Games and Forfeits

[tsukinofaerii]

First part of the MidGame Trilogy, and my personal favorite.

Games and Forfeits 1/1
By tsukinofaerii
Rating: SNUG
Generic/Generic
Warnings: male/male
Spoilers: Goblet of Fire movie-canon
Series: Harry Potter
Pairings: Draco/Harry

Summary: At the Yule Ball, Harry finds himself playing the same old games with Malfoy. But this time, the game's not quite the same, and there just might be more than pride on the line. Complete short story.

This story is a work of transformative fiction, such being defined as a work which incorporates characters and situations which have been created by other authors/artists. No infringement of copyright is intended and no profit is being made from the creation or dissemination of this work. Harry Potter was created and is owned by J.K. Rowling. It is used with respect and admiration for the work.

Author Notes: Written for FictionAlley.Org's Try Wizard Challenge 2005 (for the release of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, in movie format). Part one of the MidGame Trilogy. They all fit loosely together, but don't have to be read as such. In this particular one, I used Tarentallegra as a dancing curse, though to be perfectly frank, it’s one of those that no one agrees on and I can’t seem to locate in any book. The Harry Potter Wikipedia calls it the Jelly Legs, and MuggleNet says it’s the dancing curse. So, for the purpose of this fic, I’ll side with MuggleNet, if only for convenience.

***

Harry shifted uncomfortably, feeling like an idiot in his dress robes. Parvati and Padma had long since stormed off to find better company, and Ron had vanished somewhere to fume about Krum to a more understanding audience. In front of him, the older students and adults twirled in their colorful dress robes through the old steps of the waltz, the orchestra having taken over while the band had a breather. Pressed up against the walls and the buffet table, the younger students chatted brightly, their voices a shimmering murmur above the music. ‘I should be angry, but at least I’m not being made to dance.’

A rustle of eye-blinding pink tulle and satin warned him as Hermione approached. She sat beside him with a sigh of relief and drew up her skirt to massage her ankles. "You have no idea how lucky you are to wear robes rather than skirts," she announced. "Boys get all the comfortable footwear."

"And we don't have to wear pink," he added, looking up at her through his dark bangs with a smile. Her cheeks were flushed from excitement and dancing, curls mussed in a way he was sure Ron would object to. She was lovely. He just wished Ron would notice before someone with the best of interests thought to hit him over the head with something heavy.

"That too." Her fingers, painted to match, plucked at a length of satin skirt. "I abhor this shade, but it looks rather fetching on me, so I decided to keep it instead of the blue."

"Careful," Harry teased with a grin, "or you'll turn into a girl."

The young witch shoved his shoulder. "You!" she fumed, half laughing. "I am a girl, and don't you forget it!"

They laughed together for several minutes, then quieted as the dancers parted. Across the floor, Ron lounged with a group of Gryffindors, glaring at the grouped Durmstrang students.

"I'm not the one who forgets," Harry met Hermione's eyes before looking away into the crowd.

"I know you're not."

They watched the ball proceed in silence, neither looking at Ron. Harry thought he saw Krum with a group of other Durmstrang students, but distance made it hard to be certain. Hermione wasn’t upset at being dateless, so decided not to worry about it. His eyes wandered over the ball-goers, absently noting down couples. They'd undoubtedly be even bigger gossip than him for at least a few days, and the thought filled him with a morbid cheer.

