nerves tumbling around in his chest and leaving him unsure. Zayn sighs. “Look, no one can make this decision for you, Haz. But for the record, I think you can do it. Ben obviously thinks you can do it. And it would be really fuckin’ cool.”

Harry turns his face into Zayn’s shoulder, breathes in the familiar smell of stale cigarettes and spicy cologne before pulling back so he can mumble, “I have eight days to decide.” He lets out a laugh tinged with hysteria. “Eight days to decide whether or not I want to be the king of a country I didn’t even know existed until two weeks ago.”

Zayn presses a firm kiss to Harry’s temple, then tugs his head around so Harry is looking at him. “I believe in you, Haz. And I’ll support you, no matter what.”

Harry smiles gratefully at Zayn, slips his arms around him and burrows in close. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Can we just... stay out here for a while?”

Zayn’s laugh ruffles his fringe, but his arms wrap around Harry’s shoulders and he feels Zayn bury his nose in his hair. “Not very princely, skiving off classes.”

“Shove it,” Harry mumbles, voice muffled by Zayn’s blazer, then he tips them backward so they’re sprawled out on the grass. Their clothes are going to be filthy, but Harry can’t really bring himself to care.

;;

By the time the dinner rolls around, Harry is a bundle of nerves. He’d arrived at the mansion two hours early to go over everything once more with Ben and so that Lou could do his hair. He thinks he’s finally got the place settings down, but the anxiety has all of the different pieces of silverware blurring together in his head.

He’s sitting in the lounge, mumbling the different pieces of cutlery and their uses to himself under his breath, when the first guest arrives. Ben had made him study flashcards with photos of all of the ambassadors and Parliament members, along with bits of trivia that Harry could work into conversation, and he tries desperately to keep them all straight as they introduce themselves to him while hors d’oeuvres are served in the lounge.

He finds himself seated between the oldest member of the Castalian Parliament - a man in his late eighties who has two hearing aids that do absolutely nothing to aid his hearing - and the wife of the French Ambassador, a woman who he supposes is in her late-forties, but keeps smiling up at him through her lashes and ‘accidentally’ brushing up against him every time she reaches for her wine glass.

Despite how uncomfortable the entire dinner is, with Ben sat all the way at the other end of the table and the Ambassador’s wife’s hand straying closer and closer to his lap, Harry makes it through the meal with only minimal damage. He confuses the dessert and cocktail spoons, naturally, and spills wine on the pristine white tablecloth between soup and salad, a pool of scarlet that spreads rapidly, despite his attempts to staunch it with his napkin. He somehow manages to stomp on the Parliament member’s foot while trying to subtly scoot away from the Ambassador’s wife, and spends all of the salad course apologizing to a man who can’t even hear him. And of course, when he hands his salad plate to the server, Ben catches his eye and nixes the move with a subtle shake of his head. Not your job, he mouths, and Harry sighs and drops his hands, keeps his head bowed for the rest of the dinner and tries to keep his limbs as contained as possible.

Ben has him stay until the last guest is gone, and as soon as the American Ambassador has left with her husband, Harry drops onto a sofa and lets out a groan. He feels the cushion dip, and then Ben is patting his shoulder. There’s a smile in his voice when he says, “You did very well, Harry.” Harry cracks an eye open, watches Ben incline his head. “You could have engaged a bit more during dinner, but overall, excellent job.”

Harry sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. He can feel exhaustion pulling at his bones and thinks, and that was only one dinner. How is he meant to rule a country, 24/7 for the rest of his life? He’s thinking about his bed and about losing himself to sleep when Ben pats him on the knee and says, “Harry, what are your plans for tomorrow?”

Harry drops his hand and looks over at Ben, confused. “I have a party to go to at six. Please don’t tell me you want to have another prince lesson, I don’t think I can -”

“No,” Ben laughs. “You have the weekend off, I promise. I’ve never spent more than twenty-four hours in Manchester before, though, and I thought you might like to show me around town. You know, just a casual outing. I don’t like leaving cities before I’ve had a chance to photograph them.”

Harry perks up at that, sits up a little straighter and tries to keep the excitement out of his voice when he replies, “Photograph?”

“It’s a hobby of mine,” Ben shrugs. “I don’t have much time off, but when I do, I like to spend it behind a camera. Luckily, I have the privilege to travel quite a bit. How about this - I’ll have Paul pick you up tomorrow morning and we’ll drive around the city. You can be my tour guide. I’ll bring an extra camera along and show you how to use it.”

Harry waits a beat before nodding, slow and deliberately nonchalant. “I just need to be back around five so I can get ready for the party.”

“Of course.” Ben pats Harry’s knee again and offers him a warm smile. “Now go home, Harry. Get some sleep. Paul and I will be ‘round at nine tomorrow morning.”

Harry falls asleep the moment the limo pulls away from the mansion, and has to be shaken awake once they arrive at his house. He trudges inside, still half asleep, gives his mum and Robin a kiss goodnight as he passes them in the living room, then stumbles up the stairs to his room. He barely manages to strip off his suit and drop it over the back of his desk chair before he’s falling into bed. He’s asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.

;;

The next morning starts bright and sunny, for once, and Harry wakes up feeling happier than he has all week. He pulls on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt Ben had bought him, along with the brown boots he hasn’t had a chance to wear yet, then heads down to the kitchen for some tea. He’s pouring the milk from his cereal down the drain when he hears a car honk outside, and calls a hasty goodbye to his mum before grabbing his wallet and phone and swinging out the door.

Harry comes to a stop at the curb. Instead of a limo, there’s a sleek black town car idling underneath a tree, Paul at the wheel and Ben in the back, dressed casually in jeans and a jumper and holding two massive cameras. Ben waves him over, so Harry ducks into the car, eyes locked on the pair of D-SLRs on Ben’s lap. They’re bulky and glossy black, with thick straps to hang around your neck, and Harry desperately wants one of them.

“Good morning, Harry,” Ben says pleasantly. “I thought we’d start our day with a visit to Old Trafford. I’ve never been, but I watch Manchester United games religiously. I hear it’s a sight to behold.”

Harry frowns and tries to call up the schedule in his head. “I don’t think there’s a match today. It’ll be closed.”

Ben just shrugs and smiles serenely, then holds up the two cameras. “Alright Harry, which one would you like to use today?”

The car park behind Old Trafford is empty, the building itself quiet and still as Paul pulls neatly into a parking space near the entrance. “Ben, I don’t think...” Harry trails off as Ben gets out of the car and drapes one of the cameras around his neck. Paul shoots him an amused look in the rear view mirror as he shuts the car off, and Harry sighs and mumbles, “Well, okay, then.”

He follows Ben up to the doors, a sleek Nikon hanging from his own neck and eyes on the enormous building, all gleaming glass and brick. He’s only ever watched matches on the telly, has never even set foot inside the stadium, and he isn’t quite sure what they’re doing there, considering it’s closed. To Harry’s surprise though, as they approach the doors, one of them swings open.

“Mr. Winston, I presume?” A woman is standing there, dressed in a pressed business suit despite the fact that it’s Sunday, a key card swinging from a short lanyard at her hip. She steps aside to let the three of them in, then turns to hold a hand out to Ben. “My name is Sharon, we spoke on the phone.”

“Of course.” Ben shakes her hand, offers her an easy smile. “Please, call me Ben. Thank you so much for meeting us today, Sharon. This is my charge, Harry, and our head of security, Paul.”

Ben, Paul, and Sharon stand around making small talk while Harry wanders the hall, testing out different settings on the camera. He deletes most of the photos, snapshots of silly, arbitrary things like a corner of a Wayne Rooney banner, the top of a display case, his own face reflected back at him in the glass, the braille sign for the women’s toilet. He’s contemplating a black and white photo of the lights illuminating the hall, ISO ramped up so that everything is over-exposed and grainy, when Ben calls him back over.

Sharon takes them on a tour of the stadium - complete with visits to the team changing rooms and the bench on the side of the pitch. Harry stands in front of the bench and stares out at the stands, a wall of red save for a scattering of white seats that spell out ‘Manchester United’; at the endless stretch of green grass and the goal posts in the distance, standing like proud sentinels guarding their domain. He raises the camera to his eye, wishing absently that Louis were here. He would appreciate this much more than Harry does, and Harry is in awe at the size of the place, the feel of it even when it’s empty.

