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"What do you mean it'll be a press-covered event? It's hardly the Met Gala," Harry whined, hot on McGonagall's tail as she sped past the loitering students. Ron and Hermione were rushing to keep up with him, eager to know why as well. "It's just the Yule Ball."
"Thank you for your unwavering respect for tradition, Mr Potter." She said dryly. Hermione winced behind him. "The Quibbler team are keen on the Boy-Who-Lived, and they are a consistent investor in the school. They will be covering the ball, and I suspect they will have their eyes on you for a lot of it. So, as I have already suggested, find yourself a suitable dance partner, and learn some suitable steps." She stopped suddenly, whipping her head back to face them. Her eyes were sharp. "Just- be suitable. All three of you."
"You don't have to worry, Professor," Hermione promised, stepping forward. "I'll ensure everything is up to your standards."
"Thank you, Miss Granger. Now, if you'll excuse me."
They moved out of her way, dutifully wishing her a good evening before sinking back to their collective sulk.
"Sucks to be you, mate. What are you gonna do about this?" Ron clapped him on the shoulder.
Harry shrugged, "I don't know shit about proper dancing." He admitted. Then, after a beat, "Or being suitable."
Hermione groaned, but straightened up quickly. "I expected as much, Harry. But, lucky for you, I know someone who can help you."
Harry perked up. "Brilliant!"
"It's Draco."
"Malfoy?" Harry's eyes widened, reflexively turning toward the Slytherin common rooms. "He knows how to dance?" While he was bloody good on a broom, Harry hadn't seen him at any other dance.
"Of course he does, he's a Pureblood. And part of the Sacred twenty-eight." She huffed. "Dancing is in his blood."
"As well as being a prat." Ron muttered under his breath, although not quietly enough to go unheard. It earned him a whack on the arm from his girlfriend. Hermione had been good friends with Draco ever since they partnered up in Potions last year. Harry suspected their friendship was a large part of the reason he ultimately decided to reject the Dark Mark. Ron, however, hated the bloke on principle, and the sentiment largely went both ways.
Harry left them to their bickering, veering off toward the Great Hall instead. If Malfoy was going to be anywhere before dinner, it’d be there.
***
"What?"
"I know you're not deaf, Malfoy. Will you practise with me or not?"
"No." Draco spun toward the doors of the Great Hall, only to find his escape route blocked by an alarmingly fast Harry, who had scrambled into his path.
"Why not?" Harry demanded, his brows knitting together in confusion.
"Because I have no desire to dance with an unrefined baboon like you."
Harry, completely unfazed, tilted his head. "I didn't think there were any particularly refined baboons out there..."
"I think they'd all be Queen Elizabeth compared to you." He sneered, pushing past Harry and briskly walking away from this ridiculous conversation. Malfoys don't run away from things. They briskly walk. It was more- well, refined.
"Mark my words, Malfoy!" Draco resisted the urge to Obliviate himself, just to be contrary and expressly not do as Harry said. "I will get my way! They don't call me the chosen one for nothing."
Draco risked a glance over his shoulder—purely to shoot a withering glare at their audience—only to witness the absolute horror of Harry puffing out his chest and attempting a solo rendition of the Olde Waltz. Draco shuddered. How thoroughly uncouth.
He spent the rest of the evening barricaded behind his bed curtains, steadfastly ignoring an overzealous Harry and his overly curious friends. Peace, however, was fleeting.
A Howler from McGonagall wedged itself through the fabric and parked itself directly in his face.
"MR. MALFOY," it bellowed at an ear-shattering volume.
Thankfully, Draco always kept a silencing charm on his bed for… activities.
"PLEASE DO INDULGE MR. POTTER IN HIS REQUEST TO BE HIS DANCE INSTRUCTOR IN THE DAYS LEADING UP TO THE YULE BALL. IT IS IN BOTH OF YOUR BEST INTERESTS TO COMPLY. 50 POINTS WILL BE AWARDED TO BOTH HOUSES IF THE OUTCOME IS SUITABLE."
