This is a valley of ashes – a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through powdery air.
~ The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Hermione was quite beautiful. The wild crop of her hair had been tamed into honey curls. Pink pins twinkled from the mass, crafted into stylized blossoms. Dyre could tell that the diamonds were fake, but they were pretty nonetheless, pinching the hair into sugary falls. Her make-up was minimal, a shade of shadow around her eyes and shiny, fruity color on her lips. She had kept her shoulders free, the edge of her gown brushing in satin folds. The lavender dress was stunning on her lithe figure, emphasizing feminine curves and hiding modest breasts in cute ruffles.
Dyre had arrived before her, making sure to be early so she would not have to wait, so he saw her descend the stairs. Her brow was puckered in concentration, and Dyre suspected that she was struggling in unfamiliar shoes. Though having never participated in such reveries, he knew the etiquette of a gentleman and, while the others stared and whispered, approached her with his hand extended.
The movement startled her, and she looked up from her feet. She blinked at him, taking in his own transformation, before allowing her hand to slide into his. He led her off the final few steps, keeping her grace intact.
"My lady, you are most beautiful."
Hermione blushed. "My feet hurt. My head feels like a cactus, and I'm terrified that my dress in going to fall down."
Dyre couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped him. "On my word, should such a thing occur, I will preserve your modesty."
She huffed, three ways amused, irritated and flattered. "You don't look too bad yourself."
Dyre nodded his head in proper gratitude. He pulled a kerchief from his robe. Hermione eyed the folded cloth curiously. Gently, he exposed the flower. He hadn't known what color she was going to wear, so he had opted for the safety of white. Professor Sprout had allowed him to debase her garden enough to pluck the plant, then a mere bud. It was an Isis, a flash of yellow licking the downy fluff of its tongue. It was young still and yawned in the open air, stretching its leaves.
Hermione, clever girl, knew immediately what it was. Dyre had chosen it (though there had not been a great choice of white flowers in Pomela's garden) mostly for its purity. Rumor was sure to follow her now, but this would curb some of it, symbolizing the chastity of his thoughts for her.
With Hermione's permission, he placed it in empty space above her left breast, adhering it with a drop of magic. She stared at it in amazement, fingering the petal lightly. The Isis shivered in a tickle.
"You're quite the man, Dyre," she whispered.
Dyre felt his throat thicken. He covered himself with a cough and offered his arm. They were the subject of much staring and speculation. Dyre, unused to such blatant attention, bore it beneath a stoic mask. Hermione was still staring at her flower, completely oblivious. McGonagall herded them behind Cedric and Fleur. Cedric and his date, a pretty Asian woman with a cascade of straight black hair, were completely caught up in each other, trading winsome remarks and flirting. Fleur's date, a Ravenclaw with rogue handsomeness, was fawning over her with very little dignity, while she preened. Couples skirted past them into the Hall.
Dyre thought of Draco. He had a slew of dates to pick from, most of which would probably worship him much like Fleur's Ravenclaw. As if reading his thoughts, Hermione spoke beside him.
"There's Malfoy."
His head twisted a tad painfully to where she nodded. He was talking in animated detail to a girl with shortly cropped brown hair. His movements bled with desperation and the girl looked more annoyed than adoring. Still, the blond was as gorgeous as he always was. He had disregarded slicking his hair, and it fell into his eyes. His formal attire was more traditional than Dyre's, though less pompous than what Sirius tried to foist onto him, which Dyre was beginning to suspect had been meant as a joke. His trousers were beige, seen in slips beneath his parted cloak. He had tucked them into baroque boots made of rich, dark green leather. Still in his outer cloak, Dyre could see nothing of his shirt and jacket, but he really didn't need to.
"You're ogling," Hermione stage whispered beside him, grinning.
He frowned down at her.
"You like him," she whispered again, hiding her lips from the crowd.
He surrendered his glare, staring into Diggory's back. "Such affections are inappropriate," he said stiffly, hoping she'd drop it.
Unfortunately, he had no such luck.
"You should ask him to dance," she said, staring around him at the young lord as he ranted to Pansy.
Dyre sent another more heated glare in her direction. She grunted and flicked his forehead, which made him blink.
"Don't you glower at me," she reprimanded. "I'm doing you a favor remember? I'm just stating my opinion."
"I would appreciate it if you kept such things to yourself," he said as respectably as he could.
She stared at him for a while longer before releasing a huff. "I know why he didn't bring a date now," she mumbled.