Humming quietly to himself, Harry lowers the camera and pulls out his phone, takes a few steps away from Ben, Paul, and Sharon, and tries to be subtle as he turns around and takes a selfie, the words Manchester United spread out behind him. He sends it to Louis with a series of emojis that he hopes convey the fact that he wishes Louis could be there, too, and that he’s thinking of him. As an afterthought, he sends it to Zayn and Niall as well, along with the text, being a prince has its benefits, I guess ;)

They drive around Manchester for a bit after Old Trafford so that Harry can point out things he’s familiar with, stopping periodically so that Ben can wave Harry out of the car to take photos of something that has caught his eye - a gnarled old tree weighed down with already wilting flowers, a bright blue house with a glossy red door, a tiny little bookshop with a wanted poster of Sirius Black in the window, a stray dog napping in a patch of sunlight on someone’s front stoop.

After lunch, they end up at Castlefield Urban Park. Harry fills the camera’s memory card with photos of the Roman ruins and the barge-lined canals dotted with Canada geese, their fluffy little goslings paddling along behind them in neat rows; snapshots of the old railway tracks and the sculptural Merchant Bridge; fills the space between them with aimless chatter. He and Ben talk about movies and television shows and books, school subjects and traveling and hobbies. Harry tells Ben that he’s always wanted to study politics and sociology, that he loves reading and taking pictures and playing golf with his stepfather, and Ben tells Harry about his wife and dog back home in Castalia, how he got his job as the Queen’s advisor in the first place, and about the country itself.

Harry is bent over the edge of the canal, holding onto a mooring post for support as he tosses bits of bread Ben had bought at one of the cafes to the geese, when the skies open up and it starts to pour. Harry squints up at the rain in confusion. The sun is still shining, the sky scattered with fluffy white clouds, but he’s already soaked, hair plastered to his forehead and shirt sticking to him like a second skin. Ben shouts at him to run, and Harry watches as he tries to tuck the cameras under his shirt to protect them from the rain.

Harry follows Ben and Paul as they run for the nearest cafe, laughing as he slips and slides on the wet path. He has to grab onto a tree for support at one point, clings to the trunk while he tries to catch his breath. He’s already wet, jeans uncomfortable and shoes heavy with water, and a few more minutes in the rain won’t make much of a difference at this point. By the time he slips under the cafe’s awning and through the front door, Ben is drying the cameras carefully with napkins from beside the register. Harry picks at the front of his shirt and wanders over to them.

“Are the cameras alright?”

Ben looks up at him, brows furrowed in concentration and eyes unfocused. “Should be,” he murmurs, looking back down as he balls a napkin up and dries underneath the flash. There’s a hint of a smile in his voice when he teases, “At least I made it inside faster than you did. That was an unexpected rain shower.”

Harry sighs and twists around to look out the windows. “Welcome to England.” He turns back around, looks down at his sodden clothes and shakes his head, sending droplets of water flying. “Should’ve expected this, really. Hasn’t rained since Tuesday. Shame about the boots.” He contemplates them, the brown leather now stained dark with rainwater, then kicks a foot out, turns it back and forth as he considers. “I suppose the water stains will give them some character now, though.”

When he looks up, Ben is staring at him, eyebrows raised. Harry smiles sheepishly at him and shrugs. “You know,” Ben says quietly, “you remind me a lot of your grandmother.”

Harry’s stomach twists at the thought. His grandmother. Someone he hadn’t even known existed until two weeks ago.

“You kind of resemble her, too,” Ben muses. “Something about the shape of your face, your eyes. Definitely the hair.”

Harry touches a self-conscious hand to his dripping hair, already settling into curls around his ears and the nape of his neck. He takes a breath, then says, “How old was she? When she, um. Became queen.”

Ben studies Harry for a moment, head cocked to the side, as if he’s contemplating whether or not he should be truthful. In the end, he answers, “Twenty-four. Her father, the king, passed away rather young, and her mother didn’t want to rule alone.”

“And my father...”

“Never wanted to rule.” Ben pauses, lets Harry think for a moment. He’s not sure what to think, though. On the one hand, the thought of ruling an entire country, one he’s never even visited, is terrifying. But on the other, his blood has been ruling for generations, and his grandmother, the entire country, is relying on him to take the throne and continue the line. Ben rests a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Let’s get some tea and find a place to sit, okay?”

By the time they find a table towards the back of the cafe, Harry has dozens of questions volleying about in his head. But as they sit down, Ben starts a heated conversation about Manchester United versus Liverpool, and he and Paul bicker back and forth until Harry has relaxed enough to join in. They don’t bring up Castalia again.

;;

Harry is standing in his bathroom fussing with his hair when he gets a text message from Louis asking what time to pick him up. It takes Harry a moment to remember what Louis is referring to, and guilt twists in his belly as he taps out a reply.

            5:23pm

            Harry: Sorry Lou, I forgot to tell you, Liam invited me to the bonfire at Leigh Anne’s house

            with him! Another time? xx

Harry forgets about his phone while he finishes getting ready, wiggling into a pair of jeans and a knitted jumper. The brown boots still haven’t dried, so he tugs on a pair of black ones instead. By the time he grabs his phone from the ledge of the bathroom sink, he’s forgotten about the conversation with Louis, doesn’t even notice that Louis hasn’t responded.

His mum is fixing dinner when Harry skips into the kitchen and wraps an arm around her shoulders. She smiles and presses a kiss to his temple. “Well you look nice, H.”

“Thanks,” Harry grins. “Liam is picking me up in ten minutes.”

Anne glances up from where she’s snapping the ends off of a pile of green beans. “Liam. Footie player, right?” Harry nods. “Isn’t he dating one of the cheerleaders?”

Harry frowns and shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. They’re just friends.”

Anne doesn’t say anything for a moment, just studies Harry quietly for a moment, then sighs. “Be careful tonight, alright love?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Of course, mum. This is me. I’m always careful.”

Anne just hums and goes back to the beans. Harry grabs a handful and helps her snap off the ends for a few minutes, until his nerves get the better of him. He washes his hands, then presses a hand to his belly to try and quell the butterflies fluttering around in there. “I should go wait for Liam outside.”

Anne leans over to brush a kiss across Harry’s forehead. “Have fun, baby. Let me know if you want me to come get you.”

Harry rolls his eyes again and mumbles, “I’m sixteen, mum, I don’t think I’m going get tired and want to leave early.”

Liam is already idling by the curb when Harry steps out the front door. He’s driving a beat up old Volkswagen in faded blue, and as Harry approaches the car, he notices a Bat Symbol-shaped air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror and a handful of footballs littering the back seat. Liam smiles at him as Harry slides into the passenger seat. “Hiya, Harry. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in normal clothes before.”

Harry fiddles with the hem of his jumper. He’s not sure if that’s a compliment or simply a statement, isn’t really sure how to respond. In the end, Liam just flips on the radio and pulls away from the curb.

“Have you ever been to Leigh Anne’s before?” Harry shakes his head, watches Liam as he drives. “It’s really nice. They have a really big back garden with an actual fire pit and their own swimming pool. I don’t think anyone will be swimming tonight, though, it’ll be too cold once the sun goes down.”

Harry nods, feeling incredibly awkward as he racks his brain for something to say. In the end, he settles for, “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Of course.” Liam takes his eyes off the road for a moment so he can smile over at Harry. “You know, I think we’ve gone to the same school pretty much our whole lives and we’ve hardly spoken?”

Harry knows.

Leigh Anne’s house is south of the city, and Harry tries not to gape as Liam turns onto a narrow road and drives through an enormous wrought iron gate that has been propped open. There are cars parked all along the winding driveway, and Harry can’t help the way he goggles a bit as Liam parks next to a small pond ringed with cattails and long, arcing reeds swaying gently in the breeze.

