Velvet and Broomsticks

The Great Hall buzzed with a new kind of electricity that September, and it had nothing to do with the return of the Triwizard Tournament rumors. Every head turned when Draco Malfoy strode in, a vision of defiance. Gone were the prim school robes; instead, he wore a dress of deep emerald velvet that barely brushed his thighs, his long legs balanced on heels so precarious they defied gravity. His lashes were thick and dark, framing eyes lined with precision, and his lips were a bold, unapologetic red. His nails, long and sharp and painted silver, tapped the Slytherin table as he settled in, completely ignoring the stunned silence.

Within a day, the news had ricocheted through all four houses. Pansy Parkinson looked ready to combust, but the boys—oh, the boys were another story. From Hufflepuff to Ravenclaw, Gryffindor to his own Slytherin, they flocked to him with gifts: chocolates, flowers, enchanted jewelry. Cedric Diggory offered a gracious compliment, and even a few seventh-years tried their luck. Draco accepted the adoration with a practiced smirk, but his heart wasn't in it. His eyes, hidden behind those lush lashes, always searched for a certain flash of ginger hair.

Fred Weasley. Fred, who watched Draco’s transformation with a bemused raise of an eyebrow but never approached. Fred, who still ruffled Ron’s hair and called him ‘ickle Ronniekins’ while Draco’s stomach did flip-flops. Draco had nursed this crush since first year, when Fred had accidentally knocked into him in the corridor and, instead of sneering, had winked and said, “Watch it, ferret—oh wait, that’s later.” The joke had been terrible, but Draco’s heart had never recovered. Now, at fourteen, the feeling had calcified into something deep and aching. He had saved all his firsts—first kiss, first dance, first everything—for a boy who saw him as a child and his brother’s rival.

Whenever Fred was near, Draco’s carefully constructed poise shattered. He’d transform into a stammering mess, cheeks flushing to match his lipstick. He’d try too hard, puckering his lips and arching his back, attempting to look sophisticated and mature, only to drop his books or trip over his heels. Fred would just laugh, a warm, kind laugh that never felt cruel, and move on. It was mortifying.

One night, after a particularly disastrous encounter where Draco had attempted to saunter past Fred in the library and had instead knocked over an entire bookshelf, he found himself sobbing in an empty corridor. Through tears, he saw a flash of red and assumed it was his tormentor coming to mock him. Instead, Ron Weasley stood there, mouth agape, holding a half-eaten treacle tart.

“Malfoy? What—” Ron began, but Draco couldn’t hold back any longer. Everything spilled out: the years of pining, the ridiculous attempts at catching Fred’s attention, the agony of being invisible to the only person who mattered. Ron listened, his expression shifting from bewilderment to something almost sympathetic. When Draco finally fell silent, hiccupping, Ron said gruffly, “Well, you’re barking mad. But… Fred’s not as daft as you think. Maybe just talk to him like a normal person?”

Draco didn’t know how to do normal. But the conversation with Ron, unexpected and oddly comforting, planted a seed of courage.

The morning of the Gryffindor versus Slytherin Quidditch match arrived with clear skies and biting wind. Spectators filled the stands, but down by the pitch, an unlikely trio watched a figure approach. Ron groaned. “Oh no. Not like this.”

Draco Malfoy minced across the grass in a whisper-thin velvet dress the color of a bruise, heels sinking into the turf with every step. Over his shoulder, he carried a gleaming broomstick. His makeup was impeccable, his hair swept back, and he looked as though he’d stepped out of a fashion plate rather than onto a Quidditch pitch.

Fred and George exchanged incredulous looks. “He’s not actually going to play in that, is he?” George asked.

“He’ll break an ankle before the first whistle,” Ron muttered. “Someone should stop him.” He started forward, but Fred grabbed his arm.

“I’ll go,” Fred said, his voice unusually serious.

Ron and George shared another glance, this one heavy with meaning, as Fred strode toward Draco.

Draco saw him coming and felt his heart lurch into his throat. He froze, one hand tightening on his broom. Fred stopped a few feet away, crossing his arms. “Malfoy,” he said, not unkindly. “You can’t play in that getup. You’ll get hurt.”

To his own horror, Draco’s eyes welled up. “Why does everyone keep saying that?” he demanded, voice trembling. “I’m perfectly capable!”

Fred’s expression softened. “I don’t doubt your capability,” he said quietly. “But those heels—one wrong step and you’re a Malfoy pancake. And I’d rather not have to explain that to your mother.”

Draco’s breath caught. “Why would you care?”

For a moment, Fred looked uncharacteristically off-balance. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because you’re more than just my brother’s rival? Maybe because you’ve been driving me barmy all year, looking like that and then turning into a blushing tomato every time I’m around? I’m not blind, Malfoy.”

Draco’s lips parted. The red lipstick felt suddenly silly. “I… I always thought you saw a child.”

Fred took a step closer. “You’re fourteen,” he said gently. “That’s not a child, but it’s young. Old enough to know what you want, though. So, what do you want, Draco?”

The sound of his first name undid him. “You,” Draco whispered. “It’s always been you.”

Fred reached out and, with surprising care, tucked a strand of blonde hair behind Draco’s ear. “Then how about this,” he said, a familiar grin starting to form. “You don’t play today. You come watch with me. And afterwards, we’ll go to Hogsmeade. Properly. Heels optional.”

Draco let out a wet laugh, the tension breaking. “That’s my first date, Weasley. It had better be good.”

Fred’s grin widened. “It’s my first too, if that helps.” He offered his arm, and Draco took it, abandoning his broom on the grass. As they walked toward the stands, Draco felt lighter than he had in years. The whispers from the crowd didn’t touch him. He had Fred’s arm, Fred’s smile, and a promise of more.

Behind them, Ron and George were gaping. “Did he just…?” Ron started.

“I think he did,” George replied. “And I think we owe Hermione some galleons. She bet on this back in September.”

From the stands, a certain bushy-haired girl waved down at them, looking impossibly smug. But Draco and Fred didn’t notice. They were too busy arguing over whether butterbeer counted as a proper date drink, their laughter mingling with the roar of the starting whistle.