Thanks for the reviws on the last chapter!
Chapter Eighty-Five: Draco's Debut
Harry closed his eyes and tried not to feel ridiculous. It was no use, though. He could feel the blush mounting up through his cheeks and his ears, mantling his face. He must have been more embarrassed at some point in his life, but he couldn't remember it.
"Could you make her hurry up?" he hissed out of the corner of his mouth at Draco.
"You can't hurry an artist, Harry," said Narcissa. Her voice was gentle, not as amused as Harry would have expected, and rather abstracted. A moment later, Harry heard the slight flick of her hands as she told the deaf robe-maker exactly what she wanted.
Harry let his eyes open up a slit. He stood on a raised stool in the middle of a shop he hadn't known existed, called Deianira's, which Harry considered a rather gruesome joke. The old witch who had met them was not Deianira herself—maybe they had named the shop after the legend and not a witch—but Ariadne Kaliadnos. Narcissa had treated her with great respect, spoken to her in sign language, and apparently told her what kind and color of robes they wanted. Ariadne had stared at Harry from cold blue eyes, then put him on the stool and started the robe-fitting.
With plenty of long, sharp needles and pins to help her, which poked Harry when he shifted too much. If she used magic to aid her, Harry couldn't sense it. That was probably what Narcissa meant by "artistry."
Harry turned his head slowly from side to side, easing his cramped neck, and looked around the shop; he hadn't got much of a look when they came in. The walls were covered with such thick draperies of cloth that Harry couldn't see what material they were made from. Robes of red and green and blue and a truly disgusting yellow hung in half-finished states on statues. The windows were small and dim. Harry supposed the view on Knockturn Alley wasn't anything to brag about, but he would have preferred some light.
He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, because he couldn't help himself, and Ariadne poked him with a pin. Harry yelped and glared down at her. She glared back at him, and returned to stitching on the hem of the robe. The robes were dark green. Draco insisted they made him look smashing. Harry didn't know about that. He didn't really care anymore. He had envisioned a boring journey through several shops in search of formal robes, too, but he had at least thought there would be movement. Based on his treatment so far in Deianira's, it didn't seem so.
Ariadne somehow flashed a message at Narcissa out of the mass of pins and needles and measuring appliances and Merlin knew what else that she held. Narcissa responded, and Ariadne let out a little grunt of satisfaction before going back to her stitching. Harry turned his glare on Narcissa.
"What did you tell her?" he demanded. "And why do you know that sign language anyway?"
"Oh, it's not really a sign language," said Narcissa absently, watching Ariadne stitch the new symbols with a small smile of satisfaction. "Not the kind the necromancers use, at least, and with nowhere near the complexity. It's merely a set of signals for agreed-upon words that come up in Madam Kaliadnos's work. As for how I know it, all the regular patrons of Deianira's have to learn it. Madam Kaliadnos insists on it. Those who won't learn it are obviously unfit for her services in any case."
Harry lapsed back into a grumpy silence. "You didn't answer my first question," he ventured a bit later.
Narcissa gave him a sharp-edged smile. "No, I didn't, did I?" she said. "All is well, Harry. I merely told her that she could put on symbols identifying you as the Black heir. After all, you are now, and one might even consider you the Black, since Regulus has—left." Narcissa did take care to delicately shade her conversation since they'd arrived in Knockturn Alley, Harry noticed. "They'll make the robes look impressive to the quality of Dark purebloods we're getting at Draco's festival."
"Not very intelligent ones, then?" Harry muttered.
"Harry," said Narcissa, and her face was so serious that he blinked. "I will not have you ruining Draco's festival," she whispered, leaning nearer to him now. "I do not think there is a very great chance of that, but it may come about by accident. Understand that the people who will attend this festival value symbols and designs and gestures very highly, whether or not you do. And the festival to welcome a magical heir is a formal occasion. You will impress them to the degree that you remember that."
Harry sighed and cast his eyes down. The bad things about getting joined to a pureblood Dark heir, he thought in resignation. "Yes, Mrs. Malfoy."
Narcissa touched his hair for a moment. "In most things, I think you'll do just fine," she murmured. "But you really have been ignoring important gestures, Harry, or you have allowed your allies to make them for you. The appearance of the centaurs and the dragon at the alliance meeting, for example. Remember the value of symbols. They can contrive to make people accept things that otherwise they would reject out of hand."
Harry cast a glance at Draco, who was leaning against a far shelf filled with bolts of cloth and watching him with an intent expression. He didn't like as though he worried about what kind of impression Harry would make at the festival, or how much of a prat he looked standing there trying to avoid the jabs of Madam Kaliadnos's pins. He just looked—happy, and as though he appreciated the dark green robes.
