"I look fantastic!"

Draco's voice rang out from inside the small dressing room. All Hermione could see was the velvet curtain hanging over the door that blocked the room off, and Draco's booted feet just underneath the door. She raised an eyebrow.

"Well, come out and show us, then," she said.

"But then I would have to stop looking at myself," Draco pointed out.

"Well, I can't help you pick an outfit if you won't let me see it," Hermione said reasonably.

"Oh, I don't know," said Draco. "I'm not sure you're ready for this much fantastic!"

"Trust me, Malfoy," said Harry drily. "We are both prepared to handle the fantastic."

Hermione shot him an amused look. They had been shopping in the clothing section of Diagon Alley for almost six hours now, and Harry was beginning to wilt like an unwatered buttercup. At the moment, he was standing in a corner of the Kenneth Troll shop, trying to avoid getting poked by Christmas decorations and gloomily perusing a battered copy of Quidditch News Weekly, March 1973, which he had picked up along the way and had already read seven times. Hermione and Harry had both purchased their clothes for the Yule Ball hours before. Only Draco was left, and despite having tried on at least sixty pairs of trousers already, he had yet to find one that didn't make him look Fat, Poor, Lumpy, Pear-Shaped, Trashy, Slightly Bulgarian, Too Girly, or Too Butch. Hermione was confused as to why the last was an issue but apparently he was set in his opinion.

"Please come out of the dressing room, Malfoy," Harry said plaintively. "Even the photos in this magazine are starting to look bored."

Sure enough, Igor Trebiansky, the 1973 Russian Seeker, was yawning as he sped across the pitch for the fiftieth time.

"If you don't come out, we are going to come in!" Hermione threatened.

"All right, all right," said Draco, and with a flourish, threw open the door.

Harry dropped his magazine.

Hermione choked on a giggle. "You look..."

"Say it!" Draco demanded, preening gracefully in front of the three-way mirror outside the dressing room door. "You've never seen anything like me before. Am I right?"

"Right you are," said Harry, weakly.

Hermione had to agree. She had never seen anything quite like Draco's outfit before. It began with the boots. The boots that had seemed a tasteful black peeking out beneath the door turned out to have giant pink turnovers on the top. Then there were the trousers. They were silver, and skintight. They laced up the front, the lacings loose enough to reveal the fact that Draco was wearing midnight blue underwear. A kinder narrator might well gloss over the shirt -- it came only halfway down his torso, was white, and had puffy, ruffled sleeves. There was a vest that went with it. The vest was green. It had silver dragons on it. There was also a dragon pendant of some sort. Hermione averted her eyes.

"So what do you think? You're stunned, right? You have no words. You want to pounce me and ravish my fabulous, sinewy body!" He examined his flat tummy appreciatively in the mirror. "I can hardly blame you. I can't wait to hear what people say when I walk into the Great Hall in this..."

"You can't walk into the Great Hall in that!" Harry burst out, having turned a faint shade of green that matched Draco's vest, which was fortunate because nothing else did.

Draco paused and blinked at him. "Why not?"

"Because," Hermione said, steeling herself. "You look gay."

"Really gay," said Harry.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Hermione added quickly.

"Of course not!" Harry added, bending to pick up his Quidditch magazine. Hermione could not see his face but she could see that the back of his neck was bright red. He straightened up. "Just, I don't know if you...well...who are you going to the Yule Ball with, anyway? Is there something you want to tell us?"

Draco looked highly affronted. "Look, just because I have a Quidditch-honed body and some fashion sense, doesn't make me gay."

"No, but that outfit might," said Hermione, looking at it askance. "You don't just look gay, you look like an escapee from the Gay Men's Madrigal Choir."

Draco crossed his arms over his chest which had the unfortunate effect of pulling the ruffled sleeves tight across his arms and making him look flouncy. "These clothes are classics! They recall a bygone age."

"I for one am happy it's gone," said Harry, returning to his magazine after shooting Hermione a you-deal-with-it look. "I think if I had to wear trousers that tight all the time children would eventually be out of the question."

Draco turned back and looked at himself in the mirror. His lip wobbled. "But I look pretty!"

"You do look pretty, honey," Hermione agreed kindly. "It's just that...well. You're not actually gay, and ..."

"Well, I might be," said Draco.

Hermione paused and blinked. She glanced behind her at Harry but he seemed absorbed in an article on lost Snidget colonies of Southeast Asia and did not look up. "You...what? You are?"