"What?" His gaze flew back to Draco, who had ended in an unhappy pout by the girl's side.
"That's Pansy Parkinson," Hermione informed him. "You'd think they were going as friends, but he shouted in the Hall just the other day that he wasn't taking a date."
"Why would he do such a thing?"
She quirked her eye. "Because he wanted to go with you of course."
He choked, his expression falling. "But, I could never…"
"Yeah, because you have to go with a muggleborn with no house alliances," she said offhandedly. "It didn't occur to you that maybe he doesn't care about that sort of thing?"
"He should," Dyre said, his face hardening.
Hermione rolled her eyes, muttering something about boys beneath her breath. He heard the tail end of "clueless as bloody bricks" before McGonagall motioned them to enter the Hall.
The house elves had outdone themselves. The entire Hall looked like a snow palace, something out of a winter wonderland. A fireplace blazed along the right wall. Though most the Hall was coated in ice and frost, the temperature was fairly warm. The evening early, candles floated in wreaths of holly. A chandelier glistened, suspended above their heads, reflecting small rainbows in the ice. An invisible band was set up on the dais where the teacher's table had been. Violins, cellos, trumpets, and a single baby grand piano rested silently, awaiting instruction from the squat Charm's professor. The walls, floors, and tables were draped in white, and the sky was set in the dusky colors of dusk.
A winter feast graced the wall opposite the fire, complete with steaming pineappled ham, pudding, pies, pasties, and parfaits. A strange machine at the end seemed to be spitting out hot cocoa, the marshmallows conducting mini battles with toothpicks along the table. A fountain of red juice cascaded over a sculpture of ice, filling a small pool.
Dyre listened to Fleur derail its majesty while Cedric and his date ogled with excited smiles and giggles. Hermione too was giddy, enthused to see her school decked in such finery. Dyre tried not to let his mood affect her.
The three partners circled the dance floor, taking position in a neat triangle. Dyre spotted his parents watching him anxiously from the crowd, looking more than a little worried. The werewolf and Sirius were there as well, the latter giving him a thumbs-up and a wink. Dyre slipped away from Hermione's arm to bow, sweeping his arm across his waist in the British fashion. Looking nervous now, Hermione bobbed a slightly clumsy curtsy. Taking a step forward, he took her hand in his, his other below her shoulder.
"Can you dance?" Hermione hissed rather belatedly.
Dyre allowed a smirk to grace his features as he held her at the appropriate length, waiting for the band to start.
"A bit."
Hermione's reply was cut off by the music. He tugged her alongside him, thankful that she met his movements. She was clumsy and watched her feet, but the song was easy, a light piano piece that required only the shifting swirl of a circle. Dyre made it no more difficult. Soon, Dumbledore asked for Madam Maxime's hand, guiding the much taller woman onto the floor. Others began to join as well. He noticed Sirius eagerly pulling the lycan out. The poor creature looked reluctant, enduring his lover's enthusiasm with very little grace. When the circle began to tighten, Hermione expressed interest in leaving.
Though a slight crevice, Dyre led them out. The crowd parted for him, allowing him to take the girl to a chair unmolested. Victor was loitering close by the door, watching with his arms crossed against his chest. He couldn't dance at all with his leg. Dyre nodded to him.
"Shall I get you something to drink?" Dyre enquired.
"Punch if it's not spiked yet please."
Bidding Victor to sit with her, he stalked over to the refreshments. Testing the punch (it seemed still too early in the evening for delinquency) he doled out one cup, glaring at any of the students that tried to approach him. Hermione sipped at it gratefully.
"Sorry I'm not much of a dancer."
"I do not enjoy dancing in such crowds," Dyre said. "I am glad that you wished to rest."
"I'm not tired," she said testily. "It's just these blasted shoes."
Setting her cup on the table, she pulled her foot into her lap. Neither Dyre nor Victor had seen such contraptions. There was barely any shoe at all. The heel was thin, silver strands buckled around the ankle. She undid the strap succinctly and tossed it off, performing the same to the other. She buried her feet in the snow beneath them. Dyre was rather amazed at her leisure. As was Victor it seemed.
She bristled under their gazes. She flourished the traps before them. "You want to try them on?" she dared.
Dyre bowed his head in retreat, but surprisingly, Victor tugged one from her head, examining it.
"Why would you wear such a thing?" lilt heavy with incredulousness.
"I don't know. Lavender gave them to me. I'd rather have worn sneakers."
"Sneakers," he repeated, tasting the word.
"Er," she floundered.
