Move
(Post Mortem)
This drabble contains mild spoilers.
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Harry doesn’t like dancing with Draco.
It has nothing to do with whether or not he likes dancing. It has, also, nothing to do with whether or not Draco dances well (he does, of course he does). Perhaps rather than to say that Harry doesn’t like dancing with Draco, it would be more correct to say: Harry doesn’t like to dance with other boys. He isn’t sure how to hold, how to move – he feels clumsy and out of his depth.
Draco is confident in his movements, and Harry envies him for that. Then again Draco is not adverse to being the centre of everyone’s attention. It’s yet another thing that is so different between them.
“Relax,” Draco murmurs, his pink lips forming a small grin. Harry tries to offer a smile in return, and knows before Draco’s slightly disappointed expression that he failed in conveying the illusion of enjoyment.
“I’m sorry,” he says instead. Draco shrugs.
“It’s alright. I just… I just wish I knew how to make you have fun, Harry.”
“I do have fun,” Harry replies. “Sometimes.” When he’s with Ron and Hermione, that is.
“Is it me then,” Draco asks, his voice suddenly sad. “Is it me who keeps you from being happy?”
“No,” Harry assures him. “I just. Draco, it’s so crowded and noisy and bright here. I’m just not used to this. I’d rather…” Be at home, alone. “…spend time with a considerably smaller number of people.”
And Draco – sweet, delusional Draco – once again reads more into Harry’s words than he ever meant. The Malfoy heir’s expression brightens, his smile turns into something akin to tender, and he slips his hand into Harry’s own.
“Come, then,” he breathes, and starts pulling Harry off the dancefloor. “I know where we can be… I know a private place, if that’s what you prefer.”
marlowfication 