Muggles ✧ Drarry

᥊𝓲𝓲

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 5.1ᴋ
ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ: ᴊᴀɴᴜᴀʀʏ 13ᴛʜ, 2021
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Out of all of the dances in the entire world, Potter was the best at two of them: the one was legitimate, and one was not.

Potter was good at waltzing, and he relied heavily on the beat of the music. Draco loved waltzing with Potter, because it was the dance where he tripped the least, and it was the dance that the blond excelled in. He had been learning to waltz since he could walk, and Potter had picked up on it the quickest, making for a nicely performed dance.

That, and waltzing usually led to casual talking, which usually led to flirting, which always led to snogging, which usually led to fucking, which was a very nice ending to their dance sessions, which could become quite lengthy and frustrating depending on when they started and stopped.

The second dance was the illegitimate one, the dance that was usually a branch-off from waltzing. After the causal talking and the flirting, and the snogging, there was a second option: laughter. Laughter which let to more snogging, and more snogging which led to holding each other, which led to swaying.

Draco could sway with Potter for the rest of his life and never get dizzy, or bored, or hungry, or thirsty, or tired. He would still sigh with contentment every once in a while, still snort when Potter muttered something childish or painfully obvious, still keep his arms drawn around the Auror's neck and his head in the crook of his neck where it belonged. Even when the music stopped — if it hadn't already — they would continue to sway, not wanting to break the fragile, comfortable silence that had formed between them. They didn't want to bring reality back into the safe space that they had created.

After a while, they would start to snog again, or they would break apart after one of them saw the time on the analog clock that Draco had had to put in the room because of the way that swaying ate up time like Ronald Weasley did breakfast foods.

When that happened, Potter would rush out to attend to other commitments, and Draco would have a glass of wine, because tea wasn't strong enough, and because suddenly the house felt empty and suddenly Norman was abiding by the laws of evolution and acting on his being nocturnal. That, or the bird was out flying; he always went out flying when Draco and Potter went to the room that vaguely resembled a dance studio, because he wasn't allowed in there.

Draco started hoping that the ball they were going to would only require the ability to waltz and to sway, because those were the only things that he wanted to do. He didn't want to awkwardly do choreographed bullshit where his toes were guaranteed to be stepped on and his dance partner was guaranteed to have a bad time. He didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of reporters, and he really didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of the man that he was fucking nearly every third day.

A week from the ball, Draco and Potter were chatting on the sofa. They did that, talked before they had to dance, to ease the stress. Potter had been sending owls back and forth with Granger, who was supplying him with detailed letters about her trip with Weasley. Potter had seemed tense when he had knocked on the door, and Draco had let him in quickly and quietly so as not to start some argument led by emotion.

Now, Potter was cradling his own glass of firewhiskey while Draco drank some red wine in the designated red wine wineglass, his legs stretched out in front of him while the Golden Boy went on and on about how his friends angered each other, and himself, for that matter, so much.

"And apparently Ron was looking at some woman's breasts while he and Hermione were out at lunch!" Potter dropped his head into his hands, disappointed. "I don't understand what his issue is. It's like he can't comprehend loyalty, and he's a fucking Gryffindor! The man went to war with me as a teenager, but he can't go out to lunch with his girlfriend of four years without checking out another woman."