A Blush for the Chosen One

The Great Hall buzzed with the usual chatter over breakfast, but the moment Draco Malfoy stepped through the doors, silence rippled across the four long tables. It was the fourth year, and Draco had returned to Hogwarts with a transformation so audacious that even the ghosts paused to stare.

Gone were the neatly pressed robes and subtle green accents. In their place, Draco strode in on a pair of stiletto heels that clicked like a ticking clock, a velvet dress the color of ripe cherries hugging his slim frame and ending scandalously above his knees. His lips were painted a daring red, his lashes impossibly long and dark, and his nails—pointed, glossy, and blood-red—glimmered as he adjusted his satchel. He flipped his platinum hair over one shoulder, chin high, as if daring anyone to comment.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, like a dam breaking, the whispers surged. From the Hufflepuff table, Justin Finch-Fletchley nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. A Ravenclaw seventh-year dropped his quill. Even the Slytherins, who had seen Draco's makeover over the summer, couldn't help but exchange impressed glances.

But Draco only had eyes for one person. At the Gryffindor table, Harry Potter was buttering a piece of toast, utterly oblivious. Ron Weasley, however, noticed. His fork clattered onto his plate.

“Bloody hell,” Ron breathed. “Is that Malfoy?”

“Clearly,” Hermione said, her tone caught between disapproval and reluctant admiration. “He’s certainly… making a statement.”

Harry looked up, and for a moment, their eyes met across the hall. Draco’s heart stuttered. He instantly felt heat bloom across his cheeks, clashing terribly with his lipstick. He tried to pucker his lips in what he hoped was an alluring moue, but ended up looking like a startled goldfish. Then, before Harry could react, Draco spun on his heel—nearly toppling—and navigated to the Slytherin table with what he prayed was dignity.

From that day on, Draco Malfoy became the unexpected object of affection for half the school. Boys from every house found reasons to loiter near him between classes, offering gifts: a single enchanted rose from a Hufflepuff, a clumsily written poem from a Gryffindor, a box of Honeydukes’ finest from a Ravenclaw. Even a few Slytherins, emboldened by proximity, tried their luck. Draco accepted the tributes with practiced grace, blowing air kisses with his red lips, but never gave anyone more than a moment's attention. The truth, buried deep beneath layers of mascara and bravado, was that his heart had belonged to someone else since the day they’d first met in Madam Malkin’s robe shop.

Harry Potter.

It was more than a crush; it was an all-consuming, year-long ache. Draco had saved every first for Harry, even if Harry didn’t know it. His first real smile, his first daydream, his first angry tears—all tied to the Boy Who Lived. But whenever Harry was near, Draco’s carefully constructed confidence crumbled. He stuttered, his face flamed crimson, and he found himself puppeting his body into what he imagined was a come-hither posture: puckered lips, arched back, a hand on his hip. To Harry, however, it just looked like Malfoy being weird and annoying, as always.

“Why does he keep making that weird face at me?” Harry asked Ron after one particularly disastrous encounter in the library, where Draco had attempted to lean seductively against a bookshelf and had accidentally knocked over an entire row of books about magical creatures.

Ron shrugged. “Dunno. Probably trying to hex you with his eyelashes. Those things are weapons.”

Hermione had a more thoughtful look but said nothing.

As weeks passed, Draco’s flamboyant style and constant stream of suitors made him the talk of Hogwarts, but his foul mood only deepened. He rejected every date with a flick of his long nails, and the kisses he blew were hollow. One evening, after a Slytherin party where Pansy Parkinson had teasingly asked if he was saving himself for Merlin, Draco found himself fleeing to the Astronomy Tower. The weight of unrequited love, the fear of never being seen, crushed him. He collapsed against the cold stone wall, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed. His mascara ran in rivulets down his cheeks, the red of his lips smeared.

He didn’t hear the footsteps until a hesitant voice cut through his misery.

“Malfoy?”

Draco froze. Slowly, he raised his head to find Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger standing in the doorway, their expressions a mix of shock and something that looked dangerously like pity. He immediately tried to scowl but only managed a watery grimace.

“What do you want?” he spat, though his voice cracked.

“We heard crying,” Hermione said gently, stepping closer. “We didn’t expect it to be you.”

“Go away.” Draco turned his back, humiliation burning through him. He heard Ron mumble something about leaving, but Hermione’s voice was firm.

“No. You’re clearly upset. What’s wrong?”

Draco laughed bitterly. “Like you care. You hate me.”

“We don’t hate you,” Ron said, surprising Draco. “You’re a git, but… no one should be alone crying in a tower.”

