HP Magic Eight Ball Part 9
"Where are we?" Harry wanted to know, not recognizing the rising edifice of marble and pale granite before him. Malfoy let him go from the Side-Along with a smooth, unhurried motion and stepped back, settling his borrowed trousers tight 'round his narrow hips.
"The Manor, of course."
"Er," Harry remarked uncomfortably, "Um," meaning 'Why in Merlin's Name would you ever bring me here, of all places, you insensitive prick?'
"For Games Day, of course, my dearest darling Potty," Malfoy smiled winningly, a nice change from the feral and somewhat toothy look he'd been sporting thus far. "But first, we breakfast."
He gestured before him and the hugely and overbearingly ornate Malfoy back door swung open soundlessly. A house elf peeped out, wearing a frilly maid's cap and nothing else. Harry shuddered. He sensed Malfoy's tactics had changed, but to what end, Harry couldn't even begin to guess.
"After you," Malfoy intoned politely, prodding him with a firm forefinger, and, lacking a reasonable spur-of-the-moment excuse to go wash his hair or count his nail clippings, Harry went.
*
The meal was exquisite. Even Harry had to admit that the Malfoy's private breakfast room was charming, and the grub offered far better than the carb-and-protein laden cardiac time bombs he and the gang consumed daily at Millie's Muggle-Style Diner. After they'd dined, chatting of nothing more incendiary than pro Quidditch, Malfoy led him courteously out to the Malfoy's private pitch—because of course the Malfoys had their own Quidditch Pitch, Harry sneered internally—and challenged him to a round or five of 'Snag the Snitches'.
Harry was breathless from both effort and exhilaration after just the first two, which he caught, to his great delight. Malfoy aced the rest, but that was alright in Harry's book: they'd both flown hard and pushed themselves, and the aerial skirmishes had been fought fair and square. Too, the morning was lovely, filled with freshets and sunshine and the marvelous green of late spring.
Begrudging nothing, Harry was game for the next activity, even going so far as to thank his one-time arch-nemesis for the chance of some recreational flying. Such things didn't come often in Harry's dull, work-a-day life.
"Not a problem, Potter," Malfoy returned, in his best snide 'virtue is its own reward' voice, "as I am thus able to bask in your unparalleled good spirits. The pleasure, believe me, is all mine."
Not quite certain how to sort that comment, if it could be sorted, but aware that for once he felt whole, hale and eager, Harry again attempted to goad Malfoy into explaining the reasoning behind 'Games Day'. He'd no idea the wanker might actually willingly choose to spend time with him outside of work other than at Ron and Hermione's; this unusual invitation into Malfoy's ancestral territory was ferreting up all sorts of awkward questions from the depths of Harry's Auror-trained brain.
"Mine own invention, Scarhead," the git smirked archly, as they traipsed through endless mansion corridors, on their way to somewhere as yet undisclosed. "Games Day, as applied on a weekly basis to jaded Aurors, elongates their life span and reduces ugly stress and tension…not that there aren't other ways of accomplishing that same goal, but this'll do nicely in the meantime, won't it? So, you up for a dip?"
"Er—what?" Harry asked, following that singularly erudite reply with a muttered "Tension? I have tension?" and all the while nervously trailing after Malfoy as he made his way to the depths of the multiple basements. He'd rather horrid recollections of the Malfoy dungeons, but nothing could've prepared him for the palatial bathing space that spread before him when Malfoy flung open two enormous iron-barred dungeonesque doors.
