Harry Potter TANGO!fiction: Mi Confesión
SUMMARY: When you're a thirty-something wizard, divorced, gay and a tango enthusiast, your dating pool can be counted on one hand: Draco Malfoy, J.D., and Harry Potter.
RATING: PG - 13 for language and mild sexual innuendo
WARNINGS: adultery, smoking, inebriation & tango
DEDICATION: for writtenmatrix , whom I will be just a little bit squishy for-but only a little
DANCE NOTES:
You certainly don't need to know a thing about tango to read and enjoy this fic; however, for those curious ones, here are two links which I think will provide you with a solid impression of the styles and steps described in the fic. Enjoy!
A Choreographed Sampling of Tango Movements Included In This Fic
An Example of Improvisational Queer Tango
MI CONFESIÓN
Harry sat in a cafe, watching life go by. He sipped at a glass of Lambrusco-the chilled red wine helped fight the heat. It was a hot June night and he was trussed up in a simple black cotton suit. At least he'd forgone a tie. The formal clothes were stifling in the heat but it was important to observe these traditions; they made things clear, uncomplicated. And that was something Harry appreciated more than ever these days. Unfettered clarity, the anonymity of the muggle world. He'd come all the way to steamy Buenos Aires for a bit of peace.
He observed a group of young men meeting on the sidewalk. They all shouted and embraced, kissing one another on both cheeks and shouting, lively, all smiles. Everyone kissed everyone. That's just how things were in Argentina: warm, like the weather. He'd needed to get away from England for a while, even just for a night. Argentina was perfect.
This part of Buenos Aires was dominated by the old architecture-he was told it resembled parts of Paris, with winding little streets and beautiful stone work. Harry thought the streets were crowded for a Wednesday night, but what would he know? He drank his wine and watched the people. Sweet elderly couples hobbled arm-in-arm like stones in the river of foot traffic. Young people shouted and laughed, swooping in and out of the local bars, restaurants and dance clubs. Hipsters and European tourists spilled from Club Bahrein and La Cigale, their French and occasional English mingling with the rapid native Spanish, echoing pleasantly down the narrow roads; a heavy, meaningless babble washing down the stone canyon streets. Their clothing seemed unfamiliar to him. Harry hadn't spent much time in the muggle world these last few years but now it was just what he needed-to be just another tourist, to be left alone. Everywhere he went there were witches and wizards whispering behind their hands, saying what a sad case it was, speculating what The Chosen One would do now. It was a relief to be treated like a tourist; ignored, breathing easily for the first time in weeks.
He had stalled long enough. It was nearly eight o'clock and things would be well under way when he arrived. He left forty pesos on the table and set off toward Maipú.
-
Argentina never ceased to amaze. Stepping into the Plaza Bohemia was like walking into another world-the high ceilings, the extensive wood moldings, the beautiful gilt mirrors, the smell of cigarettes and dark, swirling figures moving in time to accordions, piano and strings. The dj was playing a fast-paced milonga, which was fitting: playing a milonga song at a milonga, a tango social.
But this was no ordinary tango social like the ones he'd been to in England. This was “tango queer,” where women could lead and men could follow. Tango had originally been a dance only between men because it was considered too sensual. The gay scene just loved that. The dance certainly had it's share of sexual elements-the way a follower could wrap legs with their partner, the way a leader could use his or her own body to initiate a step or change of direction, the way torsos pressed together, breathing one another in the close embrace. But tango wasn't that “I love you, I hate you,” stretched-out-arm parody muggles saw on television. Tango was a dance about staying close, keeping it understated in order to really listen to your partner; one had to lead seamlessly or follow attentively. Tango was a dance about trust; the partner who followed was walking backwards the entire time, trusting their leader to guide them in the right direction and prevent any collisions on the dance floor. The follower had to trust some of their weight-their balance and center-to the leader; just as in life, not trusting one another only lead to disaster... and trodden-on feet.
