HD 'Pharo' Parts 3-7
Three: Carte Anglaise (Introducing Mr. Harry Potter, the Hero)
Mister Harry Potter was to be found at Gentleman Jackson's on a Friday afternoon, on Bond Street, engaging in a bout with his good friend, the Honourable Ronald Weasley. This fine May day, the two pummeled one another with a certain exacting science, collecting a ring of admirers, until finally a dirty white rag was thrown in the ring by Master Weasley's groom-cum-trainer, Mr. Finnegan.
"Tha's enough now, boy-o," he cried out to the Honourable Ronald. 'You're all over bloody on yer beak. Your Mum'll be right arsed w'you, getting all mumpsy-like."
"Oh, now, Seamus, my man, I'm more than good for another go," the Honourable Ronald protested. "You, Harry?"
"Oh? Er, no, actually. I've an urgent appointment. 'Pologies, Ronald, but you know how it is," Mr. Potter replied, ambling easily from the sanded square that did double duty as a practise ring and a betting arena on certain nights of the week.
"Oh, I see," the Honourable Ronald drawled, nodding, with a long slow drop of a milk-pale eyelid over a fiery blue eye. Like all the Weasleys—and there was a bounteous assortment to chose from—the Hon. Ronald was ginger-haired and quite tall and broad once he'd reached his majority. "M'sister's expecting you, eh, Potter? Best hurry off then; our little spitfire doesn't like to be kept waiting. The Park, then?"
"Er, no, Ron," Potter replied, buttoning up his shirt and settling the high points of his collar, "not a'tall. Something else I've on—a gentleman's wager."
"Oh, is it, Harry?" the Hon. Ronald perked up as he, too, repaired his fashion. His clothing was not quite of the same quality as Potter's, given that Potter had bags of it to spend freely and of course the Weasleys did not, being legion, but it was more than acceptable for a younger son of a baron. "Anything I should be in on? Duelling, p'raps? Another broom race? Or are you trying out your hand at those Muggle curricles again?"
"Nothing of the sort, Ronald," Potter answered repressively, having been helped into his coat of green superfine by the deft hands of Seamus Finnegan. Frowning, he checked his boots for the sanctity of their polish, and fussed with his cravat. "Merely someone I've neglected to call upon. Duty requires it. And our wager that I wouldn't, of course."
"T'is likely another doxy," Finnegan chimed in, and, when the two gentlemen swiveled their respective heads to stare at him, aghast, he made haste to continue, "the female Muggle sort, of course, Mr. Ronald, Mr. Potter! Heavens forefend it t'were t'other!"
"Again, no, Seamus," Potter chuckled, "most definitely not a doxy, of any sort, but my thanks for the vote of confidence. I'll be off then, Ronald. Good day to you!"
"Oh, Harry! I say!" the Hon. Ronald cried out after him, throwing a staying paw out. "See you at Almack's this evening?"
Potter, nearly out the door and into the bustle of Bond Street, turned back for a brief moment, his face assuming a constipated air. "Er, p'raps, Ronald. We'll see."
"Oh, but-!"
The Honorable Ronald was quick to hop after Potter, though still attempting to jam one foot into a well-polished boot. He thumped along, until he fetched up at a confiding distance, elbowing aside newcomers to Jackson's Parlour with a flurry of 'pardons!'
"Harry, I most particularly wished to introduce to you Miss Granger, an…an acquaintance of mine! Mum's sponsoring her come-out, you know. Was rather counting on it, old man; do say you'll attend!"
"Ah…" Mr. Potter assumed a look of interested contemplation, regarding his oldest—or nearly oldest-friend. "Well, then," he sighed, at long last, "if you require it, Ronald, than I shall make every attempt to be present, at least to make a leg to your lady. My fondest regards to your mother, then—and your mysterious Miss Granger, of course!"
Potter was off with a quick wave, leaving a brilliantly flushed Honourable Ronald behind, striding purposefully down Bond Street. He'd a destination in mind and indeed, an appointment, but it wasn't a matter to be bruited about with the Hon. Ron, who'd definitely take Mr. Potter's appointment amiss.
No, this engagement was with none other than his eminence Viscount Malfoy, noted rake of the Wizarding Regency. The Weasleys and the Malfoys were not entente cordiale, sad to say. Long had simmered a volatile resentment between the Viscount, Mr. Potter's first acquaintance amongst Wizardkind prior to arriving at the Scots boarding school all three had attended, Hogwarts, and the Honorable Ronald Weasley, whom Harry had met and solidly befriended on the terribly long carriage ride to Scotland. But Mr. Potter's odd bonding with the haughty Viscount persisted through thick and thin, and, when the War had come to the Continent and Napoleon Bonaparte's forces had invaded Brussels, both young gentlemen had promptly followed the drum straight out of Muggle Oxford, the university they'd both chosen to attend after matriculation from good old Hogs.
Malfoy and Potter had both advanced the ranks rapidly, as well. The Viscount soon commanded a crack squadron of Auld Salazar's Green-and-Silvers, a noted broom cavalry, and Mr. Potter became a celebrated front-line duellist, as well as leading the Red-and-Gold Brigade, the crack division of Wellington's Wizarding forces. They often flew midnight sorties together, joining ranks to chivvy and herd Bonaparte's Muggles into safe capture, as well as performing various devastatingly deadly assaults upon the battalions of the opposing pro-Boney Wizards. Mr. Potter had even played court spy upon occasion. Indeed, had at one point been rescued from certain disaster by a careless voucher from the most redoubtable Lady Malfoy, a nodding acquaintance of the French Emperor's haughty Muggle consort, Marie-Louise.