While Hermione struggled to explain the concept of a sneaker to the Bulgarian, Dyre felt someone approach behind him. He turned, preparing his best glare, when the expression froze.
"My lady!" he half exclaimed, rising to his feet.
Narcissa Malfoy smirked at him. Her triple pleated formal robes made her very royal. Her hair trickled from a majestic spire atop her head, glistening with pearls. A single lock curled perfectly above the swell of her right breast, clothed in golden gauze. The empire waist emphasized her slenderness, falling in opaque gold and beryl patterns. The gloves on her hand reached her upper arms, unspoiled silk.
"Dyre," she greeted, something mischievous boiling in her dark eyes. "How fare you?" Her gaze raked over him, widening her smirk. "I see my cousin managed to assist you in your attire."
"Yes, my lady," he answered.
She should know better than to associate with him in public. What would this make of her image? He was swine. Already, he could feel the stares and the whispers.
"I noticed you are a fair hand at step, little though it may have been," she said with a wry glance in Hermione's direction.
The girl inclined her head slightly, as if to figure something out.
"I would very much like to test your skill."
She… she couldn't be asking him to dance. He floundered for a moment, eyes wild with the despair of a cornered beast, before he remembered himself. He bowed, taking her offered hand.
"It would be an honor, my lady."
Inside, he was teeming. He didn't understand. Though, he doubted the north-men would reckon with the wife of Lucius Malfoy. He turned to her in sudden startling clarity. She grinned, pleased. She was trying to prove that he was one of them. She wanted him to be able to dance with Draco.
The song ended when they approached the floor, which was either a grand stroke of luck or clever planning. Dyre suspected the latter. He hoped she knew what she was doing because offering him a dance like this would really do nothing. She was a woman of affluence, but Draco was still a child by law and an unmarried one at that. He noticed Lucius tip a glass of sherry in his direction, egging him on. Dyre flattened his mouth.
"I do hope you can dance," Narcissa said as he carried her to floor, strangely devoid of other participants.
She was a few centimeters taller than him, statuesque and as elegant as an adder.
"Little late to ask now, my lady."
Flitwick seemed to understand the need of an impressive display and chose a fast quartet with two battling cellos. Narcissa moved with him like water. With the floor clear, he could almost imagine he was back in the tower, towing the Maiden alongside him into lands uncharted. Losing himself, he pressed her closer, forgetting the strict regimen of class. There were no allotted steps, only a pace set by the whims of a half-goblin with a conductor's baton. He swirled with her, playing.
He remembered.
Narcissa was taller, her back straighter, her hands tighter, her steps more practiced and flowing than free. She did not laugh. But it was only that that kept him from dreaming of the ever-flowing blossoms of that tree, of the diaphanous robes that used to brush against his cheek.
When the song ended, Dyre had dipped her. Narcissa had flung back her neck, her spine against his thigh, in perfect form. He blinked and lifted her up, moving the action into a final neat twirl. The Hall was split between awed silence and excited chanting and clapping. She was panting, flushed, her hair only slightly mussed for all that movement.
"Most impressive," she said. Her husband stepped out onto the floor with a smirk and a drink. "Dear, we must have him at our next ball," she said as she accepted the sherry, fanning herself.
"Of course," he agreed. "Such talent can hardly go to waste."
Overwhelmed, Dyre bowed to them both and left the floor. Whispers and coquettish giggles arose. He was immediately snagged by Hermione.
"Oh my god!" she hissed at him, dragging him to their table. "That was brilliant! Where on earth did you learn to do that?"
He shrugged, in no mood to talk. He was starting to develop a headache. Hermione's next comment was cut off as a Hogwarts girl with lush blonde hair and a red dress approached him. Her eyes sparkled, and she clasped her hands together.
"Dyre, would you please dance with me next?" she pleaded.
Dyre opened his mouth to snap at her but remembered himself just in time.
"Of course, my lady."
She giggled girlishly and Dyre suppressed a groan. Damn you, Narcissa.
o.O.o
Damn you, Narcissa. He much preferred being a pariah. These girls pressed themselves far too close, and he was obliged to keep a civil tongue in his head. He did not twirl them about as stunningly as he had Narcissa, but it was too engrained in him to be anything other than graceful, though he was fairly tempted to step on their toes. He might have misjudged the woman. This seemed more an effort to torture him than anything else.
