Lead and Follow

Harry certainly wasn't pleased in the direction things were headed. His first practice session with Malfoy had been utterly terrible--starting off at the extreme basics in the waltz. They hadn't even made it to another dance in the end because it seemed that at every new step or turn the damnable Slytherin took the opportunity to humiliate him--starting off with making Harry the follower, which was the female. At first this reality had truly stuck a cord within him and he had been quite angry at his new "dance partner"--but, in actuality, he did admit that the follower did have the better steps, and just not in waltz, for that matter. Truth be told the follower had the most fun.

Often times Harry hadn't a clue what the hell he was doing when he danced with Malfoy, but the ass lead him so perfectly that he flowed from one move to the next. If being in the same room with Malfoy wasn't enough to piss off Harry, it was the fact that the boy was always right.

That just made Harry all the more angry and resisting when the two danced. And this evening was no different from any of the others as Harry was soon learning, a scowl mixed with a half grimace appearing on his features as Harry stumbled on the opening moves for a tango. He had presumed that Draco would be leaning him into a turn and so he had mentally prepared for that, yet when the prat only continued the advancing movement he had missed his cue.

"Potter! We've gone over this ten times now! It goes quick-quick-slow-pause-forward-back-back-back-side-together!"

Harry's expression soured and he exclaimed, "Oh, well excuse me. It's not like you aren't asking me to do something I've never done before, or anything."

"That excuse would have worked the first time, but this is the tenth time." Draco pointed out, magiking a glass of water from the nearby desk and sipping it delicately, casting exasperated glances towards the only other figure in the room.

Harry fell silent and looked miffed at some point in the darkness. Merlin, if only Quidditch hadn't been canceled again this year. It was bad enough, what with the ministry the year before and everything--and Umbridge being the demon sent from hell to ensure that he did nothing whatsoever; but now the reasons why he wasn't out on the pitch actually made sense. He hadn't been called on a minor technicality of wanting to beat his dancing partner to a pulp, no, quite on the contrary, the fact that Voldemort had officially returned to power and was waging a silent war against the Wizarding population was such a good reason that Harry was annoyed for the fact that he could not be annoyed.

It was always safety first, but this time, he supposed, it was justified. Still, he was beginning to wonder if anything could rationalize him being here, dancing with the son of a Death Eater after hours.

There was a nervous and apprehensive silence, Harry lost in his thoughts just wishing he could ride his Firebolt for the first time in months, until finally Draco licked his lips, rolled his eyes, and grumbled, "Get over yourself Potter and get over here. We're trying it again."

The Gryffindor's steps echoed across the floor and he faced his enemy, or at the very least, rival. Well, dancing was better than doing nothing physical, the Gryffindor supposed dully, arranging his features into a blank expression, often like the type Dudley wore when watching the telly. It was best to be passive, especially with the tango, seeing as how it was a dance of extreme closeness.

Good thing this isn't Arginitian Tango, Draco thought silently to himself.

Observing Potter in mild annoyance, noticing that they were now of equal heights--although in previous years he had managed to out-rank the boy in stature, Draco crossed his arms and cast a disapproving glare towards his dance partner. He had an absolutely horrible expression on his face, as though he was a cave man or some such thing. Perhaps it was something typical of the Muggle household in which he had been raised.

"So," he clipped briskly, wondering if the boy had that same glassy-eyed appearance often, "First off, Potter, I don't know how you danced back home, but your not standing close enough to me. And this is the tango we're doing here, not some waltz with a sturdy frame."

Harry snorted, and replied swiftly, his face quickly contorting into an emotion of anger, "Well, has it ever occurred to you that I don't want to stand that close to you? Need I point out you are a guy?"

"Well, I'm glad that your sexuality is so well intact that you aren't nervous pressing your body against mine. It doesn't matter who you dance with--not like you're my first choice either, but it's all about how you dance with them. Whether it's your Mudblood friend--,"

Harry bristled at this comment and Draco steered his remarks decidedly away from that topic. It was best not to use that word anymore for his own sake at least.