The defeat of Bonaparte at Muggle battle of Waterloo had seen them both decorated for their bravery by a grateful Ministry and the Muggle Regent, and Harry Potter elevated firmly to the rank of Major, the only title he claimed. Long had the Potters been landed gentry, with a sprawling estate marching peaceably along the Welsh border, but never before had they claimed title, not even a barony. Nor wished to, as Mr. Potter had cheekily informed the Viscount numerous times, over years upon years, whenever the Viscount taunted him with it, milord's usual teasing mood being always the prevalent. "Far too much trouble," he'd claimed, and the Viscount had sneered, "Plebe!", as was his usual retort.
"Plain old Potter has finally come calling," the Viscount smirked nastily, as expected, when Mr. Potter Apparated abruptly into his Library a short period later that morning. "At last, and against all odds. Will wonders never cease?"
Major Potter cuffed the Viscount gently on his shiny locks, careful of his starched collar points, and took up the glass of Firewhisky the Viscount had ready at hand for him.
"You are, as always and ever, a rude old get, Malfoy," he chuckled, settling himself on the silk-cushioned divan. He examined his fingernails and then buffed them lightly on the breast of his cutaway morning coat. "And you owe me a pony. Now, what's this I hear tell about some chap stiffing your poor innocent papa at Pharo? That true?"
"Oh, he's lost it all—yet again, Potter," the Viscount huffed, features severe. He sloshed a dollop of the golden-brown spirit into another tumbler and downed a brief swallow. "Nothing out of the usual way," he added, shrugging in a more nonchalant manner, as was his way. Always played his cards close to his chest, did the Viscount, or so his admirers noted. "Of course...and why would this be in any way unusual, Potter? Maman had said at first she would join him in fleeing the horrors of Newgate, and then that she'd not countenance for a single moment deserting the country at the very start of the High Season, unless it's to repair to Town, so I know not what her game is, presently. Father has settled in nicely at Calais, meanwhile, in m'godfather's company, and stays as is his habit at the Rose and Garter, doubtless frolicking with the maidservants and grooms. A cloud in a cauldron, all this fiddle-faddle. Nothing more."
"You don't say, Malfoy," Harry Potter narrowed his green eyes at the elegant length of the Viscount, returned to lounging carelessly on the matching armchair across from him. "Then why go so far as to establish your Pharo-banque? You're aware the Ministry frowns upon such things?"
"Bosh and nonsense! All a wild rumour, Potter! There's no confirmation I've even got one."
The Viscount crossed to the finely carved escritoire that held the flagon of Firewhiskey, having paced away from it whilst he was speaking. Never still, his young lordship; another trait Mr. Potter knew all too well. He topped up his crystal tumbler and waved the decanter at Potter, who motioned away a refill with a short shake of his head.
"The Ministry knows nothing of my banque, Potter, in any road." the Viscount continued, having downed another half-glass with cool dispatch. "T'is naught but a hand of cards amongst friends to their blind eye. The Muggle Regent is the one I'm concerned with, and he is far from frowning, Harry, I assure you. Was in fact present in my parlour just last week, playing deep. Took a thousand of the Queen's Guineas off him in a heartbeat. And he smiled, Harry, all the while. Too rich, that."
"Draco," Potter also rose, and took the emptied glass from the Viscount's hand with a quick deft motion. "Draco, my old arse. Slow down, do."
The Viscount turned upon Mr. Potter a look of mild enquiry, but there was a wild gleam deep in his silvery eyes Potter knew all too well.
"Potter?"
The barely touched contents in Mr. Potter's glass barely sloshed as the old familiar visitor to Malfoy's townhome set it downupon the lacquered escritoire. He'd shedt his seemingly casual air of bonhomie altogether and become very grave of mien in the merest blink of an intent green eye.
"You're playing too deep a game," Mr. Potter stated plainly, a petulant frown building ferociously upon the planes of his features. "Call it off, Draco, there's a good fellow. Your Father will no doubt fleece some other less fortunate French lordling any day now and then all will be again right with the world. There's no need for this. You're taking risks that are entirely unnecessary...and I don't like it, not one bit!"
"Harry!"
Draco whirled on his heel, spinning away in a sudden tempest of fury, only to be fetch up straightway against Major Potter's broad chest. He thumped it firmly with a fist for emphasis.
"You don't understand, do you, you brainless dolt? And you don't know anywhere near the whole of it, Scarhead! I was refused by Bagshotte! Bagshotte the tailor, Harry! It was atrocious—Goyle was present and likely had it all over White's within the hour—"
"Now, Draco—you're doing it up much too brown! This for a shopkeep?"
"-an insult of great severity to my House, it is! It's not to be borne, Harry!" The Viscount ripped himself away again and began a much more rapid rate of pacing, his boot heels clacking briskly as he strode the parquetry floor of his Belgravia residence's Library. "Not to be borne. The damage is too high! What have I but my pride, Potter? Father has gambled away our dignity!"
Mr. Potter rocked back on his boot heels, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
"Hmmm. So, it's revenge, then, Draco? You plan to entice this unfortunate gentleman into your parlour for a bare-handed bout of pasteboard—all to settle up a pointless slight from your tailor? And piddling Vauxhall gossip that will pass away to naught in a matter of hours?"
"But, of course it's revenge, Potter!" the Viscount burst out. "Are you a fool? A sheep? An ass? Would you have allowed that to stand for even one instant, had it been you? Bagshotte, Potter! I think not, decidedly, and further, you interfering get, it's not just any old sharp who's fleeced Father's pockets! It's Lord Voldemort, and you well recall what was said of him during the War! This is for England's sake, Potter!"
"Voldemort, eh? Well, well, well..." Potter murmured, pausing his hand as it stroked his smooth-shaven chin. "Hadn't realized he'd dared to show his mug in Town during the High Season, not after the sad incident with that poor Muggle heiress," Potter mused, contemplatively, green eyes narrowed and turned to the innocuous view into Malfoy House's bank of Library windows. With casual elegance, he quietly resumed his seat on the settee, eyes gleaming a deep quiet forest-green. Milord Malfouy, released, stood and watched him, as quietly. "Any rises yet, Malfoy, or are you still casting the rod?'
