Muggles ✧ Drarry

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ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 5ᴋ
ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ: ᴅᴇᴄᴇᴍʙᴇʀ 30ᴛʜ, 2020
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"Step to the left, Potter." Potter stepped to the right. "Your other left, genius."

Potter frowned. "Sorry," he seemed bashful. "I thought you meant your left."

Draco quirked an eyebrow and automatically righted his posture out of habit. "Why would I ever mean my left when I'm directing you?  Doesn't that seem odd?"

There was no response, and Draco took that as a personal win. He had successfully stumped the Golden-Boy, though it wasn't all that difficult to do.

After not a moment longer had passed, Potter stepped the wrong way again, dragging Draco with him all the way. It was frustrating, letting Potter take the lead in a dance that he hadn't been doing since he was young like Draco had. The tall oaf seemed to have forgotten everything he had been taught over the last couple of days, and he was just winging it now.

It was Draco's fault for allowing them to take a break from dancing the day before. If he hadn't done that, then maybe Potter would have remembered. The Chosen-One-Gryffindor-Saviour-Guy learned by repetition, not instruction in the moment. Draco knew that from being in class with Potter for six consecutive years, and he should have remembered it now. That was his duty as Potter's instructor, to teach Potter how to dance properly and move without completely tarnishing their reputations in front of the press and coworkers.

"You're standing on my toes, Potter," Draco reminded him gently. Even if he was feeling the immense pain of having one Harry Potter standing on his feet, Draco still didn't want to scare the man off; Potter was a delicate soul, and could easily be scared into misperforming. 

"Sorry!" Potter leaped a visible few feet back from Draco, removing his arms from the blond's waist and holding them up in defense. "I didn't mean to, it was an accident!"

Draco put his hands up in acceptance. "It's fine, Potter," he said calmly. "We're going to get this. The dance isn't for another couple of weeks, so we have time."

"Yeah, but..." Potter crossed his arms over his chest. "I was doing so well just a few days ago. You said so yourself, but you haven't said anything recently, and—"

"We're making progress," Draco cut him off. Potter didn't look convinced. "We are, truly. It's just a bit harder now because we're not working on the basics any longer, we're working on the technical things."

"And that's supposed to motivate me how?"

Draco sighed. "You're the fucking Saviour of the Wizarding World, Potter. If you can be taken down by some ballroom dancing, then, well, maybe you are nothing without your supporters."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Draco looked at his nails, examining the fresh coat of black nail-polish that Pansy had put on them the day before. There was a small charmed moon that appeared only when the sun went down, and Draco wondered to himself how long the moon would last before the charms gave way. Typically, the charms only held for a couple of days without reapplication, and since Draco didn't have his magic, they were bound to crack sooner than that unless Pansy came by to do it herself.

"Oh nothing," Draco shrugged. He looked up to meet Potter's eyes, and rolled his own at the sight of the baffled idiot before him. That, and at how easy it was to rile the baffled idiot up, but mostly the baffled idiot part. "I was just thinking aloud about how Rita Skeeter could be right."