Title: Just dance
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Rating: teen for now
Genre: romance, humor, drama, alternate universe. A cracky alternate universe at that.
Summary: in a non magical AU, where Draco is a promising young cellist and Hermione a professional dancer who fears success has long abandoned her, they could be each other's chance to success. If they don't kill each other first.
Author's notes: this is a story I entertained myself with during a hospital stay. It was a fun idea that wouldn't leave me alone and I kept turning it over in my head, until I wanted to see it written. I have some knowledge about the things I'm going to write about (music and dancing), and I did do my research, however I'm aware I might not be as convincing or good as someone who is a musician or dancer. I'm always for suggestions how to make my story better, and I'll be super happy if you can recommend me something to read, so I can broaden my research. (However, I kindly ask you that, if you don't like or approve what I've written here, you refrain from bashing.) You'll probably notice that I really love Strictly come dancing/Dancing with the starts shows, and I loosely based the show in this story on them – I'm not writing about the real shows, or real people. Everything's fictional and done in spirit of good fun.
I hope you'll have fun as I recast the characters we all love into slightly different, but hopefully fitting new roles. I thank you, if you decided to give this story a chance. Comments are so very appreciated! If you have any questions, just ask!
Just dance
The cello is such a melancholy instrument, such an isolated, miserable instrument. - Ritchie Blackmore
There was rain. There was lot of rain, creating a thick curtain in front of his windows, as gloomy as London could get. Immaculate absence of annoying stimuli was so praised these days. In Draco's opinion it was perfect – that is until a loud knock interrupted silence mixed with the sound of raindrops beating against the window.
He knew the knock. Every person had a certain rhythm. He was familiar with rythms, paces, tunes, beats. An insisting knock – knock – KNOCK at his door was Blaise Zabini's, and the way it sounded, fast and impatient, made him assume that Zabini was on the hunt. After him. Draco shut his eyes, willing his mind to focus on the sound of the rain instead of knocks. On the other side of the door Blaise was getting more and more impatient.
"Malfoy! Open the bloody door! I know you're in there," he was shouting now. His voice found its way through the music studio Draco had proudly arranged himself – it was mostly void of furniture (because nothing should be in the way of the sound) meant for music, unobstructed by nothing in its way. It was a three – room flat originally, but Draco had the walls brought down; which left the kitchen, the toilette and one large room meant for his cello practice. The hardwood floor, the walls, the way the sound spread through the space was perfect. There was a sofa in the corner, a sofa currently occupied by Draco, but other than that, there wasn't any more furniture, except for one chair in the large room, and standard kitchen furniture.
At this point Draco's remarkable success at creating such unobstructed space meant for sound was a downside. "Blimey, mate, open the door. I know you're in there, snogging that instrument of yours. Guess what? You can't live of playing goddamn cello."
Now, if only Zabini's insults were more crative.
"I'm not snogging anything," Draco shouted back. Pretending he wasn't inside was rather pointless. Blaise was like an itch, stubborn and persistent, a trait that made him a great agent and an awful acquaintance.
"And no wonder you're not snogging anything, locked up in that Dracula room of yours!"
"Sod off Zabini," Draco's body was refusing to move from the sofa. He would eventually have to get up, though, or that old hag from the floor below would come screaming bloody murder. Or call police. That was the last damn thing he needed.
"I have pizza," Blaise sing songed. G major, off key. Most people had their heads tuned in G major and produced rather cheerful vocalizations. It didn't matter that Blaise wasn't actually singing, in Draco's opinion it was off key, period. "And you're starving."
That worked, allright. He was pretty hungry.
"Bloody hell, Malfoy, open the -" Draco pulled the door open and Blaise nearly fell, stopping himself in mid – knock with a fist. "Oi! You nearly gave me a heart attack, you blond wanker!"
"You're trying to break down my door and I'm the wnaker? Seriously, Zabini," Draco folded his arms across his chest. Blaise was flawlessly dressed and carrying two boxes which spread promising aroma around. "Didn't you yell at me to open the door?"
"Yes, but not like that," Blaise shot back, snurching his nose. "Ugh, mate, you urgently need a shower and a change of clothes."
"Last time I checked you were my agent, not my mother."
