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Draco had never enjoyed parties. He’d always gone - mainly because he had no choice - but not once in his life had he enjoyed them. He mostly just followed his parents around the rooms as they drank wine and socialized with the people with money and connections, looking haughty and nodding on cue. He could never say he hated them, of course; he knew what his parents would tell him.
“The point isn’t to have fun,” his father would scold. Draco knew that. The point was to talk to people with less money and more power than them; to make impressions and donations and spread their web influence as far as they could spread it. He knew this. He had been taught this from the very start. So he never complained.
The seventh year Hogwarts Christmas party, however, was a different story. It was tradition, the final night before Christmas holidays began, to host an optional party for the seventh years to attend to commemorate their last year at school. As with the Yule Ball, younger students were permitted to attend if they were invited by a seventh year, but for the most part it was limited to the graduating students.
Draco really didn’t understand what his parents expected him to gain from attending it - there was hardly anyone noteworthy at this godforsaken school. There was no point in making connections to them. His parents were already in with the most important wizarding families; he hardly thought he would make much impact at some silly little school party. But he went, because his father had written and told him it would be “advisable to attend” (which really meant “do it or else”) and his mother had added that she “hoped to hear good things” (which really meant he’d better make some good impressions, or else).
So, he would go. But that didn’t mean he would enjoy it.
Thus, he found himself sulking over by a window, wondering if it was too early to leave. Surely he’d been there long enough that his parents would be pleased to hear of it. He’d even made an effort to socialize - talking it up with a sixth year Hufflepuff girl who was the daughter of some ministry official or other. That is, until her seventh year Ravenclaw boyfriend stepped in and whisked her away - as if Draco would ever be interested in her . She was so far from his type it was laughable.
Speaking of his type…
Harry Potter was making his way through the crowd, holding a glass of punch and looking spectacularly lost. It was the first time Draco had caught a glimpse of him on his own all night. He was always surrounded by his faithful sidekicks Granger and Weasley, and - annoyingly - the Weasley girl who couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off him. Not that Draco could blame her - he did look rather stunning in his deep green dress robes that brought out his eyes (even though they were a tad too big for him). The prat.
He didn’t seem to notice Draco as he navigated towards the window. He seemed to be too busy scanning the crowd (no doubt for Granger and Weasley, who - Draco was almost a hundred per cent certain - must have making out in some broom closet) to notice much of anything.
Draco couldn’t resist.
“Lost something there, Potter?” he called, loud enough for Harry to hear him over the din of the crowd. “Your dignity, perhaps?”
Potter looked at him then, the familiar expression of utter loathing etched across his face. “Shove off, Malfoy.”
Typical. “I’m afraid you won’t have any luck finding it here,” he goaded, completely ignoring Potter’s words. “I’m sure your dignity was lost forever the day you decided to be friends with blood traitors and mudbloods.”
Predictably, Potter was coming closer to him with every word. He really was far too easy to aggravate.
“I’d rather have no dignity than have no decency,” he snarled. “Walking around, thinking you’re better than everyone else - tell me, is your pedestal any fun?”
“You want to be careful who you insult, Potter.”
“Why?” he laughed. “You’ll tell your father? How long are you going to cower in his shadow, Malfoy? Grow up and learn to fight your own battles.”
They were face to face now; Draco had to look up to look Potter in the eye. He was so damn tall. The prick. “Is that a challenge?” he said softly. He was going for threatening but he felt he’d sounded more enraptured . Thankfully Potter didn’t pick up on it. He never had been the brightest.
“Maybe it is,” he whispered back. Draco didn’t miss the way his hand moved towards his wand; he reached for his own, quickly, thinking if he could just reach his first he could cast an impediment jinx and avoid making a scene -
“Harry!”
Both boys’ gazes snapped away from each other’s faces and toward the sound of the voice. Hermione Granger ( of course ) was half running towards them. Her robes were slightly askew and her hair was looking somewhat disheveled; her eyes were concerned and reproachful and her hand was halfway to her wand.
“We’ve been looking all over for you!” she exclaimed. I’ll bet , thought Draco scornfully.
“Sorry Hermione,” Harry muttered. “I’ll be right there.” He turned to leave, shooting a last contemptuous look at Draco.
But he stopped awkwardly mid step, as if he’d walked into an invisible wall.
“What the - ” he tried to take another step. Couldn’t. Turned to Draco with his wand up and his eyes ablaze. “What did you do?”
Draco scoffed. “Please. As if I’d do anything to keep you near me.” To prove his point, he tried to walk away -
But bounced right back as he found himself faced with the same resistance as Harry had been. “What the hell?” he muttered. He tried to step to the right, and met the same barrier. A step to the left yielded the same result. He whirled around.
“Potter,” he snapped. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it.”
“I’m not doing anything!”
“Obviously you are.”
“Obviously I’m not.”
“Well, I find that hard to believe seeing as -”
“Guys?”
Once again, the attention of both boys - who had stepped closer to one another in order to shout right in each other’s faces - was drawn to Hermione Granger. She was not looking at them, but rather above them, her face red and slightly horrified.
As one, the two boys looked up.
Oh no.
Hanging from the ceiling above them, glistening innocently in the warm yellow light, was a clipping of mistletoe. Charmed mistletoe, judging by their current situation.
“ No ,” Potter said, flinging himself as far from Draco as the invisible barrier would permit. “No way am I kissing him. I’d rather snog Trevor.”
