Work Text:
A month in and Draco still hadn’t got used to the food they served at Hogwarts.
‘What on earth is this?’ he poked at a brown mess with his fork.
‘Says here haggis. Some kind of meat?’ Grégoire said. ‘Let’s see…’ He flicked through his Visit Scotland guide. ‘Er… it’s innards.’
Draco shuddered. ‘I miss good food.’ Beauxbatons’s reputation for culinary glory was wholly deserved. Hogwarts offered bland, stodgy dinners and uninspiring lunches; moreover, the fact that the over-sixteens weren’t allowed to drink wine at dinner had struck the Beauxbatons students as rather uncouth.
‘Soon, you’ll be food.’ Blaise slid into the seat opposite Draco and served himself some mash. ‘I’m starving, that jeune Anglaise exhausted me.’
‘Spare us the details of your sex life. Please.’ Draco glanced at the far table across the hall, but Blaise was talking to him again.
‘Given any thought to the first task? It’s when most champions die a painful death, usually in the jaws of a monster. Once, they used dragons.’
‘That’s not a nice thing to call dragons,’ Grégoire murmured.
‘Well, they can’t hear me.’ Blaise shrugged. ‘So, Draco? Done any spying to see what you’ll be up against in a week’s time?’
‘I’m going to win with my wits and magical prowess, not with cheating.’ Draco sat up straighter.
Blaise raised an eyebrow.
Draco deflated. ‘No. I’ve searched the whole castle and the grounds; even delved in the Forbidden Forest. I can’t find a single creature they might be planning to throw at us. Surely, if they had trolls or dragons like you say, I’d see them?’
‘Maybe the creature they’ll use is tiny,’ Grégoire said. ‘Sprites or pixies.’
‘Yes, battling pixies for the Triwizard Tournament, what a challenging task,’ Draco sneered.
Noise from the other end of the room attracted his attention. It was that blasted Durmstrang champion with his cronies. Their table shook with laughter as the champion’s friend was regaling his schoolmates in what looked like an amusing story. A group of simpering girls hovered behind the champion, gazing longingly at his stupid hair and holding quills to ask for autographs. His meal forgotten, Draco glared at them when—
‘Why is she with him?’ he hissed, and Blaise and Grégoire turned to see.
‘Durmstrangs share a table with the Gryffindors,’ Grégoire replied. He was browsing through the horticultural section in his Visit Scotland guide.
‘She’s sitting right beside him,’ Draco insisted. ‘She’s a champion, too. What if they’re conspiring against me?’
Blaise scoffed. ‘I think the reason is simpler: Weasley has the hots for Potter. And rumour has it that it’s mutual.’
At that moment, Harry Potter turned from his friends to glance at Draco. He paused and gave him a tentative smile. Before Draco could decide whether to smile back or flip him, the Hogwarts champion, Ginevra Weasley, leaned in to whisper something in Potter’s ear.
So Draco flipped him. Potter’s face tightened and Draco turned to his friends. ‘I hate Potter. Pretending he’s so cool in his furs. Having adoring fans after him, just because he’s a mediocre Quidditch player.’
‘Well,’ Blaise said, pushing his plate away and filling his glass with pumpkin juice, ‘Potter signed for the Bristol Buzzards over the summer. They’re a huge deal here in England; no wonder he has people stalking him. Besides, he’s hot.’
‘You’re straight, Blaise,’ Draco said, derisively. ‘You’re also blind. Potter is not attractive in any imaginable way.’
Grégoire raised his eyes from his travel guide. ‘Didn’t you have a poster of him back when he signed for the British Junior League?
‘Shut up, Grégoire.’
Draco didn’t know why Potter bothered him so much, but he did. Potter liked to smile too much; he often wore his Quidditch leathers, which hugged his legs and his arse in a very disturbing way; everywhere he went he caused a commotion where fans from all three schools crowded him to ask for an autograph or a Quidditch story or — in the case of a daring Hogwarts witch called Romilda Vane — a kiss. The fact Romilda Vane’s hair was cursed off the next day had nothing to do with Draco whatsoever. Draco’s list of Potter’s negative attributes grew as he observed him closely (Potter was a mediocre student; his hair was always a mess; he wore glasses. Draco didn’t know why the last part was a drawback. He just knew that, in Potter’s case, it was).
Which was why, after his intensive but distant observation, Draco was shocked to see Potter right in front of him the day before the first task.