He can already hear people talking and laughing as they step out of the car, wipes his hands nervously on his jeans as he follows Liam up the drive and around the side of the house. The garden is, indeed, huge. There’s a wide, rectangular swimming pool to the right of the house, a gazebo tucked into the back corner, right up against the line of trees that blocks the view of the neighbors, and a large, circular sand pit to the left of the house with a metal fire pit in the center and enormous wooden logs ringing it for people to sit on. The rest of the garden is open grass, kept trim and tidy. Harry recognizes nearly everyone there. Most of them are sitting around the fire pit roasting hotdogs and marshmallows, but there’s a small group passing a football back and forth towards the back of the garden, and two swimmers thrashing around in the pool despite the chill in the air.

Liam wraps a hand around Harry’s wrist, sending a thrill up his spine, and tugs him over to the fire pit. A few people look up as they walk over and call cheery hellos to Liam. One of the football team members pats the log beside him, so Liam leads Harry over, drops down onto the log and looks up at him expectantly. Harry settles down beside him. He can feel people staring at him like they have no idea who he is, and he coughs nervously, ruffles his hair and stares determinedly down at his feet as he digs the toes of his boots into the sand.

Harry starts when he feels a hand on his elbow, turns to see Liam looking at him curiously, a long wooden skewer in his other hand. “D’you want a hotdog, Harry?”

“Sure,” Harry whispers, accepting the skewer and letting Liam shove a hotdog onto the end of it. They chat amiably as they roast their food and eat it, though most of Liam’s stories center around football and the cheerleaders. He looks handsome in the firelight, though, and he’s so nice that Harry finds himself relaxing as the night wears on. He doesn’t even notice when his phone buzzes repeatedly in his pocket, too busy laughing at a story Liam is telling him about how the football team had gotten lost on the way to an away game the previous year and had had to forfeit the match once they realized they’d been driving in the opposite direction for nearly an hour.

Once they’ve had a couple of hotdogs each, Liam tugs Harry’s skewer out of his hand and drops it in the sand, then grabs his wrist and pulls him up off the log. “Come on, let’s go play football.”

“Oh,” Harry stammers, “no, I don’t think. I’m not any good, I can’t - I’ll just stay here.”

He tries to sit back down, but Liam won’t have it. “Come on, Harry, no one will care if you’re not any good. It’s just a bit of fun!”

Harry sighs and lets Liam drag him over to where people are still playing. He spots Jade and Leigh Anne running around, hair flying behind them as the pass the ball back and forth between them and a few of their classmates, and nerves settle heavily in his belly, at the base of his throat, as Liam shouts for them to make room on their teams. He and Liam end up on opposite sides, and Harry joins his team in a huddle while they talk out strategy, trying not to watch Liam where he’s bent over chatting to his own team, one arm slung casually across Jade’s shoulders.

Even after Louis’ help, Harry can’t play for shit. He chases the ball and passes clumsily to his teammates, skidding across the damp grass and nearly falling on his face more often than not. It’s quite fun, though, more relaxed than a game at school, and Liam keeps patting his back and grinning every time they pass each other. To Harry’s surprise, he somehow manages to intercept a pass from the other team, and he’s attempting to dribble the ball toward the goal when Liam comes out of nowhere and tackles him to the ground.

They land in a heap of tangled limbs, damp already seeping into Harry’s clothes where he’s lying pinned underneath Liam, and he stares up at him, eyes wide and breathing ragged. Liam is sort of heavy, but he’s laughing and grinning down at Harry, eyes bright, and Harry’s stomach flutters in nervous anticipation. This is it, he thinks. Five years of being in classes with Liam, but never speaking, of waiting for Liam to notice him. Finally finally finally.

Liam’s hands dig into the grass on either side of Harry’s head and he blinks slowly, lips parted just so, and Harry’s breath hitches in his chest. He doesn’t realize he’s leaning up, leaning into Liam until Liam jerks back, eyes going wide. “Harry, I -” Liam pushes off of him, stands up and scrubs a hand over the back of his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t -”

Harry scrambles to his feet, heart rabbiting in his chest as he realizes what’s just happened. He can feel his face flushing in mortification as Liam looks at him, sympathy written across his face. The game has stopped around them, and everyone is staring, watching the two of them with wide eyes. He hears a few laughs, swallows around a lump in his throat that feels a lot like unshed tears.

Harry backs away slowly, whispers, “I. I need to go.”

He can feel people staring as he whirls around and strides off toward the driveway, grateful for his long legs as he hurries past the fire pit. Everyone is whispering and watching him go, and Harry stares resolutely at the ground, watches the grass rush by underfoot, a blur of damp, shadowy green. He doesn’t realize until he’s reached the edge of the driveway that the blurriness is in his eyes, not from how quickly he’s walking. He sucks in a sharp breath through his mouth and blinks the tears out of his eyes as he fumbles his phone out of his pocket.

Harry squints at the screen as he heads down the driveway toward the gate. Eighteen missed calls and seven unread text messages, what. Momentarily distracted from his humiliation, Harry unlocks his phone. Eleven calls from Zayn, seven from Niall. Apprehension builds in his stomach as he pulls open his text messages.

            7:48pm

            Zayn: Hey bro when are you getting here show starts at 830

            7:54pm

            Zayn: Why arent you answering your phone ?

            7:57pm

            Niall: Answer u phone, your freaking zayn out

Harry groans and lifts the phone, smacks it against his forehead. The gig. He was meant to sing a song with Zayn on stage. He looks down at the phone again, realizes Louis still hasn’t texted him back. Harry’s breath hitches. Wonderful. He’s pissed all three of his best friends off and embarrassed himself in front of the entire popular crowd, all in one night. Harry can feel the hot rush of tears at the back of his throat as he punches his mum’s number in with trembling fingers.

“Mum,” he whispers when she picks up. “Can you come get me, please?”

“Harry? Are you alright?”

Harry closes his eyes and listens to his mum’s familiar voice, slightly tinny down the line, and swallows thickly. “Can you pick me up?”

“Where are you?”

Harry curses and looks around, realizes he has no idea. He turns in a slow circle and catches sight of a number on one of the brick pillars flanking the front gate. He rambles off the house number and waits for her to write it down, then drops down to sit on the curb and curls his knees up toward his chest.

“I’ll be there soon, baby.”

“Thank you,” Harry whispers, then hangs up. He drops the phone onto the pavement between his feet, then wraps his arms around his updrawn legs, hugs them to his chest and buries his face in his knees. He draws in a shuddery breath and tries not to think about tonight, tries to clear his mind of everything but the hypnotic sound of cicadas chirping and the distant laughter of his classmates.

Shit. They’re probably laughing at him. Shit. Louis had warned him, and he hadn’t listened. And now Louis is pissed off at him for cancelling, and Zayn and Niall are mad at him for standing them up, and he’s mad at himself for being such an idiot, and. Oh, god. He wonders if his mum will let him stay home from school on Monday, because he’s not sure he can face everyone after tonight.

Harry drags in another deep breath, holds it until his lungs are burning, then lets it go, clears his mind and tries to focus on the breathing exercises he always hears coming from his mum’s yoga videos. He times his breaths mentally, inhaling until his chest feels like it’s about to burst, then exhaling slow and steady, until his heart rate has slowed and his eyes no longer sting. For the first time since this whole ordeal has started, he finds himself considering accepting the crown, just so he doesn’t have to see Liam and the rest of the footie players and cheerleaders ever again.

;;

Harry comes awake slowly to the sound of birds chirping and his mum and Robyn talking down the hall. It takes him a minute to figure out why it feels like there’s a weight on his chest, why his eyes feel puffy and swollen, but when it comes to him, he rolls over onto his stomach with a groan and buries his face in his pillow. He’s working on his fake-sick voice when someone taps on his door and it creaks open.

“H? You awake?”

“Mum,” he croaks, rolling over to face the door. “Mum, I -”

“Don’t even try it, Harry. I know you’re upset, but I’m not letting you stay home from school, I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Harry huffs out a frustrated sigh. Mothers.

He takes care getting ready - washes his face with cold water to make it look less like he’s been crying, styles his hair just right, and puts on his full uniform, tie included. Harry takes the stairs two at a time and pulls his phone out as he blows on his tea, hoping for something, anything, but. His stomach drops when he unlocks it to no new text messages. He’d texted all three of the lads yesterday, and had only heard back from Niall. Lovely Niall, always so quick to forgive. Harry sighs around a wave of gratitude as he looks at Niall’s last text, signed off with two x’s.