I can do this for him, Harry thought. After all, he pretends most of the time that he's a perfectly forward-thinking embracer of Muggleborns, and that he isn't afraid of centaurs or venomous snakes any more.
He straightened his back, flinched as another pin poked him, and decided to put on the best show he could—for Draco's sake.
Draco would have thought he would always know Malfoy Manor. After all, he hadn't only lived there most of his life; his father had taught him history in its rooms, had told him stories of where various ancestors had slept or bedded their partners or fought heroic battles against Mudblood invaders, had shown him artifacts that were connected intimately to the places that housed them, and had taught him early on the purposes of certain rooms—to remove glamours, for example.
But now he didn't recognize it. He stood in the doorway and stared at the great hall where his parents had arranged to hold the confirmation of his ascending to Malfoy magical heir, and his mind traced no familiar walls, saw no familiar doors, didn't remember the places where his father had walked with Draco just beside him, or his mother had walked with Draco in her arms.
The walls had vanished behind elaborate glamours that linked to the skies outside, but were themselves more perfect shades of dark blue than the sky would ever show, speckled with small imagined planets. The constellation Draco had taken the place of the ceiling, with silver lines of light connecting the stars for their slower guests who might not understand its purpose. Now and then, loud cries sounded from the walls of air, as though real dragons roamed just out of sight.
The tables themselves were creations of light and silver and stone; Draco didn't know what on them was real and what wasn't. His father had had the time to specially commission them, that was sure. The blue-gray cloths that covered them provided a subtle transition from the dark blue walls. Draco was sure that that was deliberate.
House elves would fill the room, bringing food and wine to anyone who required it, but glamours kept them out of sight, Narcissa had told him, so that the food would simply appear, as it did at Hogwarts. Subtle spells would insure that the guests avoided saying certain words that might disrupt the atmosphere, urging them towards the expression of others. But spells under that would encourage everyone's rational thinking, no matter how much wine they swallowed. Discussion of politics and business, certain to happen, would require it.
Draco had grown up knowing what it meant to be pureblood, but he had never experienced the equivalent of the rarified, distilled environment that surrounded him now. It made him a little heady.
And he would be bringing a halfblood joined partner into the middle of all of this.
Draco shook his head, and felt a faint smile curve his mouth. This wasn't the first time something like this had been done. After all, halfbloods were more acceptable than Mudbloods, if only just, and Harry's magical power was unquestioned. Most of their guests would consider that Draco had done well for himself when they felt Harry's strength. And the ring, and Harry's presence at the festival at all, would proclaim that his partner didn't find gatherings like this uncomfortable. Powerful halfbloods with some sense of polish were best of all.
The things that might go wrong were still endless, but Draco thrust the thought of them away. Harry had one of the finest senses of personal empathy he'd ever seen, and an overwhelming presence, when Draco could persuade him to exercise it. He would do well enough at this gathering.
And anyone who might try to insult him would either find his mouth blocked by one of the Malfoy spells watching for insults to the family, or mark himself in an instant as unfit for a gathering of this caliber.
Draco turned abruptly and made his way to the doors, where the first guests would be arriving. Part of his duties as Malfoy magical heir at this festival included acting as a competent host. You're an adult, his parents' every gesture towards him today had said. Let us see you act like it.
You will, Draco promised, and opened the front doors of the Manor.
Harry yanked fretfully at the collar of his formal robes.
"You'll wrinkle them," said Draco calmly from his right side. "Stop. They look fine."
"They don't," Harry hissed. He was convinced that the formal robes were too long, since they swished around his ankles with more thickness and more insistence than his normal school robes. Besides, the collar was too high, and the dark green color made him look as if he were walking around in a pine tree, and the silver symbols stitched along the hem and cuffs…Merlin knew what they said, but Harry was rather afraid they reflected more disturbing things about him than his merely being the Black heir.
"They do." Draco reached out and captured his chin, forcing Harry to look at him. His own face had that serene expression Harry remembered from Walpurgis Night. "Really, Harry. You're going to stun them, even the ones who know you. And no, I'm not saying that only because I love you." He gave Harry a little smile and held out his arm. "Ready? It's almost sunset."
Harry sighed and settled his hand on Draco's arm in the position they'd practiced, to send all the right signals to the room. They had to enter the hall, and thus officially begin the festival, at the moment of sunset, since Draco had been born then. Even though it wasn't the fifth of June, but the second, Narcissa had been insistent that they observe the protocols.
"Happy birthday, by the way," Harry muttered to him from the corner of his mouth.
Draco's face lost its calmness. "What did you make me?" he asked Harry eagerly.
