Harry Potter TANGO!fiction: Mi Confesión
Two seconds. That's all it was. But they had everyone's attention.
The song broke into a flying Spanish rap, tripping and tribal. Harry came forward, gathering a laughing Malfoy in his arms and leading a set of rocking steps with gusto. Malfoy felt the back and forth rhythm down to his toes, not just stepping back but flexing his free foot, a point of pure conceit and style that made him unbearably adorable. He was still laughing pulled into a rollicking molinete turn, a sort-of grapevine pattern that danced him around his partner like a spoke to the center of a wheel. It took a clever bastard like Malfoy to syncopate it like that. Harry guided the man through the pattern twice before making his move, slipping a leg between Malfoy's and stopping him in his tracks. It was a legitimate parada or 'stop,' just not used very often because of the impeccable sense of timing it required. Any miscalculation on the lead's part would result in a kicked follower or a complete miss, breaking the embrace. There would be no doubt in Malfoy's mind that Harry had been dancing for thirteen years and knew exactly what he was doing. The wizard smiled at the feel of Harry's foot snug against his own. He sent Malfoy back, repeating the pattern in the opposite direction, the smaller man moving in a smooth, gliding circle around him. Now that Harry had the blond's rhythm down he didn't bother to turn himself, instead shooting his leg back and stopping the man yet again, this time without even looking.
Malfoy was still laughing, a happy burbling sound that set his torso vibrating under Harry's hand.
The only downside was that they were so far apart up top, though happily tangled below. His right hand caressed Malfoy's ribs just below the pit of his arm, squeezing the fingers still nestled in his own. The slightest pressure to his side and Malfoy understood the intention of his leader's body. The blond brought his feet together, sandwiching Harry's foot between his own in the follower's mordida. They were playing at this point, the floor nearly empty and half the eyes of the room upon the stranger dancing with their Aryan Prince. Malfoy had to be the prince of something. The pomp suited him so well.
The tip of Malfoy's shoe rose up, rubbing against Harry's calf as though he were shining the top of his black and white wingtip on Harry's trouser leg. It was a delightful enganche, that little wrapping of his foot, but the blond was by no means done showing off. Draco Malfoy loved nothing more than being the center of attention: Harry could deal with it if it put that goofy grin on the wizard's face. Malfoy's slender leg crept forward, foot decorating the floor between Harry's legs before fanning up in a magnificent kick-a patada, hooking all the way up around Harry's waist in a sensual flurry.
He'd seen women do this during Fantasia performances. He'd learned ways to lead into the step in master classes. But never had he encountered a follower brash enough to do it on a whim on the Salon de Tango floor. Maybe the fact that this was a gay milonga made the blatant showmanship okay. Harry didn't want to diminish Malfoy's guts, even in his own mind-it was a ballsy move, man or woman, gay or straight.
The song was going to go soft in another minute, the concertina coming back for a romantic interlude. Harry wanted to use this opportunity to figure out what Malfoy was playing at. He maneuvered the blond back in front of him, keeping the embrace open enough for ochos. There was something indescribably pleasurable about watching the torsion of Malfoy's skinny torso as he twisted in the step. From an instructor in Belgium, Harry had picked up an odd habit of dancing ochos en espejo, leading a follower in backward ochos by doing forward ochos himself. The push of the leader's shoulders was what lead the follower's movements, not what the leader did with his sodding feet. Soon he was snaking after Malfoy, watching those slinking angles beneath pristine white fabric. Malfoy was biting at his fat bottom lip, smiling despite himself as he was walked back and back again, swerving from side to side under the steady guidance of Harry's lead. Malfoy started to blush under Harry's fixed and steady gaze.
Dear Merlin, they were flirting.
It was... unheard of. Unthinkable. But there was Draco Malfoy smiling back at him, pale cheeks flushed and lips taking on color from all the biting. He was vernal, vibrant, magnetic. When had that happened? Malfoy made him feel like an old man-a lecherous old pervert leering at this nubile young thing. The blond waggled his eyebrows as though issuing a challenge through his eyes. Okay, Scarhead. What's next?
It wasn't a good thing that he was communicating telepathically with a very turned-on Draco Malfoy. It was probably worse if you considered he was imagining the arrogant git's lilting drawl of a voice in his head and liking it. It was too late; he was gazing back at Malfoy, licking his chops.
Harry took his next step off to Malfoy's side. There was only one way to test this theory: he returned the enganche, curling his leg around Malfoy's.
