Annie (_pinkchocolate) wrote,

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Save the Last Dance for Me

Guh. Someone on skyehawke left this ridiculously long, ridiculously harsh, possibly true review for SKOM. And now its rating has jumped down from five stars to two stars. How depressing. I must be the only one on that site with a rating below a four...

Anyway. OMG. July 21st. I hope it never, ever comes. Hopefully JKR will realise she made a huge, huge, huge error in DH (aka HP and the OTP, as Sharon so affectionately dubbed it) and be forced to go back and spend the next ten years rewriting it. And when I say "huge, huge, huge error", I mean "DRACO AND HARRY NEED TO STAY ALIVE AND BE TOGETHER, GODDAMNIT".

I'm thinking of going to the UK for the book release. I mean, if I get that scholarship from USC, I definitely will. I just have to find someone who loves me enough to go with me (none of my HP-hating friends do). And if I can't go... well, someone better throw a BITCHING good release party here in the US.

Anyway, I wrote a new D/H one-shot. This one was sort of a spur of the moment thing, like all my other one-shots. It's semi-based on Brian and Justin's relationship in QaF (hence my use of the song).

Title: Save the Last Dance for Me
One-shot/Songfic/Chaptered: One-shot, Songfic
Genre: Slash
Rating: 15
Warnings: Slash, sexual references
Ships: Harry/Draco
Disclaimer: JKR owns all. Except for the song, which someone else whose name I don't know wrote, and the QaF similarities.
Summary: Harry and Draco have an arrangement they stand by, no matter what. Based on Michael Bublé's cover of "Save the Last Dance for Me".
Word count: 3771

You are cordially invited to celebrate the Christmas holidays at the

Ministry of Magic

Monday evening, December the 24th
Doors open at seven o’clock
Dress: Formal

You can dance
Every dance with the guy
Who gives you the eye
Let him hold you tight
You can smile
Every smile for the man
Who held your hand
Beneath the pale moonlight

When I open the doors to the Ministry’s reception hall on Christmas Eve, my immediate reaction is that of absolute shock. I stand, rooted to my spot, for a very long moment, gawking at the scene before my eyes.

Never would I have expected to see the ordinarily stiff, plain reception hall so white. There’s snow everywhere: blanketing the floor, drifting through the air, clinging to the enormous Christmas tree in the centre of the lobby… Everywhere I look, there’s snow, snow, and more snow, all of it glittering brighter than Professor Trelawney’s cheap, fake jewels.

I blink several times, partially blinded by the glaring whiteness of it all, and take a tentative step into the hall. I can’t help doing a double take as the doors swing shut behind me – even though magical snow is nothing new to me, I’m still surprised to find that the room is pleasantly warm despite the metre-long icicles hanging precariously from the ceiling. I take another step forward, and hear someone behind me mutter to a companion that Lavender Brown had been head of the decorating committee for this particular event.

Oh. Well, that explains the unnecessarily sparkly snow.

Before I have any time to take a good look around, I hear two voices call my name. I look around and see my two best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, hurrying towards me.

Grinning broadly, I breach the distance between us in a few, quick strides. A split second later, all I can see is a pile of previously-bushy-but-now-tamed brown hair as Hermione sweeps me into a huge hug. Then she releases me, and I can breathe again.

“All right, Harry?” Ron asks, with a grin to match mine. He looks vaguely embarrassed by his wife’s effusive display of friendly affection, but pleased nonetheless to see me. At least I think his smile is directed at me, but then again, Madam Rosmerta just walked in through the doors, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he was delighted for an entirely different reason.

“Merlin, it’s been a long time since I last saw you two,” I say, stepping back to get a good look at my friends. A year in Cambodia has really changed their appearances. In fact, if it weren’t for Ron’s flaming red hair in the sea of dull blacks and browns, I wouldn’t have even recognised the two of them.

“Yeah, it has, hasn’t it? If Hermione hadn’t pointed you out, I wouldn’t have known it was you. You look really different.”

“I do?” I ask uncertainly. Self-consciously smoothing down the front of my new dress robes, I explain, “The sales witch said the cut – whatever that means – looked good on me… something about the fall fashion…”

“ ‘Fall fashion’?” Ron repeats incredulously, letting out a snort of laughter.

