Golden Glove

Harry stood before the grand, gilded mirror, he had spent the better part of an hour attempting to tame the unruly tufts of jet-black hair that refused to submit to the comb’s authority, each stubborn strand springing back into disarray the moment his fingers left his scalp. Frustration knit his brow as he dragged his hand through the troublesome locks once more, only to be abruptly thwarted by a sharp slap to his wrist.

Harry scowled at his reflection, feeling a peculiar sort of resentment towards his own appearance, now polished and princely, but utterly unrecognisable. He had spent an age standing before this mirror, not out of vanity, nor even out of concern for his attire, but because his feet would not take him to where he was meant to go.

Tonight, the palace would gleam with golden chandeliers, the grand ballroom would be filled with music, laughter, and the swish of silk skirts as hopeful maidens twirled beneath the watchful eyes of nobility. And he, the prince, the very reason for this grand affair, was expected to take his place among them, to seek out the woman who would, by the kingdom’s expectation, become his bride. 

"The ball will begin in a few minutes, Harry," Hermione said, she stood just beyond the threshold of his chamber, hands clasped before her, her posture poised with the effortless grace befitting a noblewoman. And regardless of the finery of her violet gown, the carefully pinned curls framing her face, and the regal air she had mastered over the years, there remained a certain familiarity in her expression—one that not of courtly obligations but of an old and steadfast friendship.

Hermione had been at his side since his very first year at Hogwarts, a bond forged not through titles or expectation but through shared trials, whispered confidences, and an unshakable trust that had never once wavered. She was, perhaps, the only one in all the kingdom whom he could rely on without question.

But even as she stood there, waiting for him to gather himself, Harry found his throat tightening, his reluctance pressing down upon him like a weight he could not shake. He turned back to the mirror, his reflection staring back at him with an unreadable gaze. 

"Do you think he will come?" Harry asked rather quietly, though the chamber’s silence made it sound far louder than he intended.

"Are you still thinking about him?"

"Well, yeah," Harry admitted, shifting his weight uneasily. 

"Harry, you must at least pretend you are searching for a bride. If nothing else, dance with a few of the ladies. Make it appear as though you are trying."

Harry exhaled a weary sigh, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, disturbing it slightly. "Could I not simply dance with you instead? That would be far easier."

"You cannot," Hermione said with a pointed look. "Do you know how quickly rumours would spread? By the time the music stopped, half the court would have you engaged, and the other half would be weaving tales of secret rendezvous in the palace gardens."

Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Brilliant. So I am to endure an evening of meaningless conversation, forced pleasantries, and dances I do not wish to have, all while pretending I am not hoping—" He stopped himself, jaw tightening.

Hermione watched him carefully but said nothing for a moment. Then, with a small sigh, she stepped forward, reaching for his arm. "You must do this, Harry. For now, just play the part."

He looked at her, searching for some argument, some excuse, but found none. So, with great reluctance, he allowed her to lead him toward the doors, where the distant strains of music were already beginning to drift through the palace halls. The moment Harry stepped into the grand ballroom, he was met with the customary flurry of courtiers—lords and ladies draped in opulent silks, their voices blending into an indistinct murmur of greetings, pleasantries, and names he neither cared to remember nor made an effort to. He inclined his head where necessary, murmured vague acknowledgments where required, and did his best to navigate through the sea of finely dressed nobility without becoming ensnared in needless conversation.

It was only when he spotted two familiar figures standing near the marble staircase—both grinning at him in a way that promised nothing but mischief—that he felt a flicker of genuine sentiment. Sirius Black, dressed in dark velvet finery that barely concealed his untamed spirit, and Remus Lupin, whose composed demeanour did little to hide the amusement in his eyes.

"It’s your time to shine, pup," Sirius said, clapping a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder.

"There’s nothing to shine for," Harry muttered, shifting uncomfortably.

Sirius scoffed. "Come now, at least pretend you’re enjoying yourself. That’s what royalty does best, isn’t it?"

Remus, ever the more tempered of the two, gave Harry a reassuring glance. "It won’t be as dreadful as you think," he said mildly. "A dance or two, polite conversation—just enough to keep the court satisfied."

Harry exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to tug at the high collar of his ceremonial attire. "And what if I don’t care for the court’s satisfaction?"

Sirius chuckled. "Then you’ll be making things far more interesting for the rest of us."

"Good evening, Lady Hermione," Remus greeted with a courteous nod.

