Ch. 14 Which Step to Take
'And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.'
― Friedrich Nietzsche
'Forgotten what it's like to lose / Freedom and the right for you to choose / Which step to take / As we go through this life / Things can get a little bit twisted from time to time / But we know when it's right... / We'll find some place we belong / We've been shining in the dark / Holding on together / Just like children of the sun.'
Children of the Sun, Feeder.
Hermione was beginning to learn that there was something rather seductive about not doing what others expected of you.
She was realising how suffocating the weight of other people's expectations were. She'd always been expected to be rational, reasoned, to do the 'right' thing, make the 'correct' decisions, excel at every bloody thing that was asked of her… But over the last few weeks, she'd started to think that maybe Pansy was right – maybe she needed to stop sacrificing her own wants and needs because they didn't fit with what other people expected her to do.
It had actually turned out to be rather liberating, taking Pansy up on her invitation to the Slytherin party. She'd always wondered what what it would be like to look out of the Common Room windows and into the depths of the Great Lake – she'd always regretted not being able to go with Harry and Ron in their second year because she'd messed up her Polyjuice potion with that stupid cat hair.
She hadn't told any of the Gryffindors about going to the party – she hadn't wanted to deal with the questions and the drama – and Parvati had kept quiet about it. It was as if the two of them had an unspoken understanding that they wouldn't talk about their shared trips to the Slytherin Common Room.
She'd heard a lot about ecstasis, and the idea of falling into a blissful oblivion had been just too tempting. So, when Pansy had surreptitiously waved the vial at her, she'd decided to try it. It was something the old Hermione would never have done; the old Hermione would have thought through all the possible consequences, probably researched the potions' short and long term effects, then decided against it.
It had lived up to its reputation. She vaguely remembered what had happened whilst she'd been on it, including walking back to Gryffindor Tower with Malfoy. Mainly, though, she recalled riding high on a feeling of blissful euphoria.
The comedown from ecstasis had been absolutely horrendous though. She'd been incapacitated for the whole of the next day, lost in a black void of near-despair, her insides feeling like lead, her vision making shapes distorted and threatening. Ginny and Parvati had hovered around her bed on occasion, looking concerned, but she'd just managed to say she was ill, shut her curtains and asked them to leave her alone. It had thankfully subsided somewhat by Monday morning, but her brain had felt like it had been cracking in half and there had been no way she could manage getting her DADA homework done before the lesson.
It had been rather interesting, witnessing other people's reactions to that – the way she had yet again contradicted their expectations.
That bloody kiss in the Divination classroom with Malfoy had been similar to ecstasis. She'd loved getting lost in it when it'd been happening, but the after effects were hard to deal with. She knew she shouldn't have kissed him, shouldn't have felt the way she did when his lips were on hers and his hands were stroking her thigh – it was all wrong.
For the past weeks, she'd fluctuated between being determined that something like that would never happen again, and a new, reckless part of her that refused to care what it meant, what others might think...a part of her that wanted it to happen again.
On Sunday evening, a couple of weeks after the Slytherin party, Harry plonked himself down opposite her at the common room table, where she was hunched over her Transfiguration homework.
"Hey, Hermione," he said. The forced cheeriness of his voice instantly made her wary.
"Hey," she replied with a furrow of her brows, flicking her eyes up at him.
"So...how are you?" Harry asked, shuffling about in his seat as if getting comfortable.
Hermione's frown deepened. "Fine," she said cautiously. "How are you?"
"Oh, I'm good thanks! Quidditch is going really well so far this year – we've got a great new team...although...don't tell her but…'' Harry grimaced, "Ginny is definitely better than me. At quidditch. As in, much better... And lessons are, well...these NEWTs are pretty hardcore, aren't they?"
"I suppose…" Hermione said dully. "Did you need help with something?"
"Oh, no, no, it's all good! I was just wondering how you were getting on with things? You've always managed to keep on top of your work, but with NEWTs being so hard, I just wondered if...if you were managing to this year?"
A coil of suspicion unravelled in Hermione. Had he been hearing some kind of rumours? "Yeah, fine. I was a bit ill the other weekend, which meant I fell behind on homework a bit...but I'm nearly all caught up now."
Relief flickered in his eyes. "Oh, okay. Great!... I noticed you haven't been around some evenings? Been getting up to anything exciting?"