Luckily, Dyre was used to pain. His feet ached, and the muscles in his shoulders were starting to stiffen. It was amazing that serving as dance partner to these frivolous chits managed to exhaust him when not even serving as target practice to underage mages could. He could hardly get through a single song – his partner trying to catch his gaze by fluttering her lashes and flicking her hair – when another demanded his attention. They tried to coax him into idle chatter, to which he remained stubbornly resilient, and still there was no reprieve.
Dyre was unaccustomed to other's hands, and though gloved, they were most unwelcome. He strove valiantly not to hex them, debating ripping their hems and crashing them in other partners. The dark thoughts served as pleasant illusions but no more. He had some model of decorum to uphold, servant or not. This had to be some sort of test from Odin. Yrsa, possessive child that she was, would certainly have saved him by now. He expected no such altruism from Victor.
"Excuse me, Miss Lisle."
Dyre turned. Albus Dumbledore was smiling at him, the ducks on his plum robes throwing him waves and puckered kisses. A tall traditional wizard's hat crowned his head, bending over beneath its weight like rabbit ears. The rubber duck at the end matched his robes. It snickered at his expression, hiding it orange beak behind a yellow wing. The girl stared at him as well, a French maiden who was probably as unused to the headmaster's insanity as he.
"Might I steal your partner?" he inquired with a quiet smile.
She nodded mutely, able to do nothing else. This could not be happening to him. He was not dancing with Banebringer's Defeat, and he certainly wasn't dancing with a man with ducks on his robes. Absently, he moved to take the submissive role.
"Would you mind leading, my boy?" the old man said, moving to his shoulder. "I'm afraid these old bones aren't what they used to be."
He definitely had a headache. This was unbearable. Still, he could hardly press the point. Instead, he dutifully kept his mouth shut. He was much too distracted to do anything other than keep pace with the other dancers, leading the ancient wizard through the bodies stoically as he fought off a migraine.
"Headache?" the headmaster inquired pleasantly.
He glared over at him.
"You look like Severus whenever he is particularly irritated with me."
"Remind me to offer Professor Snape my condolences," he said, his first words since stupidly allowing the blonde to drag him onto the floor.
He giggled. The ole crook giggled at him. "I would advise a bubble bath. Bubble baths do wonders to clear the mind."
Dyre grunted inarticulately.
"And the heart," he added.
The north-man glanced at him, but Dumbledore revealed nothing but an infuriatingly simple-minded grin.
"I would advise a potion for dementia," Dyre suggested offhandedly.
He laughed. "Most delightful, my boy! Between you and Severus, I shall never be bored."
Dyre closed his mouth to rein in his scorn. He was not a toy, and he would not submit himself to being another headmaster's plaything. Fury burned through him, but he reminded himself that this man had helped nurse him and had promised to speak on the board of governors on his behalf. It was only that that kept him from storming off the dance floor, though his scowl forbade further conversation, something that Dumbledore, thankfully, heeded.
When the dance ended, Dyre noticed that no one seemed willing to step between him and the headmaster. He used the reprieve shamelessly. He bowed.
"I must see to my date, headmaster," he pardoned himself. "I have left her idle for far too long."
"Of course, my boy," he said, though something regretful and sad rang unpleasantly in his tone.
Dyre ignored it, stalking past the gossipmongers and fellow dancers. When he found Hermione, she was embroiled in pleasant conversation with Victor, explaining the merits of some muggle device called a telephone.
"I apologize for making you wait," he said as he took a seat.
She waved him off. "Not at all. Taking a break?"
He glowered, actually hissing at a girl that dared to approach the table. Hermione watched him appraisingly.
"I see," she said in a low tone of voice that he could not place. She fell into silence.
Dyre felt vaguely guilty for disturbing their discussion. Victor hardly ever spoke to other people, an outsider because of his lowbrow heritage. Though he was infinitely more socially acceptable than Dyre. He had confided once that girls made him nervous, more so the screaming fans that accosted him on the rare occasions when he allowed himself to loiter outside of Durmstrang and his lord's estate. Karkaroff might enjoy doting on him because he was an international figure, but he had duties the same as any student and foster case.
The candles shone in a wicked splendor now. Night had fallen and the ceiling was a mesh of dark blue. The light of the half moon was split through the chandelier, lighting only in sparse moments on a single object. He wanted to take off his boots and stick his feet in the snow like Hermione, but propriety forbade it. It was a little after ten. He had been dancing for two hours straight and felt as weary as if he had just run a triple marathon around the Crystal Lake. His head was pounding, and he devoted all is effort into keeping his eye from twitching.
