Golden Glove

From the moment Harry James Potter entered this world, it was as if recklessness had been his birthright, etched into his very soul.

Those who surrounded him, from the stern tutors who sought to shape him into a prince, to the household staff who observed him from the shadows, "He’s at it again," they’d murmur, glancing towards the garden where Harry had undoubtedly climbed something far too high or attempted some daring feat unbecoming of his station. The footmen, though sworn to decorum, could not resist the occasional chuckle when recounting his latest escapade, each tale wilder than the last.

And it was true, of course. 

Those who had the privilege—or misfortune—of knowing Harry personally could attest to it. The young prince had built a reputation that preceded him, one of bold decisions and impulsive actions that sent hearts racing, not always in admiration. And whether he was galloping across the palace grounds on his spirited steed or slipping away to lose himself in the clamour and colour of the bustling town streets, Harry lived for the thrill of the moment.  

But now, the sands of time have shifted. 

Harry had reached that inevitable age when duty could no longer be ignored. His elders spoke with grave importance of finding a suitable bride, forging alliances, and fortifying the strength of the kingdom. The weight of the crown—a burden he had danced so skillfully around all his life—now settled on him, pressing down with an insistence he could no longer evade.

The expectations weighed on Harry like a mantle he hadn’t but chosen to don. Charm a princess, secure an advantageous union, and prepare to step into the role of a future king. Each demand felt like a stone added to the ever-growing pile he carried. And now, came the news that his mother was with child once more. 

When Harry heard it would be a sister—a beautiful young girl soon to grace their lives—a strange emotion bloomed in his chest. It wasn’t dread or irritation, though he had no shortage of either when it came to matters of responsibility. No, this was softer, lighter.

“Easy,” his mother murmured, voice soft and reassuring as she gently guided the tiny bundle into Harry’s reluctant arms.

He stared down at the impossibly delicate figure nestled against him. The baby, his sister, blinked up at him with wide, curious eyes, and for the first time in years, Harry felt the flutter of genuine nerves. 

What if he dropped her? What if she started crying? He was used to handling reins and broomsticks, not something so...fragile. Harry's fingers tightened ever so slightly, trying to find the balance between supporting her properly and not squeezing too hard.

“There now,” his mother said with a smile, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders. “See? You’re doing just fine.”

Fine? Harry wasn’t so sure. His heart thudded in his chest, and he swallowed hard, but as he looked down at the little one in his arms, a strange warmth began to replace his nervousness. Her tiny hand, no larger than a rose petal, reached out and curled around his finger.

At that moment, Harry felt something shift. He had faced powerful wizards in tournaments, stern councils, and the towering expectations of the crown without flinching, but none of it compared to the quiet awe that now filled him. This wasn’t a duty or a task. This was family—a bond that needed no royal decree or obligation.

For the first time, Harry thought, maybe he wasn’t as unfit for his role as he feared.

Harry had never been one for extravagant gestures, but this time felt different. 

His younger sister deserved something special. It wasn’t as though he had planned it meticulously or agonised over countless options—no, the decision had come to Harry as naturally as a breath of fresh air, as if the universe itself had whispered its approval.

And now, someone had dared to attack them.

It wasn’t just any horse, either—it had cost him an extortionate sum, a rare and magnificent creature, chosen carefully as a gift to mark her special day. Whoever it was, Harry thought bitterly, had clearly underestimated the lengths he would go to recover what was his. 

Harry clutched his side, his fingers slick with the warmth of his own blood, a grim reminder of his vulnerability. He let out a sharp hiss of frustration, the pain biting deeper with every breath. Damn it all. For someone who had learned so much—so many spells, so many incantations—how could he still be so utterly useless when it came to something as crucial as a healing charm?

But here he was, staggering and wounded, unable to mend the simplest of injuries. Harry straightened himself as much as he could, teeth clenched against the agony. He had already dispatched several trusted aides and a handful of loyal companions to scour the forest in search of the missing horse. But no word had reached him for over an hour, and his patience was already wearing thin—so Harry resolved to take matters into his own hands.

His eyes then caught sight of something pale glinting amongst the trees, so Harry quickened his pace, his wand steady in his grip, but when he stepped beyond the gnarled trees—his gaze fell on a stranger standing in the clearing. Only moments ago, this figure had almost held the horse by the fur—until the creature, with a wild toss of its mane, had bolted once again into the shadows.

