Harry Potter TANGO!fiction: Mi Confesión
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Malfoy was lashed. He was so far into his cups, he might as well have been sitting under the table instead of at it. His friends were talking to him in Spanish, watching with knowing eyes as Harry propped the blond up under his arm, drinking the last of the Cristal before Malfoy could get to it. Harry had drank himself silly a few years ago; ever since, he'd had an ineffable tolerance for alcohol. It took a lot to get him drunk-half a bottle of hard liquor and an empty stomach barely got him stumbling. But he'd never seen Malfoy on the pink and heavy. He had no frame of reference for how sloshed the twink was, when he'd recover or if he'd even be able to hold it. Harry wondered how much of the evening Malfoy would remember. He'd said he wanted to get steaming drunk and do something he'd regret in the morning. Perhaps, come dawn, he'd regret dancing with Harry Potter. Maybe he'd think it was all a beautiful dream.
Malfoy was laughing like a maniac, coral and rouge high in his cheeks as he gripped his stomach, doubling over and shaking his head with mirth. “No fucking way,” he managed between giggles and gasps. He had a nice laugh, just a bit higher than his natural voice and sort of burbling, like a child of four or five being pushed on a swing set, squealing “higher, higher!” His wheezing gasps sounded like a plea of “higher” in Harry's ears, choked out between silly sobs.
One of Malfoy's Argentinian friends had the blond by the hand, attempting to drag him from the booth against his will. The fellow was terribly handsome, perhaps all of twenty years old with wavy dark hair and a prominent nose. He looked like a Spanish and vastly more attractive Severus Snape, Harry decided. He couldn't remember the boy's name but he was pulling Malfoy's pale hand rather insistently, chattering something about “tradición” and “bailar.”
Malfoy yanked his hand away only to have his wrists seized by two more fellows. The blonde was pulled from his seat and badgered toward the dance floor.
“I said no, Paolo!” Malfoy went on, indignant. “Yo ya no estoy para estos trotes.”
People began applauding as Malfoy was hoisted into the lights by his friends. They ringed him, preventing his escape as the dj announced something into his microphone, the sound distorting as it echoed around the large room.
Harry figured out what was going on. When it was someone's birthday, they would be given the floor for a special tanda. Partners would line up to dance with the birthday boy or girl, cutting in on each other for the audience's amusement. Malfoy loved being the center of attention. It seemed odd that he wouldn't want attractive younger men mock-fighting over him on the dance floor. Maybe he was resisting the attention to his age, though he didn't look at all like a man in his thirties. Or maybe he knew he was too drunk to be put on display and feared making a fool of himself. Yes, that sounded like Malfoy-worried about his image even when he's plastered. He'd said he wanted to make an arse of himself and here was the perfect opportunity. Harry leaned back against the cracked leather of the booth, unbuttoning his blazer in order to rest his arms behind his head. This was going to be a show worth his full and undivided attention.
Most of Malfoy's friends stayed on the dance floor, forming up a little queue along the wall. The woman with the dark hair, Maria-Jose, approached Draco, smiling and holding out her hand to lead him. He snipped something at her in Spanish but placed his hand in hers none the less.
At least the dj knew better than to play Di Sarli. The first song was an old Aníbal Troilo from the early 1940's. Malfoy spent about a minute putzing with Maria-Jose before she was replaced by an older gentleman, white-haired and stooped, no taller than Malfoy. This man was a good leader. He kept a slow pace and accommodated for his follower's inebriated state, dancing slow planeos to show off the long line of Malfoy's leg as his foot dragged along the floor. Malfoy seemed to know he was on display but ignored the attention, resting his head on the next leader's shoulder and closing his eyes, pretending the floor was crowded and no one was paying his drunk self any mind.
The third man entered with a new song-more Pugliese-and was a bit of a jerk about it. The fellow didn't bother to take stock of where Malfoy's weight was; he just plowed into his first step, taking the petit wizard right off his axis and causing him to pitch dangerously to one side. That was the sign of a good follower, though. Malfoy trusted his weight implicitly. When his leader fucked up, everyone saw because the blond would go flying. That leader didn't last much longer. Another woman came up to lead; someone not among Malfoy's immediate friends, as she settled in to lead him in the open embrace. In Harry's opinion it was a poor idea. Not only did the man simply look better pulled high and forced to stretch his legs all the way up through his spine, now-well beyond squiffy-he truly needed the support of another more balanced body. The woman quickly realized her error and, with a well-executed cadena, she delivered Malfoy into Paolo's waiting arms.
