Letters

May: The Tango

They were dancing again. In the middle of all the beautiful vibrant mayhem. And he was holding Draco close, leading for once. It wasn't like their previous dances but an intense slow Tango and, as they were improvising, they mostly stuck to a closed position: often forehead to forehead. Draco gripped Harry's face with his left hand, his long fingers delved firmly into Harry's dark hair, his thumb caressing Harry's cheekbone. There was a concentrated eroticism from the way that their embrace allowed them to open briefly to allow the execution of complex footwork, especially on the part of Draco, between their longer elegant steps of the walks. For a tango, the whole dance was a surprisingly delicate, at times balletic, concentration of their privately brewing passion represented through the complex figures that would cause them to cross the position of their bodies before closing again. There was something in the way that their bodies would separate or turn apart, but then twist, almost writhe, back together under the swish of one of Draco's leg hooks, and when they drew back together in a way that seemed too intimately close for the middle of the Ministry dancefloor, it would make Harry inhale sharply. He was having a very hard time controlling his arousal, especially as he was all too aware of every plane of Draco's body when it was pressed against him. Despite the softness of the moves, the hold between them was powerful, the arrangements strong and committed beneath the sometimes tentativeness, almost fragility, of their movements. They were utterly oblivious to those dancing around them; they could have been the only people on the dance floor.

Draco had never actually specified his sexual preference to Harry but Harry wasn't as oblivious as everyone made him out to be and, what with Pansy's unsubtle hints about Harry stepping into Draco's shoes because she was born to be a 'fag-hag' (her words, not Harry's). He began to suspect quite quickly that when Draco said he missed the tension of having Harry in his life, he meant in other ways than just the old aggravation. He learnt to recognise Draco's insults were often the opposite of what he really meant and his begrudging backhanded compliments were often words of high praise. Harry also hadn't failed to notice that he never got all those early PR photos back from Draco: one or two had gone missing from the pile.

After the Tango music had ended, the only saving grace was that Harry knew that Draco was facing exactly the same scenario as him. He could clearly feel it. They remained standing in the middle of the dance floor, forehead to forehead, swaying slightly together, their chests heaving against one another as they tried to calm down. They ignored the waltz that was happening around them.

'I can't move away from you, not without showing the world what you do to me,' Harry said, his voice husky with desire. 'I don't think we should do that in public ever again,' he whispered.

'I have to go,' Draco said and Harry could clearly hear the regret in his voice. 'It's 11.45...' But Draco's hold was still firm. He didn't want to let go of Harry.

'Do I need to conjure a bucket of iced water?' Harry suggested.

'I think this is going to take more than a fucking bucket, Potter,' Draco's voice sizzled in his ear as he pressed his hips more firmly against Harry's.

Harry moaned. 'Don't!' he hissed.

'Merlin, Harry.'

'Shall I come over?'

'We can't, it's not worth the risk. Not after they changed the Wards.'

'Then come to mine, tomorrow. Early. I want you.'

'Yes.' And Draco pulled away and strode out of the ballroom, ignoring the looks he and Harry were receiving.

'Merlin, mate!' Ron exclaimed when Harry joined him and the others at the bar. 'That was a touch intense.'