It was a splendid morning for a hunt, Harry thought as he drew aside the curtain on his guestroom's window to peer out to the grounds. It was cloudy, but the kind of light gray that threatened no rain, and the glass on the window was cold, suggesting a slight breeze that would ensure Harry didn't sweat off his riding clothes through the course of the brisk hunt.
This thought put Harry in a good mood, and he found himself humming the tail end of a symphony as he squeezed into his riding trousers and buttoned up his shirt and collar. By the time the guest valet came knocking, the look of dismay on his face when he saw Harry half-dressed already was enough that Harry let the poor man do up his waistcoat, knot his tie, and slide on his tweed jacket. Harry hated valets —having grown up (as he'd once said to Hermione) 'painfully middle class,' the idea that he would need help to get into his own clothes was laughable—, so he attributed his letting the man do his job this morning to his unusually good mood. Good hunting weather, he thought to himself, even as he winced feeling the valet's hands smooth over his jacket sleeves. Good hunting weather will do this to you.
When the valet was done, Harry bid him a good day and headed down the stairs, carrying a tune in a cheerful whistle that earned him a few looks from the maids who were polishing the banister. When he reached the ground floor, Sirius's head peeked out of the library; upon seeing his godson, his face broke into a grin, and he exited the library to meet him halfway to the dining room.
"Someone's in a good mood this morning," he remarked, picking up on Harry's sprightly gait.
"It's the weather," Harry said. "Perfect for a hunt."
Sirius raised his eyebrows. "You? Hunt?"
"Oh, you know I'm bollocks at shooting," Harry waved it off. "I just like the riding. And it's spectacular weather for it."
"I can't disagree with that," Sirius hummed his approval.
The two men entered the dining room, where breakfast was already laid out in big silver platters in the middle of the impeccably set table. In the chairs sat Lord Malfoy, Lord Granger, Hermione, the McLaggen youth, and —Harry's heart caught for a beat— Draco.
To have him so close (and closer still every night), so often, so devoid of any catches or complications, was a luxury that Harry was afraid he was becoming overly accustomed to. Sometimes, as he lay in bed, his skin against Draco's, he liked to close his eyes and pretend that this was his normality, that he lived in a world where he could love without abashment or difficulty, as he had like never before during his and Draco's stay on the Rosebury Estate. The issue of having to hide, he knew, would never go away; however, long gone were the nights of pining and yearning for his lover, and that to him was more than enough, more than he ever dreamed of having.
As he sidled into his chair, he winked at Draco, and smiled internally at the faint blush he thought he detected on his pale cheeks when he caught the wink.
"Good morning, Lord Granger, Lord Malfoy," Sirius declared loudly as he, too, took a seat.
"Lord Black, as always, it is a pleasure to hear you, even if not a choice," Lord Malfoy said, wincing.
"Is this all of us?" Harry asked as he took a seat next to Hermione, across from Draco. He felt Draco's foot nudge him under the table, and looked playfully across the table to where he sat.
"Orlando should be down soon, if he is as late as regularly scheduled," Hermione said.
"Excellent!" Sirius clapped his hands together. "Then we can address the hunt. In the meantime, shall we eat?"
"Most of us have already," Lucius muttered off to the side.
Sirius paid him no mind and started happily ladling beans onto his empty plate. Harry reached for the eggs and began serving them as Draco, munching the edges of a piece of toast, eyed him discreetly.
They ate in silence until they heard steps rolling like thunder down the stairs. Beside Harry, the corner of Hermione's mouth curled upward in a knowing smile. "Right on time," she said, loud enough that only Harry would hear it.
Sure enough, the doors burst open and Orlando appeared between them, arms and legs splayed wide open, his hunting outfit in a state of utter disarray, no doubt a product of his hurry. His dark curly hair stuck up in odd places, and Harry could tell he had not put a comb through it in between now and when it had last touched his pillow— which, judging by the time, was scarce minutes before.
"Good morning!" he exclaimed, a bit too shrilly. Harry and Hermione stifled a giggle.
"Good morning, Orlando," Lord Philip said placidly, as if his son had come in on time and in proper garment. Next to Lord Malfoy and Sirius, who both looked like they were about to burst an aneurysm (Malfoy out of outrage, Sirius out of laughter), he looked like the perfect gentleman. That much Harry had to give the otherwise meek man.