Flitwick danced with McGonagall under a string of miniature chandeliers, and had to crane his head back to avoid talking to her thighs. ‘Urg, best not think about that too much or I’ll never be able to look them in the eye again. Well, not McGonagall, at least.’ Next to them, Cedric and Cho were slow dancing, and Harry decided to be proactive and not think about them either. Charlie Weasley, long hair pulled back in a queue and earring glinting in the firelight, danced with Fleur. They made a handsome couple, and he wondered why Charlie had stayed behind after the dragons had been shipped back. They were waltzing in smooth, easy circles, and Harry watched them for several minutes before moving onto other pairs

Two of the Beauxbaton girls were dancing together, chatting and laughing as they spun around the floor. Their dressed matched, one silver with lavender trim and the other lavender with silver trim, and they made a flashy pair as they twirled and swung, ignoring the music in favor what whatever their feet led them to. Just across from them was a pair of Hogwarts boys Harry vaguely recognized as seventh years, in their own tuxedo-like robes, following the rest of the dancers much more accurately, smiling slyly at each other as they danced—

Harry looked again, a blush painting itself across his cheeks against everything he did to stop it. "Her— Hermione?" To Harry's increased shame, he came close to choking.

"Hm?" She glanced at him absently. "What's wrong?"

"There's— In— Dancing!" He hadn't felt so stupid in a long while— almost an hour— and flushed even more as his friend searched his face, then glanced out to see what was bothering him.

When she saw, her expression turned Slytherin. It only made him squirm worse. "Oh, them? They're friends of Cedric's. Close friends, I hear. That's why it was so shocking when he asked Cho."

"Friends?" His voice was squeaky. "But how can— you mean, that kind of— Oh God." He could feel himself turning blue as every attempt to speak only made him more nervous, until even breathing was difficult.

Hermione thumped his back until he started coughing, wicked expression turning thoughtful. When he finally was able to breathe normally, the pounding turned into a circular rubbing motion. "Is there a problem with it?"

The edge under her question brought Harry up short even as he firmly shoved away issues he preferred not to deal with. "No! No problem..." Even to himself, he sounded fishy. "Just surprising. I didn't think..." He trailed off unhappily, not sure how to finish that sentence without insulting someone he liked or being smacked.

"Mm, yes." Hermione watched the male couple with a smile. "They're much more open about it here. You'd think, what with the bloodline obsession and all, it'd be completely taboo. Apparently the wizarding world has no problems with alternate methods of reproduction."

"Alternate..?" A horrible vision assailed Harry's over-active imagination. An army of muumuu-clad men, swollen with child and armed with the most vicious of hexes, arched behind his eyes. Their flower-print dresses whipped in the wind made by their passing, and their boyfriends cowered at their feet in the dust wearing collars and leashes.

The blood drained from his face.

Hermione started laughing. "Shoe on the other foot?" She patted his knee, brown eyes glittering in the brilliant lights strung across the room. "I meant surrogate. Even You-Know-Who would be scared of by the threat of pregnancy!"

"Don't scare me like that!" Harry glared at her, but she only smiled.

"You did it to yourself."

Before he could think of a decent retort, a shadow fell over them. Harry craned his neck up, and found himself staring at a gold-trimmed collar. He leaned even farther back to meet Krum's eyes. ‘Why does everyone have to be so bloody tall?’

"May I have this dance?" the Bulgarian asked Hermione in formal tones, holding out a gloved hand.

"I'd love to." She accepted his hand, visibly glowing as Krum pulled her to her feet and whirled her off to the dance floor. The band, coming back from their break, struck up a slow song.

Harry watched her go, suddenly bereft. The relief he had felt at being alone vanished with Hermione, though not to dance with Bulgarian Quidditch stars, to his relief. Off to his left the doors that led out of the ballroom tempted him in quiet tones, inviting aloneness without loneliness. With a last glance at Hermione, he straightened his robes and headed out into the corridors.

The halls of the school were almost as crowded as the ballroom. Every dark corner had a happy couple, and the thick silence burned Harry's ears with embarrassment. He hurried to the doors leading outside. When he finally escaped the building, the chill winter wind froze the tip of his nose until he walked through the garden gates and it was blocked by high shrubbery. Inside the garden, a thick, heady smell clung to the back of his throat, exotic in its strangeness.