The conversations with Louis and Zayn are not quite as fortifying. His last incoming text from Louis is from before he’d left with Liam on Saturday night, his last text from Zayn right after their gig. He pushes his phone and tea out of the way and rests his head on the table, just sits there for a moment while he thinks about going through his school day without Zayn and Louis by his side.

Appetite gone, Harry pushes up from the table and pours his still steaming tea down the sink. He trudges out into the hallway to grab his backpack and blazer, calls a goodbye to his mum and Robin, and slips out the front door. Paul isn’t due to pick him up for another ten minutes, but he doesn’t much feel like riding in the limousine today. He wants the crisp spring air and the satisfaction of walking, the peace and quiet so that he can clear his head and mentally prepare himself for what is sure to be a long, difficult day.

The school is still mostly empty by the time Harry gets there, and he skips the steps where Niall usually waits, walks straight up into the building to gather his books and take his seat in the maths classroom. Niall gets there a minute before the bell rings, and Harry bites his lip as he watches him set his books down, apprehensive despite Niall’s positivity the previous day. The first thing Niall does when he drops into his seat, though, is swivel toward Harry and drag him into a hug. Harry buries his face in Niall’s shoulder, relief and gratitude welling up in his throat, and he clings until the bells rings and Mrs. Hastings calls everyone to order.

Before Niall can turn back toward the front of the room, Harry grabs his knee underneath the desk and whispers, “Thank you.”

Harry gets through maths and English with his head down, and is feeling cautiously optimistic as he walks to debate. When he gets there, though, he spots Louis sitting toward the front, not one open seat near him. Right. He takes a seat in the back and fiddles morosely with his phone, trying not to think about the very clear message Louis is sending him.

It’s Perrie Edwards and Max George’s turn to debate today, so Harry lets himself slump back into his seat and zone out with a game of Angry Birds, phone hidden by his updrawn knees where his feet are propped up on the empty chair in front of him. He only tunes back in when he hears his name. Confused, Harry looks up from his phone and blinks the haze from his eyes. To his surprise, Max is standing up at the podium, staring straight at him with a nasty smirk on his face.

“Is it true, Styles?” Nausea twists in Harry’s belly. “Did you really try and kiss Liam Payne at the bonfire on Saturday night?”

“Mr. George,” Mr. Walsh barks. “Inappropriate and uncalled for! Straight to Headmistress Watson.”

Mr. Walsh points at the door, already reaching for the phone on his desk, and Harry buries his face in his hands as Max stalks toward the classroom door, looking disgustingly smug. He can hear everyone whispering around him, can feel the weight of their stares as he tries his best to disappear. Harry doesn’t move when Mr. Walsh dismisses the class early, just sits hunched over in his chair, drawing ragged breaths from in between his fingers and willing the floor to split open and swallow him down.

The classroom slowly goes silent around him, but Harry doesn’t relax, the tense lines of his shoulders drawn up around his ears as he tries to regulate his breathing again. He’s so caught up in breathing exercises that when a hand comes down on his shoulder, Harry jumps and drops his hands in shock, blinks up at whoever is standing over him with wide, fearful eyes.

“Louis,” he whispers, voice breaking on the second syllable. Harry wraps his arms around himself, fingers digging into the backs of his shoulders with enough force to bruise as he stares up at Louis helplessly. Louis’ expression is closed off, eyes a hard, gun-metal gray, but his hand is still resting on Harry’s shoulder, palm warm through the fabric of his blazer and button-up, and Harry is so grateful for the contact he could cry.

Well. He could cry for several reasons, really.

Louis squeezes Harry’s shoulder, then slips into the seat beside him. They’re touching from shoulder to knee, and Harry leans into it automatically before realizing he probably shouldn’t do that right now and draws away. Louis rolls his eyes, and Harry’s heart skips at the blatant fondness behind the gesture.

“Louis,” he starts, but Louis cuts him off with a hand on his knee.

“I’m still upset with you.” Harry nods, ready to accept that, as long as Louis is talking to him. Louis sighs, eyes softening. “You make it really bloody hard to stay angry with you, Styles.”

Harry bites his lip and drops his gaze, stares at Louis’ hand on his knee, his fingers narrow and pale against the navy blue fabric of Harry’s uniform trousers. His nails have been bitten down to little stubs.

“What that arsehole George did was wrong. If I wasn’t likely to get suspended, I’d probably punch him.” Harry lets out a shaky laugh, stomach flip-flopping nervously in his belly. “But I think you’ve been through enough punishment, to be honest. It wasn’t. I mean, I warned you, you know.”

Harry groans and buries his face in his hands again, says, voice muffled by his palms, “Please don’t say I told you so. I know I was being stupid. I thought.” He drops his hands, stares down at them as he picks at his cuticles. “Well, I don’t know what I thought.”

He can see Louis shake his head out of the corner of his eye, and then Louis is tugging him into a hug. Harry collapses against him, hands clutching desperately at Louis’ back as he tucks his face into the side of Louis’ neck and just breathes him in. He can feel himself calming down, shoulders unknotting and chest loosening as Louis brushes his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Next time,” Louis mumbles, voice rumbling against Harry’s ear and sending shivers down his spine, “try going after someone who plays for the same team, yeah?”

Harry laughs, heart clenching painfully as he pulls Louis closer. He burrows further into Louis’ neck and whispers, lips dragging against Louis’ skin, “Noted.”

Louis walks to lunch with him, an arm wrapped protectively around his waist as they squeeze between people in the halls. Most of the students stare openly at Harry, and a few open their mouths to make comments, but Louis heads them off, spits out warnings before anyone can get a word in. “Piss off, Parker, no one wants to hear your opinion.”

Harry clutches gratefully at Louis’ hand as they step into the canteen and all heads turn to face them. He can feel his cheeks flame with embarrassment, but he keeps his chin up and lets Louis lead him to their table. As they approach, he remembers that it’s Zayn’s turn to get their lunches, and his stomach drops. What if Zayn is so mad at him that he cancels their deal? What if he doesn’t want to sit with Harry? What if he doesn’t show up to lunch at all?

“Hey,” Niall greets as they pull their chairs out and sit down. “How was debate?”

Harry frowns down at the table, and Louis mutters, “Don’t ask. Where’s Zayn?”

Niall jerks his chin toward the food line, but Harry doesn’t turn to look. He doesn’t want to see all of those people watching him with a mixture of pity, amusement, and derision. He starts when, a couple of minutes later, a tray clatters to the table in front of him, several peas rolling off the plate onto the plastic. He looks up at Zayn, eyes wide, but Zayn is already skirting the table and sliding into the seat next to Niall.

“Zayn, I -”

Zayn shakes his head, lips pressed into a firm line and eyes locked on his own tray. Niall rolls his eyes and Louis heaves a sigh, pipes in, “Oh, get over it, Zayn. It was one gig, and it was amazing anyway. There will be more.”

Zayn scowls down at his food, and Harry watches him drag his fork through the pool of gravy his chicken is sitting in.

“Zayn,” he tries again. This time, Zayn jerks one shoulder to show he’s listening, but keeps his eyes on his plate. “Zayn, I’m really sorry. I didn’t even think - it’s just. I’ve sort of liked Liam since year seven, you know? And when he invited me...” Harry trails off, then clears his throat. “Anyway, it was stupid of me. I was stupid, and I paid for it.”

“Have you,” Zayn mutters, tone devoid of inflection.

Louis opens his mouth to retort, but Harry closes a hand around his thigh under the table and squeezes. “Yes, I think so. I mean, I tried to kiss Liam in front of half the school, and then Max George announced it to the other half in debate.”

Zayn’s head jerks up at that, brow furrowed in anger. Anger Harry hopes is directed at someone other than him, to be honest.

“That twat,” Zayn starts, eyes flitting around the room looking for Max. “I’ll deck him.”

“Zayn,” Harry chokes out around a half-laugh. When Zayn turns his attention back to him, Harry whispers, “I’m really, really sorry.”

Zayn sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I know you are, Haz.”