"--Or McGonagall, for that matter: they're all are the same," he finished swiftly.

The Gryffindor smirked and stepped closer, a slight grin appearing on his lips, "I'm not the same as the people you used to dance with."

Draco mirrored the same smuggish expression (which he pulled off quite better than the Gryffindor) in turn and grabbed Potter's hand in a flourish and finished, "You're right. They danced better than you."

If Harry had any wind within him, it was knocked out when Draco stepped forward with such force that their bodies were practically glued together as they glided across the dance floor. Yes, there was that all-important first step, wasn't it? The two had only had a few lessons together and already Harry had heard that speech more times than he would have cared to. It was always the same--the importance that lay in that first move. Harry snorted silently; not like he would know about leading anytime soon, not if Malfoy had his way.

The fact that he was plastered against the bastard was extremely disconcerting and oftentimes he felt his posture falling to shreds as he just, however silently, realized that he was dancing one of the most passionate dances ever with a person he ought to royally hate. And it was very, very hard to concentrate on the dance moves. Especially when his partner's legs were rubbing against his own.

They began the first five steps of the tango, Draco's voice tickling Harry's ear as he counted out the moves.

One...Two...Three, Four, Five...

They continued this pattern for sometime until, Draco, upon pulling him closer so that the right side of Harry's body was completely smashed against his chest, commanded, not sharply, but rather firmly, "Bend you're knees more, Potter. There are no straight knees in this dance. Like I've told you, this isn't the bloody waltz, you know."

A pause and Harry frowned, but complied.

"Lower..."

The frown deepened.

"Lower..."

It turned into a grimace, but nevertheless Harry complied again.

"I said lower, Potter." Draco demanded as he made a sharp spin when they had traveled the length of the floor.

"I can't go any lower or else I can't stand up." The heated Gryffindor spat bitterly, tightening his grip against the Slytherin and turned his head leftwards as he felt them enter into another spin. In this position he felt very vulnerable and it seemed almost impossible to keep his balance without nearly strangling his partner.

"Yes, you can. You're dancing now, aren't you? Now, just don't straighten up and continue dancing like this." Draco demanded, leaning backwards into a Mezzio Corte.

Quick-Quick-Slow-Slow-Quick-Quick-Slow...

"You are annoying as hell, Malfoy." Harry retorted as they spun out of the step and continued to glide across the room. Idly in the dim recesses of his brain that weren't processing messages like Draco is an arse--His legs are pressing against you--He has very nice abs--came the thought Wait, we actually did this right. I didn't mess up...

Malfoy didn't reply, but only held him impossibly closer, his grip strong and firm, yet not overpowering. Harry could tell that Malfoy was getting into the dancing, especially when he didn't even bother acknowledge an insult from Harry, his enemy. Well, Harry supposed off-handedly, he might as well try to get the most of the dancing while he could tonight. It would be an hour in five minutes, and usually both became so disgusted when the clock struck the hour that they parted. Maybe tonight would be different. The tango was not one of his strongest dances and he could certainly use the practice. He was learning a fair amount, although being the follower was rather difficult, especially in tango with too much tricky footwork and body contact. The Mariposa, for instance, was probably one of the simplest moves and he had managed in a few tries, but there were some he was nowhere near to learning. He did rather hope the lesson would last longer.

Pulling himself out of his thoughts, Harry realized he had been leaning against Malfoy, and decidedly arched his back and corrected his posture. He must have really zoned out that time--not holding up your own weight was something that every beginner learned on the first day of class. It was easy; Harry admitted though, that when one was a follower it was simpler to get away with the slack. In addition, he noticed that in some point in time music had begun to play. This was the first time the two had danced to anything; most time it was only silence or Draco whispering the steps aloud, but now, with the music, what they were doing didn't seem like much of a lesson anymore.

Measured steps were not counted aloud nor were there heated words or any of that: they were actually dancing.

Even more so, Harry was following Draco perfectly.