"I'm not saying I am," Draco said. "I'm just saying I could be. I am a Malfoy! I can do anything I want! I defy your paltry labels!"

"How much butterbeer did you have at lunch?" Hermione wondered aloud.

"I refuse to be categorized! I am Draco Malfoy! I am a unique and beautiful snowflake!"

"In pink boots," said Harry, without looking up.

"They're FUSCHIA!" Draco yelled. "They complement my waistcoat!"

"But you like girls, Draco," Hermione said, as kindly as she could.

"Maybe I just haven't met the right guy!" Draco said, waving his ruffles petulantly. "My man of destiny could come along any day now. Someone who would appreciate me. Someone who would take care of me. Someone who would follow me to the Gates of Hell --"
"I never thought Hell had gates," Harry mused. "I always thought there was, like, this tunnel thing..."

"THAT IS NOT THE POINT!" Draco yelled. "The point is that I could be gay, if I liked! Nobody could stop me! I would be the gayest gay student Hogwarts has ever seen! I would out-gay Justin Finch Fletchley!"

"Justin is straight!" Hermione protested.

"Really? But he's always playing 'Moon River' on his harmonica," said Draco, with interest.

"So what!" Hermione snapped. "You don’t know anything about being gay, Draco. You're just defending your outfit, and being really lame about it."

"I am not being lame," Draco snapped. His grey eyes flashed. "I am just saying. I am mysterious. I have many depths. I could be gay. I could be madly in love with Harry and concealing it for the sake of my profound friendship with you both."

Hermione looked at him, exasperated. "That's ridiculous."

"Oh? Is it?" Draco demanded, sensing a challenge. He tossed his hair back. "Potter! Come here!"

Harry, who had unfortunately not been paying attention, looked up and blinked. "What?"

"I said get over here!" Draco bellowed, pointing at a spot on the floor right in front of him.

Harry put his magazine down and trotted over obligingly, rather, Hermione thought, like a lamb to the slaughter. "Okay. Do you need help with your cufflinks or ---mffffff!" he finished, the end of the sentence swallowed up by the fact that Draco had just grabbed him by the shoulders and planted his lips on Harry's.

Long endless seconds seemed to go by. Hermione remembered Draco having once told her that there was no point doing anything if you weren't going to do it well, and he seemed to be applying that philosophy to this particular exercise. Hermione felt briefly sorry for Harry, who had about as much chance in this situation as a dust mote in a typhoon. She also found that she was enjoying this far more than was possibly healthy. After all, these were two very pretty boys, sharing what Ginny would have called A Moment. Actually, it was rather more than A Moment. By the time they separated Hermione found herself feeling the need for a fan.

"Glerk," said Harry, looking dazed.

Draco looked inordinately pleased with himself. "Don't fall in love with me, Potter," he said. "I'll break your heart. I can never be tied down." He licked his bottom lip and squinted at Harry, suddenly suspicious. "Are you wearing lip gloss?"

Harry looked shifty. "No."

"Yes, you are, you taste of kiwi-strawberry lip gloss. Blaise wears it."

Harry's chin trembled. "I got bored in the makeup store!" he wailed. "And my lips were chapped!" He glared at Draco. His hair was standing up all over his head where Draco had run his fingers through it. "What was the point of that, anyway, Malfoy?"

"The point was that these trousers are fantastic and I am going to buy them," Draco said.

"Do you always kiss people when you make purchases?" Harry muttered.

"You know," Hermione said helpfully, "I really think actually those trousers are very flattering."

Draco looked gratified. "Thank you, Hermione. The voice of reason at last."

"And you can probably get a tailor to fix how they bunch up in the back," she added.

Draco blanched. "They what? They bunch up?"

"Just a little," Hermione said. "Right over your bum. I mean, I know those lumps aren't you, but..."

"Lumps!?" Draco looked stricken. "Despair! Ruin! Shoddy tailoring! I am DEFILED!"

And with that, he raced back into the dressing room, and yanked the door shut behind him. The sound of hasty undressing was audible.

Hermione looked at Harry, who glared at her as if it was her fault, which, she thought, was really rather unfair. "I am never going shopping with either of you again," he said.

"Kiwi-strawberry lip gloss?" said Hermione.

Harry blushed furiously, but before he could respond, the dressing room door flew open again, and Draco emerged, beaming radiantly. "How about this one?" he demanded cheerily. "I'd almost forgotten that body stockings were back in style this season. Fortunately, I have the figure to wear them!"

Harry looked as if he might cry. "Is that a matador jacket?"

Leaning back against the wall, Hermione sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon.