Slow Dancing In a Burning Room: Aesop Sharp/Reader One Shot
This one is for the wonderful @heyitslorraine and is inspired by their incredible artwork. Please do check it out and give it all the love!
Slow Dancing In a Burning Room
“It’s the Yule Ball next week.” You look up over the potion you are brewing to gaze over at Professor Sharp. He is sitting at his desk as usual, scratching his quill menacingly over third-year essays. God help the poor things…
This has become a routine of yours. Sharp sits and marks his essays until late every Friday evening, and you keep him company replenishing your potions stocks ahead of a weekend usually spent running around disbanding poacher camps. Much to Sharp’s disdain. He doesn’t approve of your extra-curricular activities…
He sighs dramatically. “Yes, I am well aware of the upcoming festivities - in large part because the levels of general nonsense in the castle appear to have increased ten fold. I have the amortentia under lock and key…”
You smile at the classically grouchy response, which could never fully smother the grudging affection in his tone.
“It’s my first one. I’m not really sure what to expect.”
“It’ll be like any other dance. The Great Hall will be gaudy and filled with a bunch of awkward teenagers tripping over their dates in an attempt to perform the Waltz. And I will have to be on duty all evening to ensure Garreth Weasley does not spike the punch.”
“Oh god,” you groan, dropping your head into your hands. “No one told me there was a Waltz! How on earth am I supposed to learn that in time? I’m going to make an absolute fool of myself, it’s guaranteed.”
“I’m sure Mr Sallow will not mind if you have two left feet.” Sharp shifts uncomfortably in his chair, “In fact, I think it’ll likely be the last thing on his mind…”
“I’m not going with Sebastian. He can barely stand to talk to me at the moment, so I think dancing is quite off the cards.” You instantly feel embarrassed at revealing too much. You move to stand, clearing your potions station and putting ingredients back in their storage containers in an attempt to deflect.
“So if you’re not going with Mr Sallow, why are you so keen to attend?”
Your back is turned to Sharp, and you are grateful not to have to face him. So he can’t see the vulnerability he would find in your expression.
“It’s silly. I guess I just wanted to have one evening to be normal. Enjoy a dance with my friends, dress up so I’m not caked in mud for once, and not have to worry about Ancient Magic and all my responsibilities.”
Sharp didn’t speak for a long moment, and you could hardly bear the taut silence that pulsed between you.
“You know, I used to be quite the dancer back in my day.” His voice was impossibly soft and quiet. You turn to look at him, to find he is studying you with an intensity that was almost too much.
“My mother insisted I have lessons so I could woo my potential future wife one day. This blasted leg has somewhat got in the way of that plan,” he laughs but you can feel the pain lingering at the surface, “but I think I still know enough of the basics that I could teach you. If you would like,” he adds. Gifting you an out, making it your choice.
“You’d do that for me, sir?”
“For you? I think I could be persuaded.” He gets up from his chair, pressing his fingers into the injured muscles around his thigh as if he were preparing or stubbornly insisting that they work for him. He reaches down to his boots too and tightens their hold, tapping his wand to the buckles to brace them somehow.
With another wave of his wand, he moves the tables and desks to one side to create a make-shift dance floor, and a gramophone has flown into the room. It sputters with dust before whirring to life with a classical melody you don’t recognise.
“Now, the most important thing is to listen to your partner. To the way they move. They will be directing you, and you must follow.” Sharp moves towards you and raises his arms, gesturing for you to join him in hold.
When you get close enough he joins your hands together, and you swear you feel a shiver skitter its way up your arm. He takes your other hand and places it on the crook of his elbow, and you stare at where your fingers are laced, utterly transfixed.
“Once you become accustomed to the pattern it’s really very simple. It is essentially a box step to the count of three. See…” Sharp moves forward with you in his hold, closing the gap between your bodies as he does so. You feel every button of his shirt and every line of muscle press against your front and take in a shuddering breath.
You don’t know how, but eventually you find yourself responding to his moves. You step back when he presses forward, turn when he guides you, and though it is clumsy you feel like you may be able to get through the dance unscathed if your partner is at least half as competent as Sharp.
“You’re good at this. You’re a good teacher.”
“I would like to think so, though I don’t often hear such praise during my classes.”
“You’d be surprised. The students like you very much, even if they do find you a tad intimidating.”
“You’ve certainly never been intimidated by me.”
The music swirls, and it feels like this room and the two of you dancing may be the only thing in the world.
“I guess I feel like we understand each other.”
He spins you before pulling you back into his arms, and the motion leaves you gripping the front of his suit. He’s just so close, and you can smell his cologne and feel his heart beating. It’s too much, and not enough all at once.
He’s looking down at you with those dark, dark eyes and you feel like a doe caught in a hunters’ sights. You know you should run. That this is a dangerous line. But you can’t seem to turn away.
Your eyes flutter close as he leans down. You can feel his breath against your cheek as he pulls you towards him, and just as you think you’re about to feel the press of his lips against yours he stops.
“We can’t…” he murmurs against the corner of your mouth. The ghost of his lips pressed against the skin there.
“You know why.” He squeezes you where you still stood cradled in his arms, as if he were trying to press the memory of your body on his into his soul, before he abruptly stands back and puts distance between you.
He bows deeply to you, and places a kiss to your hand where he is still holding it.
“As is customary when dancing with a lovely partner. Goodnight.”
And with one last devastating, longing look Sharp leaves the room without another word. And you sit there wondering if he’s ever going to come back and return your heart to you.
As someone with first hand experience with torture, Aesop Sharp didn’t think anything could feel worse than the Cruciatus Curse. But seeing you, draped in a swirl of emerald silk moving across the dance floor wonderfully with Mr Gaunt, surely comes close.
Taking a deep sigh, he takes a swig from the flask he confiscated off of Gareth Weasley earlier today. The burn of Firewhiskey helps to take the edge off.
He hasn’t stopped thinking about how it felt having you in his arms. So small and delicate despite being such a fierce fighter. God, how he had wanted to kiss you and just keep kissing you until you both forgot who you were and why it couldn’t be.
He looks out from his position at the back of the Hall and finds that you’re staring right at him. Your expression is loaded with something that looks like a mix of longing and hurt, and that almost floors him.
He watches as you turn and swiftly make your way out of the Hall towards the dark courtyard beyond, turning to give him a pointed look before walking out into the night.
Sharp follows, slipping out into the darkness.
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