"Oh, he bit, just last evening." The Viscount, his mercurial flash of temper having dissipated, deigned to some across the carpet and settle in beside Potter on the cushions. He sipped at his reclaimed, refilled whisky and smiled, ever so slowly, grey eyes darkening to a pleased pewter. "And was allowed to take away a paltry sum and my two third-best racing Thestrals, Potter. He'll return, I'm sure, for my next little soiree. LIkely on the morrow, I'd wager."
"Then, no callers this evening, Draco?" Potter once more removed the tumbler from the Viscount's white hand. The lace at their cuffs wove together briefly and the Viscount hastily cast his eyes upon it, apparently deep in private musings of his own. "No hands of cards between friends?" Mr. Potter prodded. "Nor prior engagements?"
"No…I am horridly free of all obligations, plain Potter," the Viscount murmured, having taken that moment to shift his weight imperceptibly closer, "and am bored to tears already. And you?"
"Almack's, to my eternal woe. The Honorable Ronald commands me," Potter revealed, allowing his arm to slide ever so gently around the Viscount's wide shoulders, only barely padded by Mr. Weston's minions. Malfoy was tugged a wee bit closer, and went, willingly enough, as he made no protest. "But that's not until eight, at the very earliest, Draco. I'm more than open to being amused in the interim."
"Are you, Plain Old Potter?" The Viscount, all at once sporting a faint flush to his cheeks, occupied his suddenly restless hands with deftly removing Mr. Potter's much-abused cravat in a business-lke fashion. "I see. And you've come to me for alleviation of your doldrums?"
He scowled suddenly; Mr. Potter's intricately embroidered waistcoat was next to hand and the cloth-covered buttons were patently giving the Viscount some little trouble. "Gudgeon!" he breathed and ripped at them, impatient.
"I have, Milord Malfoy," Mr. Potter replied, apparently quite pleased at being summarily de-garbed for the second time that morningand grinning at his elegantly rushed companion like a veritable schoolboy. "Knowing I'm always welcome to trouble you for such...amusements. Any objections? Am I wrong-headed, then?"
"Although you've not called upon me even the once and have been residing in Town for over a week now?" Milord demanded, lips thinned in a straight, humourless line. "Still alright, is it, to trouble me?" The Viscount's frown deepened, unabated. "Despite your contemptible ill manners in avoiding me, my Poor Plain Potter? Am I too publically disgraced for your blood. then?"
"Been just a wee bit occupied, Malfoy," Potter flushed, the colour shading into the bones of his jaw nicely. "That's all...and that last is unadulterated gammon. You've not made any effort to look me up, have you now?"
"That is not what we wagered, plebe," the Viscount raised the stormy eyes he was known for and glared haughtily at his visitor, a simmering muted fury in his gaze, and then attacked Mr. Potter's flies fiercely.
"You use me, Potter—always you use me, and don't deny it! Every. Single. Time! Scurrilous bastard!"
"Hardly using you, Draco, when you enjoy the company as much as I do!" Potter rejoined hotly. "Climb down off your high ropes, you bleeder!"
"Whether I find enjoyment in your cock or not is immaterial to the matter, Harry," the Viscount spoke right over Potter's minor outburst, smiling tightly. He was every inch the haughty Malfoy, though he held the cock in question carefully in hand. He stroked it, quite deliberately, the gauze of Mr. Potter's unmentionables cloaking only barely the purpling swell, and Mr. Potter shivered visibly before he let leave, waving that slightly sticky pale hand about carelessly.
"The crux of the matter is, it shames you to be seen out and about in my company, my dearest Mister P. O. Potter. As a acknowledged rake, I'm not cut of sufficiently respectable cloth for your doting clan of Weasleys, am I?" he demanded, eyebrows slashing skywards in challenge. "Nor do I possess the conventional means to bear you heirs for your vast and boring estates." The pale silver-gilt hair that proclaimed him a Malfoy sifted forward, abruptly disguising his troubled brow as he grimly pried apart Potter's fashionable buckskin breeches, tugging them down lean hips. "It is still the same as it ever was, is it not? I'm only your poor woebegotten Cyprian and never to be considered eligible parti for the prestigious and oh-so-plain Potters!"
"Draco!" Potter exclaimed, as the Viscount reclaimed confident possession of his more than half-erect prick through the fine covering of muslin drawers. "Ah! That-that's utter fustian! Poppycock and nonsense! You make far too much of this, as always. And it goes both ways, does it not? I'm hardly your boon companion when you're out on the Town with your cronies from Slytherin. You brush me off, every time."
The finely-moulded head tilted back up again and the Viscount set his sharp chin firmly, even as he stroked Potter's cock into rigidity through the fabric with a practiced roll of the wrist. The flash of quicksilver in his burning eyes reminded the Major of their first tempestuous meeting at Madame Malkin's. So long ago, so many years, and it had set the tone between them ever since, something the Honorable Ronald appeared not to understand in the slightest.
This wasn't mere boyhood friendship, forged of boarding school pranks and the like. This was passion, and it existed nowhere else in Mr. Potter's dull-as-ditchwater world.
"Harry," the Viscount bit out, "I am not the fool who disdained to take up company after Hogwarts—nor after Waterloo, when the iron was hot to the strike and all would've been forgiven by Society, and even by Father. I am not the one who dropped my lover like a stone to a still pond last summer in Brighton and then disappeared without a word off to that miserable hole you so rightly call 'Grimmauld Place'. You, as I recall, had your 'obligations', and it was to your so-dear Weasleys, naturally. 'Obligations', if I may point out, upon which you've not acted upon in an age. Where ever is your so-oft proclaimed intended? Why doesn't she dangle from your arm through the mills of the Season? I begin to wonder what precisely the Honourable Miss Weasley is thinking, allowing her beaux so much free rein. She'll end up an ape leader, bet on it."