Harry laughed at him. "It's not actually your birthday yet, remember? You can't have your gift until the fifth."
"You should make me one anyway," said Draco.
"I'm giving you one right now," said Harry. "Appearing at this festival with you is my gift for the day."
Draco opened his mouth to argue, but just then, the doors of the hall swung open, the cue for their entrance. Draco's head lifted in a moment, and he adopted yet another serene expression. Harry wondered if he had a closetful of them, and entertained himself for a moment with the image of Draco taking calm masks off hooks and deciding which one he liked best.
"Here we come," Draco murmured, and Harry tugged himself back from his thoughts in enough time to walk exactly beside Draco as they entered the room, and not trip over the hem of the stupid dress robes.
Harry hadn't seen the hall before. He hadn't realized how much the Malfoys had sculpted it to look like sunset inside. He controlled his urge to gape, putting in place the mask Lily had taught him for formal occasions like this—mildly appreciative, but deeply unimpressed—and turned to follow Draco across the front of the room to the table that stood at the far right wall.
Light spells glittered and flashed off his ring. Harry heard more than one murmur. He didn't try to make them out. Anyone who didn't realize he was doing a joining ritual with Draco by now was a nutter. More likely, they were trying to figure out the significance of the ring as a joining gift, or telling each other about the symbolism of the jacinth.
Draco reached the table, and the part Harry really hated started. Luckily, it was short. Draco turned to face his guests across the tabletop, his back nearly against the sunset-glamoured wall, and Harry had to stand beside him. He had to look out across faces staring at him with various politely-bred expressions of curiosity, interest, and disdain, especially from those who hadn't met him before.
And he had to listen to Draco praise him like he was some bloody Lord.
"Welcome to the festival confirming me as the Malfoy magical heir," said Draco, in a smooth, deep voice, which Harry suspected he'd adopted from his father. Harry preferred the way he normally sounded. "My name is Draco Malfoy, and in all matters tonight I mean to fully deserve the name. My father is Lucius Malfoy. My mother is Narcissa Black Malfoy. My blood runs with starlight and with power, and I embrace all that means. Welcome." He dipped his head, and waited until everyone had finished bowing back.
Then he started in on Harry. "By my side stands my to-be-joined partner, Harry, once called Potter, once son of James Potter and Lily Evans Potter." The response was a susurrus rather than ordinary whispering, but Harry could hear it. He'd expected it, after the announcement of his Muggleborn mother's name. He restrained the childish temptation to yell the name back in their faces, and also to point out, helpfully, that two of the most powerful wizards he knew, Voldemort and Snape, were halfbloods. "Now called vates, a Lord-level wizard, the Boy-Who-Lived, friend of centaurs and defeater of Dumbledore."
Harry bowed his head. Most people bowed back. A few stared arrogantly at him, with a stiffness to their necks that said they didn't see the point of acknowledging him. Harry narrowed his eyes.
It's childish, perhaps, but Draco did say that a lack of respect conceived in a place like this can follow me for the rest of the joining ritual.
He lowered one of the barriers on his power, and pure magic flooded the room, especially noticeable because so many of the spells on the walls and floor and house elves were subtle. Some of the wizards still staring at him as if he were something the Kneazle had dragged in widened their eyes most satisfactorily. Harry restored the shield a moment later, and sat down in his place, as he was supposed to do.
He picked up his wineglass, and in the next second it was full of shining dark liquid, courtesy of the disguised and incredibly coordinated house elves. Harry restrained the impulse to roll his eyes, and waited for Draco's toast.
Draco spoke the words perfectly, of course, holding his glass high, and in that moment, he looked as Malfoy as Harry had ever seen him—and as flawless.
"To the future," Draco said clearly. "To the power of magic spreading and flourishing in bloodline after bloodline, in magical heir after magical heir. To the preservation of our world." Harry tensed in interest at what was coming next. Each magical heir got to choose the last line of the toast, Draco had told him, and it was often the first way he or she made a mark on the adult world.
Draco darted a quick glance at Harry, and then he smiled.
"To freedom," he said, "and to will." Then he lifted the wineglass to his lips, and all around the room, people followed suit.
Draco sat back down, well-aware of the half-astonished, half-wary look Harry had worn from the moment of the toast. He didn't care. What mattered was that he'd made it, and declared himself in a way that even making his Declaration to the Dark right now wouldn't have allowed him to do. He smiled at Harry and looked down at his plate, which was covered with the first course, a delicately seasoned pie of venison. Draco's mouth watered for a moment
Then he cut off a precise piece and held it out to Harry on the end of his fork. Harry's astonished look deepened, and then his eyes hardened. He and Draco had discussed the idea of feeding each other, and decided they wouldn't do it.