Amplification spells made the music a soft background to the night as he wandered the smooth gravel paths. Thick piles of white glowing snow lined either side, falling around giant bushes of flowers Harry couldn’t even begin to guess at. He’s heard from Neville that Dumbledore had arranged the snow-bedecked garden for the ball, and Flitwick had somehow worked with Sprout to make it bloom in a riot of frost-dusted colors. Fairy lights danced overhead, illuminating every nook with prisms of light. For all its romantic potential, the place was deserted, amorous students having been driven to more private locales.

Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked, exploring. Behind the hedges, where the wind reached only in brief swirls of glittering snow, it was almost comfortable, though he was still glad for his gloves. The path rounded a corner and ended in a wide alcove, where deep blue roses winked at him from under a marzipan frosting of ice, and he thought he might ask Neville how to make roses bloom in winter. Some kind of tree arched over head, covered in vines and tiny white flowers.

Snow crunched behind him as he reached to see if the roses were as cold as they looked. "Admiring the scenery, Potter? I would have thought you’d be tracking down your wayward date. Not that anyone can blame her having run off, but some things I’d think would even affront a Muggle-lover like you."

The night sharpened into jagged edges around him as Harry pulled away from the rose bush and sighed. "Malfoy." He turned, back straight. "Don’t you have first years to terrorize?"

"Your groupies are safe from me," Malfoy tipped his head back to look at the vine-draped limbs over their heads. "Jasmine?" He sounded surprised as he reached up to pluck one of the flowers with curious fingers. His dress robes were elegant black and a cream so pale it only showed its true color against the absolute white of the snow. They looked more expensive than the entirety of the Gryffindor dorms, beds and all.

Harry fidgeted when Malfoy’s eyes fell back on him, all too aware Malfoy had been born to wear such things and looked it. He felt like a street urchin in fancy dress.

Desperate not to look as awkward as he felt, Harry blurted out, "Jasmine?" The voice of reason buried deep in his mind groaned and recommended he not fight the urge to find a wall and bury his head in it.

Scowl lines appeared between the other boy’s eyebrows. His gloved fingers twirled the little flower. "Yes, Potter. Jasmine. White flowers, grows on vines, famously strong smell… Haven’t you ever smelled jasmine before?"

Harry, who’s only experience with the fragrance was through chemical cleaners and aunt Petunia’s least-favorite perfume, shrugged. "Not really." Malfoy looked at him like he was insane, and Harry bristled. "What?"

"I suppose you’ve never had dancing lessons then either," was Malfoy’s only comment, soft and without rancor. His follow-up of, "It shows," more than made up for the unthreatening tone.

"Pardon me for having a deprived childhood," Harry’s face heated as he thought of McGonagall’s attempts at teaching their House. ‘I should have paid attention.’ He’d been so busy ignoring whatever girl he’d been forced to practice with that learning what he was doing had been ignored. "I didn’t even know about that damned opening dance until just before!"

The flower dropped to the snow as Malfoy snorted and stepped closer. "You butchered the dance. Your date must have been humiliated."

The delicate bit of white petals and scent was lost to the snow, but Harry thought that Malfoy stepped on it. For some reason, it made him even angrier. He stepped up to meet the blond, glaring upwards. "If someone had told me earlier—"

"You still would have made a fool of yourself, your date, and the entirety of Hogwarts," Malfoy interrupted, staring down his nose at the Boy Who Lived and brushing his fringe of white-gold hair out of his eyes. "You couldn’t dance if the Dark Lord himself cast Tarentallegra on you."

"I can dance better than you!" Harry’s heart stopped. ‘Hermione’s right— I am stupid.’

Surprise made Malfoy blink and step back, spreading his robes wide. "Is that a challenge?"

Harry froze, indecisive for only the moment it took him to re-establish eye contact. "Yeah, it is."

"Alright then." The Slytherin grabbed his wrist and hauled him to the center of the gravel circle, using the other hand to swipe at blue-tinted fairy light that kept trying to land in his hair. "As the challenged, I lead, you follow. First to break or fall loses. Winner claims a forfeit."

