Five Days Until the Yule Ball
Harry and Ron both still didn't have dates. Meanwhile, Hermione adamantly refused to tell the boys who she was taking, despite her insistence that she did have a date, which, for some unknown reason, pissed Ron off beyond belief. So that left the boys to figure their shit out. Between the Triwizard tournament and the ever-insufferable Malfoy who wouldn't get off his back, Harry at least has an excuse to go solo; Ron, however, was only sans date due to his stubborn pride and downright refusal to ask any girl within a ten-mile radius.
During lunch, Hermione approached the boys, a wild look in her eyes. "I have...a bet for you, boys." Her manic expression disappeared so quickly that Harry wasn't sure he saw it. Regardless, he was terrified; she was an absolute menace when it came to dares, bets, and other schemes.
"Oh, yeah? What would that be?"
"It's simple, really. if you two can't get a date by Friday," Hermione says, grinning mischievously, "then Harry, you have to ask Malfoy to the Ball, and Ron, you'll ask Blaise."
"What the bloody hell, Mione? That's just cruel." Ron's face was nearly as red as his hair. After putting up with Hermione's never-ending descriptions of her Mystery Man, he was pretty sick of her bullshit, despite his usual glee when it came to pranks. Plus, this one actually affected him; Blaise was, to put it mildly, a complete and utter douchebag. He was completely unemotional, annoyingly attractive, and was known for being the only Slytherin who wasn't ambitious like the lot of them.
Just thinking of him, and thinking of his best friend going with Malfoy, Ron knew he'd rather die than take the bet. He also knew that if they declined, Hermione would hold it over them for all eternity.
So he said, "Fine. It's a bet. But don't be surprised when Malfoy shows up with that Parkinson bitch, and not Harry." Harry's chest tightened as he thought of the girl, but he ignored it, stabbing his fork into his mashed potatoes instead. Harry Potter was a lot of things, but he was not jealous. Especially not of Pansy "the Pug" Parkinson.
Four Days Until the Yule Ball
Harry tried to ask Cho Chang out. He really did. But, naturally, Cho was going with another Triwizard champion: Diggory.
Cedric was kind, and, Harry admitted, quite attractive. He didn’t blame Cho for going with him. That said, his heart still twisted when she turned him down. Partly because he liked Cho, but mostly because the clock was tick, tick, ticking, and Harry downright refused to go with Malfoy.
Meanwhile, Ron was having equal luck, and both boys were looking pretty doomed. In the commons one night, Hermione smirked haughtily as she wrote Harry’s transfiguration essay for him.
“Just know, Harry, I’m only doing this because I know you’ll have to go with Malfoy and honestly, I’m starting to feel rather bad.” Harry rolled his eyes, resigned to the fact that Hermione wouldn’t let this one go. Ron, however, tried to plead his case.
“Does that mean we can call off the bet?” Ron looked hopeful, putting down his Potions homework just to grovel at Hermione’s feet.
“Absolutely not.”
Three Days Until the Yule Ball
Malfoy. That obsessed little prick had made it his mission to bother Harry every second of every day, threatening his embarrassing death during the tournament constantly.
“Well, Pottah,” he said today, arms crossed and nose turned up, enunciating ‘Pottah’ the same way he always had. “Which nasty girl did you pay to go to the ball with you?”
“I didn’t pay anyone, Malfoy. Let me guess, you’ve given Pugsy some amortentia to go with you?”
“Gross.” He shuddered. “I would never go to the ball with a girl.”
Harry’s breath caught, and he did his best not to choke suddenly. “What was that?”
Malfoy blushed, suddenly hyperaware of a smudge on his shoes. “I said I’d never go to the ball with that girl. Really, have you seen her?”
“Huh. And here I was, thinking you’d just admitted to being gay. You know,” Despite his logical side already forming a roast involving Malfoy’s father, he couldn’t insult Malfoy on this. What if it wasn’t just a slip up?
“What, Potter? Are you calling me a poof?”
“No, no. Bye, Malfoy.”
Weird.
Two Days Until the Yule Ball
Today was it. The last day before Ron and Harry had to ask their mortal enemies to the ball. No big deal, right? They could get a date in the next twenty-four hours.
Could they?