What are you doing? he was asking now.
Draco cocked his head. He was better at reading the mood in the room than Harry was. He'd sensed more hostility than he wanted the moment they stepped inside the hall. Yes, it was idiocy, but there were some wizards here who would still see Harry's blood status as the most important thing about him; even that pulse of magic would only convince them that the Malfoys had somehow found a way to harness a dragon, not that the dragon could think for himself. Draco needed to send an undeniable signal that he held his future joined partner in high regard.
That the way to do that was to follow convention to the letter, instead of rebelling, was something he knew Harry would have a hard time understanding, and he had no time to explain. He held out the piece of pie and waited.
Harry glared one more time and opened his mouth. Draco placed the bit of pie on his tongue and watched as he chewed and swallowed. Harry's eyes widened once, and he seemed about to choke; obviously, the taste of venison didn't agree with him. But he was far too well-mannered to spit it out. He inclined his head in a small nod to Draco, and then turned to cut his own pie and return the favor.
Draco smiled and waited for the serving. Harry had cut a much larger piece, probably as vengeance. He certainly watched in disbelief as Draco ate it with relish. Draco didn't really know what Harry disliked so much about it. Yes, the flesh was a bit gamy, but that was part of its charm; it was one of the more flavorful pureblood dishes.
He fed Harry more of the pie, keeping one eye on their guests all the while. The hall was filled with tables facing the one where he and Harry sat, to display the magical heir—and his or her partner, of course—to the whole room. Draco caught many glances in their direction, especially from those wizards who hadn't met Harry before. They would also be evaluating him, though, so he kept his face cool and his posture perfectly straight.
He nodded to those who caught his eye, or at least would admit to catching his eye. A surprising number were of those families who hovered distant from the Malfoys, and were often their rivals for influence in the Ministry. Draco knew they were wondering if he was a worthy successor to Lucius. He answered them with a smile like blue light on winter snow. They would know that he was, or they would fall before him. He wasn't sure which outcome would please him more.
The house elves whisked away the pie long before Draco had tired of reading faces and, through them, minds, and brought the second course, diced and salted manticore tails. Draco picked up the first bit and offered it to Harry with his fingers before he could touch anything.
Harry didn't object this time, or even insert the slight pause that he had before accepting the venison pie. He leaned forward and took the offering with a lightness that had Draco struggling to hide a grin. Harry understood, then, that flirting was out of the question. They had to present a perfectly stoic façade for this part of the evening.
Later, when they danced, they could get rid of that, and Draco was going to enjoy doing so.
He caught Charles Rosier-Henlin's eye as he took a bit of the manticore tail from Harry in turn. The man was obviously fighting to repress a grin, but his twin sons, with him, looked unaccountably earnest. Draco narrowed his eyes the tiniest fraction. If they think they have a chance with either Harry or me, they can forget it. The Rosier-Henlin boys were handsome enough, pureblooded enough, and wealthy enough to qualify as acceptable partners for him if Harry hadn't existed, but Harry did, and there was no question of any other person, for either of them.
On the meal flowed, with the introduction of sweet bread and fish from the Mediterranean and wine-soup and delicately flavored fruit, and Harry played the game well, accepting food from Draco's fork or spoon or fingers as the moment dictated, offering his own food in return, and ignoring most of the stares he got. Actually, to think about it, Draco wasn't sure if that last was Harry playing the game or just not caring what anyone else thought of him.
The end of the meal would be a challenge, Draco knew, and he heard Harry hiss under his breath as it appeared on their plates. It was a small scoop of ice cream in a silver dish, or at least it had started out that way. Magic had wound dozens of flavors into it, and spun it with trails of pure sugary icing in so many colors that they blazed under the deep blue lights of the hall. Draco could feel his mouth water. The sweetness was exquisite, but it was so much trouble for even house elves to make that Draco had tasted it only a few times in his life.
Harry would need to use his spoon to feed it to Draco, and he would need to do it first—another consequence of his being a halfblood in a pureblood gathering, yielding the sweetest of the food to his host and the partner most purebloods would see as undeniably superior. They'd discussed this, but then put aside the idea when they'd decided they wouldn't be serving each other their food. Draco hoped desperately that Harry would remember it now.
He did, though his face was distant as he scooped up a part of his own ice cream on his spoon and held it out.
Draco smiled at him and took his wrist, an undeniable mark of favor, as he leaned in to swallow the dessert. It felt like twenty ice-cold fruits, none of them mingling with each other, exploding in his throat at once. He swallowed around melon and apple and orange and others he could barely recognize, and reached for his own spoon with a hand that didn't shake, no matter how much it wanted to. "Your turn," he said.
