“Do you want to dance?”
The abruptness of the statement caught Harry off-guard, it wasn’t a very well kept secret that he’d been blest with two left feet. Asking him to dance was akin to asking the Whomping Willow to hug you: synonymous with unbridled pain.
“Huh?” he said, putting his knack for verbosity on display for the world to see. Harry was obviously the live-in genius of Hogwarts.
Fleur didn’t seem to be all that annoyed, but one could never be sure. By one, he meant himself. Obviously. Fuck, he was scared.
“I asked whether you wanted to dance…?” She’d enunciated every word of the sentence, seemingly realising that the bloke in front of her was a little slow on the uptake.
“Dance?” Right, was it too late for him to stroll on over and usurp the Headmaster’s office? “With you?” No, genius. She had obviously been asking in lieu of Hagrid. “Me and you?”
“Yes,” she said slowly, “that is what the phrase ‘do you want to dance?’ means.”