Let's Dance by scheherezhad

Rating: PG

Summary: Draco learns to dance.

Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, no money is being made, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author's notes: Random plot bunny fluff. Slight slash implications.

Feedback: Please. Praise me, criticise me, outright flame me. I don't care; I just want to know what you really think. scheherezhad@yahoo.com

"A Yule Ball? Oh, this is terrible," Draco moaned, throwing himself onto his bed. "Why me?"

His father had just informed him that the Triwizard Tournament would be reinstated when school resumed in September, and Hogwarts was the host school. That in itself was fine. The Ball - which came part and parcel with the Tournament - posed the problem, because Draco didn't know how to dance.

Oh, he could do the generic "shift-and-bob" that seemed ubiquitous among teenagers. Actual dancing, though? Not a chance. He'd never taken an interest, despite knowing that he would have to learn eventually; his mother would insist, saying that a proper Malfoy knew all the social dances performed at formal events. He just hadn't expected that "eventually" to be soon.

"Horrid, awful, dreadful..." he continued, burying his face against his pillow. Maybe if he smothered himself, he wouldn't have to attend.

Someone knocked at his door.

Of course smothering himself wouldn't work. He was a Malfoy, which meant he would attend, even if he died; they'd just have him preserved and cart him in to stare menacingly at the rest of the students with his dead grey eyes.

"Draco?"

"Come in, Mother," he said with a resigned sigh.

Narcissa swept into the room, all icy beauty and regal bearing. "Draco, darling, I've arranged for you to learn to dance. I'll not have you looking like an imbecile at the Yule Ball, not knowing how to dance a simple waltz."

"Wonderful, Mother. When do lessons begin?"

"They'll start when you start back to school. I couldn't get anyone in on such short notice, so I've asked Severus to teach you. He doesn't dance often, but he certainly knows what he's doing." Her pale gaze sharpened on her son. "You will learn, and you will obey him, Draco. None of your whining and pleading will get you out of this, you know."

"Yes, Mother. I understand."

"Good, then," she said with a satisfied nod. "I'll see you at dinner, dear."

Draco waited until he was sure she had gotten down the hall, then he let out a loud, frustrated noise. Fan-bloody-tastic.

September arrived, cold and wet, and Draco returned to Hogwarts. He applauded mechanically during the Sorting when first years became Slytherins, his eyes repeatedly flicking over to Professor Snape. He knew that his dance lessons were to begin within the week, and the waiting was awful.

Mad-Eye Moody interrupted Dumbledore's announcements, the students learned about the Tournament, and Draco stared at Snape. At the end of the feast, he went to the Slytherin dorms more from habit than from any specific will. He headed straight for his bed as the prefects showed the firstyears to their rooms. At least in his own room he could pretend his (very sexy) Potions professor wasn't going to teach him-- wait a second. Where had "very sexy" come from? He certainly hadn't meant to think it.

Well, bloody great. Now he had that in his mind, and the last thing he wanted to think about at the moment was how Snape moved so effortlessly, like he could completely control every muscle in his body. He moves like he could strike at any moment, kill me or kiss me.

Draco suddenly appreciated the silencing spell he'd put around his bed, as he had the urge to scream. This turn of events would have to turn back around and head the way it came, for he had no intention of being attracted to his professor, sexy or not.

A pale green light flared in the darkness of his bed, and Draco looked up to see a small card on the ledge of his headboard. He plucked it off and reached for his wand.

"Lumos."

His wand tip lit up, and he could read the spidery writing on the card.

Draco,

Lessons begin Wednesday night in my office at eight o'clock sharp. Do not be late.

S. Snape

Lovely.

Monday proved to be a terrible embarrassment. He'd had an ordinary confrontation with Potter and his friends, trading insults and moving to curses, when that freakish Moody turned him into a ferret. One of the less enjoyable experiences in his life, that. For perhaps the only time in his life, Draco felt grateful that McGonagall had shown up; if not for her, he'd probably have stayed a ferret. Unfortunately, she also made Moody take him to see Snape about the altercation.

He stood in Snape's office with Moody as the horrid man explained what had happened. Draco fought the urge to squirm. Snape's eyes pinned him to the spot with their dark coldness (but he would heat up quickly and the cold would turn to fire), and Moody seemed oblivious.

"Thank you, Moody. I will deal with him personally."

Then Moody left Draco and Snape alone.

"Draco, you must have more sense than to try to curse Potter in the middle of the corridor," he said irritably. "I'd like to think your mother, at least, brought you up properly. Though if she is only now having you learn to dance, who knows in what other areas you may lack instruction."

Draco stayed silent, though his face went just the slightest bit red at Snape's comments. I know some areas you could instruct me in...

"Did Moody hurt you?"

"No, sir." He only then became aware that his hair still looked a mess and his robes were rumpled. "Not physically, anyway."