“Well,” the blond muttered, his face in Harry's shoulder. “That much is clear.”
“What is?” Harry pulled back to execute a sacada, a step in which he slid Malfoy's free foot along the floor with his own.
“You're bent,” Malfoy smirked. “No wonder your wife threw you out.”
He'd almost forgotten that night-blocked it from his conscious mind. Gin had quite literally thrown him out, a suitcase sailing after him, her wedding ring sent flying as an afterthought. It had been all over the papers the very next morning. He'd stayed with Ron and Hermione those first few days-just until he could get Grimmauld Place aired out and his things moved into the dusty, disused house. Hermione kept hiding The Daily Prophet in the hope that he wouldn't see the headlines, though it was hard to miss the biggest font the fucking Prophet had. It nearly filled the page. It was the destruction of his life spelled out in squirming black and white, everything he'd spent the last fifteen years working towards in a pile of rubble at his feet; it was hard not to see. It was his misery manifest. It was choking him-had been for years. The fact that the papers were rubbing his failure in his face actually made very little difference. He didn't need to see the headlines to know he'd fucked it all up. His life was over.
England National was keeping him. At least he still had a job. He hadn't seen Albus and James since their Easter hols home from Hogwarts. It had been four weeks since he'd swung Lily around in his arms, heard her laugh, felt her soft doll hands fold behind his neck as he lifted the girl off her feet. Ginny had barred him from their flat. She said he was disgusting and had no right to see their children. Most of the Weasleys agreed with Harry; Gin was being utterly unreasonable. But there was no reasoning with Ginny Potter in a rage. Harry had learned that a long time ago. He didn't have it in him to fight anymore.
That was why he let her catch him fucking a muggle rent boy in their bed. Lily was having a sleepover with Hugo and Rose, so Ginny was sure to walk in on him alone. There were no words to describe the gilded cage that had become his existence, the complete and utter lie he lived. He was a professional Quidditch player-as Ginny would say, he simply didn't possess the vocabulary. He didn't know how to tell Gin he preferred men the same way he didn't know how to tell her he fancied tango and Lambrusco over white wine and waltz. She wasn't interested in his opinions. So rather than tell her and be ignored, he decided to show her.
It had been a really dumb idea. Fantastically stupid. She pulled her wand on the hustler. Harry, balls-deep in the sewer, hadn't had time to react. He'd been out on his ear in minutes, dispelling the last of her Bat Bogey Hex as he hailed himself a taxi.
The next day, The Prophet read “The Potters: It's Over!” There was no mention of Harry's sexual orientation in the article, though it was certainly implied that he was at fault for the death of their marriage. Harry only regretted ending the farce the way he did because it was costing him his children. He'd been wild, savage, blinded by hurt and loneliness. Now he couldn't even explain himself to his babies-see their faces again no matter how contorted in anger or disgust, tell them he loved them and that none of this mess had anything to do with them. Harry would always love his children. He'd never loved Ginny. That was the problem.
Harry's face must have shown some of his distress because Malfoy took up a mordida, sandwiching Harry's feet with his own and pulling so close it hurt.
“I read about it in the paper. I... sorry,” the blond mumbled, unable to make eye contact. His pointed noise brushed the fabric of Harry's snug blazer. “I always assume the rest of the world is as heartless and unfeeling as I am.”
“It's over,” Harry said. The words still felt strange on his tongue, ringing strangely in his ears. He sat back in the mordida, allowing Malfoy through. “I just miss my kids, is all,” he told the back of that white-blond head. For some reason, Malfoy was pretty easy to talk to. Thirty-something, gay wizard and a divorcee? They had more in common that Harry would have liked to think. Maybe their marriages had made them bitter. Maybe it was the gay scene over thirty. They were transitioning from someone's boy toy to Daddies themselves-at least in Harry's case. He wasn't sure if Malfoy would ever make that transition. The ponce still looked like a teenager; lithe, impossibly smooth skin, those perfect petit proportions and the crabby, acerbic personality of a know-it-all teen that had made their rivalry everything it was-a Hogwarts legend to this very day. Malfoy was still Malfoy, alright. Perhaps it was Harry who had changed.