So they danced.

Their bodies pressed together, in the tango, the dance of forbidden lovers, and each dancer perfectly in-tune with another.

For some time now Harry had been aware of their physical closeness and he had successfully, or perhaps, unsuccessfully managed to shake off the feeling. This was Draco Malfoy, damn it. The boy who made six years of Hogwarts a living hell, and who's father was a contributor to his Godfather's death. This should not have been someone, or something, rather, he felt any attraction to. He blamed it on the dance. He was sixteen, full of hormones, it was the tango, and the tango could make even the coldest person feel such emotions.

But, then again, the Boy-Who-Lived thought absently to himself, It's been a while since I was perfectly at ease around any boy...

He didn't want to think about that now. Not here. Especially not in front of Draco Malfoy. Therefore, letting go of any emotion, Harry closed his eyes and continued the steps as he had learned them; he had to focus! He did not want this to end in embarrassment on his party.

Draco, on the other hand, had his eyes firmly opened and was staring out at the moon beyond the windows. If he was nervous, he gave no apparent signs, but instead continued to dance so that Potter wouldn't notice his unease. The fact was that dancing this close to Potter was rather disconcerting. It was after all, Potter. The Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived and his enemy since his birth.

And now he was dancing with him. Not just any dance, for that matter, it was a tango.

Perfect, just bloody perfect, Draco thought to himself as he pulled Potter in closer for a particularly difficult turn, that, surprisingly, the boy followed with ease. Draco could tell that for some reason the Gryffindor had let his guard down and decided to stop being so-ruddy-difficult and just dance with him. It wasn't going to kill Potter, was it? No, certainly not, and, if it did, there were worse deaths, the blonde supposed correctly.

But it was just unnerving. There was no other word for it besides that. It was Potter. It was the tango: a dangerous dance for anyone.

Besides the fact that Potter was an intermediate dancer, and Draco himself being used to dancing with experts, it was scary how well they danced together. Draco knew he was an exceptional teacher, but not that brilliant--once the two of them had actually started dancing everything had fallen, rather creepily, into place. Was that supposed to happen? Wasn't Potter supposed to be a bit more stubborn than this? It certainly seemed so. Wasn't he supposed to stumble through the moves like he had done earlier? Yes, damn it.

"Congratulations, Potter." Draco whispered, pulling the boy forward into a particularly deep lunge.

Rather surprised by the move, but adjusting his feat and following his lead's example (glad he had worn slightly stretchy pants), Harry questioned off-handedly, although obviously strained and anxious, "And why is that, Malfoy?"

"You're actually not making a complete arse of yourself."

When Harry did not suddenly mess up, trip, swear, or flush, Malfoy was surprised and annoyed. That had been Potter's cue and he had missed it.

"Well, coming from you, that means the world." Harry rolled his eyes as they began in the forward--or in his case--back, position of the dance.

The music was beginning to wind down and in one final burst of energy Draco pulled and guided Harry across the shimmering floor, ending in a mezzo Corte with an added dip. Potter was supposed to mess up again, to miss the cue; and once again he did not, and quite suddenly Draco found the boy in his arms.

There were no more lilting notes. There was only silence in the ballroom, mingling with the heavy breathes of the two dancers.

Draco looked down at the Potter who was clutched in his left arm and holding onto his right hand with pressure.

Their eyes met and--

Harry fell to the floor. Hard. And with a very loud thump.

"What the hell, Malfoy!?" Harry snarled, rubbing his backside, his cheeks flushed with emotion and exertion. That had hurt. Quite badly, actually. Especially when he hadn't expected it. What had the bloke been thinking!?

That had been too close. Draco stepped away from the fallen figure, not even offering his hand, but looking decidedly disgruntled and irked at the Gryffindor. Quickly as he could manage, Draco rationalized, "What do you mean, 'what the hell?' You messed up! I can't support your whole weight in my left arm, you have to balance yourself as well, you know Potter. I can't carry you during the entire dance. It isn't my job."