Harry paid his cover, slipping into his worn leather shoes. He then found himself an unassuming place along the wall to observe the dancing. The song was an old one, easily recognized by most tango dancers as the traditional Canaro “El llorón,” a fast-stepping and romantically syncopated milonga-exactly what one would expect and indeed want to hear at a milonga club in the womb of tango. The music inspired small and precise movement, staccato steps and annotated, swiveling figure eights that were even fun to watch. Because milongas like this required such quick movement to keep up with the beat, partners held each other close to maintain their balance, their steps small and tight beneath their bodies, tips of their toes nearly brushing with each slide along the polished wooden floor. You had to be talented to get creative at that tempo. Preferring the slower tangos, Harry leaned against the wall and searched out a couple or two to watch.
The crowd was almost entirely male. La Marshall was not just a queer tango. It had been one of the first openly gay tango clubs back in 2002. Eleven years later, La Marshall was still the place to be. He was relieved to see his wardrobe choice had been correct; the men who led almost universally wore jackets or full suits despite the heat. The men who followed were more casually dressed, linen trousers and shirts relaxed, unbuttoned. It was harder to tell if there was an indication amongst the women. Skirts, floral dresses or trousers appeared to be more fashion choice than social cue. That was fine. He wasn't particularly interested in dancing with women, anyway. He wasn't the greatest follower-it was his independent streak. He wanted to anticipate, get one step ahead of his leader and stay there. Harry made a better leader than follower: that had always been true.
He spotted an unusual male-female pair amongst the dancing crowd. Perhaps not so odd after all-the woman was leading the man. She was tall for an Argentine, her stunningly high pencil heels adding to her statuesque poise. The man was not so tall, though clearly European; slight and refined, with skin as milky white as his French-cuffed dress shirt tucked into tight khaki trousers. He was barely the height of your average English woman, even pulled slightly up onto his toes by the height difference of his partner. The pair was caught in dance floor traffic. This happened on crowded floors. Tango was often described as a walking dance, intended to move anticlockwise around a room. When one couple stopped to perform a molinete turn, parada or some other stationary step, the entire line of dancers was held up. Compound that with a dance floor of nearly thirty couples and what you got was frighteningly similar to a muggle traffic jam. A talented leader could manipulate the flow of the room to his or her advantage, taking note of traffic ahead and setting up their partner for a clever stop or a few syncopated rabona steps to move round the congestion. Leaders learned by the careful combination of watching and doing, patience, practice and time. Everyone here at La Marshall knew exactly what they were doing. The seamlessness of it all was art in itself.
Harry watched the tall woman lead a parada, catching the man's foot with her own high-heeled ones and scooping him close. In the mordida, their feet pressed as close as their bodies, sandwiched in a knot of leather and sparkles, cotton and lace. She held the position, hand re-wrapping to cup the man's shoulder blade as she whispered something in his ear, making him chuckle. When traffic cleared, she opened the embrace just enough to invite her partner through-to pass his foot over hers in a pasada. The man took his time, embellishing the moment by dragging the tip of his shoe up the woman's leg before stepping over her foot as nimble as a bird clearing the nest. As he transferred his weight into the step, she cued a change of his weight and direction, eliciting a sharp little voleo-a release of the leg as his feet caught up with the swirl of his hips, pointed foot leaving the floor, lively and youthful in a springy kick. Harry had never actually seen someone manage one on a crowded floor without hitting someone. He wasn't sure what surprised him more-that the decoration had come from a man or that it had been so swift and graceful.
This had once been new for Harry. He'd danced at a muggle studio in London for ages... but always with the man leading and the woman following. Ginny had dragged him to a ballroom dance instructor as soon as they'd announced their engagement, wanting The Boy Who Lived Twice to waltz at their fancy wedding. Waltz had made no sense to Harry. Stiff formality, huge steps and not looking at your partner? It felt unnatural. He wanted something simple and instinctive, like riding a broom, the shifting of your body weight indicating your direction and intention, your partner willed along for the ride. Their instructor had recommended Harry try tango instead but Ginny insisted on the stiff waltz. So waltz it was. After one of their brilliant rows, Harry had stormed out of their flat with no idea where he was going. Out had been the only thing screeching and roaring through his mind; out, out, anywhere Ginny wasn't. He could get lashed and hit something or be a noble Gryffindor and refocus his energy like Hermione always harped on about. After stomping around London for an hour, Harry had taken the high road and walked to the dance studio to sign up for tango lessons behind his wife's back.