"You’re on." Harry pushed his glasses up with a finger and twitched his arm to loosen Malfoy’s hold. The other boy’s fingers around his wrist created one of the oddest sensations Harry could remember. It was shortly topped by Malfoy’s hand at his waist and gripping the other with twinned fingers. He swallowed and tried to focus on something else.

Malfoy’s sneer had faded a bit. Harry could only hope that he wasn’t as sure of his abilities as he acted. "Wait for the music change." Malfoy’s eyes were closed in concentration and his voice soft. Harry had to strain to hear it at all.

They waited for a long minute in the snow with bespelled lights overhead for the band to change songs. Harry’s chest was so tight he could barely breathe, and his gloved hands on Malfoy’s shoulders kept trying to clench nervously. When a new song started, it swung into a spicy tune that Harry immediately despaired of ever matching.

The blond didn’t seem to have the same problem, moving directly into a complicated series of steps that almost had Harry’s feet out from under him. He kept his eyes on Malfoy’s feet, trying to watch his movements.

"You’ll have to do better than that, Potter," Malfoy teased, breath fogging the chill air. His laugh cut the air the first time Harry stumbled. "Go on and give up, before I have to explain to McGonagall how you broke your neck trying to dance in the snow."

"Not a chance," Harry growled, trying to speed up to match his opponent. His movements landed half a beat behind Malfoy’s, and the blond was using it to his full advantage. Is he didn’t figure something out, he was going to trip, and he’d take candy from the twins before accepting defeat from Malfoy.

The dance went on, changing songs twice. Harry thought the slow song would give him a chance, but Malfoy just spun him into some kind of waltz that tripped Harry’s feet and almost sent him careening into the Slytherin more than once.

Malfoy’s movements were fluid, gliding from one step to the other without break. Frustrated, Harry gave up watching his feet. It obviously wasn’t going to help. Reflexes that were nearly unbeatable on broomstick tangled in his head when his feet touched the ground. ‘Bastard,’ Harry fumed. ‘By the time I figure out what’s he’s doing, he’s doing something else!’ The key, obviously, was Malfoy’s movements.

Determination renewed, Harry focused on his rival. He tried not to let his knees and elbows do anything without his consent, but it was more difficult than he thought, and he gave up in short order. Unable to focus on himself and Malfoy, he narrowed his concentration. For the first time, he really let himself feel Malfoy’s hands at his waist, to see the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead and feel the heat rising off him. They’d been at it long enough that the air had lost its chill and less athletic people would have given up. Malfoy’s hair had fallen in his eyes again, and Harry’s was no better. The world focused down to movements and steps, shifts of weight and pressure that were barely perceptible even as close as they were. A slight shift left meant a step right, and the hand in his tightening meant a spin fast enough to take away what little breath he still had.

The reason Malfoy’s movements were so smooth was that he used his entire body. Once he knew what to look for, anyone trained by Oliver Wood couldn’t miss the signals he was being given. The first time Harry managed a step-change in time, he grinned. Malfoy sneered at him, but didn’t achieve his usual level of unpleasantness.

They forgot the music as they danced, robes spreading like smooth black wings with every turn and dip. At once point, Malfoy even picked Harry up by the waist and spun them. He set him down with footwork so complex that it set Harry to clinging, pressed tight to Malfoy’s front in an attempt to stay on his feet. Being pressed close made the steps easier to follow, so Harry stayed there, glaring up at the taller boy. He battled for the lead, stealing it more than once only to have it snatched back. Malfoy’s chest against his heaved as they pushed on with their last bit of strength.

When the end came, it caught them both by surprise. In their focus on each other, they had let themselves drift away from the center. Neither boy saw the slight rise of the paving stones lining the gravel walkway until they tripped, tumbling down in a mess of adolescent limbs and ankle-long robes. Harry had just enough warning to grab Malfoy tighter as they fell, twisting so he hit the freezing cold snow bank first with Malfoy’s weight crushing him a quarter-second later.