He’d been determined to remain composed, perhaps even intimidating, but his plan was unraveling fast. Those blue eyes—striking, almost otherworldly—had caught his gaze, and Harry felt as though he might drown in their depths. It was maddeningly distracting.

Then, with a grimace, Harry stumbled slightly and leaned against the nearest tree, wincing at the indignity of it all. Threatening someone while looking like you might keel over at any second wasn’t exactly the mark of a regal prince. Worse still, the stranger—tall and annoyingly adorable—was eyeing him with what could only be described as nervousness. This was turning into a rather embarrassing affair.

The prince found himself utterly incapable of averting his gaze from the stranger who now knelt beside him, trembling hands fumbling as they attempted to secure the cloth around his wound. Though pain lanced through his side with every breath, he found his senses drawn elsewhere—drawn inexorably to the young man before him. 

Harry could not help but take note of the stranger’s hair—a rich shade of red, catching the light in a way that made it seem almost aflame. It fell in unruly waves, shifting with each anxious movement, strands bouncing with a softness that seemed wholly out of place amidst the brutality of their current predicament. 

He did not know what had possessed him to stare so intently, nor why his mind should fixate in such details in a moment fraught with peril. Perhaps it was the loss of blood clouding his judgement, dulling his wits and rendering him susceptible to strange fancies. But for now, he said nothing. He merely watched, allowing the stranger to work, guiding him as best he could, though he felt certain that the trembling in the young man’s fingers was not solely from fear.

And Harry also found himself momentarily stunned. This stranger did not know him. How could such a thing be possible? His face had graced all the pages of every newspaper and the broadside in the kingdom since infancy, his every milestone chronicled with relentless fervour. The press had pried so deeply into his life that even moments of familial intimacy had been laid bare for public consumption, reducing his existence to a spectacle for all to observe and dissect.

And still—this young man did not recognise him. It was this very ignorance, this unfamiliar absence of deference or intrigue, that intrigued Harry in turn. A desire, perhaps, to understand the stranger before him, and, in doing so, to experience, what it might mean to be known not as a prince, but as himself.

Before the stranger could so much as utter his name, a sudden and resounding noise shattered them. The stranger started violently, his eyes widening in alarm as he turned his gaze toward the disturbance. Harry, though burdened by the searing pain in his side, pushed himself to his feet with a resolve that allowed no room for hesitation. A sharp breath escaped his lips as he drew forth his wand, his fingers curling tightly around the polished wood, its tip poised unwaveringly in the direction of the sound.

The dense foliage ahead stirred—a low rustling among the thick brambles and towering trees, the shadows shifting ominously. Then, from behind the great gnarled boughs, two figures emerged into view. Harry’s breath hitched, his grip tightening upon his wand for a fraction of a second before recognition dawned him. 

"You're highness—"

"Harry!" He cut in.  "My name's Harry."

Sirius's expression flickered with surprise, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as he cast a swift glance toward his husband, Remus. The latter, ever composed, arched a single brow in quiet amusement, mirroring the subtle gesture Sirius himself had made only a moment prior. 

"Very well, Harry," Sirius conceded at last, his voice edged with wry resignation. But his tone shifted swiftly, frustration bleeding into his words. "You do realise your father is going to scold me again for taking on this task in your stead!" The man exclaimed, nis sharp gaze flickered downward, and his expression twisted with fresh alarm. "Is that blood?"

Harry exhaled a weary sigh, his shoulders sagging slightly beneath the weight of the day’s events. His godfather and Remus had been searching alongside him for the lost horse, yet in the midst of their efforts, the prince had made the unfortunate decision to break away, following a shadowy figure—a thief who had vanished before his very eyes, slipping through the labyrinth of trees as though the night itself had swallowed him whole. And in doing so, Harry had lost not only his way but also the time that would have spared him this interrogation.

"I'm fine," Harry said, his tone carrying the kind of stubborn resolve that often did little to reassure those around him. He straightened, though the ache in his side persisted. "And more importantly, tell the others to stop searching for the horse. It’s a lost cause."

Sirius looked as though he had plenty to say about that, "And who is that?"

