HP Magic Eight Ball Part 14

Fandom: HP
Pairing: H/D (or D/H, really. Whatever. Firewhiskey is intimately involved here.)
Rating: NC-17 (see Firewhiskey.)
Warnings: AU; EWE; Junior Aurors!Harry smuff-filled center (see above); minor flangst.
Summary of Sorts: Hermione brings a Muggle Magic device to the usual round of post-workaday drinking and Malfoy is utterly fascinated. Harry, however, has his doubts as to the oracular ability of a glorified marble, especially when it comes to his personal life. This is a fickle, fateful fic, posted in drabbles, on a semi-daily basis.

Part 14/? Till we get to the end, silly!

"Did you find the clean clothes I left you, Potty?"

Harry had and then had nearly refused to wear them as a rather inarticulate statement against toffee-nosed types in general, but his sweaty jeans and T-shirt had been disgusting after his shower, so…

Yeah. He was wearing something 'designer'—read 'ridiculously dear'; a gift from Mr. Aristo himself, and it galled him. It galled him more when Malfoy spun about, having finished his consultation with the house elf, and eyed him up and down as though Harry were an aged side of superior beef on display in a hoity-toity butcher's shop window.

"Nice," Malfoy said simply, knowingly, and handed him a glass of wine. The tips of their fingers touched for a heart-stopping moment as he passed it over. Harry manfully resisted blushing and failed miserably.

"Look, we need to set stuff up, Malfoy, for this party of yours."

Harry's gaze swerved around Malfoy's piercing grey eyes and examined his wine glass instead, avoiding the possibly supercilious compliment and rigidly sticking to the task before him. Certainly not Marks & Spencer, this long-stemmed beauty he was clutching. About a billion Galleons more costly, he'd warrant. The wine was pretty good, though—yeah.

"It's good," he remarked, feeling such a comment was safe enough, considering.

"Our very own Malfoy vintage, Harry," Malfoy purred, edging ever closer in that sinuously elegant way he had. "As am I. So glad you're savouring tastes."

The prat even had the nerve to wink at Harry, thus ably demonstrating the whole 'powerful, sexy, testosterone-charged Wizard masquerading as 007-type playboy' alternative persona once more. Harry shook his still-damp and shaggy head slightly, as if to knock the irritating upper-class fuckwit and his too shaggable miasma right out of its midst.

Merlin, but Malfoy was such a confusing swot sometimes. Harry didn't know quite what to do with him when he was like this. He much preferred the snippy prat he shared an office with.

"Stay on task, berk, " he ordered tersely, a veritable modern-day Centurion, all defenses firmly raised and at the ready."So—where do you want me to start? How many? When?" Harry fired off questions in the style of his usual Auror-speak verbal shorthand, as he was certain Malfoy understood that at least, very well. They'd no problems communicating clearly whilst at work, he and the twat. If only he could squash Malfoy's damnable innuendo, life would be grand.

Malfoy did tacitly agree to focus, or certainly seemed to have gotten a bit of a clue from Harry's attitude of barely stifled belligerent impatience. Straightening up from his sultry slouch with a much put-upon air, the git snorted in a rather resigned fashion.

"Fine," he snapped, reassuringly snotty once again. "Don't flirt with me, Scarhead. See if I care."

"Fine, I won't!" Harry fired back, and gave up on deciphering subtext altogether. "Erm—right."

Without further ado, the scion of the Malfoys waved Harry to follow him and ushered him politely out through an open French door. This led to a long, wide marble terrace, with steps leading down to a series of themed gardens: knot, water, herb, butterfly and many more too numerous and specialized to list. Harry glimpsed the clipped yews of a labyrinth off in the distance and at least two more gingerbread gazebos. In the far distance glimmered yet another swimming pool, equipped with both a dizzying high dive and a twisty slide. Located within an easy walk there were immaculate tennis courts and closely mown bowling greens, and a horde of bustling elves in the act of setting up various lawn games.

"Bocce ball? Whoever plays bocce ball these days, Malfoy?" Harry asked, curious, his wandering gaze alighting on that activity among the many in process.

"Shacklebolt," the prat answered laconically, and waved a hand at the flurry occurring farther down the length of the terrace. A veritable swarm of big-eared, frill-bedecked, vertically challenged magical beings were setting up dining tables, ranging in seating from an intimate two to a generous twelve, and chinaware and cutlery sparkled diamond-bright in the golden light of a lovely afternoon. Harry could hear the musical clinking of elegant place settings that no doubt included such rarities in his life as fish knives and savoury forks, demitasse spoons and sauceboats.

He'd have to hustle to manage a seat next to Hermione when the time came; she, of all people, would be able to properly navigate dinner.

"Now, to answer your questions, Potty; one: you're designated to be the Games Go-To chap, so your job is ensure everyone's happily athletic after they arrive. I want to see mingling, nay, outright camaraderie going on here. Two: about a hundred persons attending, more or less."

Harry gasped, appalled. Malfoy bobbed his gilt head, acknowledging the palpable hit to Harry's broadside.

"Aurors, academia, your friends, my friends, Ministry peeps and those I need to impress. Oh, and the people you need to impress, as well. Don't worry about it, Potty; it'll all work out," he forged on, not giving Harry time enough to shy off and Apparate the hell back to his flatlet, where he could remain safe from overgrown social productions.

"Now, three, Harry—breathe, please, Potter; one, two, in, out; that's it—approximately a half hour from now they'll begin arriving, so do relax and enjoy your wine. It's shaping up to be a long evening. Cheese and biscuit with that?"

"Gah—Malfoy!" Harry was indignant, highly so. "I thought this was just supposed to be some casual little get-together! You know—Slyths and Griffs and whatnot! Where d'you get off turning it into Piccadilly Circus?!"

"Mmm, I know, Harry," Malfoy's tone was the epitome of 'soothing', as was the arm he slipped casually 'round Harry's slumped shoulders. "Very bad of me, I admit. But why not take advantage of this glorious weather? And the occasion, of course," he toasted Harry with his own wine glass, another one of those loathsome Riviera playboy smiles lurking 'round the corners of his intriguing mouth.

Charming, Harry sneered inwardly, of course the git's being bloody charming. Malfoy stock-in-trade, and all that. He noticed Malfoy was still wearing his clothes, freshly bathed or not. And then he truly processed all the words that oh, so interesting mouth had just uttered instead of reflecting vacuously on Malfoy's cream-cultured voice.

"Er—what occasion?"

"I do believe this is the first time you've ventured to Malfoy Manor willingly, Harry," Malfoy grinned, utterly without malice. "Is that not a momentous event?"

"Moron!" Harry burst out. "You're bloody impossible, you wanker! As if anyone cared about rubbish like that!"

He was sorely tempted to biff Malfoy a sharp one, but restrained himself, afraid of dropping his wine glass in the scuffle.

"Oh, but I do, Potty," Malfoy leered winningly and popped a crisp with a sliver of aged Brie de Nangis into Harry's open mouth. "Here, try this one. Our own Malfoy Normandes."

"Mghmph!"

"Yes, Harry. Do chew before you swallow."

TBC…a fickle fateful fic in drabblets, mostly daily.