"Malfoy, I was hired by your mother, if you fail to remember. Technically, I answer to her, not to you -"
"That means I can take these -" Draco grabbed the boxes from Blaise's hold, "pout like a petulant child that my mother thinks I am, and throw you out?"
"Hold your breath, mate. That would be unwise for business, your money, your -"
Draco opened the door wider and let Blaise inside. "I get the point! Too bad I can't fire you."
"You wound me," said Blaise dramatically. "Still no furniture, I see," he commented as he went straight to the kitchen.
"I have everything I need," Draco replied matter of factly as Blaise put the pizza boxes on the kitchen table. "Don't need any more furniture in here."
"It's creepy," Blaise argued, sitting down and opening the box nearer to him.
"It doesn't need to be pretty," Draco fished out a fork and a knife out of the cutlery drawer. "It serves the purpose."
"Hearing your own farts?"
Draco rolled his eyes as he sat down across Blaise. "You have absolutely no table manners."
"You're aristocratically boring," Blaise replied. "I, on the other hand, wouldn't die of hunger out in wilderness."
"I am superior," Draco started to neatly cut his pizza, while his stomach growled. He ignored the loud protest valiantly, determined to hold up his principles. Always eat in a polite way, son, his mother would say. "And you would probably die of a broken ankle or lack of plush cushions."
"Superior, my ass," Blaise said over a mouthfull.
"You keep talking to me in that disrespectful manner. You're a shitty agent, Zabini."
"You're lucky to have one, mate."
"Oh thank you so much for reminding me."
They fell silent for a moment and continued to eat. Draco chose not to ponder too long on Blaise's latest comment. Blaise was an ass, but he meant well, and that was simply their usual communication. Not that entire media fiasco with his father was bothering him. It wasn't new news; what bothered him was that some shitty journalist or another chose to make the whole thing news over and over again. They kept digging up dirt about his family. The most recent was his great – great- great –- whatever - grandfather being involved with West India company. Someone called his father a slave trader spawn on television. The whole thing was turning disgusting. It seemed it would never end, not even six months after Lucius Malfoy's business débâcle. Stealing from your employees was never popular, of course, unfair treatment of your overseas based workers who hand – pick the tea you sell (and do everything else that's needed) is generally frowned upon, especially if you don't pay for things like, eh, health insurance? Draco was pissed at his father. Was he truly convinced that in modern world he would never be caught?
"I thought you thought Rita Skeeter isn't worth reading," Blaise offered.
"She isn't, however so many people are inferior to my intellect and judgement. They enjoy reading trash."
"Draco Malfoy, intent on changing the world," Blaise chuckled. Draco rolled his eyes, deciding this was just bad attempt on Blaise's part to cheer him up.
"Bring on the windmills," Draco mock saluted.
"Okay, we may be making some murky progress here. I always say you're more cranky when you're hungry."
Draco decided he would say something foul hadn't the pizza been so delicious. Instead he decided to be agreeable for a moment, just to enjoy more eating and less talking.
"Possibly. Why are you here, Zabini?"
"Two reasons," he lifted one finger. "Your mother is trying to reach you for two days straight, and says your cell phone is turned off."
"I may have thrown it off the bridge." Draco said offhandedly.
"Fine. Call your mother. Second," another finger went up in the most irritating manner known to man. "We need to discuss certain things. Like the press conference."
Oh, bring in the clowns, Draco thought. That was just the thing he didn't want to discuss, but he had no say in it.
"Very classy, Zabini. Are you doing one of those, feed – the – man – before – you – put – him – to – death things?"
"No, but I can if you insist. I assure you I would rather spend time in dentist chair, than work on your brilliant reputation. But I'm not in a dentist chair, am I?"
"I am all ears, Zabini," Draco said, leaning back in the chair. "I suppose I fulfilled my insult quota for the time being."
"Oh, thank heavens! While I'm aware of the reason why you're hiding out in your little hermit hut, we need to talk strategy here. I don't accept jobs so that I'd watch my clients and their careers sink down the drain, and I dare saying you're not the biggest asshole I worked with."
Draco cleared his throat, attempting to find a position that would be more comfortable. In truth and honesty, he didn't know of a way to make himself more comfortable at the moment.