The music had gone soft without his noticing. He scooped Malfoy close, leading a tender series of traspie triple steps ending with Malfoy in the cross, his ankles tight together and waiting for Harry's next direction. He went directly into the calestia, just because Malfoy balanced so perfectly, looked so beautiful in it. The blonde remained tucked up on that leg, allowing Harry to prowl in a slow circle, leading him around by the weight of him pressing into Harry's chest. He took Malfoy's weight further (there really wasn't much of it) and walked, pushing the blond backwards across the floor. With the suede soles of his shoes, he slid readily. It helped that he was fit, his back straight as a board as they went. The way he surrendered to the lead was astounding-it wasn't like Draco Malfoy to give in to anyone.
Just to see how far he could take it, Harry gave a distinct jostle, loosening Malfoy's ankles and freeing his back leg to swoop between them, tracing a familiar arc between them in the A frame of another caida. He could literally feel the eyes of the salon upon his back as he set Malfoy to rights, leading a few simple walking steps to ease around another couple. Malfoy's limber legs shot out behind him quick as a dart, extending to his full reach and placing his weight just so-and only when Harry invited it. He froze once, just to see Draco Malfoy stretched out and waiting, quivering for him. With his hand at the man's back, he twisted slowly, knowing it would cause Malfoy's extended leg to draw patters on the floor, swishing with the roll of their chests, shoulders following shoulders, hips matching hips. It was making him hard-the way Malfoy moved, the way Malfoy fit so tight against him. It was all so sweet and right. He pressed his cheek to satiny blond hair before leading him to open the embrace. They needed some distance between them before Harry's disobedience downstairs became any more pronounced.
The song was about to stop dead. That was the advantage of being addicted to tango; you knew every melody like the back of your hand, knew what irregularities to prepare for well in advance. The music could be unpredictable. True musicality was working with it, within it, making the song and the dance your own.
He swept Malfoy off to his side, bumping the blond's thigh with his own in a way that caused his simple crossing of ankles to slide up, one knee over the other with his foot kicking back in a sharp flick. Normally the move lead right back into the embrace but Harry took it above and beyond, dipping so that Malfoy was laid out along his leg, the blond holding his shoulder tightly and staring up at him in wonder when the music stopped.
Someone let out a whoop from the other side of the club.
The song crashed back, rap blazing and beat heavier than ever. Harry could barely hear himself think over the thrum of it in his ears-or was that his racing heart? Malfoy had to stop smiling like that before it broke the harsh angles of his face. The blond took his exit with a flourish, flipping his leg in a voleo as he swirled round to face Harry square-on.
He shook his head, smiling at the attention-drinking Slytherin. The man was practically glowing, a spotlight going off under his skin and lighting him from the inside out. He liked that half the room was staring, watching the curve of his tight-trouser-clad arse with every backward reach, salivating at the lightness of his loafers, the recklessness and confidence he exuded with every breath. The lines he created with his body were nothing short of beautiful, pulled high and tight in Harry's arms and rocking on the balls of his feet, straining to be taller, be closer. Harry re-wrapped his arm, feeling Malfoy's ribs beneath his fingers. The man was lithe, nothing but muscle and bone beneath the softness of that cloying white shirt. He begged to be touched, messed with. Harry moved the man's feet with his own in a brush, over and over, knee nudging thigh, each displacement sending Malfoy's foot careening out and away in a sweep that nearly left the floor, setting a quick pace to the building music. He was waiting for Malfoy's foot to go airborne. In the moment in did, he caught the limb with his own, the tip of his shoe hooking Malfoy's ankle. Harry gave it a little lift-once, twice before returning the blond's black and white shoe to the floor. He wanted every part of them to touch; toes, shins, stomachs or hands, it didn't matter which. So long as Malfoy understood. This was happening. They both felt it.
The way the man adorned each movement was enthralling; each brush of the foot, each careful picado tap of the heel, each lapiz more imbued with grace and distinction than the last. Harry had never seen Draco so alive. His eyes drifted closed, lashes feathering against Harry's jaw.
The end of the song was coming all too quickly. Harry couldn't think of what to do-letting go of Draco was no longer an option. The man was staying wrapped in his arms and that was all there was to it. He lead a series of sharp twists, direction changes the blond could embellish with those romantic picados of the heel he favored; the drag of a toe and extension of each long leg reading loud and clear through the bewitching sturdiness of his frame. Harry let his own foot drag, creating a line of limb for the blond to wind his way around. With a final plunk of the concertina, they were done.
Harry was breathing down the pale column of Malfoy's neck as he spoke, their bodies not leaving the embrace for a second.
“Did I pass?”
Malfoy's expression changed. Harry felt the shifting of his features but couldn't see what change had been wrought there. “Pass?”
