Romance is the glamour which turns the dust of everyday life into a golden haze.
Elinor Glyn
"Holy shit," is the first thing out of Harry's mouth when Draco sees him that evening, and it makes him look around to be sure that he hadn't missed something.
But there's nothing. The corridor outside the Great Hall is a drifting mass of people moving toward the large double doors, and nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. "What?" Draco asks.
"You look…"
Draco looks down at himself. He'd chosen a higher-end Justine St-Clair dress robe – an inky black piece with long, fitted sleeves and elaborate silver embroidery winding around the wrists, up the forearms, around the collar, and along the lower hem. Draco had never been anyone's definition of fashion-conscious, but he'd been raised in the world of the idle rich, and he had, if nothing else, an eye for quality.
"Good, hopefully."
"Better than good," Harry says.
"You don't clean up so bad, yourself," Draco remarks, eyeing his suit – a matte black three piece with a white shirt and a tie of bright Gryffindor scarlet. "Where'd you get that suit?"
"I – uh, Gladrags," he answers. Harry tears his eyes away from the lines and folds of Draco's robe, looking a bit flustered.
"All right?"
"You just – you look great. Amazing."
Draco realizes, rather abruptly, that Harry thinks he's attractive. Between the long months of agonizing unconsummated romantic tension and the past few weeks full of lengthy sessions of Harry kissing him up walls in abandoned hallways between classes (which, Draco had since decided, was a very welcome addition to their relationship), Draco had of course known that there was chemistry, but he'd never really considered the fact that Harry might find him physically as well as intellectually appealing. The idea that Harry appreciated him for his body as well as his mind—
Draco swallows a sudden lump in his throat and puts that thought away before he lets himself get too far with it. Now is not the time.
"Thank you," Draco says instead. "Shall we?"
Harry smiles and moves forward to link his arm in Draco's, and his heart thumps against his ribs at the heat and the closeness, and together they make their way into the Great Hall.
Gossip, as it always does, had spread more quickly and more pervasively than a virus, and when Harry and Draco first make their entrance, there is a noticeable hush that falls through the room. Draco can feel a thousand eyes prickling his skin like nettle, and he is suddenly glad that he doesn't care as much as he could about the opinion of others.
In any case, the Great Hall looks beautiful, done up with silver streamers and dominated by a giant Christmas tree. Though the Yule Ball hasn't begun in any formal capacity, the music is already playing and there are a lot of couples dancing. Draco would have liked more time to admire it, but before they've gained their bearings, they're being approached by the Durmstrang champion and his date.
"Harry!" says the date, a bushy-haired Gryffindor girl that Draco vaguely recognizes. "You look great. And this must be Draco!"
Harry sighs, looking put-off. "Hermione," he says, "he's really not—"
"You promised an introduction," she returns, her smile tight and her words drawn.
Harry sighs again, looking resigned, and just a little bit annoyed.
"Draco," he says, "this is Hermione Granger."
"Charmed," Hermione says at once. Her grip on her date's arm tightens.
"Nice to meet you," Draco says, trying to determine the cause of her slightly manic expression.
"And you know Viktor Krum, of course."
"A pleasure." Krum's accent is thick, but not impenetrable. He inclines his head.
Draco smiles thinly. "Dobar wecher, gospodin Krum. Vesela Koleda."
That catches Krum's attention. "You speak Bulgarian!"
"Bits and pieces," Draco returns. "I know Russian, in any case, which gives me something of a head start. All those Serbian languages share commonalities."
"It's so good to finally meet you in person," Hermione says, and Draco notices the subtle tensing of her face that only makes her look madder and more manic. "After nearly four years as rivals."
Harry sighs. Draco cants his head to the side.
"I'm sorry," he says, "rivals?"
"Well, intellectual rivals, perhaps!"
Her tone was somewhere between jocular and angry. Draco wonders if this is one of those social cues that's obvious to everyone but him, and suddenly wishes he hadn't come.
"Hermione's been sort of—" Harry begins, but falters, looking between her and Draco, "—uh, sort of in competition with you. You've gotten top marks every year since first, and she's sort of…"
"Oh," Draco says like that explains everything, even though it explains nothing and Draco is even more confused.
"I'm sure you've noticed," she says, and her grip on Krum's arm is so tight that he's looking down at her hands with an expression of pain. "I've come in second! Second to you. Every single year. For three years."
"I don't really pay attention to the ranking," Draco admits. The response seems to anger her even further and Draco's not sure why.
"Of course you don't." Her voice is tight.
"Herr-me-own, your hand—" Krum begins, but she keeps talking.
"What is your secret?" she asks. "Harry says you don't even study, but I think we both know that with marks like yours, that's simply not possible."
"Hermione," Harry says, sounding pained.
"I've been tutored by Professor Snape since I was very young," Draco answers. "I completed the Hogwarts curriculum independently when I was six."
Hermione laughs and it is a terrifying sound. "Did you indeed! Did you indeed."
"Oh, wow," Harry says loudly, "the music's starting up – the champion's dance! Draco, are you ready?"
