As he handed his luggage off to one of the attentive hall boys, Draco stood grounded to the flowered carpet that covered the hall and took a moment to look around it. He was mildly unimpressed— the demure, Victorian furnishing of Rosebury House did not, in his opinion, measure up to the imposing image of Aschroft Manor, with its Gothic peaks from centuries past and the macabre lurk of its dark décor. Still, he thought as his gray eyes continued to scan the wide lobby, he had to admit there was a classic kind of beauty in the oaken finish of its wooden-and-stone walls. Yes, Rosebury House was undoubtedly a noble one, even if it wasn't quite to his aesthetic taste.
"Lord Malfoy, sir," a voice interrupted his survey. Draco tilted his head slightly to locate the source, determined to shoot one of his characteristically piercing glares to whoever had interrupted his musings, but he was quickly deterred when he saw the voice belonged to one of his hosts.
"Lady Granger, please," he said with a cool smile, stepping close enough to kiss her gloved hand. The older woman giggled like a schoolgirl, and inside, Draco felt a swelling of revulsion at such puerile behavior from what was supposed to be a dignified lady. "Lord Malfoy is my father."
"Thank you, Draco," a steely voice rumbled from behind him. "But it's you who'll have to answer to that title someday."
Draco released Lady Granger's hand and turned toward the door. The tall, sculptural figure of Lord Lucius Malfoy, Earl of Ashcroft, was erected monumentally in the frame of the wide oak door, holding his walking cane as an old king would his scepter. The royal illusion was broken as soon as Lucius broke posture to hand a valise to another hall boy, the litheness of his touch expressing just how disdainfully he felt about even brushing against the hall boy's hand. When the hall boy had vanished upstairs, presumably to deposit the luggage in Lucius's guest room, the regal man finally stepped into the center of the hall, every step reverberating through it with the weight of his black travel boots. He was a man well aware of his attractiveness, which was conferred to him not really by his features (which were, like Draco's, shrewd and stretched tautly across his face, giving him the air of a permanent sneer) but rather by the poise and grace with which he carried himself. Even his long, white-blond hair, worn unusually long and loose past his shoulders, added to the aura of threatening elegance he radiated.
"Lady Amelia, is that truly you?" he drawled as he caught up to his son in the center of the hall, taking Lady Granger's hand where Draco's lips had alit barely seconds ago. "I must have mistook you for your daughter."
"Oh, stop it, Lord Malfoy," Lady Granger looked away with a blush, and again Draco stifled a grimace at the juvenile giggle that leaked through her lips. Perusing the wrinkles lining her face, Draco thought this must be a woman whose character led to a usual frown or puckering of the face. "Speaking of which, I apologize for the rather sparse reception. My daughter was supposed to be here to welcome you, but she and her brother are out riding."
"It is of no worry," Lucius said with an indecipherable smile. He was using the monotone neutrality Draco had never been able to pick apart: he was either honest, and unbothered by the lack of pomp, or utterly offended by it. With his father, he could never tell. "I assume we are the first to arrive, then?"
"Not quite," a different voice filled the hall now, and Draco's eyes trailed toward the far end of the hall to see a dapperly-suited man exit the library. His father's dangerously calm smile contorted into a grimace upon sight, which made it clear that he was a figure of note. The man was the only other nobleman he had ever seen, besides his father, that wore his hair long, except the man's was a rich brown where Lucius's was almost white, curly where Lucius's was ramrod straight, and his face was marked by a thin mustache where Lucius's was shaven clean. "Sorry to disappoint, Lucius."
Draco was surprised: he had never seen anyone address his father so casually by his first name, much less with Lucius staring at him with utter loathing. "Lord Black," was all he said, with a sneer that everyone else would take for a smile but Draco knew better than. "The bachelor Lord Black."
"In the flesh," Lord Black grinned, seemingly unbothered by the emphasized reference to his unpaired civil state undoubtedly meant to be an insult. "Now, where is my dear cousin?"
Lord Black headed toward the door to meet Draco's mother halfway as she stepped into the house, oblivious to how Draco's heart had caught in his throat at the confirmation of his identity. But how could he know? How could any of them know? If Lord Black was here, then that could only mean— No, surely he'd come alone, the last he'd heard, he was languishing about around London— But what if he hadn't—?
"Lord Granger," his father's drawl interrupted his thoughts, and he had to fight to rein his heartbeat into sync again. Instead, he turned toward where his father had directed his remark, and saw another man emerge from the same door Lord Black had come through.
"Please, Lord Malfoy, Philip will suffice," the man said as he approached the party. He had a gentle, if idle, face, and the air of a man in command of his home.
"In that case, I insist— call me Lucius," purred his father as he extended his hand to shake Lord Granger's fraternally. Draco was puzzled: he had never known his father to offer his first name so voluntarily. There must have been a very good reason for them to have paid Rosebury Grounds a visit.
"I don't need to insist," Lord Black chimed in again, flanked by Draco's mother. "Everybody calls me Sirius anyway."
"How abasing," Lucius muttered under his breath, careful not to carve a chink in the sly smile he had so cunningly crafted.