"I'm not the one who is leading," Harry pointed out, standing up slowly, still scowling at his rival as he rubbed his sore rear.

Ignoring the feeble attempts, Draco continued sweepingly, and very confident sounding, "And I'm not the one who is following. Just because you follow doesn't mean you don't do anything. You are what make the dance agreeable--I can only help you to create the beauty, but I certainly am not going to do it all for you. Who do you take me for, Potter?"

Harry couldn't think of much to say, so instead he thought of his usual comeback. The Gryffindor's frown deepened and he scoffed, "I don't know why I bother with you, Malfoy."

"Excuse me--why you bother with me? I'm the one who should be complaining. I offered to help you Potter, and don't you forget that." Draco pointed out irritably, grabbing a cup of water and draining the remains. Water. Cold. Cold. Yes, cold was a good thing.

"I don't think you'll let me forget it."

"Very good, Potter. You learn quick."

Harry remained silent at that comment and instead walked across the length of the room and opened one of the windows to let in a cool night breeze into the slightly stuffy room. He was rather-er-overheated. Perhaps if he looked at something very mundane all such emotion would go away, including the soreness in his arse. Damn Draco, he could have told me he was going to dip me!

Once again the room was silence, just the two figures standing across a gleaming wood floor. Both of them seemed lost in their own worlds of thoughts and rationalizations. Draco, the more aware of the two, felt the nervousness in the air and quickly grasped for something extremely general to pass the time until the clock struck the hour.

"Just out of curiosity, how did you start ballroom dancing?" Yes, that will do, "It's not something that's particularly popular, in magic or Muggle realms." Draco commented, sliding into a chair and balancing the glass on his forehead. Yessss, that felt good.

Harry shrugged, half heartedly. He didn't particularly mind talking. Truth be told he was surprised the Slytherin hadn't walked out of the room in his arrogant and 'higher-than-thou' attitude.

"M'cousin. He's about as fat as one of those pumpkins Hagrid's got by his hut. With about the IQ of one as well," was his answer.

Draco snorted, but said nothing. Not much to say, really. He had a few of those relatives in his bloodline, although he would be the last one to admit it. Although there was Uncle Rufus, but he had never been invited to family functions. For the general part he was ignored.

Continuing on, not nervously, but more moodily, still rather cross at the leader, Harry related, "So, I got drug along like I always do and ended up going to all the classes while he went and fooled around or whatever. I guess I just got good at it, I suppose you could say."

"Yeah," Draco coughed ironically, "Good."

"Shut up," Harry grumbled, not angrily, but just more out of sheer exhaustion. Those last ten minutes of dancing had taken a lot out of him, both physically and mentally--but probably, they had exhausted Malfoy; to lead and essentially make the decisions for the two of them was no easy feat. Having been the guide in the past, Harry knew what a difficult job it was--heightened when there were a number of people out on the dance floor.

"Still," Harry found himself continuing, "It kept me occupied this past summer. I mean, it gave me something to do besides homework and the like."

"Oh, yes," Draco hissed, almost snake-like, "I forgot, you live with Muggles. That explains your utterly horrible fashion sense."

Harry snorted, "Yeah, they've got as much taste in clothes as a sack of potatoes. But there isn't much to do there, you know, and it was rather difficult to see--er--friends over the summer, so I just found myself getting into dancing. Not by choice, really, more like chance."

"What you mean to say," the Slytherin pointed out archly, "Is that you didn't get much communication from The Order and were going stark raving mad and you did this to pass the time from watching photographs and doing Potions homework."

"Sounds about right...I forgot you know about The Order."

"You seem to forget that a lot. Along with the fact that I am not a Death Eater."

"But your father is."

"So? You're father was straight, does this mean you will be?"

"Y-yes."

"Those aren't the rumors I've heard recently."

"What rumors?!" Harry choked out quite suddenly, trying extremely hard to sound disinterested. But, he had obviously failed in that department.