“Do you forgive me?”

Zayn rolls his eyes and stretches across the table to cuff the back of Harry’s head. “Of course I forgive you, you idiot.” He settles back into his seat, and Harry feels one of Zayn’s feet settle over his toes and press down, a comforting weight. “But if you stand Niall and me up or break a date with Lou again, I’ll hit you.”

“Deal,” Harry murmurs. Tension broken, everyone relaxes and digs into their lunches. It isn’t until a few minutes before the bell that Harry realizes what Zayn had said. Date? He slides a side-long glance at Louis, watches him laugh at something Niall is saying, eyes bright and head thrown back, and his stomach flutters, though he isn’t sure if it’s with nerves or excitement. Maybe a mixture of the two. Date. Huh.

Harry skives off PE, not ready to face Liam after Saturday night. He hides in the toilet until the last bell rings, then sends Louis a text before slipping out into the hall and heading toward the physics classroom. The physics teacher, Ms. Cole, finishes her day after fourth period, but he and Zayn had discovered the previous year that she never locks the door.

He’s sitting in the back of the room in the dark when the door cracks open and someone slips inside. He holds his breath, not wanting to make a noise until he’s sure, but then the person whispers, “Hazza?”

Harry exhales slowly, then calls out, “Here, Lou.”

He listens to Louis’ footsteps as he approaches, and then Louis is sliding down the wall next to Harry so they’re sitting pressed together in the dark. “Skiving off PE, eh?”

Harry nods, then tips his head so it’s resting on Louis’ shoulder. “I don’t think I’m ready to deal with Liam’s pity just yet.”

“Understandable.”

Harry turns his face into Louis’ shoulder to hide a smile when Louis slides a hand over his and laces their fingers together where they’re resting on Harry’s thigh. He feels Louis press his face into his hair and closes his eyes, content to just sit here with Louis for the rest of the period.

The lights in the hallway are almost painfully bright after the darkness of the physics classroom when the two of them emerge after the final bell. The hall is already full of students ready to go, and they blend seamlessly into the crowd as they head for their lockers. Louis’ is down a different hall, but before they split to go their separate ways, his wraps a hand around Harry’s elbow and asks, “Can I walk you home?”

Harry tries to ignore the happy little flutter in his chest, but can’t check his smile. “Yeah, of course.”

Louis’ answering smile is just as bright. “Cool. Meet you out front in five minutes?”

Harry waits for Louis with his back pressed to the warm brick just outside the front door, trying to ignore the way people are staring at him as they squeeze past by staring determinedly down at his phone and texting Ben to have Paul pick him up at his house for prince lessons today. He’s just hitting send when he feels a hand close around his hip and squeeze gently. He looks up and into Louis’ smiling face, sunlight glinting off his pale eyelashes, the wispy ends of his hair so he looks edged in gold.

“Ready?”

Harry nods, silently thrilling at the fact that Louis is still clutching at his hip. Louis doesn’t let go as they fight their way down the stairs and toward the sidewalk, doesn’t let go as the crowd thins out and they turn the corner. He just slides his hand across the small of Harry’s back and tugs him in against his side, and Harry goes willingly, lifts his own arm to drape it around Louis’ shoulders.

“More prince lessons today?” Louis asks, squeezing Harry’s hip. Harry sighs.

“Yeah, probably more waltzing. And I think Ben mentioned something about stairs?”

Louis snorts. “Last time I checked, you knew how to use a set of stairs.”

Harry smiles sheepishly at the ground. “Yeah, but I think he wants me to be able to go down a set of stairs without falling.”

“Ah,” Louis laughs. “A bit more challenging, then.”

As if on cue, Harry trips over a raised bit of pavement as they turn onto his street. He and Louis burst into laughter, and Louis catches him with both hands on his hips, holding him upright. “Christ,” Harry mutters as he rights himself. “I can’t even walk straight on solid ground.”

“Hopeless,” Louis agrees, grinning over at Harry, eyes soft. He reaches up to brush a curl out of Harry’s eyes. “What are we going to do with you, Styles?”

Harry shrugs, slowing down as they turn up the walkway to his house. “I guess,” he says slowly, “I’ll just have to keep you around to protect me.”

“Protect you,” Louis muses as they come to a stop a few feet from the door.

“Yep. From rude classmates and dangerous sidewalks, alike.”

Louis laughs and pushes his own fringe out of his eyes. “I think I can handle that.”

“Good,” Harry says firmly. He reaches out to smooth down the collar of Louis’ blazer where it’s folded in from the strap of his bag. He lets his hand rest on Louis chest for several moments, murmurs without thinking, “My knight in shining armor.”

They stand there in silence for a moment, Harry’s eyes locked resolutely on Louis’ straightened collar. He can feel Louis watching him, but his stomach is churning with nerves and he’s feeling a bit laid bare after calling Louis his knight. After a few moments, Harry clears his throat and looks up.

“Right, well. I should probably go change...”

Louis nods, a sharp jerk of his head, and takes a step back. He seems to think better of it, though, and takes a step forward again so he can pull Harry into a hug. Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ waist and tugs him closer.

“I’m sorry about that idiot. He shouldn’t have said what he did.”

Harry shakes his head where it’s buried in the crook of Louis’ neck. “Everyone was going to find out anyway.”

“Still,” Louis grumbles. His hand slips into Harry’s hair and he pulls gently. Harry’s eyelids flutter with the tug on his scalp, warmth pooling in his belly and tripping up his spine. He lifts his head, presses a kiss to Louis’ cheek.

“Thank you, Lou.”

Louis takes a step back when they part, and Harry turns to the front door. Before he can tug his key out of the side pocket of his backpack, though, Louis’ hand wraps around his wrist. Harry looks back at him, eyebrows raised in question.

“I love you. You know that, right?”

Harry’s heart thumps wildly in his chest, cheeks flushing with pleasure. He whispers, “I love you, too.”

Louis just stares at him for a moment, eyes dark despite the fact that he’s standing in a patch of sunlight. Finally, he says, “Right. Good.” He lets go of Harry’s wrist. “I’ll, uh. See you tomorrow, yeah?”

Harry just nods and watches Louis go.

;;

It rains all of Tuesday, Wednesday, and well into Thursday, the entire city cast in a gloomy haze that, combined with the intense prince lessons he’s had every day, has exhaustion weighing Harry down. He decides to skip last period biology and drags Zayn out of history to sit with him in the empty physics classroom. Harry settles into a chair and pillows his head on Zayn’s chest where he’s sprawled out on one of the tables, legs hanging off and hands clasped across his stomach. When Zayn speaks, his chest bounces and vibrates against Harry’s cheek.

“One more day, huh.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut on a groan. “Please don’t remind me.”

They’re both silent for a moment, and he feels a hand card through his hair before Zayn says, “What are you gonna do?”

Harry draws in a deep breath, lets it out in one big whoosh of air. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, actually.” He lifts his head so he can squint down at Zayn in the darkness of the room. “I can’t do it. I’m going to give it up.”

He feels a weight lift off his chest the moment it’s out, can feel his breathing get a bit easier. He plays with the buttons of Zayn’s shirt quietly for a few minutes, getting increasingly more nervous the longer Zayn stays silent. He pokes Zayn in the cheek.

“Did you fall asleep?”

“No.”

Harry frowns. “What, then?”

He feels Zayn’s body shift in a shrug underneath his hands. “I just don’t think you should give it up, that’s all.”

“But why? You said it yourself - I’ll be under constant scrutiny. Zayn, I’m sixteen years old. I don't even start taking government until next term. I’m not the right person for the job. I... kind of already told Ben yesterday.” He bites his lip, back to fiddling with Zayn’s buttons as he lets it sink in for a moment. “Hey, will you... will you go to the ball with me on Friday? You know. As moral support?”

There’s a breathless pause, and then, “Does this mean I have to wear a tux?”

Louis is waiting outside the school after Harry has grabbed his things from his locker and left Zayn to head off to his art club. He grins up at Harry when he comes to a stop at his side, squinting against the rain, and Harry sighs.