Harry's eyebrows twitched as if he wanted to roll his eyes, but he opened his mouth and waited obediently. Draco gently tipped the ice cream in, and waited, holding his breath, for the next and most challenging part of this—the one that would have been a challenge even if they hadn't started feeding each other. He knew Harry had never encountered something of this sweetness before, and he wasn't completely sure if the left-over remains of his childhood training wouldn't lead to an unfortunate accident.
Harry swallowed, and his eyes widened. There was one horrible moment when Draco thought he would surely spit the ice cream back out. But then his eyes closed and his head tilted to the side, and he uttered a soft sigh that made Draco think unfortunate thoughts about private rooms and lengths of time that guests could reasonably expect their hosts to be gone.
He looked at Draco in the next moment, and gave him a smile of pure sensual enjoyment.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Draco knew that more than one person would have heard that—the preparation his parents had done would permit certain listening spells on their table—and felt a surge of power. Adherence to formal gestures would help, but nothing could compare with the true and avid bliss on Harry's face, or the way his eyes shone as he looked at Draco.
If this doesn't convince them that he's in love with me, nothing will, Draco thought, and leaned forward to take his next swallow of ice cream.
Harry could still taste sweetness tingling in his mouth when the meal was done. He almost wanted to ask for more of the ice cream, even though he knew it was a special sweet that the Malfoy house elves had worked hard to prepare. He even felt vaguely guilty at the thought that he'd enjoyed it so much when house elves had been the ones to labor to make it.
But he hadn't known any food could taste that good. For the first time, Harry was willing to believe Vera when she said that other people found sweet tastes a temptation, and thought it might be a good thing to overcome the training that had taught him to ignore chocolate.
Draco rose to his feet when the ice cream vanished, and inclined his head. "After the welcome and the food," he said quietly, "the presentation of gifts is in order, for those who wish to make them."
Harry sat on his own anxiety. As Draco had told him, this was the most vulnerable place in the festival. If no one had bothered to bring a gift, then the magical heir would look foolish standing in front of the room and awaiting something that never came.
Draco didn't look foolish, though. He looked utterly composed, as though never doubting that someone would have decided to bring him offerings.
And, of course, someone had. Harry turned his head at a glimpse of movement, and saw Hawthorn Parkinson advancing calmly up the aisles between the tables, clad in dark formal robes that emphasized her pallor and her blonde hair. Her neck flashed with an ornament Harry hadn't seen before, a medallion depicting a rose wound with thorns. It was probably a hereditary Parkinson piece.
Harry was occupied enough in studying it that he didn't realize the more significant fact about it for a long moment. It was made of silver, and Hawthorn wore it next to her bare skin with nary a flinch.
He looked, startled, into her eyes as she laid the small wooden box she carried down before Draco and bowed her head. Hawthorn looked back at him. Her gaze was as simple and direct as a shout.
Harry had written her about Remus, and about Loki's politics, not sure how she would respond. The medallion was her answer. She was a pureblood witch, first and foremost. She would not let even a werewolf's vulnerability to silver—and the pain the silver ornament had to be causing her—define her otherwise.
Harry blinked away any unfortunate emotions that might have crossed his face, and turned back to see Draco opening the box. His gasp was loud and heartfelt, but as he held up the gift, Harry couldn't see why. It looked like a ring, made of gold, set with a tiny sapphire—valuable, of course, but nothing more.
Then Draco looked at Hawthorn and said, "Thank you. The generosity of Parkinson in sharing its magic with us shall not be forgotten."
The murmur picked up in the hall again, running from person to person, and Hawthorn inclined her head, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "The generosity of Malfoys to their friends is well-known," she said. "I thought it worthwhile to answer a virtue with a virtue."
She turned and swept back to her seat, where Pansy waited in silence beside her chair. Harry found his eyes turning back to the ring, in disbelief.
Hawthorn had pulled out a piece of her own magic, solidified it, and given it to Draco. Or, rather, she had gone to a specialist in Knockturn Alley who could do it for her. That magic was permanently gone from her, weakening her, and would come to Draco's aid whenever he decided to dissolve the jewel and summon it.
Harry remembered what Adalrico Bulstrode had told him when he yielded up his own magic to keep Elfrida a witch. Dark purebloods valued magical strength more than anything, in the end (despite the resistance some people in the hall seemed to be having to the idea of his own power). To yield it, to sacrifice it, was something that most Dark wizards would do only for magical heirs, and even then not until their deaths. Hawthorn's gift was royal, and almost certainly no one here tonight was going to match it.
Draco slid the ring onto one finger, admiring it, and then waited again in the tense silence that followed. Harry wondered idly if anyone else would dare advance. Weren't they afraid of being embarrassed in contrast with Parkinson?
