summary: Draco Malfoy would literally die for you—unfortunately, asking you to the Yule Ball might just kill him first. When he finally gathers the courage to do it, you politely decline… thanks to a spectacular misunderstanding. Now, with his pride bruised and his heart set, Draco is determined to win you over—properly, this time.
wc: 2.6k+
cw: DOWN BAD DRACO! awkward Draco who gets shy around reader, feat. Pansy, Blaise, & Theo as Draco's backup.
A/N: I love shy Draco. I AM SO SORRY THAT I HAVE BEEN INACTIVE LATELY. Aghhh I haven't posted anything in sooo long, I've been busy hihi.
⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰
Draco Malfoy was many things: a Slytherin, a menace on the Quidditch pitch, and the heir to one of the oldest wizarding families in Britain—but he had never felt this pathetic before. Not even the time he fell off his broom second year and cried because his wrist bent funny.
No, this was worse. Because he hadn’t just fallen—he’d plummeted, in front of you, with a flower in one hand and all his dignity left wilting somewhere between the Charms and Transfiguration section at the library.
You hadn’t looked back.
Not once.
Not even when he’d called after you, your name barely leaving his mouth before it got stuck in his throat with the taste of regret and disbelief.
He knew what it must’ve looked like. You thought it was a joke. That he was the joke. And for once, he couldn’t even blame you.
This catastrophe had all began the night before.
The Slytherin common room was filled only with the sound of crackling fire and the soft chatter of students with the scratch of quills against their parchment—until their heads turn to a yell that broke the silence.
"DRACO! We've been on this for over an hour now," Pansy sighed as she sat down on the couch between Theo and Blaise. "And for the millionth time, you are not going to DIE asking a girl to the Yule Ball!"
Pansy's "How to Woo a Girl 101" was clearly very hard for Draco to comprehend. Because based on the look on Theo's and Blaise's faces, it was not going well. At all.
Draco dramatically gasped as if he was being accused of murder, he then put a hand over his heart and then started rambling. "She isn't just any girl. She's the most perfect witch to ever exist! Gosh, do you guys even see how beautiful and smart and—" but, before he could continue, he was cut off by Blaise.
"We get it mate! You're bewitched by her." Blaise groaned loudly, throwing his head back and resting it on the backrest of the couch.
Theo sighed, "Mate, look," he said sternly, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You just have to ask her a simple eleven word question, 'Would. you. like. to. go. to. the. Yule. Ball. with. me.?' see? Easier than brewing Felix Felicis!"
Draco was suddenly hot and started to fidget with his fingers all because of that eleven word question. "Easy for you to say, Theo. You don't have a big fat crush o—" he was cut off yet again. This time, by Pansy.
"Alright, Malfoy. We're done," she announced, crossing her arms. "Either you tell her—or we will!" Pansy smirked, now putting her hands on her hips, trying to hide her laugh as she stood up. The two boys beside her started snickering as they followed Pansy towards the dormitories, leaving Draco in a very difficult position.
Theo suddenly stopped in front of Draco, "You better ask her soon or you know what's coming." He teased, then continued to follow Blaise and Pansy.
"Wait! I'll do it!" He stammered, his hand reaching out, a hopeless attempt to let them stay. "But—uh—is 'You looked like a powdered donut and still managed to be gorgeous.' a good compliment? Because the potion she was brewing blew up last week."
All he got in reply was loud groans and sighs as three of his friends continued walking away from him.
"Guys?!"
Silence.
Draco sighed as he looked down at his feet. "Hey! You looked like a powdered donut and still managed to be gorgeous." He quietly muttered to himself.
⸻
The next day, Draco's heart felt like it was going to come out of his chest and his feet felt like rubber as he saw you strolling through the library. This was it. This was the day he's going to ask you the eleven word question.
Naturally, he brought backup—just in case of a stutter, a horrible nosebleed, or, Merlin forbid, passing out. He had to full-on beg them to come with him, since, in Pansy's own words:
“How are you even going to dance with her if you need us just to ask her to the ball? What—are we going to do a group dance in case you pass out?”
She may be right...
But he badly needed emotional support or he'll die of a heart attack before he could even talk to you.
"Alright. I'm going to go up to her, compliment her pretty face, ask her the question, and hope for the best." He whispered, his grip tightening on the stem of your favorite flower.
The four of them were currently formed in a circle at the corner of the library, three pairs of eyes staring at the blonde boy as he told them his plan.
Theo gave him a flat look, unimpressed. “That’s the plan? That’s it?”
“Well, do you have a better one?” Draco snapped, slightly louder than he intended, which earned them all a sharp shhh! from Madam Pince across the room. They all winced and lowered their heads like scolded toddlers.
