12

* * * Chapter 12: October 31, 1997 * * *

Dinner was both elegant and excruciating. Even the act of shepherding a gaggle of tipsy prefects down the marble stairs (something Draco had anticipated with amusement for two weeks) lost its entertainment value. Screw "fashionably late!" I've GOT to see this! Even Mum had no idea that Snape managed to pull a bride out from under Merlin-only-knew what rock.

The Great Hall was only half full when they arrived, and the Greasy Git was nowhere to be seen. Draco finished scanning the room long before Granger, and noticed she silently mouthed the word "Shite!" when she arrived at that conclusion. Draco nodded slyly, making her hunch her shoulders with shame. "Fucking bastard," he whispered into her ear. "Probably slip in unnoticed for ten minutes and sneak back out."

Granger turned her head to reply, but startled awkwardly when she realised how close he was. She snapped back to eyes front, mumbling, "He'd better not." Draco's brows flicked up involuntarily. A little nervous, Granger? he thought, but said nothing.

Professor Flitwick caught his eye and glanced nervously toward the "orchestra," a cluster of enchanted instruments with bows poised over the strings. "We'd best get this started," Draco breathed even more softly into the girl's ear. "Maybe that'll flush out our quarry."

Again she avoided his eyes. "Fine, all right. You told Professor Flitwick not to go too fast, didn't you?"

"I thought you said not to go too slow," he replied, leading her through the parting crowd. When she crushed his forearm in a death grip, he smiled. "Relax! Just a joke."

"Not funny," the girl hissed.

"I'm hilarious, Granger, if you'd take the broomstick out of your backside. Come on!" Having reached the vacant dance floor, Draco gave her an expert tug and stepped smartly into place, putting her dance position before she knew what hit her. "Just let me lead. You'll be the belle of the ball and all that bullshit."

"I can hardly wait, Prince Charming," she sneered, but kept her face diplomatically neutral. Not bad for a Gryffindor, he thought as Flitwick raised his wand like a conductor and Charmed the orchestra into the Merry Witches Waltz.

Draco had spent many an hour in his youth learning to dance, steering his mother around the empty ballroom even though she towered over him, making it impossible to see where he was going. She had taught him tricks for handling different partners, from the shy and soggy ones who practically drooped on the floor to the willful would-be captains who constantly wrestled for the lead. He was a confident enough dancer that he didn't have to work at it; he could trust his body to handle the process.

Granger was still focusing far too much on the basics of moving her feet. To his surprise, however, he felt the potential for magic--he could sense it in his fingertips, his mouth, the root of every hair. "Don't fight it," he hummed softly.

"Be still or I can't count!" she hissed, missing a step.

"That's what I'm saying! Don't count. Just follow my lead." She glared up at him with the beginnings of a scowl. "Ah! Look to your right," he scolded.

Draco deliberately lengthened his stride to make her step more lively; having too much time to focus on the footwork only made things worse. Naturally, she stumbled a bit at first and glowered again, but he gave her his coolest smile. "Quit thinking, already, will you?"

"I don't want to look foolish!"

"You're a piece of work. Fighting the lead is exactly how to look bad! Come on, this isn't a battlefield. Trust me for two minutes, will you?" She rolled her eyes and stiffened, and the burgeoning magic withered and collapsed.

When the tune ended, Draco offered his arm like a well-bred gentleman and escorted her to their table, which was decorated with a pumpkin carved with the Hogwarts crest. She pulled out her own chair before he could reach it. "Duty's done, Malfoy," she said. "As soon as Snape shows up, I'm leaving."

"Might as well--you're the life of the party." Aw, fuck, he thought, too late. Now she'd be in a nasty mood when Snape finally saw her.

She shot him a withering glare. "I'm sorry my dancing's not good enough for you."

"Did I say that? No. You were too tense, and I was trying to loosen you up a little. You don't always get the magic, you know." In truth, it was rare to find a partner that could really bring it to the surface. He'd only had it work once before, with an Austrian girl at some Ministry cotillion that he'd attended with his parents. He didn't even learn her name, but he never forgot her.

Her face scrunched up like a prune. "What?"

"The dance," he said, taking the nearest chair. "Didn't you feel it?" If you're just going to deny it, then to hell with you.

She looked confused. "I did notice something," she admitted somewhat weakly. "I thought maybe I'd bumped into one of the ghosts. That was from the dancing?"