“What Ron means,” Hermione says, glaring at Ron pointedly, “is that you look great, Harry. Very handsome. It’s not just the robes, either.”

She gives me an enigmatic smile which, for some reason, makes me very nervous. Either Ron is just as confused as I am, or he simply doesn’t like his girlfriend calling his best friend handsome, because he suddenly adopts a very irritated expression and demands, “What’re you going on about, Hermione?”

But Hermione is already off to go examine the numerous cocktails being offered at the bar, and doesn’t seem to hear Ron’s question. Muttering under his breath, Ron tells me he’ll be back later, and goes to join his wife.

Furrowing my eyebrows in bewilderment, I begin to wander over to a table bearing refreshments. Halfway there, however, I’m stopped by a firm hand on my forearm.

I glance sideways, surprised, and my eyebrows skyrocket. A very, very nice looking young man is standing next to me, smiling slightly. His bright blue eyes scan up and down the length of my body appreciatively, and I gulp.

Before I can get a word out, he says in a low, seductive voice, “Harry Potter, right?”

“Erm… yes, that’s my name,” I say lamely, and then mentally smack myself upside the head. Duh, Harry. Everyone knows your name. “I’m afraid I don’t know yours.”

Leaning closer to me, he whispers into my ear, “Wayne Bolster. I’m an Auror-in-training.”

“Oh, right, I saw your name on the list,” I say, my throat suddenly drier than the stale cookies Aunt Petunia used to force-feed me. My eyes flick down to his hand, which hasn’t budged from its comfortable spot on my arm, and then back up to his face. “It’s – ah – nice to meet you. Wayne.”

“Likewise, sir,” he says smoothly. “I’ve heard great things about you, but you know the way rumours are – half of them are usually false.”

“You have no idea,” I agree, pleased nonetheless by his compliment.

He nods solemnly. “That’s why I’d really like to hear some of the stories the other Aurors-in-training have been going on about from you personally. You know, so I can learn more about what the job is like on the field.”

“Right,” I say, noting Wayne’s emphasis on ‘personally’. This is going to be fun, I think devilishly to myself, my nervousness quickly vanishing. “Well, Wayne,” I say, “I’d be all too happy to share some of the secrets to my experience with you. It’s always nice to see trainees as eager to learn as you.”

Wayne’s self-satisfied smirk confirms that the implications behind my words didn’t slip by unnoticed. Removing his hand, he inquires politely, “May I bring you a drink?”

Unfortunately for Wayne, his question falls on deaf ears, because at that moment, I glance over his shoulder and catch a glimpse of something that makes my heart stop: a flash of all-too-familiar blond hair.

My pulse quickening, I step to the side, straining to get a better look. There it is again – pale blond hair, falling gracefully over a pair of striking grey eyes. I draw in a sharp breath of air at the stunning sight of him. The expensive-looking black dress robes he’s donned for the occasion accentuate his haughty features and make him look every bit like the sex god the press so affectionately refers to him as. He radiates allure, the bastard. The rest of the room apparently thinks so too, because suddenly admiring glances are flicking his direction, and I don’t like it at all.

I watch, my eyes narrowed, as Draco Malfoy nods lazily in response to his companion’s words, clearly uninterested in what she has to say. His eyes stray away from her starstruck expression, scanning the crowd for something worth his time – and land on me.

For one very long second, we gaze at each other from opposite ends of the room. I hold my breath, waiting for a sign of recognition from him. But he merely arches an eyebrow at Wayne, who’s still trying to engage me in conversation, and raises his wine glass a fraction of a centimetre, as if to toast me on my excellent catch.

I lower my eyes and smile crookedly to myself, trying to ignore the fluttering of disappointment in my stomach. Of course. I’d nearly forgotten about the deal.

Turning back to Wayne, I ask sweetly, “Sorry, what was that?”

He smiles, completely unfazed by my wavering attention. “I asked if you’d like to accompany me on a stroll through the gardens. It’s rather stuffy in here, don’t you think?”

“As a matter of fact, I was just about to propose the same thing,” I say innocently. “These kinds of events aren’t really my scene.”

