Harry’s POV
Harry wished he was seen.
Seen as more than the boy-who-lived. More than the opponent of the Dark Lord. He just wanted to be Harry. Sometimes it seemed as if Hermione was the only one who saw him. He loved Ron dearly, truly appreciated his best mate. But even Ron saw the fame more than the boy sometimes.
Harry couldn’t believe he let Fred and George talk him into coming to one of these. He hated these parties. Despite all the twins' careful precautions, he felt uneasy. He stood near the back, behind his friends, clutching a glass of something he didn’t intend to drink. He’d been seen—of course, he’d been seen. The moment he walked in, heads had turned. People whispered. But nobody had actually stopped to say hello. To see how the boy-who-lived.
Harry had grown used to being recognized, to hearing his name spoken with awe or envy or expectation. It was the weight of his fame—a reputation he’d done nothing but barely survive attacks to build, the newspaper articles that flip-flopped between bashing and praising him. The terrible events that solidified him as a household name. But tonight, as on so many other nights, he felt more like a shadow of himself, a projection people admired without ever bothering to look at the scared teen behind it.
He adjusted the sleeves of his flannel for the trillionth time that night. It fit perfectly, and was red with bits of green here and there. It fit perfectly and that was the problem. He was used to being swallowed by his cousin’s clothes, or more positively, the warm sweaters Mrs. Weasley knitted for him, or the ones he nicked from Remus’ closet. He felt better when he could shrink down into folds of fabric.
He just felt so out of place without the cover.
Maybe if he got drunk enough they’d take him upstairs. Then again, being that drunk would just make it easier for someone to try something.
He looked around for either of the twins, hoping they’d lift the spells on the stairs enough for him to go to bed early, but he couldn’t spot either one of them. Strange.
Who he did spot was one Draco Malfoy, looking simultaneously out of place and trying to melt into the decorations like another centerpiece. He did that. He managed to always have this aura about him, that old-money royalty decor. It might’ve been charming if he didn’t flaunt his family status with the better-than-you attitude. He wondered if Malfoy knew he always looked like that. An accessory to his family’s wealth.
He wasn’t blending in this time. Because he was too perfect. Malfoy was striking in the kind of way that demanded attention even in stillness. His silk green shirt- blouse? It seemed too fancy to be called just a shirt. He’d ask Hermione later- was deep emerald, so dark it almost looked black until the candle and firelight flickered against it. His sharp features were too sharp for the softness of the common room.
Malfoy was much too grand and untouchable to look like decoration in the rich, homey red of the Gryffindor common room. Wealth, power, and prestige cloaked him as naturally as his shadow, but wealth and power wasn’t a Gryfindor priority.
There was no nearby porcelain to lean against. No expertly sculpted marble to pose with.
A lot of the pure blood family’s children did that, the posing, the one’s raised in traditional pure blood fashion. The Weasley's never acted like that. Harry spared a glance in Ron’s direction. His best friend came across like one of those big dogs, friendly and kind, but much too bulky for the average space and a bit clueless with social cues.
The exact opposite of Malfoy.
He looked around for the twins one last time before deciding to approach his famous- or was it infamous?- nemesis. The music wasn’t too loud yet. He could still hear the sound of his feet on the carpet. Knowing his drink would be safe, he set it on a mostly empty table.
”Malfoy,” Harry greets, ignoring the way Malfoy had flinched at the sound of his voice. Then relaxed as he noticed Harry was much too worn out for a fight. “What brings a snake into the lion’s den?”
“A couple of snakes actually.” Malfoy took a swig of the punch in his elegant, un-tarnished hand. “Zabini, Parkinson, and I were invited, by the twins.”
Harry didn’t really know what to say to that. Of course it had to be the twins. They were the party planners. But why? Did it have something to do with why he couldn’t find them? He stared at the bubbling concoction in his own hand. “I haven’t seen them. Only you.”
Malfoy huffed, lip quirked in amusement. “Blaise disappeared a while ago, and Pansy was over there.” Malfoy pointed at the huddle of couches. There were about four in a cluster and you couldn’t pay Harry to sit on one. No matter how many cleaning charms and spells they did, those things were nasty. They’d been through decades of debauchery that Harry tried to not remember.
“Ah. Yep I see her.” Harry wanted to say something to keep the conversation moving. It wasn’t often Malfoy was so…
“You don’t know how to talk to people do you?” Malfoy had a hint of amusement in his face.
“Not exactly.” He’s been caught. Well not like he’s good at hiding his awkwardness, but did Malfoy really have to point it out? Of course. “I suppose I don’t know how to talk to people who have been…”
“Less than cordial. I know.” Malfoy raised his hands in mock defense. “Well I had it drilled into me, that this party is a no fighting zone, and well, I can’t be breaking any rules.”
“Bad boy Malfoy following rules?” Harry huffs a laugh. “Now I’ve seen everything.”
He shifted on his feet. When did Malfoy get so close? Harry was close enough to really look at him. His hair had been less gelled in the past years, but now it had barely any. Strands dangled almost teasingly in front of those grey eyes reflecting the warm firelight.
“What could you possibly mean, Potter?” Malfoy brought the cup he'd been holding to his lips, but didn’t drink. He looked at Harry around the cup rim with a side glance. “I’m a perfectly good boy.”