It became clear that there were two types of people in line to dance with Malfoy-men who were the man's mates and acquaintances and men who wanted to shag him into the floor. The ones with buggery on the brain may as well have written the word on their faces, as it was already tenting their trousers.
The voice in Harry's head finally came to the realization that Malfoy was really quite an attractive fellow. A catch, really. Malfoy had the brains and talent of a wizard in his thirties housed in a body that had gone into stasis around twenty two. He was a slender little blighter-but what there was of Malfoy was all muscle from pointy nose to wing-tipped toes. His skin was perfect porcelain, not a chip or blemish to be found, his bum high and pert and his legs went on for days.
There was no sense in denying it. Malfoy was bloody sexy.
And a drunk mess.
The birthday tanda was going on twenty minutes now. When word of Malfoy's inebriated state got round, more and more Milongueros began flocking to the dance floor; first just to watch but then strangers were steeping into the line, cheeky grins on their faces. Dances were lasting no more than twenty seconds and Malfoy's feet were dragging. Ethereal as he was, the wizard was drunk and tired. It was nearly two in the morning back in Paris and Malfoy probably hadn't eaten in hours. The blond was crashing. Still, he kept that familiar Malfoy mask in place, smiling graciously to every bloke who held out his hand.
The dark-headed Maria-Jose caught Harry's gaze, her expression so clear he could read it across the room-that quirked brow, the fold of her arms and jutting angle of her hip. What are you going to do about this?
Paolo's face was set in a similar cast beside her. Either you step in or I do. Choose. Quickly.
Enough was enough. Harry ducked behind the observers, getting himself to the disk jockey's ear. His Spanish was very limited but all he needed to communicate was a song: Libedinsky, Otra Luna. It was the perfect end for a lashed and lax Draco Malfoy-not to mention Harry's favorite song. There was something aching to it despite it technically being electro-tango. The song made you shiver. It was a melody you could laugh to, cry to, sing or make love to. It was whatever you made it, whatever you needed it to be.
The song began before Harry could get to Malfoy. Still, the opening notes seemed to give him a burst of energy. He was curled around a young chump with no idea what he was up to. The boy hadn't the first idea what to do with a bailarin of Malfoy's caliber. He walked Malfoy through the eight-count basic with follower's cruzada-steps Malfoy could do in his sleep. Harry worked his way to the front of the line, waving down the crowd of eager men with help from Paolo.
“No,” Harry announced in a hurry, buttoning his jacket. “No más. No esta noche. We're done.” Backed up by explanations and stern looks from Paolo, Sabine and Maria-Jose, those close enough to hear gave up hope of coping a feel of the birthday boy. They meandered to the sidelines, business picking back up at the bar.
Harry approached the lone couple on the floor, looking for a creative and unobtrusive way to cut in. He'd seen some pretty clever tricks tonight as well as some flat-out terrible ones. The boy leading Malfoy was hopeless and couldn't be counted on to manage the hand-off on his own. It looked like the best way was to pop in from behind and start leading both twinks in tandem.
Malfoy was talking to the boy, pink mouth warping around a pierced ear lobe. His eyes were closed as he swayed to the music. “This is my favorite song, you know.” The boy replied in Spanish, trying to reign Malfoy in with little success.
Harry stepped up behind the leader. With only a hand under the young man's arm, Harry was able to set Draco up for a delayed back patada kick and sweep into front ochos. The boy thought he'd done it himself-it was probably the grandest decoration he'd ever given space for. Malfoy knew better. Silver eyes met Harry's green ones over the third wheel's shoulder.
“Malfoy, I think you're drunk.”
“Well then I must be!” the blond said grandly, nearly slipping out of his partner's inattentive arms. Harry took the boy's torso in both hands, giving silent instruction on creating a decisive cross-body lead. “If The Great Harry Potter says it's so....”