Mosaic tiles of blue-and-green glass depicting Dionysus and his scantily clad hamadryads decorated the walls; marble fountains of sculpted nymphs and perky fauns abounded, and a whole mess of trailing, flowering greenery reminding Harry strongly of Muggle documentaries on the Amazon confronted his dazzled eyes. The pool itself was all about white and silver scallops, with a ribbon of teal tile running round its smooth lipped edge. A huge hot tub and a separate cedarwood sauna were off to one side, in a smaller Charmed stained glass-vaulted atrium; on the other, a full wet bar in teak and nickel-plated metal accents was spread with a selection of tropical drinks and gourmand snacking tidbits and manned—or elved—by two of the Malfoy staff. Towels the size of tablecloths woven of fluffy billion-thread count white Egyptian cotton billowed from heated hampers and everywhere there were scattered intimate little tables for two in cream-painted wrought iron, hanging hammocks of hemp twine decorated with comfy striped cushions and chaise lounges of wicker and basswood weave. It was a tropical Paradise, or at least a sizeable chunk of real estate from that general vicinity, which apparently Galleons and potent Magick could be used to acquire. Harry marveled, spinning on one heel as he took it all in.
"Whoa!" he exclaimed, the fragrant, humid air assaulting him with the scents of vanilla bean and frangipani. "Merlin, Malfoy—I have to say, I do like what you've done to the place!"
"Glad you approve, prat," Malfoy seemed genuinely pleased, judging by the faint laughter lines that bracketed his mobile mouth. He gestured towards a set of discreetly painted doors immediately to the left of the arched entrance, drawing Harry's dazzled eyes away from his classically cut features and perfectly pink, moist lips. "Changing rooms and showers are there; help yourself to a suit as you find one. There's plenty."
"Oh?" Harry's brows went up quizzically. Guiltily, and not for the first time, he wondered what Malfoy got up to when he wasn't at work bothering Harry and he wasn't hanging out with ex-Gryffindors in flatlets awash with Firewhiskey. Did he entertain? Did he have a steady stream of lovely ladies or gentle Wizards gracing the various vistas of the Malfoy estate? Did Harry care to think further on those possibilities? No, thanks; he did not.
"Brill," Harry replied, instead of asking all sorts of nosy questions about his partner's private life. "Don't mind if I do."
Malfoy wasn't joking when he'd said 'plenty'. Harry was rather overwhelmed by the sheer amount of choice—every one of the various designer swim trunks and suits were clearly brand spanking new and terribly pricey—but eventually settled on a pair of lime and black-print board-length surfers from the Aussiebum™ collection that struck his fancy. When he emerged, clutching a white cotton towel the size of a bedsheet round his neck, Malfoy was already in the pool, bedecked in a miniscule scrap of stretchy black cloth that clung and moving nearly as fast as he had whilst astride his Italian racing broom.
Harry's partner was in the midst of swimming laps, cutting through the choppy waters butterfly-style, and Harry's first reaction was to gasp in envious awe at the toned shoulders and chest Malfoy's work robes always kept hidden from casual view. His adversary must have a pro gymnasium tucked somewhere away in the huge Malfoy dwelling.
His second reaction, which was far more primal and followed hard on the heels of Harry's registering that Malfoy's equally toned bum was essentially bared to the elements, as his swimsuit was apparently comprised of considerably less fabric than one of Ginny's Frenchified thongs, was to drop his luxury toweling abruptly from his nerveless fingertips.
His third reaction was not as easily describable, as it didn't consist of logical thought, nor even a 'normal' reaction to a mate unknowingly demonstrating his considerable physical prowess, as defined by Harry's Muggle middle-class, Dursley-skewed upbringing.
Gulping air as if it were, well, oxygen, Harry wasted no time diving into the welcome blue-and-silver refuge of the humongous pool, praying to Merlin at the very last minute that the deep end was regulation Muggle Olympian and that the water was sufficiently cool enough to damp down any weird urges he might develop whilst exposed to a nearly naked Malfoy. Further, he made the frantic decision to stay safely underwater for as long as Wizardly possible without benefit of gillyweed or Bubblehead spells, as it would be an absolutely brilliant plan to maintain some little distance between himself and his gracious host whilst he was readjusting his suit.
Which was, regrettably, significantly tighter and less comfortable post-nearly naked Malfoy than it had been pre.