Blaise leaned in, voice a murmur. “Yes. Literally anything other than blurting out powdered donut compliments in the library.” He rubbed his temples. “Just… try not to be weird, mate.”
“I’m not weird,” Draco muttered, offended.
“Yeah?” Pansy raised a brow. “You practiced your line in the mirror seven times this morning and then gave the flower a pep talk.”
Draco blushed furiously. “It’s her favorite flower. It needs to be… emotionally prepared.”
Theo shook his head, muttering, “We’re emotionally exhausted.”
Still, despite their teasing, the trio gave him nods of encouragement as he squared his shoulders, tucked the flower carefully behind his back, and began the slow, risky walk toward where you sat—cross-legged on the carpet between two shelves, surrounded by a sea of books and parchment, humming softly to yourself as you scribbled into your notes.
He froze halfway.
You were chewing on the end of your quill, a bit of ink on your chin, your eyes narrowed in concentration. You wore a flower crown made of daises again today—different colors if he may add—the yellows, oranges, and whites complimenting your face. Draco thought he might pass out on the spot.
'Gosh how can she be so beautiful while doing nothing.'
"GO!" Pansy whisper yelled as she pushed Draco toward you.
"Wait n—" he stumbled toward you. He was begging his feet to go back to his safe cocoon where he wouldn't get humiliated or possibly pass out, but they were stuck on the ground—unable to move.
"Hey!" he gulped, his cheeks rapidly turning red for being flustered but mostly from embarrassment.
You glanced up at the sudden noise and there he was. He looked... hot.
HOT! as in sweating hot—not the kind of hot where his hair was pushed back after a shower in the quidditch lockers and definitely not the time when—
Stop it!
“Oh! Hello, Draco." You said, offering him a warm smile as you stood, brushing the creases from your skirt to face him properly.
He smiled back—but it wasn’t the kind of smile most people gave. It was lopsided, almost shaky, like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be confident or terrified. His hands fidgeted behind his back, and then—
"ELEVENWORDQUESTION!" he blurted.
You blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”
Draco swallowed hard, his cheeks rapidly turning pink. “What I meant to say is… you look like a powdered donut.”
What.
The.
Hell?
Your smile faltered. You looked down at your shoes, heart sinking a little. Was that… was that supposed to be an insult?
“Oh,” you murmured, suddenly self-conscious. A quiet, uncertain panic started to rise in your chest.
“No, no, no, wait—!” Draco rushed forward, eyes wide. He reached out and placed his hands gently on your shoulders, his voice frantic now. “That came out wrong. I mean—you looked like a powdered donut last week—when the potion exploded—and you still looked… you still looked gorgeous.”
You looked up at him, stunned.
He took a breath, then, with trembling fingers, pulled a flower from behind his back. Your flower. The one he’d somehow remembered you loved.
“Would you like to go to the Yule Ball with me?” he asked, quieter now—earnest, vulnerable, the chaos gone from his voice.
And that was when everything seemed to stand still. You stare at him, your mouth agape. You could feel blood rushing through your cheeks.
And then… from behind the nearest shelf came the unmistakable sound of stifled laughter.
You glanced past Draco and saw them—Pansy, Blaise, Theo—all doubled over, failing miserably at hiding. Pansy wiped a tear from her eye. Blaise was wheezing. And Theo was clutching his stomach, trying to breathe.
Oh.
Of course.
It was a dare. A prank. A joke at your expense.
The flower in Draco’s hand suddenly felt like a knife.
Your chest clenched. You took a step back.
“I’m sorry, Draco,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady even as your throat tightened. “I… I have to say no.”
His face crumpled in confusion as you turned away, blinking back tears you refused to let fall—not here, not in front of them.
Not when your heart had almost believed him.
⸻
“Mate,” Blaise had said later, tentatively, from the foot of Draco’s bed, where Draco had buried himself under his emerald blanket like a disgraced ghost. “She didn’t even see the part where you were being sincere.”
“She saw enough,” Draco mumbled.
Pansy kicked his mattress. “She saw us laughing, you dolt. She thinks we were laughing at her. Do you know what that does to a girl?” she added sharply, voice rising with frustration and—Draco noticed—genuine guilt. “You’ve got less than a week till the Yule Ball, and if you want any chance of fixing this, you better stop acting like a sad house-elf and do something.”
Draco’s next plan of action was, to put it bluntly, disastrous.
If he couldn’t speak to you like a normal person, then maybe he could… gesture grandly instead. Show, not tell, right?
Wrong. So very wrong.