"Miss Weasley and I had—have-an understanding, Malfoy," Potter averred stoutly. He'd regained his habitual calm and was smiling at his tempestuous companion ever so faintly, his cheeks creased in attractive lines, as if there was some jest only he was aware of. "You knew all about that...understanding when we took up again after Waterloo—and stated often enough that it made no matter to you! You, Malfoy, were not in the market for a lifelong connection between Potter and Malfoy—or so you claimed. You disdained it, in favour of an heir begotten from a Witch of good breeding! I hardly think you may object to my choices now!"
"Oh! Button your lip, Potter!" the Viscount ground out, clearly impatient with their same old brangle and, lunging forward, he toppled his unannounced visitor fully backwards atop the mint-hued overstuffed cushions, pressing the hard lines of his sneering mouth against Potter's parted lips. "Just shut your sodding gob! You only ever speak rubbish these days, Potter! And not another word about the Weasley chit-I shan't stand for it!"
"Gladly, Malfoy!" Potter growled, all calm fled hastily, and hauled the Viscount to him in a crushingly close embrace. "And likewise!"
Four: Case Keeper (Introducing the extant Earl Malfoy and Milord Severus Snape, Headmaster)
"Malfoy, they dine abominably late here in Calais." The tall, dark-haired Wizard with the thin lips and fusty black robes pinched his lips to the uttermost thinness. "These Frenchies must all have cast-iron constitutions, to go so long without repast. I'm amazed you've not expired yet, what with the sheer energy you expend chasing skirt-and breeches, let's not forget. I'm equally bewildered I've endured this long, keeping you company in this stinking hole you so laughingly call 'lodging'. 'Rose and Garter', indeed! More like 'Swill and Bucket'!"
"What, Sev? You object to my boffing servants and Muggles? Hardly; they come to me, and willing. Have some brandy; settle your liver," Lucius Malfoy, Earl Malfoy, replied absently, waving a hand at the bottles and glasses laid out on a nearby sidetable. He continued to peruse the latest Owl from his beloved wife, Narcissa, unperturbed.
"What news on the home front, if you don't mind my asking?" his companion asked idly, pointing a wand at the brandy decanter. It rose, and went about the business of neatly pouring some of its contents into a smudged goblet.
"Cissy writes the idiot boy's gone and taken up with that odious Potter whelp again," Lucius related, a tiny frown creasing his unlined brow. He snorted. "Needs putting a stop to, that. Severus, old man, you did mention you weren't lingering here beyond tomorrow? Perhaps a pop into Town might be in order on your way back to old Hogs?"
"What, and do your dirty work, Lucius? Why should I?" the other Wizard sneered, dark brows gathered in a habitual scowl. He sipped his brandy and lifted a saturnine arch in the blond Earl's direction, settling back more comfortably in his armchair. "I've far more interesting items on my docket than that, Malfoy; dissecting dried flobberworms, for instance. Harvesting seven-toed newts. A veritable plethora of necessary tasks to occupy me...no time to chase after recalcitrant lads, naturally. Nor school them."
"For a crack at your pet peeve, Sev. I've learnt a few things here, in Calais. Items you might find of…salient interest," Lucius Malfoy drawled. "Naught but barroom and port-of-call gossip, of course, but...significant, I'd wager." He, too, helped himself to a tot of spirits and they sat sipping in a mostly companionable silence for a short while, whilst Mr. Severus Snape considered.
Snape, unfortunately, in the Earl's opinion, was by birth half-Muggleborn, n his poor sire's side, but he'd also been Lucius Malfoy's elder at old Hogs, and then at Muggle Eton, after. And then back again to Hogwarts, first as Potions Master and then as Headmaster. The connection they'd retained was a deep and mysterious one but, suffice to say, Earl Malfoy generally made no significant move without Severus Snape's knowledge and say-so. His beloved Cissy agreed wholeheartedly; Snape was a quite deep 'un, a scholar of scholars, and a prime fellow to cultivate.
"Your cub's set up a Pharo-banque, Lucius, as well," Snape essayed, apparently apropos of nothing, his black gaze firmly on the fire crackling merrily in the room's tiny Floo. "Has Cissy entioned that, I wonder? Done well enough, though. Prinny's dancing attendance, regularly."
"I'm aware," the Earl returned grimly, nodding. "Young fool. Should let well enough alone."
"I fancy that's more to the point than diverting Major Potter, don't you?" the other Wizard asked curiously. "This venture of my godson's? T'is highly unseemly for a man of consequence, a banque. What else are clubs for, hmm?"
"Both are of importance, Severus, but I'll rely on m'wife to settle the matter of the Potter boy, if you're not up to it. Depress his ill-begotten pretensions some, if you know what I mean? Never been up to a Malfoy's requirements, that get of James Potter's. Though he's all Evan's skills in Charms, I'll admit." The Earl shrugged, tossing his fine fair hair back from his high forehead. "But...afraid, are you, Sev? Of a little Wizardling like Potter? Though he's gone and garnered a masterful rep as a duellist, I hear tell. Cissy writes he's taken on that clod Amycus Carrow quite handily, just last week."
"Hmmm, Lucius, you disappoint me, woefully," Snape observed, eyeing the colour of the last of his brandy. It was a tawny gold and of excellent vintage. He was demonstrably unruffled. "That was a juvenile jab at my resolve. Have another go, do."
"Pah! Severus!" Lucius rose, chuckling, and crossed the room to open the door. He stuck his head out and shouted. "Ho! A bite to eat here, Innkeep! Wine, cheese, bread!"