“Nor are they mine. I’d rather go somewhere where I can get to know you without all these people around.” He smiles, a very wicked, suggestive smile that sends pleasant shivers of anticipation down my spine. “Why don’t you lead the way, sir? I’m still not very familiar with the Ministry premises.”

“Of course,” I say graciously. I shoot one last look over Wayne’s shoulder at Draco. By now he’s moved over to the bar and has found himself an attractive male bartender to flirt shamelessly with. I grit my teeth, reminding myself of our agreement. You said you were fine with it, Harry.

Firmly squashing any stirrings of jealousy (jealousy? Absurd!) that might have arisen at the sight of Draco and the bartender, I tear my eyes away and grab hold of Wayne’s wrist firmly, letting the sleeve of my dress robe fall down so that our hands are covered. Just in case he doesn’t get it, I send him a look that clearly reads, We play by my rules. He nods, understanding.

“By the way,” he says casually, as we weave our way through the crowded reception hall to the exit, “the rumour mill has also informed me that you’re gay. Is it true?”

Smirking, I reply, “Why don’t you wait a few more minutes, and find out for yourself just how true that particular rumour is?”


I watch with narrowed eyes as he leads his latest trick over to the exit, his lips twisted into an infuriatingly sexy smirk and his green eyes gleaming mischievously. As much as I try not to, I can’t help thinking, The stupid sod; doesn’t he know that smirk is for me, and only me?

“Here’s your drink, sir,” says the bartender on the other side of the counter. I snap out of my indignant thoughts in time to see him slant me a look that suggests he’d like to give me much more than just a shot of firewhiskey.

I raise my eyebrows and give him a once-over. He’s not bad looking. That is, if you like the clichéd tall, dark, and handsome kind – and Merlin knows I do. My interest piqued, I swivel around in my seat and take the drink from him, letting my fingers linger over his longer that perhaps necessary. He blushes most becomingly. Five lines should do it, I think, quickly calculating the amount of effort it’ll take for me to snag and shag him.

“Might I ask why a strapping young man like you is wasting your time serving drinks to this dreary crowd?” I inquire smoothly.

“Need the money,” he says, shrugging casually. Bending over, he begins rummaging around for something on the floor behind him, accidentally (or, more likely, purposely) allowing me a good look at his arse. I nod my approval. Very nice.

“Ah, but the night is still young!” I say affectedly once he has straightened up and turned back around to face me. “Why not skive off your shift and come enjoy the sights with me?”

“I can’t; my boss’ll have my head,” he says sullenly, but his resolve is clearly wavering.

I sigh dramatically. “Very well, then. I suppose I’ll just have to find someone else to keep me company…”

Ignoring the bloke’s squeak of protest, I make a show of checking out the other fine wizards sitting along the bar. I have to grudgingly admit that I’m impressed. Perhaps the Ministry isn’t full of overindulgent, work-obsessed oafs after all.

I lock gazes with a tall, sandy-haired wizard, but he pointedly looks away. Bugger. Another straight one. I suspect his wife or girlfriend or whatever heterosexual men call their partners these days told him to stay away from me after hearing the news about my preference for blokes, what with all the headlines my recent announcement made.

Frowning, I reluctantly let my mind stray to thoughts of Harry Potter. What could he be doing right now, at this very instant? More importantly, has he shagged the boy he brought out with him yet?

My stomach involuntarily clenches at the thought of that blue-eyed Adonis writhing and moaning beneath Harry, sweat pooling on his naked, gleaming chest, his brown hair plastered to his forehead, an expression of utter ecstasy on his young face. And then I try to picture Harry. How does Harry look when he’s having sex with another man? Surely not as beautiful as he is when he’s…

Draco Malfoy, you’re positively green with envy, a small voice in the back of my mind interrupts. Remember, you’re the one who wanted this. So get a grip, and stop acting like a smitten Hufflepuff.

Yes. Of course. Malfoys don’t pine. Malfoys don’t wonder what other blokes look like when they’re shagging. And Malfoys certainly don’t let dishy young bartenders just slip away.

So, returning my attention to the boy, who’s still watching me with a very plaintive expression, I ask, “Name?”

He brightens up. “Paul.”

“Just Paul?” I lean forward a little, bringing my forehead closer to his. “Well, that’s good. I never approved of sharing surnames before the first fuck, anyway.”

