I Hope You Dance

The idea is somehow based on this philosophy: A Life Filled With Love Has Many Thorns But A Life Without Love Has No Roses. (If anyone knows where I would have read this please tell me)

Summary: Draco Malfoy is a ballroom dancer on the second floor. Harry Potter is a street dancer on the first floor. Their worlds collide and a bitter rivalry resurfaces. Can the harsh realities of the outside world crashing around them overcome their petty hatred and show them that different worlds can be beautiful too?

A/N: My new WiP which I probably shouldn't be starting but felt I needed to do while the inspiration and mood took me, I actually like this one as well. So please review as well, I'm not sure about the response I'm going to get for it and I want to know if it's worth continuing.

Warnings: abuse, language, future slash, violence…more may be added later.

Rating: M

Word: 2899

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters only the situation. This disclaimer will not be repeated.

Chapter 1

The central staircase of Pure Air Dance Centre was a bland, whitewashed tower of cement and steel, icy cold and sharp much like its owner. The disease that was graffiti had not spread across there walls as it had the rest of the town, quite possibly because the miscreants responsible were too scared of being caught.

The ground floor was a simple space occupied by an oversized reception desk that never had a receptionist and a small café in the corner called Silver Wing. This café had lived seen many things whilst in business in the building, from the rise of legendary dancers to the injuries that would go down in history to the pure joy that came with the movement that was dance.

The first floor was an unexpected explosion of colour. The current tenants were constantly being threatened by the owner but never-the-less the little, personal rebellion continued with a bombardment of clashing rainbows. The present tenants had decorated the spacious room a flushed crimson scattered with golden crystals. The white dance floor was always polished and the floor to ceiling mirrors were always gleaming.

In one corner a hoard of bloated pillows and bouncing mattresses were harboured and in another a small fridge that was constantly stocked, sat next to the central sound system, which was adequate enough to pump loud base through the surround sound speakers, making the entire building vibrate.

This first floor was rented by a small group of what the owner labelled 'miscreants' and were not at all liked but, much to said owners displeasure, as long as they paid the required rent on time and did not cause trouble there was no reason for them to be chucked out and said owner would not put it past them to sue him momentarily.

The next floor up was used by the owner's son himself, along with his well respected friends. Unlike the scoundrels on the floor below, these teenagers did not spend their time rolling on the floor. They practised the graceful art of ballroom dancing. The whole building had once been dedicated to this practise but, with the changing community, it became clear that the income would be too low if things carried on as such, and so, now only the second floor was devoted to the specific dance style.

The room itself, open plan as with the floor below, was a majestic green, the arches of the ceiling a shining silver entwined with a waterfall of black basalt. The ashen chandelier was an almost clear silver that swept down filling the room with a heavenly light through the dark hours when the floor to ceiling window that ran along the western wall was not lit by the sun. The floor was a polished marble, which resulted in the steady tap of shoes keeping a firm beat as the occupants danced. With the exception of the emerald door, the other three walls were covered in the reflective mirrors that helped the result of perfection along the way.

The building held many secrets besides its unexpectedly grand interior. It was a place where a person could escape from the expectations that were hefted on their shoulders from a young age. It was a place the judgements of society did not reach and a person could be completely oneself. It was a place where the poverty of the outside world did not reach its darkened arms. It was a place for the outcasts, the lost, the poor and the abused.

Harry Potter landed on the cold floor hard. If he had had more energy he would have winced. When he arrived home from his part time job at the library, he had not expected his Uncle to be so mad. From the smell of his breath he could tell it was probably the alcohol controlling his actions and not his mind. Events such as these happened often and Harry had grown used to them. Once his Uncle had finished with him, he usually stumbled over to the dance centre to nurse himself back to relative health amongst the welcoming comfort of the ocean of cushions, calmed by the graceless flushes of orchestral strings from the floor above and the setting sun embracing the room around him.

A sharp snap to his right alerted Harry of his current situation, shattering any illusions of escape and snatching him back to the harsh present. He just had time to grasp a soft material with his flailing fingers before unforgiving leather cracked down onto his skin. He doubted anyone knew as well as he did just how thin the material of a shirt was, or how painful such a mundane object of leather and cool metal could be.