Draco doesn't have time to answer. Harry tugs him along by the wrist until they're at the center of the dance floor, where the other students have given berth. The other two champions had also taken Ravenclaws, Draco notices with some surprise – Cedric Diggory had taken Cho Chang, and Fleur Delacour had taken Roger Davies. Draco would have liked to think that it made Viktor Krum and Hermione the odd couple out, but he couldn't make himself believe that. As they took their places on the dance floor, Draco felt all the eyes back on them.
"I'm sorry about Hermione," Harry whispers as the music starts up, and after taking one of Harry's hands and placing the other in his shoulder, they start a slow, even sashay across the floor. "She's really nice, she's just – she doesn't like not being the smartest person in the room. She's pretty competitive."
"I don't think she likes me," Draco says with a frown.
"This is hard," Harry says, looking down at their feet.
"That's because you're trying to waltz to a duple meter song."
"What?"
"The waltz is a triple meter dance, and – never mind. Follow my lead."
With Draco guiding, the dance goes much smoother. Harry gets the hang of it quickly, and soon enough he's moving quite naturally. By the crescendo, Harry's attention is back on Draco. Despite the expression of open adoration that is soon falling across Harry's features, Draco can't feel at ease. The judging eyes of his peers are burning into him.
"Penny for your thoughts," Harry says.
As they usually are, Draco's thoughts are in several places at once, operating simultaneously. They should be much brighter than they are.
In one corner of his mind, Draco is feeling exposed and vulnerable. He does not and has never concerned himself with the opinions of those who would judge him for who he is, but it would be ridiculous to ignore the fact that there are people in this school who could, and would, make his life hell for daring to openly express affection for Harry. It certainly doesn't help that, since the kiss – which, with the clarity of hindsight, Draco does rather regret doing so publicly – their blossoming affections have become a matter of national interest.
In another corner of his mind, Draco is and has been every day since he learned of it working through the news that his mother is pregnant. He is constantly preoccupied by questions that he can't answer – will he be a part of his sister's life? How can he be expected to be a big brother to a sibling on the opposite side of a war? Will she even be safe? Will he ever even meet her?
And then, of course, in the darkest and most terrible corner, Draco is perpetually frustrated with his inability to see through whatever plan the Dark Lord has concocted. He knows nothing beyond the fact that he needs Harry specifically – but for what? Why the Triwizard Tournament? What is the ultimate goal? Why can't Draco figure it out?
"Draco?"
He looks up from where he'd been staring into the floor. Harry is watching him in concern.
"My thoughts aren't worth a penny," Draco says, rather belatedly.
The song ends to scattered applause. A new song starts up, and other couples filter onto the dance floor. Harry and Draco gravitate away, to the edge of the room and through a pair of double doors leading into a rose garden set up for the Yule Ball. It's chilly and snow-dusted, lit insufficiently, and breathtakingly beautiful.
"I know what you look like when you're scared," Harry says, and Draco looks out of him. "And I also know what you look like when you're scared and trying not to let on."
"I'm not that easy to read," Draco protests.
"You are a little bit."
Draco tilts his head up toward the dark winter sky. Ever since he was very young, Draco has been a creature of the cold, always favoring chill to heat. An icy wind rushes past and Draco breathes it in, relishing the smell of snow and the shiver it sparks down his spine.
"You can tell me."
Draco looks back down at Harry. In the silvery light of the rose garden, the lines of his face are put into hazy relief. Draco is struck by the sudden notion that it's fine – or, at least, it will be. Seeing Harry's expression of concern and affection fills him with a strange feeling of invincibility.
"What am I going to do with you, Harry Potter?"
Harry frowns like he doesn't understand.
"I have every reason in the world to be terrified," he continues. "There are forces conspiring against us and I can't figure out how or to what end. Half the school thinks us sinful deviants, and the Wizarding World is judging us for everything we are and many things we are not. By all rights, we are a mess."
Harry doesn't answer, though by his expression of concern he seems like he wants to.
"And somehow when I'm here with you it all just blows away like so much snow in the wind."
A moment passes. Harry's expression softens. One arm slides around Draco's back and easily, too easily, frighteningly easily, Draco melts into him, hands on his shoulders, head on his chest.
"You know what your problem is?" Harry asks.
Draco hums. He doesn't care as much as he probably should, but he likes to hear the sounds through Harry's chest when he speaks.
"You think too much."
Draco hums again, lifting the end so it sounds interrogative.
"You've got to give that gorgeous brain of yours a rest every once in a while or you'll think yourself to death."
Harry's lips press to his temple and Draco lifts his head to catch a second kiss against his mouth. Draco loves these kisses, almost more than he loves the ferocious, breath-stealing snogs up the hallway walls between classes. The softness, the closeness, the heat of him that melts all of Draco's hard edges – Draco wonders how he ever made it fourteen years without these kisses.
"It doesn't just turn on and off, you know," Draco says into Harry's mouth.
"I'm pretty sure I can at least shut it up for a while," Harry answers, and then he's kissing him, really kissing him, thoroughly, deeply, fantastically, the sort of kiss that makes Draco's head spin and his toes curl. Harry's arms around his waist tighten and pull him that last impossible inch closer, and Draco tangles his fingers in Harry's hair.
Time passes. Draco's not really sure how much. When Harry pulls back again, Draco blinks dazedly against the soft silvery light.
"How'd I do?" Harry asks.
Draco can't remember what he's talking about. "What?"
Harry smirks.