He visibly swallows. “You’re Draco Malfoy, aren’t you?” he asks in a trembling voice, almost accusingly.

I level him with an amused look. The way he said my name, you’d think I was a registered sex offender. Which, I suppose, I am – in some ways. But that’s beside the point. Lowering my voice, I reply, “Would it get you over to this side of the bar any quicker if I said I was?”

His only response is to throw down the glass he’s been idly wiping for the past five minutes and jump nimbly over the counter. I smile smugly to myself. Men are so easily wooed these days.

Hooking an index finger under Paul’s tight collar, I pull him closer and hiss into his ear, “I’m going to make this a Christmas you’ll never forget, Paul.”

And with that, I pick up my shot glass, down its contents, and proceed to half-drag a very incoherent young bartender to the nearest vacant office.


I watch with some amusement as, half an hour later, Harry and Draco reenter the reception hall with their tricks in tow. Unsurprisingly, all four of them look thoroughly debauched.

Sighing, I shake my head slightly and study Harry’s face carefully. The dazed, post-coital expression on his face is slowly beginning to slide off as he looks around the lobby, obviously searching for someone.

Likewise, near the bar, Draco is busy scanning the sea of partygoers, his grey eyes intent beneath sex-tussled blond hair. I tap my fingers impatiently on the surface of the table I’m sitting at, waiting for them to find each other. Honestly, you’d think two wizards as easily recognised as they are would have no trouble picking each other out in such a mundane crowd.

Finally, Harry’s gaze strays over to the bar and locates the object of his desire. Immediately, his face lights up brighter than Lavender’s decorations.

“About time,” I mutter to myself, half-exasperated and half-pleased, as Draco’s eyes meet Harry’s, eliciting a shy smile and a faint blush from Harry. I’ve always known it, but I figured that Harry, as clueless as he is, would probably be better off not knowing until he was able to come to term with his feelings on his own. Well, when I saw Harry earlier tonight, I immediately suspected that he’d done just that while I was gone, but now, finally, I’ve got solid proof that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are indeed in love.

Good on you, Harry, for figuring it out yourself, I think happily, inwardly cheering as a small, honest smile turns up the corners of Draco’s mouth as well.

“About time for what?” a curious voice questions from behind me.

I glance over my shoulder and find Ron standing there, a glass of wine in each hand. He hands one to me, and repeats his question.

Taking the glass from Ron, I smile cryptically. “You’ll see in a minute.”


“I’ve really got to go now,” I say for the third time. “It was great getting to know you, Wayne, and I –”

“Can we see each other again? I mean, outside of work. Maybe we could go on a date?”

I scoff. “Dates aren’t really my thing,” I explain delicately.

“Have you ever been on one?”

“Once,” I say seriously. “I ended up shagging the waiter.”

He looks hurt by my response, like he thinks I’m taking the mickey out of him or something. “We could meet for work-related purposes,” he suggests, a hint of desperation in his voice. All of his earlier suavities have vanished, taking most of his appeal along with them. “They tell me I have great potential, you know; if you could just give me a few more pointers…”

I give the poor bloke a sympathetic look. They really can get clingy after sex. As cruel as it sounds, it’s easiest to just severe all ties with them as swiftly and cleanly as possible. Kindly but firmly, I say, “I’ll see you around the office, Wayne.”

I pat his shoulder, give him a quick peck on the cheek – any lip-to-lip contact is expressly forbidden – and hasten away towards the bar.


“I had a marvellous time… sorry, what was your name again?”

The boy just stares at me blankly, lips swollen and dark hair adorably rumpled. Attributing his inability to respond to the fact that he just had what I’d venture to say was the best shag of his life, I add helpfully, “Well, now you can go back to bartending.”

Is it just my imagination, or is his lower lip trembling? Oh, for Christ’s sake…

“Paul,” he says. “My name’s Paul.”

“Ah, yes, Paul,” I say, nodding as if I had known that all along. Then, because it appears that he’s about to launch into the “I thought I meant something to you” speech, I say hastily, “Have an excellent night, then, Paul.”

Turning on my heel, I walk away briskly. Not until the crowd swallows Paul up do I realise that I never got around to paying him for my drink.