"Really? Who wins that prize?"
"Sorry, mate. Confidential."
"And you call me boring."
Draco resumed eating and Blaise leaned forward, obviously preparing to make a significant point.
"I do. Now get serious and focus please," Blaise snapped his fingers. "You can't act like this. You can't sit in here, acting like you're guilty. You're a goddamn arrogant bastard, now it's time to act like one."
Draco smirked with disbelief. Someone else would probably say he should bow his head or something.
"Are you freaking serious?"
"Tell me, Malfoy, were you able to choose your parents?" Blaise's reply was quick and quite serious.
"We're going with that pathetic shit? He's my father, I didn't choose him?"
"I think it may be better to go with, he's my father, it's his mistake, but he's still my father. It would make you look like you actually have a heart," Blaise replied.
"God forbid," Draco said. "I don't have a heart, I'm a Malfoy."
Blaise ignored him.
"Then, we need you to do something people would like. Something they wouldn't expect of you. That is, if you want your concert tour not to be a complete disaster."
It was time for the painful part. Draco cringed. Did he really have to point out the obvious? He was known for being arrogant, a music snob and harsh music critic. People did like his music, the album he did with Theo Nott, the rock guitar wizard was immensely popular, but Draco's personality wasn't really.
"It's three months away. I doubt even you can convince people out there that I'm suddenly a fluffy, lovable kitten."
"I don't have any intention fighting a losing battle. You can still be the arrogant socialite and musical snob, but we need to convince the common folk that you're fun. Like Prince Harry while drunk, only with more class. And preferably not drunk."
Draco raised an eyebrow in, what he assumed, was a perfectly arrogant, aristocratic socialite manner – he learned it from his father, after all.
"And how do you suggest I do that?"
Blaise rolled his eyes, like the solution was simple and painfully obvious.
"We want people to think you're fun to be around. The media will be monitoring your every step -"
"As if I wasn't already aware. My phone wouldn't stop ringing. It was giving me a headache. Which is why I threw it away -"
Blaise held up his hand and cut in.
"And I assume you were attempting to cure yourself of that headache by hugging that piece of wood with strings."
"It's more huggable than most people I know."
"Hmmm, that sounds like a good theme for a photoshoot -"
"Oh, please, Zabini, I hate those -"
"Your tour needs those," Blaise pointed it out in a non negotiable manner. "Also, you need to dye that excuse of hair -"
"We've already been over that one. I am not dying my hair, dammit. I'm a grown man, not Justin Bieber."
Sometimes, talking to Blaise did remind Draco of conversations with his mother – oh wait. Agents were entitled to criticize just about everything; hairdo and clothing included.
"Fine. As I was saying. We need to convince -"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. That I'm not an evil spawn of a man whose ancestors were probably involved in slave trade, but a snarky fun type of a person. So what do you suggest? That I run around naked?"
Blaise shot him oh, please look.
"Less drastic than that."
"Join that Jedi sect?"
"You certainly don't need a psychiatric diagnosis attached to your name."
Fair point.
"Considering that I am all out of ideas, I suggest you do your job and come up with something," Draco crossed his arms in the best passive aggressive manner he knew.
"I already did, Malfoy. You get to keep your hair as it is, but you have absolutely no say in this -"
"It's non negotiable, Miss Granger. This school provided for part of your recent training. The least you can do is provide some good publicity for it."
Hermione frowned, finding no argument against that. It wasn't a request that was being made here. She was contract bound, she knew what she was signing up for when she negotiated that agreement with the previous owner of the dancing school. The previous owner of Charming Shoes (a name as ridiculous as could be, really) wouldn't have used the contract like this. But that was before. The new director, and soon to be owner as well was something else.
Ginny Weasly, Hermione's best friend since university, preferred calling Dolores Umbridge she – devil. Hermione usually rolled her eyes at that, but Ginny vas rather vocal about her misgivings. Hermione consoled herself with the fact that Dolores Umbridge wasn't in complete ownership of their rears – yet. She owned part of the Charming Shoes, the other part still belonged to Miss Bagshot. She – devil was the director, rearranging matters as she saw them fit, while Miss Bagshot, who cared about her dancers, was only getting older and enjoyed talking to her cats. Hermione hoped her contract would be up before Umbridge took over completely and turned them all into slaves. It was getting less about dancing and more about the amount of money. Hermione alredy worked more hours than she thought she physically could. Umbridge held the reins, she was the one picking the music and the dance. Which, simply put, meant hell for everyone else.
