The clock ticked faintly outside the castle, its sound swallowed by the shuffle of footsteps and the low murmur of voices as students moved toward the ballroom.
The Yule Ball.
Harry adjusted his tie, catching his reflection in the mirror one last time. The thought of it didn’t stir much excitement. It was supposed to be the highlight of the year, but honestly, he wasn’t sure if it even ranked. Nearly drowning in the Black Lake was memorable, at least.
He reached for his mask—a deep red that Hermione had picked out—and secured it in place.
Too flashy for him, but she’d insisted.
“Mate,” Ron said as they left the dormitory, his tone somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “Still surprised you don’t have a date. Looking like that, at least.”
Harry laughed, short and dry. Him? With a date? He’d barely managed to think of anyone to ask. Cho had been the obvious choice, but that wasn’t going to happen, was it?
The stairwell was packed, students moving in a stream of color and glittering masks. The buzz of their excitement settled low in Harry’s chest, a reminder that he was meant to feel it too.
“Think Hermione’s ready?” Ron asked, glancing around.
“You’d know better than me,” Harry replied.
Ron rolled his eyes—Harry didn’t need to see it to know. “Why would I know that?”
“You’re her date.”
“Yeah, doesn’t mean I’ve got a sixth sense about her.”
Harry shrugged, letting the conversation drop. His attention wandered to the crowd, scanning the faces—or what little he could see of them behind their masks. He tried to make sense of it all, of who was who, but most of them blurred together.
Even he didn’t feel like himself tonight. Hermione had styled his hair—half tied back, neat but not too neat—and used a charm to turn it blonde. He’d agreed to it without much thought. Maybe he’d just wanted to see what it was like to not be recognizable for once.
It worked. The stranger in the mirror earlier hadn’t been him. Not really.
Ron, for his part, hadn’t changed much. His hair was combed, though, and some loose strands fell in a way that somehow suited him perfectly. Harry envied how effortless he made it look.
He was about to say something when his eyes caught on a figure across the room.
Tall.
Pale.
Hair as dark as ink, sharp against his skin.
Harry blinked, the noise around him fading into a dull hum.
“Ron,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
Ron didn’t answer. He was busy staring at Hermione as she descended the stairs, her curls framing her face in a way that even the mask couldn’t hide.
“Ron.”
“What?” Ron’s voice was clipped, irritated, like he knew Harry was about to ruin his moment.
“Who’s that?” Harry asked, nodding toward the figure.
Ron glanced briefly, then shrugged. “Dunno. Some Ravenclaw, probably.”
He said it casually, dismissively, like it didn’t matter. But it did. At least to Harry.
His gaze lingered on the boy. The way he stood, the way he moved, how the space around him seemed quieter somehow.
Harry’s fingers tightened around the edge of his mask, a question forming in his mind that he didn’t know how to answer.
Who was that?
9:15 p.m.
Harry was tired. Not the usual kind, not the bone-deep exhaustion from Quidditch, but the kind that crept in after too much noise. He’d danced with Ron, with Hermione—even McGonagall, for Merlin’s sake. That had been something.
Now, he stood off to the side, a butterbeer in hand, watching the crowd swirl around him under the dim lights.
He should have been thinking about anything else. How he’d managed to survive this night in his ridiculous blonde hair.
But no.
Of course not.
Because Harry couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t stop his mind from drifting back to him.
Tall. Pale. Dark hair.
And those grey eyes. He’d seen them up close.
The boy was standing not far from him now, close enough to touch if Harry wanted to. He wasn’t doing much—just standing there, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly as if waiting for someone. Maybe his date.
Probably his date.
Harry told himself to look away. To act normal, to pretend he was looking for Hermione or anyone else. But his gaze slid back, traitorous and unthinking. Just one more look. That wouldn’t be weird, right?
“You’ve done that about twenty-one times now.”
Harry froze.
Fuck.
The boy hadn’t turned, hadn’t even moved. But Harry knew—knew—that was directed at him.
“Pardon?” Harry managed, his throat dry.
Finally, the boy looked at him. Those grey eyes, sharp and unreadable—even under that mask.
Tall. Pale. Still impossibly beautiful—Shut up, Harry.
“The staring,” the boy said plainly, voice low but edged with something close to amusement.
“Oh—sorry,” Harry said quickly, feeling incredibly stupid. He was.
The boy’s lips quirked, just slightly. “Don’t be. It boosts my ego, that’s all.”
The words were so casual, so unexpected, that Harry couldn’t help but laugh under his breath.
What an odd sense of humor.
“You waiting for something?” Harry asked, lifting his butterbeer to take another sip. Trying his best to act nonchalant.
The boy glanced back at the crowd, his posture relaxed, effortless. “Not really, no,” he said, almost absently. Then, after a beat, he added, “But maybe now I am.”
The words were quiet, barely there, but they hit Harry like a jinx. His grip on the butterbeer tightened.
“Yeah?” Harry started, but the boy cut him off.
“Would you like to dance?”
It was so simple, like he was asking about the weather.
Harry blinked, his mind stuttering for a response. His heart gave a small, traitorous lurch, but he ignored it. He wasn’t about to let that show.
This boy—this stupid, infuriatingly hypothetically beautiful boy—had managed to unravel him in the span of three hours.
Maybe less.
“Sure,” Harry said finally, his voice steady, though his pulse wasn’t.
The boy smiled, faint but genuine, and held out his hand.
For once, Harry was glad for one thing.