Up close, Potter felt disconcertingly vivid. As if everything about him had been turned up to eleven: the colour of his eyes, the warmth in his expression, the woodsy smell emanating from his body, the hint of taut muscles under his sleeves, the smile he was giving Draco now. Not a broad grin like the ones he dispensed to his fans, but something more cautious and, at the same time, seemingly more genuine.
‘Can I talk to you?’ Potter asked, glancing up and down the empty corridor.
‘Très bien.’ Draco crossed his arms.
Potter leaned in closer, his scent flooding Draco’s nostrils and wreaking havoc in Draco’s body. ‘The first task…’ Potter lowered his voice and licked his lips. Draco swallowed hard. ‘The first task is thestrals.’
‘What?’
Potter glanced at Draco’s face. His eyes seemed to catch on Draco’s lips as a blush spread on his cheeks. ‘Taming a feral Thestral.’ He still stood very close to Draco. Draco needed to move an inch and he could touch him.
But he couldn’t comprehend why Potter shared this information with him. ‘Are you taking the piss?’
Potter stepped back and, unconsciously, Draco followed, touching his arm. He realized what he did only when Potter glanced at Draco’s hand, his blush getting deeper.
‘I mean,’ Draco coughed, ‘how can I trust that you’re not misleading me?’ He let his hand drop, instantly regretting it.
Voices echoed from down the corridor and Potter pulled away. ‘You can trust me,’ he said, face earnest. With a last searching look in Draco’s eyes, he tossed his fur jacket over his shoulders and strode away from Draco.
Draco returned to the Beauxbatons carriage, mulling over the information. Taming a feral thestral wasn’t too gruesome a task; better a thestral than a dragon. If only Draco could fucking see it.
No one talked about anything else in the school for days after the first task was completed. Arguments over which champion’s strategy had been better rang out in corridors and at meal times. Shaken by his experience but hiding it — feral thestrals were notoriously wild — Draco basked in the glory of his taking first place and the attention that accompanied it.
Until the Yule Ball was announced. Immediately, everyone’s focus shifted from Draco onto eligible date No. 1 and perennial obsession: Harry fucking Potter.
‘Have you found a date for the ball?’ Draco asked as Blaise buttered his toast, bemoaning the lack of Nutella, to which the Beauxbatons students were particularly partial.
Blaise paused in his Nutella-induced tirade. ‘I don’t know who to pick. Do I go with Demelza Robins from Hogwarts or Millie Bulstrode from Durmstrang to show a spirit of international cooperation, or do I take Daphne to demonstrate support for our school?’
‘I hear Daphne’s going with a Durmstrang. Also, she vowed never to speak to you again.’
Blaise frowned. ‘She’s so dramatic; I only stood her up for forty-five minutes. How about you, Greg?’
Grégoire shrugged. ‘I don’t think I have a chance in hell.’
‘Who are you after?’ Blaise laughed. ‘Harry Potter?’
Draco snapped to look at Grégoire. ‘Are you planning to ask Potter out?’
‘No,’ he blushed. ‘Someone else. I just… I don’t think they even know who I am.’
Draco exhaled. He couldn’t help but look at the other side of the hall, where Potter was holding court among friends and admirers. Noticing, Blaise smirked. ‘It’s not certain, but I’ve got it on good authority that Weasley is about to make a play for Potter. And that Potter’s going to say yes; if only to spare her heartbreak. She’s going to ask him after lessons today. I’m telling you in case you wanted to get in there first.’ He smiled wickedly at Draco, who glared at him.
‘Why would I ever ask Potter as my date? That’s absurd.’ Draco stabbed his steak and glanced at the Gryffindor table where Weasley’s long hair brushed against Potter as she spoke in his ear. Why on earth did she have to lean so close to him? Potter wasn’t deaf.
The last lesson of the day for Draco was Herbology, which he shared with the Durmstrang students. They were repotting Venomous Tentaculas, a task that required focus and a calm mind, two things Draco lacked right now. He sneaked a glance across the room. Potter was absorbed in his task, his sleeves rolled up, showing the cords of his forearms as he tackled the plant, deftly avoided the poisonous spikes, and forced it in its new pot. As Draco gazed at him, Potter turned and glanced over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Draco’s. They both quickly looked away.
A thud.
‘Gregoire, qu'est-ce que tu as fait?’ Draco sighed, seeing his friend on the ground, slithering vines wrapped around his leg.