"Isn't winning the tournaments something that proves the financial support you kindly gave me wasn't wasted?"
Dolores Umbridge coughed. She had this irritating, quiet cough which usually meant the other party in the conversation was threading on precarious ground.
"Miss Granger. Let's not fool ourselves here," Umbridge said delicately. This woman never set her foot on the dance floor, ever; but she viciously kept a score on everyone and everything. "You are an employer of this school. An employer who recently requested to attend advanced classes which was supposed to improve your teaching skills. Not your competing skills. If I am not mistaken you did just that, you received your certificate and those fine skills you acquired – and I paid for – need to be put to use. We want to use those skills to attract new and promising young dancers to this school, do we not?"
Hermione felt her blood starting to boil. She didn't need to hear the rest of this tirade – besides she wasn't five year old and not naïve -Umbridge's logic was predictable, and she never failed to remind Hermione that she didn't win a single competition in last two years.
"... and it would be, I must say, very unwise to keep sending you to championships you obviously aren't capable of winning any more, which means, this school has to put you to best use possible."
Obviously. God damn it.
Hermione growled inwardly.
"... and there is no way we're going to attract new clients, if we don't advertise ourselves."
"Joining a reality TV show is hardly an advertising!"
"That is where you're wrong, dear," Umbridge said, and there was nothing kind or dear about the way she pronounced that last word. "I am sure you, Miss Weasly and Mister Wood will do a wonderful job for the school."
Five minutes later Hermione walked out of her office feeling defeated.
She knew what Just dance was all about, thank you. Sure, it looked fun on TV and it was better than most reality shows out there. It actually taught people something, but other aspects of this were troubling. The show came down to professional dancers teaching celebrities of various kinds how to dance. Eight pairs entered the show competition, each consisting of one professional and one celebrity member, and competed against each other in a TV show that lasted nine weeks. Fair enough, but Hermione had her share of celebrities to last her a lifetime.
Right now Hermione wanted to be as far from media as possible – two years weren't a short amount of time, but her divorce still felt fresh. Her ex was now definitely a celebrity who pranced around with a new girlfriend while Hermione struggled with herself and the things she'd lost. It was bad enough that her divorce was turned into public entertainment by the paparazzi and tabloids, which enjoyed comparing her to Jennifer Aniston (they were not alike. Not physically, not in any other way, and Ronald Weasly was certainly not Brad Pitt.), On occasion some paparazzi would still take a picture of her even now. Big sunglasses, scarves and hats were her standard accessories on the days when she didn't want to be bothered. They would stick a picture of Ronald with his brand new witless girlfriend next to hers, making snide remarks of how tired Hermione looked and wondering if Ron's newly found happiness was bothering her.
Of course it was bothering her. She wanted her marriage to last, and now she was seeing him across front pages holding hands with someone else. Hermione liked to think she was strong, she did hard work with the grief and the anger, but a good deal of pain still remained. Two years were a short time to get over past ten years of her life. Hermione would throw those away. One couldn't throw away a life, though. She felt like she divorced mutual friends, places they went to, songs they listened together – oh God, the songs. (Songs she danced to. Songs were ruining her, and they were ruined for her. )
Ginny didn't turn her back on Hermione, even though Ron was her brother. She, Fred, George (the mayhem twins Ginny called them, a bit older than Ron) and Harry; their college friend, were pretty much all that Hermione got to keep.
Thankfully, she was done with the dancing lessons for today. Two particularly untalented groups had exhausted her energy. When she entered the locker room, she found Ginny right there.
"Not good," Ginny said as she pulled on her knee high boots and looked at Hermione's face.
"I hate her," Hermione went to her own locker and sat on a bench.
"Everyone hates her," Ginny clarified. "We're using her picture instead of darts target now."
"She is going to ruin this school," Hermione huffed. "We're not a bloody circus. We're supposed to compete and train people, and not -"
Ginny got up, straightening her dress.