Draco thought she must be kidding, but there was no guile in her expression. "By the Goddess, Granger, you're such a Mu-- a Muggleborn. There's magic in dancing. The meeting of yin and yang, the rhythmic and synchronized movements, they... combine into something greater than the sum of their parts. Even Muggles can make magic if they really abandon themselves to the dance. You know how they all have rituals with drums and shit. Why do you think dancing's taboo among superstitious Muggles? They sense the magic, even if they can't understand it."

She stared in disbelief. "I've never heard any of this!"

"Should've taken Advanced Muggle Studies," he snickered. "Or dancing lessons, like I did."

She frowned thoughtfully. "I've felt something like that once before. With Harry. When he and I destroyed a Horcrux together."

Draco nearly leapt to his feet. "Fuck, Granger! That's hot!" He meant it, too; battle accelerants were the stuff of legend.

She laughed. "You're such an arse."

"Dance with me," he said, surprised at the urgency in his voice. "For real this time. I thought you were just resisting because it was me. I didn't know you... didn't know." He stood beside her chair, tugging her wrist as hard as he dared.

She eyed him dubiously. "Malfoy... is this some kind of weird pureblood sex thing? Because I'm not doing it if--"

"That's not it at all." Well, not entirely. "I told you, the magic doesn't always come; it's only certain partners that bring it out. But you'll see, it's totally worth it. Come on!"

Despite her obvious reluctance, she stood, and Draco wasted no time, practically pulling her out to the dance floor. Snapping into position immediately, he didn't even wait for a new measure to begin dancing. He could see it in her eyes: she was still trying to count. "Don't think! Follow!"

She rolled her eyes again, and he knew he'd have to talk her through it. "I have you, Granger," he breathed, pulling her closer. "You don't have to do anything. Just surrender." Her spine, tense beneath his palm, began to soften. "That's right. Move with me. Your feet know what to do, your body knows what to do." The first tingle of magic began to arc between them.

Again Draco lengthened his steps, but this time she yielded to the challenge. Oh, yes. This was definitely how it felt with that Austrian girl. She needed no more coaching. He could signal his intent with but a crook of a finger and she was no longer merely following, but anticipating and cooperating. Their breathing began to synchronise with each other and with the music, creating patterns within patterns of movement and sound.

Soon the magic was pooling between them, displacing the air, the robes, the flesh and bones, leaving only a single being made of fire. "Yes," he mouthed silently; though her head was turned away, she did the same. He knew instinctively that their hearts were beating in unison; they had become a living fugue of music and power.

He no longer heard the orchestra, but he felt the final crescendo build and understood its significance. Pulling her upper body close, Draco took a wide step and thrust his thigh between hers. She arched her back, and so did he, dropping her into his fingertips as she gripped his leg tightly, one ankle wrapped around his calf. Both of them gritted their teeth.

The music stopped, the magic dissipated, and Draco was standing once again in the middle of the Great Hall holding Hermione Granger in a treacherous dip, in the midst of tremendous applause. Seven hells, we cleared the floor? He laughed, and Granger laughed, and he pulled her up with far less grace than he would have liked, but it didn't seem to matter, they were both rosy-cheeked and giddy.

Dumbledore stepped out of the circle of onlookers, his eyes twinkling fiendishly behind his half-moon glasses. "Wonderful! Wonderful!" he said, clapping both of them on the shoulders. "The two of you cut quite a rug! Oh, to be ninety years younger," he sighed with a wistful grin, though he was gazing at Draco at the time.

"I need to sit down," said Granger breathlessly, and Draco heartily agreed. Still breathless, he made their way to the table and they both fell in their chairs, laughing. "You were right, Malfoy, that was amazing!"

"Told you. I'm more than just a pretty face, you know," he said, reaching for a glass of water. She rolled not just her eyes but her whole head, yet never stopped grinning. Draco froze with the glass halfway to his lips until she looked away. He found himself fighting an impulse to take her hand as it rested on the table.

"I can barely catch my breath!" the girl noted.

He snickered his agreement. "Pity we never went into battle together."

Her brows knitted just a bit, and she said, quite sincerely, "Oh, no. I doubt it would work if we were on opposite sides."

Father had taught him the primary rule of engagement: Never show the enemy how badly you've been wounded. Draco forced his mouth into an icy smile. "Quite so," he grated, even as his insides turned to glass and shattered into a million jagged shards.