Flitwick stopped the band. There was a round of applause as the little man bowed. Dyre could barely see him gesture to the side, where a woman, decked in a diamond studded black evening gown was gaining the stage. A wild fuzzy crop of hair adorned her head. Deep maroon paint colored her lips. Long lashes, slashed with kohl, crested wide, blaringly white eyes. She was lovely, the diamonds around her neck like a spider web, gown hanging without noticeable seam over wide hips and long, sensual legs. Her arms, soft warm cocoa brown, were bare.
Band members strode in behind her, taking the place of the empty instruments. They set camp on stage, tuning basses and playing with strange trumpet-like instruments that Dyre had never seen. The brass and gold of the horns were ornate, making peculiar calls like geese as they adjusted tone.
Hermione sat up straighter beside him. "That Reetha Malcolms," she said in an exaggerated whisper. "Oh, Dumbledore didn't tell anybody!"
"Who is Reetha Malcolms?" Victor asked quietly beside her, pronouncing the name with care.
"She's a jazz singer. Oh, she's one of the best!" she said, hopping about the chair excitedly. "I can't believe we booked her!"
Neither Dyre nor Victor had heard of jazz, but from the students now crowding the dance floor, it seemed to be rather impressive. Dyre listened to the woman give an introduction, tongue lolling in a slang that he was unfamiliar with. Her throat was husky, much lower than Dyre was accustomed to, lush like thick pinewood smoke. White teeth flashed from brick lips, and the dark gaze of her eyes drawled wetly. Dyre might have tasted some succubus in her.
A band member gave her her wand, which had no allotted place on her drooping attire. She coughed discreetly, pointed its tip to her neck, and smiled at the audience. Her voice came as slowly as a bass, rolling thickly on the vowels. It was some love song, about a city made of wind. The quick, jumpy steps of Filius' piano were replaced with languid motions, the less experienced dancers taking root in the slow rhythm.
For the moment, Dyre was left alone. He tried not to let his mind wander, but Hermione was once more in conversation with Victor, surprisingly looking no more inclined to dance than she had before.
"… floating beyond time, there's a city made of wind. Please dear, ta~ke me the~re."
The singing was easily drowning him. He spotted his mother watching him, worrying the napkin in her hand and responding cryptically to her husband behind her. He wondered why she had had no more children.
"… where dreams draped in white flowers, can bloom."
Surely something to fill the void would have been better than waiting for the dead. But then, she had clearly said that he couldn't understand her pain, and he agreed. Her sorrow was deeper than he had the strength to fathom.
"…holding anxious hands, calm me with a kiss and then please, dear, get me there."
Why was he still here? It was impossible for him to live up to their expectations even if he wanted to. He should have stayed on the ship, contest be damned. He should have stayed in Iceland, Karkaroff be damned.
"A~nd darling, in the afternoon, we'll sleep in the sun a~nd wake to a time when the hun~ting is do~ne, and then when I see you, I'll know in my heart what I've won…"
Why was he still here?
"Please dear, ta~ke me the~re."
"Excuse me?"
Dyre looked up, only half-surprised to see his mother staring down at him anxiously, her eyes flirting everywhere but on his face. Hermione turned from her discussion to blink at her.
"Um, if you wouldn't mind, would you mind dancing with me? Just for a bit."
Dyre should say no. Not only was he physically and mentally exhausted but allowing this woman further hope for something that could not be was cruel. Crueler even than refusing her gesture now. Yet, still, he had seen eyes like those before. He had seen them on other mothers right before the news of their sons' deaths reached them, the single moment when beyond reason they cherished the possibility that everything else in the world but their love was wrong. He had seen it in the serving girls right before they realized they were nothing more than a lordling's plaything, to be discarded in boredom.
Lily Potter loved him far more than he feared, far more than anything he could possibly derail.
"I know that you're tired," she was saying into the awkward silence of his contemplation. "And that - I really shouldn't have bothered you. It was - I'm terribly sorry, Dyre."
She started to retreat, and Dyre could see the tears she was bravely withholding from view. Damn him. Damn him all to Hel.
"My lady," he called after her, rising from his seat. "I am afraid I do not know much of jazz dancing," he said, spilling the words awkwardly.
"No, no," she said quickly, masking brushing against her eyes by taming the bangs on her face. "I really – You could step all over my feet," she jested tensely. "I wouldn't mind at all. I just – I just really don't want you to force yourself."
She was much too kind, far too compassionate for him to resist. So he held out his hand, crushing his many reserves into a tight box with his hatreds and fears, and pulled a regal smile out from a memory of the Maiden.