His next hours were spent huddled in a corner, attempting to make his fragile body as small as was humanly possible. His Uncle was as ruthless as ever, perhaps even more so due to the stench of Whiskey that was rolling off his voluminous body. After finding his trousers were having trouble remaining around his waist without the help of the black leather, he rethreaded it and degraded himself to using the brute force of his fists and feet against his poor, innocent victim. It was at this time that, despite the raging voice climaxing in an inferno of insults, his eyes began to droop. A fat man can have only so much energy before his burdened body begins to protest. This was that time and soon after, with a final satisfying kick to his nephew's gut, he collapsed in a heap on the ugly, puce coloured sofa in the living room.

Harry, despite the back breaking, gut wrenching pain it brought him, wasted not a moment as he scrambled towards the door and threw himself out into the street, afraid his Uncle might decide he was not quite ready to enter his land of dreams yet and return. With these thoughts, Harry began his battle of resilience against his body and started along the pavement. Every hesitant step jarred his already bruising back. He clenched his fist determinedly, he had been through worse than this, he would manage.

The cement tower was the same as always when he reached it; unforgiving and unwelcoming but to Harry it looked like the gateway to a hidden paradise, and in a sense it was. One more flight of stairs and he could give himself in to the peace his body craved and screamed for, that blackness that brought with it healing and tranquillity. The doors swung open easily in front of him, and within the stairway he clutched at the handrail as if it were a lifeline. Each lift felt like a mile high, his foot heavy at the end of his weakening limbs. Several times he needed to pause to catch his breath and he gulped loudly at the sound of his own rasping gasps as they echoed deafeningly, surrounding him, tormenting him. He continued on his journey, resolutely ignoring them.

He struggled with the broad doors to the first floor studio but admitted to himself, as he shuffled through, that never in his experience of coming to this shelter had he been more grateful that no one was practising that evening. Moments later, he sank into the welcoming embrace of the feathered materials on the other side of the room. Despite the many times this had happened, he had never been more thankful they had raised funds for this little corner, each chipping in a quarter of their wages each month until they were satisfied, 'money well spent,' he thought as he drifted off into the swirling black depths, which would soon burst with colour as dreams filling his sleeping vision and he would be dancing again.

Draco Malfoy had been raised to acknowledge any partners he took in life, be they partners of business, dance, friendship or romance. He had been taught that if one was to reap every possible benefit from a partnership, one needed to find said partners soft, weaker points and use them to his advantage as well as accepting any offered comforts freely. His Godfather had once used a silly allegory of a peach that he was always reminded of when his thoughts travelled down this route. A peach's soft skin was juicy and weak, much nutrition could be stolen from it without confrontation or force but underneath this exterior is a hard stone that, although not edible, was often a useful ingredient in many medical cures. Everyone had hidden secrets below the surface of their skin, if one could find these secrets they could use them, no matter how worthless they appeared at first glance, to one's own advantage.

It was with this belief that Draco Malfoy went about all his relationships, analysing and questioning everything the other person acted upon or spoke of, attempting to find their hidden stones. In fact, he ad been doing it for so long that he often forgot he was even doing it. The process became a subconscious thing, a second nature, something of which he - and his father - were exceedingly proud.

His current dance partner was a pug nosed girl with whom he had been tentative friends for several years by the name of Pansy Parkinson. Her father was a governor within the county, as was his own father, and to increase interfamily support his father had instructed him to befriend her, well, his exact words had been something more along the lines of, 'Keep her restrained, Draco, she will not run rampant and ruin my plans for the partnership of our families' but with the help of his godfather, Draco had translated that to mean, 'keep an eye on her by pretending to be her trusted acquaintance.' As it turned out, she was actually a relatively pleasant girl. Although there was nothing genuine about her character at all, Draco would never have expected less from one born to a house high in society. They became companions quickly, enjoying the refreshing and intelligent banter they often engaged in or the quiet while they went about their studies. They would never trust each other nor would they ever become true friends, but society demanded they put up a united front, as did their fathers. They formed a tentative friendship over the three years they had known each other and both knew the relationship would never form further bonds but were content to leave it as it was.

The sun was just beginning to set when they paused for breath, shedding golden and rose rays across the room from the distant horizon through the window. It was in this light that Draco flicked a strand of ashen, sweat soaked hair from his eyes and shed his waistcoat, undoing the small buttons at his cuffs and rolling the sleeves of his fitted shirt to his elbows. Across the glowing room, he caught sight of Pansy stretching and massaging her sour feet through her light, heeled shoes. It would never cease to amaze him how she managed to avoid blisters and other such blemishes.