"How kind of you, oh mine reluctant host," Snape remarked, piteously. He uncrossed his legs and sat forward, staring at the returning Earl intently. "To prevent my death by slow starvation on your impecunious doorstep, Lucius Malfoy. But do not seek to bribe me with pub fair or even French brandy. You know precisely what it is I want."
"The nosh here is quite decent," the Earl returned, his voice bland as fresh-churned curds. "And of course I know, Sev. You'll have to wait upon it, though—I'm sunk. Visibly so, you know, old man. Most visibly so."
Snape chuckled in turn, a deep rich sound that would've caused the Muggles and the maids who chased the Earl coattails to turn their eyes his way in a merest flash, wide and rapt. "You're never truly busted, Lucius, and of course I know that. So, don't seek to pull the wool over my eyes, either. Now, as to fair recompense for my valuable time? Surely, we can settle the method, if not the means?"
The Earl grinned at his elder acquaintance—a boyish, warm thing that quite reminded Snape of his all-too-charming only son and heir, the dashing young Viscount—and replied calmly, "You'll take my IOU, then? T'is but a moment to write it out for you."
"But of course, Malfoy. With a certain guarantor," Snape shot back. "Cissy, perhaps. She, at least, can stand the nonsense. I'd say our old terms of agreement will carry over nicely, Lucius. Information provided for certain favours rendered, with Crown's evidence submitted after, naturally."
"Demned woman!" the Earl grumbled. "Why always m'wife, Sev? Always too tight with purse strings, that woman! But...fine, then—done."
"Very good. We are in accord, and all is pleasant once more. Now, to supper, mayhap? I shall need all my waning strength, I fear. Do pull out the good brandy you've cached away, Malfoy. I know for a fact you have it."
"Botheration, Sev! Allow me some secrets!"
"Coxcomb, thinking to fool the likes of me," Snape replied suavely, Accio'ing the venerable and quite dusty bottle forthwith.
Five: A Suite of Trusty Spades (That Old Slytherin Gang)
Viscount Malfoy was gadding out and about, his distinctively pale head the first thing one noticed on Bond Street. He'd business to carry forward.
The Baron Goyle was his first order of the day, and run aground at last at Gentleman Jackson's pugilism establishment, in fact; where he was observed to be lazily pummeling an unfortunate man some years his elder, who boasted a bloody lip, two black eyes and a quite befuddled expression.
"Goyle," the Viscount Malfoy exclaimed curiously, "whatever are you on about? Poor McNair seems fit to expire. Has he offended you most foully or is this sport?"
Goyle grunted amiably and finished off the job, dropping the dazed gentleman in question to the sanded floor of the ring with a lovely bit of science, claret pouring from his bulbously swollen nose.
"Oh, well done!" the Viscount applauded. "Pleasure to see you keeping up with that hobby, Goyle. McNair, do take care of your health, old fellow. You'll be wanting a Healer, I don't doubt. Goyle, here, have you a moment to spare for me?"
The man on the floor groaned, limp as a stunned stoat. The Viscount gave him a jaunty nod of farewell and drew his childhood friend aside confidingly.
"Of course, Draco; always have that," the Baron replied genially, rescuing his coat and accoutrements from a hovering lackey. They made their way to one of the smaller adjacent private rooms, kept in reserve for gentlemen wishing to take a breather.
"Care to step 'round the digs for a hand of cards this evening?" the Viscount enquired, pouring a tot of Firewhiskey. "I've got up a small party. A few intimates, some of the downier Muggles—that sort."
"Don't see why not," Goyle nodded, his hefty jowl quivering. "But…Draco, are you really in a position to play? The Earl and all…"
The Viscount glared fiercely at the large, round, innocently bland face of one of his oldest acquaintances on this mortal coil. "I'm hardly pockets to let, Greg, if that's what you're on about. Can stand the nonsense, I do believe. Don't worry your head over it, Goyle; the Banque will be well-funded, I assure you. You shan't be stiffed nor sharped. I employ only my exquisitely mind and my hands, unlike some loose screws we know of," the Viscount huffed. "Indeed!"
"Oh, well. That's all right, then." Goyle had gotten his coat settled with some difficulty, shrugging it over his meaty shoulders with a series of small grunts. He'd moved on to fumbling his previously discarded Belcher neckerchief into a misshapen approximation of the latest casual fashion, his sausage-shaped fingers making a mull of it. The Viscount's meticulously perfect Waterfall was a thing of ethereal beauty in close comparison.
"Oh, here!" the Viscount exclaimed, struck to the soul with the enormity of the fashion faux pas being committed. "I say! Let me do that, you galumphing idiot. You're purely horrid at those."
"Oh, thanks so much, Draco," Goyle smiled beatifically. He was a largely innocent man, still, a lamb in bull's garb, for all he'd flown Tiger at Malfoy's flank in the recent Wars and at Waterloo and seen more than his fair share of AK's and wasting curses. "'Preciate it, I do."
"No matter," the Viscount snapped. "Now then, tell me, as I find I am terribly curious: why exactly were you flattening old McNair? Did he lay hands upon your current bit 'o muslin or some such?"
"Oh, no," Goyle grinned, and his moon-face was vaguely hopeful, much like a Crup pup's was when begging for table scraps. "Insulted you, Draco. Personally. Had to knock him down, you know, after that. Doubt he'll be good for much for the next little while."
"Insulted me, Greg?" the Viscount asked, raising a brow, his long hands busy at his task. "Did he, now? Curious, that. How so?"
"Called you a ponce and a nancy-boy, Draco," Greg replied simply, "and said you were more of a bleeding female than that old Beau Brummel. Always chasing breeches in place of skirt and didn't care who knew of it. More so, he said it 'neath the nose of that Muggle Lady What'sIt who's so all-inportant and the bleeding Minister of Magic, as well. Just last night, at the Opera, it was. Had to lay him low, after that. Not a female, Draco. Even with the breeches."