Snape raised an eyebrow at the soft addition. Draco kept his own face nearly expressionless, letting only a slight hint on distress appear. He knew from experience that this look got adults thinking he was trying valiantly to push back his pain, and they often became more easily manipulated when they thought he was hurting.

"You may return your lower lip to its proper position, Mr. Malfoy. While I don't agree with Professor Moody's methods, you knew better than to attack Potter with half the school watching; you have earned punishment." Snape stood up and walked round to the front of his desk. "You will serve a detention with me, Wednesday night at nine o'clock."

"Sir, I already have my lesson at eight--"

"I am aware of that," he snapped. "You will spend an extra hour here, as I'm quite sure your mother will be pleased if you learn sooner than later."

"Yes, sir."

Even though he could usually whine and cajole people into letting him have his way, Draco still knew when to stop. Snape's look left him little doubt that now was a good time. Doesn't mean I have to like it, though, he thought as he returned to the dormitory. But I'll take it like a Malfoy, even if he looks like he could eat me alive...Oh that was a bad choice of words.

Tuesday and Wednesday passed far too quickly for Draco's liking. If he had known a time-freezing spell, he would have stopped that eight o'clock from coming, indefinitely. He'd nearly botched two potions already, even though they were only three days into the term. It was just that Snape kept looking at him, or walking over with that ridiculous ease of motion, or speaking to the class. That had quickly become the most disturbing to Draco's concentration, the way his voice could now turn Draco's bones liquid.

As it stood, he knew no way to freeze time, so on Wednesday he put on his stoniest mask and went to each class as if nothing was wrong. He bolted down his meals, and he spent his free time trying to do his homework, though he ended up pacing the common room.

The clock finally read 7:50 on Wednesday night. Draco took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and went to Snape's office determinedly. He would take this like a Malfoy.

Snape was waiting for him, wearing black trousers and a black coat with a white shirt beneath. The furniture had been moved against the walls to leave an empty space in the center of the floor. "Right on time, Mr. Malfoy."

"Of course, sir. I should hate to start this off on the wrong foot, so to speak."

"Take off your robes, and we'll begin," Snape instructed.

Draco pushed down the quiver in his gut and removed his school robes so that he stood before his professor in his uniform trousers and sweater-vest. This could get out of hand quickly if Snape kept saying things like that. Especially if Snape kept saying things like that.

"We shall begin with a waltz; it is done on a three-count. I will lead. You begin on your right foot, stepping back. Left foot to the side, right foot close, left foot forward, right foot to the side, left foot close. That is a simple box step."

He started the music, stepped up to Draco, and reached out to take his hands. Snape arranged them into the proper positions, then used body signals to coax Draco into the correct posture. He began moving slowly, counting the steps. "One, two, three; one, two, three--don't look down. Use your body to feel where my body is going. One, two, three; one, two, three..."

Don't look down, he says. It was either stare at their feet or get distracted looking at Snape. Well, more technically, looking at Snape's throat; despite his growth spurt, Draco still stood a few inches shorter than his teacher. Snape's throat looked strangely delicious there, and Draco thought the man should stop wearing such high-necked clothing. Of course, that would just ensure that Draco would have even more trouble paying attention in class.

"One, two, three; one, two, three..."

Draco noticed his movements become more fluid, more confident. Just as he had the hang of it, Snape stopped.

"Next, a left box step. On the first beat of each three, we will make a quarter-turn. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Professor," Draco replied automatically. He let out a soft breath and set himself firmly. Concentrate on the steps, not his hand on your shoulderblade, he admonished himself as they began again.

From there, they moved to progressive movement, under arm turns, hesitation, and the single twinkle step. By ten o'clock, Draco thought he surely knew everything about waltzing, but Snape told him they would move on to combinations in their next lesson. Next lesson. Wonderful.

They continued their lessons all through the term. He learned variations of the waltz, and Snape taught him to follow and to lead. They briefly covered a few other dances, the Yule Ball fast approaching and Draco's attraction to Snape growing radically.

Draco stood quietly in the Great Hall, Pansy on his arm in her hideously pink robes. He had tried valiantly to lead her in a waltz during the first dance, but she kept stepping on him and trying to lead. Sadly, he knew that she had learned to dance when they were children. After he led her off of the floor, Snape had given him a slight nod from across the room, a small sign of his satisfaction that Draco, at least, had learned well.

His cheeks flushed in the dim room, and he bit his tongue to keep from doing something stupid. That nod from Snape was like getting a real hug from his mother - high praise, rarely given and always cherished. With a rush of awareness, he found that he wanted more than that.

Draco once again stood quietly in the Great Hall, observing the students on the dance floor. The Yule Ball (no Tournament attached, this time) had turned out to be a great success, and everyone appeared to be having a wonderful time.

He edged along the wall until he stood next to Snape. "They're playing a waltz," he murmured.

"Shall we dance, Professor Malfoy?"

Draco turned to his lover of four years and smiled. "It would be my pleasure."

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