For: Mary
Why: Because she wanted it, because I am an obedient wifey and because everyone needs a little slashiness when they're on holiday.
Title: Rumour is a Marvellous Thing
Pairing: Harry x Draco
Setting: The Potter Mansion, Fifth Anniversary Celebration Party.
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The room was so beautiful it should have been illegal.
Cut glass flutes chinked under cut glass chandeliers, golden candles shimmering against the vaulted ceiling, the marble arches, the flitting Raphaelite cherubs dancing in the eaves, each enchanted to seem so real that one's mouth hung open to look on them.
Not that anyone did, of course; hanging mouths were for the common folk.
Here mouths simply pursed and primped and sipped champagne.
And gossiped. Naturally.
As the throng grew, the mouths twisted anxiously, speaking only in small spiteful titbits; her dress was awful…he needed a new tailor… she was plainly not his wife…
Etc, etc.
Things began to grow a little tense. Manicured nails plucked up hors d'œuvres with undignified haste, diamond-linked cuffs were tugged at, bat-lashed eyes flicked from face to face, looking for prey with increasing agitation.
But then, with a swish of magnificent mahogany doors, he arrived.
Him. The Main Course.
Mal Foy.
The name split across a dozen lips as a brilliant blonde head made its way through the crowd. It carried an echo, like a prayer in a dark dungeon; tasting of shadows and smoke and age. Francophiles savoured the first syllable with glee. The mouths leered.
Delicious.
He shouldn't be here. Some murmured behind elegant hands.
He was invited, Contested others, voices treading the line between engaging surprise and contrived horror.
Eyes flew to the boy like stylish moths; darting curiously over the curves of his elegant suit, his carefully smoothed hair, the emerald tie fastened easily at his throat. He had certainly grown well, many admitted (with some disappointment). Had it not been for his history, one would have considered him a catch for anyone young and up and coming.
Had it not been for his history.
Heads leaned a little closer. Voices lowered to a conspiratorial hum.
Everyone knew what had happened to the House of Malfoy after the demise of He Who Must Still Not Be Named; the rumours, the scandal, the…messy…investigation into house and heritage, not to mention the upturning of the long-unmonitored family vaults. Anyone who was anyone had heard of the family's proximity to the wrong side of the wizarding war. The story had been on the front page of the Prophet, and a lot more besides in less reputable columns (Reeta Skeeter had made quite a comeback at their expense, in fact.).
That Harry Potter had chosen to invite such a one to such an important gathering, to his own home, no less…well! It ruffled several luxurious feathers.
To say the least.
Malfoy was still travelling through the throng. Hands rose out of the crowd to pat his shoulder, squeeze his forearm, or to wrap around his neck in a woman's greeting embrace. A hundred pairs of eyes followed his stride; smooth and pale as a snow leopard. He had grown tall; a head above much of the throng. What they saw of him; high cheekbones, piercing eyes, that trademark alabaster complexion, seemed unaware of any scrutiny. If anything, he appeared relaxed, moving from gathering to gathering like any other guest enjoying the party.
A more eagle-eyed observer would notice that, though he talked readily, he seemed a little detached, glancing over heads and along the walls as though looking for a specific face.
Look how he spurns conversation. The bluntest mouths hissed to whoever would listen. Look how quickly he forgets his position.
The Silver Slytherin tongue. Another said ruefully, as though it explained everything. He could charm a grindylow's grip from his neck, I do not doubt.
The question hung unasked.
How did the boy get an invitation?
…had he somehow charmed the great Harry Potter?
A few rueful smiles. Such a rumour may have been appealingly sensational, but as it concerned a boy who had outwitted the most dangerous dark wizard of the age, even the most loose-tongued had to set it aside as highly unlikely.
Whatever the case may be with the Malfoy, Potter was their darling, the Chosen One, the Golden Boy of their nation; indeed, of the entire Wizarding world. Everyone loved him. It was the thing to do these days.
Thus, they could forgive this 'unusual' acquaintance, as they had forgiven his previous…associations. His transgressions of the silent rules that interlink friendship and fame. He had the Weasley Family as close confidantes after all (such a shame about their losses in the war, but still…). Hermione Granger, in contrast, a current candidate for Ministress of Magic, had become entirely respectable in their circles, so perhaps the 'Golden Boy' had a certain 'Midas touch'.
White teeth flashed around sociable smiles.