He’d rather snog a toad, would he? Draco tried to ignore the pang of hurt that brought (he also tried to ignore the way his heart was pounding with nervous excitement at the thought of kissing Harry Potter - something he’d wanted to do his entire goddamn life). “The feeling is mutual, Potter,” Draco sneered. “I don’t want you anywhere near my lips. I’ve just brushed my teeth, you see, and I don’t want you contaminating everything.”
“Don’t worry. That’s not going to happen any time soon.”
“It had better,” Granger snapped. “Harry, Ron and I need you for - things.” She glanced at Draco as she said it and he got the feeling it was more of their secretive, saving the world shit. As usual. “It’s important.”
Potter glanced at her, then back at Draco, who was doing his best to school his expression into one of casual contempt. He looked distraught, torn between his loyalty to his friends and his loathing for Draco.
“You don’t think this will wear off?” he asked Granger, slightly desperately.
“It might,” she conceded. “But probably not for a while, and we really do need you now .”
He stared at her a moment longer, clearly weighing his options, then groaned and turned back to Draco with an expression of absolute disgust. “Fine. I’ll kiss him.”
Draco’s stomach did a backflip. “Don’t I get any say in this?” he asked, trying to sound affronted.
“No,” Potter snapped, taking a step closer to Draco. “Let’s just get this over with.”
They were close enough now that Draco could feel Harry’s breath on his cheek and see the flecks of gold in his eyes. Draco took a quick, nervous glance around - but no one was paying them attention. He tried to hold in his sigh of relief. “Fine,” he hissed. His heart was pounding fit to burst. He tried his best to look as disgusted as Potter did, and to not think about how full his lips looked.
Potter started to lean down. Stopped. Draco fought to hide his disappointment. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll make you regret being born.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Afraid everyone will know the famous Harry Potter was kissing another bloke? Afraid they’ll all think you’re a queer? Well don’t worry, Potter. I have no intention of letting anyone know I kissed scum like y -”
Potter’s lips crashed down against his own, effectively cutting him off. They were dry, Draco noted, and pressing too hard for it to feel very nice. He smelled of apples and fire and something Draco couldn’t quite place but loved anyway. A bit of Potter’s hair brushed against Draco’s cheek. It was soft. Draco wondered how it would feel to run his hands through it; to brush his fingers through the tangles; to feel it slide like silk between his fingers.
He never found out.
Potter pulled away all too soon, though his eyes lingered on Draco’s face a moment longer. He was blushing, Draco noted with some satisfaction, and his pupils were blown so wide the green was almost invisible. He opened his mouth as if to say something - probably “I hate you”, or something along those lines, Draco figured. Closed it again. His eyebrows knit into a frown.
He turned so fast the hem of his robes hit Draco’s leg, and marched away without a second glance. He brushed past Granger without looking at her; she shot Draco a confused glance, then followed him out.
Neither of them looked back.
***
It was awful. Awful . Of all the people he could have gotten stuck under cursed mistletoe with, it had to be Malfoy.
Harry had hated it. Hated how soft and smooth Malfoy’s lips had been. Hated how pretty his eyes had been close up. Hated how he found himself counting the freckles on the bridge of Malfoy’s nose; the ones you could only see if you were close enough. He hated that he knew Malfoy got more freckles in the summer, and that his hair got lighter so that it was practically white. He hated the way Malfoy hadn’t kissed him, just let himself be kissed, folding into the pressure of Harry’s lips on his.
He hated how much he’d loved it.
***
Hermione was strangely subdued the rest of the night, not saying much as Harry stomped through the party in search of Ron. Harry didn’t seem to notice, busy as he was fuming over Malfoy, and if he had he probably would have chalked it up to horror over seeing him kissing his sworn enemy. But he would have been wrong. Hermione wasn’t horrified. She wasn’t disgusted either. She was simply confused.
Malfoy was, after all, Harry’s sworn enemy. Harry talked all the time about how much he hated Malfoy, about what a prat he was, about how he couldn’t stand him. But if that was true, then why had the mistletoe trapped them together?
There was charmed mistletoe placed all over the room, and Hermione had a theory about it. When she had found herself under a bit of it with Ginny earlier in the night, they had been able to walk away just fine. When she had been under one with Ron, they had been held in by the same invisible barrier that had seemed to hold Harry and Malfoy until they’d kissed. Dean and Seamus had been trapped together. Ron and Seamus had been free. Neville had been able to walk away from Ginny, but he’d had to - blushingly - kiss Luna to get out.
Her theory was this: the mistletoe had been charmed to trap two people who had romantic feelings for each other until they kissed. Two people who didn’t fancy each other would be free to walk away. She’d been making observations all night and was sure she was right.
So why had it trapped Harry and Malfoy?
They hated each other. They were always bickering, insulting each other, going out of their way to pick fights with one another. They couldn’t possibly have feelings for each other. Could they?
A memory tugged at the back of her mind, of a little boy pulling her hair and stealing her erasers and kicking the back of her chair. “He only does that because he fancies you,” her parents had told her. “Just ignore him.” She remembered how, when she’d accused him of having a crush on her, he’d shouted that he would never like her, that she had cooties.
“ I’ve just had a shower ,” the boy had said. “ I don’t want your cooties all over me. ”
“ I’ve just brushed my teeth, you see ,” Malfoy had said, “ and I don’t want you contaminating everything. ”
Hermione’s eyes snapped to Harry’s face. He was blushing, still, and his eyebrows were knit in a frown - but his eyes were glazed over, far away, dreamy… almost as if he was still thinking about the kiss…
Malfoy fancied Harry. And Harry fancied him back. And somehow this realization was much more jarring than any they had made about Voldemort to date.
And much more exciting, too.