Years later, he was still blowing off steam. It turned out he was actually a fair dancer when there wasn't an overbearing bitch barking at him. Dancing helped him focus his attention on something outside himself. And it certainly helped his ego that his partner had no choice but to follow his lead or get trodden on.
Ginny fought him on everything: it was one of her true and effortless talents. Waltzing at the wedding, buying a flat in London when he had a perfectly good house to live in, having kids young, redirecting his career from the Auror's Office to Quidditch-well, maybe those last two weren't such awful things. Harry loved his kids. He was a doting father and his success as a professional Quidditch player did give him more time to spend at home with Jamie, Al and Lil. It was hard to believe their James had just finished his third year at Hogwarts. By all rights, the lad should have been a second year but once again, Ginny had pulled some strings with the Potter name on them and gotten their first born into school a year early. She said it was because Jamie was bright, eager for a formal education and deserved a head start; sometimes, Harry was bitter about their oldest going away so soon. It felt like Ginny had done it to take James away from him. They'd screamed in one another's red, contorting faces, oblivious to Lil and Al's tears in the next room. James bad been a good boy, comforting his siblings as best he could. Ginny didn't listen anymore-not really. Harry wondered if she'd ever heard him at all or if he'd just been a flood of assonance and sound, making up the constant thrill of “Harry Potter, Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.”
That fight over James starting Hogwarts had been the first time he told her-out of spite, no less, rage pounding in his ears and vengeance in his fists, wanting to break her heart and see that icy, stoic bitch cry for once. He'd been cheating on his wife for years. Harry was good at sneaking around. Gin should have seen it coming, what with the way she snipped at him over every meal and ignored his gentle touches in the darkness of each progressively colder night. Really, the intimacy of their marriage died when Harry started sleeping on the couch, Lil on his chest and the tele casting purple and blue lights across her sweet little face. Harry liked watching the colors flit across the pudgy innocence of her features. Ginny had looked like that once, soft and yielding. That easy, kind woman was gone now. Perhaps the kids had sapped the heart out of her from the inside, right along with their nutrients and magic. Sometimes it felt like everything he loved about his wife had gone into the kids; now that Ginny Weasley had been dispersed, there was nothing left to hold dear.
So tango was by far the most innocent thing Harry did to get away from his fractured life-and tango gave him the most pleasure, ironically. Tango made him feel good about himself, gave back some of the confidence Ginny had stomped into the vintage of their marriage. At first he started going to practicas; later, milongas at the studio after Quidditch practice. Then he was Apparating to New York or Madrid after a game to celebrate in his own way while his teammates raided The Leaky Cauldron. There were some excellent tango workshops in Greece, Italy and especially Russia, Fantasia performances and milongas to dance the night away.
He always found some way to lie around his absences when Ron or Hermione started asking questions-he was meeting with a Quidditch trainer, catching up with a member of Dumbledore's Army or the Order, looking into a painting Ginny wanted or some extravagant surprise for the kids. Everyone believed the stories he told-he was such a good father, a loving husband and affectionate friend. No one ever had reason to doubt The Great Harry Potter. He took everyone out to dinner, gave away Quidditch tickets like candy and always brought back souvenirs no matter how short a time he was away. The Potters took a family vacation to Hamburg a few years ago when Ginny and the Harpies were competing for the World Cup. Harry remembered tucking the kids into bed before tip-toeing down to the muggle hotel's concierge and asking about the local tango scene. That was the first time he'd heard of a gay men's milonga-just in passing, nothing more than a bullet point on a tourist web site but that dot had been enough to pique Harry's chronically over-active curiosity. It was his weakness: everybody had one.
It had been a bit like this-though he was quickly realizing that Buenos Aires had a certain magic of its own, a melted and indescribable something that poured over your brain, slowing your heart to the swishing slide of leather-soled shoes on worn wooden beams, the lyrical plight of a lone piano drifting out from a cafe and carrying you away. He watched bodies, ankles and knees and toes, tiny circles and brushings, creaking leather shoes and strong arms and the first beads of sweat against a pristine white shirt.