"Technically, this is training people. Only, a certain brand of people," Ginny said and Hermione glared weakly in her direction. "Yes I know. My brother kind of people."
"Good God, Ginny, can you imagine -"
Ginny sat down again, only this time next to Hermione, so she could properly glare at her.
"Hermione, celebs, unlike us here, have actual choice if they'd do this or not. You know full well how good Ron is at the dance floor. Sorry to bring up the -"
"Not your fault, Gin," Hermione said quickly, with a determined set of shoulders. It wasn't Ginny's fault. Ginny was her friend before Ron was even in the realms of being a romantic interest. The dancing lessons she attempted giving Ron felt like a lifetime ago.
The music stops and you have to stop dancing. Hermione thought the bonds they all made back then would last an eternity. Perhaps it was so naïve of her to believe that, but when you love, when you marry, you want it to last. Ginny put a light arm on Hermione's shoulder, breaking her out of her thoughts.
"My point is, it's very unlikely he'll compete, even if they do invite him," Ginny said. "He's on a tour right now," she added with an appropriate roll of her eyes.
"And being an ass about it?"
"You can't even imagine. Oh, wait, you can."
They laughed, a laugh that started out cheerful until it drowned in layering silence around them. Ginny was sweet and kind, and she had the vicious sense of humour that she shared with her twin brothers, but in some sense she was tougher than all of Weasley boys – six of them to be exact. The way she took her stand and refused to leave her friend, even after she divorced her brother took courage.
"I'm sorry it turned out like this," she said calmly. "I think you were wonderful to him."
"Until I couldn't be any more," Hermione observed as Ginny squeezed her hand.
Hermione sighed and huffed. Oh, yes, a tour. The guy who complained about her career as a dancer, and being away from home was now touring the fucking island with his band, and rest of Europe was to follow. His career made it completely okay to be away from home, right? Not that they shared a home any more, but it was a matter of principle. She felt angry and then she reminded herself not to become angry, or sad; because she couldn't go back in time. She had to move on.
"Look at this the other way around," Ginny said practically. "This is your personal chance for good publicity. Not the school, but you. Your shining moment. And if you're lucky, maybe you'll get a partner who's tall, handsome and someone whom Ron hates."
Hermione tried very hard not to burst into fit of unwilling giggles. She didn't succeed.
"You aren't a very good sister, do you know that?"
"Bollocks. I'm a terrific sister. Ron deserves to have his ass kicked sometimes. You're my best friend, and I'm still angry at Ron. And I have every right to be," Ginny nudged Hermione's shoulder with hers.
"Will you come to the party?"
Hermione looked up at Ginny, frowning.
"Which – oh my God, Gin," she covered her mouth with her hand. Ginny's smile faded a little bit, but her eyes were steady and understanding.
"You can't do this forever, you know? This is getting really ridiculous."
"I know. I just don't feel like going to those parties yet."
The parties. Oh, God, the school's parties. Another thing that was ruined, just like songs and places where she and Ron went to. Sometimes it felt like she divorced her friends, her life.
"We miss you, you know?"
"And I miss you, guys. Just -"
"Okay. But I won't be patient for long now, Hermione," Ginny hugged her. "Gotta run."
With a quick kiss on the cheek, Ginny was gone. Hermione still sat there, feeling somewhat better, trying to find some irony in it.
A tall, dark, handsome partner? Someone Ron would hate? Hermione chuckled, wishing she simply didn't care any more, but she did. She got up, thinking about competitions, about her training, about the things she wanted, and things which prevented her to do what she really wanted to be doing. She thought about Umbridge and this ridiculous plan of hers – Umbridge signed three of them up for this because she simply could do it, because that would be promotion for soon to be her school; because it would eventually mean more money for her.
Well. Hermione's contract was going to be up in ten months.
Hermione took a deep breath. She wasn't a quitter, she wasn't someone who could be scared away. She would endure this and come out victorious.
It wouldn't hurt if she got some good publicity for herself, especially if she wanted to use her savings and start a school of her own. She straightened her back with deciding she would use this situation to her absolute advantage and finally leave all of that emotional garbage behind her.
And she would go to the next party, dammit.