“You know, Lou, there’s this fancy new invention. It’s called an umbrella.” He tugs his umbrella out of his backpack and makes a show of shaking it open, then lifting it up over his own head. He cocks his head to the side, smiles slowly at Louis. “Would you like to share? Or do you prefer getting wet?”

Louis smirks, and Harry rolls his eyes, cheeks flushing.

“Just get under the umbrella, Louis.”

There’s not quite enough room for both of them underneath it, so they huddle together and Louis slips an arm around Harry’s waist underneath his blazer to tug him closer. Harry drapes his own arm across Louis’ shoulders and tucks his fingers underneath the strap of his bag, tries to memorize the way they fit together, the way Louis’ palm feels against his hip and the heat radiating off his body as they walk.

The walk isn’t nearly long enough. Harry pulls away reluctantly as they head up the path, turns to face Louis when they come to a stop underneath the eave covering the front stoop. He looks so small in his blazer, so lovely in the dim gray light, with his hair tucked up underneath a navy blue beanie and a faint five o’clock shadow dusting the curve of his jaw. He watches Louis shift his weight from foot to foot, hands shoved into his trouser pockets and shoulders hunched up against the chill sneaking in underneath the hems of their clothes, overwhelming fondness creeping up his throat and threatening to choke him.

“So,” Louis starts, but Harry cuts him off, needs to get his question out before he loses his nerve.

“Come to the ball with me?”

He bites his lip as soon as it’s out, tucks his chin down against his chest and watches Louis nervously. Louis’ eyes have gone wide with shock and he stares blankly at Harry for a moment before his features soften. A sad little smile curls his lips, and Harry’s heart stops.

“I don’t think so, Harry.”

“Oh,” Harry whispers, confusion and hurt bubbling up in the pit of his stomach. He tries to keep his expression neutral, but he’s fairly certain he isn’t succeeding. “Well, alright then. Um.”

“Harry, I -” Louis cuts himself off, presses his lips together and ducks his head. After a moment, he looks up at Harry through his lashes, says quietly, “I’ll see you at school tomorrow?”

Harry nods and doesn’t wait for Louis to go, just tugs his key out of his pocket and slips inside. He leans back against the door to shut it, bangs his head against the wood a few times for good measure. Humiliating. He had thought... well, he’s not sure what he had been thinking. Once again. No, he does know. Somewhere between waltzing and knights in shining armor, he’d realized how blind he’s been. And he’d thought that Louis felt the same, thought that hands underneath his blazer and fingers tangled in his hair, shared smiles and legs pressed together underneath the lunch table meant that Louis wanted this, too. Stupid.

Harry trudges through the living room, intent on getting upstairs and straight into bed, since he’d had his last prince lesson the day before, but a voice stops him at the base of the stairs. “Harry?”

Harry sighs and bangs his forehead against the wall. “Yeah, mum?”

“Can you come to the kitchen, please?”

With a resigned sigh, Harry pushes away from the wall and turns toward the kitchen. He drops his backpack on the living room floor before stepping through the archway, then comes to a stop just inside the room. Ben is sitting at the kitchen table, a steaming mug of tea clasped between his hands. Harry frowns.

“I thought we weren’t having prince lessons today?”

“We’re not,” Ben says with a smile. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

Harry approaches the table slowly, slides into his seat and folds his arms across the surface. Harry’s mum is at the counter preparing another mug of tea, her back turned to give them a bit of privacy.

“How are you feeling today, Harry?”

Harry sighs and shoves a hand through his hair. “I’ve been better.”

“Are you nervous about tomorrow?”

Anne walks over to the table and sets a mug down in front of Harry, then squeezes his shoulder and slips out of the room. Harry stares down at the mug, at the tiny little whirlpool where his mum had stirred it. He shrugs one shoulder, dips a finger in the tea and watches it drip back into the mug. “A bit, yeah.”

Ben reaches across the table and puts a hand on Harry’s arm. “Don’t be nervous, Harry. You’ve already met nearly everyone who will be there. And you’ve done so well in your lessons, I feel confident that you’re ready.”

Harry sighs and looks up from his tea. “I’m not so confident, but thank you.”

“Hey, I got you something.” Ben lets go of Harry’s arm so he can lean over and grab something from off the floor. When he lifts his hands, he’s holding a large box. He slides it across the table, and Harry’s breath catches when he sees the word ‘Nikon’ printed across the top in large, blocky letters.

“Ben, I can’t. You can’t.” He shakes his head and tries to push the box back across the table, but Ben won’t let him.

“No, this is a gift. I won’t take it back. You’ve spent the last three weeks with me, learning how to waltz and bow and wave and sit up straight, and you haven’t complained once. You’ve earned this.”

Harry swallows thickly as he pries the box open and lifts the camera out.

“It’s just a newer model of the one you used last week. There’s a manual in there, along with two extra lenses.” Ben watches quietly as he turns the camera over in his hands, stroking his fingers reverently across the glossy black plastic, flicking switches and pressing buttons even though the battery hasn’t been charged up. After a few minutes, Ben pushes back from the table. “Well, I should be going. Lots to do to get ready for tomorrow.”

Harry sets the camera back in the box and stands up, follows Ben to the front door. Ben stops in the doorway and turns to look at Harry.

“Don’t forget, you’re arriving with your mother an hour before the ball so that Lou can help you get ready.” Harry nods, swallows around a sudden bundle of nerves that has lodged itself in his throat. He gives Harry a meaningful look, then says, “And just so you know, nothing is set in stone. Whatever your decision tomorrow, though, make sure it’s what you really want. Your grandmother and I just want you to be happy. Now get some sleep, alright? You look tired.”

The moment the door swings shut behind Ben, Harry does just that.

;;

Harry spends all of Friday in a nervous, half-aware haze. He doesn’t realize he’s forgotten his blazer until he arrives at school, but none of the teachers mention anything. He’s too nervous to eat lunch, even though Louis keeps putting his fork back in his hand and trying to coax him to eat something, his green beans at least, anything, Harry, come on. He can’t stop thinking about the ball, about the fact that in a matter of hours, he’ll be renouncing the crown and giving up his place on the throne, effectively ending the long line of Styles’ that have ruled Castalia.

Guilt gnaws away at him as the day drags on, but he keeps telling himself that his father did the same thing, that he’s only sixteen, knows nothing about ruling a country, is better off leading a perfectly average life. Right. By the time the school day draws to a close, though, he’s worked himself up into a silent panic. He doesn’t speak the entire walk home, instead lets Louis prattle on about something Max George had said during PE that afternoon that got him suspended.

He’s fidgety with nerves once they reach his house, and Louis grabs both of his hands in his own and presses them to his chest, says, “Hey, Harry. Look at me.” Harry forces himself to focus on Louis. His vision keeps blurring. “You’re going to be fine. It’s just a fancy party. You go in, you say a few words about how you graciously decline the throne, you dance with a few diplomats, and then you’re done. You can do this.”

Harry nods, fingers flexing against Louis’ chest. He can already feel a bit of warmth returning to the tips of his fingers where they’re resting over Louis’ heart, but his own heart is still pounding double-time. He needs to go inside and have a shower before it’s time to head over to the mansion, and the clock is ticking down. He takes a moment to just breathe, eyes locked on Louis’ hands where they’re covering his as he takes slow, steadying breaths.

“That’s better,” Louis murmurs. “You were so pale.”

Harry smiles crookedly at him, then tugs his hands back. “I should go get ready.”

“Right.” Louis takes a step back. “Well. Have fun tonight. Make Zayn dance with you, okay?”

Harry manages a weak laugh. “He won’t be nearly as good a partner as you are.”

“Well, of course not,” Louis scoffs.

Without warning, he grabs Harry’s shoulders and reels him in. Harry stumbles against him, wraps his arms around Louis’ waist automatically and lets himself sink into the hug. When Louis speaks, his lips drag against the shell of Harry’s ear, sending shivers down his spine.

“You’re going to be fine, Harry.” Louis pulls back, then shifts his hands up to cup Harry’s face, gives him a gentle shake. “You are perfect. They’ll love you, no matter what you decide. Now go get ready. Can’t be late to your own ball.”

The moment Louis turns back onto the street and disappears from view, Harry can feel his panic and doubts return.