So he was watching that man again. The man in the perfect white shirt, face obscured. He couldn't deny it, not even for a moment. Shoulders so square and steady, hips a beautiful figure eight swivel, back and forth, guiding the swirl of his oh-so-light loafers across the floor. How could you not be mesmerized? It was Pugliese now, the lyrical violin and concertina serenade of “La Yumba,” lilting, teasing, at once brashly confident and disarmingly coy, almost unsure even after all these years. The man in the white shirt so clearly loved this song. His ochos were elegant, perfectly timed to the irregular thrum. In the plucking of strings, his steps were light as a feather; in the sweep of the bandoneón concertina, the roundness of his steps, the flow of him was almost overwhelming. His weight was so trusted to his partner that he appeared to float on air, his mouth a pouty smile and face nestled in her dark wavy hair. The man's face was shadowed by a gray fedora tilted downward, a stripe of white silk adorning the otherwise plain brim. The woman swept him up in her arms, his weight all in one long leg while the other traced little circles against the floor as she guided him in a tight pirouette, stalking circles around his light little form. He swiveled right on the spot in a perfect calesita, making her lead look effortless as she guided him around like the central pivot of a carousel. He held himself board-straight, pulled up impossibly strong and yet yielding, taking the final dip his leader asked for with a ballet-like beauty. His leg wrapped the skirted thigh inserted between his own, relaxing and giving in to her. Equally strong, she swept her leg just so, wiping the floor with this gorgeous creature attached to her at shoulders, hip and heart. It was so indiscriminately right as the bandoneón died, a last playful trill ringing out through the darkening, smoke-filled hall.
The tanda was over and the floor began to clear. The woman held their position just a moment longer, enjoying it, a few friends smiling fondly at the couple's ending pose-the reversal of masculine and feminine which was only possible with queer tango. It was truly beautiful, the way the effervescence of this man brushed away some of the severity of her tanned features, making her laugh as he cuddled into the curve of her neck. With a smile, she brought the man in for a hug, flicking up the brim of his hat to place a kiss to his temple. Harry caught a glimpse of more creamy skin and a delicately arched brow.
Their eyes met. From across the room, the contact was a jolt of lightning down his spine. He knew those stony gray eyes, that shock of white-blonde hair. He knew the man bloodied, crying, screaming, sneering. The years, though they'd been kind, didn't change knowledge or minds.
Malfoy.
For some unfathomable reason, Draco Malfoy was in Buenos Aires on a Wednesday night. At La Marshall, no less! The wizard could have gone to La Cigale or any of the other trendy night clubs around. Those places would certainly appreciate his lavish patronage... but Malfoy was here, in a fairly nondescript gay tango club that played 1940's Osvaldo Pugliese. Un-be-fucking-lieveable.
Malfoy didn't belong here. Malfoy was a robe, a suit-a big shot barrister, only taking the highest profile cases and arguing regularly before the Wizengamot. The Slytherin had been roped into an arranged marriage at the tender age of eighteen and divorced quite publicly not two years later when his wife was found irreparably barren; apparently, it was a standard clause in all pureblood prenuptial contracts. After that unholy mess, Malfoy had finished his schooling and gone to France to practice as a Master of Laws. Harry hadn't seen the man in perhaps a dozen years-certainly not since James was born. Maybe Malfoy was a bit of a recluse? You only saw his name in the paper accompanied by great scandal, and never his own. Malfoy represented the crème de la crème, the richest and most famous of the wizarding world. And he was good at it. Harry recalled a particularly stunning victory defending Oliver Wood over a Keeping contract a good six or seven years ago. Malfoy did good business and charged through the nose for it. Surely he had better places to be-some fancy pureblood party or a barrister's banquet. There was absolutely no reason for Malfoy to be here save one: he liked to tango.
Draco Malfoy was bent and liked to tango.
Those silvery eyes told a different story, boring into him from across the dance floor. His posture had changed, body stiff and hackles raised. His lady dance partner certainly took notice, feminine hand snaking up his white-clad arm, undoubtedly speaking against his cheek. But Malfoy didn't respond.