“Yeah. Whatever ridiculous test you had going in your head.”
“I did no such thing,” Malfoy sniffed.
“I don't fancy letter grades much,” Harry went on as though Malfoy had confirmed his suspicions rather than denying them outright. “Think we can do a point system?”
The next song of the set had already started. It was a remake of “El llorón” featuring a harmonica as the concertina's part-highly syncopated with an alternating time signature and strumming Spanish guitar. Harry had only heard this version a few times before but decided to play it cool. He danced it back as a milonga-any excuse to keep things close. The short steps certainly did something for the blond in his arms. There was a thrum to his body, pointed nose brushing the lapel of Harry's jacket like a cat nuzzling a sunny window pane. Their steps weaved in and out, walking to the Latin beat.
The tune quickly turned to a jazz riff, playing off the familiar old tune. Harry took advantage of the simple beat, showing off as he stepped between those darting skinny legs. Their thighs brushed countless times, Harry's feet landing swift and sure every time, ducking in to make his presence known. He skated the slender hand in his up to his shoulder, resting it there with a gentle pat before tucking his hand in his trouser pocket, casual as could be. Malfoy was holding him now, twined around his neck and feeling the lead through every inch of their joined bodies. Harry's hand soon left his pocket, straying to the blond's side-needing to feel the twist of him, the deep-seated curve that made up bony hip, narrow waist and oh-so-round bum. He was a goner before the tune could say goodnight.
“Enjoying this, Potter?” The words were spoken into his shirt collar, all breath, tripping tongue and heat. Malfoy could have been talking about the dance-or the unholy stiffy pressing against his own. Why not both?
Harry chuckled. “Not as much as you, my friend.”
A quiet hum issued from Malfoy's throat-his only reply. Harry thought it might've once been a growl but no more. Malfoy was too happy, too sated, caught up in their old game of cat and mouse as easy as blinking, breathing, being. It had always been simple between them-strike, parry, return the attack. The pattern that had plagued the social interactions of their youth now served them well on the dance floor. For every action there was an equal and opposite reaction; Harry lead, attacked, Malfoy reacted, followed, Harry basing his decisions on each witty retort of picado, each slur of golpe, each brave and insulting gancho hook. Malfoy had his say in swirls, arcs of the leg and rhythmic tappings of the foot, snapping out a relentless tune of “halfblood” and “worthless boy hero” to his heart's content. And Harry worked around him, planning his next move from the blond's position and mood. In that, things were exactly the same. Why fix what wasn't broken?
Malfoy's sound turned pleasant at the start of the next song, burrowing his face that much closer to Harry's, his cheek tucked beneath the square fall of Harry's jaw.
The tune was the disco-like “Pa' Bailar” from Bajofondo, a piece with rock-style drums and a rattling dance club beat. The surprise was a big-band orchestra layered over it all, playing out the frenos and hesitations of a classic tango. Electronic warbles punctuated the piano's rolls. The piece was heavy, demanding large, sweeping steps and stately pauses. He took Malfoy in a sweeping gate, challenging the reach of the man's legs with his even longer ones. Malfoy's fingers tightened around the side of his neck, holding on tight as they took their first steps.
The piano trilled from high to low and back and the blond in his arms swirled with it, moving through each step with unparallelled poise. Soon the melody would drop into a techno beat. They should do something. Malfoy felt it too, unconsciously reaching for Harry's hand. Warm fingers slid down his bicep, making him shiver from head to toe. He tried not to gasp. Really, he did.
He let Malfoy overstep a back ocho-the blond was overcompensating for their height difference, not that it mattered-and slipped his foot between Malfoy's legs before the man could complete his backward change of weight. Malfoy's front leg swung back, catching on Harry's thigh with a little wrapping kick that shot up around his thigh. He got Harry in the bum. On purpose.
Nearby, several couples laughed.
“Why you little shit,” Harry growled in his best Daddy's Angry voice. “I'll get you for that.”
“Oh really?”
Fuck. In that stunned moment, Malfoy's hand had somehow snuck from Harry's bicep to his elbow. That narrow hand now crept along his back, taking him by the shoulder blade and hooking those tricky fingers nice and tight. The lead had just changed.