Malfoy frowned. "No, of course not, Goyle; that's not in question...but it's hardly a crime to prefer the company of Wizards to Witches. McNair's m'father's friend. I wonder, why ever would he…?"
"It's that Lord Voldemort fellow, Draco," Greg rumbled, scowling. "Nasty sort, him. He's putting it about that it's a sin against Wizarding itself to take up with the same sex and carry on. No decent heirs to be got upon wet nurses or some such incendiary Pureblood nonsense; dilutes the line. Bloody crusading zealot, that one; got some sort of stick rammed up his arse 'bout the 'old ways', if you were to ask me! If if that were ever of any matter! 'Sides, everyone knows you're planning to get the next Malfoy properly on some moneyed puss, don't they? Why, isn't your lady mother arranging it with the Greengrasses—or is the Parkinsons? I never do recall these matters 'zactly as I should, sorry."
"There! All sorted, old chap," the Viscount pronounced, firmly interrupting the Baron and stepping backwards to admire his own handiwork. "It's neither, if you must know. And the Greengrasses and the Parkinsons are of no importance, Greg, not to this matter. And what McNair thinks—or that nefarious Lord Voldemort, for that matter—is entirely of no interest, as well, to anyone who is is anyone in the Ton. But my thanks, old chap, for the quick defense of my honour. Very handy with your fives, you are; I remember it clearly from Hogs. McNair will be thinking twice, I daresay, before he opens his silly piehole about Malfoys in public."
Goyle's face assumed an ear-to-ear grin. "Doubt he'll be able to open much of anything of consequence, old chap. Nor close it, either, for a good long while. Fixed him up properly, I did."
The Viscount clapped him on the back with brilliant cheer, the tiny frown in his grey eyes dissapating to hardly a grim gleam in sharp grey eyes. "Excellent, Goyle! That's the Hogs spirit! Now, what's old Crabbe up to, by the by? I've a fancy to invite him along as well. Nott, too, that cent-per-center, if I can but scare him up."
"Oh, well, I'm sure I couldn't say, Draco, but I'll be glad to accompany you 'round for a look-see," Goyle offered. He tossed back the shot of Firewhiskey the Viscount offered him as if it were nothing but orgeat, and grinned mightily. "Don't forget 'bout that rotter Zabini, Draco. Heard he was returned from his Grand Tour, just last week, months before he'd arranged to. Bedded that Muggle bear-leader of his, Byron, and his mother came over all Friday faced. Hauled him back from Italy by the ear, no doubt-bad luck for her propects, what?. Haunting the Season now, he is, hanging out for a fortune 'mongst the fresh lot of misses, I don't doubt."
"That Casanova? Oh, very good, then. We'll stop at Tattersall's to collect Crabbe, then; he's always fancied the Muggle horseflesh—"
"And Hatchard's for Nott, I'll warrant. You know how noddy Theo is. Likely has his head shoved in some circulating library specimen, even at this early hour. And I'd wager old Blaise is hanging after the skirts at Drury, bosky as usual. Always the same, that one."
"Perfect. We'll save him for last; give him a fighting chance to attain sobriety...perhaps. After you, Goyle, old man, after you. The day is wasting away and it's such a fine one, is it not?"
"Don't mind if I do, Draco."
With a faint pop, both gentlemen Disapparated, their course all set to rights.
Six: Masque (Introducing the Heroines, the Misses Granger and Weasley)
Major Harry Potter had indeed shown his famously scarred yet agrreably handsome viz at Almack's the evening previous, as duly requested, only to be descended upon by a great horde of red-headed persons, led by the irrepressible Weasley twins, Frederick and Georgie.
"Pot—" That was Frederick, first as always.
"Er! Well!" And there was the Honourable Georgie, chiming in, their tones as alike as two peas in the pod. Their common habit of conversation, and perhaps not at all oddly, was a very rapid exchange of banter; a verbal barrage conducted often at lightning speed. Major Potter, fortunately, was accustomed to this, though his neck often ached unpleasantly, after, as he attempted manfully to keep up.
"Met, Harry! Have you been-?" George went on, pumping the Major's hand effusively.
"Rusticating? M'sister's—" Frederick added, taking up Potter's other hand.
"Champing at the bit—" continued George.
"Harry. You'll want to—" That was Fred, and the Major assumed a weak smile, disengaged and retreated a pace, so he could attend both Weasley's without cracking his vertebrae.
"Make yourself scarce!" exclaimed one of them, with a flourish.
"Harry, my dear boy!" burbled the matronly Lady Weasley, coming up at broadsides, and Mr. Potter instantly made an elegant leg to her dashing get-up of midnight blue silks and a towering feathered turban, still chuckling feebly.
"Lady W," he nodded. "My good fortune, Ma'am. Sir!"
"M'boy, a very great pleasure to see the likes of you, here," nodded the affable and slightly daft Lord Weasley, and graspedf Mr. Potter's sore paw as if it were a lifeline. "Always, always, yes! How was your experiment with the Muggle windmills?" he asked, immediately launching into a discussion that was of interest only to the two of them, as gentleman farmers. "Successful, I hope?"
"Most assuredly, sir," Mr. Potter replied, twinkling. "I shall call upon you with all the details, perhaps some morning next week-if that's agreeable?"
"Of course, Harry. I'll look forward to it," Lord Weasley nodded. "Eagerly. Don't forget to bring along the blueprints, will you? I've a mind to construct one of those m'self. There's more than enough room on the fallow pasturage to allow for it."
"Oh, you and your Muggles-and their silly inventions!" Lady Weasley laughed, her face wreathed with a good-natured smile. "Such nonsense! Harry, dear, I'm sure you've not spoken to our little Ginny for every so long! Do-"
"There you are, Harry!" burst out the Honourable Ronald, arriving twenty paces late and somewhat unremarkably breathless, and towing after him a young woman clad in the very height of the Season's fashion, as per requirement, yet somehow giving off an air of sweet, unadorned sensibility. Her coif, most fortunately, was a gleaming brunette in hue, a visual oasis for those in need after all that ginger abounding. "I've been waiting ages for you to arrive, Harry! What kept you?"