Harry muttered a quick “git” under his breath. Malfoy's partner gave up, letting Harry take over his body completely. Through the boy, Harry steered Malfoy to him. The blond melted against his new lead, oozing to fill his arms in every possible way, not caring who this leader was-only that the frame was sturdy as a brick wall and perhaps smelled nice. It felt like Malfoy was sniffing his neck, nostrils pressed against his skin and flaring, traveling lower with big puffs of breath. Harry tightened his grip on the wizard, sensing he was cradling a failed Potions project that could very well explode in his face. He wasn't quite holding Malfoy upright but it was a close call whether the man would be able to stand on his own.
“No, no, no,” Malfoy bemoaned his situation under his breath as Harry lead a simple walking step into a mirrored leader and follower cross. “So... dizzy and... Potter... egh.”
“It's okay,” Harry shushed him, squeezing his bony hand as he guided the sloshed wizard in a steady, timed walk across the floor.
Suddenly Malfoy was on the very tips of his toes, whispering hotly in Harry's ear. “Wot... what are we doing?” he slurred-well, slurring for Malfoys.
“Dancing,” Harry chuckled, setting up his next move to the wavering notes of the concertina. Malfoy was butter in his hands, going along on pure instinct. His pretty white head rested on Harry's shoulder.
“Nothing fancy,” Malfoy whispered against his lapel. “Please, Potter...please.”
“Of course,” he pressed his lips to glittering white tresses, getting his arm around Draco as tight as he could. His hand curled under the man's armpit, fingers fitted in between each rib, securing his body and taking most of the weight from his aching feet. He felt tired, sluggish and sore in Harry's arms. And drunk, sliding meekly through his usually bold and artful steps. “Shh,” he cooed absently. “Go with it. I've gotcha.”
Malfoy's silence lasted an entire four counts. “What are we doing?” he repeated. “What is this?”
“Ocho cortado,” Harry named the step, a little perplexed.
“No, no,” the blond rubbed his face against Harry's neck. “Not... no.”
“And this is your cross. Ready?” Harry announced the step before leading it. He felt Malfoy's wobbly legs muster themselves into position, absent their typical snap. He was going through the motions, legs all but dead. “Come off it. You're not that drunk-and I have your weight, you lazy sod. Here's quebrada.”
Malfoy almost tripped but he made it. “Oh, but I think I am that drunk, Potty,” he muttered. “At least, I hope I am. Gods, this is so... bloody embarrassing.”
Harry took advantage of Malfoy's lament, twisting that limber little body so that his free leg dragged behind him in time to the careful plucking of a Spanish guitar. He swirled the finish, inertia causing Malfoy's leg to slide up his own, wrapping once-and with a quick tug, twice-before falling away.
“Márka Ez Ozel,” Harry muttered. “Márka Ez Ozel.” It was a spell Seamus Finnigan had taught him during 'eighth year' at Hogwarts-a spell to siphon off some of the worst effects of drunkenness. It had saved Harry from many hours on various bathroom floors, puking his guts out. God only knew where Seamus had picked it up. While his wandless magic was still a bit dodgy, Harry kept trying. Halfway through a traspie, he felt Malfoy sigh against him. “Better?”
“Mmmmyes,” the blond replied, tentative. “How about... a molinete?”
“Sure thing,” Harry smiled, falling into the little turning pattern that was a staple of their shared style. Otra Luna was a gentle, lilting song full of long phrases and pauses, allowing Malfoy the time to drag his feet, claiming 'artistic expression' and getting away with it. Harry lead the pattern twice before catching Malfoy's foot with his own, sliding that black and white wingtip across the floor. Malfoy collected his feet around Harry's, eyes still closed and smiling faintly. He looked better already.
“Enganche?” he requested.
Placing Malfoy's hand on his shoulder, Harry grinned. “One better.”
With Malfoy's left leg already free, Harry dropped into a half-lunge. He eased the blond forward until he kicked his legs up in a fan, sitting on Harry's thigh with legs crossed at the knee, finespun arms winding around Harry's neck. Harry twisted his torso to the rhythm, snuggling Draco close. Face to face, their noses brushed. His glasses began to fog.
And Malfoy's lips found his.
It was the softest, most innocent and gossamer slide. His eyes slid instantly closed, savoring. For all his abrasive angles and chilly repartee, Draco Malfoy kissed like a girl-thick, wet and, quite impossibly... tenderly. Smooth, full lips greeted his own, breath stopping completely as his bottom lip was sucked into that hot little mouth. Draco sucked at him, honeyed press of champagne and nibbling teeth. Harry groaned.