At the back of his mind, Harry began to wonder who Malfoy was showing off for. Sure, it wasn't every day you ran into your childhood nemesis on the dance floor but this tenacity couldn't be inspired solely by Harry's presence... could it? To be frank, Harry didn't think highly enough of himself to believe that was the case. Perhaps Malfoy had an ex lover in the audience. That would make far more sense. That would explain why Malfoy had spent the last ten minutes showing off, playing games with Harry on the dance floor. The things Malfoy did would incite jealousy in just about anyone with eyes in their heads. The only thing Harry's convenient theory didn't explain was the stiffness evident between Malfoy's legs as the blond pulled him close with a rocking turn step.
Malfoy was a strong lead for a small bloke. He didn't hesitate in the slightest, didn't second-guess or waver. He unapologetically asked for Harry's weight, coming in low and nearly taking the taller man off his axis. Malfoy kept asking and so, reluctantly, Harry kept giving. He didn't follow very often, mostly because he was tall and... well, nobody really asked. He knew how. He just wasn't particularly confident; it showed in his hesitant steps, teetering on his supporting leg as Malfoy guided him back.
“Relax,” Malfoy told him, leading a sacada. His foot pushed Harry's free leg across the floor and then back to where they'd started. “Good. Walk with me.”
The wizard set a broad stride, anticlockwise around the room. Harry hurried to get out of the way. Malfoy's hand tightened on his shoulder blade, the other taking his palm and squeezing gently.
“Don't just reach,” advised the blond. “Lengthen everything. Drop your shoulders. Feel the floor and push up from it.”
Harry closed his eyes, ducking his face in Malfoy's hair and doing as the man asked. It actually helped that Mafoy was shorter; Harry felt he could lean over the man instead of into him. There was a certain snap to the bass, modern and tight. Malfoy walked to it, legs weaving around Harry's, first walking inside partner and then outside, in and out, his shoulder a constant dig in Harry's chest. Malfoy's forearm pushed his side-an old-fashioned way of indicating the follower's curzada or cross. Some people said the cross was automatic rather than lead. Harry always lead it anyway. He believed in giving indication to his partner with every part of his body. Anything else just felt lazy. Harry committed to his steps, committed to his partner. If you weren't going to engage, why bother? Malfoy was the same, it seemed. The pressure Malfoy gave at his ribs made the larger step back a breeze. Harry's feet gathered tight under him, shifting his weight and then waiting. He traced tiny circles on the floor with the inside of his shoe. It was a common mistake to keep walking backward out of the cross-Harry didn't want to fuck up. Gods, he didn't want to fuck this up.
He was right. Malfoy invited him forward out of the cross, a little snap to the rhythm of his body. Hyper-focused on the step itself, Harry completely missed the opportunity for embellishment.
“Relax it,” Malfoy said, catching his body before he could transfer his weight and putting him right back up in his crossed position. “You have to let go of the leg. Just let it happen.”
Harry nodded against blond hair, camphor and tea seeping into his lungs and hanging there like the smoke that curled along the ceiling. Was it cologne or did Malfoy naturally smell of French herbs and Earl Grey? Malfoy led the step again. Harry shifted when Malfoy shifted, went where the blond wizard went, following the hitch of his shoulders and the press of his hand so warm at Harry's back. His leg flew back in a delayed patada, just as Malfoy intended. His foot barely cleared his knees but it was a significant victory.
Malfoy kept right on going, sweeping through off-side and cross-body leads that had their legs swirling, wrapping and tangling together. Malfoy's steps were syrupy, never really starting or stopping. He was always in between something, powerful and unpredictable. His direction changes were precise and calculated yet they felt so natural, without thought or airs, caressing every nuance and pop of the music, his feet wrapping, sneaking and tapping out a little rhythm against the floor. He took Harry in a tight mordida, their feet side-by-side in stark black and white lines. When the violin dipped, Malfoy dropped back to a sitting position, one leg beneath him and the other still trapped between Harry's feet.
If he was going to steal the lead back, this was it. He could step over Malfoy's foot and continue being the follower or he could sit back himself, slide Malfoy's free foot across the floor and take back what was his. He did exactly that, eliciting a sharp flick of the head-white hair whipping-as Malfoy snapped around to look at him. It was too late, though. His right arm had swung around to Malfoy's back and he was pulling the wizard into the windmill turning pattern of molinete.
“Bastard.”
“Guilty,” he smiled, twirling Malfoy into a voleo. When the man's foot was airborne, Harry took another shot at showmanship. Malfoy was game for showing off-why shouldn't he oblige? He slipped his foot in so that Malfoy would step on it when his own foot landed. The expression on Malfoy's face read loud and clear. He thought Harry had made a mistake. With a carnal grin, Harry lifted his foot... lifting Malfoy up into the air as they continued to turn.
