The Proposal

It was the night of the Ministry Gala, and Harry was seriously reconsidering his life choices.

He stood in front of a full-length mirror in his office, his fingers nervously adjusting the collar of his dress robes. They were a deep, muted burgundy—chosen for their understated elegance—though he couldn't help but feel like they made him look a little too much like he was going to a funeral rather than a celebration.

Draco had insisted on coming over early to "help with the details," but Harry had a strong suspicion that Draco was only here to enjoy tormenting him.

At the sound of a light knock, Harry groaned. "Come in," he muttered.

The door swung open to reveal Draco in his usual crisp, immaculate form—his robes silver this time, with a faint green shimmer that Harry could only assume cost more than Harry's monthly salary. Draco's eyes scanned Harry from head to toe, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"Well, don't you clean up nicely?" Draco purred, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

Harry gave him a flat look. "Is this your way of telling me I look ridiculous?"

"No," Draco replied, walking toward him. "I'm just wondering why you insisted on wearing that color. Burgundy, really? It's... so dull."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I thought I was going for understated, not... whatever you're going for."

"I'm going for perfect," Draco said, his gaze flicking over Harry again, a teasing glint in his eye. "You might want to take some notes."

Before Harry could respond, Draco stepped forward and adjusted Harry's collar with practiced fingers, leaning in close. "Better," Draco said, his breath brushing against Harry's ear. "Though, you might want to smile more tonight. It's a party, not a wake."

"I'm not a fan of parties," Harry muttered, feeling the familiar heat rise in his face as Draco's closeness made his pulse quicken.

Draco stepped back, inspecting him with a critical eye. "It's not about what you like, Potter. It's about what looks good. And tonight, we need to look like a perfect couple." His eyes flicked to the pocket where Harry had tucked his wand. "You might want to leave that at home, by the way. No need to frighten the guests."

"I'm not going to use it," Harry grumbled.

"You'd be surprised at how often I've wanted to hex you tonight," Draco teased, his lips curving upward.

"You've wanted to hex me all the time, Malfoy."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "True. But tonight, we're in public. Which means we have to play nice... for the benefit of the engagement."

Harry was too tired to argue. The evening was shaping up to be an endless parade of smiles, meaningless chatter, and endless questions from people who would all have something to say about him and Draco. And not a single one of those people would believe for a second that they weren't secretly plotting each other's demise.

"Ready?" Draco's voice broke through Harry's thoughts, the smirk never quite leaving his face.

"Do I have a choice?" Harry sighed.

Draco laughed, that smooth, silken sound that Harry had always secretly hated. "Not really."

The Ministry Gala was, as expected, a well-lit affair, filled with the usual pomp and circumstance. The marble floors shone under the glittering chandeliers, and a string quartet played in one corner, while Ministry bigwigs and their families mingled in their finest robes.

Harry barely contained the grimace as Draco led him into the heart of the ballroom. People immediately took notice, as they always did when Draco Malfoy entered a room—his reputation preceded him, and Harry's sudden association with him didn't help.

The whispers started instantly.

"Did you hear? The Boy Who Lived is engaged to Draco Malfoy!" one woman exclaimed to her friend.

"Unbelievable, isn't it?" the friend replied. "I wonder how long this will last."

Draco shot Harry a sly grin as they walked past them, and Harry resisted the urge to elbow him.

"Ignore them," Draco murmured under his breath, though his eyes were sparkling with amusement. "It's just the price of fame."

"I don't know if I can do this," Harry muttered back, glancing at the sea of people.

"Stop looking so miserable," Draco said in a sharp whisper. "You're not going to ruin this, Potter. You can play the part, or you can embarrass yourself in front of everyone."

Harry sighed and forced a smile onto his face. "Fine."

The first hour passed in a blur of polite conversations, strained smiles, and awkward moments. Harry found himself paired with Draco for most of the evening, either standing by his side while people offered congratulations or walking beside him as they made their way through the ballroom.

Harry wasn't used to being the center of attention, especially not for something so absurd as a fake engagement. But Draco seemed to revel in it, a fact which both irritated and intrigued Harry. Draco knew how to handle the spotlight. He knew how to play the game. And he played it effortlessly.

A few drinks in, and Harry was feeling increasingly irritable. He was trying to keep up with the conversation, but his mind kept drifting to the strange tension between him and Draco. Every time Draco's fingers brushed against his arm or his voice dropped to that low, teasing tone, it was like his whole body was set on edge.

"So," Draco said, breaking through Harry's thoughts, "tell me, Potter. Do you always look so miserable at these events?"

Harry shot him a glare, but Draco was already smirking at him, clearly enjoying the discomfort.

"Maybe if you didn't drag me here, I wouldn't be so miserable," Harry muttered.

"Don't be a drama queen," Draco said, his eyes glinting. "You don't want to be the center of attention, but at least act like you're enjoying it."

"I'm just not used to—" Harry paused, his lips twisting. "Being this kind of person, I guess."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "What kind of person?"

Harry shrugged awkwardly. "You know, the rich, famous... engaged guy."

Draco tilted his head, his gaze softening ever so slightly. "You're doing just fine, Potter. Besides, I can't imagine anyone else pulling this off."

Harry couldn't decide if Draco was being sincere or mocking him, but his chest tightened nonetheless.

"So, what now?" Harry asked, trying to change the subject, his nerves creeping up again.

Draco gave a slow, deliberate smile. "Now, we dance."

Harry stared at him, mouth slightly open. "Dance? We're in the middle of a gala, Draco. Everyone is watching us."

"Exactly," Draco replied, a wicked glint in his eye. "And we're the happy engaged couple. What better time to show it?"

Before Harry could protest, Draco gently tugged him toward the dance floor. A waltz was already in progress, and Draco swept him into his arms as though they'd been dancing together for years. Harry's heart skipped a beat as he reluctantly placed his hand on Draco's shoulder, feeling the heat of Draco's chest against his own.

Draco's breath was warm against his ear as they moved together. "Relax, Potter. This isn't as bad as you think."

Harry wanted to argue, wanted to push Draco away and leave the ballroom, but instead, he found himself leaning into the dance, his body moving more naturally than he ever expected. And, of course, Draco was a flawless dancer.

They twirled and spun under the soft lights, the sound of the orchestra swelling around them, and for a brief moment, Harry forgot that they were pretending. For a split second, it felt... real.

And that thought was the one thing Harry couldn't quite shake as they finished the dance and the applause rang in their ears.