"Traveling alone, Lord Bla– er, Sirius?" Draco said hesitantly to dispel the threat of awkward silence, aware that he was treading on unfamiliar ground. His father did not seem, by the looks he gave Draco, to appreciate his participation very much, but he had to ask.
"If by that you mean, is there a Lady Black, I can assure you that is still a title unfilled by anyone other than your aunt Bellatrix," Sirius said charmingly. Again, Draco felt a flash of disgust: upon hearing Lord Black was still available, Lady Granger had perked up like an eager puppy. No doubt, were it not for the wedding band around her finger and her husband right there to embody the vows it represented, Lady Granger would have been one of the countless old spinsters from noble families who were constantly throwing themselves at Lord Black desperately, trying to snag him despite it being overly clear that he intended to stay a bachelor forever.
Sirius's words, however, had had the opposite effect on Draco: he felt deflated, disappointed, and he was back to wondering whether this arduous trek with his father had had any sense at all if he wouldn't get to see—
"But," Sirius added, "if you mean did I have to come here all by myself, I'm fortunate to say the answer is no. I abused Lord and Lady Granger's hospitality by soliciting one more of their guest bedrooms for my godson, who accompanied me here."
Draco's heart tumbled forth in his chest. So it hadn't been a vain attempt, after all.
He feigned nonchalance as he continued to pry: "So, where is he?" His father glared at him for the juvenile directness of his question. Draco cleared his throat and tried again, this time with the serious drawl his father expected of him. "What I mean to say is, I assume he's not around?"
Sirius seemed to have taken no notice of Draco's momentary lapse in poise. "No, I'm afraid he's not. He's out riding with the Granger children."
"They're hardly children anymore, Lord Black," their mother piped up. "Orlando did turn eighteen last week, after all."
"A strapping young man already!" Sirius said cheerfully. "He'll be out and about in the world in no time! I should think both you and Lord Philip are happy to have a daughter still in the nest, then."
Lady Amelia's saccharine smile wavered. "Well, she is of marriage age, so I am sure both her father and I would much prefer her to find a husband of renown..."
Draco turned away and continued pacing the big hall. He had been through the motions of this very conversation countless times already: the girl her parents consider an expense, being married off to some heir somewhere, the parents trying to pass it off as it being 'for her good'. Come to think of it, after all, that was how the vast majority of marriages in their class were consolidated. Tale as old as time, truly. He felt sorry for the Granger girl, sure —not only for her mother evidently wanting to give her away as fast as possible but also for having to grow up under that woman—, but he had other, more important things to worry about at the present moment.
Mainly, how to keep the Malfoy facade up as soon as he laid eyes on him.
Christ, he could hardly remember ever being so excited. Or was it anxiety beating savagely in his ribcage? The lines between both emotions were blurred beyond the point of distinction, and Draco thought that was just as well. Had he been thoroughly convinced that it was excitement, he would have entirely lost self-control by now; on the other hand, had he been sure it was anxiety, he would have already bolted back into the carriage. This uncertainty, ironically, was what was keeping him stable. All that was left was waiting for him to arrive without giving himself away, but every second he counted down felt unbearably weighty.
He pretended to be intensely interested in a woolen tapestry woven through with threads of gold, hanging regally by the hall's hearth, and did not tear his eyes from the surrounding décor until the sudden percussion of riding boots clacking against the wooden floor interrupted the adults' bubbling small talk.
Draco froze. This was it. His breath hitched in his throat. What would he look like when he turned and saw him? Would he be just as he remembered him? Or would he be past the point of recognition? Draco wasn't sure which he'd prefer.
"Ah, Harry!" Sirius called boisterously, and as if Draco's fate wasn't yet sealed, that did it. He took a deep breath and turned, careful not to be too slow or too fast, displaying neither indifference nor eagerness, staying within the boundaries of the calculated coolness his father had cultivated in him since childhood.
It was a hard pretense to keep up, and much more so when his knees threatened to buckle when the sight of Black's godson came into view.
As he swept a top hat off his head, laughing, he shook his head and exposed the jet-black mop of hair that was as tousled as Draco remembered it to be. His eyes, behind long lashes, fluttered open, and Draco thought he might just die right then and there: the two glinting emeralds that had peppered his dreams lately flashed back at him. For a man of such short stature, he should not be inciting this height of emotion in Draco, and yet there he was, struggling even to feign normalcy in the wake of the greatest shock he had experienced since the first time they had met.
He was flanked by two other figures in the tight red blazers and beige slacks Draco knew to be characteristic of the horseback hunt. He recognized one of the faces: from below the brim of the top hat, two mischievous brown eyes twinkled, matching almost exactly in color the mid-neck-length wavy hair that, no doubt, his mother fussed over constantly. He had known Orlando Granger since they were boys, and in the fifteen years of so they had known and played with one another, very little had changed in his boyish appearance except for his height.