His gaze had shifted to the stranger who had aided Harry, and at his words, both Sirius and Harry turned in unison. The young man, when realising the sudden scrutiny upon him, flushed a deep shade of crimson. The stranger immediately rose to his feet, though his movements were stiff and uneasy. His hand—still smeared with blood—wavered slightly as he lifted it in what seemed to be an instinctive attempt at reassurance.

"You—" Sirius began, his eyes narrowing sharply as realisation flickered across his face. Without hesitation, he reached for his wand, his every movement brimming with sudden and unyielding suspicion.

"Sirius, no!" Harry burst out, stepping forward at once, his own hand shooting up to stop his godfather before things could escalate further. "He's not—he's not the—”

The young man's eyes widened in alarm before he turned on his heel and fled. Harry made to follow at once, instinct propelling him forward, but scarcely had he taken a step when a searing pain lanced through his side, forcing him to stagger. A strangled gasp escaped his lips as his legs gave way beneath him, and he pitched forward. Before he could strike the ground, a firm hand grasped his arm, steadying him with practised ease. 

It was Remus, his ever-faithful advisor, his expression taut with concern. "Harry…”

Harry, breathless and weary beyond words, made a feeble attempt to wrench himself free, though his strength had long since abandoned him. "Let me go," he murmured, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. His gaze, however, remained fixed in the dwindling figure of the young man disappearing into the trees. "His name..."

His body, traitorous in its fatigue, would not heed his will. Darkness wavered at the edges of his vision, and he swayed, barely conscious of Remus’s firm grip anchoring him to the present.

Harry stirred, his mind sluggish, drifting in that hazy space between waking and sleep. As his senses gradually returned, he became aware of his surroundings—the silken sheets pooling around him, the vastness of his chamber stretching beyond his bed, and the faint glow of morning light seeping through the heavy drapes. He shifted, attempting to move towards the edge of the mattress, but the sheer expanse of the bed only served to frustrate him further. The prince pushed himself upright, running an unsteady hand through his already disheveled hair. 

He then tried to piece together the remnants of the night before. He must have been in a truly wretched state if he could recall so little. His gaze fell to his side, and with some hesitation, Harry grasped the hem of his tunic, lifting it to inspect the wound that had once marred his skin. To his astonishment—and undeniable relief—he found the gash entirely healed, leaving no more than the faintest remnant of pain.

Without further delay, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his bare feet pressing against the cool stone floor. He rose, albeit a touch unsteadily at first, and strode towards the large table in the center of his chamber, where a robe had been neatly folded in waiting. He seized it, draping it over his shoulders, before turning his attention to the grand double doors before him.

Harry threw them open, the heavy wooden panels slamming against the walls with a resounding echo. The guards stationed outside started visibly, their hands instinctively twitching towards the hilts of their swords before they registered the prince’s presence.

But Harry spared them no glance. He had no time for formalities. 

He needed to speak with his parents.

"I want you to cancel the ball,”

His father, seated upon the ornate throne at the head of the chamber, slowly lowered the newspaper he had been reading. A single blink was his only immediate response, as though he had not quite comprehended—or perhaps refused to believe—his son's request. "Forgive me, my dearest son, but I fear I must have misheard you, err—what was it you said just now?"

"The ball, Father.” Harry insisted then rather impatiently, “I wish for it to be cancelled at once. Have the Lord Lucius Malfoy put an end to the preparations, instruct the royal heralds to withdraw their proclamations, it must not take place—”

"And why, pray tell, would my son make such a request?” The King's brows lifted in an arch of mild surprise. Then, with an indulgent chuckle, he leaned forward, drumming his fingers against the carved arm of his throne—the knowing humour of a man who had seen many years and many stubborn heirs. "Have you, perhaps, already chosen a bride? If that is the case, tell me her name at once, and I shall see to it that an invitation is dispatched posthaste. Lily will be most delighted to receive a future princess into our court—”

"Yes, err—well, that is to say—kind of," Harry murmured, his words stumbling over themselves. A faint flush then crept up his cheeks, betraying his thoughts as they strayed, unbidden, to the mysterious stranger who had so thoroughly unsettled him.

The King’s eyes gleamed with curiosity, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Oh?" he intoned, arching a single, imperious brow. Then, as though struck by sudden inspiration, he straightened in his throne. "Wait just a moment—this must be discussed at length. I shall summon Sirius and Remus at once, and together we shall—" But before he could complete his decree, the great doors of the hall creaked open with an almost theatrical flourish. There, standing upon the threshold with the air of men who had been caught in the very act of mischief, were the very gentlemen in question. 

Sirius, ever the rogue, leaned lazily against the doorframe, a glint of amusement dancing in his grey eyes, while Remus, his expression more subdued but no less curious, stood just behind him, hands clasped behind his back in feigned innocence.

Harry let out a long, suffering sigh—pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose as though doing so might ward off the impending onslaught of teasing. "Oh, for Merlin’s sake," he groaned, his patience visibly fraying. "I knew it. You were eavesdropping, weren’t you?"

"Who, us?" Sirius drawled, feigning affront as he stepped further into the room. "Harry, how could you accuse us of such dishonourable behaviour?"

"Because you’re you," Harry muttered darkly before shaking his head. "Never mind that now. Just listen to me—I need you to cancel the ball at once."

At this, both men exchanged glances before turning their attention back to him, the glint of intrigue in their expressions only deepening.

"Hm?" Remus finally spoke, his voice mild but edged with unmistakable curiosity. "And why would you wish to do such a thing?"

Harry swallowed, his cheeks warming once more. "Because," he began, his voice tight with reluctance, "I have met…someone."

"The country boy?" Sirius drawled, his lips curling with barely concealed amusement. "You cannot mean that thief—"

"He is not a thief," Harry snapped, irritation flashing in his emerald eyes as he turned to face him. "He—he aided me when I was injured. He tended to my wound."

"Which is to say that you were still in a most wretched state when we dragged you back to the castle," Remus interjected, his tone far more measured but no less sceptical. "Forgive me, Harry, but if that was his idea of healing, I shudder to think what his idea of harm might be."

Harry bristled, his frustration mounting. "What I mean to say—"

"The country boy?" The King interrupted, his interest now fully piqued. He leaned forward in his gilded throne, his keen gaze fixed upon his son. "Tell me, tell me everything—”

"I met him, all right?" Harry said at last, exhaling sharply as he pushed his unruly hair back from his forehead. "It was yesterday—when I was searching for the horse. There was a thief, yes, but it was someone else entirely, not him. And then—" He hesitated for the briefest moment, as though recalling a memory too delicate to be spoken of lightly. "And then he appeared. A stranger. He stayed with me and talked about horses—"

A strangled laugh from Sirius shattered the moment. Harry shot him a glare so sharp it could have cut through steel.

"Sirius, I swear, shut the devil's mouth before I do it myself—"

Sirius merely smirked, but Remus, ever the diplomat, raised a hand to suppress his own amusement. The King, however, remained intent, his expression unreadable. "You did not learn his name?" 

Harry exhaled heavily. "No," he admitted, frustration creeping into his tone. "I didn’t. And now, I may never see him again."

His father regarded him for a long moment, then let out a weary sigh. "Listen to me, my son," he said, "I can see that you are quite taken with this country boy—truly, I can. But understand this: I cannot simply call off the ball on a whim. It is a tradition, one that has endured for generations. It is your duty, as Crown Prince, to find a bride—the future Queen of this kingdom."

“But—”

"The people expect it, Harry. The court demands it. And whether you wish it or not, duty must come before all else."

"But what of Mother?” Harry pressed, his voice edged with defiance. "When you met her—was it at a ball? Did tradition dictate your love?"

His father’s expression shifted, a shadow of nostalgia passing over his features. For a moment, the King hesitated, as if recalling a memory both sweet and distant. "She was a princess, Harry," he answered simply. "It was different."

Harry felt his stomach twist at those words. 

Different. 

Because she had been born into royalty, because the laws had allowed it. But what of him? What of the feelings that had settled in his heart, unwelcome yet undeniable? Was he to cast them aside simply because tradition demanded it? His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "That is not an answer," he muttered.

"Harry—"

"I'll speak with the Grand Duke myself," Harry declared, squaring his shoulders.

“Am I being summoned, then?” A voice, smooth and cool as polished silver, interrupted him. All heads turned toward the grand doors as they creaked open with stately elegance. There, framed in the entrance, stood the Grand Duke of Malfoy, his very presence commanding attention. Two attendants flanked him, their expressions impassive, but it was him—Lucius Malfoy—who held the room in his grasp.