Draco stared at the smoldering remnants of the Howler.
Shit.
***
"Left foot forward, Potter."
Harry nodded, arms suspended mid-air and feet awkwardly shuffling in the same spot. He looked like a petrified jellyfish. "Right, Okay."
"No, left." Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Merlin, save me."
"I know that!" Harry defended quickly. "I meant 'right' as in 'alright', not the direction. This dancing thing is difficult for me, you know? Doesn't exactly come naturally." He said bitterly.
Draco pursed his lips, then extended his hand, palm side up. Harry stared at the offered hand, his own slowly inching up to meet it without a second thought. Draco slapped it out of the way, much like how one would swing a flyswatter at a pest.
"Ow! What's this then?" Harry gestured to his still raised hand.
"Maybe, if I keep my hand out." Draco started. "A fuck will fall from the sky into it. So I may give it to you."
Harry blinked. "We- We're inside." His mind couldn't quite process what he just heard at the same speed he wanted to respond.
Draco closed his fist, head shaking slightly. "No fucks given today, then." He flicked his wand, and the metronome spell restarted, the steady one, two, three, four filling the air.
Harry sighed, repositioning himself. This time, instead of staring at his feet, he kept his eyes on Draco. It was a far better view, he could admit. Malfoy was something else—a mystery wrapped in a contradiction, tied up with a bow of utter indifference. Just when Harry thought he had him figured out, Draco would say something so bizarre or sharp-edged that it threw him completely off balance. It only made him more curious. "You know, this would be a lot easier if I had a partner."
"Maybe for you. I would suffer from multiple broken toes and a splitting headache."
Harry snorted. "I’m not going to accidentally step on your head, Malfoy."
"Headache, Potter. Your personality causes headaches."
Harry tilted his head. "My personality… steps on your head?"
"Yes, and that's the smartest thing you've said all day." Draco praised. It pleased him an unexplainable amount- maybe he should ask Hermione about this later.
"You- you're so bloody mean," Harry said, a slow, amused smile spreading across his face. "It's brilliant."
Draco scowled. "Salazar, you’ve lost your mind." He raked a hand through his hair, dislodging a few strands from their perfectly slicked-back style. The effect was—annoyingly good.
Harry took a moment to process. "Gods." He muttered under his breath.
"What?"
"You should wear your hair like that more often."
"What, a bloody mess?"
"Yes." Harry nodded enthusiastically. It was then he remembered he was still standing in proper dancing form and relaxed. How embarrassing. He looked at Draco again to soothe the awkwardness he was feeling. "Yes." He repeated. Hopefully, saying it twice would convince him to actually do it.
"No." Bollocks. "Stop distracting me. I have things to do, Potter."
"Like what?"
"Laundry. Homework. Somehow avoid taking the Dark Mark for another year." Draco listed, tone light but laced with something sharper.
The amusement drained from Harry’s face. The Dark Mark.
It was common knowledge now—Draco Malfoy, heir to one of the most notorious Pureblood families, had rejected Voldemort. He wasn’t planning to join the war on his family’s side. Wasn’t interested in blood supremacy or violence. The only nefarious acts he partook in these days were well-executed pranks on Gryffindors.
Still, that defiance came at a cost.
"You're doing a good job, " he said softly.
"What a glowing review." Draco drawled.
"I'm being serious. The people who matter most to you—they chose the wrong side of this war. I know there's a lot of pressure on you," he reasoned. "You're doing a sound job of holding them back. You're good, Malfoy. So you can bitch and moan all you like. You've earned it. No one should have to choose between their morals and their family."
The metronome charm ticked on in the background. Draco’s breathing wasn’t quite steady.
"And," Harry pressed on, not to be stopped once he was in one of his ranting moods, "You don't have to do it alone. This year, you can count on me."