Their robes tangled around them they fought to free themselves from the icy cushion. Malfoy kneeled between Harry’s legs while Harry scrambled backward into the rosebushes, adjusting his glasses on his nose and shaking the glittering ice crystals from his hair. When he could see again, Harry had to yank his eyes away from Malfoy. Even sweaty, mussed and covered in magical snow, Malfoy was at home in his evening wear. ‘It’s not fair.’

"I think it’s a tie," he blurted, unnerved by how close Malfoy was.

"I think you’re right." Calculating eyes framed by pale lashes locked on Harry’s, and he squirmed. "What’s your forfeit?"

"What?" The snow stayed frozen against Harry’s overheated skin rather than melting, a strange sensation that only made the moment more surreal. "I thought— a tie means neither of us win!"

"It means both of us win," Malfoy dismissed with a small smirk and a flick of his fingers. "Never let it be said that I backed down from you. Name it, Potter."

Malfoy showed no inclination to move, and Harry’s interest in pushing deeper into the mound of snow decreased with every flake that traveled down the back of his neck. "I…" Absolutely nothing came to mind, and the intensity of Malfoy’s stare twisted his stomach too much to help. It vibrated down in his bones, like strong magic strung sideways. "I— the Tournament!" He grabbed the idea with both hands and a foot. "Don’t interfere with the Tournament. Don’t sabotage it or— or anything!"

Malfoy blinked, disconcerted for the first time that night. "Is that all?" Harry nodded. "Done then."

They sat there in the cold, Harry growing more nervous and more frozen by the minute. Malfoy’s expression was not unlike that of the Hungarian Horntail when it had him pinned on the roof. Finally he couldn’t take the silence anymore. "Well? What’s yours?" Harry braced himself for the answer, fully expecting to hear something ghastly, like going back to the ball naked.

He never expected Malfoy to lean forward and press their lips together.

Harry stiffened, eyes going wide behind his glasses. Shock sent a gibbering panic through his system, screaming in bloody tones that something was fundamentally wrong with the universe and soon Hogwarts was going to be made of ice mice and sherbets if he didn’t stop right now. But Malfoy’s lips were soft and dry and chapped from the cold, and Harry kissed back before panic could completely take over.

By the time Malfoy pulled away, Harry was certain that someone had hit him with the Jelly Legs curse, and hope of escaping whatever the blond had planned next had mixed with the butterflies in his stomach and threatened to fly out his throat. His lips tingled; a reminder of what had put him in that position.

Malfoy stood and brushed the snow off. Harry craned his neck upwards to watch him. His head filled with static, every thought waiting for a kick. Or worse, a laugh. At least it would put them back on familiar ground, and Harry’s taffy-coated brain welcomed familiar ground with a wide-eyed first-kiss haze.

"Thanks for the dance." Shoes grating on the path, Malfoy turned and left.

It took a half hour for Harry to get his legs backing in working order, but his brain dug in behind barricaded of shocked giddiness and refused to come back on-line. Various bits were going numb from the cold, but moving didn’t seem worth the trouble, since there were high odds of meeting Malfoy no matter where he went.

Ron rescued him before frostbite had a chance to set in. "What happened to you?" The redhead appeared in Harry’s field of vision, cheeks and nose almost matching his hair from the cold.

"I tripped." Harry’s smile lacked cheer around the edges. "Could use a hand."

His best friend pulled him to his feet, and helped support him when he wobbled. "You’re frozen solid mate," he announced to the world. "Let’s get you inside. Malfoy and Snape have gone to bed, so we’ve only to put up with Krum. And there’s food."

Harry listened as Ron launched into a long assault on Krum’s character, and resolved to put Malfoy from his mind for the rest of the ball.

Even if he could still taste him on his lips.