"Mr. Potter!" blushed the final member of the trailing, teeming Weasley horde. She lifted her pert chin, displaying a swan neck and lovely red-bronze hued ringlets, entwined all about with budding peach roses and Baby's breath. Her ballgown was of the same shade exactly: the thinnest of watered silks with a gauzy overdress of ecru lace and both gathered just below the bust with an almond-coloured satin ribbon, in the latest Empire style. "How very fortunate to encounter you here! Ronald hadn't said a word about you attending!" She turned to her brother with a flounce and a pout, both pronounced.
"That's a bald-faced lie, Ginny," the Hon. Ronald interrupted. "I did, indeed, and you were all atwitter, remember? I remember, at least."
"Oh, do hush, Ron!" Miss Weasley blushed a slightly less attractive shade. "What fustian! I never!"
"Miss Weasley, Weasley, my pleasure," Mr. Potter, smiling and entirely urbane in the face of the usual Weasley assortment, made yet another leg as the Honorable Ronald blushed and stuttered through an introduction to the pretty young deb in Lady Weasley's wake. he drew her forward with the oddest look upon his open, honest face, as though he'd found leprechaun gold, perhaps, and was a tad fearful that it might yet be snatched from his clutches.
"May I present to you Miss Hermione Granger, Potter? She's recently come up from Chudley-cum-Hie, and is staying with m'parents. Mum's sponsoring her Season, as I've told you before," the Hon. Ronald nodded his bright-red head wisely, much as if he knew all the ins and outs of a Ton presentation like so much clockworks and Mr. Potter maintained his determinedly bland face only with considerable effort. The twin's matching leers were unhelpful, in that endeavour.
"Miss Granger," Mr. Potter smiled yet stalwartly and again made an elegant bow. "The pleasure is, of course, all mine. Welcome to the Season, then. I do hope you're enjoying it, thus far? It's early days yet, but the wonders of Town should please you, I would hope, as they do even the most jaded. Is this your first visit here?"
"Oh, yes, as a matter of fact, it is. How perceptive of you, Mr. Potter." Miss Granger took back her hand gracefully after Potter brushed his lips across the back of her gloved wrist. "I fear I look a veritable cork-brained neck-craner, but I've truly made some rather considerable progress already with my List of Interests. I've been to the various Assembliesand Almack's, of course, and Hatchard's and the adjoining circulating libraries, but then I've yet to see Vauxhall, Drury Lane and the Astley's Amphitheatre—and then there's Rotten Row and that horse market—Tattersall's, is it not? And Fleet Street, and Newgate, and of course, Bedlam."
Mr. Potter's eyebrows quirked quizzically, but he only continued smiling pleasantly as Miss Granger assaulted his ears with a further list, a least a league long, were it to be writ out on parchment.
"Oh, my dear!" Lady Weasley tittered, flapping her fan and staunchng the learned flow at last. "Surely not all those places! The haunts for the lower classes, dear-one mustn't! It is not done!"
"But it is essential, Mama says, Lady Weasley," Miss Granger took on a very grave mien, indeed, "that one expose oneself to all manner of new experiences, be they all that is pleasant to the eye or not—"
"I'm sure, I'm sure, dear," Lady Weasley said comfortably, "that your dear Mama has strong opinions...but perhaps we may discuss this later? In private? For I believe dear Freddie here wishes to request your card?" She elbowed one of the twins with a somewhat forced smile and he immediately took up the gauntlet. "Don't you, son?"
"Oh, er, yes, Miss!" Frederick jumped, collected himself, and promptly swept out his arm to Miss Granger.
"Granger, may we both have—" added his twin, for whatever Freddie did, Georgie must, too. Mr. Potter only barely kept back a chortle and instantly averted his eyes.
"The pleasure?" Freddie finished off triumphantly. Both had their hands outstretched for the tiny pasteboard dance card attached to Miss Granger's reticule. She giggled in some small delight, blushing faintly, and then stifled it at a warning glance from Miss Ginevra Weasley. One was not encouraged to giggle aloud before the Patronesses at Almack's. Lady Weasley nodded to them both, pleased with her charges.
"May Miss Granger also waltz?" Mr. Potter enquired, after the twins had scribbled down their names on her card. "For I, too, would be most honoured."
"Oh, they both may!" Lady Weasley was fluttering with pride. "My dear Maria Sefton has permitted it, as of the very first evening we attended! Most kind of her, of course."
"Delightful," Mr. Potter smiled. "If I may, Miss Granger? I see our Ronald's left a very few dances for the rest of us. Of the waltz and the cotillion, I much prefer the former. One may converse."
"Oh, I say, Harry!" the Hon. Ronald protested, stepping forward, his dander up. "No more than the regulation two, you know! I'll not have you conversing with my—I mean to say—er." He went beet red and ceased making noise, though his mouth opened and closed several more times.
"He's much too-" Freddie observed.
"Charming with the ladies," Georgie winked, bowing at Mr. Potter in a faintly mocking manner. "Major, don't deny it. You know it's true."
"And Miss Weasley?" Mr. Potter, taking pity on the beet-red Hon. Ronald, turned to his best friend's baby sister, the apple of her parent's fond eye. "Might I also escort you 'round this crush? A waltz, too, I think, if it pleases."
"Oh, Mr. Potter!" Miss Weasley was visibly in transports, a far cry from the tomboy girl Mr. Potter recalled before the War. "Indeed, yes! I'd be-I'd be delighted, of course!"
Mr. Potter maintained his lips in a determined upward angle and, if his air of bonhomie was a bit forced, very few of the many curious eyes resting upon his famed war hero person took note.