He can hear his family bustling about in their rooms as he climbs the stairs, but manages to get past Gemma’s room undetected. He undresses with trembling hands and turns the shower on piping hot, then sits under the spray, knees drawn up against his chest, and lets the water ease the tension in his shoulders. It does nothing for the knots in his stomach, though, and sitting in the tub only gives him more time to think about the fact that he’s about to go let down an entire country, all because he can’t get his shit together.

He’s back to trembling as he shampoos his hair, and by the time he’s stepping out of the shower, he’s convinced himself that he can’t do it. He can’t face them, can’t deal with disappointing Ben, his mum, Paul, Zayn, even his grandmum. He’s never even met his grandmum and he doesn’t want to disappoint her. Christ. No, he won’t do it. He just needs to figure out a way to get out of going to the ball.

His mum knocks on his door as he’s drying his hair, and he steels himself. He’s never been very good at lying, hasn’t had much practice at it, but he needs to sell this.

“Come in.”

The door cracks open and his mum pokes her head through. He can see a hint of glitter at her shoulder, and her hair is pulled into a twist at the nape of her neck. “Hi, love. You alright?”

Harry ignores the question. “You look pretty.”

“Oh, thank you, baby. Are you almost ready?”

“I’m actually a bit behind, but I called Paul, he’s going to pick me up in a half hour. You, Robin, and Gems can go on ahead, I’ll meet you there.”

Anne frowns. “Are you sure? We can wait.”

“No, it’s okay. Really, you go on.”

“Okay.” Anne pauses for a moment and just studies Harry. “I’m proud of you, you know.”

Brow furrowed in confusion, Harry asks, “Why? I’m turning it down.”

“It takes a lot of maturity to realize that you don’t want to rule a country just for the sake of being prince, Harry. I know you don’t recognize it in yourself, but you’re so smart and so brave for seeing and admitting that.”

Harry ducks his head, guilt only intensifying at the pride shining in his mum’s eyes.

“Well,” Anne says, voice sounding suspiciously thick. “I’ll let you finish getting ready. We’ll see you at the ball, alright? I love you, H.”

“Love you too,” Harry mumbles. He sits there staring at his feet, mesmerized by the way the threads of the carpet lick at the sides of his feet, while he listens to his family gather up their things and leave. The house falls silent around him, and still he just sits there, studying the splay of his toes and the stain that stretches underneath his bed from when Zayn had spilled a can of Dr. Pepper on the carpet back in year nine.

He tries not to think about the fact that people will be looking for him, that they might come looking for him once they realize he’s not planning on showing up. He straightens out of his slouch and glances at the clock. Twenty minutes have passed since his family left, which means he has about ten minutes until his mum starts getting suspicious. His mind kicks into gear.

Harry reaches out blindly for his phone so he can turn it off and avoid calls and texts, but his hand connects with the corner of it and he knocks it off his bedside table. It makes a strange, metallic pinging noise as it hits his bedframe and falls to the floor. Frowning, Harry drops onto all fours to retrieve it from where it slid under the bed. As he’s straightening, something shiny catches his eye. He reaches out for the object, and. Oh.

Harry drops back onto his butt and holds his hand out flat, the light from his lamp glinting dully off the gold of the ring in his hand. His father’s old ring. Harry’s stomach flips over, leaving him feeling nauseous and dizzy and even guiltier than before. Breath held, he slides the ring onto his third finger and holds it out so he can study it, examine the intricate curves and swirls that make up the ‘S’.

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, Harry surges to his feet and staggers over to his closet. He grabs the first pair of shoes he can find and shoves them onto his feet, not even bothering with socks, then tugs a t-shirt over his head, snatches a beanie out of the pile on his shelf and his inhaler off his desk just in case, then dashes out of the room. He nearly forgets a house key, but remembers at the last minute to grab one off the hook by the door so he can lock it behind him, then sets off in the direction of the mansion. It will take him at least a half hour to get there on foot, but he doesn’t care.

His mind is completely blank as he builds his pace until he’s running flat out, head filled only with the sound of the wind rushing past his ears and the soles of his boots slapping against the pavement. Pedestrians stare at him in confusion as he rushes past, not even bothering to stop at traffic lights. He’s nearly halfway there when pain sparks up the back of his leg, and he realizes that his right boot is rubbing at his heel with every step he takes. He winces every time he lands on his right foot, and eventually has to stop, sweat dripping down his temples and soaking the back of his shirt so that it clings to his skin.

He’s in the middle of contemplating taking his shoes off and just finishing the walk barefoot when a car slows to a stop beside him. He turns, not really sure what to expect, but it certainly isn’t a shiny black town car with Paul behind the wheel.

“Hello, Harry. I thought I might find you somewhere along the way.”

“Paul,” he gasps, lungs aching. “Paul, I need -”

“Come on, get in.” Harry hears the click of the car unlocking and throws himself at the back door, yanks it open and clambers inside. He barely manages to get settled into the seat and shut the door before Paul pulls back into traffic. Harry tugs his shoes off, groaning at the angry red skin on his heel.

“How does Louis do this every day,” he mutters, tracing his fingers over the smarting blister. Paul doesn’t say anything as they make their way to the mansion, just keeps shooting him covert looks in the rear view mirror that have Harry shrinking down into the upholstery.

It takes them three times as long as it should to get to the mansion, weaving in and out of stand-still traffic and taking side roads when possible, and by the time they drive up and park by the cherub fountain, Harry is jittery and impatient. He opens the door too quickly and spills out of the car, has to pick himself up off the grass and stumble his way up to the front door, ignoring the strange looks the guards are giving him.

He isn’t sure what time it is, or how much time he has to collect himself, so when he pushes his way through the front doors, he stops dead. The lobby has been transformed, all of the furniture removed and the room ringed with long, low tables laden with hors d’oeuvres and drinks to make room for dozens of people dressed in glittery cocktail dresses and pressed tuxedos. Ben is standing up at a podium, shuffling through some papers, and everyone is facing him, but when the front door shuts behind Harry, it makes a horrid snapping sound that reverberates through the room and has everyone turning to see what the commotion is.

Harry shuts his eyes as whispers ripple through the crowd, tries desperately to melt into the wall. Before he can fumble for the door handle and escape, though, Paul is wrapping a hand around his elbow and leading him along the fringes of the crowd and around to where Ben is standing. Harry tries to hide behind him as everyone watches them walk up to the podium, but Paul leaves him at Ben’s side. Traitor.

Ben just stares at him for a moment, eyebrows raised, then says quietly, “Is everything alright, Harry?”

Harry nods jerkily. “Sorry, I -”

“Why are you barefoot?” Harry ducks his head, face going even redder, and palms the back of his neck, scratches under the edge of his beanie. Shit, his beanie. He whips it off and shoves a hand through his hair to try and tousle it, tucks the beanie into his back pocket and shoots a furtive glance out at the audience. Everyone is staring, of course they are. He catches sight of his family and Zayn toward the back, bites his lip and looks away. Ben sighs. “Oh, nevermind. At least you’re here. Come on, then. Are you ready to give your speech?”

Not really. Harry nods. His heart is still thundering from a combination of his run and embarrassment, but as he takes his place at the podium, it picks up even more. His vision swims and his breathing goes ragged, and he has to fumble his inhaler out of his pocket and take two desperate puffs. He can hear people whispering, closes his eyes to collect himself and try and steady his breathing. When he opens them, he finds Zayn standing at the front of the crowd, watching him with an encouraging smile on his face. Zayn offers him a thumbs up, and Harry blows out a breath, suddenly a bit steadier.

“Sorry,” he mumbles into the mic.

Standing a few feet away, Ben hisses, “Speak up.”

“Right,” Harry mutters, then clears his throat and forces himself to look out at the crowd. “Um, hello everyone. I’m Harry.”

A murmur goes up from a few of the people milling about, and Gemma calls out, “Hi, Harry.”

Harry looks down at the podium to hide his smile, scoops his fringe out of his face as he looks back up. He leans into the mic and says, “Sorry I’m late. And I’m not even fashionable.” He hears a few chuckles, but for the most part, silence. Okay, then. He fiddles nervously with his father’s ring. “Right, sorry, bad joke. Anyway, I was meant to come here tonight and make a big speech, but I was so nervous that I sort of forgot to write one.”