Orlando clattered into the empty chair next to Harry and lunged for the platter in front of him, without even paying attention to what was in it. He scrunched up his nose when he saw it was bacon.
"Harry, tell me this doesn't look undercooked," he said, prodding a slab with his fork and holding it up as if to prove his point. Harry eyed the slice of bacon, slimy pink and outlined in white grease, and simply took Orlando's fork and plopped it down into his own plate.
"You're disgusting," Orlando said, now reaching for the eggs with a little more composure. Harry laughed to himself and took a bite of the bacon.
Breakfast was soon over, Orlando wolfing down his own plate so he could not be blamed with delaying the hunt any more than was necessary. When he was done, one of the footmen cleared his plate, and he immediately pushed his chair back and stood up.
"Alright, then! Shall I go ask the stable keepers to ready the horses?"
"That has been taken care of," Lord Philip responded, rising from his seat with a little more grace than his son had. "We discussed it at the beginning of breakfast. It is a shame you missed it."
"Point taken, father," Orlando said. Unable to conceal his eagerness, he walked briskly out of the dining hall, the sound of his footsteps leading toward the main door where —no doubt— the horses would be waiting. Hermione chased after him.
"Someone has got to fix his jacket," she explained to the room before leaving it.
"Well, let us make a more graceful exit," Lord Philip beckoned toward the door. Following Sirius and the rest of the lords out of the dining hall, Harry caught Draco's eye right as he was pushing his chair back in. The white-blond of his hair seemed even smoother against the rough tweed jacket, and though he looked uncomfortable in the tight khaki trousers he had been given, Draco's grimace melted away as soon as his gaze met Harry's.
Harry gave him another wink and followed Sirius out of the dining hall, knowing Draco would be right behind him. As they made their way through the foyer and toward the front door, Harry was still fixed on the image of Draco's slight smile. The mere image made his heart soar; and, well, the weather, he thought as he stepped out f Rosebury House onto the gravel pathway— the weather didn't hurt.
That morning, the woods surrounding the Rosebury estate were alight with noise and movement, as the shooting party rolled its way through the trees in a jumble of horses, servants, hounds, and hunters. Mostly clad in tweed waistcoats, everyday ties, long mackintoshes, and stylish flat caps, the men of Rosebury and their guests made their way through the thickets in search of a clearing where they could seek pheasants. Around them followed their loaders, servants tasked with carrying the shotguns, ammunition, lunch packs, and anything else that their masters might possibly need during their hunt.
The hunt was entirely bereft of women. Though Hermione had originally begged to come, even dressing in a long coat and boots herself in case she could, her mother had barred her from joining the shooting party as a companion, choosing instead to keep her in the house for a purpose unknown to her. As he trampled through the bushes, Orlando made a mental note to ask her about it later.
Beside Orlando marched Ron, who had been tasked by Gramsley with being Orlando's loader for the shoot. There simply had not been enough stable workers to cover for all of the guests and tend to the horses; therefore, as one of the more versatile servants in the house (a qualification Ron was already becoming accustomed to), it had been his duty to accompany the young master himself. This was much to Orlando's delight: he had a few chess plays he had picked up from one of his father's books that he wanted to run by Ron to see how feasible they actually were. Ron, ever passionate about chess, had been more than happy to oblige. Chattering happily with Orlando, he paid a brief glance to the poor chap who was looking after Lord Malfoy, and was thankful for not being him.
A few steps behind them and at the rear of the shooting party, Harry and Draco too were looking at Lucius's loader. Lucius towered above him, a short, reedy man who looked perpetually terrified of the noble he was seeing to, and flinched every time Malfoy so much as made to approach him.
"Poor man," Draco remarked. "As if being a loader wasn't hard enough work, he has to do it for my father."
"A grueling task," Harry said offhandedly. He slowed his pace to let the rest of the hunting party distance themselves a bit more. Then, he closed his hand around Draco's wrist and yanked him off the path and behind a thick oak tree. In his surprise, Draco could not resist, and soon found himself pinned against a tree trunk with his face barely a few inches away from Harry's.
He reveled in it for a second before the sheer panic kicked in. "Harry, we can't be doing this," he said, his eyes darting around frightenedly.