"A good evening to you as well," Hermione replied, though the slight stiffness in her tone suggested she was still recovering from the ordeal of trying to usher Harry into the ballroom. She smoothed down the folds of her gown, then turned her gaze back to him. "I must take my leave—Neville has promised me a dance."

Harry arched an eyebrow. "Neville?"

"Yes, Neville Longbottom," Hermione said pointedly. "And before you ask, no, I did not coerce him into it. He offered, and I accepted. A perfectly normal arrangement, Harry." Sirius snickered under his breath, while Remus merely smiled. Before Harry could formulate a response, Hermione added, "Oh, and one more thing—you should make an effort to greet our old classmates. Many of them have come tonight, and it would be rude to ignore them."

Harry groaned internally. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, you do," she said firmly. "Now, if you'll excuse me." With that, she swept away, her steps poised and deliberate, vanishing into the crowd before Harry could protest further.

Sirius grinned. "Well, you heard the lady. Time to play the gracious prince."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. This night was only getting longer. He then moved through the ballroom with the kind of ease expected of a prince, though inwardly, he felt anything but at ease. The sheer number of noblemen and women, adorned in their finest silks and jewels, created an almost suffocating atmosphere. Many of the young ladies giggled and whispered behind their gloved hands as he passed, their large eyes fluttering with poorly concealed excitement. He offered polite nods where necessary, a carefully measured smile here and there, but his mind was already seeking out a familiar face amidst the sea of strangers.

At last, he spotted someone he recognised—Dean Thomas, a friend from his school years, now standing confidently with a goblet of wine in hand. As soon as he caught sight of Harry, Dean lifted his glass in a casual salute. “Good to see you again, Your Highness," he said, a wry grin playing at the corner of his lips.

Harry let out a small breath of relief. "Same," he replied, stepping closer. "I swear, there are more people here than I expected."

Dean raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his expression. "Weren’t you the one who insisted on inviting commoners from every town?"

"Well," Harry began, rubbing the back of his neck, "I hadn’t quite realised just how many people that would be."

Dean chuckled, taking a sip of his wine. "That, my friend, is the reality of ruling a kingdom. You make a single grand gesture, and suddenly, half the realm is at your doorstep." 

A moment later, a familiar figure appeared—Seamus Finningan, effortlessly weaving his way through the throng of nobility, a goblet of wine in each hand. "You seem to be growing taller every time I see you, Your Highness. Hope you're eating well—scrawny little thing you were, the first time we met."

"And you're still a prat," Harry shot back, though there was no real bite to his words.

Seamus chuckled, clinking his goblet against Dean’s before taking a casual sip. "Good to see you again, mate. Rare sight, you turning up at these grand affairs. Thought you might’ve vanished into some enchanted forest by now." He smirked. "Not that the Daily Prophet would’ve been any less dramatic about it. They’ve been filling their pages with all sorts of ridiculous nonsense about you."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I’m well aware."

"Oh, I’ll bet you are," Seamus said, his grin widening. "I read the latest one just before coming here—apparently, someone saw you covered in blood, near death, barely clinging to life. Nearly tragic, it was." He arched an eyebrow. "Was there any truth to it, or did you just trip over your own feet again?"

Dean snorted into his wine.

Harry let out a weary sigh, rubbing his temple. "If I had truly been on death’s door as often as they claim, I doubt I’d be standing here right now."

“Aye, but it does keep things interesting, doesn’t it?"

"Women," Dean chuckled under his breath, leaning in slightly. "They have a knack for imagining men locked in some grand battle, bloodied but victorious."

Seamus let out a bark of laughter, nearly spilling his wine. "Honestly, Harry, you might as well start showing up to court covered in fake bandages. You’d have half the ladies swooning at your feet."

"That’s the last thing I need." Harry groaned.

Dean swirled his drink thoughtfully. "You must’ve noticed it by now. The moment a rumour spreads about you duelling a rogue knight or barely surviving an assassination attempt, suddenly every noblewoman in the kingdom wants to catch a glimpse of you." He took a sip of his wine. "Mystery, danger—it’s all rather thrilling for them."

Seamus nudged Harry with his elbow. "Bet you, before the night’s over, at least three of them will ask you if the rumours are true."

Harry exhaled heavily. "And what exactly am I supposed to say?"

"Depends.” Seamus grinned. “Do you want them to fall madly in love with you or be absolutely terrified by your brave recklessness?"

