Work Text:
Francis Avery hated dancing. It was a fact of life that a pureblood had to know how to dance, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He looked down at the young french girl that was tutoring with an annoyed expression. Her soft, lilting voice was exacting.
“Step, one, two, three,” she demanded, wrapping his knuckles with her wand when he stepped wrong. “Non.”
Francis looked at her in annoyance as she began to speak rapidly in French, something she did when she was scolding him. Which was often, he had to admit.
“I don’t speak French,” he growled at her. “If you want to help me, speak English. Or at least Italian.”
She huffed in annoyance, “How is it a boy with a name that literally means Frenchman doesn’t speak French?”
He glared, “How is a girl who’s name is derived from the god of healing such a brutal woman?”
She huffed, “Is Music and Poetry I aspire to.”
He rolled his eyes and she rapped his knuckles once more.
“Again,” she instructed.
Francis was silently grateful that Apolline was not going to be his wife as he stepped forward once more.