The man was tall, his aristocratic features sharp and intransigent. His long, pale hair had been slicked back with what must have been the most expensive pomade available in the kingdom—not a single strand out of place. His posture was impeccable, his every movement exuding the refined confidence of a man accustomed to power. Harry and Sirius were already glaring at him.

Lord Malfoy smirked at them before striding forward, his polished boots clicking against the marble floor. Stopping before the King, he dipped into a shallow bow—just deep enough to show respect, yet not so much as to suggest subservience.

"My King," he intoned smoothly, his voice as silken as the embroidery on his robes. Straightening, he clasped his hands before him, his expression unreadable. "Apologies for the sudden disturbance, but I bring urgent news—of a rather private nature."

Harry's father let out a chuckle, waving a dismissive hand. "That can wait, Lord Malfoy. There will be time enough to discuss such matters later." His tone was light, but his eyes glimmered with knowing amusement. "Your arrival is timely, however. The ball, of course—I trust all is proceeding as planned?"

Lord Malfoy inclined his head, his sharp smile never faltering. "Indeed. The invitations have already prepared to dispatch—to every noble house within the kingdom and even those beyond our shores."

A thought struck Harry then, sudden and electrifying. He turned swiftly, his gaze locking onto Malfoy’s. "Wait," he said, his voice cutting through the conversation. "Only to the noble houses?"

"But of course, Your Highness," Lord Malfoy replied smoothly, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Surely, you would not wish to stain the grandeur of your kingdom by allowing those of…lesser standing to tread upon its hallowed halls?"

Sirius bristled, parting his lips as if to deliver a scathing remark, but before he could utter a single word, Harry lifted a hand to silence him. His gaze never left Malfoy’s, burning with defiance. "That cannot do," he said firmly, then turned sharply to his father. "If the ball is to proceed, I have a request. A condition."

"Go on," his father said, watching him closely.

Harry took a steadying breath before speaking. "I would like you to send an invitation to every household in this kingdom, Father," he declared. "If I am to become King, then I must see them, must let them see me. This ball should not be a spectacle for the privileged few but a celebration for all—to remind them that we," he added pointedly, his gaze locking onto the Grand Duke, "are equals, no matter the station we were born into."

"Impossible," Lord Malfoy scoffed, his cold smile faltering for the first time. "Surely, Your Highness, you have heard the reports—thieves slipping into grand halls under false pretenses, sneaking about, stealing whatever their filthy hands can grasp. And those commoners who attend not for the honour, but to flaunt themselves shamelessly, as if they belonged among the nobility?" He shook his head, a low chuckle escaping him. "No, Prince Harry. It would be madness to throw open the doors to everyone."

"To you," Harry shot back, his voice tight with restrained fury. Anger simmered in his blood, but he forced himself to remain composed. "But not to me." He turned to his father, his expression earnest, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Please, consider it, Father."

A brief silence settled over the room before Remus spoke, "That is a brilliant idea," the man said, stepping forward slightly. "Not only would it strengthen the trust and bond between our people and the crown, but it would also send a clear message—that we stand as one. That we are not merely rulers above them, but protectors with them, always striving to aid those in need."

"Exactly," Sirius chimed in, though his sharp gaze remained locked on Lord Malfoy with open disdain. "Right, James?" he pressed, turning to the King. "You always wanted to be a ruler of the people, didn’t you?"

The room seemed to hold its breath as all eyes turned to the King, waiting for his answer. "I suppose it wouldn’t hurt," he mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "However, security must be reinforced in every hall—just in case something untoward occurs."

Lord Malfoy’s expression darkened, his steely gaze narrowing at the Prince. But he bowed nonetheless, though not without a distinct air of displeasure. "As you wish,’ he said, his tone smooth yet edged with barely veiled irritation. "I shall see to it that the necessary adjustments are made to our preparations."

Harry's father clapped his hands together, as though settling the matter entirely. "Now that we are all in agreement, I believe it is time I paid a visit to my wife." He turned to Harry with an arched brow. "I trust, my son, that you will behave yourself at least until the week's end?"

Harry hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. He had no intention of making such a promise—behaving was not exactly in his nature, especially when there was something he wanted. But under his father’s expectant gaze, he exhaled and muttered, "Yes."

The King chuckled, clearly unconvinced. "Good," he said. "We shall see." And with that, he strode from the hall, leaving Harry standing in the company of two smug-faced godfathers and one particularly furious Duke.