The coil of suspicion stretched itself taut. Had Harry heard about her going to the Slytherin party? Well, there was probably no point in lying about it. "I went to a...gathering...in the Slytherin Common Room the other weekend," she forced her voice to sound casual.
Predictably, Harry looked taken aback, but something about his expression made Hermione think the information was not entirely new to him. "The Slytherin Common Room? Why on earth would you want to spend your evening there?"
Hermione shrugged, holding back a sigh of exasperation. Justifying her actions felt exhausting. "Pansy Parkinson invited me...and I always wanted to see what the Great Lake looked like from there, so…" Her voice trailed off into an awkward silence.
"And how was it?" Harry's eyes were uncharacteristically sharp.
"It was fine…I played cards then...came back here." It wasn't a lie, but she knew she'd left out a whole chunk about the middle of her evening.
Harry looked unsettled, but clearly didn't know what else to say about the matter, because he then changed the subject. "Right, well...erm...I was wondering if you wanted to come for a walk with me? Maybe tomorrow afternoon, before dinner? I thought we could go and see Hagrid together? He said he hasn't seen you since the beginning of term...says he misses you… It'd be like old times...except without Ron, of course..."
Something twisted at Hermione's heart. "Oh no, I don't think so – think I'll have too much work…"
She missed Hagrid, but visiting him would trigger too many painful memories – not painful in themselves, but painful because they would remind her of how differently things were from the times she used to stroll down to Hagrid's hut with Harry and Ron, the three of them gulping on his tea and politely trying to force down his rock cakes.
"Right...right, okay…" Harry faltered. He glanced to his side, to where Neville was sitting, then back at her and said more quietly, "How's it going with your sessions with Alethea?"
Hermione was taken aback by the question. Although it was now obvious who was going to appointments with Alethea, no one really spoke in detail about their sessions.
"Fine...well...I mean, okay…" She wasn't really sure how to sum up her sessions with Alethea, or express how they 'were going'. They'd gone through what Alethea called 'grounding techniques'. Then they'd discussed what kind of things Hermione could do to try and 'connect with her body and the present moment more', in order to try and reduce her feelings of dissociation or 'derealisation', another word that Alethea used. In her last session, Alethea had suggested it might be helpful to talk about her parents... "How about you, Harry?" Hermione genuinely hoped his sessions were going well, she really did, but the thought of him telling her in detail about the suffering he might be working through gave Hermione a sudden feeling of suffocation.
To her relief, Harry kept it brief. "Oh, yeah, fine too. She's nice, isn't she?"
Hermione smiled. "I suppose."
There was another awkward silence.
"It's weird, isn't it, school this year? Not having to worry constantly worry about the rise of a dark wizard. I mean – it's great, just for things to be normal but...weird too…"
"Yes, it is…" Hermione agreed, finally feeling a kinship with him.
She realised they didn't do this anymore – talk properly, about how they were actually feeling. Most conversations she had with anyone were fleeting and superficial – about Romilda Vane's new hair, speculations about Battersby's sexual orientation, being quizzed by someone about the homework they were stuck on.
When there wasn't an existential crisis caused by imminent war, and possible death, everything else felt rather futile...trivial. She could never summon much interest in what others had to say – everything felt dulled, grey, monochrome. Also, she was increasingly aware that her mind was slower now, that her conversation was not witty or sharp; that she never felt like she had anything very interesting to say either. So why Harry was insisting on this…'chat' was beyond her...maybe something was wrong.
"Harry, are you okay...I mean, really?"
"Yeah! Yeah, I'm fine! Are you?"
Now the conversation felt as if it were going round in circles. "Fine, Harry. Fine. Well...if there's nothing wrong, I need to get back to this homework…"
"Right. Yeah. Sure. Glad you're okay."
She smiled uncertainly at him, then looked down and resumed scribbling out some notes, acutely aware that Harry hadn't moved. After a few moments, she flicked her eyes up at him again to see him looking contemplatively down at her.
"Hermione," he started again. "What does cerebral mean?"
"Cerebral?"
"Yeah."
Hermione fished around the fogginess of her mind to articulate her answer. "The word cerebral relates to the brain. A cerebral activity requires careful thought or mental effort. A cerebral person is someone who thinks a lot. Who's rational, intellectual, analytical. So...I suppose some people might say that I'm a cerebral person." Or used to be, she thought to herself. "Why do you ask?"