Adalrico Bulstrode did advance at last, though, with Millicent close at his side, as his magical heir. He limped, but he didn't let the limp slow him; rather, his whole body had adjusted to a dignity Harry didn't remember from the last time he'd seen him, so that he looked as if the limp were an old war wound, or badge of honor. He gave Draco a stately bow as he extended a dagger with a black stone in the hilt.
"For the Malfoy magical heir, on the eve of his confirmation," he said. Harry thought he sounded a bit like a card. "The blade was forged by my ancestors for use in the goblin rebellions, and the stone comes from the walls of our estate. We call him Sigurd, in memory of a hero who struck true more often than that. This blade shall always strike true, for you."
"My thanks," said Draco softly, taking the dagger up in one hand and turning it around. "It is a beautiful and marvelous weapon. The nobility of Bulstrode shall no more be forgotten than the generosity of Parkinson."
It was a wording that would insult nobody, Harry thought; Draco was being careful. Everyone in the room would still know that Hawthorn's gift, as the greater treasure, was the more valuable, but the wording permitted Adalrico to retire with his dignity and a smile.
Draco slipped the dagger into his robe pockets and resumed the motionless statue posture. Harry looked around for the next flicker of movement and was startled to see Arabella Zabini standing and moving among the tables. Granted, she had been invited and had the right to present a gift if she so desired, but Harry couldn't see her so desiring. She'd never seemed particularly friendly with Lucius or Narcissa, and Blaise's distance from Draco in school was another argument for that stance.
She carried a set of bells in her hands, and she laid them down on the table in front of Draco. Harry leaned forward to see them better. They appeared to be carved of crystal, from the way they shone and tinkled—but it was blue crystal, and their ringing trembled in Harry's ears as if it were a sound far away, like the sea roaring in a seashell.
"For the Malfoy magical heir," Arabella said, taking a step back and smiling, a sudden flash of white teeth in her beautiful dark face. "Rather than a weapon of war, a gift of dreams and mystery. Ring them, young sir, and only the music knows what dreams may come."
So that explains her giving him a gift, Harry thought, more comfortable now that he knew the bells' purpose. A challenge, a test. I wouldn't want to see what happens, necessarily, when he rings those bells.
Draco picked them up without hesitating, however, untwined the delicate silver chain on which they hung, and gave them a shake. Harry gasped at the sound of their music. Fawkes's singing barely rivaled it.
The room quivered around them and went giddy, and Harry caught a glimpse of distant mountains. It retreated in moments, however, and left Draco smiling and dipping his head to Arabella.
"Thank you," he said. "When the test comes, I shall remember that Zabini gave a gift of dreams and mystery."
That was nicely ambiguous enough that Arabella didn't look entirely satisfied as she went back to her seat. Harry restrained the impulse to shake his head in amusement. Did she think Draco would be an easier target than his parents, or was she counting on him not shaking the bells at all?
Charles Rosier-Henlin and his twin sons, Owen and Michael, were next. Harry studied their faces in unabashed curiosity as they walked up to the table. He thought he could see shadows in their eyes from their ordeal in Durmstrang, but they didn't seem incapable of smiling, only constrained from it by the solemnity of what they were doing. He relaxed a bit.
Charles nodded to Draco, but said, "The old tradition of festivals for a magical heir allowed guests to present gifts to his future joined partner or spouse as well as directly to him. Do you accept this tradition, Mr. Malfoy?"
Draco didn't act caught at all off-guard, though Harry stared. "I could hardly deny the validity of it," said Draco, "when I have been accepting gifts from my future partner all night—most simply, the gift of his presence. By all means. I would like to see what you have for Harry." He stepped slightly out of the way, to represent that this gift was not coming to him.
Harry stood, because Draco had. He could see no object in Charles's hands, though, and wondered what the gift was to be.
Charles stepped back, so Harry turned his attention to Owen and Michael. Owen—Harry thought it was Owen, from remembering the face of the boy Bellatrix had tortured in the Great Hall of Durmstrang—stood in front of his brother as he pulled out a dagger. Harry tensed in spite of himself.
"Harry, called vates, called the Boy-Who-Lived," said Owen in an exquisitely formal voice, "my brother and I owe you a life debt. At great peril, you came into Durmstrang and rescued us from the domination and torture of Bellatrix Lestrange. Innocence once lost can never be recovered, but lives preserved are worth future preservation, and all honor to the savior. I ask you now whether you have any wish to collect on this life debt, or whether you will turn it over to my brother and I, for payment as we wish." He lifted his dark eyes to Harry's face and waited.