"I am hardly forced."
Stunned into silence, Lily took his hand. Dyre didn't know what he was doing. How did one act with a mother he'd never known? There was a painful gap between them that he wasn't certain should be healed. He thought about what the Maiden would say and almost laughed. She would tell him he was acting the fool, that he should follow his heart, and do everything that made him happy until it couldn't any longer. But that is where he and the Maiden differed. She was so much stronger than him. She had the strength to withstand Her dying dreams, the vision just out of reach, and he did not.
His sadness weighed him down as he tried to dance with his mother. She was not as talented as Narcissa, but he suspected hardly anyone was. Her hands gripped him in intervals with her thoughts, and she seemed incapable of looking him in the face. She was much too tense, though Dyre's sobriety was hardly helpful.
"Would you mind if I ask you a question, my lady?"
She looked over, startled. "Not at all."
"What will you do when I return to Durmstrang?"
Predictably, the question caused her to flinch. Still, Dyre wanted to know, and he wanted her to know that this dalliance was evanescent.
"I'd probably go with you," she answered to his cravat.
He blinked. "My lady, that is not possible."
She jerked her gaze back up, glaring at him with a stubborn tilt to her jaw that he was very familiar with.
"And why not?" she dared him.
He was both elated and annoyed by her change of emotion. Though her glare was a fair sight better than her frown, it was most certainly more nettlesome. He couldn't tell her that she was too weak for the school, that she would be defenseless against the battle hardy mages, or that there was no place for her among the tutored elite. Her empathy would dry her out faster than she could run away.
"I am old enough to need no sitter," he said instead.
She did not seem to like the reminder but did not argue. She ducked her head again, eyes shining.
"And if it is for me, not you?" she whispered. "Even if I can not be your mother, Dyre, may I not still be near you?"
Dyre's scowl deepened. He pushed her out in a slow spin for a moment to claim his expression and pulled her back in. Dyre was not worth this much thought. He was not worth such endearment.
He did not want her there. She was safer here. Here was stable. Here, an insult would not call you into a death duel. Here, there were laws that forbade the abuse of the weak. Here, she was allowed to be gentle and kind. Justice was so different in the northlands. It would allow none of her sentimentality.
"Now is neither the place nor the time for this conversation," he settled for saying. "Forgive me for bringing it up."
Her face flushed with the urge to argue. She was unused to holding her tongue and letting her thoughts stew, unlike Dyre, who long had to temper his loathing. It was wrong of him, he knew, to treat her like a child, but it was difficult when even Yrsa knew how to control herself in such circumstances. He reminded himself that Lily Potter had been through a war, had watched her child die, and the notion of her naïveté was stricken from him.
The song finished on a long peal, Reetha Malcolms' voice outlasting the bass. He took a step from her. He pressed her knuckles against his forehead, as he would for any married woman, and thanked her for the dance. Her eyes were just as troubled as when she had approached him, mouth creased into an unhappy line that made her look as if she was about say something unforgivable. Yet, she again managed to restrain herself.
"Thank you for the dance, Dyre. It – It meant a lot to me."
She tried for a strained smile, but her eyes could not hold in his face. Dyre felt the urge to brush the hurt from her face but quelled it. Such notions he restricted to the Maiden and Yrsa. He could not get attached to her.
His throat was parched. He had yet to take from the fountain. Since he was a part of this party and not acting as a servant, he supposed he was allowed its use. With a glance towards Hermione, who was being carefully watched by Victor, he strode to the refreshments table. The red juice trickled from the ice fountain in soft melody. The neck of a swan was serving as a pipe. Small ice chicks floated about the pool, casting juice from their crystal-like wings and playing chase. Dyre dipped in a ladle.
"I wouldn't drink it," a voice said behind him. Draco looked up at him, his hands clasped behind his back. "I'm sure it's been poisoned by now."
Dyre set the cup down.
He could see Draco's waistcoat now, a rich green leather that matched his boots. It was modest for a lord of such wealth and prestige. A tiger-eye was set in gold, pinning together his collar, which seemed a tad too restrictive. The inside lining, a soft smoky silver, was seen peeking in places. His undershirt was not unlike Dyre's, except that it was cuffed with amber links and the pleats were ironed much more meticulously. He must have doffed his jacket somewhere.