Draco looked like Merlin himself had descended on the Earth and come out as a homosexual. He was familiar with this look. The 'why is someone helping me and not asking for anything in return' look. Also known as the 'life is a trade and kindness isn't free' look. He had this very look while at 12 Privet Drive. But, then came Hagrid. And Ron and Hermione. The rest of the Weasleys. He learnt to know better than that.
But Draco didn't- not yet, anyway. "And if you really want to pay me back, you can keep dancing with me." Harry blurted out.
Draco's mouth fell open, a pretty flush creeping up his cheekbones. Godric’s green earth, Harry thought wildly, I will not survive this.
"As in- lessons." he continued, "Dancing is meant to, uh, improve balance. And. Mental...stuff."
After a long moment of silence, Draco spoke up. "Mental stuff." He repeated.
"Yes."
More silence. Then, slowly, like a weathered, outcasted hippogriff learning to trust for the first time:
"Alright."
Harry grinned, feeling immeasurable happiness bubble up in his chest. "It's left, actually." He took a step forward, this time leading with the correct foot.
When Draco raised his hand to his mouth to hide a smile, Harry felt alive—in a way that had nothing to do with the scar on his head and everything to do with the boy standing in front of him.
A bit scary, that.
He supposed he still had some learning to do, too.
***
"What kind of dance is this, Potter?" Draco scowled, voice tinged with annoyance. His arms were raised in a T shape, as per Harry's instruction. They'd taken a different approach to this lesson. Due to Draco's murderous glare and Harry's two left feet, they decided to switch roles for one dance. "I look like Jeebus Christ."
"Jesus Christ." Harry corrected. "And how do you even know him?"
"Obviously, I don't know the bloke personally, due to his death some millennia ago." He drawled. "And you're first in the year in Muggle Studies, are you? Bloody nepotism."
"You're one to talk about nepotism, Malfoy."
"Oh, sure, it's the same. Nepotism for you gets you free favours and the unflinching trust of most of the wizarding world." Draco snapped. "My brand of nepotism gets me a one way ticket up the Dark Lord's virgin arse."
Harry choked on a laugh. It wasn't really funny- actually, it was quite depressing- but the sheer absurdity of Draco saying it like that made something giddy bubble out of his chest. Draco looked at him as if he'd grown another head.
"You're funny," Harry said, with a touch of wonder. "Why did no one ever tell me you were so funny?"
"Why did- are you on drugs, Potter?" He finally dropped his arms, rolling his shoulders back a little to ease the light ache of holding them up for so long. His biceps flexed under his crisp white shirt. Harry's mouth watered.
"Do I have to be on drugs to find you funny?"
"No, but it would certainly clear things up."
"Then, sure, I'm high on life. Or maybe it was the pudding I ate last night." He suggested.
Draco frowned. "There was no pudding served last night." He would definitely remember if there was, because then Pansy wouldn't have spent the evening talking to him and Blaise, she would have been clawing her way through the first years to get to the pudding.
"Yes, I saved it. From a few days ago." Harry replied, knowing full well he sounded like a lunatic.
Sometimes, a man wants pudding, and a man will do what it takes to eat pudding. Life is too hard to ignore what you want. He ignored the look of sheer horror on Draco's face, his eyebrows raised so high they disappeared into... into his hair. Merlin. His hair is over his forehead. It's down. Harry's throat went dry all of a sudden.
"You can't save pudding for later-"
"YOUR HAIR." He shouted, alarmingly loud. His voice rang out in the Room of Requirement. Draco finched at his volume. "You listened," Harry spoke again, much quieter.
"I- why must you always change the bloody topic, Potter?" He muttered, scowling in frustration. His ears pinkened. "Can we get on with the lesson now?" He barked, trying to regain control of the situation.
Harry nodded, still grinning. He took a step forward. Draco took one back. How curious.
Another step forward. Another step back.
"You know, this is going to be sort of difficult if you keep moving away from me like we're repelling magnets."
