One Thing

Chapter 12

At breakfast the next day, Professor Dumbledore stood to make an announcement.

"I would like to announce that ballots for the King and Queen of the upcoming Halloween Ball will be handed out at lunch, to be filled out and turned in before that period is over. Also, if the Court could stay to prepare for the ball, please. Thank you; that is all." People began filing out of the hall to go about their Saturday activities. Soon only the nominees were left.

"Thank you all for attending," Dumbledore said. "In a moment I'll ask you all to split up into your committees and discuss ideas. I'll be around to hear them in fifteen minutes."

Harry smiled over to Draco, who was sitting across the table from him. Draco did not return the smile. This put Harry on edge slightly, especially after seeing the cold indifference emanating from Draco's eyes in abundance. The look made Harry shiver. His smile faded a bit as his attention was turned back to the Headmaster.

"Please, spread out, and begin." He passed out parchment to each of the pairs, Harry supposed for writing down ideas and sketches. As the other groups cleared out, Harry looked at his boyfriend nervously.

"I suppose here's okay, then," he said uneasily. There was no reply. So Harry walked around to the other side of the table where Draco was seated. They were at the Gryffindor table, which was against the wall, and no one else was at the table. So no one else heard what Draco said next.

"Look, Potter, it's been fun and all, but, well, this just isn't working out for me."

Silence.

Then, "WHAT?!" Harry's voice was loud, and a bit shriller than normal.

"Please, Potter," Draco drawled in a bored tone, "you're making a scene." So Harry lowered his voice as Draco examined his nails.

"Excuse me?!" Harry said in a slightly lower tone. "What exactly do you mean, 'this isn't working out for you'?!" He searched Draco's icy slate eyes for some hint of what was really going on here, but only saw them roll heavenward as Draco sighed dramatically.

"I mean exactly what I said. It's not working out. We're heading in separate directions. It's not you, it's me. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera." He drew out the last phrase in an extremely dull manner.

Harry shook his head, disbelieving. No. No, this isn't happening. It can't be. He, he likes me. He told me he did. Yes, but did he? a small, nagging voice in the back of his mind piped up. Has he ever really told you how he feels about you? Have you ever, even once, heard him say that he likes you, cares about you, or God forbid, love you? No, you haven't. This has always been pretty much a one-sided relationship. It's best that it ends now, anyway. Yes, I suppose it is, Harry thought to himself. He knew he was just trying to make the pain cease, but he didn't care.

"All right, then," Harry said in an eerily apathetic manner. "So I suppose we should write down our ideas for colour schemes and such, eh?"

What?! Draco mentally snapped. He couldn't believe that Harry was taking this so well. He himself, was dying inside. So why the hell wasn't Harry showing any signs of being heartbroken? Then Draco saw it. A lonely tear made its way down Harry's right cheek, unnoticed by the deeply saddened boy. His hands were shaking slightly, and Draco guessed that he was concentrating rather hard on not showing his distress. He was frantically sketching the Great Hall, with sashes and candles, labeling each of them with a colour. It wasn't until the tear that had been making its slow journey down his face hit the parchment that he snapped out of his daze. Dumbledore had just made his way to their table and was waiting expectantly for Harry to explain what their ideas were.

Harry took a shallow, ragged breath, and looked from Dumbledore to Draco, and then promptly stood up, so quickly that he nearly knocked the bench over.

"I'm sorry, I've got to go. I'm sorry," he said hurriedly, dropping his quill and attempted to pick his books up in a rush. He ended up spilling his things all over the table, and haphazardly decided to just leave it. Then he dashed out of the Hall without another word. Dumbledore looked down at Draco, who shrugged lazily and looked away.

"Here's our design," he said, handing the Headmaster the parchment Harry had abandoned.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

In Gryffindor Tower, Harry lay in bed, playing the conversation over and over in his mind, trying to find some reason or explanation for this cruel turn of events. There was none. Save one.

Yeah, I guess I know, Harry thought miserably to himself. I just hate how it sounds. The fact was, he simply wasn't good enough. That's just how it was. Draco was the aristocratic son of an extremely wealthy man, and was used to having the best of everything. And that simply was not Harry.

Who did I think I was fooling? Harry thought to himself bitterly. I'm skinny, my clothes don't match, my hair's always a mess, I've got these God awful specs, and a great ugly scar on my forehead. Why would he want me? Why would anyone, for that matter? This woeful, self-pitying train of thought, of course, led him straight back to the question of why anyone had nominated him for Hogwarts Halloween Ball King. It didn't make any sense. Enter Hermione Granger.

She didn't say anything straight away. She just stood there, arms crossed, tapping her toe, looking at him expectantly. When he looked back at her blankly, she finally opened her mouth.

"Out with it, then," she stated candidly. He just gaped at her, as if to say that he had no earthly idea what she was talking about. She raised an eyebrow, stating that he knew perfectly well what she was talking about; there was no point in denying it. So Harry had no choice but to sigh, and reluctantly tell his tale. ...

"Oh Hermione, it was awful!" he wailed dramatically, throwing himself at her and burying his head in her shoulder. Hermione patted him on the back, but rolled her eyes over his head.

"What was?" she asked indulgently. The only response was a muffled sob. Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes once again, and led him over to the bed, where she pried him from her frame, and set him down on the bed.

"All right," she said seriously. "Tell me everything."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Meanwhile, down in the dungeons, a downtrodden Draco dejectedly deliberated over whether he'd done the right thing.

