Draco Obliviously Gets Asked Out (And Harry is Not Happy About It)
The first time it happened, Harry thought nothing of it. Some girl from Ravenclaw had stopped Draco in the hallway, twirling a strand of her hair and giggling as she spoke. Draco, utterly clueless, had simply nodded, given one of his usual smirks, and walked away, leaving the girl looking half-dazed.
The second time, Harry started to take notice. This time it was a Hufflepuff—blushing furiously as she fidgeted with the hem of her robe. Draco had tilted his head, confused, before simply saying, “I don’t really do study partners, sorry,” and walking off without realizing he’d just turned down a date.
By the fifth time, Harry was livid.
“Draco,” he said, trying very hard to keep his voice level, “do you seriously not realize what’s happening?”
Draco frowned, flipping a page in his book. “What are you on about?”
Ron, who was watching all this with the kind of amusement usually reserved for Quidditch matches, snorted. “Mate, people keep asking you out, and you keep turning them down without realizing it.”
Draco blinked. “They’re not asking me out. They’re just… being nice.”
Harry groaned, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Draco. They’re flirting with you.”
Draco’s expression remained blank.
Pansy, who was casually sipping her tea across the table, gave him a look. “Draco, love, you’re pretty. And rich. And charming when you want to be. People want to date you.”
Draco actually looked surprised. “Really?”
Blaise smirked. “Yes, and it’s hilarious watching Potter slowly lose his mind over it.”
Harry nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. “I—I am not—”
Ron patted his shoulder. “You are.”
Will and Nico, sitting nearby, exchanged glances.
“I give him three days before he snaps,” Will whispered.
Nico shook his head. “Two. Maximum.”
Draco, still oblivious, turned back to his book. “I mean, it’s not like I’d say yes to any of them. I already have Harry.”
Harry nearly short-circuited on the spot.
Blaise raised an eyebrow, looking between Draco (who was still reading, completely unfazed) and Harry (who looked like he had just been hit with a Bludger to the face). “Merlin, you really are hopeless, Potter.”
---
The first time Harry noticed it was in class.
Snape and Remus were arguing—nothing new there—but the way they were arguing felt… off.
“You never take proper precautions, Lupin,” Snape sneered, crossing his arms as he stood at the front of the DADA classroom. “You’re far too reckless.”
Remus rolled his eyes, looking entirely unimpressed. “And you’re far too paranoid, Severus.”
The room went silent.
Harry swore he saw Snape twitch.
The class ended, but the whispers did not.
---
a week later, Pansy and Blaise started a conspiracy board.
“This is ridiculous,” Hermione said, watching as Pansy connected two pieces of parchment with a red string.
“This is investigative journalism,” Pansy corrected.
“Let’s look at the facts,” Blaise added, pointing at the board. “Snape and Lupin have history. They bicker like an old married couple. And Lupin called him Severus in front of a room full of students. That is not normal.”
Ron, chewing on a Chocolate Frog, shrugged. “I dunno, I feel like Snape isn’t capable of feelings.”
Pansy huffed. “Oh, please. If he does have feelings, they’re definitely about Lupin.”
Nico, who had been quietly observing, muttered, “We should put money on this.”
Will, perking up, grinned. “Best idea you’ve ever had.”
And that was how a school-wide betting pool on whether Snape and Lupin were secretly together was formed.
Harry, meanwhile, just wanted to focus on Sirius and not think about his teachers possibly being in love.
Unfortunately, his friends had other plans.
---
The full moon was approaching, and Harry wasn’t sure what to do about it.
He’d overheard Snape talking to Remus in hushed tones, something about “taking his potion on time” and “not being reckless.” Remus had only smiled in that tired way of his, reassuring Snape that he had it all under control.
But Harry knew what a werewolf transformation meant. He had seen the way Remus’s hands trembled near the full moon, how he seemed exhausted before it even arrived. And for reasons he couldn’t explain, it made his chest tighten uncomfortably.
And, of course, his friends noticed.
“You’re brooding,” Draco said, lounging next to Harry on the common room sofa.
“I don’t brood.”
Ron snorted. “You absolutely do.”
Harry shot him a glare. “I’m thinking.”
Blaise smirked. “Right. About Professor Lupin, I assume?”
Harry hesitated before nodding. “I just… I don’t like the idea of him going through that alone.”
Draco, to Harry’s surprise, looked serious. “You’re right. He shouldn’t be alone. But, unfortunately, there’s not much you can do.”
Harry frowned. “Maybe there is.”
It wasn’t much of a plan, but as the full moon night came, Harry, Draco, and the others made sure to stay near the entrance of the castle, just in case anything went wrong. They didn’t interfere—but they listened. And when they heard a distant, aching howl in the Forbidden Forest, Harry clenched his fists.
“Merlin,” Ron muttered, looking pale. “That’s…”
Will, who had been watching the sky with narrowed eyes, nodded grimly. “It’s worse than people realize, isn’t it?”
Draco, who had always been sharper than people gave him credit for, exhaled. “It is.”