Malfoy wasn’t here to ruin things.
He hasn't seen the blonde anywhere.
Thank Merlin.
"Just know that I'm incredibly bad at dancing." Harry stated.
"Oh I know." The boy replied, though he wasn't smiling at all.
So that wasn't a joke.
Harry frowned at the boy’s response, his grip tightening slightly around the butterbeer bottle before setting it down on a nearby table.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, his tone sharper than intended.
The boy tilted his head, the faintest hint of a smirk ghosting across his lips now. “It means exactly what I said,” he replied, calm and unbothered.
There was something in the way he spoke, the way he carried himself—too poised, too self-assured, like he was someone who knew exactly what he was doing and exactly who he was dealing with.
It put Harry on edge.
“Right,” Harry muttered, taking the boy’s offered hand despite his lingering irritation. His skin was warm, steady against Harry’s own, and Harry tried not to think too hard about that as they made their way to the edge of the dance floor.
The music was slower now, more subdued, and the crowd had thinned just slightly. Harry caught glimpses of familiar faces behind their masks, but none of them lingered.
The boy stopped, turning to face him fully. “Shall we?”
Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he nodded, letting the boy guide one of his hands to his shoulder while keeping the other clasped firmly in his grip.
As they started to move, Harry realized two things.
First, the boy wasn’t lying—Harry really was bad at dancing. His feet stumbled over themselves more than once, and his movements felt clumsy and uncoordinated compared to the boy’s effortless grace.
Second, the boy hadn’t stopped watching him. Not once.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Harry grumbled under his breath, focusing hard on his own feet.
“Like what?”
“Like—like you’re waiting for me to fall flat on my face.”
The boy huffed a soft laugh, low and quiet, and for the first time, Harry thought he saw a flash of something genuine behind the mask.
“Maybe I am,” he said, and Harry could hear the smile in his voice.
Harry scowled, though it was half-hearted. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Not nearly enough,” the boy countered smoothly. His hand tightened slightly around Harry’s, firm but not unwelcome.
Harry looked up then, meeting those sharp grey eyes again. There was something unnervingly familiar about them.
Who are you?
He knew those eyes. He knew them. But that didn’t make sense—there was no way.
He couldn’t look away, though. It was like being caught in a current, helpless against the pull.
“You’ve gone quiet,” the boy noted.
Harry blinked, startled out of his thoughts. “Just trying not to step on your feet,” he said quickly, a poor excuse, but one that earned a faint smirk from the boy.
“You’re doing fine."
It didn’t help. If anything, it made Harry’s nerves worse. He tried to focus on the music, the rhythm, the steps, but the boy’s presence was overpowering, filling every corner of Harry’s awareness.
“Why did you ask me to dance?” Harry blurted out before he could stop himself.
The boy arched a brow, his smirk fading into something more neutral. “Why not?”
“Because…”
“You don’t seem like the type to just—well, to just ask anyone.” He added.
The boy tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “And what type do I seem like?”
“I don’t know. The… cryptic type, I guess?”
The boy’s lips twitched, like he was holding back a laugh. “Cryptic? In this modern century?"
“Don’t make me regret saying that,” Harry muttered, his embarrassment growing.
The boy chuckled softly, the sound low and smooth, and it sent an odd sort of thrill through Harry.
“I suppose I could say the same about you,” the boy said, his gaze steady.
Harry frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”
The boy didn’t answer right away. Instead, he spun Harry gently, their movements seamless despite Harry’s earlier clumsiness. When Harry was back in front of him, the boy’s hand lingered at his waist for a moment longer than necessary.
“Just that you’re… surprising,” the boy said finally, his voice quieter now.
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. The boy was watching him again, those grey eyes piercing and undeniably familiar, and Harry felt like he was being stripped bare under their gaze.
And then it hit him.
The posture.
The voice.
The way his lips curled just slightly when he spoke.
It couldn’t be.
But it was.
“Malfoy,”
The boy’s smirk returned, sharper this time, more familiar.
“Took you long enough,”
Oh for Godric's sake.
Harry stumbled, his feet faltering as the realization crashed over him. He wanted to push him away but Malfoy tightened his grip, steadying him effortlessly.
“What the hell—” Harry started, but Malfoy cut him off.
“Relax, Potter,” he said smoothly. “It’s just a dance.”
“Just a—” Harry gaped at him, his mind racing. “What are you even doing? And—your hair—”
“Nice touch, isn’t it?” Malfoy interrupted, running a hand through the dark strands. “Thought I’d try something different. Clearly, it worked.”
"And you're not one to talk with your blonde hair." Malfoy added eyeing Harry's strands.
Harry scowled, his heart still pounding in his chest. “You’re unbelievable. I hate you—" But it came out more sarcastic now than how Harry would usually say it.
“And you’re predictable,” Malfoy shot back, his smirk widening. “Honestly, Potter, you should’ve figured it out the moment I opened my mouth.”
Harry glared at him, but there was no real heat behind it. He was too stunned, too confused, and maybe.
Just maybe,
a little too—intrigued?
“Why?” he asked finally, his voice quieter now. “Why all of this?”
Malfoy’s smirk softened, and for a brief moment, something flickered in his eyes—something Harry couldn’t quite name.
“Why not?”
Harry didn’t respond, his thoughts too tangled to form a coherent reply. All he knew was that his heart was still racing, and Malfoy’s hand was still warm against his own.
And maybe he didn’t mind as much as he thought he should.