It's No Great Mystery (Drarry)

Chapter One

25th December, 1998

Harry woke with a start, the faint, warbling sounds of some tinny wizard rock song blasting sleep from his mind.

Can you dance like a Hippogriff?

He stared up at the scarlet canopy with its golden starbursts and wondered why there was a faint edge of terror and unease in his stomach.

Ma ma ma, ma ma ma, ma ma ma.

His brain helpfully supplied the answer.

Balls. Or, specifically, one Ball. One terrifying, glittery, panic-inducing Ball that should have been stuck firmly in his past instead of being painfully resurrected like a sodding zombie in the name of cheer and moving forward. How could anyone fucking move forward by dragging the past with them? Especially a past that was so... frilly.

At least Ron had nicer robes this time.

"Bit early for that, isn't it?" came the sleep-muffled grunt from the bed next to Harry's, and Harry couldn't agree with Ron more.

Seamus, it seemed, wasn't on their wave-length. He turned up the volume and began singing along.

"Ma ma ma, ma ma ma, ma ma ma!" he yelled, stomping around the room in an approximate rhythm to suggest he might, possibly, be headbanging.

Harry groaned, and then he groaned a bit louder for effect, since no one had heard him over the music, and then he rolled over to the edge of his bed and pulled the curtains back to make his opinion properly known.

Unfortunately, then he fell out of bed, on account of him still being half asleep, and that just made the singing and headbanging louder—accompanied now by obnoxious laughter.

"I didn't save the world for this," he insisted, ignoring the faint twinge of discomfort in his stomach that always signalled he probably shouldn't make jokes about it, but what else was he meant to do? Be serious about it?

The world he had so graciously saved liked to remind him of his deeds—often in the form of song—several times a day. More, if it could squeeze in a fresh article and a poem or two. And so, Harry had tried to take the sting out of it all by turning it into his own joke. It wasn't working.

"Sure, you did, Harry!" Dean protested, twirling Seamus around in his pyjamas. "You brought back music and laughter and—" He couldn't finish, breaking into sniggering laughter halfway.

By joyous coincidence, the wireless chose that moment to switch seamlessly into the song in question. This time, Harry didn't need to emphasise his displeasure; it was written all over his face. He covered his ears and ran from the room, his last vision of his dorm being of his best friend—the traitor—happily conducting the chorus.

"Are you protesting today, Harry?" Luna asked beatifically from the fireplace as he entered the common room.

"Er... no?" he hedged, glancing around for answers. "How did you... get in here?"

"Melinda let me in," Luna answered with a smile, doing absolutely nothing to explain who Melinda was and why she was letting Ravenclaws in and then leaving them to read by the fire. "And you're right, of course. I didn't notice the socks."

Harry blinked at her, wondering if perhaps this was a strange dream and none of the impromptu singing performances had even happened. But no, he could still hear them carrying on upstairs, and this was, after all, just Luna. With a sigh, he dropped into the armchair across from her and kept his face carefully neutral.

"What do my socks have to do with anything?"

"Well, I thought you might be protesting the Triwizard Tournament, but I think everyone taking part in the protest is wearing only their pyjama tops. Not the full outfit. And of course, their socks are green."