He hears Ben groan, turns so he can aim what he hopes is a reassuring smile at him before turning back to the crowd. He locks eyes with Zayn, who nods at him.

“I’m not going to take up too much of your time. I just want to say -” Harry cuts off as the front door swings open and someone walks in - someone with brown hair and nervous blue eyes, and oh. Louis. Harry watches him look around, eyes wide, waits for him to catch his eye. He forgets completely about his audience as he watches Louis work his way through the crowd toward the front, then come to a stop beside Zayn. Louis smiles up at him, bright and wide, and winks.

Harry looks down at the podium, mind suddenly completely blank. It takes him a moment to realize what his hands are resting on, but when he does, his eyes focus in on the words of Ben’s speech. He reads a few sentences, reads the words ‘abdicating the throne’ and ‘passes on to the next in line, Sir Ronald and Lady Roberta Dowling.’ Harry’s stomach twists at the thought of Ben making that announcement. No. No, that’s all wrong. Suddenly, his thoughts clear, and when he looks up, he’s smiling.

“I had every intention of coming here tonight and turning down the crown. I’ve never really thought of myself as particularly smart or brave or charismatic, was always happy to fade into the background. Not really something a country looks for in its royals. But over the past few weeks, with the support of Ben and my mum and my two best friends, I’ve realized that I’m braver than I thought. Tonight, my mum told me that it takes maturity to realize that you shouldn’t accept a crown just for the sake of being a prince, and that it takes guts to admit that. And while I was running here - literally - I sort of realized that that isn’t why I want to be a prince.”

He turns to look at Ben, who nods and gives him a bolstering smile.

“I want to be a prince because I want to know how a country, how Castalia, is run, and want to help it run better. I want to know the people and the land and all of its laws. Maybe help modernize it a bit, even. I know I’m only sixteen, but I think that in a few years, and with a bit more school behind me, I could be a prince worthy of the crown, and I’d like the chance to try.” He sneaks another glance at Ben and says, “If you’ll have me, of course.”

A low, rumbling laugh goes through the crowd, followed by applause, and Ben smiles at him and inclines his head, pride written across his face. Harry turns back to the crowd and grins at them, wide and goofy, but unable - and unwilling - to care.

“And now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to go make myself presentable.”

Ben points him toward Paul, standing to the side of the small stage with Lou. Harry moves to join them, twisting his head around to look for Louis before he goes and tripping down the last step. Paul catches him with an, “Easy, Harry,” and Harry laughs and rolls his eyes at himself, hopes that everyone is too focused on Ben to be paying him much mind.

As they’re turning down the hall, he hears Ben say into the microphone, “Well, there goes the speech I had prepared.”

Harry can feel excitement bubbling through his veins as he follows Paul and Lou to the bathroom where he’d had his makeover. Prince. He’s officially a prince, wow. And Louis, Louis is there, is waiting for him in the audience, might even dance with him if he asks, and. Harry takes a fortifying breath to try and calm his racing heart. First, he needs to get ready.

Lou makes him take another shower to get rid of the tacky sheen of sweat that’s drying on his skin, then sits him down so she can work product into his hair and leave it wildly curly. He looks windswept, but put together at the same time, he thinks as he looks in the mirror and touches the tips of his fingers to his fringe.

“Alright, Haz, enough dawdling, everyone is waiting for you out there. Get your tux on,” Lou instructs, holding the shirt out for him. He slips his arms into the sleeves and buttons it up while Lou fusses with the trousers and smooths out the pleats, then pulls those on and tucks the shirt in. He lets Lou fix the cummerbund around his waist, not quite sure how the contraption even works, then slides on the dress shoes - a plaster and socks protecting his sore heel - and the jacket.

“Tie or bowtie,” Lou asks, holding one of each out for Harry to inspect. He frowns at them for a moment, the bowtie simple and black, the tie a pale, glossy green.

“Bowtie,” he says firmly. “I don’t know how to tie one, though.”

“That’s alright, I do. Turn around, babe.” Lou loops her arms around Harry’s shoulders and watches her hands in the mirror as she twists the fabric into a perfect knot, then fluffs the edges. “Beautiful.”

She dusts invisible lint off his shoulders and straightens the lapels, then takes a step back and nods. Harry fiddles nervously with the buttons of the jacket. “Do I look okay?”

“You look stunning, love. Come on, let’s go dance. I’ve got first dibs.”

Harry gets through three dances - one with Lou, one with his mum, and one with Gemma - before he even gets a chance to go looking for Zayn and Louis. He finds them over by the drinks table, sipping champagne with delighted looks on their faces, like they’ve never had alcohol before. Harry rolls his eyes. His best friends are idiots.

“Well, well,” Zayn says with a grin when he catches sight of Harry. “You clean up alright, don’t you, Prince Harry.”

Harry shrugs, suddenly more nervous than he had been while standing up at the podium as he turns to look at Louis. Louis is smiling at him over the rim of a champagne flute, smile so wide his eyes have gone all squinty with the force of it. Harry tilts his head to the side, takes a step closer to Louis and touches a hand to his elbow.

“Do you want to go outside?”

Zayn snorts into his own champagne flute, but Harry ignores him in favor of watching Louis nervously. When Louis nods, his shoulders slump with relief and he jerks his chin toward the French doors that lead to the terrace. There are only a few people out there, sitting on benches near the doors so they can still hear the music, so Harry leads Louis past the windows to a quiet, shadowed corner.

Harry leans against the wall, hands clasped behind his back and chin tucked down against his chest, and looks up at Louis through his lashes. “So,” he starts. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

Louis shrugs, fiddles with his fringe for a moment before saying, “I wasn’t. But I was sitting in my room doing nothing, like an idiot, and realized that I, uh. I wanted to be here for you.” He shrugs again, a jerky little twitch of his shoulder, and ducks his head. “I was already in the car with my mum when Zayn texted me to tell me I was being an arse.”

Harry hums noncommittally, watches with amusement as Louis squints up at him, face pinched into a playful scowl.

“You know,” Harry says, reaching out to play with the lapel of Louis’ jacket, “I was about to give up the crown before you got here.”

“Oh really,” Louis murmurs, taking a step closer so their toes are nearly touching. Harry sucks in a nervous breath, the air around them suddenly gone thick and syrupy. He nods. “And why didn’t you?”

“For all the reasons I said in my speech.” He pauses. “Also, because of you.”

Louis raises an eyebrow in silent question. Harry drops his hand, settles it tentatively on Louis’ hip and digs in gently with his thumb.

“You’ve never really cared what anyone thought, you were always just happy being you. And whenever something happened, it was always you who supported me and protected me, and I just. I want that. I want to be like that.” He flicks a glance up at Louis. Louis eyes are wide and dark, lips parted as he listens intently. “You taught me that, and seeing you there reminded me of it all, reminded me that I can be strong enough to do this.”

Louis lets out an unsteady breath, and Harry lifts a hand to push Louis’ fringe out of his eyes. He leans into the touch automatically, eyelids fluttering, and Harry’s heart stutters in his chest. He does move his hand, just watches Louis’ lips curve up into a smile, then Louis is leaning forward a bit so he can whisper, “I guess you could call me your knight in shining armor, then.”

Harry barks out a laugh, tightens his grip on Louis’ hip and drags him closer. “Hey, Lou.” Louis hums and settles his hands on Harry’s shoulders, brushes his thumbs against the sides of Harry’s neck. “Will you visit me in Castalia?”

“Of course,” Louis says with a grin. “A prince needs his knights, doesn’t he?”

Harry hums his agreement, slides his hand around to play with the hair at the nape of Louis’ neck. It’s funny how something he’s done for years, something Louis does to him almost every day, suddenly feels like a privilege, like something private and intimate. Heat rumbles in his stomach, eyes dropping to Louis’ mouth, and he shuffles his feet around so they’re framing Louis’, so he can draw him in even closer.

“Hey, Harry?” Louis’ voice comes out high and breathless.

“Yeah, Lou?”

“Are you going to kiss me already, or -”

Harry cuts him off with a laugh and yanks him in.

fin