The arm around his neck tightened, toasty fingers splaying across his cheek as the wizard pulled back by half an inch. Fogged glass made it impossible for Harry to see.
“And what was that?” he had to ask.
“Me... thanking you.”
Draco Malfoy thanked him again. With tongue.
Harry was panting when Malfoy released him, lips swollen, bitten and red.
“I think you should thank me outside before we get ourselves thrown out.”
“Right,” Malfoy sighed. “Good idea. Where's my hat?”
-
Sabine had told him “la Bisonte Palace” with a huff. Harry assumed Malfoy had a room there. With an arm around his shoulders, Harry steered him out into the empty street. He started them walking toward the main avenue, Córdoba, hoping he'd find either the hotel or someone who could give him directions.
This wasn't a great neighborhood to be in after dark. Harry kept himself alert. Then again, any street hooligan would have his grubby hands full with an ex-Auror and an ex-Death Eater, both armed. The poof thing didn't make them any less dangerous.
Malfoy shimmied out from under Harry's arm, turning and walking the opposite way.
“Public floo is... that-a-way,” he muttered, pointing north about two blocks.
“You want to floo home, then?” It was probably a good idea. Malfoy would surely Splinch himself if he tried to Apparate. Harry couldn't speak confidently for himself, either. He was pretty distracted by the way Malfoy's arse shifted when he walked, the tan-covered curves nearly bouncing in a way that made him ache to reach out and touch. This was not the time to grope Malfoy, though. The blond was weaving very subtly, mostly due to his aching feet. That was what created the illusion of his hips swaying to a silent milonga beat.
The man slowed, a hand on his hip. He was staring off into space, brim of his fedora tucked at an angle to hide his eyes from view.
“Malfoy, are you gonna make it?”
The blond sighed, stuffing his hands in his painted-on khaki pockets. “I'm thirty four, Scarhead. Thirty fucking four. Can you believe it? I certainly can't. Fuck,” he teetered, shoulder brushing a nearby stucco wall as he continued to put one sore foot in front of the other. He walked on in a slump, his perfect white shirt gathering flecks of peach-colored dust along the sleeve. “This is not where I wanted to be at thirty four. I have nothing I want to go home to. Nothing and no one-do you even understand that, Potty? No one.”
“You have your practice,” Harry offered, a hand in his own pocket and fidgeting with the few galleons bumping around with his keys. “Your family, your friends-”
“Hang my practice! Hang the sycophants!” Malfoy wailed, coming to a stop and throwing his back to the wall right where they were. Come to think of it, Harry had no idea where they were. There were dark alleys with no street signs, a couple of darkened industrial buildings and an elegant hotel at the far end of the block that he prayed was their floo-point. Malfoy took off his hat, fanning himself with it as he leaned, the long and dangerous column of his neck exposed-dangerous because Harry longed to track his teeth down that pale skin, longed to bite and suck and leave marks with his mouth, with his hands, all over that supple, sylphlike body. There was fire in him. So what if it was frustration or fear or self-loathing? Passion was passion. And they'd had it in the milonga, in their embrace. It could translate. It could. It would.
Malfoy fixed Harry with a piercing look, his eyes like silver sickles in his pale face. “This isn't life, Potter. This is existing. And I h-hate it.” His voice broke.
“Trust me,” Harry sighed, both hands in his pockets now. “I know the feeling.”
“What feeling?” snapped Malfoy. “There is no feeling anymore.”
“You're just lonely, you melodramatic prat,” Harry rolled his eyes. He couldn't help it. “Your not the first to feel like there's a hole in your chest and you certainly won't be the last. So quit complaining. Nobody likes a bitchy queen.”
“I most certainly am not... lonely,” Malfoy's nose wrinkled
“Sure you are-you just said so. 'Nothing and no one,' remember? You're a very lonely boy, Malfoy.” That earned him an affronted gasp. Harry slapped his palms against the tops of his thighs, shaking his head at the disgusting pavement, all cigarette butts, discarded chewing gum and decaying purple petals. He was ready to be done with this cyclic conversation. “Why am I arguing with you? You're hard pissed, Malfoy.” The blond snorted. “Will you let me take you home? I promise everything will be better in the morning... provided you have Hangover Potions and some strong Darjeeling.”
