black ties, red seats, white lies.
harry falls in love.
again.
“There’s an event,” Harry said, aiming for casual, though his heart was ringing like a death knell in his throat. “In London. Tonight.”
Draco blinked, just once, slowly.
“Just you and me. Possibly wearing something nice. No need to panic. Just—er—it’s an orchestra.”
“An… orchestra,” Draco repeated flatly.
“Yeah. You know—violins, cellos, possibly an old man flicking his wrist theatrically like he’s summoning spirits. Very serious. Very sophisticated. And—very much your cup of tea, if I’m not wrong to assume that.”
A beat passed. Draco stared down at the book for a long time, as though he was trying to find an excuse written somewhere on the pages. Slowly, his gaze lifted and he arched a brow. “Merlin, Potter. Are you—are you asking me on a bloody date?”
Harry’s brain imploded. “What? No. I mean—yes? I guess? Possibly?” He ran a hand through his hair, which only made it worse. “Fuck. I’m really bad at this.”
“You are aware that you suggesting classical music as a date is, frankly, deeply suspicious?”
“I thought you might like it,” Harry replied, gentle and honest. It was so honest, it hurt. It was so honest, it was a near invocation. Of course, he was not going to elaborate and say: I know you’ll like it because you wrote about Bach in your journal. I know you’ll like it because you used to sketch violins, instead of broken strings.
Harry shrugged softly like his heart wasn’t already bleeding in his chest, and said, “So, what do you say?"
Draco gnawed on his bottom lip for only a second. “You really want me to come?”
It shouldn’t have sounded so disbelieving, Harry thought.