Harry realized too late what had happened. Their eyes had met.
In the traditional Salon de Tango, men and women played very clear-cut roles-so much so that they sat on opposite sides of the room, hardly speaking except when they came together on the dance floor. Men always led and women always followed because that's the way it was. That was how Harry had been taught, too. There was never the option for women to lead or men to follow. Up until the late 1990's, people got themselves sanctioned or even thrown out of tango clubs for committing such a faux pas as to dance with a member of their sex. It just wasn't done. There were rules in tango. The rigid structure was something Harry could understand. Rules kept people safe.
With men and women so separated, there was a specific protocol for asking a lady to dance. In some ways, it was even more complex than the myriad of practices, signifiers, flags and codes used in the gay scene. When a man wanted to dance, he would step away from the others and attempt to make eye contact with the lady of his choice. If she was inclined to dance as well, she would accept his eye contact from afar. The man acknowledged her with a nod, which she might return. Should a lady object to dancing-object to the gentleman or any other factor, such as the song or the number of couples on the floor-she would avoid his gaze and that was that. The system existed to shield men and their egos from public rejection. By the time a leader approached his partner, she had already accepted him in advance. There was no fear of getting hurt, no sting of defeat, no slinking away in humiliation to be razed by your mates. To approach a lady without first gaining her eye or her nod was tantamount to groping her on the dance floor. You could get yourself thrown out of a milonga for that sort of thing. Protocol, rules and regulations existed for a reason. They protected the men while giving some measure of power to the ladies. It wasn't an equal balance, nor was it entirely fair... but it was something everyone agreed to by walking through the door.
The rules hadn't gone out the window when “tango queer” showed up. If anything, the rules were even more important now. You didn't know who led, who followed. Eye contact told more than ever now. If he held your gaze, mirrored your nod, then chances were he was a follower. If he held your gaze but initiated the nod or started toward you, then you had a leading man on your hands. The fellows who switched back and forth were the hardest. You wondered why he would follow anyone but you. Sometimes Harry couldn't help but take it personally. The jacket code helped make things a bit less murky. A man in a jacket was much more likely to be a leader. It took some of the guess work out of it. Top or bottom? Pitcher or catcher? Those sorts of things were less clear on the dance floor and more so over the glass of wine (or four) that followed a successful tanda. If a fellow really liked you, you might see him for several tandas over the course of the evening. You had to wait and figure it out. Unlike the gay scene in general, Milongueros had a sense of patience. You didn't go to a milonga to find a quick lay: you went there to tango.
Harry found himself gazing across the room at Draco Malfoy. The blond's partner slipped away with a squeeze and a sigh, sensing his distress but unable to do anything to ease him. Her hand lingered as she backed away, suggesting they were quite familiar. Harry couldn't afford to watch her retreat-he might lose Malfoy's gaze.
It was a bit of a staring contest as they looked one another over. The years had treated Malfoy exceedingly well. He looked barely a day over twenty four, fit and impeccably dressed. Harry would be thirty four next month and felt his age in every inch of his body. Then again, Malfoy was divorced with no children. Even with his high-powered job, he probably had more time to spare for himself than a father of three.
Harry watched reality dawn over Malfoy's familiar pointed features. Ever so carefully, the man nodded. He was accepted. They would dance.
Harry stepped onto the clearing dance floor. The dj was playing a bit of pop music to indicate the end of the set, the strum of electric guitars and Spanish lyrics rather jarring compared with the precise classical swell of old-world maestros. Harry had switched into his suede-bottomed dance shoes in the entry, not liking to take his shoes off in front of people. It felt too much like letting his guard down. The time spent in war and later with the Auror's Department had taught him that anything which made him feel vulnerable was to be avoided at all costs. There was an advantage to being a wizard; he merely shrunk his street shoes, dropping them into his breast pocket while no one was looking. Now he felt the floor beneath his feet, every little bump and crevice of the boards making themselves known to him as he walked with purpose toward the other wizard. It was a bit surreal, the blond just standing there as everyone else filtered away. Most of the dancers headed for the bar, ordering drinks and settling down at tables and booths with friends. Everyone seemed to know each other. Over Malfoy's shoulder, Harry watched the woman he'd danced with dart back to an especially large booth. She lifted another woman's champagne flute to her beet-red lips, eying Harry first with suspicion and then growing interest. The occupants of the booth turned to watch as well, drinks in hand and speaking in rapid Spanish amongst themselves, all but pointing and whispering at the mysterious newcomer.