Nevertheless, the Malfoy heir was a different matter. He was not a pureblood family grown coarse and heroic through over-breeding. Neither was he a genius muggle-born who had won her way through grit and SPUC badges. He was one of the Fallen Ones, with a broken home and a broken name, though (it had to be said) a far from broken wallet.
Yes, yes; apparently the boy had discovered some talent in the Wizarding Stocks. A considerable one, in fact. After the fall of his unfortunate father (several mouths tsked politely at this) the Malfoy fortune had actually doubled. One could almost say the once- crooked name had changed its ways.
This raised a few perfectly plucked brows.
Of course, not entirely; the current gossiper retracted in horror, a nervous sweat bringing sheen to a neat moustache, or perhaps a slight blush to a carefully made-up cheek. Never entirely.
The bad marks never fade, you know.
Across the room, it appeared that the Malfoy heir had found the subject of his search. A cool smile altered the elegant planes of his face and a much warmer fire lit and flickered behind his ghost-grey eyes. The observing eyes turned as one to follow his gaze, its subject sending another verbal flurry through their ranks.
Harry Potter had entered the room.
Unlike with the Malfoy, the eyes that swept over Harry were far easier with their praise. They marked out the strong jaw, the dark hair (as wild as ever if slightly more styled), the taut Seeker's body kept honed by his spot in the prestigious Bosham Banshees…
Five years had scrubbed away any gangly teenage awkwardness. The throng gathered around their host like dust motes do a window pane, spinning in his radiance. Harry moved without a hint of haste, kissing cheeks, shaking hands and taking compliments on everything from the food to the venue to his attire (custom made by the up-and-coming designer -and personal friend- Fleur Delacœur no doubt) as easily as he breathed. Though carefully hidden, an observer from above would have noticed that his path was surprisingly direct; straight across the throng to the very centre, where a tall blonde man with shining eyes stood watching him.
The Boy Who Lived Twice, despite his acquired social airs, was famous for his reluctance to throw a party. Even now, at the fifth year anniversary of his defeat of the Fallen Dark Lord, there were whispers of his unwillingness. A rumour in Witch Weekly had said that he would not attend at all; something which had been circling quickly through the crowd short moments before; Harry Potter had arrived a good half an hour late and, by the look of his smile, had been planning to do so.
Almost as though he had been waiting for something.
The eyes flicked back to the Malfoy as Harry finally reached him. The former was smiling calmly, showing no hint that he had been waiting for the latter's arrival. Harry's face was a little more expressive; those who were nearest could read flashes of guilt beneath the teasing humour of his smile.
If the bright answering grin was anything to go by, everything was already forgiven.
The two men drew together, clasping hands in a motion they had gone through with a myriad of guests already. A few breaths were unbated. Then, with an impatient roll of his eyes, Harry laughed and pulled Draco close into a hug. It was still strong, masculine, but the more observant did not fail to notice how the Malfoy's slender hands curled around his friend's waist, or how his fingers burrowed into the pleats of that expensive dinner jacket.
Perhaps Harry Potter had not been waiting for something after all,
But someone.
A definite pause rippled through the gossipers. Red lips extracted themselves from delicate canapés, or stilled, half-agape, below bright and expectant eyes.
The well-worn whisper returned about how the Golden Boy had remained so curiously single, despite the five years since the fall of You-Know-Who. Wives and children had been expected almost immediately, or at least serious and glamorous girlfriends; the boy had been twenty years of age, after all, and had been linked to the fiery beauty that had been Miss Weasley (now Mrs Finnegan) many times.
Strangely, though, all associations had fizzled out with the end of that particular relationship. Under questioning, Miss Weasley had simply said that they had 'chosen different paths' and absolutely refused to elaborate. Time and other scandals had swept this story under the rug, but small moments like this were ample sparks to rekindle rumour's flames.
The men in question, however, provided no more fuel for the fire. Instead they mingled together, flanked by the Auror Ronald Weasley and his fiancée Ms Granger. For the rest of the evening they talked and ate and laughed with everyone else, as good friends, nothing more. They danced only once with each other and to a song with a tempo too quick to be romantic (though their embrace, it must be said, was rather close).
