VIII. Frivolity

"I just cannot work under these conditions," Mattox wails, throwing his platinum-coated needle down onto the floor. It disappears into the stringy loops of the carpet. He fumes silently for a couple of minutes before realizing the repercussions of his actions. "Oh, damn it all," he mutters, falling onto his knees and prodding around with his fingers. "I didn't bring another needle this afternoon. And the needle is necessary for my work, do you understand?" Mattox glares up from his proper place -- the one on the floor. "Well, Mister Creevey? Do you intend on helping me or not?"

"It's not a Debutante's place to be kneeling," Colin sniffs, showcasing every ounce of boastful elitism that Severus has instilled in him. I've never felt prouder of my protégé. Mattox is about to fracture Colin's newly-formed ego with some gelid comment . . . However, he's interrupted.

"I can think of no better place for a debutante."

Lucius Malfoy looms in the window -- poised and erect, like some chiseled marble statue. In the gloaming, he looks even more menacing. "A debutante should kneel on the floor -- between a man's thighs." A puddle of bile rises from my stomach into my throat. I force myself to swallow the acidic liquid back down. It singes the back of my throat. "Dismissed."

Mattox automatically bows and takes his leave. I've never been more reluctant to see him go.

"For now though, I'll settle for the Szajha. Where is Severus?"

"He isn't here," I declare, rather boldly -- adding a "sir" for courtesy's sake. "If you desire his audience, he can be found in Lord Voldemort's chambers at this hour."

"Of course," Lucius scoffs. "Severus always returns to his master like an obedient lapdog -- spreading his legs on command and mewing like some bitch in heat."

"That's quite enough, Lucius."

The Szajha stands in the doorframe -- looking thoroughly presentable. However, I do notice that his lips (newly coated with polish) are swollen to a fault. The images begin to swirl around in my mind like some pornographic kaleidoscope. My god, what's happened in the past week to trigger reactions like this in me? What have they done to me here? Why haven't I even tried fighting back yet? I'm supposed to be the savior of the wizarding world, for god's sake. Possessing the courage of Gryffindor . . . and I'm concerned with nothing more than saving my own worthless life. I stand here, making excuses for myself like "the battle has already been lost" or "resistance is useless at this point."

Have they broken me?

"I'm here about the Debutante," Lucius says, sitting down on the divan. "The debutante that my son hopes to sponsor in the future." Lucius turns and examines me momentarily. Then, he notices that Colin Creevey is also present in the room. He harshly growls: "You are also dismissed." Colin makes an embarrassingly high-pitched apology and dashes out of the bedroom.

"Come here," Lucius commands and being such a well-trained debutante, I obey without question. He examines me carefully -- my height, my build, my features. I can tell that he's asking himself the all-powerful question: Am I good enough for his only child? "You know that if Draco were to sponsor you, he would never be able to wed. He would never give birth to a child of his own. The Malfoy line would become extinct."

"No, I wasn't aware of that," I stammer. Draco would allow the entire bloodline to perish? He would sacrifice his heritage? Does it mean so little to him?

Or do I mean so much?

"I've never agreed with the potent union between debutante and sponsor," Lucius sniffs. "However, it was instituted to make sure that debutantes weren't abandoned when they grew older. Sponsors are blessed in their youth -- possessing the . . . What do you refer to them as, Severus? The centerpieces of empires? However after the debutantes lose their youthful charms, they are little more than a burden. Oh, they're trained to be excellent conversationalists and their intellect is well-known . . . But can evenings of banal chatter compare to the joys of fatherhood? To the carnal knowledge of a woman each night? Are you worth the sacrifices, Harry?"

I swallow thickly -- not knowing how to answer.

"The pure blood running through these veins . . ." Lucius yanks up his shirt-sleeve and revealed a pallid forearm. "Our blood would be wasted. And for what? A debutante!"

"The finest Debutante," Severus corrects.

Lucius pauses before repeating those words: "The finest debutante." I can tell that he's resigned himself to his son's choice. "My only child, Draco Malfoy, has signed the contract of sponsorship. With your signature, the union will be secured."

"Lucius, may I speak candidly with my debutante?"

"Certainly."

"Harry, first and foremost, you've been forgiven for last night's episode. I understand that you didn't know any better but let this serve as a lesson to you."

I begin to issue some sort of an apology but the Szajha cuts me off.

"Secondly, this union would be a particularly beneficial one. As you know, the Malfoy family is in good financial standing so you would never be uncertain about the stability of your future. Draco Malfoy is a particularly well-meaning sponsor . . ."

"What does that mean?" I ask, confused by Severus' impartial wording.

"He'll care for you, Harry."

"Oh." I stare at my slippered feet -- digging my toes into the mass of carpeting, etching out patterns in the loops of yarn. "Do you think that this is the best choice for me? I mean, I should sign the contract . . . right?"

"I think you'll regret it if you don't," Severus replies simply. "You won't find a better sponsor."

"No," I mutter, half-thinking of something else. "I suppose that I won't." Images of the near-future click through my mind. Every evening, after eight hours of assisting in plots of world domination, Draco Malfoy will return home to find . . . what? Just me. And what do I have to offer? I wouldn't be particularly domestic. I couldn't see myself preparing cuisine on a nightly basis. And we wouldn't have much in common -- so I'd be limited as a conversationalist. And, of course, I couldn't deliver a child for him. And even my appearances are somewhat lacking . . .

"Oh, but he could do so much better!" I exclaim thoughtlessly.

"Agreed," Lucius responds snidely. "But Draco will accept no one else. And, as I said once before, if my child wishes to sponsor a debutante . . . he shall have a debutante."

"Harry, sign the contract now," Severus murmurs -- extending the quill towards me. And without thinking (only following the direction of the Szajha), I scribble my name onto the contract. Harry James Potter, debutante. Sponsored by Draco Malfoy. And I don't have time for second-thoughts because Lucius, regretfully, folds up the contract and leaves the chambers.

"What have I just done?"

The question is rhetorical but Severus answers anyway.

"Made the right decision."

TBC