Harry stifled a shiver. He knew Owen was at least a year older than he was, and possibly closer to two. It was slightly creepy to see him so submissive. But then, he was a pureblood in this moment more than he was an adolescent.
And he had asked Harry a question.
Harry let out a sharp breath and said, "You may fulfill the life debt as you will. I will not call on it or constrain you in any way."
Owen nodded, and drew back the sleeve on his left forearm. Michael was mimicking him. He turned to place his forearm over his brother's, so that when Owen slashed with the knife, he cut both of them at once.
"Then we pledge our loyalty to you," said Owen, voice proud and unflinching despite the blood that flowed from his arm, "as the Broken Guard did, as the Order of the Serpent did, as the Ladies of Walpurgis did. As guards, as courtiers, as couriers, as running hounds, as whatever you need us to be, then we are yours, for the saving of our lives and our sanity." He had cut a pattern that Harry couldn't entirely make out under the blood, but which looked like a lightning bolt.
Harry caught his panic and threw it back in a cage. He reminded himself that Voldemort had marked his Death Eaters on the left forearm because of a long tradition of Lords marking their companions that way, and the custom hadn't been unique to him.
And those ancient Lords and Ladies worth anything had treated their companions as companions—not the mindless minions Voldemort expected his Death Eaters to be, nor the mindless fanatics the Order of the Phoenix had turned into.
Owen and Michael chose to do this. Draco's long-ago words about not turning away or denying the free will of those who chose to follow him—and serve him, disgusting as the word was—echoed in Harry's mind.
He lifted his eyes and fastened them on Owen's face, which was silent and waiting and a bit apprehensive, despite everything. He would know that Harry might at least consider flinging the gift back in their faces.
Harry said quietly, "The pledge is accepted, and to you I return guarantees of protection, loyalty, and constancy. While I live, you shall never lack for a guardian, a champion, or a friend."
They weren't any old and ancient oath, because most of those promised more than Harry was willing to deliver; most of those were only used by Lords. They were words that Harry had decided on, and they eased the tightness in both Owen's and Michael's faces. Both swept bows as one.
"An honor to be beside you, Harry," said Owen, and looked down with a faint smile. "And the oath is true." Harry followed his gaze and saw that the wounds had already healed. The scars did look like lightning bolts. To his immense relief, they were only white, not any ridiculous combination of colors.
Owen and Michael, along with Charles, returned to their seats, and Draco stood. "I think the dancing can begin, now that the ritual of gifts has ended so satisfactorily," he murmured. "Amoveo mensas!"
And the tables vanished easily, the magic worked into the room responding to Draco as Malfoy magical heir, and it was time for the dancing, and now Harry had the chance to be incredibly terrified.
Draco waited calmly for his guests to get out of the way; the tables vanishing had caught them partly by surprise, though the truly alert had known what was coming when he announced the dancing and were ready to move. The chairs remained, however, so as not to place anyone suddenly on the floor. This part was about testing the alertness of the guests, not humiliating them.
Draco murmured the charm that removed the chairs, and then turned and extended his hand to Harry. Harry took it with a grimace that Draco doubted anyone else would notice, since no one else was standing as close; the skin around his eyes tightened, and his teeth briefly showed in a tiny hiss.
"You have nothing worry about," Draco whispered as they moved out into the middle of the room. Music began to play, the soft sound of harps and flutes also disguised under glamours and charmed to start the moment someone walked into the area formerly occupied by the tables. "I know you can dance. I watched you at the Yule Ball last year, remember, and I was horribly jealous of Loony all the while."
Harry didn't even smile. His hand squirmed in Draco's as if he wanted to tug at the collar of his robes again. "I wasn't wearing robes like these," he whispered. "I'll trip over the hem."
"No, you won't," Draco said, encouragingly, and began the first steps of the dance. They'd practiced this, but only in school robes. Harry began to grudgingly move in the constraints of the formal robes he was so worried about. He'd smoothed his scowl into composure by the time other people could start to take notice, to Draco's relief.
"I'm not comfortable here," Harry murmured, hardly moving his lips. "I'm not used to this, and I don't think I should have let Owen and Michael swear loyalty to me, and half the room still thinks my blood status is good enough reason to despise me."
"Half the room?" Draco released Harry's hand long enough to do a turn on his own, then caught it again. They'd had to choose the dance carefully, so as not to require Harry to make moves that were impossible with his lack of a left hand. "Not nearly that many of them, Harry. It's true that some of them might think you're a dragon on a leash right now, but they felt the purity of your power. They'll change their minds soon enough. Like you said, anyone who underestimates you deserves what it will cost him."