These two men had never truly changed since their school years—always laughing, always quick with a jest, and always managing to make Harry’s life both more tolerable and infinitely more exasperating. He had barely taken another sip of his drink when, as if summoned by the very conversation, a noblewomen drifted toward them. She was undeniably beautiful, her gown embroidered with delicate golden threads that shimmered under the chandeliers. Her posture, their smiles—everything about them exuded the grace and refinement that Harry knew his father would approve of instantly. 

The woman dipped into elegant bows, her eyes bright with anticipation. "Your Highness," she smiled, her voice light as air. "It is quite nice to finally be meeting you. Would you do me the honour of your first dance?"

Seamus, ever the troublemaker, nudged him discreetly in the ribs. Dean smirked over the rim of his goblet, clearly enjoying Harry’s predicament.

Harry glanced at the woman, his expression carefully neutral. "I'll think about it," he said simply.

The lady dipped into another graceful bow before hastily retreating, her silken skirts rustling as she disappeared into the throng of glittering courtiers. Harry's gaze had drifted beyond the revelry, past the chandeliers and swirling figures, seeking—always seeking—someone he had hoped to glimpse in the middle of the grandeur of the ballroom. There was already another who held his attention, someone whose presence he had been searching for since the night began. But, no matter how intently he looked, he could not seem to find him.

All these young women had likely come here with a single purpose—to dance with him, to charm him, to present themselves as the ideal choice for a future queen. The mere thought of it was enough to drain what little patience he had left. 

Harry stepped away from the crowd, weaving swiftly through the grand hall, past candlelight and lilting laughter, toward the raised dais where his father surveyed the gathering from above. The King sat in his gilded chair, his expression delight as he observed the nobles below. Beside him, his mother sat with her youngest child cradled in her arms, her voice a gentle murmur as she happily cooed at the baby.

Harry's gaze drifted over the grand hall below. Unfamiliar faces moved through the revelry, laughter and music weaving through the air as nobles twirled in elegant steps, utterly absorbed in their merriment. "Err," came a hesitant voice, breaking through the hum of conversation and the distant strains of music. 

He barely suppressed a sigh, already weary of another interruption. It had been the same all evening—one hopeful noblewoman after another, each eager to secure a dance with him, each seeking to present herself as a worthy match. Resigned to yet another tiresome exchange, he turned, his expression carefully composed.

But instead of the expected figure—he found himself looking at a young man. He stood before him with nervousness, there was no courtly grace about him, no practiced poise or charm. “hate to bother you, but—any idea where they’re keepin’ the drinks?”

Harry blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

At once, the stranger visibly floundered, as though realising the absurdity of his words. It was only then, as Harry turned more fully toward him, that this person lifted his head at last. And in that instant, the world around him fell away. The murmuring voices, the laughter, the sweeping notes of the orchestra—all of it faded into a dull, meaningless blur. The face was so achingly familiar that it was as though time itself had fractured, plunging him into some half-forgotten dream.

“The attendants have been moving about with silver trays,” Harry replied hastily, though his attention was scarcely on the conversation. His eyes—wide, unblinking—remained fixed on the familiar face before him. “I—excuse me, but have we met before?”

The young man regarded him with a puzzled frown, until all at once, realisation dawned on him like the striking of a bell at midnight. His ocean-blue eyes widened, and with a sharp intake of air, he gasped. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “Err, Harry?”

Never in all his years had the young prince felt such an overwhelming sense of happiness. His heart, usually so well-guarded beneath layers of courtly decorum, now raced with unchecked exhilaration. He stepped forward, his eyes transfixed on the young man before him. "I have been searching for you," 

The young man—so strikingly changed from before, yet still undeniably the same—stood stiffly, his hands clenched at his sides as though they might anchor him against the tide of his own nervousness. His attire, far finer than the modest garments Harry had first seen him in, draped his frame in a manner that was almost too perfect, too enchanting for mere coincidence. 

Beautiful.

"R-really?" 

"Yes," Harry replied, breathless, his gaze unwavering. His thoughts, so often occupied with the weight of royal duty, now held space only for this moment—this chance encounter that felt so much more fated than anything dictated by law or lineage.

Harry tore his gaze away with some difficulty, composing himself with the practised ease of a man well-versed in concealing emotion. With a slight tilt of his head, he gestured towards the grand banquet table, where crystal decanters gleamed beneath the glow of a thousand candles. "The rest of refreshments are placed on the far side of the hall," he said, his voice gentle. "Might I have the honour of accompanying you?"