Draco swallowed. "Right. Sorry. Just- habit."
"Sure," Harry waved him off, holding in the question about whether the habit was evading his touch specifically, or just people's. "Do you want to come to me, instead?"
"Excuse me?
"You lead."
Draco faltered. "It's a muggle dance. How can I lead?"
"I'll show you how, just trust me. It's not hard to learn."
Silence, again. Harry has learned not to take these personally. This is Draco's processing time. He's learning and unlearning things every day, just like Harry is, except instead of blubbering like a loose-lipped fish, he stays quiet. Smart decision.
"Okay." Ah, the young hippogriff allows Harry in yet again. "You- stay there."
"Don't plan on moving."
Draco nodded, then stalked up to him as if he was about to wallop Harry with his bare fists. Which would be unfortunate- for his hands. Draco had such lovely hands, like a pianist's. "Why are you moving backwards?" He snapped.
"You were charging at me like a bull!"
"That's how I walk!" Draco huffed. "I keep a brisk pace!"
"Oh, sod your sodding brisk pace. Why do you walk like you're being chased?"
"Shut up." Draco glowered at him. "And stay still."
Harry bit back a grin. "Yes, sir."
Draco walked up to Harry, fairly slowly this time, until he was just a few inches away. He seemed so intent on watching his feet to keep his pace slow that he didn't realize just how close to Harry he had stopped.
"Er- sorry."
"No!" Harry stopped him, fingers resting on the edge of Malfoy's sleeve. "I mean, you need to be here."
"Here."
"Yes."
Silence. Then, "Okay."
Harry smiled. His face was starting to hurt now. And there was something soft curling in his chest, like the dull throb of familiarity and comfort. It felt right to do stupid things with Malfoy. With- Draco.
"Now put your hands on my waist."
Draco nodded. Neither of them moved.
Thirty seconds passed.
Harry cleared his throat, "Did you hear me-"
"Yes."
"I thought you were supposed to be some dancing expert." he raised a brow, teasing the Slytherin. "Unless 'Mione is wrong about-"
"We both know that can't be true." Draco cut in, glaring furiously at him again. Harry doesn't mind, as long as he keeps looking. "It's easy to dance with some geriatric witch that doesn't care whether I live or die. Because it's mutual. But- this is different."
"Different... because you'd care if I die?"
"In some way."
Harry paused. Trying to understand what Draco was trying to say. "I would be pretty inconsolable if you died. So it's okay if you feel something close to that, too."
"Oh." A beat. "Then—me too."
Harry grinned. Draco scowled at it. "You smile too much, Potter."
A brilliant idea came to his mind. "I'll stop smiling if you call me Harry."
"Hm, this is possibly a very good deal." Draco considered it. "Okay." He sniffed. "Harry."
Harry held out for approximately four seconds before breaking out into the biggest grin he could muster. His heart was happy, and his brain felt tingly. "Sorry, " he said prematurely.
"You're doing it even more now, Merlin." he waved a hand in front of Harry's face, as if trying to magic away his smile. "You're so-"
"I'm... so- what?"
Draco narrowed his eyes. "Distracting."
Harry's heart did something odd. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"We have been here for ages, Potter. I have grey hairs."
"But your hair is already white-"
Draco rolled his eyes and clamped his hands on Harry's waist. Rather tight, at first, which was delightfully exciting for Harry, but he relaxed his grip once he got his bearings. Harry let himself settle into it, raising his arms to rest on Draco’s shoulders, feeling the warmth beneath crisp white fabric.
"Fuck me," He breathed.
"What?"
"FRONT. Stay in front of me. Is what I said." Harry was blushing wildly, he was sure of it. He could only hope that Draco had no clue as to why.
"Well, obviously."
"Great! Basics down." He shook himself out of his dazed state. "Now, we sway."
"...Sway."
Harry nodded, starting the process by slowly leaning them side to side. "Did you know you repeat things a lot?"