The man weighed nothing. Both his skinny hands took up roost on Harry's shoulders, gripping as though he thought he were about to fall. Harry set him down neat as a pin, tipping the fedora still on his head.
“Bastard,” Malfoy repeated, breathless. “Cheeky little-”
Harry didn't need to hear the rest to know where Malfoy was going; besides, the song was almost over. The bandoneón flew into a complicated rush of notes: Harry matched it with their feet, guiding Malfoy in tight circles around him and then with him, minding other couples on the floor as they weaved much more slowly to the beat. Malfoy was laughing through the fancy footwork, arms wound tight around his leader's neck.
In a quick lunging step, Harry pulled his partner to his hip. Malfoy's leg hooked back between his, giving a little kick. He didn't have the leverage or angle to kick Harry in the rump again. For a final triumph, Harry hooked his own leg on the very last note, curling around Malfoy and knocking him clean in the ass. Ba-dump. He'd never timed a thing better in his life.
Victory was sweet.
“Two points, Potter,” Malfoy half-gasped, stepping away. Harry was sad to see him go-he'd gotten accustomed to that warm little body snug against his own.
Harry was about to ask what exactly the points were awarded for when his mind stumbled across a far more assertive response. He gave the man a crooked, cocky smile. “Out of how many?”
Malfoy smirked back, not unpleasantly. “Not telling.”
Typical Malfoy, cold and aloof. He wouldn't meet Harry's gaze, looking off over his shoulder. Harry had a moment to memorize the man's face in profile. He looked astoundingly young. And he looked like his father, straight-backed and proud. More people were coming onto the floor. Soon, the dance floor would be as crowded as before-hardly conducive to the blond's grandiose style.
“Are you here by yourself?”
Malfoy fluffed his hair out of his eyes, preening with his fingers before stealing his hat back, plopping it on his freshly coiffed head with a flourish of pale digits, long and graceful.
“With friends. We have a couple bottles of champagne in the booth over there,” he indicated the direction with a simple jut of his chin. “You should join us.”
“You sure?” Harry cocked his head, trying to catch the man's eyes from under the brim of his fedora. “I wouldn't want to be a bother.”
Malfoy extended a pale hand to him, palm up. “Come on, then. I'll be reamed all the way back to Paris if I don't introduce you.”
The next song began-a remixed electro-tango version of none other than “Don Juan.” Harry's hand was grabbed without preamble as Malfoy dragged him from the dance floor and off into the smoky room beyond.
A hand in Draco Malfoy's, Harry found himself guided to a large booth packed with smiling faces. There were two women among them, introduced as Sabine and Maria-Jose. Malfoy rattled the blokes' names too quickly for Harry to catch or remember them all. The blond put a glass of champagne in Harry's hand before scooting him into the booth, narrow fingers at the smalls of his back and trailing up to his shoulder as he made himself comfortable.
Maria-Jose aimed a question at Harry in Spanish but Malfoy answered for him, firing away in a quick clip that was clearly Francophone-far from native but still well understood. Harry's ears picked out his own name and something about “escuela,” which was school. Harry nodded, bringing the glass he'd been given to his lips. It was good champagne, properly chilled and freshly opened. Judging by the quality, Malfoy must have brought it-the brand was none other than Cristal, about two hundred pounds a bottle.
Malfoy slipped in beside him, perched on the very edge of the booth as there wasn't much room. Harry threw his arm up over the back, giving the blond an extra few inches and hoping the man might lean back against him. With a beholden sigh, Malfoy reclined into him, scooping up a flute of champagne for himself. The wizard knocked back half the glass before craning his neck to speak in a low voice.
“I've told them you're a pro footballer, yeah?”
“Sure thing,” Harry nodded agreeably. In truth, it was the same lie he'd used for years. English blokes weren't exactly known for their peak physical fitness; plus, there was his age to consider. Most thirty-somethings slaved away at a desk without the advantage of personal fitness trainers, dieticians and daily workouts. Professional athlete was the easiest way to explain the way Harry moved and looked-being from the UK, everyone assumed he was a footballer and the image stuck. It also put to rest many of the questions surrounding his frequent and rather exotic travel, how he could afford all those five star hotels and expensive tango workshops, private instruction and that impressive collection of bespoke suits for every climate and occasion. Harry had given up on wizarding formal wear, feeling more comfortable in his tango textiles than anything else-even his Quidditch gear. He probably owned as many pairs of shoes as Ginny did, if you counted all his dancing shoes. Looking back, there were all these trails of bread crumbs leading to his big secret, his double life. His wife had never cared enough to follow them.