Draco smirked. Just the reaction he had been expecting. "What do they matter? I mean, you are the one who has a fine hold on their sexuality, remember."

The Gryffindor admitted he was tired, but not tired enough to want to stop for the night. Even though Malfoy was probably one of the biggest ass-holes he had ever met, he could dance leaps and bounds better than Harry. And as cheesy as it was, Harry wanted to learn. But still--the fact that he was having this conversation with Malfoy, the fact that he was even talking to Malfoy was trying his patience. Greatly. Nevertheless...he was sure he could pick up a few more moves tonight.

The thoughts even made Harry roll his eyes in disgust. It was too cliché, like some bad Muggle movie.

Decidedly ignoring the subject of his sexuality, Harry questioned brightly, "So, do you think I can lead next?"

Draco scoffed," No."

Harry had been expecting that. But to be shut down in one word was rather pathetic. "What? Why not?"

"You can't handle me yet. I get bored easily."

"I could lead you, I bet."

"Don't place too many sickles on that Potter. I'm hard to restrain."

"I could! You just can't handle the fact that I might actually do a good job."

"There isn't a fact, Potter; I know you couldn't do a good job."

"And what makes you so sure?"

"When you follow perfectly, then you will be able to lead perfectly."

Harry sighed at this last comment. "You're impossible, Malfoy, you always have been. You think you are so sure of yourself. Even from the first day with your hair slicked back like some kind of salesman."

"What are you babbling about now? It's a perfectly respectable hairstyle. Are you upset that I insulted your little Weasel friend?"

"The Weasleys are the nicest people in the world, if not a little odd."

"I'm sure. Odd being an understatement, of course," Draco drawled, with the empty glass still balanced miraculously upon his head. "Be that as it may, I don't and didn't particularly care. I made you an offer that day, you turned it down--and Malfoy's don't ask twice. It's a general rule."

"Like I was missing out on so much, like being friends to a family of Death Eaters who prance about on the weekends at balls."

"The Death Eaters again, hm?" Draco paled and closed his eyes, "I guess you could say it was your loss and my gain that we were never friends."

"And we won't ever be." Harry pointed out, "But I think I'll get over that one."

Finally, taking the empty cup off his brow, Draco placed it upon the worn desk table and shrugged, "Like I was so willing to be friends with someone who has a thing for ballroom dancing by themselves in dark rooms. Little daff, that one."

Harry, still looking out the windows towards the lake just sighed and steamed up the window glass and drew random designs in the remaining moisture. Then, glancing over his shoulder the Boy-Who-Lived smirked and tossed out, "This coming from the person who dressed up like a Dementor in third year just to faze me out?"

"And it worked, didn't it?" Draco asked archly, smirking at the memory.

Harry, frowning in turn, replied rather tersely, "But I think you got the worse end of the stick, Malfoy."

"I wouldn't be too sure. Scathing letters to Dumbledore, sweets from home, all the Slytherin's doting on my every beck and call--and what did you get out of it?"

"The satisfaction?"

"Of making me look foolish?"

"At least you admit it."

"I admit nothing, especially to you Potter."

"Oh, come off it Malfoy, you've always been a prick towards me."

"And your point being...?"

"I don't have a point."

"That I don't find hard to believe."

"Oh, sod off." Harry sighed, not disgruntled, and strangely in good humor. Much to his chagrin his partner took it in quite the opposite way.

"Well, I suppose I will, seeing as how I'm rather tired. I mean, being the lead is awfully exhausting. Of course, you wouldn't know." The blonde haired boy pointed out vexingly, "Don't sulk just because I won't let you be the guy. You're doing a pretty good job of being the girl right now. It suits you."

Before Harry had time respond to Malfoy's comment the door had clicked shut and he was left quite alone. Against his will, he thought, A little daff, that one.

Smirking, Harry yawned, stretched, and continued to dance. Yet, after five minutes of practicing, he found it wasn't the same as it had been. He felt off center and balance and quite foolish. Malfoy had done the damage and here he was, alone, in the night; but for the first time truly alone.