A Gryffindor Heart

The Great Hall fell silent when Draco Malfoy strutted through the doors on the first day of his fourth year. His platinum hair was styled in soft waves, his eyelashes impossibly long, and his lips painted a glossy cherry red. He wore a short emerald-green dress that swayed with each click of his tall, black heels, and his long, silver nails glinted under the enchanted candles as he flicked a strand of hair over his shoulder.

Gasps rippled through the students. Pansy Parkinson shrieked with delight and clapped her hands, while the younger Slytherins stared open-mouthed. But it wasn't just Slytherins taking notice. From the Hufflepuff table, Cedric Diggory whispered to his friends, “Blimey, Malfoy looks… different. And brilliant.” At the Ravenclaw table, Viktor Krum’s dark eyes followed Draco’s every move, and Seamus Finnigan nearly dropped his pumpkin juice.

“Good lord,” Ron Weasley muttered, his ears turning pink. “What’s Malfoy playing at?”

Hermione Granger raised an eyebrow. “He’s expressing himself, Ronald. And apparently, half the school thinks it’s quite becoming.”

Indeed, Cedric was already leaving the Hufflepuff table, a small box of Chocolate Frogs in hand. Before Draco could reach the Slytherin bench, Cedric intercepted him with a charming smile. “Malfoy, you look stunning. Care to join me for a walk by the lake this afternoon?”

Draco’s red lips curved into a practiced smile. “Tempting, Diggory, but I have a prior engagement… polishing my nails.” Cedric’s face fell, but he nodded gallantly and returned to his seat. Moments later, Zabini sauntered over, offering a rare silver bracelet, and even the Weasley twins zoomed by on their brooms outside the windows, holding up a banner that read: “Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes: Free for the Fairest Malfoy!”

Draco rolled his eyes dramatically and carried on, but his heart hammered for an entirely different reason. At the Gryffindor table, Harry Potter was watching him with a mixture of confusion and something else Draco couldn’t name. Harry’s green eyes met his for a split second before Draco looked away, his cheeks flushing the same shade as his lipstick.

The truth was, beneath all the bold makeup and daring outfits, Draco Malfoy had been hopelessly in love with Harry Potter since their first year. He remembered the day Harry refused his handshake—it should’ve been humiliating, but instead it had lit a fire in Draco. He’d spent years trying to get Harry’s attention through insults and quidditch taunts, but now, in his fourth year, he had a new strategy: be himself, or at least, the version of himself that made him feel confident. If he couldn’t have Harry, he could at least have everyone else’s adoration. But it was a hollow victory.

Whenever Harry was nearby, Draco’s bravado crumbled. In Potions, he’d knock over his inkwell. In Charms, he’d stutter so badly he couldn’t cast a simple levitation spell. Once, Harry had brushed past him in the corridor, and Draco had turned so red that Pansy asked if he had a fever. Draco would quickly busy himself with adjusting his lashes or smoothing his skirt, but inside he was a flustered mess.

Harry, meanwhile, always seemed to regard Draco with wary annoyance. He’d mutter about “slimy Slytherins” and roll his eyes whenever Draco flounced past. But sometimes, just sometimes, Draco caught Harry staring at him with a strange, thoughtful expression, and it made his heart ache with hope.

It all came to a head one night in the Astronomy Tower. Draco couldn’t sleep; the weight of his unrequited feelings was too heavy. He’d spent the day watching Harry laugh with Ginny Weasley during lunch, and the jealousy had simmered until it boiled over. Clad in a silk robe over a short nightdress, his face scrubbed clean of makeup, he climbed the tower and leaned against the cool stone railing, letting tears stream down his cheeks.

He didn’t hear the approaching footsteps until it was too late.

“Malfoy?” Hermione’s voice was cautious but not unkind. She and Ron had been stargazing for an Astronomy essay and had followed the sound of sobs.

Draco whipped around, mortified. His eyes were puffy, and he had no sharp retort prepared. “Just leave me alone, Granger,” he choked out, his voice cracking.

But Ron stepped closer, his expression uncharacteristically gentle. “You’ve been crying. What’s wrong?”

Draco shook his head, trying to muster his usual sneer, but it crumbled. “It’s nothing. None of your business.”

Hermione exchanged a glance with Ron, then walked over and sat on the stone bench nearby. “Is it about Harry?” she asked softly.

Draco froze. “What? No. Why would it be about Potter?”

“Because you’re always miserable around him, and you drop things, and you look at him like he’s the only person in the room,” Hermione said matter-of-factly. “I’ve noticed.”

