Letters

Finale: The Argentine Tango

They were dancing again. It was New Year's Eve and they were dancing on the patio at gone one in the morning.

Musical theatre soundtracks had become the latest obsession for Draco and, from the remote docking station which held Draco's iPod, Ewan McGregor and Jacek Koman were battling out 'El Tango de Roxanne...' from Moulin Rouge. The song matched the rawness and passion of their moves perfectly.

They had an audience but that wasn't actually planned. The dance wasn't intended to be a performance but, rather, something intimate and private. It's just Harry had forgotten to remove the song from the playlist before the party. They had snuck out as soon as it began to play over the music system while their friends drank and danced inside but, well, it wasn't the easiest of songs to dance to without choreography, that was probably why they ended up with an audience. That, and the fact that Mione saw them leave. She stood in the doorway, sipping her wine, observing them. She was immediately joined by Ron, then Peanut and Pansy. Harry and Draco ignored them and the fact that Blaise and Gin, George and Angelina, Nev and Achara, Dudley and Daisy, even Narcissa and Andromeda, were all spectating.

They'd been working on the dance since that night at the Manor; it was a distraction, intense and utterly absorbing between just the two of them. It was meant to be an answer to Lucius, a defiance of the torment he'd tried to curse them with. They missed the first few bars of the dance, but they quickly picked up the halting circle of stalking, almost begrudging, steps that drew them close. They slowly moved together, their steps dragging, until they were intimately close but not touching, a twist in rejection by Draco and a raised hand to block Harry before Harry grasped Draco's wrist and pulled him sharply into hold, slamming their bodies together. Once they'd started dancing, Harry and Draco were too caught up in each other to care who watched.

They held each other tight, Harry's hand on Draco's neck, Draco grasping Harry's shirt front, they moved in synchronisation, forehead to forehead, bodies turning one way, stopping, twisting, turning the other way, pulling apart, pulling together, fast, then slow, then fast again. Draco's leg ganchos hooking around Harry demonstrated the erotic, persistent, wanting nature they felt for each other. It was a lament for love, a dance of overcoming unforgiving desire and not giving into to isolation and despair.

It had been like this ever since that night, like they were scared to let go of each other, to be too far apart.

Harry pulled Draco into him, forcefully close, fitting him so perfectly against his own body, every line, every plane, every sharp angle felt impeccably absolute; like it was meant always to be. It was enough to drive Harry mad, he wanted him, wanted him in their bed now.

It had become their bed. Narcissa and Draco were told they didn't need to return to Manor; the permission granted by the Minster himself. Narcissa had moved in with Andromeda, Draco stayed with Harry.

The night they had got back from the Manor, Harry spooned Draco all night, afraid of letting him go. He held him tight as he slept, his arms wrapped around Draco's chest, barely sleeping himself. He was aware of Severus coming and going, hovering in Draco's picture of the oak tree, looking over them both. In the morning Severus discreetly vanished from sight and they made love. It was slow, careful, intensive, and more intimate than any other time before.

'He was willing to sacrifice me to get to you,' Draco whispered afterwards. 'He wanted revenge, that's all that was in his heart. He said he wished in succeeding to using the killing curse on you years ago. I didn't know he'd even tried.'