"On one hand," Draco stated aloud, pacing from one corner of his dorm to the other, "Harry doesn't at all deserve what I've just done to him." He cringed at the memory of the look on Harry's face when he'd so coldly dropped him.

"On the other hand, though," he reasoned, "this will be good for him in the long run; I'm sure of it." Yes, in the end, this is what was best for Harry; and that was all that mattered.

However, Draco was slightly less self-assured at lunch, when not only did Harry fail to show up, but so did his mudblood female. Oh no you don't, Draco, he thought to himself. Just because he was upset did not mean he was going to resort to childish prejudices and name-calling. That was his father's game.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"I'm sure he still cares about you, Harry. Don't ask me how, but I just know. It's just not logical. Why would he be so head over heels mad about you, and then suddenly just not give a toss?" Harry cringed at the blunt choice of words.

"I don't know..." Harry said uncertainly.

"No, Harry, I know he still has feelings for you. We've just got to figure out why he's hiding them," Hermione stated resolutely. Harry was suddenly inspired by her determination, and felt his heavy heart suddenly get just a little bit lighter.

"All right," Hermione whispered conspiratorially. "Here's what we're going to do."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

With the ball merely a few hours away, everybody on the committee was rushing about, making arrangements, and generally creating chaos. There were full head on collisions every few minutes in the Great Hall because they weren't looking at where they were going, or couldn't see over mounds of confetti, rolls of fabric, and the like. This, of course, lead to explosions of confetti which got scattered all over the floor and had to be swept up, runaway rolls of fabric which had to be chased down and rolled back up, and generally a whole lot of time wasted.

Amidst all this confusion, Harry and Draco worked dismally on decorating the hall. At the moment, Draco stood atop an invisible ladder, having used a levitation spell, using his wand to attach silk swatches to the wall where it met the ceiling. Harry stood at the bottom of the invisible ladder, unrolling the fabric as Draco moved down the wall.

According to "The Plan," as Hermione referred to it, Harry was supposed to be using this time to wear down Draco's defenses, making him more and more susceptible to Harry's charm. Or something like that. Harry was still a bit fuzzy on the whole thing, but he was fairly certain he'd got the general idea right. He was supposed to make Draco see how much he missed him, and make him want to take Harry back. Then, at the ball, Harry was to approach Draco in a subtle manner, escort him to a secluded area, and demand to know what the bloody hell was going on. (Well Hermione had said "discuss your recent fall out," but Harry planned on rewording it just a bit.)

Thus far, "Faze One" of "The Plan" wasn't going particularly spot on. Harry didn't think he was having any sort of an effect on Draco whatsoever. He couldn't have been more wrong.

God, why can't I concentrate?! Draco mentally demanded. All right, stupid question. That bit's obvious. I've just got to get it together, that's all. Calm down. It's not like he's down there staring up at your arse. Oh lord, what if he is?! All right, just, think of something else. That's it. Just think of something completely unrelated to, and having nothing to do with arses. All right, not thinking of that word. Okay, just concentrate the task at hand. That's all, just, focus on what needs to be done, not what you wish you were doing. Although it saddened Draco to do so, he concentrated on other things, not allowing his mind to wander to Harry.

Harry sighed. Draco was completely ignoring him. It was like the past two months had never happened. They were right back to square one: enemies. Bugger.

The rest of the day passed fairly uneventfully. Harry and Draco didn't talk. Sure, there was the odd "hand me that ribbon," or "you're doing it wrong, Potter," quickly followed by a "Piss off, Malfoy," but other than that, no communication was exchanged. All and all, Harry found it to be a thoroughly dissatisfying day. He stood pondering this in the Gryffindor shower as he prepared for the ball. Naturally, in Harry Potter fashion, there was a mere quarter of an hour left before the ball started, and he was just now getting down to getting ready. Hermione had been at it for nearly an hour and a half, naturally, but that was nothing compared to all of the other Gryffindor girls, who'd been occupying the girls' toilette for virtually the entire day. Harry couldn't fathom what could be taking them so long.

As he got out of his the shower, he eyed his costume for the ball. He thought it looked a bit ridiculous. Well, let's be honest, more than a bit. It was Draco's idea.

* * * * FLASHBACK * * * *

"Oh come on, love, it'll be a blast." Harry eyed the costumes dubiously.

"I dunno, Draco..."

They were in the costume section of Andantino, a robes shop in Hogsmeade. Draco had dragged Harry over by the hand section to the Elizabethan section and pointed eagerly at pilgrim and saint costumes. Harry thought the saint costume looked a bit girlish, but then, all dress robes looked girlish, and Draco offered to wear it. He said he'd have it altered by the tailor to look more boyish. Harry was still doubtful, but as it wasn't his costume, he didn't mind terribly. Besides, he rather liked the idea of being a medieval pilgrim. So he picked up the suit of armour and headed for the counter whilst Draco took his outfit to be altered.

* * * * END FLASHBACK * * * *

Harry's eyes misted slightly as he looked at his costume and remembered that afternoon. Draco thought the out fits would be perfect; their own private joke. No one would know that they were together, just dressed as a knight and an angel. No one would suspect them to be "star cross'd lovers." But Harry and Draco would know. Harry had to admit, it was good. No one would ever guess. Not that it mattered now, he realised. There was nothing to hide. There was no private joke. Harry sadly slid into his costume, thinking of his beloved Draco; and more determined than ever to get him back; or at least find out why they were no longer together.

Draco tried bravely not to cry as he dressed in the dungeons. He knew that what he'd done was regrettable. However, he could see no other way to spare Harry the pain. So he swallowed down tears and dressed for the ball.