Harry shook his head dismissively. "No reason. Just something someone said to me a few days ago –"
Before Harry could continue, they were both distracted by something flashing in the bag at her feet – it was her Binding Book. Hermione scrambled to retrieve it and felt a sense of trepidation as she flicked through its pages; part of her wanted to avoid the book completely, whereas another part of her wanted to open it up and organise the next task as quickly as possible, like ripping off a plaster. At least it was Malfoy's turn to decide what they were doing and she didn't have to take responsibility for it.
She heard a plethora of exclamations, jokes and innuendos as the students who had Binding Books read about the next task. After a few minutes, Ginny hurried over to them to inform them that Zabini had suggested they go flying. Harry looked a mixture of relieved and disconcerted at the news.
Then writing appeared in Hermione's own book:
DM: So, it's my turn to decide on the task this time, right?
Hermione didn't have time to write a reply before his scrawl appeared once again:
DM: Do you dance, Granger? I mean, as in formal partner dancing?
HG: No, she wrote, her quill stabbing aggressively on to the page.
Unless she counted the Yule Ball, Hermione hadn't really done much formal partner dancing. She felt much more comfortable swaying and bouncing up and down on the edges of a mosh pit. The thought of doing something so...intimate with Malfoy, which at the same time required a certain level of skill and coordination, made her instantly uncomfortable.
DM: Then I'm going to teach you salsa dancing.
Hermione's stomach turned so violently she thought she might vomit.
They arranged to meet the next Sunday, in the old Divination classroom again. At least it was somewhere they wouldn't be disturbed – the thought of anyone walking in on them whilst she stumbled about trying to learn salsa dancing made Hermione cringe right to her core. She'd disliked the idea of dancing as their 'physical task' so much, she'd contemplated laying out her objections to Malfoy and insisting they do something else. But she couldn't for the life of her think of an alternative and, well, she just didn't have the energy to argue with him. So she thought she would just grin and bear it and get it over with as soon as possible.
She'd tried not to think too much about what it would be like to be alone with him again, alone for the first time since she'd got lost in his kisses...
He was already there when she arrived, standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets. She noted he'd set up a gramophone in the corner and had cleared away the cushions, low tables and stools to the side of the room so there was a clear, wide expanse of wooden floor.
"Granger," he greeted her.
She didn't say anything, just gave him a curt nod and a smile that felt more like a grimace, before putting her bag down at the side of the room.
"So. You've not done much partner dancing before?" he asked casually.
It seemed, then, that they were going to pretend that what had happened the last time they were in this room hadn't happened, which was fine with Hermione. More than fine. She could do that. She could – despite the fact that when she looked at his face, all she could remember were his lips kissing hers, and when she looked at his body, all she could think of was the feel of his hands stroking her leg, the warmth if his breath against her skin –
"Granger?" Malfoy prompted, and Hermione realised it had been several moments since he'd asked his question and she had just been standing there, her eyes flitting around the space bordering his face, but never settling on it.
"You asked me that already," her voice came out more sharply than she intended. "No. Except for the Yule Ball, no. How the bloody hell do you know how to salsa dance anyway?" She knew salsa dancing was common in the magical as well as Muggle worlds, but she'd been surprised that Malfoy had chosen that particular dance, out of all of them, for their task.
His lips twitched up into a smile, as if her agitation amused him. "A learnt a lot of formal partner dances growing up. Then, one of Pansy's cousins from New York taught a few of us salsa when she came over during the summers," Malfoy shrugged. "I always liked it, how it's a mix between formal dancing – because you follow steps to a degree – and something more...free…"
Hermione frowned, letting this new information about Malfoy sink in. "Right," was all she could think to say.
After an awkward pause, Malfoy stepped forward. "Okay. Well," he said breezily. "First, we'll learn the basic steps. If you stand there –"
He gestured to about half a metre in front of him and Hermione obliged, both recoiling at, and drawn to, the thought of being so close to him again. "With salsa, it's eight counts. The fourth and the eighth are silent, so we don't step on that count. We start in what's called the 'neutral position'. Then the person that leads steps forward with their left foot – one – takes their right foot and steps in the same place – two – back with their left foot – three…" Hermione watched as Draco slowly moved his feet, demonstrating the moves. "The person that follows – their steps are the same except a mirror image. So…" Malfoy swivelled around so that he was standing by Hermione's side, in the same direction. "Right foot back on the first beat…"
Hermione followed his instructions as best she could. She was so focused getting them right, she was aware her body was stiff and awkward.