He wondered how much Malfoy lied about himself to these people, sitting around him and laughing, drinking his extravagant champagne. They probably knew he was a barrister who lived in France. Maybe Malfoy had clients here in Argentina. It wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility. Everyone needed a good lawyer.
An older fellow with sandy brown hair moved to refill Malfoy's glass, catching Harry's as well. There were two bottles going round the table, everyone chatting merrily. No one bothered to talk to Harry. A few of them spoke to Malfoy but mostly in passing. The blond would answer a question or simply smile and shake his head, drifting back to his observation of the couples on the dance floor. Harry corrected his earlier assumption: everyone Malfoy knew was sitting at this table... at least everyone Malfoy could tolerate. There was no prying ex love in the crowd. Malfoy had been showing off for the fun of it, dancing for himself. Harry felt his ears go pink.
Malfoy removed his hat, hanging it on one of the empty champagne bottles at the center of the table. He dropped back against Harry, silvery head landing in the shallow of Harry's shoulder. A few curious glances were shot their way. Harry got the feeling he was being talked about.
Malfoy bummed a cigarette off the brown-haired gentleman to Harry's right. As soon as the white paper touched his lips, there were two guys there with lighters in hand. It felt like everyone smoked in Buenos Aires-or rather, everyone in the tango scene did. The room seethed with smoke. It hung in a dense fog, obscuring the design of the dark tin ceiling, dripping from the old chandeliers. The soft light did wonders for Malfoy's face. He was awash in orange, pink and pale golds, the white shirt bringing out a certain coral color that didn't really exist in his cheeks. Harry knew the blond was pasty as photo paper-and was probably equally useless if he saw the light of day. He wondered what happened when Malfoy had a trial before 2pm. His client probably went to Azkaban. The Malfoy he knew wasn't the type to roll out of bed on anyone's whim save his own.
Malfoy barked something across the table, ashing his cigarette on a nearby cardboard coaster. Sabine and Maria-Jose dissolved in gales of laughter while a young fellow beside them looked duly chastised. Harry didn't speak enough Spanish to pick up a word that passed between them.
“What is it?” Harry asked very quietly, leaning a mite closer as Malfoy tilted back. His nose brushed the man's hair, giving him another whiff of pepper, herbs and tea. “Are they talking about me?”
“Yes, Scarhead,” Malfoy quipped. “They are.”
“And... what are they saying?”
Malfoy heaved a sigh of smoke, blowing it away from Harry and out into the room. “They assume, because you are a fellow Englishman, that you must be my boyfriend.”
Harry felt his brows rise, the corners of his mouth going along for the ride. “And... have you corrected them?”
“Certainly,” huffed the blond. “My friends are quite the stubborn assholes, as you see.” The two women laughed, toasting Malfoy with their glasses. Harry was convinced they understood English but were pretending not to for their own amusement.
“So they don't believe you?” Harry was showing teeth by this point, full-on grinning at Malfoy from ear to ear. The man was so clearly embarrassed by the situation. You didn't expect to meet up with your schoolyard rival at a Wednesday night gay milonga, much less hit it off with near-perfect chemistry on and off the dance floor. Then again, he and Malfoy hadn't really spoken enough to say their conversation was a success. Yet.
“That would be correct, Potter,” he drawled. “Very astute.”
“They're going to wonder why you call your boyfriend by his surname,” Harry teased, lifting his champagne to his lips.
“Further evidence that you are not my boyfriend.” Malfoy toasted Harry with the butt of his cigarette before stubbing it out on the coaster.
“Evidence?” Harry laughed. “I wasn't aware you were working, Monsieur Malfoy.”
“That's Doctor Malfoy to you, Chosen One.”
“You got your PhD?” Harry stumbled, letting that one sink in. “I had no idea. Congratulations.”
“You're a little late,” the blond simpered into his bubby wine.
“Yeah? How late?”
“Three years.”
Harry let out a low breath; it whistled between his teeth. “Sorry. Between the kids, Ginny and her claws-one buried in my back and the other in my Gringotts vault-I reckon I've fallen out of touch with the civilized world.”
“That's for certain,” Malfoy raised a dirty-blond brow, half-snorting but half-laughing. Self-effacing humor was Harry's go-to because it worked every time. Everyone liked a man who was secure enough to laugh at himself.
