darkravenwrote: (rose)
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Author: [livejournal.com profile] darkravenwrote
Title: Date Night
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Pre-implied-Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy. Implied-side-Hermione/Ron
Word Count: 508
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Prompt: For my ‘Anxious’ tile on GYWO Bingo.
Author’s Notes: Blahhhh. I just needed to get some words out!
Summary: Harry’s nerves play on him before his blind date.


"What about the blue?" Harry murmurs, fiddling with the cuff of his unbuttoned shirt anxiously.

"Seriously, chill, mate. Hermione always says the green for you," Ron says, even though Harry hadn't been expressly talking to him. It's true though; Hermione always gives a little satisfied nod whenever he wears the green shirt with the faint black panelling out at night. It's new enough to still be presentable without any frayed stitching, but old enough that he's comfortable in it. He could do with any comfort he can snag right about now.

"You're right, the green." Harry nods, doublechecks his reflection, then nods decisively again. "The green." He jumps away from the mirror and burrows into his wardrobe.

"No, seriously though. Calm down," Ron repeats from Harry’s bed where he's perched on the end, his legs crossed at the ankle while he flicks disinterestedly through Harry's copy of this month's Seeker's Secrets.

"I can't," Harry says, his voice muffled by an old Christmas jumper.

"It's just a date. You'll have fun."

"A blind date!" Harry exclaims, emerging victoriously with his shirt in hand.

"And while I sympathise with your plight," Ron says, flopping back onto Harry's clean sheets, "I can't reveal who you'll be meeting no matter the blackmail. Hermione's way ahead of you on that front."

"Shit, it's wrinkled." The shirt steams worryingly when he casts a charm to iron out the creases. A faint burning smell wafts around the room. "Shit!"

"Fucking Hufflepuff's smalls, calm your fucking tits." Ron jabs his wand at thin air. "Don't you trust us? You'll like him." He hesitates.
"But?" Harry urges.

"But, give it a chance, yeah? You might, er, argue to start with."

"I know them, don't I? Jesus, fuck, maybe I should cancel. You haven't set me up with a Hufflepuff, have you? Not Finch-Fletchley, please. Just, nod or shake, Hermione never needs to know."

Ron chuckles. "It's not a Hufflepuff."

"Slytherin then." Harry scowls accusingly.

"Look, I'm not telling you who. Just, keep calm when you see him. Hermione might be onto something here but if you punch him in the face on your first date it might put a dampener on the whole thing."

Harry stops half way into his green shirt, only one sleeve on. It flaps loosely over his plain white undershirt as he turns on Ron.
"Who is it?" Harry says with a sense of doom settling on shoulders.

"Seriously, I can't say. Hermione's got me by the balls on this one."

"Because she knows I won't go if I know who it is beforehand," Harry surmises.

The click of Ron's swallow echoes loudly around the small room. A bare floorboard squeaks particularly shrilly as Harry turns back to the mirror.

Hermione's right; this shirt does suit him.

He meets Ron's eyes in the mirror. Ron's stillness confirms his suspicions.

If he wants to impress Malfoy on a first date, he needs to wear his best shirt. He pulls on the second sleeve and begins buttoning it, his fingers jittery with nerves.

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