"Okay, great!" Malfoy exclaimed after they'd gone through the eight basic steps several times. Hermione barely had time to register her surprise at his apparent enthusiasm and lack of derision, because he'd turned back round to face her and had taken her right hand in his left, and planted his other at the top of her back, just between her shoulder blades. She felt the warmth of it ripple pleasantly through her. "Your left hand goes on my shoulder," he directed. "Let's try the steps together."
Hermione tentatively lifted her hand to his shoulder. She could smell him when he was this close. It was a comforting scent – the same as his jumper that, for some inexplicable reason, she was keeping under her pillow.
"One…" Malfoy began, taking a step forward.
She awkwardly followed, mirroring his movements, relieved when she managed to do it properly and hadn't stepped on his toes.
"Good," he stated. "Now, for some other moves…" She listened and learned as he talked her through the 'right turn' and 'cross body lead'. Her tension eased slightly when she didn't mess up – she didn't want to give him any reason to ridicule her.
"Okay, let's try it with music now." He flicked his wand out of his pocket, pointed it at the gramophone and the room was filled with a fast, vivacious tune.
Oddly, she found the steps harder with the music – the loud beats and lively harmonies made it harder to concentrate on the right moves.
When she messed up a right turn, Malfoy advised, "Just try to relax a bit – let your body move naturally."
"I am relaxed," she lied through clenched teeth.
"Okay, but you keep initiating the steps. I can tell you're thinking far too much. I'm the man – you need to trust me to lead, and all you need to do is follow."
She barked out a laugh. "Trust you? Well, I think that might be our problem right there," she couldn't help but spit out.
His face, which had been pleasantly animated up to that point, suddenly grew cold and closed. "Okay. Fair point," he said quietly, before starting to dance again.
Hermione reluctantly let him lead her.
"And why does the man have to be the lead and initiate everything, and the girl – woman – just have to follow?" She went on as he spun her around the room. She knew she was channeling her nervousness into a verbal attack, but carried on regardless. "That's so patriarchal, so bloody typical, with all these partner dances, it's just a reflection of chauvinist values –"
"Granger," he interrupted, stopping the dance abruptly, which meant that she had no choice but to stop too. "Did the instructions for this task state 'debate gender politics'?"
"No," she replied sulkily, as he flicked his wand for the song to start from the beginning.
"Exactly. Just try and focus on the music, and how your body feels. Let your body move naturally to the beat. Try not to think about it too much, or anticipate my next move."
Urgh, he was so patronising!
Although, she had noticed that when they had got it right, she'd felt a lovely sense of satisfaction. So when they started dancing again, she tried to do as he'd advised – tried to focus on the music – just the beat and how her body moved with it. Tried to let go of the part of her mind that was constantly thinking, churning away, anticipating what he might do next...
And there was a turning point – maybe halfway through the song – where she got it. It was as if the music was flowing through her, and she was flowing with it, as if she and Malfoy were moving together in some kind of unspoken language...as he gently cajoled her body, softly indicating where she needed to go.
Her heart started skipping, but pleasantly, with a kind of exhilaration, and she even let out a few gasps of laughter...they continued dancing seamlessly into the next song and the next, with Malfoy initiating some new moves occasionally, which she easily picked up.
As they continued, the mood changed from one of joviality to a kind of intimacy, their bodies continuously moving close then apart, in a sensual, alluring push and pull.
"That's good…" she heard Malfoy murmuring at one point. "Really good…"
He swirled her around, away from him, prompting her to spin, and then pulled her gently back towards him again. She curled into him, finishing with her back leaning against his chest, her neck tilted slightly to one side, her head against his shoulder. She could feel the heat of him against her, and he didn't initiate any further moves, which meant she stayed where she was, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to catch her breath.
He moved her left hand so that both their left arms were lightly wrapped around her waist.
"I'm not sure the name of this move..." he said quietly, his breath warm against her ear. He lifted her right hand with his own, raising her arm in an arc away from their bodies and back again, so that her forearm rested against his shoulder.
"Leave your arm there." His voice was soft but commanding.
His fingers stroked lightly down her arm, sparking her skin and making her nerves pulse. Her body stiffened in reaction to how he was making her feel. Yet again, part of her mind was ringing alarm bells – calling at her to get away from him – but another part of her wanted nothing else but to melt into his touch.