His hair looked so soft up close. It brushed the back of his nape but hung no lower. Strands hung over his brow but not long enough to obscure his sight, which gave Dyre brilliant view of blue crystal. They seemed slightly red rimmed, Dyre noticed, though it was hardly obvious. His lips were just a tad too pink, as if he had chewing on them. Or kissing.
Dyre had never thought about it before but Draco could be courting someone. At his age, it was likely that he had a fiancé. Though he had taken no one as a date. Were they fighting?
"My lord, are you alright?" Dyre found himself asking, staring at him much too intently with his eyes narrowed.
Draco blinked. "Yeah, fine," he stuttered a bit. He coughed, blushing. "How is your date?"
"Well," Dyre answered, trying to detect whether or not he sensed some resentment in Draco's comment.
He nodded succinctly. Dyre wished he would look up at him instead of staring at his knees.
"How did you two meet?"
"Through Lord Longbottom."
"Oh."
Dyre was getting frustrated. "My lord, will you please look up at me?"
Draco's gaze flew to him, and Dyre suspected that he hadn't realized he'd been having a conversation with his trousers.
Dyre sighed, feeling the tension leak out of his body just by seeing those eyes. So ridiculously bright.
"Much better," he murmured. "Please, pardon the interruption. Please continue."
But Draco seemed floored. In the midst of his gaping, Dyre spotted Trinten Klaus, a young German lord, coming through the crowd towards the punch bowl. Dyre moved aside before he could be shoved, gracing the lord with a tight subservient bow. Trinten glared at him much the same way someone might glare at dung on their trousers. So far Dyre had managed to avoid the Durmstrang students by camping out in the forest. Being able to outwit a dragon had done nothing for the hatred of having their school represented by a clanless bastard.
Trinten was an honorable lord in his opinion. Though the mysterious murder of his elder brother, he had inherited his father's estate and worked both to complete his studies and manage the affairs of the governors that ruled the counties in his jurisdiction. Trinten had been born into his title, but he believed in the sanctity of rulers and held himself with an air of authority that matched his rank. He had had no qualm with Dyre when he was a mere servant, but as an upstart, Trinten viewed him in rebellion of the old ways. Many of the lords and ladies viewed him thus, with right.
When Dyre straightened from his bow, it was to see Draco sneering at Klaus. The two lords glared at each other. The Malfoys might own a greater district than the Klauses, but Draco was as of yet untried and really had no right to be glaring like that. Dyre knew of no contention between them, though he was hardly watching either twenty-four/seven. Had some insult gone unmarked? He watched Trinten's eyes narrow further, appraising the English lord with an upturned lip.
In response, Draco suddenly grabbed Dyre's arm and hauled him away towards the end of the table where the cocoa machine lay. Dyre allowed the manipulation with some curiosity, enjoying the swift clever heat of the blonde's ire.
"Who does he think he is?" Draco raved, flinging his arms in that dramatic manner of his. "He thinks he's better than you just because he's royal!"
"He is."
The statement stole the gust from Draco's sail, and he deflated almost comically. He turned wide blue eyes to him.
"Pardon?"
Dyre watched him with his single eye. Had Draco gotten upset over his account? Well, that was just… It was cute actually.
"The decisions that Lord Klaus make affect the lives of roughly three thousand people, not including his retainers. My decisions affect no one but myself."
"That doesn't mean he's better than you," Draco argued, eyes flashing sullenly.
"Doesn't it?"
Draco remained sullen. "No."
Dyre laughed. "I find you most refreshing, Lord Malfoy," he said at length, grinning.
Draco looked quite unsure of whether or not he was being teased. Dyre admired the mixture of indignation, confusion, and pleasure warring on his face. He had crossed his arms and turned away, but the light gesture of a smile wrinkling his eyes betrayed him.
"I'm afraid I neglected to mention that you look very handsome tonight."
Draco's eyes shot over to him in that way that he so adored, like a startled hare. Then came the inevitable blush that colored only the tips of his ears.
"I didn't really do anything," he mumbled, fiddling with the length of his unslicked hair.
Dyre fought the urge to take his hand from him. "Your beauty is far too natural to be anything other than free."
The young man's blush escalated, but he managed to raise his gaze to look Dyre in the face.
"As are you."
Dyre blinked. He should probably take insult to such a thing. He knew if anyone else had said that, he'd be furious. Yrsa made small quips about it in odd moments when she was braiding heather or untangled yarn, and it still bothered him. Freedom was a guise he could not take. He considered rousing his anger, but if it had not responded on its own then he considered it a mute point. Instead, he was filled with a sharp sorrow, like a pike being buried in his chest. He stared at Draco for a long moment, in which the boy seemed to regret his words but was unwilling to withdraw them.