A few seconds before I reach Draco, the lively Christmas tune being played stops abruptly, and a softer, slower ballad – one of Celestina Warbeck’s latest songs for the holidays, I believe – begins wafting through the air.

We stop in front of each other, and I smile. “Malfoy,” I greet him, forcing my voice to stay calm and cool.

“Potter.” He nods, his face a mask of flawless composure. He was always better at this game than I was.

I hesitate. What can I say now? I take a few steps forward, and then stop. Oh, fuck it all.

Taking his hand, I entwine my fingers with his. At this point, I could care less if the whole world sees us. “That’s our song,” I murmur into his ear, just loud enough for him to hear me.

“I’ve never heard it before, Potter,” he retorts, his tone carefully controlled.

“I know,” I say, grinning. “I haven’t either.” Bringing my lips closer, I press a kiss to his temple and say softly, “Dance with me.”

He pulls away and studies my face with his beautiful grey eyes. Say yes, Draco… please, say yes, I silently plead. Then he gives an almost imperceptible nod, and I nearly melt with relief.


The crowd on the dance floor falls silent and parts to let us through as we approach. I could almost laugh at how ridiculously cliché all of this is, but then Harry squeezes my hand gently and smiles at me over his shoulder, and I can’t even remember how to breathe, much less laugh.

“Wanker,” I whisper once he’s stopped and we’re standing still, our lips a mere few centimetres apart. “Don’t you know I always lead?”

Ignoring me, he raises our linked hands, wraps his other arm around my waist, and pulls me close. “All I could think about tonight was you,” he says, resting his forehead against mine and fixing me with a look that makes my insides turn into Malfoy Mush.

I firmly remove Harry’s hand from the small of my back and place it on my shoulder, putting my own hand on his waist. “You can’t dance, Potter,” I smirk as I begin to lead, my steps smooth and practised. But the words he just said to me refuse to go away, and I can’t resist replying, “Me too.”

“Was he any good?” he asks somewhat sullenly, awkwardly trying to mimic my movements. He looks so adorable that I nearly kiss him right then and there.

“Oh yes, Potter, he was amazing. It was the most mind-blowing sex of my life.”

He glares at me, green eyes dark with jealousy, and nearly stops in his tracks. “You don’t mean that.”

I nudge him along, forcing him to keep moving in time with my steps. “No,” I say softly, “I don’t. In fact, I don’t even remember his name.”

We’re so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath on his cheek and the faint beating of his heart against my chest. Harry seems to have found the rhythm in the song playing, and is no longer struggling to keep up with me. Our bodies move as if they were one as we dance, tracing shapeless paths through the light dusting of magical snow covering the floor.

And then, as suddenly as it started, the music stops. Instinctively, Harry and I both halt. Restless murmurs rise from the ring of people around us, but I ignore them. Harry, however, looks around, his eyes widening as he takes in the sight of a few hundred witches and wizards staring at us, dumbfounded. I suspect it’s finally hit him that he just danced with Draco Malfoy in front of the entire Ministry of Magic.

Without giving him time to muster up an appropriate reaction to this fact, I let go of Harry’s hand, tangle my fingers in his hair, and kiss him, hard and full on the lips. He lets out a muffled sound of protest, but then relaxes into the kiss, and even eagerly returns it.

At the sound of the crowd’s collective gasp, I smirk against Harry’s lips and tighten my hold around his waist. Who gives a fuck what they think? I don’t care how many people stare at Harry or want Harry or even fuck Harry, because at the end of the day, Harry will still be mine – mine to stare at, to want, to fuck. I’ll always have his last dance – and he’ll always have mine.

But don’t forget who’s taking you home
And in whose arms you’re gonna be
So, darling, save the last dance for me

Notes: I borrowed the "Have you ever been on a date?" bit between Harry and Wayne from Michael and Brian in Queer as Folk episode 105.

Heh. It's funny how all I do now is read D/H fics, when before I couldn't stand reading D/Hr or anything else save for a select few stories. Speaking of reading, I read a really good Sirius/James one-shot called "A Cold Heaven" by forsakenphoenix on MNFF (imagine that... a good slash fic on MNFF). And now I've grown rather fond of Sirius/James. But I'll always love D/H the best.

Okay, English paper time.

♥ Annie
Tags: harry, one-shot, save the last dance for me, songfic

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