Ron had decided to ask a last resort of his, Padma Patil, but she had quickly rejected him, claiming she was a lesbian (never mind that just last week she’d been caught snogging a Hufflepuff boy). Ron had pretended he was okay with this, but it was starting to hit him how he’d actually have to take Blaise fucking Zabini to the Yule Ball. He spent an hour cursing and screaming in his dorm under a silencing charm.
Harry was doing about the same. Out of options, he tried to accept his fate, but every time he saw that smug face of Malfoy’s, that stupidly soft hair, he nearly lost it. He would not survive past tomorrow unless he got a date, and fast.
As dinner ended and the day dwindled away, Harry vowed to himself that he would find a way out of this.
One Day Until the Yule Ball
He didn’t. Neither of them did, and now Hermione Granger, with a self-satisfied smirk painted on her face, was mad with laughter.
“It’s time, boys.”
And so Harry went and found Malfoy in a random corridor, thankfully alone and sipping a glass of pumpkin juice. He approached him slowly, like any sudden movements would trigger an attack.
“Er, Malfoy, this might sound really weird, but I kind of noticed you don’t have a date for the ball, and well, I don’t either–”
“So what?” Draco realized what Harry was saying just as the words came out of his mouth, and he blushed three shades darker than a Weasley. “Oh, Potter, I–”
“Look, you obviously don’t have to say yes, but I think it’ll be a good way to avoid embarrassment for both of us.”
“So you’re only asking me, a guy and perhaps your least favorite one in the castle, because the great Harry Potter couldn’t get a girl?”
“Please don’t right now, Malfoy. And if you really care, it was Hermione’s idea, not mine.”
“What, so we’re supposed to be besties now? Boyfriends, even, just because she says so?” Draco hated to admit it, but his heart fluttered. What would it be like to be Potter’s boyfriend?
“No, Malfoy, you can avoid me all night if you really hate me that much. But please, please try.” Harry was suddenly nervous, wiping his palms off in what he hoped was a subtle manner. Meanwhile, Draco was blushing again; hearing Harry say please like that drove him absolutely mad in ways he wasn’t ready to admit.
“Alright. Be my date, Potter. But don’t be late, and wear a green tie.” The corners of Malfoy’s mouth turned into the ghost of a smile.
“What, green for Slytherin? Passionate about your house, are you?”
“No, Potter, not green for Slytherin. Green to match your eyes.”
The Day of the Yule Ball
To match your eyes, he had said. What the fuck, Malfoy? That was all Harry could think as he prepared his suit for the ball. Although Molly Weasley had preferred dress robes, both boys had adamantly refused and settled on sleek black suits instead. Ron’s tie was flaming Gryffindor red, while Harry’s (at Draco’s suggestion, though he would never tell his friends that) was bright Avada Kedavra green.
Now, they were anxiously getting ready, although no one could tell if they were anxious because they didn’t want to go or anxious because secretly, deep down, they did. Harry tried not to think about the second option while tying his tie.
“How do I look, Ron?”
“Good enough for Malfoy. And what about me?”
“Certainly good enough for Zabini.”
“Good, now let’s get this over with.”
They knocked on the door of the dorm Zabini and Malfoy shared until the two boys appeared in the doorway. They stared each other down for a moment until Malfoy reluctantly broke eye contact with Harry and instead motioned to his tie.
“I see you took my advice, Potter.” Blaise and Ron had the class to look confused, but Harry blushed darkly and cleared his throat.
“So, we should, uh, go.” Malfoy walked briskly away, expecting the others to follow.
Two Hours to the End of the Yule Ball
“Malfoy, why are you sitting here moping like an idiot?”
“Because I’m here. Alone.” He downed his drink, a sparkling cider of sorts, in one gulp.
“You’re here with me.” Harry was suddenly defensive; as much as he didn’t mean to come here with Malfoy, as much as he didn’t like Malfoy, he couldn’t let him be miserable.
“You hate me. I’m an asshole.”
“I don’t. I never have, Malfoy. As for whether or not you’re an asshole, I’d say you have been…until right now.” Hesitantly, Harry put his hand on Malfoy’s forearm. Malfoy flinched back, and suddenly Harry felt worse for him than he ever had. “I’m sorry, I–”
“It’s okay, Potter. Thank you. I’m not mopey anymore.”