Harry licked his lips. Malfoy swallowed.
It was Malfoy who spoke first.
“Potter.”
“Malfoy.”
“I... haven't seen you here before,” Malfoy pronounced his words very slowly, carefully, just a hint of his old schoolboy drawl in that trained, authoritative voice of his. The cadence reminded Harry of the way Malfoy's foot traced the floor, decorating tiny circles with the balls of his feet as he waited for an indication of his next move. It was like they were already dancing. “New?”
“No. I usually go to Hamburg or Madrid.”
“I don't like the music at Hamburg,” Malfoy stated. He gave his opinion as though it were sacrosanct, that irritatingly arrogant ring clinging to every word that left his mouth. Malfoy hadn't changed much. “Hate it, actually. Di Sarli is an aperitif, not a fucking entree.”
“I like Di Sarli,” Harry replied, shrugging a shoulder. His jacket moved with him, not enough to tug at his buttons but the silk lining slid pleasantly against his cotton dress shirt. A discreet Cooling Charm kept him from steaming alive like a lobster. “The man was a purist who wouldn't succumb to the fads of his time and made his own music. But I agree-Hamburg overplays. Especially Don Juan.”
“If I hear Don Juan one more time,” Malfoy rolled his eyes, “Di Sarli or D'Arienzo, I'm going to hex a certain muggle's bits off.” Silver eyes raked menacingly over the unsuspecting disk jockey standing behind a half-wall of equipment and speakers, twiddling nobs that didn't seem to do much of anything.
“Thanks for the warning,” Harry favored Malfoy with a crooked smile, watching the dj from the corner of his own eye. “I'll be sure to Apparate before the Obliviators get here.”
Malfoy snorted-the sound was very close to an actual laugh. It had been so many years, he couldn't recall what Malfoy's laugh sounded like. It had been too many years; fourteen, at least.
Harry extended his left hand to the man, a clear signal that he would lead. Malfoy almost seemed relieved, gray eyes closing a moment as he drew a large breath. Slowly, he placed his hand in Harry's outstretched palm, eyes traveling up his jacket to fall at last on his face. Malfoy had very long, knobbly fingers. And warm palms.
“Okay?” Harry asked lamely.
Malfoy looked from their joined hands back to Harry's face, his haughty features a rare and unreadable blank. When he spoke, there was a tremble to his voice. Harry couldn't tell if it was nerves or laughter. “Well, Dumbledore's Army hasn't broken down the door clamoring for my head on a pike, so... yes. I guess we're alright.”
“Alright,” Harry echoed. “Yeah. It's just a tanda.” He curled his fingers over the back of Malfoy's hand, setting their elbows away from their bodies and hands at a comfortable plane. The blond was about the same height he'd been at school give or take an inch, while Harry had ridden one last growth spurt well into his twenties. He stood nearly a head taller than Malfoy now-and his inner schoolboy was rejoicing at the tiny victories still afforded him in adult life. The dance floor was filling again. There weren't nearly as many couples as before so they would have a bit more space for the next set of songs. Music was always played in sets of two to five songs, referred to collectively as a tanda. If your partner was amenable-meaning no one stepped on toes or, in this case, drew wands and cursed one another to smoldering thirty-something wizarding bits-you would dance the full set together. Accordingly, he and Draco Malfoy were about to make at least eight more minutes of awkward and agonizing small talk... or as many as twenty. He swallowed, feeling each and every muscle in his throat activate as he did so.
Malfoy was still looking at him, almost expectantly, hat tipped back so that he could look Harry right in the face; stoic, an ivory idol of patience. It seemed he, too, wanted to pretend the past didn't exist-that they were just two men meeting at a queer tango and having a dance. If Malfoy were anyone else, Harry probably could have done it. But he couldn't stop seeing those slate-colored eyes, that washed out skin and silver-blond hair. In the deepest recesses of his mind, he knew whose hand he was holding.
