The Proposal

The weeks following Draco's family party were an odd mix of increasing familiarity and the looming sense of a ticking clock. Harry found himself slipping into the role of "fiancé" with an ease he couldn't quite explain, though he was always aware of the strain beneath it all. The more time he spent with Draco, the more confusing everything seemed. Draco, too, had slipped into his own role: confident, aloof, and yet... there were moments, small moments, when the mask seemed to slip. When Harry caught a glimpse of something raw and unguarded behind those carefully cultivated expressions.

But Harry kept reminding himself—this was just part of the plan. A temporary arrangement. A means to an end.

Despite his attempts to convince himself otherwise, Harry could no longer ignore the way his pulse quickened whenever Draco's hand brushed against his. Or the fluttering sensation in his stomach when Draco smiled at him in that infuriatingly charming way. And the tension... the tension was growing. Every interaction seemed to carry the weight of something unspoken, something neither of them was willing to fully acknowledge.

It was a crisp, chilly evening when Harry received the owl from the Ministry about the upcoming gala. Another event in the ongoing charade of their engagement. A masquerade ball, of all things. And of course, Draco had insisted that Harry accompany him. They needed to look convincing, after all. A grand event like this couldn't be left to chance.

The problem was, Harry wasn't sure how much longer he could keep pretending.

He sat in his flat, staring at the invitation for the gala, his thoughts a tangled mess. It wasn't just the idea of putting on another mask that bothered him—it was the way his feelings for Draco were beginning to morph into something he couldn't control. They were supposed to be enemies. That was how it had always been, wasn't it? The rivalry, the animosity, the complete disconnect.

But now... it was different. Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it had always been there, buried beneath all the hatred. All these years, they had been orbiting each other like two forces of nature—pulled together, torn apart. And now, Harry was caught somewhere in the middle.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He glanced at the clock—it was late, and Draco was supposed to be here any moment. Harry quickly stood and opened the door, only to be met with the last person he had expected.

Lucius Malfoy.

Harry blinked in surprise, unsure whether to be nervous or annoyed. Lucius didn't bother with pleasantries, stepping into the room without waiting for an invitation.

"Potter," Lucius said, his voice as cold and controlled as ever. "I trust you're prepared for tonight?"

"Uh..." Harry trailed off, still taken aback. "What are you doing here, Mr. Malfoy?"

Lucius gave him a sharp look, the corner of his mouth curling into something between a sneer and a smirk. "Don't act so surprised. You've been playing this game long enough to know that my presence is required."

Harry took a step back, his instincts telling him that this wasn't just a friendly visit. Lucius was up to something. Something that wasn't about the gala, and certainly wasn't about the charade.

"I'm fine, thanks," Harry said stiffly. "I'm getting ready for the ball, if that's what you mean."

Lucius didn't seem to care about Harry's discomfort. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate look around the flat, his gaze lingering on the sparse, utilitarian furnishings.

"You should know," Lucius began, his voice low and measured, "that I'm not blind to what's going on here. This engagement... it's nothing more than a sham, a distraction. And I think you know it."

Harry's heart skipped. "What are you talking about?"

Lucius's eyes narrowed. "Don't play coy with me, Potter. I'm not a fool. You're pretending to be in love with my son, and he's pretending to return it. But neither of you are fooling me."

Harry didn't know how to respond. He wasn't prepared for this kind of confrontation. And he certainly didn't expect it from Lucius Malfoy of all people.

Lucius studied him for a long moment, before speaking again. "You've always been a liability, Potter. The boy who lived. Always in the way. And now you're in my son's life—whether you want to be or not."

"Draco and I... we're just..."

Lucius held up a hand, cutting him off. "Spare me the pleasantries. I know what you're about. But I'm warning you, Potter. If you continue down this path with Draco, if you think you can play with his emotions, there will be consequences."

Harry's pulse began to race, the underlying threat in Lucius's words clear as day. He felt a cold sweat form on the back of his neck. He didn't understand where this animosity was coming from, but it was enough to unsettle him.

"I'm not trying to hurt Draco," Harry said, more defensive than he intended.

Lucius's lips curled into something that could almost be considered a smile. "No, you're not. But people like you always end up hurting the ones they love. And Draco is my son, Potter. He's not someone you can simply use and discard when it's convenient."

"I'm not using him!" Harry shot back, his emotions rising. "I'm doing what I have to do. He's doing the same. You think I want any of this? You think I want to be in the middle of this?" He gestured between them, frustration leaking through his words.

Lucius held his gaze for a moment, his expression unreadable. "We'll see how long this little game lasts. Don't be surprised when it all falls apart."

Before Harry could respond, Lucius turned and walked out, his footsteps echoing in the hallway.

Harry stood there, trying to regain his composure. His mind was spinning with the conversation, the implications of Lucius's words sinking in. What had just happened? Was that a threat? Or a warning?

And why did he feel like everything was slipping out of his control?

The gala that night did nothing to calm Harry's nerves. He had barely finished getting dressed when Draco arrived, looking every bit the part of a Malfoy heir, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit that accentuated his sharp features and silver-blonde hair. Harry, on the other hand, felt like he was drowning in his own uncertainty.

"You look... adequate," Draco said, his gaze sweeping over Harry's attire with a flick of his gaze.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Thanks, I think."

Draco's lips twitched, but he didn't respond, instead extending his arm to Harry. "Shall we?"

With a resigned sigh, Harry took his arm, and together they walked out of the flat, side by side, but miles apart in the tension that hung between them.

As they stepped into the carriage that would take them to the ball, Harry glanced at Draco, their eyes meeting for just a brief second. For a moment, the world felt oddly still, as if it were holding its breath.

Then, just as quickly, the spell was broken. Draco's face was unreadable again, his usual mask firmly in place. But Harry couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to break. Something between them.

And maybe, just maybe, it wasn't the charade that would come crumbling down first.