Ron blinked. “Wait, you fancy Harry? But you’re Malfoy! You’re supposed to hate each other!”

Draco let out a bitter laugh and slumped onto the bench, burying his face in his hands. “It’s pathetic, isn’t it? I’ve been in love with him since first year, and he’ll never see me as anything but a git.”

To his surprise, Ron sat down on his other side. “Blimey, that’s… a lot. But Harry’s not as thick as he seems. Maybe you should just tell him? Or at least stop being so nasty to him.”

Hermione nodded. “Draco, we’ve had our differences, but you’re clearly hurting. And honestly, all the boys chasing after you—you don’t care about any of them, do you? It’s only Harry.”

Draco sniffled. “He’s the only one I’ve ever wanted. I kept all my firsts for him—my first kiss, everything. I know it’s idiotic.”

“It’s not idiotic,” Hermione said gently. “It’s romantic, in a Slytherin, pure-blood, over-the-top sort of way.”

Ron snorted. “Yeah, mate. And you should’ve seen the look on Harry’s face when you walked in with that dress. He went all red and pretended he wasn’t looking. I think you might have a chance.”

Draco’s heart leaped. “You really think so?”

“I do,” Ron said, grinning. “But you’ve got to make a dramatic move. That’s your style, innit?”

Hermione smiled. “The Gryffindor-Ravenclaw quidditch match is tomorrow. If you really want to show Harry whose side you’re on, that’s your chance.”

Draco straightened, a spark of hope igniting in his chest. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

---

An hour before the big match, the stadium buzzed with excitement. The stands were a sea of scarlet and gold on one side, blue and bronze on the other. Then a hush fell as Draco Malfoy entered the Gryffindor section, striding confidently in his highest heels, a tiny pleated skirt, and—most shockingly—a white Quidditch jersey with the name POTTER emblazoned across the back in scarlet letters. His face was flawlessly made up, his lips a bold Gryffindor red, and a small golden snitch earring dangled from one ear.

The crowd erupted. Gasps, wolf-whistles, and cheers mingled. Pansy shrieked, “Draco, have you lost your mind?!” from the Slytherin section, but Draco ignored her, his eyes fixed on the team entrance. The Gryffindor players trooped onto the pitch, Harry at the rear. He stopped dead when he saw Draco.

Draco’s heart thundered, but for once he didn’t look away. He lifted his chin and waved, and Harry’s mouth fell open. Then, slowly, a grin spread across Harry’s face—a real, bewildered, delighted grin. The crowd’s roar became deafening as Harry jogged over to the stands, leaving his teammates gaping.

“Malfoy… I mean, Draco,” Harry said, slightly out of breath. “Are you… supporting Gryffindor?”

Draco managed a coy smile, despite his trembling. “I’m supporting you, Potter. I thought that was obvious.” He gestured at the jersey. “I even painted my nails your house colors. See?” He extended his hand, showing off alternating red and gold nails with tiny lightning bolt decals.

Harry laughed, his cheeks dusting pink. “That’s… mad. But brilliant.” He hesitated, then added, “Does this mean you don’t hate me anymore?”

Draco’s bravado wavered. “I never hated you. It was the opposite. I’ve been an idiot about it, but—I’ve fancied you for ages.”

The words hung in the air. The surrounding students were dead silent, listening. Harry stepped closer, his expression softening. “I thought you were just showing off for everyone else,” he said quietly. “But all those things you do… the lipstick, the dresses… that’s just you, isn’t it? And you were trying to get my attention?”

“Mostly yours,” Draco admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Everyone else’s attention means nothing.”

Harry reached out and took Draco’s hand—the one with the painted nails—carefully, as if it were something precious. “Maybe after the match, we could go for a walk? Without Chocolate Frogs or silver bracelets. Just us.”

Draco’s heart soared. “I’d like that. But Potter, if you lose this match after I’ve publicly declared myself, I’ll be very embarrassed.”

Harry laughed again, a bright, carefree sound. “I’ll win for you, then.” And with a wink, he sprinted back to the pitch, leaving Draco blushing and smiling amidst the chaos of cheering Gryffindors and scandalized Slytherins.

Ron, watching from the stands with Hermione, shook his head in amazement. “Well, that’s one way to do it.”

Hermione grinned. “About time, don’t you think?”

As the match began and Harry soared into the sky, Draco clutched the railing, his heart full. For the first time, he didn’t care about being mature or perfect. He just cheered, loud and unashamed, for the boy he’d loved since the day they met.