‘Je sais pas,’ Grégoire gasped, but a student crouched down to help him.
‘Here, let me. Stay still,’ he said, and Grégoire froze, his eyes on the blond boy’s face.
Draco looked up and across the room to see Potter staring at him. This time Potter held Draco’s gaze for a long moment. Draco, heart beating fast and certain his cheeks had betrayed him, grabbed a new plant to repot, elbowing a Durmstrang student in the process, who scowled at him.
After the lesson finished, everyone filed out but Potter remained, fiddling with his leather gloves and unrolling his sleeves. Draco waved Grégoire away. ‘Shoo,’ he whispered and pretended to be packing his school bag.
A moment later, the greenhouse was empty. Draco straightened and looked at Potter, who was clearly lingering. ‘Um, hey.’
‘Hi,’ Potter said, a slow smile spreading on his face.
Draco approached him, hoping Potter wouldn’t hear his drumming heart. ‘Been meaning to thank you for the tip. Merci beaucoup.’
‘’Twas nothing. You did really well in the task. You deserved the first place.’
Draco felt a warm flutter in his chest at the compliment. ‘Your magical lasso was a great idea, too. I didn’t know you could see—’ He paused, realising too late what he was asking.
‘I lost a friend, recently.’ Potter swallowed, his face clouding.
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ Draco paused, searching for a way to keep the conversation going, and Potter with him. ‘So, yeah… the magic was impressive. Shame you lost marks for time, though.’
Potter shrugged. ‘It took me much longer than either of you to get the medallion from around its neck. Ginny scared the poor creature, bless her; but you were fast. And your idea to throw glitter over the paddock so you could see the thestral… genius!’
Draco grinned. The glitter had been an idea born of desperation, but it’d made for a good spectacle, according to Blaise.
The smell of soil and plants wafted in the air mixing with the same woodsy scent he’d caught on Potter the other day. It made Draco’s head spin. Without realising, he’d stepped closer to Potter. ‘You’re going to the Yule Ball, right?’ Inwardly, he wanted to kick himself. Of course Potter was going to the ball; he had to. Draco’s nerves had taken over his mental faculties.
Potter, however, didn’t seem to find his question stupid. ‘I am. Actually, I wanted to ask you…’
Someone must have sucked the air from the greenhouse, because Draco struggled to breathe. ‘Yeah?’
Potter seemed to steel himself. ‘Would you like to go to the ball with me?’
‘Yes.’ Draco exhaled, and marvelled at the sight of Potter’s radiant smile. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’
‘Great.’ Potter was inches away from Draco. ‘I’m-I’m glad.’
Draco gave in and touched Potter, running a hand over his arm and enjoying the way Potter’s eyes burned with sudden heat. ‘I thought you might go with Weasley,’ Draco whispered.
‘Not really my type.’ Potter reached out and caressed Draco’s cheek, and Draco leaned in the touch. Potter’s hand felt warm and strong and just right. ‘But you…’ Potter said, his breath on Draco’s face. ‘Seeing you in the paddock with glitter all over your hair, riding the bucking thestral…’ He brushed his lips against Draco’s, and Draco shivered and wrapped an arm around Potter’s neck to keep him close.
‘I’m good at riding,’ he whispered back, lips playing on Potter’s.
Potter leered. ‘Me too,’ he said and kissed him, his strong arms pulling Draco flush against him. Draco ran his hands over Potter’s Durmstrang jacket, holding onto the furs while Potter proceeded to drive him mad with his tongue and the roll of his hips.
Post-credits scene:
The news that Harry Potter asked Draco Malfoy to the ball spread like wildfire through the school.
Blaise grinned at Draco as he hurried to his seat. ‘Merci, mon ami! I’ve got a date for the ball, she’s spectacular, and I owe it all to you.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Ginny Weasley,’ Blaise said with relish. He glanced behind his shoulder and waved at Weasley, who gave him a small smile. Blaise grabbed a roll of bread. ‘She was disappointed that Potter was going to the ball with you,’ he explained. ‘So I swooped in and asked her if she’d like to learn what French kissing is really like.’
Draco rolled his eyes. ‘That was atrocious. Do your lines work, Blaise?’
Blaise grinned. ‘Turns out they do.’
Draco gave Grégoire a “can you believe this guy” look. Greg shrugged. ‘That’s the same thing I told Neville when I asked him out. It works.’