"No need!" the young man replied, though there was a lingering hesitance in his tone. "You seemed rather occupied, mate."

"We shall be just fine." Harry assured him, his voice carrying the effortless warmth of someone accustomed to making decisions without question. 

And with that, they moved through the grand hall, the revelry around them did not cease, nor did the music falter, but the crowd, as if moved by some unspoken understanding, instinctively parted to allow them passage. Eyes followed them—curious, admiring, perhaps even envious—but Harry paid them no mind. His attention remained steadfastly upon the man beside him, who, though composed, still bore the faintest traces of unease.

It was only when they reached the lavish banquet table, adorned with an opulence that befitted the evening, that any apprehension seemed to melt away. The young man came to an abrupt halt, his gaze falling on the endless display of delicacies before him. Towering arrangements of sugared fruits, golden-crusted pastries filled with spiced creams, and goblets of the richest wine gleamed beneath the candlelight. The sight, resplendent in its extravagance, seemed to cast a spell upon him.

His eyes, which had only moments ago held a guarded uncertainty, now sparkled with unrestrained wonder. It was a change so sudden, so utterly sincere, that Harry found himself watching him intently, drawn in by the simple yet undeniable joy that had overtaken him. For all the splendour surrounding them, nothing in that moment seemed quite as magnificent as the way the young man’s expression softened, his lips parting in quiet awe.

"Do you suppose the King would have me executed if I were to eat everything?" 

Harry let out a soft chuckle, tilting his head ever so slightly as he regarded him with amusement. "I daresay he would not mind in the least," he replied, his lips curling into a knowing smile. 

"What are you doing here, anyway?" the young man asked, his voice slightly muffled as he busied himself piling every delicacy within reach onto his plate. The porcelain dish wobbled under the sheer weight of his selections, threatening to spill over at any moment, but he remained entirely unbothered by the precarious arrangement.

Harry observed him with barely concealed amusement, arms folding loosely across his chest. "I was forced to attend," he admitted with a shrug. It was not as though this man knew who he was—nor did he seem particularly interested in courtly matters—so there was little need for pretense.

The young man gave a sympathetic wince, though his hands did not falter in their mission to gather as much food as humanly possible. "That’s dreadful, mate," he said, glancing at Harry before selecting another pastry. "Why would they force you?"

Harry supposed the answer was simple, but it still managed to weigh on him. "Because duty dictates it," he replied, though his tone lacked the stiffness one might expect from a prince discussing obligation. "Because it is expected of me, and there are few things in this world more persistent than expectation." He had not meant to say quite so much, but the words had slipped free before he could consider them fully.

But instead of the usual carefully measured responses he received from courtiers and noblemen, the young man simply nodded, tearing a piece of bread in half.

"That sounds exhausting," he remarked plainly, not with pity but with the simple acknowledgment of a man who had heard something unfortunate and chosen to accept it as truth. And, strangely enough, Harry found that he preferred that to any well-practised sympathy.

"Would you rather take this outside?" Harry suggested, lowering his voice slightly as he leaned in. "It’s rather difficult to enjoy a meal properly when one is forced to stand among prying eyes."

The young man barely hesitated. "Alright," he agreed at once, as if the thought had already crossed his mind. Harry suppressed a smirk as he watched him attempt to weave through the crowd with as much subtlety as a man carrying an overfilled plate of food could muster. It was not exactly the most inconspicuous of escapes—every now and then, a precariously placed pastry wobbled on the edge of his dish, threatening to tumble to the floor—but there was an effort, and for that, Harry found himself oddly entertained.

He took the lead, navigating the grand hall with ease, nodding politely to passing guests while making sure their route remained as unobtrusive as possible. The air grew cooler as they neared the terrace, where the night stretched vast and open before them, a welcome contrast to the stifling opulence within.

Harry stepped outside, waiting only long enough to make sure his companion had managed to do the same—preferably with all of his food still intact. "So, what about you?" He asked, leaning casually against the stone railing of the terrace as the young man settled onto the floor, balancing his overflowing plate with remarkable ease. The cool evening air was a welcome relief from the crowded grandeur of the ballroom, and he was pleased to find that they were entirely out of sight, free from the ever-watchful eyes of the court.

His companion shrugged as he picked up a piece of bread, tearing into it with a nonchalance that suggested he had not a single care in the world. "I dunno," the young man admitted between bites. "Just wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I always hear the customers going on about how grand the palace is—figured I’d see it for myself."