"Why not?" Harry said, seizing his other wrist.
"Oh, I don't know, maybe because we're out in the open, with a hunting party consisting of just about everyone in the world who would disown us if they saw us—"
"Speak for yourself. Sirius would probably cheer."
"Hurrah for Sirius," Draco grumbled.
Harry sought Draco's gaze, tilting his chin up slightly so he wouldn't be looking at the forest floor. "They won't see us," he whispered. "They won't stop to look for us. And we'll rejoin the party in a bit, say we got distracted by some animal or another, we'll come up with something, but I just needed to—"
"You needed to what?"
"To do this," Harry said breathlessly, and crushed his lips against Draco's with a force that displayed a long-restrained passion. Draco let out a little squeak of surprise, but gave into the kiss immediately, reciprocating with as much fervor as Harry had kissed him. He opened his mouth slightly to allow Harry's insistent tongue to press in, and felt his lower lip brush against the stubble on Harry's chin as the kiss widened.
Draco was the one to pull away, and he was met with the sight of a wide-eyed Harry, who looked positively dazed. Draco chuckled.
"You needed to do that?"
"Badly," panted Harry.
"Keep it in your pants, Potter. You were in my room last night."
"And last night was far too long ago."
Draco flushed and looked away, a small smile bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "Do you think the maids ever wonder why your bed is so perfectly made every morning?"
"They probably just think I'm the perfect guest, or some bizarre city boy who seems far too fond of house chores. Anyway, I don't think any of them think I'm not sleeping in it."
"Then we're in the clear," Draco smiled.
Harry was still gripping his wrists, so he softened his hold and instead let his fingers twine with Draco's, pressing his palms against Draco's with a tenderness that was a far cry from the burning kiss they had just shared. Their hands dropped to waist level and hung between them.
"Hey," he said. Draco turned his head slightly to look him straight in the eye. "I'm glad we decided to keep at this."
"How very romantic," Draco scoffed playfully.
"Oh, come on, Malfoy. I'm trying my hardest to be suave here."
"You should stick to what you're good at," Draco laughed. He squeezed Harry's hands tighter. "But I'm just teasing. Deciding we would keep at it was a phenomenal thing."
"You think we're ready to be seen out at the motor club again?"
The incredulous disgust on Draco's face made Harry burst out in laughter. "Now it's my turn to tease, Draco."
"Good. Because I never want to go back there again."
"And speaking of going back..." Harry's gaze trailed toward where the hunting party had disappeared. Draco could hear, faintly, the sound of loaders calling out and settling to begin the hunt. It appeared that they had found a clearing.
"We'll be wanted if we're gone much longer," Draco agreed. He stepped out from behind the oak and back onto the path. It wasn't until Harry let go of his hand to start walking that it dawned on him how natural it had felt to be holding it.
"I thank you for being here, Ron, though I do have to warn you you may be disappointed. I am not exactly a world-class shooter."
"I am not a world-class loader either, so I suppose that makes two of us on the less-than-ideal hunting pairing," Ron said, handing Orlando the gun. He stepped around Orlando to stand behind him, settling the butt of the shotgun over Orlando's shoulder so he could comfortably bear its weight while still having a clear view to aim.
"I'd say you're doing a fair good job," Orlando said, readjusting his fingers around the trigger to accommodate Ron's improved placement of the shotgun. "Half of the loader's job is being good company. That, I assure you, you excel far more at than any of the trained stable boys."
"You say that to be kind, Orlando. But I doubt Lord Malfoy is particularly keen on pleasant conversation with his loader."
Orlando looked across the clearing, to where the tall figure of Lucius Malfoy loomed above the smaller stable worker, who was desperately fishing in his pack for the ammunition Lord Malfoy no doubt had demanded. Orlando chuckled slightly to himself.
"He is a terror, truly. That stable boy should be given a raise. But don't tell anyone I said that."
Orlando put a little bend in his knees and slowly turned the shotgun so its barrel faced a clump of bushes behind him. "I think I saw something rustling about in there," he whispered. Ron, having jumped out of the line of shot and safely behind Orlando again, gently steered the barrel of the shotgun slightly more to the right.
"I saw it a bit more toward there," he whispered.