There was a pause, then Hermione sat down a few feet away, her robes pooling on the dusty floor. Ron followed awkwardly. And somehow, in the silver light of the stars, the rivalry that had defined them for years melted away. Draco found himself spilling everything. The dresses, the makeup, the nails—it was all for Harry. Every ridiculous, dramatic attempt to get noticed was because he was desperately, pathetically in love with the worst possible person.

By the time he finished, Hermione had a thoughtful smile and Ron looked like he’d swallowed a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

“Harry’s an idiot sometimes,” Hermione said, “but he’s not heartless. Have you ever just… talked to him?”

“He thinks I’m an annoying Slytherin!” Draco wailed.

“You are an annoying Slytherin,” Ron muttered, but then added, “but you’re also a bloke who’s clearly daft about my best mate. That counts for something.”

Draco sniffled. Hermione reached out and carefully wiped a smudge of lipstick from his chin. “Tomorrow’s the Quidditch match, Gryffindor versus Slytherin. Maybe that’s a chance to show him you’re more than just the makeup.”

Draco looked at her, confused. “I’m not playing. I never play.”

But a small, reckless hope sparked in his chest.

The next day, an hour before the match, the Gryffindor trio was walking toward the pitch when they spotted him. Draco Malfoy was clipping across the wet grass in his towering heels, wearing a short powder-blue velvet dress that fluttered in the wind, and carrying a broom over his shoulder. His lips were painted a soft pink today, and his nails were long and silver. He looked completely, utterly out of place.

“Is he mental?” Ron said, aghast. “He can’t play Quidditch in that! He’ll break his neck!”

Without waiting, Ron jogged over, waving his arms. “Oi, Malfoy! You’re not actually planning to fly, are you? You’ll get hurt!”

Draco shot him a glare, though his cheeks were already pinking. “Mind your own business, Weasley.”

“It is my business when the bloke who’s been mooning over Harry is about to do something stupid!”

Draco gasped. He glanced frantically at Harry, who was approaching with Hermione, looking bewildered. The world seemed to narrow. Harry’s green eyes were fixed on him, and Draco’s brain turned to fudge. He opened his mouth to say something scathing, but all that came out was “I—I’m… fine.”

Harry stopped in front of him, taking in the dress, the heels, the broom. “Malfoy, you can’t play like that. It’s not safe.”

And suddenly, all the defiance drained out of Draco. Because Harry had said it. Because Harry’s voice had a note of genuine concern. Draco’s lower lip trembled.

“I just wanted to be near you,” he whispered, and then flushed scarlet as he realized he’d said it aloud.

Harry blinked. Ron clapped a hand over his mouth. Hermione nudged Harry sharply. There was a long, awkward silence. Then, something shifted behind Harry’s glasses. A dawning realization, softening his features. “You…” he started. “All this time, you were acting weird because you… like me?”

Draco could only nod, staring at his ridiculous shoes. “Ever since first year.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, looking completely out of his depth. But then, slowly, he smiled. It wasn’t a mocking smile—it was shy, almost pleased. “Oh. Well. That’s, er… something.” He glanced at Hermione, who gave him an encouraging look, then back at Draco. “Look, if you really want to play, at least wear something you can actually fly in. You’ll get hurt.”

He shrugged off his Gryffindor hoodie—the one that said POTTER H. on the back in bold gold letters—and held it out. “Here. It’s a bit big, but it’s warm. And it’s not a dress.”

Draco stared at the hoodie as if it were the Holy Grail. With trembling hands, he took it. He slipped it on over his dress, the soft fabric swallowing him, the scent of broomstick polish and something uniquely Harry enveloping him. He pulled up the hood, hiding his blushing face.

“But I’m a Slytherin,” he mumbled, voice muffled.

“Today, you’re playing for Gryffindor,” Harry said, and his smile was crooked and wonderful. “If you want.”

And that’s how Draco Malfoy ended up mounting his broom wearing a Potter hoodie and his own designer heels, which he kicked off at the last second, flying barefoot in the chilly autumn air. He played as an honorary Gryffindor chaser, and while he was far from the best, he made two unexpected assists and flew with a reckless joy he hadn’t felt in years. The crowd—confused but entertained—roared. And when the match ended with Gryffindor’s narrow victory, Harry landed beside him, windswept and laughing.

“Not bad, Malfoy,” he said.

Draco, still breathless, with his hair a mess and the hoodie slipping off one shoulder, grinned so wide it crinkled his nose. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Well, get used to it,” Harry replied, and then, in front of the whole school, he reached out and gently wiped a smudge of pink lipstick from Draco’s cheek with his thumb. “Maybe we can start over? I’m Harry.”

Draco’s heart soared. “I’m Draco,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “And I’ve been waiting to hear that for a very long time.”

The Slytherins and Gryffindors alike erupted in chaos—some cheers, some gasps of horror—but neither of them noticed. They were too busy looking at each other, finally seeing what had been there all along.