In the common room the next night, Hermione was helping Harry with his parchment.

"Now, you don't want to say too much about yourself, but you don't want to say too little about yourself either. And you have to be specific about your date, but not very specific. Just generally specific." Hermione coached, her quill moving about quickly.

"Thanks, Hermione. That makes so much sense." Harry spoke from his spot on the carpet.

"So, what are you looking for in a person?"

"Um…I dunno."

"Well that's specific."

"Ok, um…I want him or her to be--"

"Did you actually just say him or her?!?" Hermione squealed, her inkwell spilling all over her robes. "Oh bloody hell…scourgify."

"N-no! I didn't! Now, where were we? I want her to be charming, witty, funny, um…"

"You know it's too late. I already put him or her."

"Meh. Someone I can have a good conversation with, who doesn't give a crap about me being famous, and…you should probably put "good in bed" as well."

"What?!?" Hermione spilled her ink again. Harry laughed.

"Well, you never know. She could be really hot."

"He or she."

"Stop that! It was a slip of the tongue!"

"You know what else your tongue could slip around…"

"Merlin, Hermione!" Harry blushed, wiping unwanted images out of his head.

"Ok and we've written your profile, so let's just go stick this into the Goblet."

"Fine. By the way, has Ron asked you to the ball yet?"

"What?!?"

"Never mind." Harry chuckled to himself as they walked to the Great Hall. Although, he'd probably feel pretty bad in three days when he was dancing with some charming and witty girl who could talk to him without gaping at his scar, and Ron without a date, because he couldn't ask Hhh

Hermione. Harry's thoughts were interrupted, however, when he crashed unexpectedly to the floor. He looked up and saw a familiar blonde scowling down at him.

"Watch it, Potter. Unlike you, I actually value my good looks." Harry stood up, confused. That sounded oddly like a compliment disguised as an insult. He looked down at Draco's hand, and the piece of parchment in it.

"So, the astounding Draco Malfoy can't find a date by himself?" Harry motioned toward the paper.

"Well, it's nice to know that you think I'm astounding," Malfoy spoke softly, and Harry blushed. He continued on, smirking. "But I wouldn't get your hopes up. I just can't seem to pick one of the many beautiful girls who follow me around constantly." At this point, Hermione pulled Harry by his arm into the Great Hall, where they deposited the parchment. A smaller bit of paper, shaped like a heart, fluttered out of the Goblet and into his hand.

"69." He said.

"What?!?" Hermione giggled.

"My number is 69."

"Wow. That has to mean something."

"Hermione!" Harry yelped. She just giggled, and ran up the stairs. Harry followed her slowly back to the common room. It was Christmas Eve, and the house elves had decorated the Gryffindor room in tacky baubles with lions in Santa hats. Harry walked up to his bed, and saw another heart shaped piece of paper on his pillow. He picked it up.

"Harry Potter, your match's number is 173." Was written on it in loopy writing. Harry indifferently stuck the paper in his robe's pocket. He then dressed himself in his pajamas, and climbed into bed, not caring that it was only 9:30. He had spent the entire day transfiguring his dress robes, leaving him magically exhausted. Besides, he told himself, he needed to save his energy for tomorrow, when he would be walking around the castle looking for number 173. And when he would be dancing with number 173. And kissing 173 goodnight. And… possibly doing other things with number 173? Harry fell asleep to dreams about flaming numbers dancing around him to music played by Dobby.

He woke up late the next morning confused, but ready to start his search. After showering, Harry dressed quickly, gripping the little paper heart in his pocket. Suddenly, Ron burst into the room, humming loudly and leaping about like some drunken ballerina.

"So, I'm guessing you asked Hermione and she said yes?" Ron slumped down.

"You could have at least let me say it. And the best part is, after she said yes, I passed Viktor Krum, and he scowled at me!"

"He scowls at everyone, Ron."

"Yeah, but he looked especially mean to me."

"Why is that good?" Harry asked, staring at Ron oddly.

"Because," Ron spoke slowly, as if Harry was a young child. "It obviously means that he was about to ask her, but I beat him to it! Ha!" Ron began to dance about again triumphantly, and Harry left his friend.

"Happy Christmas to you too, mate!" Ron called after him.

Harry walked up to every girl in Gryffindor, and his little paper heart did nothing. He did feel a bit guilty when Ginny walked up to him hopefully and asked "Are you number 18?" He had shaken his head, and she walked away, dejected. Harry then proceeded to talk with every Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff girl he came across. Nothing. Harry was starting to get discouraged by this. There was no way he was going to the ball with a Slytherin girl. But, he'd have to if it came up. He entered the Great Hall for lunch, and saw that it already was being decorated for the ball. Something entered Harry's mind suddenly. Number 173 could be a Beauxbaton student! Running to a table of beautiful French girls cloaked in powder blue, Harry tripped, and landed in someone's arms. He stood up blushing, hoping none of the girls had seen. About to thank the person that caught him, Harry looked up and found himself staring into the blue-gray eyes of Draco Malfoy.

"Watch it, Potter." Malfoy spoke. Looking down, he noticed that his arms were still on Harry's waist from the fall. A pink tinge stained Draco's cheeks, barely noticeable, and he stuck his hands into his pockets. Harry did the same.

"You watch it, Malfoy. I--" Harry stopped as he felt the paper beneath his hands burn. He pulled out the heart, and stared at it in amazement.

"Number 173 must be around here somewhere!" Harry spoke to no one in particular.

"Wait…did you say 173, Ha--Potter?" Malfoy asked, hoping Harry didn't notice how he almost used his first name. He didn't.

"Yeah. Wait…" Harry stopped staring at the heart and looked up at Draco. "Do you know who that is?"

"Well…um…yeah." Draco blushed, and pulled a paper heart of his pocket. Harry could barely read the heart's script: "Draco Malfoy, your match's number is 69." The two hearts rose out of the boy's palms, and met each other in midair. Then, in a flash of blue flames, they were gone. The girls at the Beauxbaton table stared.

"So…I guess that means we're going to the Yule Ball together." Draco spoke quietly.

"No we bloody well aren't!" Harry yelped, horrified. "I'm a guy! You're a guy! I hate you! You hate me!"

"You know, two blokes can go together," Draco said, trying to hide his pleasure of the whole situation. "And as for us hating each other…that could be remedied by this ball."

"Wait a second…" Harry spoke, realization hitting him. "Draco--I mean…Malfoy. Are you…?" Draco smiled.

"Maybe we should talk about this somewhere else. Like the ball." He looked up into Harry's eyes, using every ounce of Malfoy charm he had. "Go with me?" The charm worked. Harry was turning to jelly before his eyes. Damn, it was good being a Malfoy, Draco thought.

"Erm…o-okay. Sure. Yeah." Harry spoke without thinking. Something about the way Malfoy was looking at him, or maybe the way he was standing so close to Harry, made him defenseless.

"Great. I'll meet you outside your common room at eight. Oh, and Harry? Try to wear something not hideous." Draco stepped away from Harry and looked him up, even though he was wearing the school uniform. Harry blushed when he saw where Draco's eyes had traveled.

"S-sod off, Malfoy." Harry mumbled, trying to regain his composure.

"Oh come on, I think you can call me Draco." The blonde spoke seductively. All attempts at regaining composure were gone. Draco turned and walked away, either not noticing or not caring about the stares people were giving him. Harry walked back to his common room as well, dreading what he was going to have to tell his friends.