Orlando nodded once in gratitude and concentrated fully on the bush before him. His finger gradually exerted pressure on the trigger, waiting until the mechanism gave him some resistance so he could fully push in and fire the gun. Once there, he pressed the trigger and let off a shot that resonated throughout the forest, attracting the curious gazes of the rest of the hunting party. There was, however, no soft thud of the bullet hitting flesh; instead, a crow flew out of the bushes, cawing angrily as it fluttered to a higher branch that would be well out of aim for the shooters.
"Well, that was no pheasant," Orlando shrugged, slinking the gun off his shoulder and handing it back to Ron, who took it obediently.
The rest of the hunting party had since directed their attention to their respective preys, and Ron could tell that it would be no time before more shots rang out in the clearing. Now that everyone was distracted, then, was surely his chance.
He cleared his throat and folded the barrel of the gun to keep it from firing accidentally. "Orlando, actually, there was something I wanted to ask you, if you have no trouble with it."
"Fire away," Orlando said. "Though that might not be the best choice of words when you have a shotgun in your hands."
"Clever," Ron nodded. "But what I wanted to ask, though I hope I'm not overstepping, is whether you have any idea of the reason behind the McLaggens' stay?"
"Pardon?"
Orlando's tone denoted not offense but genuine confusion. So Ron continued. "Well, I know that the Malfoys and the Blacks have prolonged their stay on account of their having business with Lord Granger. Am I mistaken in assuming Lord McLaggen and family are here for some other reason?"
Orlando sighed. "You are observant, Ron. A little cheeky, as my mother would be more than glad to tell you, but very observant."
"I'm sorry if I overstepped."
"No, not at all. You are a friend, and you're entirely in your right to ask." Orlando gave him an ephemeral smile that was gone as soon as it had appeared. "And you are right. He isn't here to participate in the urban expansion project my father and Lord Malfoy are consulting Lord Black on. In fact, they haven't come because of Lord Angus at all. It has more to do with his son Cormac."
Ron felt his stomach sink, and his gaze trail unconsciously to the right side of the clearing, where Cormac McLaggen stood berating his stable boy, holding his shotgun improperly but with an amount of confidence that could well border into arrogance. "Ah."
"Yes. It seems my mother invited them here to acquaint him with my sister Hermione. I wrote to her to warn her about it, but my mother seems to have intercepted the letter, and I was interrupted by the arse himself when I tried to tell her about it."
"Warn her about what? Tell her about what?"
Orlando's eyes bore deeply into Ron's. "I think it might be marriage, Ron. If my mother gets her way."
Orlando's words resonated with a pang inside Ron, their impact tangible in how awfully his stomach twisted just at hearing them.
"Marriage," he echoed dully.
"I know," Orlando said, placing a hand on Ron's shoulder. "That was my reaction too. But why did you ask, anyway?"
Ron forced a smile through his paling lips. "Sheer curiosity, is all. You know the house-staff— we would not be entertained were we not informed of the goings-on in the house."
Orlando smiled roguishly. "Who am I to deny the downstairs some gossip? I only wish it was not at the expense of my sister."
"I wish so too," Ron muttered.
Just then, a rustle in a high-off tree whipped Orlando's head toward it. "I think there's a pheasant up there, Ron. Shall we try again?"
"Of course," Ron said, his hands already snapping the gun back into place. He worked nimbly, slinging the gun onto Orlando's shoulder and guiding his hands to their shooting position. Anyone watching him would have thought only that he was doing his work commendably— despite the fact that everything inside Ron at that very second felt like it was shattering.
"You're back!" Hermione said happily, running out of the library to greet the hunting party as soon as she heard their footsteps in the main hall. She ran to Orlando and threw her arms around him. "Never leave me like this again," she whispered in his ear, so no one else would hear it.
"Tell me all about it later," he mumbled as he pulled away from the embrace, displaying his usual grin to keep everyone else unsuspecting.
"Is that them, Hermione?" came Lady Amelia's voice from the drawing room. Without waiting for a response, Lady Amelia emerged from behind the door and strode toward the hunters, Lady Aileen a few steps behind. "Ah, our men! Tell us— how was the hunt?"
"The same as usual," Lord Philip shrugged, stepping somewhat ahead of the group to give his wife a customary kiss on the cheek. "Lord Black outshot us all."
