Can you write an imagine when Draco asks Reader to the Yule Ball but she refuses because he waited for too long and she already said ‘yes’ to George Weasley. She tells him to ask Pansy instead because she seems to be so into him it makes her wanna puke. Maybe you could write Draco’s reaction when he sees her at the Ball and realises how beautiful she looks and he feels jealous
This is how it starts: a smoke hazy smile cast across the platform first year, a name that’s molasses slow and sugar sweet, a tentative introduction and intrigue that sparks, blossoms, lasts a lifetime.
She’s friends with the Gryffindor lot, frowns when she catches Draco mutter that inexcusable word. He finds that he doesn’t quite mind, no, not when her smile is wide and her laughter is contagious and she never fails to send a thrill through Draco’s stomach.
But he doesn’t have a crush on her.
And if he can’t help the caterpillar creep of a smile that inches across his mouth when she enters the room, the fourth of July fireworks that erupt beneath the surface of his skin when her hand brushes against his –
Fourth year begins. The Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students crowd the benches of the Great Hall, wait in selective anticipation as Dumbledore announces the TriWizard tournament, mutter in nervous excitement when the words ‘Yule Ball’ drift up to the rain mottled ceiling.
Draco’s first thought is for Potter – who he’s sure will find a way to weasel his way into the tournament.
His second, though, is for Y/N – who he’s sure will say no should he garner enough tact to ask her.
But he can see the candlelight flicker of a shadow across the bow of her mouth, the slope of her nose and the curve of her face; a wind chime laugh that spills from her mouth as she leans over to whisper something into Granger’s ear.
It suddenly doesn’t quite matter if she says no, not if there’s a chance that she might say yes.
The first task is dragons. Great, scaly beasts that flag their leathery wings and fly dangerously close to the stands in pursuit of the champions.
A golden egg gleams in a bed of thistles and tree boughs; the bait and the challenge and the goal.
There’s a cacophony of screams as Cedric Diggory is caught in a cross fire of flames. He’s close and Draco can feel the uncomfortable prickle of withering, searing fire ghost against his skin as Cedric screams, lunges forward, wraps his arms around the golden egg.
He passed on to the second task, despite having gone up in flames.
But Diggory’s round did nothing to rival the terse, tense grate of nervousness and uncertainty as Potter emerged into the stadium.
And Draco had sneered, had been prepared to cheer as the spikes of the Horntail missed Potter by a hair when Y/N’s fingers had curled through his. Unbearably tight and irresistibly small.
Potter makes it through relatively unscathed, having made it successfully through to the next task; Y/N still didn’t let go.
The second task is underwater – a tedious wait until the champions burst to the surface of the Black Lake with a body in their arms.
Y/N is fretful as she waits for Potter to resurface. Pacing over the soggy boards of the dock and wringing her hands together.
And Draco wonders, with equal measures of spite and disappointment, whether or not she would be this concerned for him should the tables be turned. Because the edges of her mouth are pinched a delicate white as she looks at the murky, untroubled surface of the water.
A dry breeze flutters the ends of her scarf as the top of the lake breaks, splinters and Potter comes up gasping. But it’s not Potter that she runs to, that she throws her arms around despite the drastic differences in height, no, it’s Draco.
And there’s an ice sharp jolt in his stomach as he feels the press of her cheek against his; ice that melts, and ice that melts, and ice that melts.
Draco puts off asking Y/N to the Yule Ball. Bides his time and staves off his feelings – because they’re all subject to the overwhelming fear of rejection.
He’s never been told no before.
He suspects that Y/N understands that.
She says ‘no’ when he finally asks her, a week before the ball, tells him that he’s waited too long and she’s said yes already to George Weasley.
“Why don’t you ask Pansy instead?” she asks, bitterly, ink seeping from the tip of her quill as she presses it against the parchment. “She certainly seems to like you enough.” And there’s a twisted edge to her words, a buried treasure and a deeper meaning that Draco can’t manage to decipher, no, not when he’s barely capable of puzzling out his own feelings.
There’s a spider web frost clinging to the panes of the castle windows, the smell of Christmas trees infused in the brick walls. And there’s jealousy churning in his stomach as he waits at the bottom of the stairs; envy potent and deceit overwhelming as George Weasley’s orange head catches his eye.
Because if he doesn’t deserve Y/N, then Weasley certainly doesn’t.
And when he finally sees her –
She’s handwritten love notes tucked under pillows, kisses stolen when no one is looking, roses growing over white picket fences and the sickly sweet brush of perfume. She’s the inescapable and the undeniable, the flutter of snow dusted eyelashes that rewinds, replays, haunts Draco in his sleep.
But there’s a starch shirt stiffness to her smile as Weasley wraps his arm around her waist, a lingering gaze that plucks the opening chords of hope in Draco’s heart strings.
Y/N is a daydream. A childish desire as your words echo back at you from the bottom of a wishing well.
Draco wants her.
And Draco never fails to get what he wants.