A huff came from his right and he glanced to the side, noticing Daphne Greengrass for the first time. He had thought she had left some time ago with Blaise. The Zabini was Draco's one true friend and one of the select few that he trusted, certainly the only one in their own age group. They had grown up together from the tender age of three. It had started when Blaise had stolen the last swing in the park, which of course Draco also wanted. The partially Italian blooded boy had looked at him with dark eyes and offered him the swing but in return he wanted to play with the dinosaur the pale boy was carrying. They had ended up playing together, entangled on the swing, half fighting, half re-enacting the demise of the noble beasts. From that moment they spent mostly every day in each other's company. Fifteen years later and they were still the best of friends, wrapped in their own little bubble, truly understanding each other to the fullest and sharing every secret. If people of partnerships were peaches, Draco had once told his godfather whilst attempting to explain the dynamics of their relationship, then Blaise was a translucent grape to him just as he was to Blaise. His godfather had scowled and turned back to his healing remedies, no less perplexed over the odd relationship than when the conversation began.

Daphne Greengrass, for her part, was a fine dancer and a diplomat of only slightly above average intelligence. Draco had only known her for a short time but they communicated well, meaning she seemed to take the hint from him that if she stayed out from under his feet he would leave her be. She was Blaise's dance partner and, although displeased to begin with, they had grown to understand each other even if only a little. They did not communicate socially whilst practising let alone outside of the studio, but despite their lack of knowledge and comradeship where the other was concerned they had the grace of swans together on the dance floor. A near perfect partnership if ever there was one.

Draco himself was, like Blaise, an excellent dancer, and Pansy could not be faulted, but their own partnership lacked something. Draco could never put his finger on what it was, perhaps the lack of passion or the transience of the emotions that were needed, either way, their partnership on the dance floor, although technically perfect, was left wanting.

Daphne huffed again, shuffling on the emerald armchair on which she was currently sitting. It occurred to Draco suddenly that Blaise had never said farewell.

"Where did Blaise disappear to?"

"Zabini has decided that the urinals are more interesting than my company apparently. He deserted our practise almost an hour ago and has not returned. Was he never taught that it's rude to keep a lady waiting?" She continued to speak in this way as Draco turned from her abruptly and made his way to an unobtrusive, grey door in one corner of the room. Inside the small waiting room, which was barely big enough to fit three people, Draco opened the door to the right as opposed to the one opposite and stepped into the male toilets. His eyes widened comically at the sight that met him.

Blaise Zabini was squatting atop a toilet on one foot, while the other was smashed through the paper thin wall of the stall and dangling dangerously above the gaping mouth of the bowl. His hands were preoccupied, one holding a flimsy looking pipe while the other was repeatedly flapping weakly at the tank of the loo as if loosely protesting that, no, it should not be spraying water into his face. His dark features were scrunched against the onslaught of water and his mouth hung open as if in a silent snarl and a promise of revenge.

Draco did not know what made him do it and if anyone asked he would only be able to call it pure good luck and a strange intuition in the pit of his stomach, but he followed some unspoken instinct and back out of the room, propping the door closed as he went. It was as he was gently shutting the outer door into the main studio and turning to answer the immediate question from Pansy that they heard the loud clank. Draco gulped and stepped from the door as an angry bellow echoed from the bathroom and metal scraped against metal. One moment they were listening to the shrewd curses of their fellow dancer and the next they were hastily retreating as water flooded under the closed door, swamping the expensive floor and sloshing up against the walls. When the door banged open, slamming against the wall on its hinges, a very angry, very wet Blaise Zabini stood framed in the doorway scowling darkly at them, daring them to say a word.

"The fucking pipe broke," was all the explanation he gave before he strode to the emerald door, his head held high and ignoring the embarrassing squelching beneath his feet that made his ears heat up beneath his black locks. Once he had disappeared from view, the three remaining occupants stared after him until Daphne Greengrass grew bored and grabbed her bag, turning to leave. Pansy mirrored her actions, pausing at the door to look back at her partner.

"I reckoned it was time we redecorated anyway," she said, a small smile lighting her face and a giggle escaping from between her thin lips. When the room was finally silent again except the low trickle of water from the pipe in the bathroom, Draco picked up his own possessions and made for the door, stopping from a moment to let lose a loud, hearty guffaw before disappearing from view.

R&R please and thank you.

Dark Raven 4426