Seven: Couche (Revisiting the Viscount Malfoy Once More)
"Unh!" the Viscount grunted and sank his teeth into the corner of one of his bounteous feather bed pillows. Mr. Potter emitted a similar gutteral noise of satisfaction, shoving at the Viscount's narrow pelvis with such force the nobleman nearly struck his perspiring pink scalp against his Italianate-style carven olivewood headboard.
"Brilliant, Draco," Potter bit out, withdrawing in short, sharp strokes that had the Viscount keening continuously. "So tight and hot inside your arse; so very—very—tight!"
It was the middle of the day and Major Potter had come from the Royal Opera House late the previous night, reeking of Firewhisky fumes but not at all in his cups, with a firece light in his eyes that had set the Viscount to shivering delight before he was even touched by so much as a white-gloved fingertip.
"Angh!" he replied, the clear crisp light of day mocking his creased eyelids. "Gods, Harry. Not so beastly deep, damn your eyes! You're murdering me, at this pace! Bloody plebe—always in such a tearing rush!"
But he made no move to wriggle away; couldn't, with his joints all as rubbery as that new-fangled viscous substance the Muggles used for those odd knee boots they called familiarly 'Wellies' and his long spine slung down in a low reverse arch. Could only crouch there, balanced upon his sliding kneecaps and take it, high-born arse well raised up for Plain Old Potter's pleasure and his needy whimpers not at all muffled by goosedown and satin.
"I wanted you, Draco," Potter intoned grimly, paying no heed to Malfoy's bust of temper, his mind clearly elsewhere. "Thought of you, endlessly, all these two days. D'you know just how stifling Carleton House is when all you can think of is some toplofty git's lilywhite arse? Do you even know?"
"I—know," the Viscount panted. He rolled his hips back frantically, when Potter grasped his dick. "I know, trust me!"
"And that scent you wear," Potter went on, his voice as severely clipped as if he were hexing the Viscount instead of shagging him mercilessly. "Your bloody hair, so fine and soft—your eyes, Draco! I can't continue to walk about as if there's nothing between us but this! I can't, you stupid silly rotter, and I won't, not for much longer!"
"Harry!" Draco moaned. "Harry—you can't! M'father—"
"Your father be damned, and the Weasleys as well, Draco! This—is—ridiculous! Ahhh!" Potter stalled mid-thrust, clenching as his cock throbbed and pulsed, lodged deep within the steamy channel that gripped him. "Ah—ah—AHHH!"
"—Coming!" the Viscount howled and jammed his entire body back reflexively, budging his arsecheeks as close as he could to Potter's straining thighs. "Oh—Merlin! Coming!" he panted, and then toppled abruptly off his knees, Potter's sweaty weight and his own enervation his comeuppance. "So…good," he whispered, and settled himself comfortably under the steam bath that was Potter's chest and sprawled limbs. "So…very, very…good." The Viscount sighed his pleasure, and closed his damp eyes gratefully.
"Don't persuade yourself for even a passing moment I don't mean that seriously, Draco," Potter informed him, a bare half hour later, as he gingerly eased on his top boots. He spelled them into a fine high polish and rose in a quick motion, reaching for his discarded dress robes. "I'm warning you of it now. Once and the once only. Don't try my patience further than you already have, Draco."
They'd closed their weary eyes for a few moments earlier to doze, exhausted, but neither were left at all sleepy when they rose. The night had been a long one, punctuated by alternating catnaps and furious shagging, and the Viscount's stomach was rumbling in a very demanding manner.
But the way they'd been wrapped together, just now—that had been sweet as honeycomb, Milord Malfoy thought wryly, though he said nought of that fancy to Mr Potter, who was all business and tucking in his shirttails. Nostalgic, in a way that left his chest aching sharply, as of old. He swung away from his huge bed and the sight of Mr/ Potter, dressing to depart, unable to bear another traipse down the rutted lane of Memory, his black silk robe flapping and billowing, revealing a long measure of pale flank and the darkening bruises Mr. Potter had left upon his fair skin.
"You shouldn't, Harry," the Viscount informed the window grimly, gazing sightlessly at the gardens falling away into the distance. Wizarding space, all of it; not even the wealthy claimed more than a block or two in Town for their own. "It'll go badly. I know it; feel it in my bones. Father is not a force to be taken lightly and neither is m'mother. And besides, Potter, you're once again making far too much of what is...what is really only an ancient acquaintance with a known ne'er-do-well. Whatever has happened to your great plans of begetting proper and prim Potter heirs upon the little Weasley chit? Surely you've not abandoned it now, at the very beginning of the Season, when she's finally come of age? You were seen at Almack's with her just t'other evening, and danced the requisite two waltzes, I believe. Good as Bonded, now."
"Draco," Potter murmured softly into the Viscount's ear, coming over to wrap his arms 'round his stiff-rumped lover of nearly a decade. "You mustn't fret your pretty little head over what's happened at Almack's—not that anything did, of course. Two waltzes are by no means the be-all and end-all of a proper courtship, even now. My private matters are well in hand, my love; look to your own. I don't fancy the idea of that blaggard Voldemort here, in your house. Not a bit of it."
"He's a crucial player in this small amusement of mine, as it happens, Potter," the Viscount hissed. "The prime punter, in fact. And I'll thank you to take your misplaced concerns away with you. T'is my business, not yours, as you've made note of." He whirled away from the window and the arms of Mr. Potter, striding toward the attached water closet, fair face all scowls. "Now be off with you. I've matters of mine own to attend and no time to waste on frivolity."
Potter smiled, long and slow and wicked 'round with the edges, with deadly intent. It was a fair dangerous grin, that, and one the Viscount would've instantly recognized from the late War, had he but glanced over his shoulder.
"We'll see, Draco. We'll see about that."