It began with him walking—strutting—past your table in the courtyard three times in one lunch period, each time pretending he just happened to be passing by. The first time, he loudly commented to Blaise about how some people had “really excellent taste in flower crowns.” The second time, he tripped on a root and faceplanted into a bush. The third time, he tried to recover by dramatically pulling out a textbook and reading upside down while sneakily peeking at you over the pages.
You didn’t look up once.
“Subtle,” Blaise had deadpanned as he helped pick leaves out of Draco’s hair.
Then came the grand gestures. One morning, you opened your Transfiguration book and found—inside it—a single, freshly pressed forget-me-not. The ink on the page was slightly smudged as if someone had fumbled it with nervous fingers. Tucked next to the flower was a piece of parchment with a single line in jagged, uptight handwriting:
I never forgot. - D
The next day? A little paper crane fluttered down onto your lap during Charms. No one else noticed—except you. It unfolded itself midair to reveal another message:
I’d say something. But every time I try, I ruin it.
He was trying. You could feel it, in all his awkward, dramatic glory.
Then, during Care of Magical Creatures, he nearly sacrificed himself trying to separate you from a cranky Murtlap. You didn’t even ask for help, but there he was, sprinting across the paddock like a knight in shining robes, yelling, “DON’T WORRY, I’VE GOT IT!” before the Murtlap turned and promptly bit his wrist.
You rushed forward instinctively, wand already out, muttering a healing charm with a furrow in your brow. And Draco… Draco smiled like he’d just been kissed.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, half-annoyed, half-worried, as he flexed his hand and hissed.
“Worth it,” he said, eyes locked on you.
That night, you found another note tucked into the folds of your Herbology textbook:
Still an idiot. Still hoping. Still not giving up.
You rolled your eyes.
But you smiled.
⸻
It wasn’t until three days before the ball that he finally had a chance to explain.
You were walking back from dinner, your hands tucked into your robes, eyes on the frost glittering across the windows, when you heard it:
“Wait—please.”
Draco’s voice. Real. Sincere. Clear.
You turned, surprised to see him without backup, no Pansy whispering strategies in his ear, no Blaise with the emergency escape plan, no Theo who can tease him to no end.
Just Draco.
Alone.
Face flushed from the cold—or nerves. Maybe both.
You folded your arms. “Going to call me a pastry again?”
He winced. “Gods, no. Never again.” A beat passed. Then: “Well, unless you start working at Honeydukes. Then maybe once. Or twice.”
You didn’t laugh. But the corner of your mouth twitched.
He took that as a good sign.
“I know what you thought,” Draco said, stepping forward. “When they laughed. You thought it was a joke. That I was making fun of you.” His eyes were painfully honest, gray and glinting like wet stone. “But they weren’t laughing at you. They were laughing at me.”
You blinked. “Why?”
“Because I’d been practicing that line since breakfast. Because I’d stammered like an idiot and spilled ink on my cuff and given a flower a motivational speech. Because I was absolutely pathetic. For you.” He let out a nervous huff.
“You make me stupid.”
Your heart did a little leap.
Draco stepped closer. “And you know what? I don’t care if I look stupid. I’d rather look stupid in front of the entire school than let you go to the Yule Ball without knowing the truth.”
There was a long, breathless pause.
“I like you. I’ve liked you since the first time you made that little dandelion braid and stuck it in your scroll instead of using a bookmark. I like how you hum to yourself when you’re thinking. I like that you stay up after curfew just to stargaze and name constellations like they’re your personal pets. I like that you make everything around you feel… lighter.”
He stepped closer again, now inches from you.
“And if you’ll let me… I want to make you feel that way too.”
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. For once, you were the one struck speechless.
Draco reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a a bouquet of your favorite flower. Blooming. Vibrant. Alive.
“I grew this,” he said quietly. “Chose the seed, studied the soil, made sure it got the exact right light. It took weeks. But it’s yours.”
He gently held it out.
You stared at the flower. Then up at him.
Finally, your voice found its way back.
“…You didn’t stutter,” you whispered.
Draco smirked. It was slow, confident—flirty.
“No. Not when it really matters.”
And then, with a wicked gleam in his eyes, he added, “So. Would you like to go to the Yule Ball with me?”
You smiled.
Not just because the flower was perfect.
Not just because his voice was steady.
But because, for the first time, it felt real. No nerves. No games. Just Draco. Asking you.
Properly.
“Yes,” you said, cheeks glowing.
His grin was immediate.
“And I expect a dance,” you added, pretending to be stern. “A real one. No passing out. No backup dancers.”
Draco leaned in just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath.
“Only if you promise not to look like a powdered donut this time.”
You laughed—finally, laughed—and shoved his shoulder.