It was time to set up the embrace. Contrary to popular theory, the Quaffle was on Malfoy's side of the pitch on this one. If a follower didn't want the close embrace, he or she had only to put their left hand to the leader's bicep. This stops the leader from getting any closer, setting the distance at which the dance will take place. The dj had just played a set of the faster milonga songs so they were unlikely to have another milonga for at least half an hour. This set would be tango, vals or waltz. Harry was crossing his fingers the muggle wasn't about to play Don Juan-he couldn't judge how poorly Malfoy would react but it certainly wouldn't be good.
Testing his luck, Harry took a single step forward, easing his arm around Malfoy's ribs until his fingertips found the man's spine through the luxurious fabric of his shirt. It was silky and cool to the touch. He clearly used Cooling and Anti-Perspiration Charms, as Harry did. Dance partners were much more receptive when you were the only man in the room not dripping with sweat and stinking worse than an athletics bag. Harry suspected the blond had cast some type of Concealment or Glamor Spell to hide the shadow of his Dark Mark beneath his long white sleeves. Harry was wondering about this when the other wizard set up his end of the embrace.
Harry hadn't had the opportunity to see Malfoy dance with a man; therefore, he had no idea what was normal for the blond. Harry had danced with plenty of Milongueros and knew that everyone had their own way of doing things. He'd never encountered a dancer, man or woman, who embraced quite like Malfoy.
Pale fingers traced up his spine, a silent demand, drawing him up to his full height. It was blatantly sensual, Malfoy's quiet way of saying, “I'm not afraid of you, Potter.” He hooked his thumb over Harry's left shoulder, fingers splayed over his back and long arm draping around his neck like a beloved pet snake. In his mind, Harry could see the Dark Mark pressing against the back of his neck, a few layers of cotton separating his skin from the mark of his long-dead enemy. Oddly enough, the idea didn't bother him. They'd all paid their dues to the Dark War and bore the scars of it-this was life, now. They were just people, dancing. It didn't matter anymore. Just two men having a tango.
Oh. Malfoy was the prefect height. Harry couldn't stop himself from exhaling as that lissome body settled against his own. Ducking his head, his chin fit as though it belonged in the curve of Malfoy's temple, sending the man's fedora hopelessly askew. Harry reached up and snagged the hat, dropping it safely on his own head. He felt Malfoy's mouth drop open at the blatant flip... but then Harry's fingers hooked the ridge of shoulder blade, drawing him up and forward, that much closer. And Malfoy came up to meet him like a dream, a feather on his feet as his chest dropped against Harry's. It was rather undeniable: Malfoy fit perfectly in his arms, like he was made to be there.
Malfoy's signature white-blond locks were sneaking up Harry's nose as he breathed. That was when he realized his eyes were closed. Leaders weren't supposed to close their eyes-after all, they were the only party who could see where the pair was going! Harry swallowed down the scent of Malfoy's hair; bergamot, Earl Grey, camphor and lavender. So English. The scent made him smile.
The pop music faded away to nothing, leaving a dozen couples on the dance floor, waiting.
“No Di Sarli,” Malfoy muttered, drawling even under his breath. “Dear Merlin, no Don Juan.”
“Here's hoping,” Harry replied, collecting, bringing his feet together and distributing his weight to one leg in preparation. Malfoy felt him shift and drew his wing-tipped feet together, too, matching their free and standing legs before the music started. Harry felt it beneath his palm, experienced the muscles of Malfoy shifting as he did something so small as change from one foot to the other. The blond made him hyper-aware; then again, in all these years he'd never been this close to another gay wizard, let alone run into one at a queer milonga.
Harry heard the first few notes, rapid and fluttering under the scratching hiss of an old record player superimposed over a modern tango orchestra. He knew the song. He hadn't expected to hear it here.
“This is Gotan Project. They play electro at La Marshall?”
“Yup.”
The bass kicked in and they were off.