"Don't feel too bad, gentlemen," Lord Black said, emerging from the group and standing next to Lord Philip. "Remember I am the son of Orion Black. Had I not learned how to shoot properly, I would have been run out of the house!" He added under his breath, "Not that that would have been such a bad thing."
Hermione disengaged from the adults' conversation and turned to the younger portion of the shooting party. "And how was it for you?"
"What can I say? I shined as always," piped up a loud, obnoxious voice, as Cormac elbowed his way to the front, closer to Hermione than even Orlando. "It is not their fault, really. The game just seemed to come to me today."
He sent a hand up to caress Hermione's cheek before walking past her to join the adults, evidently eager to brag about his accomplishments.
"Don't listen to him," Harry said, scowling in the direction Cormac had gone. "He misfired and startled a poor pheasant into falling out of a tree. He was dead on impact, but he counted it as a shot made."
"Why am I unsurprised," Hermione sighed. "How about the rest of you, though? Did you have a better time than I did all alone in this house with my mother?"
"Oh, by far," Orlando said. "I was lucky enough to get Ron as my loader. He's an exceptional conversationalist."
Only then did Hermione spot Ron, who had lingered near the door and was handing the last of the guns to Gramsley so he could clean them before stowing them back in the stable. The stable. Remembering yesterday, Hermione's heart flipped inside her chest.
"Yes," she muttered. "Yes, I don't doubt that he is."
"Ron, come say hello!" Orlando called out. By the door, Ron perked up at his voice; though they were a hall's length away, Hermione thought she could tell there was a glint in his eyes when he spotted her. He came over a bit more eagerly than would have been anticipated for a servant, but Hermione didn't care; besides, her mother was not there to watch or criticize, enamored as she was with Lord Black's retelling of the day's hunt.
"My lady," Ron said in a soft voice as he approached.
"Ronald," she said, smirking privately at the charade of calling him by his full name. He picked up on it too, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward in a grin. "Orlando here is telling me that you were his loader today?"
"Indeed, I had the pleasure of being his loader, my lady."
Orlando eyed them both incredulously. "What's the matter with you two? Last time I saw you around each other you seemed about ready to claw each other's throats out."
"I seem to have learned how to behave around the lady," Ron said, shooting Hermione a wink. She rolled her eyes. You really are having fun with this, aren't you, Weasley?
"Well, whatever it was, it's creeping me out," Orlando said, shuddering slightly. "Now, what do you all say to a game of cards?"
"Count us in," Harry said, gesturing to Draco and himself.
"Hermione, are you playing?"
"If I'm invited."
"Absolutely," Orlando said, throwing an arm around her. "I need someone to give me competition at Continental. God knows Harry is abysmal at it."
"I'm not that bad," Harry defended himself.
"He is," Draco piped up, earning a murderous glance from Harry.
"What's this I hear about a game of cards with the lady?" came the odious voice from behind them. Orlando bit his lip to keep himself from crying out loud, then steeled himself and turned to face Cormac McLaggen.
"We're playing Continental rummy in the library," he said through gritted teeth.
"Excellent! I'm pleased— after all, I'm quite good at it."
"As good as you are at hunting, surely," Harry muttered under his breath.
"I shall wait for you in the library, but do not delay. We have only a short time before dinner, and Continental can go on for quite a while," Cormac said, already walking toward the door.
Draco, Harry, Orlando, and Hermione exchanged glances. "I suppose we'll have to bear it, won't we, fellows?" Harry said.
"Why can't Ron play? I'd like to see him give that git a run for his money," Orlando said.
At the prospect of an invitation, Hermione and Ron looked at each other. Now, where the glint in his eyes had been, was a faint trace of longing. But reason kicked in, and Ron cleared his throat.
"I'd best be going. I'm sure I'm needed downstairs," he said.
"Oh, but of course! Our hunt has kept you out all day," Orlando said, clapping him on the back. "Go, dear chap, but know you will be missed. We would all very much like to include you in our game."
"I appreciate that," Ron said, using a smile to swallow what he knew came next in the sentence, but he'd never venture to say: I appreciate that, but I don't belong up here. I appreciate that, but yours is a world quite separate from mine.
