It's Not Romantic, I Swear

"Alright, next person who walks through the common room, we ask them, yeah?"

Such were the words spoken by Harry Potter, slumped down in an armchair by the fireplace (the most comfortable place in this galaxy and in the next, in his opinion) in the Gryffindor commons. Flanked by Ronald Weasley, who was sitting down on the same seat as he was, Harry pushed his glasses —which were just a touch too big for his eyes, he came to realise— up the crown of his nose and awaited his best friend's answer. The redhead watched as the bespectacled boy to his right picked at the skin around his nails anxiously.

He was extremely stressed out, is the thing.

With the Yule Ball just a single day away, the fourth Triwizard champion was beginning to think he'd have to show up to the event by himself. He winced as he imagined himself waltzing into the Great Hall, all eyes on him (and his decidedly plain dress robes that were at least a size too big for him), and he'd have to admit to the hundreds of people watching that he didn't have a date. His ears rang as he heard the snickers of "Potter couldn't get a single wix to dance with him, the berk."

He looked at Ron. The freckled git was making him wait for an answer.

He is famous.

He is bisexual.

He is, against all the odds the universe could possibly provide him with, completely and utterly alone.

(He is also Harry Potter, The Boy Who Had Shit Luck, so he's not too surprised.)

"Sure, why not. At least that way the Slytherin gits won't poke fun at us." Ron answered finally, slouching down in their shared armchair and looking for all the world like he'd very much like to sink into it and never resurface.

Harry was about to reply with a sly quip about Slytherins ("Have you seen them? They'd be lucky to have gotten a mole to go with them") when an idea came to him, as fast as a lightswitch being turned on.

Slytherin gits.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Without providing the bemused redhead any explanation whatsoever ("W o t the bloody Merlin are you doing, mate-?"), Harry shot up from where he sat like an arrow, and darted across the common room.

"Be right back, stay here" was the last thing he called out over his shoulder before dashing away.

Sprinting past Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, who's confused —and perhaps a bit concerned, as well— gazes followed Harry's agile progress down the marble steps they stood on, he wrenched the portrait hole open ("This is why nobody likes you" called out the Fat Lady as her painting swung violently).

He hadn't felt this pleased with himself in quite a while, and when he spotted a familiar shock of blond hair amidst the sparkling snow of the Hogwarts grounds, he couldn't suppress the triumphant smile that tugged at his lips. There was Draco Malfoy, looking posh and sniffing primly at literally nothing even as he sat down next to the frozen lake. He was sans his snake followers, which struck Harry as rather odd (but, for this particular situation, extremely lucky).