"Touché," Dyre responded ambiguously, dipping his head.
"I – I'm sorry, Dyre. I shouldn't have said that."
Dyre shook his head. "You are free to say whatever you wish."
Draco gave a small, uncomfortable chuckle. "I think that's part of the problem."
Dyre's smile was much gentler than he expected. "I would have it no other way, my lord."
"Dyre, can I dance with you?" he suddenly blurted out.
The north-man chuckled at his abruptness, which Draco covered with an embarrassed shuffling of his feet. He threw caution to the wind.
"I would love to, my lord."
Draco brightened, still slightly pink. Draco's hand was bare. It was just as fair and slender as when Dyre had plucked it up in the hall when he had been mute. Just as unmarred as it rested against Dyre's calloused, stocky one. He pretended that he wasn't comparing Draco to silk because he had never felt silk and would know nothing of its texture. It was silly to so admire a hand, even if it was attached to someone as beautiful as Draco Malfoy.
Reetha Malcolms was taking a break, and Flitwick was once more instructing the instruments. As Dyre and Draco neared the floor, Dumbledore tapped on the half-goblin's shoulder, politely drawing him off the stage. The old wizard swept back his robes, perching himself on the seat before the piano. With a kind, reminiscing smile, he stroked the ivory keys. As he continued to merely sit there, Severus gave a huff, climbing on stage.
"If you've forgotten the tune then don't just sit up here making a spectacle of yourself," the man grouched, settling on the bench beside him.
"No, my boy, I was just waiting."
Severus gave him a patented scowl. Without accompaniment, the Potions master started playing. The touch of pinioned strings was heavy, the notes cast deeply in castes of seven. The baritone was even, melodious. Dyre took Draco's shoulder, but the blond shook his head, adjusting him so that his hand was behind his blade. Dyre looked at him carefully, but Draco's eyes pleaded, his smile slightly crooked before he turned his gaze away. Dyre allowed his hand to stay.
Severus' hands moved, striking the lighter keys in a rhythm of twos. The scowl was still visible on his face, but his attention was directed solely on the instrument. Dumbledore sat smiling beside him, his hands in his lap.
Dyre could feel the muscles moving beneath his fingertips. He had danced with so many people tonight, it should have been common, but the subtle shifting seemed suddenly sultry. The movement of bone could have sported wings. He could feel that Draco knew how to dance, that his mother had reared in him the same love of movement and attention.
Dumbledore took the heavy keys, tapping them with a single long finger as Severus played. Three deep baritone peals, stretched apart as if miles away.
Dyre moved between the notes on single steps, pulling Draco with him. Odin, were eyes went to drown you? Could so many tones of blues exist in the world? Was it possible to swim between them forever?
A third dulcet pattern joined the two, but Dyre and Draco barely heard it, even when Dumbledore added other keys and the two men began to take turns with their notes and coalesce. Then, suddenly it was just the first playing, Severus with one hand on the keys while Albus knocked together the heavier notes, strangely alone in their resonance.
And Dyre and Draco were dancing in tradition, right hands palm to palm, left behind their backs. Moving in a circle and switching hands in time with the piano. And Dyre would draw out their arms, catch Draco on his fingertips, and pull them together. He'd twirl him around, push him backward hand to hand. Their feet were tied to Dumbledore's fingers.
It was not the wild, excited pace of his dance with Narcissa, where he imagined the petals falling pink between them, a sky that was white instead of blue, with a cool breeze dissecting space. Where he was a land away and someone else was in his arms.
Two blue were on a single green.
They could feel the breath moving through each other's bodies. There was a tightness in their chests, and they moved deliberately to quench the ache. Even when they pulled apart it was only to come back closer - limbs, sides, hips, thighs together. Together, they were slow, long caresses, breaths mingled. Apart, they moved quickly to experience that wonderful moment when - yes, he's still there. He came back. He's still here beside me.
Severus was playing alone once more, but as the song came to an end, Dumbledore, adding one final cleft, let the song hang on a dark echo that fell like a soft shadow over the room.
o.O.o
There was some clapping, which Severus responded to with his usual scowl and Dumbledore with a bow. When the observers looked back at the floor, Dyre and Draco were gone.
…
Lyrics belong to Kaze no Machi e (To the town of Wind) Eng. Version ~ Kajiura Yuki ~ Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicles OST
Piano piece belongs to All Around Me ~ Shane Clahoun