Harry tilted his head, intrigued. "Customers?"

"My customers," the young man replied absently, though the moment the words left his lips, he hesitated, eyes widening ever so slightly. "Oh—uh—" He swallowed hastily, sitting up a little straighter. "Yeah, err, I work in my brother's shop. The customers who come in, they gossip about all sorts of things, and the palace is always at the centre of it."

Harry’s brow arched, amused by his sudden nervousness. "A shopkeeper, then?"

"More or less," the young man admitted. "Well, mostly I do whatever my brother tells me to—carry things, run errands, fix what’s broken. But when I had the chance to slip away tonight, I figured—why not? The customers were right, though. The castle’s bloody enormous—just as grand as I expected."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "You do realise this was not an open invitation to the entire kingdom, don’t you?"

His companion merely grinned, popping a sugared pastry into his mouth. "Yeah, but no one stopped me, did they?"

Harry hummed as he lowered himself onto the seat opposite, his gaze fixed upon his companion with something dangerously close to admiration. 

The young man merely offered him a portion of his meal with an easy gesture, and Harry hesitated for only a moment before accepting, taking a bite without a second thought. It was strange, he had dined in countless halls, beneath chandeliers that dripped with gold, at tables groaning under the weight of the finest delicacies, yet never had he truly relished a meal.

Perhaps it was because those feasts had always been grand affairs, full of empty conversation and forced smiles, where every bite was taken under the scrutiny of watchful eyes. Or perhaps—his gaze flickered up to meet the man’s—perhaps it was because he had never before shared a meal with someone he actually wished to be beside.

Then, quite suddenly, the faint strains of music drifted through the terrace, a delicate melody threading its way through the grand hall, signalling the moment that Harry had been dreading—the time had come for him to choose his first dance.

"Have you ever danced before?" Harry asked.

The man, still occupied with his meal, took another deliberate bite of his chicken, chewing thoughtfully before finally setting it down. He swallowed, dabbing at his lips with the edge of his sleeve in a manner that was entirely too casual for the setting. "Err…I don't think so?" he admitted, his brows knitting together as though the thought had never truly crossed his mind until now. 

Harry pushed himself up from his seat, smoothing down the rich fabric of his robes before extending a hand with quiet confidence, his palm open in invitation. His expression was unreadable—neither demanding nor expectant, but there was something undeniably earnest in the way he looked at him.

"Would you care to dance with me?" he asked.

His companion blinked at him, clearly caught off guard. For a moment, he simply stared, as though trying to determine whether this was some kind of jest. "Yeah, well…" The man hesitated, glancing down at his own hands as though searching for an excuse. His lips pressed into a thin line before he finally sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I dunno how to dance," he admitted. "I’ll just end up stepping all over your feet, anyway."

"Well, so do I," Harry admitted, because whenever he had attempted to practice, it had always ended the same way—missteps, awkward stumbles, and a great deal of apologising to whichever unfortunate soul had been tasked with teaching him. 

But this time, something felt different. There was a confidence settling within him, a certainty that had never been there before. Perhaps it was because, for once, he wasn’t dancing for the sake of formality, for the sake of appearances. No rigid expectations, no scrutinising gazes—just the two of them, standing amidst the golden glow of the ballroom, with music filling the air and no reason to hold back. So, he left his hand outstretched, unwavering, his eyes fixed on his companion with a look that spoke not of obligation but of choice.

"Fine," the man said, there was the slightest twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips. He reached out and clasped Harry’s hand, his grip firm as he pulled him up with an effortless tug. "But if we end up stumbling all over the place, that’s entirely on you."

Harry let out a quiet laugh, his heart giving an odd little lurch at the contact. "I’ll be sure to catch you," he replied, the words slipping out far too easily. He barely had time to regret them before realising—rather alarmingly—that his face was undoubtedly turning pink. 

But then, to his utter surprise, his companion looked just as flustered. A faint flush had bloomed across his cheeks, and for a fleeting moment, he seemed at a loss for words. They stood there in silence, waiting for the next piece of music to begin, and when the first notes filled the air, Harry stepped closer, hesitating only briefly before resting a hand against the man’s waist. 

The gesture felt oddly natural, despite the slight awkwardness of their height difference—his partner was just a bit taller, making the positioning of their hands a little ridiculous, but Harry found that he didn’t care in the slightest.