The Proposal

The masquerade ball was as grand as Harry had expected. The Ministry hall was adorned with elaborate decorations, shimmering silver and gold streamers draping from the high, arched ceilings, while tables laden with food and drink glistened under enchanted chandeliers. The air was thick with laughter and conversation, with an occasional burst of music drifting through the grand space.

Harry, however, was keenly aware of the mask that he wore—not the glittering silver one perched on his face, but the emotional one he'd been forced to maintain for weeks. As he and Draco entered the ballroom, arm in arm, the illusion of their romance hung like a cloak around them. They were the picture of a perfect couple—the rich, elusive Draco Malfoy and his mysterious, stunning fiancé, Harry Potter.

But as the crowd parted for them, Harry couldn't ignore the sense of discomfort settling in his stomach. He'd never liked these sorts of events. They felt fake, forced—especially now that he knew how much was at stake. This wasn't just a party; this was about appearances, reputation, and survival in a world that was often much harsher than it seemed on the surface.

And yet, as they moved through the room, the feeling of Draco's arm around his made everything seem even more complicated. It should have been easy to keep this charade up, to smile and pose for photos, to hold Draco close as though this was real, but Harry could feel the gnawing tension beneath his skin.

Draco, for his part, looked as composed as ever, his mask a perfect reflection of his usual confidence and charm. Harry had seen Draco be distant before—seen him hide his emotions behind that cold, sharp facade—but tonight, there was something different about him. Something softer, more introspective. The kind of vulnerability Harry had glimpsed over the past few weeks, but never fully understood.

It was disorienting.

They made their way to the center of the room, where the first round of introductions was happening. People were eager to meet "the future Mr. Malfoy." Harry had seen them all—the aristocratic witches and wizards, the wealthier, more influential members of society—but they all blurred together in Harry's mind. He couldn't tell one from the other. All he could focus on was Draco, standing just a little too close, his presence commanding the space around them.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Potter?" Draco asked, his tone clipped but not unkind. He was standing just beside Harry now, casually resting a hand on the small of his back, guiding him through the crowd.

"Not really my scene," Harry replied, casting a look around the room. "But I'll survive."

Draco smirked, his lips curling into the all-too-familiar expression that made Harry's heart rate pick up. "I'm sure you will. You're surprisingly resilient."

Harry raised an eyebrow at him. "Surprisingly?"

Draco's smirk widened. "You've always been a bit of an anomaly, Potter. One minute you're ready to die for the greater good, the next, you're trying to survive these events with me as your... 'fiancé.'"

Harry felt the air between them shift at his words. There was an undertone to Draco's voice that Harry hadn't noticed before—a vulnerability hidden behind the sarcasm. It made something stir in Harry, but he quickly pushed the feeling aside. He had no time for feelings, not now. Not when there was still a part of him that wasn't convinced this wasn't all just a grand mistake.

"Whatever," Harry muttered. "Let's just get this over with."

They continued through the crowd, stopping briefly for photographs and small talk, but Harry's mind kept wandering back to Draco. It was as though he was starting to see him differently, despite their rivalry and years of animosity. There were moments—fleeting, subtle—that made Harry question what he was doing here, standing beside Draco, playing this role.

Was it really just for the sake of this damn family feud? Was it worth it, pretending to be in love with someone he'd once sworn to despise?

The night wore on, and Harry's sense of unease only deepened as more guests approached them, asking about wedding plans and their "future together." Every conversation felt like a lie, a hollow repetition of the one before. They were all asking the same questions, assuming the same answers. It was easy to play along, but the more they asked, the more Harry felt like he was losing himself in the performance.

And Draco wasn't helping.

It wasn't that Draco was overtly cruel—he was always polite, always perfect—but the way he seemed to slip into his role so naturally, so effortlessly, was starting to get under Harry's skin. He couldn't decide if it was frustrating or impressive. Maybe both. But it only served to remind Harry of how much he still didn't know about Draco. How much he still didn't understand about the person standing beside him.

As the evening wore on, they found themselves near a secluded corner of the ballroom, away from the crowd. Draco stepped in close, his lips curling up into that same amused smirk.

"Relax, Potter," Draco teased, his voice low. "You're practically radiating tension."

Harry's eyes flickered to his, the words laced with something else—something unspoken. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not," Draco shot back, leaning in a fraction closer. The space between them seemed to shrink, and Harry felt his pulse quicken at the proximity.

"I'm just... I don't know. This feels off," Harry admitted, his voice quieter now. "The whole thing. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this up."

Draco's expression shifted slightly, and Harry swore he saw a flicker of something real in his eyes. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by his usual cool composure.

"We're in this together, Potter," Draco said with a shrug, his tone nonchalant. "Whether you like it or not."

Harry's chest tightened. "What if I don't want to be in this with you anymore?"

Draco raised an eyebrow, his gaze intense. "You'll find a way out when the time comes, I suppose."

There was something in the way Draco said it that made Harry pause. Was it a challenge? A warning? Or just the usual indifference?

Before Harry could respond, someone approached them, breaking the moment. The rest of the evening passed in a blur. More forced smiles, more fake conversations, but Harry couldn't shake the feeling that everything was shifting, changing, and he had no idea how to stop it.

Later, after the event had ended and they were finally back in Draco's carriage, the air between them was thick with unsaid things. Harry stared out the window, avoiding Draco's gaze, but it was hard to ignore the feeling that things were different now.

He was no longer just playing a role. Something had changed—something he couldn't control. And for the first time since this whole mess had begun, Harry wasn't sure if he wanted to.

"Don't think too hard about it, Potter," Draco's voice broke through his thoughts, soft but firm. "It's just a game. We're both good at those, remember?"

But Harry couldn't shake the feeling that they were no longer playing by the same rules.

And for once, he wasn't sure if he wanted to win.