"Did you know you sometimes say things so stupid or outlandish that I must confirm I heard you correctly?"
"Oh. No, I guess."
"Well," Draco sighed, "Glad I could be the one to tell you."
Harry huffed a laugh, naturally leaning forward—and directly onto Draco’s shoulder. He smelled warm. Like mint and lavender. Draco stilled, but didn't push him away.
"I must also inform you that sniffling your dance partner is generally frowned upon."
"You smell good," Harry muttered, the exhaustion of the day creeping up on him. Actually, it felt like the exhaustion of his life was catching up with him today. He was bone tired. And he really liked his current resting place.
"I... shower," Draco replied awkwardly. Harry wanted to snog the life out of him, but he held himself back. It was certainly not the right time.
"Good to know."
"Indeed."
Harry smiled- yet again. Merlin, is someone keeping track of this or something? It's a bloody miracle. "There's something else that would be- good, to know." Harry swallowed, nerves rising. "For you to know." He clarified.
"Go on."
Harry glanced up- their height difference was not a significant one, but from this close, he had to tilt his head up a little. "I would like to kiss you. Someday soon. When you're ready." He says slowly. Each word holds a lot of meaning to Harry, and he wants to make sure he delivers them to Draco properly. "Actually, when I'm ready, too." He paused again, eyes naturally flickering down to Draco's lips. "Someday very soon, I hope."
The lips he'd been staring at so intently quirked up a little. Then- Merlin, a lot. Draco Malfoy, immovable statue of stubbornness and apathy, while holding Harry in his arms, was beaming. The skin by his eyes was wrinked due to the sheer size of his smile, and his hair flopped down onto his face as he gazed at Harry with reverence.
"I'm going to give you smile lines," Harry declared, speaking into the quiet like a blithering fool as always. Good thing Draco is into that. "I swear it."
Silence, for a few moments. "I hate wrinkles," Draco said finally.
"Sod off with that." He insisted. "You're going to like these. They're- like, happy wrinkles."
"...Happy wrinkles."
Harry huffed out a laugh, "You're repeating what I'm saying again."
"I would like to kiss you." Draco says- no. Draco repeats. "Someday soon."
"I hope you actually mean that and you're not just parroting it back to me."
Draco frowns, and for a moment, Harry is scared he has ruined something. "What is a parreting?"
Harry blinks. "Parroting. Like- parrots?"
He gets a blank stare in return. "Seriously? How do you know about Jesus and not about Parrots?" Harry cried. "Considering the latter is the only living one!"
"Harry. I don't want to talk about Jesus right now." Draco rolled his eyes. "Honestly."
"Right, of course."
Draco grinned, nudging his left foot with Harry's. "It's left,"
He nudges back. "So it is,"
"No, seriously." Draco pinched his sides. We are extremely behind schedule. The ball is in two days, and all you can do is sway pathetically and confess your rapidly growing desire to snog me."
"Which, just to be clear, you would also like to do."
The Slytherin tilts his head, considering. "Get this dance right, and we'll see what happens at Yule."
"Okay." Harry nodded. "I am the Chosen one." Eye-roll from Draco. "I am the Boy-Who-Lived," Another Eye-roll. "I will become the Boy-Who-Danced-In-Order-To-Snog-Draco." He announced. "Piece of cake."
Draco swivelled his head, "Where?"
"Merlin, am I going to have to teach you about idioms?"
He hummed. "Is that some sort of sex thing?"
"I-Idioms?" Harry's voice cracked. "Bloody hell- no! That's condom."
"Obviously, I know what a condom is. I thought an Idion might be some muggle contraption," Draco shrugged.
"Idiom."
"Shut up and dance."
Harry had to physically bite his lip not to start spouting off the cultural relevance of what Draco said. There'll be time for that later. He nodded.
"Which waltz do you want to practice?" Draco asked.
"Whatever's most suitable, love."