None of them said it aloud, but they all knew: Remus Lupin deserved so much better.
---
a few days later, Harry was still thinking about the full moon, but Percy Jackson had other plans.
“So,” Percy started, sliding into the seat next to Harry at breakfast. “I’ve been thinking.”
Ron groaned. “Oh, no.”
Percy ignored him. “Quidditch is great and all, but have you ever considered modifications?”
Harry blinked. “Modifications?”
Percy grinned. “Yeah! Like, what if there were obstacles? Moving hoops? Maybe some enchanted weather to make things more interesting?”
Draco, who had been minding his own business, froze mid-sip of his tea. “You want to make Quidditch harder?”
Percy shrugged. “I just think it could be more exciting.”
Harry stared at him. “You mean more dangerous.”
Percy beamed. “Exactly.”
“Absolutely not,” Hermione said, without looking up from her book.
Ron, on the other hand, was considering it. “I mean… a storm could be fun.”
Harry put his head in his hands. “I regret everything.”
But despite his protests, he had to admit: Percy’s ridiculous ideas? They actually sounded fun.
---
The day of the match dawned with an ominous chill in the air. The sky hung heavy with dark clouds, and a cold wind howled through the stands as students bundled up in scarves and cloaks.
Harry stood in the Slytherin locker room, adjusting his gloves while Draco paced back and forth, muttering under his breath.
“This is ridiculous,” Draco huffed. “Hufflepuff doesn’t even have a good team this year. We should wipe the floor with them.”
Blaise snorted. “Tell that to Flint. He’s been paranoid since you-know-who escaped.”
Harry glanced at Draco, who only rolled his eyes. Everyone was on edge with Sirius Black still at large. Even Snape had warned him twice not to wander alone.
“You ready, Harry?” Draco asked, his voice softer.
Harry nodded. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”
The team marched onto the field, met by deafening cheers and a sea of yellow and green banners. Madam Hooch’s whistle blew, and the game began.
At first, everything went as expected.
Harry soared through the air, scanning for the Snitch while the game raged below. He wasn’t worried about the Hufflepuff Seeker; the guy was slow. All he needed was a glimpse of gold, and the match would be theirs.
But then, things started going wrong.
The wind picked up—suddenly, unnaturally.
The sky darkened even further. A shiver ran down Harry’s spine, and when he glanced toward the stands, he saw it.
A dark figure. A cloak that billowed without wind. A hooded shape that made the world feel colder.
A Dementor.
The moment Harry saw it, his body locked up. His breath hitched, and a deep, unbearable sadness crept into his chest. His vision blurred, his grip on his broom loosening.
And then he heard the screaming.
A woman’s voice.
Desperate. Terrified.
"Not Harry, please! Take me instead!"
Harry gasped, clutching his head, the world tilting beneath him. His Firebolt wobbled, and then—
He fell.
Plummeting.
The cold was unbearable, the wind rushing past his ears as the screams grew louder.
Someone was calling his name.
And then—
Everything went black.
---
Harry woke up to the blurry sight of the hospital wing ceiling. His head was pounding, and his entire body ached like he’d been trampled by a Hippogriff.
Draco was sitting beside him, arms crossed, a stormy expression on his face.
“Oh, brilliant, you’re awake,” Draco muttered. “That was the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”
Harry groaned, trying to sit up. “What happened?”
Draco scoffed. “You fell twenty feet, Potter.”
Madam Pomfrey bustled over before Harry could respond. “No sudden movements! You’ll be sore for a while.”
Harry’s heart sank as the memories rushed back—the cold, the screaming, the Dementor.
“…Did we win?” he asked hesitantly.
Draco’s glare deepened.
Blaise, who had just entered with Pansy, gave him a pitying look. “Hufflepuff won. Their Seeker caught the Snitch while you were unconscious on the ground.”
Harry groaned again, sinking into his pillow.
Draco scoffed. “Forget the game. What the hell happened to you up there?”
Harry hesitated. He didn’t know how to explain it—the cold, the darkness, the screaming.
“…I saw something,” he muttered. “Or heard something. A woman. Screaming.”
Draco’s expression changed instantly, his usual sharpness replaced with something softer.
“…Your mother?” he asked quietly.
Harry swallowed hard. “I think so.”
No one spoke for a long moment.
Then, Draco let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening around the edge of Harry’s blanket. “We need to figure this out.”
Harry looked at him, at the determination burning in those stormy grey eyes.
Maybe they had lost the match.
Maybe he had fallen.
Maybe everything felt worse than before.
But Draco wasn’t going anywhere. And for now, that was enough.
---
Harry had a lot on his mind after the disastrous Quidditch match, but his luck took a turn when Fred and George Weasley slipped him something very interesting.
“Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs proudly present… The Marauder’s Map.”
A piece of enchanted parchment that could track everyone in Hogwarts? Yeah, Harry was keeping this.
---
but today wasn’t about secret maps or Quidditch defeats. Today was about the Ball.