It was a quick decision to dance tango on the downbeat. Most people only heard the speed of the piano, completely missing the opportunity to embellish the long, beautiful notes that would soon waver from the concertina. Malfoy was an embellisher-given the time and space, he would feel the music, really dancing to it in that small, sort-of innocent way, eyes closed and biting his lips as he stretched his catlike limbs through the space of notes. Harry paused after only three steps, just to feel the thrill of Malfoy beneath his hand, flush against him, foot light and circling on the floor, ready. The bass and vaguely electronic beat was loud in their ears. It would only get more intense as they neared the back of the room where the dj's make-shift booth resided, a mound of wires and black speakers that would soon be vibrating, pounding to the beat.
“How long have you been dancing?” Malfoy asked suddenly.
“Let's see,” Harry actually had to think about it. “Before Jamie was born. So maybe thirteen years. You?”
“Eight.”
He led Malfoy in a forward step. Generally it was difficult for followers to step directly at their partners-it was counter-intuitive to the backwards walk of tango but a basic in milonga-style. Malfoy came forward almost too easily, barely needing Harry's hand at his back to tighten in indication. Harry caught the man's foot with his own in a quick mordida. They were very, very close for a moment. Harry let it linger with the music, taking the freno while the song was still relatively soft with instrumentals. He sat back on one bent leg, waiting until just the right time to rise up, opening the embrace to invite Malfoy through. The blond looked at him, extending his leg but putting no weight on it. He was a good follower, waiting on pins and needles, waiting on the ball of his foot for Harry to indicate it was time to step his way through.
“It's a wonder we haven't run into one another before now.”
“Yes,” Harry agreed, straightening. Malfoy came through the pasada, catching Harry's musicality-the hesitation in rising-and using the time to trace the side of his foot in an arc along the floor before collecting his feet, ending all-too-effortlessly in Harry's arms. Their styles were similar, classic but with a hint of mischievousness, boyish and charming. Their rhythm was the same, a sense of artistry and timing. It was all too damn perfect. They fit together.
“But you go to Hamburg,” Malfoy observed, almost for something to say. Neither of them wanted to comment on how well this was working, how natural it felt... how right.
“And you hate Hamburg.”
“Yes I do.”
A simple turn of the shoulder set Malfoy up for back ochos, a beautiful step that would twist the musculature of his back beneath Harry's hand as his hips moved and shoulders stayed a constant, always aligned to Harry's broader ones. Any other follower would have been resting on their laurels expecting to step straight back-but not Malfoy. Entirely on the balls on his feet, the subtle turn was casual and effortless. He just... went with Harry. Wherever his shoulders went, Malfoy was there, listening with his entire tidy body. Harry couldn't resist bringing Malfoy up with him, pulling slightly on the man's narrow spine until his weight pitched forward all the more. It was a common way to suggest a more advanced step was coming. And Malfoy actually sighed into him, loose and slight in his arms, warm breath billowing beneath Harry's open shirt collar to do funny things to his pulse.
Forget the advanced step. It was all he could do to lead a basic pattern of back ochos-right, left, right-until his brain caught up with his feet. He re-angled his shoulders, switching Malfoy's direction from backwards to forwards. Knowing he had Draco's body secure in his arms, Harry took a deep and daring step back, causing the smaller man to pitch forward in a caida; literally, a 'fall.' All of the blond's weight was on Harry now, pressing firm and hard. His free leg traced a lazy half-moon shape on the floor between them, slender leg limber and relaxed as a brush in a calligrapher's hand. After the sweeping motion his foot tucked in tight, ankles crossing and locking with confidence. Their bodies stood in the A frame of la puente, Draco holding himself by his abs and Harry supporting the bony shoulders butted up against his pecs.
Harry couldn't help but feel a rush of vain pride: he'd timed it perfectly. They had only just landed in that position when the music stopped, nothing but the snicking of the base and swishing shoes of surprised dancers as the melody was ripped out from under them. Malfoy's fingers tightened at his shoulder, the wizard's only reaction to the sheer fucking prowess that had gone into making this moment happen.
“Mi Confesión” was such a great song.
Two seconds. That's all it was. But they had everyone's attention.
(continued due to length...)