"Good girl," he murmured huskily, sending a warm and seductive shiver through her. "Tilt your head to the left a bit more."
Her eyelids fluttered shut as she obeyed him.
His breath ghosted up and down her neck, his left arm tightened around her waist, drawing her more closely against him, as his right hand trailed all the way down her right arm, down to her waist, and then back up again. It felt so good to be held like that, his body firm and strong against hers.
She didn't think they were dancing anymore. Or at least, this was a very different type of dance if they were.
"I thought you might have returned my jumper to me today," he murmured into her ear.
Her heart quickened, remembering how she'd woken up the night after the Slytherin party still encased on the moss-green wool. She remained silent, trying to think what to say.
"Any particular reason why you're keeping it?" His breath was merely a whisper, and uncharacteristically teasing. It was so unlike him – this whole bizarre dancing exercise had been so unlike him – that she found the truth tripping from her lips.
"It smells like you," she muttered, and immediately knew she'd said too much. In those four words, there was too much admittance, too much implied about how she lay in bed at night, when the darkness felt like it was going to swallow her, holding his jumper to her face and breathing in his scent. His scent that reminded her of the shimmering grey of his irises, and the calmness and stillness she felt when she looked into them.
At her words, she heard his breath quicken in her ears, and then felt him – growing hard against her lower back. The thought that she was doing that to him sent a rush of heat through her, and she found herself tilting her hips and pushing back against his erection.
He let out the quietest of noises – a stifled moan – and she felt his mouth against her exposed neck. It wasn't a kiss but a touch – just the touch of his lips against her skin.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured slowly and deliberately in her ear.
But him stopping was the opposite of what she wanted. Her skin was crying out to feel the proper kiss of his lips and the graze of his teeth.
In apparent response to her silence, he kissed down on her neck with a firmer pressure, his stubble scratching delightfully against her skin. Her knees weakened and muscles loosened, and wet heat rushed to between her legs. She tilted her head further, arching back against him, indicating she wanted more.
He ran his tongue along her neck for the briefest of moments, then nipped at her skin before bringing his lips to her ear again.
"Tell me to stop." This time, his voice had a hint of urgency to it, a kind of pleading.
But she only pushed her back further into his chest, keeping her eyes closed and her body still, willing him to carry on. Because, like last time, being like this with him was causing everything else to melt away – she was forgetting. The insidious terror and worry and numbness she so often felt was dissipating into a pool of pleasure and sensation.
He bit down, his teeth encasing her skin, hard and punishing. She gasped at the pain – if that's what it was – there was so much pleasure wrapped up in it too. She rocked herself more fervently against him, both their breathing quickening.
"Tell me to stop," his voice was harder this time – almost angry – but the sentiment of his words were contradicted by how he tightened his arm around her and pressed her into him.
She couldn't help but let a whimper escape her mouth, and it was as if the sound was a trigger for him – he pushed her abruptly and forcefully away from him. She stumbled as she turned to face him, trying to keep her face expressionless, despite the heat of a blush she could feel bleeding all over her cheeks.
His face was contorted in a mix of confusion and anger. "This is – this can't – what the fuck is this, Granger?"
He advanced towards her, causing her to step backwards, until her back came up against the wall.
"Grinding yourself against me, like – like a –" she could see him forcing his next words back as he came to a halt just inches from her.
She squared her shoulders, held her chin up defiantly. She was not going to be made to feel ashamed for what she felt – she knew he felt it too. She looked him straight in the eyes and spoke firmly.
"I didn't hear – or feel – you complaining."
It was a brave move, what she did next, but it didn't take much effort because the lion in her was roaring: she reached out her hand and pressed her palm against the bulge that was still protruding from his trousers.
He grimaced, as if he were fighting an internal battle with himself, and let out a stifled groan. His mouth parted and he was staring, staring at her lips. She increased her pressure slightly and started moving her hand up and down in slow, rhythmic movements; the feel of him and the effect she was having on him sparking pulses of pleasure right to her core.
Then his lips collided against hers, the force of the movement making her back sag against the wall behind her. The kiss deepened – their tongues sinking deep into each other's mouths. After what felt like an age, but equally not long enough, he pulled back from her, stumbled backwards, and clumsily picked up his bag.
"What the fuck are you trying to do to me?" he mumbled bitterly to the floor, before marching through the door and slamming it behind him with finality.
A/N: As always, huge, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas.
Your thoughts and comment are, as ever, loved!