The Great Hall was a shimmering cathedral of ice and magic, draped in silver frost that sparkled under the enchanted ceiling. For most, it was a night of unprecedented glamour, but for Harry, it felt like a slow walk to the gallows. He shifted uncomfortably in his dress robes, the heavy fabric feeling stiflingly traditional and entirely too green.
Beside him, Ron looked like a Victorian nightmare, his robes a chaotic explosion of moldy lace and frayed velvet that smelled faintly of a trunk that hadn't been opened since the turn of the century.
The students gathered in the entrance hall, a sea of silk and velvet. Harry tried to shrink into the shadows of a stone pillar, but his status as a minor participant in the Triwizard Competition made him a beacon. He felt the weight of the school's gaze, but one pair of eyes felt sharper, colder, and more persistent than the rest.
Across the hall, Draco Malfoy stood like a sculpture of winter itself. His dress robes were made of high-collared, midnight-black velvet that made his pale skin and white-blonde hair look almost luminous. Beside him, Pansy Parkinson clung to his arm, looking like a ruffled pink carnation, but Draco seemed barely aware of her presence. His focus was fixed on the Gryffindors.
"Well, look at this," Draco drawled, his voice cutting through the soft orchestral music as he sauntered toward them. The crowd parted instinctively, sensing the impending collision. Draco stopped a few feet away, his gaze landing first on Ron. A look of genuine, unfiltered horror crossed his face.
"Weasley, I knew your family was struggling, but did you actually dig those up from a graveyard?" Draco sneered, gesturing toward the lace ruffs at Ron's wrists. "They look like they were stolen from a particularly unfashionable great-aunt. I've seen house-elves with more dignity in their dishcloths."
Ron turned a shade of red that clashed violently with the maroon of his robes. "Shut up, Malfoy," he hissed, his hands curling into fists, but Draco had already moved on.
Draco's eyes flickered briefly to Hermione, who was standing nearby with Viktor Krum. For a split second, the sneer faltered. He took in her smoothed hair and the elegant flow of her periwinkle robes. There was a flicker of something that wasn't quite hatred but a reluctant, begrudging acknowledgment that she looked, for once, like she belonged in the world he inhabited. He didn't speak to her; he simply looked away, as if admitting she looked tolerable was a crime he wasn't yet ready to commit.
Then, his gaze finally settled on Harry. The atmosphere between them changed instantly. The biting mockery he had used on Ron vanished, replaced by a strange, suffocating tension. Draco didn't laugh. He didn't jeer. He simply stared, his grey eyes tracing the line of Harry's jaw and the way the deep green of his robes made his eyes look like precious gems.
"You look ridiculous, Potter," Draco said, though the words lacked their usual venom. They sounded breathless, almost like a confession disguised as an insult. "This taste of yours is truly abysmal. Who let you pick these out? They look like they were tailored for someone twice your age and half your height."
"I didn't exactly have a personal tailor," Harry snapped, though he found himself stepping closer rather than away. He felt a strange, magnetic pull toward the boy in black velvet.
Draco's eyes drifted toward the girls standing near Harry, Parvati and Padma Patil. The twins looked stunning in their vibrant pink and orange robes, but Draco's expression soured as he watched Harry standing between them. He looked at the way Parvati's hand rested near Harry's arm, and a flash of something dark and possessive flickered in his pupils.
"Isee you've brought reinforcements," Draco said, his voice dropping to that low, jagged register that Harry had heard in the forest. "Is that why you look so uncomfortable? Or is it just the realization that you have no idea what you're doing? You look funny, Harry. Like a boy trying to play at being a man."
He used the name again. Harry. It was a soft strike against Harry's chest, a secret language spoken in the middle of a crowded room. To anyone else, Draco was just being his usual, arrogant self, criticizing Harry's fashion and his choice of company. But Harry could feel the heat radiating off him.
He could see that Draco wasn't looking at the Patil twins. He wasn't looking at the ice sculptures or the feast. He was looking at Harry with an intensity that felt like he was trying to memorize him.
Draco reached out, his hand hovering for a fraction of a second near the collar of Harry's robes. He adjusted a stray thread with a sharp, trembling motion, his fingers glancing against the skin of Harry's neck. The touch was electric, a brief spark in the cold air.
"Try not to trip over your own feet tonight, Potter," Draco whispered, leaning in so close that Harry could smell the crisp, wintery scent of his cologne. "It would be a shame for the upcoming 'Great Champion' to fall before the dancing even begins."
Pansy gave a tug on Draco's arm, whining about the music starting, but Draco didn't move immediately. He lingered in Harry's space, his gaze dropping to Harry's mouth before snapping back to his eyes. The protectiveness from the forest was still there, hidden under layers of velvet and pride.
He hated that Harry was here with someone else. He hated that Harry was the center of attention. But more than anything, he seemed to hate the fact that he couldn't look away.
Draco finally turned, allowing Pansy to lead him toward the Great Hall, but he looked back over his shoulder one last time. It wasn't a look of triumph. It was the look of someone who was drowning and had just realized that the person he was supposed to hate was his only lifeline.
Harry stood frozen, the lace of Ron's robes and the chatter of the crowd fading into a blur. He adjusted his collar where Draco had touched him, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He knew he was supposed to be angry. He was supposed to be offended by the insults to his taste and his bestfriend. But all he could think about was the way Draco's eyes had softened for a split second when they were close enough to touch.
The Yule Ball was supposed to be a night of celebration, but as Harry watched the black-clad figure of his rival disappear into the hall, he realized the real tournament hadn't even started yet. The real battle was the one happening behind his ribs, and for the first time, he wasn't sure he wanted to win.
The music of the Yule Ball was a shimmering, frantic waltz that felt like a mockery of the storm brewing inside Draco's chest. Every time he spun Pansy Parkinson across the floor, his eyes were locked over her shoulder, tracking the messy shock of black hair across the room.
He hated the way Pansy's hand felt on his arm, heavy and cloying, when his skin was still humming with the memory of the forest. His jaw tightened until it ached as he watched Parvati lean in close to Harry, her silk robes brushing against the green velvet of Harry's coat.
A surge of pure, possessive venom rose in his throat. He wanted to cross the distance, to shove everyone aside, and to replace Harry's clumsy stance with something certain. He didn't want to be dancing with a girl who meant nothing; he wanted his hands firmly on Harry's waist, guiding him through the steps, feeling the heat of Harry's body through the layers of formal robes.
When the Patil twins finally drifted away, their faces clouded with boredom at their dates' lack of enthusiasm, Draco felt a wave of relief so sharp it nearly made him stumble. The space around Harry was empty again, and Draco could finally breathe.
Harry, for his part, was drowning in a sea of his own confusion. He went through the motions of the dance like a clockwork soldier, his hands resting awkwardly on Parvati's waist, but his mind was twenty feet away. Every time the crowd shifted, he caught a glimpse of Draco, cool, elegant, and looking like a prince of ice.
He didn't want to be holding Parvati. He wanted his hands on Draco's shoulders, feeling the tension of those midnight-black robes. He wanted to feel the sharp, crisp scent of Draco's cologne instead of the flowery perfume that was giving him a headache. He watched the way Draco moved, the fluid grace of his steps, and felt a desperate, irrational longing to be the one leaning into that space.
When the girls left, Harry didn't feel lonely; he felt unburdened. He stood by the refreshment table, his eyes instinctively searching the silver-draped hall until they met a pair of grey ones. For a heartbeat, the music stopped. The rivalry, the tournament, and the expectations of the school vanished, leaving only two boys who were exhausted by the weight of the masks they were forced to wear.