Slowly, Malfoy nodded. But he didn't move; he just stood there, eyes closed, fanning himself with his hat. The fedora swished back and forth, a steady little beat in the night. Malfoy even stood with his weight in one leg, his free foot tapped up on the ball of his shoe and hovering just so, as though about to tango. It made you notice the length of his limbs even though he was such a small thing to begin with-twink, waif-like... but lovely, pointed features and hard little body all in perfect proportion. He was swallowing now, the Grecian line of his throat exposed, creamy skin waving like a bed sheet sheet on a country laundry line. His lips parted.
“Are you lonely, Potter?”
Harry thought a moment. “I reckon I am.”
“Why?” Malfoy asked, his head lolling against the wall, foot tracing growing circles along the pavement. Bits of dirt, smoke butts and gravel crunched beneath his stiff-soled street shoes. “What makes you so lonely?”
Harry considered his shoes. “I miss them-the kids. Lil, Al and Jamie. Life doesn't feel right without them. I don't know how else to describe it. I... I physically hurt. They're my entire life.”
Malfoy nodded, swallowing again. It seemed like the action was getting harder every time, the muscles in his neck constricting. You could see it in the tense tendons of his throat, the fluttering pulse just below his exposed collar bone. It was at least a minute before he spoke.
“You're very lucky, then. To have loved anyone so much.” The man breathed through his nose, heavy, nostrils flaring. There was a jacaranda tree somewhere near by; the scent of its long-dead amethyst blossoms hung in the air, their carcases littering the street, stirring up in the breeze. “It would be so nice, to have someone feel that strongly about you... about me.”
“It could happen, Malfoy. We're still fairly young.”
“It's not going to happen, Potter,” said Malfoy. His voice had dropped to a hard hiss, chin jutting forward aggressively as he pushed his back away from the wall. “Don't-”
“Why not?” Harry interrupted him. “Why wouldn't some bloke want to be with you? Your fit, independent and a ruddy good dancer; I mean, I can't say much for your personality but....”
Silver eyes shot up, cold and glaring, silencing him mid back-handed compliment. Malfoy let out a wheeze of a laugh, settling his hat atop his white head. With two deft fingers, he jabbed his left forearm. His tone was ringing, final. “This, Potter. No one wants to fuck a man with the Mark. No one worthwhile.”
Harry wasn't aware of surging forward. One minute he was slouching with his hands in his pockets and the next, he had Malfoy pressed into the crumbling old wall, snogging the wizard senseless. There was no rhyme or reason to it-it just felt right. Every bony angle met his body at once, knifed into him in a punishing crush; hard hips and chest, mean snapping teeth and knobbly hands gripping his face, pulling his hair, thumbs rubbing his stubbled cheeks til it hurt and that moaning, the sound rolling high in his mouth and vibrating his palette like music of the tonsils. His eyes slid closed. He couldn't help himself. Draco fit in his arms. Why deny it? Draco might regret it in the morning: Draco might regret it in thirty seconds but for this tiny moment they were together, moving to the thump of hearts, the whistling of blood and the trill of dead jacaranda blossoms clattering in the breeze. Draco fit in his arms and it was heaven on earth.
“My place?” Harry whispered.
“No,” Draco smirked. “Mine.”
~fin~
Coming Soon... Part II: Otra Luna
(aka the filthy perverted sex scene that follows)
For The Curious: Translations
Yo ya no estoy para estos trotes - “I'm not up for this sort of thing anymore” / “I'm too old for this shit”
No más. No esta noche - “No more. Not tonight.”
Márka Ez Ozel - a bastardization of the Greek word márka, “make” and ez ozel, Hebrew for “the goat that leaves.” Essentially, a very poor version of “make me a scapegoat,” or “make this not my problem.”
An Additional Note: The Kiss
The position I used for Draco's drunken kiss is not a very common one. For a look at the move's execution, do avail yourself of the work of my master instructor, Alfredo Melendez. The exact position can be found in this clip at 2:10. Do note that the follower is a student; her technique is not perfect. Then again, Draco was sloshed. It would probably look a lot like that... except in trousers rather than a skirt.