“It’s not a problem, Malfoy. I asked you here, I’ll always help you when you need it.”
“Was it that simple? I could’ve ended this four-year feud by being nice one time?”
“Not just once. But I’m willing to try, if you are.” Harry’s hands shook as he reached for a glass, sipping from it nervously. The floor was lit with low twinkly lights, and slow, downright sensual music hummed out a tune. Malfoy looked up slowly, meeting Harry’s eyes.
“Fine. Let’s try, Potter.”
“Uh uh uh. Harry.”
“Oh, erm, alright. Well, Harry, what’s your favorite color?” Clearly feeling pressured, Draco asked the first question he thought of; if he and Potter were to be anything but enemies, it would help to know what kind of person he really was.
One Hour to the End of the Yule Ball
“Wait, so you only made fun of Hagrid because your dad told you to?”
“Yeah. Honestly, most things I’ve done were at my father’s instructions. I regret all of it, Harry, I’m sorry.”
“Ugh,” Harry groaned dramatically. “You’ve apologized like thirty times by now, Draco. Get over yourself.”
“Well excuse me for trying to be nice and take responsibility for my actions.”
“If you’re so nice, Draco, dance with me.”
Draco visibly stiffened, hand tightening around his glass so much that his knuckles were white. “What?”
“You heard me just fine.” A new song began to play, slow and soft, and couples were swaying in each others’ arms as Harry grasped Draco’s hand and left a burning kiss on it. “May I have this dance?”
He didn’t wait for a response, just dragged Draco onto the dance floor and put his hands on Draco’s hips. They were within mere inches of each other, their breaths mingling. Harry spotted Ron and Blaise across the hall, sitting across from each other and glaring. He pitied his best friend for a moment until Draco spoke again.
“I don’t like this dance, Potter. You’re holding me like I’m the girl.”
“Mhm, which one of us has a nine-step skincare regimen?” Draco blushed, glaring jokingly at Harry, but his arms didn’t move from around the other boy’s neck. Harry smirked as the song quieted down. “That’s what I thought, darling.”
They danced until the song came to a swift end, pressed up against one another. Draco wished he could say he didn’t like this, didn’t like the wonderfully casual domesticity he and Harry suddenly had, the wild, easy banter and comfortable ‘darling’s slipping from their lips, but he did. He liked it.
He liked him.
“I need to go. Now.”
“You–Draco, what?”
But the other boy was gone, dashing out of the hall and into the corridor. He shrugged his suit jacket off, jogging as far away as possible until he was breathing heavily. His heart pounded in his ears, but not because of the running. He tried to steady himself to no avail.
Being sort of friends with Potter was one thing, and Draco was okay with that. Going to the ball and dancing with Potter was okay, too. Hell, even flirting with Potter was fine. Until…until Draco realized it wasn’t just for fun. No, this was real, and Draco didn’t want it to go away. He wanted Harry forever, but he could never have him.
“Dray, what was that?” Harry’s words were rushed, breathless from running after him. “I thought…” Dray. It stung because Draco knew it meant nothing. Harry didn’t like him, not in the way Draco now wanted, no, needed, him to.
“Why are you messing with me, Potter? Why play with my feelings, what’s in it for you?”
“I’m not pranking you, Draco, and what happened to calling me Harry? I thought we were friends. Or something.”
“You really thought I’d believe you? You asked me to the ball the very day after I mocked you and you mocked me right back. There’s no way you really mean any of this. There’s no way you like me.”
“Draco, I don’t know what to say.” So he didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached over and touched his hand to Draco’s cheek, tracing a trail of freckles. He leaned in until their noses brushed, until Harry could smell his rich cologne and the cider he drank. “I promise you, Dray, I meant it. All of it. And I mean this, too.”
Their lips collided and Harry practically inhaled Draco, burying his hands in that platinum hair. In return, Draco wrapped his hands around Harry’s neck and pulled him impossibly closer. When they broke for a breath, Draco wanted to run, but Harry wouldn’t let him, pulling the boy into a hug.
“I like you, Draco. And, uh, I’m sorry for everything.” Harry breathed, cheeks warm.
“Shockingly, I like you, too, dimwit. But what the fuck do we do? It’s not like we can just date now.”
“Not right away, no, but I promise we’ll figure all that out later. Maybe, for now…we could dance again?”