The other figure, Draco was surprised to see, was a woman. Her eyes the same as Orlando's, Draco had only ever seen his sister, Hermione, from afar, and he had never expected to see her as part of a riding party. She had the same small, delicate features as her brother, except his gave him an impish air whereas hers were arranged with the care and distinction of an exquisite doll's crafting. He knew she must be around his age, and even accounting for his, er, unorthodox tastes, he could admit she was a woman of exceptional beauty. Perhaps, in another life, it would have been her he was after, and not her wild-haired companion, who —it seemed— had looked everywhere but at Draco. And Draco, following the uncertainty that seemed to mark today, didn't know whether to be relieved or distraught about that.
"Lord Malfoy!" Orlando declaimed as cheerfully as Sirius had called for his godson. He advanced in long strides across the hall until he was close enough to extend a hand to Lucius. "My deepest apologies for having kept you waiting. If we knew you were getting here early, we wouldn't have gone riding at all!"
Lucius surveyed Orlando's hand, grimy and skid-marked from gripping the reins and being out on the Yorkshire hills, and simply shook his fingertips with the evident disgust of someone handling a rather nasty object. "Not to worry, Lord Orlando, it is good to see you again." He combed the slim boy up and down with his gaze, making no effort to conceal the fact that he was judging his muddy clothes and askew blazer. "So this," he drawled, again wielding one of his signature insults-disguised-as-compliments, "is the heir to the Earldom of Rosebury."
"The one and only," Orlando grinned back toothily. If he had caught the insult, he didn't show it. "And, hopefully, a host to your liking."
"I have no doubts you will be up to standard," Lucius sneered. Again, if Orlando was aware of the obvious, ironic insincerity, he dismissed it and walked directly over to Lord Black, Harry following suit close behind.
Sirius seemed elated to be the next objective. "So, how was Harry today?"
"Ghastly," Orlando declared.
"That is not fair," Harry protested, shoving Orlando aside so they could stand shoulder-to-shoulder before his godfather. "It's because you took my glasses, and you know I'm completely blind without them, so it's no wonder I took that fall—"
"Tell him, Sirius," Orlando cackled delightedly, "tell him his glasses are a hazard when he's riding."
"My blindness is a hazard when I'm riding!" Harry's voice rose in pitch, and the three men broke out into laughter. For a fleeting instant, Draco envied them: what he would give to unravel himself as comfortably, as sociably, as the three of them were doing. Especially when it came to Harry.
Orlando's sister approached Lord and Lady Malfoy, with the evident intent to greet them, before her mother whisked her off to the side with an iron grip on her forearm. Draco couldn't help but overhear a selection of words from their hissed conversation.
"...out riding... not ladylike... what will the guests think...?"
"...didn't know they were getting here early... bored out of my mind..."
"...wearing trousers...? first all those books, now... no proper lady..."
"...not a doll to prop around the house to your liking..."
Draco disconnected from the eavesdropping then. His observations and deductions had been correct: Lady Amelia was traditional to the point of being asphyxiating, and her older daughter was clearly suffering from an overdose of its effects.
He shifted slightly to the side and suddenly found himself face-to-face with the very man he had been thinking about for weeks before this. Faced suddenly with him, with the very face he now knew to be permanently ingrained into his idle thoughts, he was utterly disarmed.
"You know my son Draco, Mr. Potter?" Lucius's droning voice came as a backdrop to the very sight.
"We're acquainted," Harry said with nonchalance, and Draco felt desolation welling in his chest. Acquainted? Was that it? "Good afternoon, Draco— is it incorrect to assume you remember me?"
Remember him? 'Think of him every waking moment' was more like it. But all Draco eked out in response was, "Yes, of course I do."
"Splendid," Orlando said as he crept up to them, throwing an arm over each of them. But Harry's green gaze stayed locked with Draco's grey one, as if challenging him to be the first one to look away. Draco wanted to defy him, to be the proud Malfoy heir his father took him for, but something about Potter rendered him an idiot. Embarrassed, he tore his eyes away, and thought he detected a triumphant twitch of Harry's expression out of the corner of his eye. "We all know one another, I'm sure we'll get along famously."
Draco gulped and nodded, hoping his grimace would pass for a smile, and Orlando was satisfied. He delivered a hearty palm to each of his friends' backs before moving on to rescue his sister from their mother's clutches.
He was alone with Harry now, and he had no idea what to do. It was evident that Harry didn't, either, because his eyes shifted nervously below his bushy eyebrows as he looked for a plausible next road through which to steer the conversation.
"So," he finally roughed out, "I s'ppose I'd better go take these boots off, before I continue to track mud all over the house." Draco looked down at the flowered carpet he had disdained earlier. The paisley stitches were darkened in places with the mud Harry's riding boots had introduced to the delicate ecosystem of the house, no doubt a byproduct of the fall Orlando had referred to earlier. Classic Harry. "I'll be seeing you later, then."
With a cheeky wink, Harry slid his feet out of the boots and walked, in socks only, back toward the front door of the house to leave his muddy boots outside. As he sauntered away, Draco couldn't tear his eyes from the derrière the fitted riding trousers sculpted out of his rear. He has to be doing this intentionally. Draco swallowed and tried, to no avail, to stop looking at Harry's figure before it disappeared back outside. Yes, he definitely would be seeing him later.