Save the Last Dance
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and its characters belong to J.K. Rowling, et al. and the title is taken from the movie of the same name, but the words are mine.
Her form is perfect-or as close to perfect as a plebe can get in the half-dozen years it took to teach her ballroom dancing. Her measured steps-and his hard work-are wasted on Potter. She is wasted on Potter, who's still clumsy, even after all these years and the galas that have filled them. By now, the Golden Boy should've mastered a basic waltz-enough to take Ginevra on a turn around the ballroom, to make her feel as flawless as she looks in the white dress. A Muggle dress and no doubt tomorrow's papers will say that nothing complemented it-or her-better than does Harry Potter. They might mention how poorly his dancing complements hers, but only tongue-in-cheek, only to show their affection for him, and their envy of her.
The champagne flute snaps in his hand-discreetly, thank Merlin because if anyone but Blaise saw, they'd know he's jealous. What other conclusion could they come to? The wedding is too expensive by far for the glass to be brittle, and no one imagines that Draco Malfoy has more strength in his slim fingers than he knows. They all think he's weak-too weak to win her away from Potter, too weak to have her for himself. The stem snicks audibly into place as he casts a wordless Mending Charm. He doesn't notice the blood on his hands until Blaise nudges him and he tears his gaze from Harry and Ginevra with an effort that hardly seems worth it, since he can't hex Blaise here, with so many witnesses to identify him as the culprit. His best friend raises a knowing brow, but simply gestures to his red-stained fingers.
Draco cleans them with a savage, unspoken spell that leaves the skin a little raw, but not visibly so and he cares about nothing more than the soft words Potters says into his bride's ear. Potter, whose Muggle clothes will receive more attention than Draco's dress robes and whose claim to Ginny will always receive more support, whose dance with her is too long already. Draco's nails dig so hard into his skin that he nearly looks down to make sure they haven't bloodied his palm, but she catches his eye first and she smiles. It's gentle and grateful-thank you for the dance lessons and for understanding, thank you for this. His chest feels small-too small for his swelling heart; he is afraid for a moment, afraid that it might burst as his ribs dig into the soft, throbbing flesh and his breath hitches high in his throat.
'I love you,' she mouths over Harry's shoulder and Draco knows that whatever the world may imagine right now, they'll have no illusions at the end of the night because Ginny's already saved the last dance, and every dance after, for him.
Author's Note: Thank you for reading. If you have any comments, questions, or constructive criticism, please don't hesitate to let me know. I always appreciate feedback :).