Only towards the end of the evening, when many of the gossiping mouths were slurring after too much champagne, did Harry Potter take his 'friend' softly by the arm. A look flashed between them, quick as any long-practiced cipher. The smile on Malfoy's lips could have illuminated twenty rooms. Together, they made their excuses and walked evenly out of the main dancing circle and into the shade of the pillars at the ballroom's edge. Here, gentle obscuro spells had already been cast, to conceal those partygoers wishing for privacy beneath a shimmering gold veil. No one noticed the slight thickening of the veil as the two men walked through it, or the fact that the thickening vanished their shapes completely, from the view of even the most hawk-eyed observer.
No one saw them go, no one heard them nor noticed their absence, as they slipped beneath the glimmering gold both men's faces split into giddy smiles, as wicked as any they'd had as schoolboys.
"Did we do it?" Draco whispered, his voice velvet, shot with sparks of glee. "Did we survive?" Harry didn't bother to reply, instead he looped his arm around the other man's waist and scooped their bodies, and lips, together. The resulting groan was lost instantly in the glittering haven which hid them. Hands wandered through hair, traced a slender spine, fisted beneath jackets and against thin shirts which were still far, far too thick to come between them. Moments passed and their kisses slowed to an easy grace, lingering as though each moment apart was painful. They fitted perfectly, Draco's head inclined only slightly as his lips met Harry's. Silver on gold. Gold on silver.
"You…you look so…" Harry's words ran dry, instead he tugged Draco up into another sweeping kiss; long and deep and sweet enough for both of their heads to reel and their bodies to long for somewhere slightly less…exposed. Harry's hand was wide and warm as it curled in the tiny hairs at the back of Draco's neck, sending shivers down both their spines as it moved across his collar and down to the row of pearl buttons on his shirt.
"Do I now?" Draco asked archly as he came up for air.
"Yes." Harry chucked against his lips. "You really, really do."
A long-fingered hand reached down to enclose Harry's. For a heated second, it looked as though it would press the other closer, like a token to a lover's chest, but instead it pried Harry's hand free of the buttons, lifting it up instead to be kissed by a pair of slim pink lips.
"Later." Draco murmured, hiding a smile "I have it on good authority that Miss Granger has spent months perfecting your five-year anniversary party as hero of our realm. I have also been informed that, should I attempt to ruin it, she will string me up like a Christmas chicken."
A smile curled Harry's lips.
"Oh really? I might like to see that."
Another long kiss. Again, it was Draco who pulled free.
"Would you now? Perhaps I can have something…similar…arranged for our own fifth anniversary?" Green eyes sparkled wickedly.
"I always have enjoyed white meat." Draco's nose wrinkled.
"That was vulgar, Potter."
"And you expect nothing less, Malfoy." Harry held out his arm. "Care for one more dance?" A lithe arm linked itself with his.
"Thought you were never going to ask."
They stepped out together, arm in arm, leaning on each other. As expected, the room was empty now. The few house-elves (free ones, of course), who had arrived early to clear up vanished in soft puffs as their employers stepped out into the dancers' ring. Harry waved a hand into a corner and music began to play a soft, elegant strain; not quite a waltz but enough to bring them close again beneath the cherubs and the chandelier, bathed in the fading glimmer of an evening well spent.
Draco laid his head on Harry's shoulder, a gesture of trust only shown when they were completely alone.
"Did you hear them tonight?" he murmured "All those stupid whispers about my name, my family…they think I charmed you, you know. With my silver Slytherin tongue."
Harry only laughed.
"You did charm me." He said, his voice rumbling in his chest. "In a way. And, believe me, I have no complaints about your silver Slytherin tongue." Draco lifted his head in disdain.
"You really are talking like a scandalmongerer this evening, aren't you?"
"And why not? You always said that we've been playing a 'fame game' for these past few years, keeping all this, keeping us…" here he gave Draco's waist another squeeze "…secret. Why not bend the rules now and again?"
"Because I got that phrase out of some daft Muggle magazine. And, I was joking, remember?"
"Oh lighten up." Harry said, kissing the corners of Draco's mouth until he smiled despite himself. "It's not as though we gave them any concrete evidence; think of it as a few parting party gifts to nibble on, as a thank you for coming. A little bit of talk keeps everyone entertained." He smiled at Draco again, clasping his hand as Draco lead them around another turn in the dance.
"Rumour is a marvellous thing."
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My Gosh, this is the first Harry Potter fanfiction I've ever written! :-O
Let me know what you think guys...? Chocolate Frog for all those who click 'review'!