"Next time, perhaps," Orlando said. "And now, if you'll follow me to the library, I believe we have an arsehole to beat at Continental." With that, he began walking toward the library, followed by Harry and Draco. Only Hermione lingered, hesitant to turn her back on Ron.
"Go," he said, nodding toward the library. "They'll be wondering otherwise."
"Ron, you don't know how badly I wish I—"
"I know," Ron quieted her, wishing badly that he could reach out and squeeze her hand right there. "But I'll see you soon, alright? Sooner than you know."
The desperation in her eyes was nearly enough to make Ron cry out loud. "Do you promise?"
"I promise."
"Soon, then," she said. As she moved toward the library, the tips of her fingers brushed against his own. He relished in the touch and watched her disappear into the library before turning toward the servant staircase and heading downstairs, as he'd said he would do.
Inside the library, the four men were already seated at a square mahogany game table, with a chair left empty for Hermione— that, much to her displeasure, was right between Orlando and McLaggen. She sat down and tried to shift herself to uncramp the table— impossible while five were occupying an already-small table meant for four. Beside her, McLaggen gave her an ill-meaning grin.
"Draco, you shuffle; Harry, you deal," Orlando instructed, with the security of a croupier. Draco grabbed both decks and divided them into two neat piles, shuffling them with one another and among themselves to randomize all 104 cards.
"Remember, we start with six cards, and the aim is to form two trios of the same rank but different suit."
Having finished the shuffling, Draco handed the cards to Harry, who began to distribute them so every player would have six in hand. Once Harry was done, he set the remaining cards aside, turned the first one over to serve as the starting point, and the rest of the table took their cards.
As they examined their game, Orlando made chatter: "So, what do you all think of Ron?"
"He seems like a good man," Draco said, moving the cards around in his hold to organize them.
"Thank you for the driest commentary ever, Draco," Orlando said. "I mean it, though. He's great, isn't he?"
"Oh, he is," Harry agreed. "I overheard your talk and I think I'll have to ask if he can be my loader next time. I want to get in on that fascinating conversation."
"No way, he's mine," Orlando said. He drew a card from the overturned pile in the middle, glanced at it, and then promptly piled it on top of the face-up starter card, muttering "useless."
"You have to share, Orlando," Harry said. "We are your guests, after all."
"So now you want proper hospitality? How about you start by letting your valet do his job?" Orlando said. "Hermione, your turn."
Hermione drew a card (a six of spades) from the down-facing deck; deciding it was useful to her, she replaced a three of diamonds in her current hand with it, and set the three of diamonds down on the starter pile.
"I think you all overvalue him," Cormac chimed in. "Sure, he's a good handyman, but I wouldn't go so far as to say he's a conversationalist or a man of multiple virtues. If anything, that only speaks to me of how low the standards for the service are today."
"How would you know? You don't speak to the service if not to abuse them," Hermione said.
Cormac looked at her with contempt before moving to draw a card from the center deck. "But I will admit that he is a fine handyman. He's willing to make repairs even at the most inconvenient of times— like, say, fixing a broken sink in the middle of the night."
Hermione's stomach dropped: she could feel Cormac's eyes on her, taunting her, but she wouldn't give in. She continued looking at the deck in the middle of the table, where Harry was now making his move, and tried to steady her thumping heart.
Cormac continued: "Anyway, he must be something quite special if you all speak so very highly of him. I take it Lady Hermione is particularly fond of him?"
Now Hermione could feel not one, but four pairs of eyes boring into her. "We get along," she said bitterly.
"You get along quite well is my impression."
"Well, what else is there to do? You've seen how my mother treats the house staff. The least I can do is be friendly."
"Right," Cormac said, his voice placid; however, his green eyes narrowed and fixed on Hermione.
"The same card again?" Orlando broke the instant, as the game had circled around the table and back to him already. "This has to be a joke of some sort."
"I'll take that," Draco said across the table, reaching for the card that Orlando had just set on the starter pile.
As the game table dissolved into the aimless, pleasant chatter that accompanied a card game, Hermione allowed herself to be swept into the lull of play, barely thinking about her card moves (she barely had to, after all). Instead, her mind was filled with the sight of Ron still in his hunting gear, promising to see her soon— and the nasty green eyes of McLaggen, which promised to be a threat to that ever happening.