Hogwarts had decided to host a mid-year Winter Solstice Ball, and despite the collective groaning from students who hated formal events, the group had somehow been roped into it.
So now, Harry found himself in Hogsmeade, standing outside Madame Fleur’s Robes for All Occasions, staring at the sign like it had personally offended him.
Draco, standing next to him, looked very amused. “Oh, come on, Potter. It’s just a robe.”
Harry glared at him. “You don’t understand, Malfoy. The last time I wore dress robes, I looked like a disaster.”
Pansy, arms linked with Hermione, smirked. “That’s because you didn’t have us to help.”
Blaise pushed open the door, ushering them inside. “We’re making sure you all look presentable.”
The shop was full of students, racks upon racks of shimmering, high-quality fabrics. Draco immediately gravitated toward the expensive section, his fingers brushing over deep green silks and silver embroidery.
Ron sighed dramatically. “Why did I let you people talk me into this?”
“You need all the help you can get, Weasley,” Blaise teased.
---
Harry found himself being dragged toward the fitting area by Pansy, who immediately started flipping through the racks for something that “matched his aesthetic.”
“I have an aesthetic?” Harry asked blankly.
“You do now.”
In the end, Pansy and Hermione picked out a sleek, black robe with emerald-green detailing, subtle embroidery that shimmered when he moved. Even Harry had to admit—it looked good.
Meanwhile, Draco was in front of a mirror, adjusting an obscenely expensive silver-lined dark green robe.
Harry blinked. “…You’re wearing green too?”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “Obviously. I look good in green.”
Blaise grinned. “Look at that, matching colors.”
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Nico muttered, “Soulmates,” under his breath, and Harry’s brain short-circuited.
Draco, to Harry’s annoyance, only smirked.
The group spent the rest of the afternoon picking out accessories, teasing each other mercilessly, and—at least in Harry’s case—wondering how he was going to survive this Ball without making a complete fool of himself.
---
Harry wasn’t sure what he expected when he walked into the Great Hall that morning, but it definitely wasn’t this.
Sitting at the Gryffindor table, right in front of his usual seat, was a Firebolt.
A Firebolt.
His heart nearly stopped.
“Bloody hell,” Ron breathed, eyes wide. “Harry, mate, who—?”
Harry wasn’t listening. He was too busy staring at the sleek, polished broom, fingers itching to pick it up. The Firebolt was the fastest racing broom in the world. It was beyond expensive. This was—
He turned to Draco.
Draco, who was very intently not looking at him.
“You got me a Firebolt?” Harry asked, stunned.
Draco sniffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Harry folded his arms, raising an eyebrow.
Blaise coughed. “Draco, just admit it before you combust.”
Draco scowled at them all, then finally sighed. “…Fine. Yes. I may have had a hand in it.”
Harry gaped. “Draco, this costs—”
“Shut up, Potter,” Draco interrupted, suddenly very interested in his breakfast. “It’s a gift.”
A gift. Draco had given him a Firebolt.
Harry felt his face heat up. He didn’t even know what to say.
“Just say thank you before he has a heart attack,” Pansy whispered, smirking.
Harry’s lips twitched. He turned back to Draco, who still wasn’t looking at him.
“…Thank you,” he said softly.
Draco muttered something into his pumpkin juice.
Harry grinned.
---
If Harry had to be honest, he wasn’t exactly thrilled about the idea of a ball. Dressing up, dancing, and awkward socializing? Not really his thing.
But now, standing in the beautifully decorated Great Hall—transformed into a winter wonderland of twinkling lights, enchanted snow, and floating icicles—he had to admit, it looked impressive.
And Draco… Draco looked stunning.
Dressed in his elegant emerald-green robes, silver embroidery catching the light, he looked effortlessly graceful. His hair was swept back, a few strands falling over his forehead. He looked like he belonged at a grand event like this.
Harry, on the other hand, felt like a fraud.
Sure, Pansy and Hermione had ensured he didn’t look like a complete disaster. His robes—black with emerald accents—matched Draco’s suspiciously well. But still. Dancing? In public?
Draco, as if sensing his nerves, smirked. “Relax, Potter. It’s just a ball.”
“Easy for you to say,” Harry muttered.
Blaise clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Harry. We’re all suffering through it together.”
Ron groaned. “Why did I agree to this?”
“You didn’t,” Hermione said, looking smug. “I forced you.”
Nico, standing with Will, rolled his eyes. “At least there’s food.”
Before Harry could respond, the music changed—signaling the start of the first dance.
Draco smirked, offering Harry his hand. “Shall we?”
Harry hesitated. “I can’t dance.”
“I’ll lead.”
Harry gulped.
Pansy giggled. “Just dance, Potter. It’s not that hard.”
Taking a deep breath, Harry placed his hand in Draco’s.
And, to his surprise, it wasn’t so bad.
Draco did lead, guiding him across the floor with practiced ease. The music swirled around them, and for a moment, it felt like they were the only two people in the room.
Harry found himself smiling.
Maybe, just maybe, the Ball wasn’t so terrible after all.