“Still, Malfoy! Congratulations are in order,” Harry nudged the blond with his shoulder. Malfoy's eyes went wide as he swiveled to look Harry in the face. “I mean, your doctorate is a huge deal. Draco Malfoy, Barrister, Doctor of Law.”
Malfoy spoke into his champagne flute, voice echoing in a bubbly fizzle of petulant passive-aggressiveness. “And here I thought you remembered.”
Harry looked around the table but the Argentinos were still staunchly pretending they didn't speak a lick of English. Harry turned back to Malfoy. The lines on his forehead said it all.
“What's the date, Potty?”
Harry consulted his watch. “It's the sixth of June.”
“Argentina is four hours behind London, Oh Great And Powerful Savior. Learn to reset your watch after you floo-hoo-hmm... fly.” Malfoy corrected himself with a jolt, having nearly referred to the Floo Network in mixed company.
“So June fifth,” Harry amended. He thought about that for a minute. And another. “Fuck. Malfoy, it's your birthday!”
“Oh Potter, You Rotter,” the blond quoted, sighing into his champagne. He downing the contents in a rush, pouring himself another glass right up to the brim. He spoke in a deadpan. “That's exactly what day it is. I came all the way to Argentina to prolong my special day.”
Harry peered at him quizzically through slightly smudged glasses. “Really?”
“No, you bloody half-wit! I came here to forget about being thirty-fucking-four! And divorced. Thought I might get pissed-ruddy lashed out of my skull, ponce around a bit, do something I'll surely regret in the morning. I certainly didn't get myself all tarted up, didn't drag my fabulous arse all the way to La Marshall to celebrate my sodding birthday! Extending my misery by an extra four hours? Ha! I consider it a sign from the Gods themselves that you're fucking here.”
“A sign of what?” Harry pressed, wanting to comfort the poor bloke but having no idea how. Did Slytherins even accept comfort like other human beings? Did Malfoys? Did the French?
“That it's time to give up,” Malfoy harrumphed, chugging another glass of champagne, waggling his fingers until someone surrendered a freshly popped bottle.
“Give up on what?” Harry refilled the man's glass, topping off his own. “On yourself?”
“Bloody buggering hell no!” Malfoy actually looked affronted. He placed a skinny hand to his chest, waving his bubbly with the other and showing no concern what-so-ever when he spilled some. “I'm a Malfoy, Potter. You don't understand what that means. I'll always believe in the name-it's a part of who I am. But this tripe and bollocks,” he gestured grandly around the club before disappearing into his alcohol, not resurfacing to finish the thought.
“Tango?” Harry surmised after a long moment had passed in silence.
“Homo... sexuality, you right little cunt,” Malfoy corrected, waggling his glass at Harry for yet another refill. He looked about to throw his toys out the pram when Harry didn't jump to refill his crystal with Cristal.
“So you're going to give up being bent, then?” Harry teased. “Go back to women, will you? Because our marriages went so spiffingly.”
“By the way of the biff,” Malfoy shuddered. “There are a lot of things I'm willing to put up with in this world. Like you, for instance, my little Gryffindor ninny. I've shouldered quite a lot in my time. I could handle a second wife; really, I could. But that... creature,” he clanked his empty flute against the champagne bottle, hinting to Harry that he'd best hop-to. “Astoria. Ugh. You know she read The Quibbler?”
“Lots of people read The Quibbler,” Harry shrugged.
Malfoy slumped forward, thumping his elbow on the table and resting his head in his hand. It had the effect of tousling his hair, throwing strands over his eyes. The light made his hair look completely white, full of yellow and gold sparks. Malfoy was like a human Snitch, just fluttering there, waiting for someone clever or stupid enough to try and catch him. He peeked back at Harry over his shoulder, long lashes fluttering in the light. The heart-stopping image shattered when the prat opened his pouty little mouth.
“Yeah, well... this bint believed every bloody word of it. How could I be expected to see to the Malfoy line with that bit of puffskein-for-brains?”
Harry put a hand on Malfoy's shoulder. “Harsh.”
“Indeed. So I divorced her-oh, don't look so scandalized, Wunderkind!” The blond snorted at the judgmental expression presumable clouding Harry's face with ethical doom and righteous gloom. “She was barren as a brick: I had every legal and moral right.”
“That and you were gay,” Harry supplied.
“Pffft. Irrelevant. More wine!”
-
(continued...)