Harry just stared back at him, eyes, if not face, expressing his discomfort. Draco frowned. I honestly didn't think this would bother him so much. Why would it? He usually handles gift-giving ceremonies with ease. He handled all the talking at the alliance meeting even more easily. And he went to the Yule Ball and danced with Luna just because she asked, not to prove a point. Why are those same things hard on him now?
As he relaxed into the rhythm of the dance, Draco could let his eyes and mind rove, and study the way people watched Harry. He saw a great many tight-lipped glances and slight headshakes. There were also plenty of spectators who were taking advantage of the music to speak their true feelings, as Draco and Harry had, and it seemed as if there was violent disagreement in many couples. And Draco also noted how many eyes went to Harry, instead of him, though traditionally this was a festival to show off the magical heir of the family, and not his joined partner.
He looked back at Harry, and saw that he moved with his shoulders hunched and his head only half-lifted, as if he expected someone to call out every moment that he had performed a step wrong. He was obviously not returning the gazes by a great effort, rather than being naturally and effortlessly focused on his partner. He didn't make mistakes in the dancing, but it was mechanical.
Draco blinked as the truth hit him. He really does feel out of place here. It's as simple as that, and as complex. There's nothing anyone can do to dislodge me from pureblood society. I'll always have my heritage, and the Malfoy name has gone through crises before, but it's always commanded respect.
Harry doesn't have that guarantee. The Potters command no respect here. And the taint of his mother is everywhere on him. The people watching him take any defensiveness as a sign that he knows he's not supposed to be here, and any ease as a sign that he's boorish and doesn't appreciate the finer subtleties of pureblood culture. He can't win no matter what he does. His halfblood status always will matter to them, even if his magical power comes to matter more.
Draco was glad that the music allowed he and Harry to dance far apart from each other then, even with their backs to each other for a brief moment, because he wanted to hide his face as the realization struck him.
That's why Harry hates those pureblood prejudices. They affect him, too. He knows everyone here thinks of him as the child of a Mudblood, though he knows dozens of pureblood rituals most of them wouldn't even recognize, though he could be their Lord tomorrow if he wanted to Declare, though he's dedicated to the survival and protection of the wizarding world in a way that most of them will never find the courage for.
I can't hate them for the sake of some Mudbloods I'll never know, for the sake of some grand ideal in the abstract. I'm not that compassionate. But I can hate them because they make Harry uncomfortable.
The dance finished, and the guests politely applauded. Draco caught Harry's hand and turned, bowing to the multitude. Harry bowed along with him, face perfectly blank. Draco had thought before how well he controlled his emotions, always something Dark purebloods had valued. Now all he could do was compare that mask to the one Harry had worn in his first and second years at Hogwarts, when he had locked his emotions in a box.
He hated it now.
He turned and faced the room again, and he knew his stance had shifted; if nothing else, now he had one hand on Harry's shoulder, where he hadn't touched him before except for some requirement of the dance. Harry looked at him in mild confusion. Draco looked back at him, and tried to convey his defiance through his facial expression. Harry only blinked, so Draco leaned close enough to whisper into his ear.
"How dare they make you uncomfortable," he hissed.
Harry frowned. "You don't think it's my fault for being uncomfortable with the customs here?" he asked, once again barely moving his lips.
"They're being idiots," Draco said. "They claim to value magic more than anything, and they've just seen two children of a pureblood family become your companions, and they know that my parents approve of you. That should be enough for them, given all their supposedly accepted standards. And it's not. They're being hypocritical, and I don't know about you, but I don't want to struggle uphill through vast wastes of idiocy just to propitiate people who claim to value what we already have."
"What do you want to do, then?" Harry asked, looking befuddled, his eyes moving to several other faces in the room. Draco smiled slightly. He knew he'd been whispering into Harry's ear for several moments, and that definitely went against the constraints of propriety at an event like this, which called for less intimacy between a couple still courting.
"Something that will show them Malfoys are, and always have been, above propitiating idiocy, even when it's traditional," Draco replied, and grasped Harry's chin to turn his face towards him.
Harry raised an eyebrow and tried to lean in, but Draco held him still. To mean what he wanted it to mean, this gesture had to come from him, or the skeptical guests would see it as just another uncivilized rudeness from That Halfblood.
He kissed Harry gently, thoroughly, with attention to detail, even more deeply than Harry had kissed him at the alliance meeting, and until he could hear several distinctly uncivilized gasps. Then he raised his head and turned to smile lazily at their guests.
"I am the Malfoy magical heir," he said. "Starlight and power run in my blood, and so does protective instinct. You might want to know that I do love Harry, that I intend to join with him, and that staring at him as if Voldemort had just appeared in your midst does nothing but make me angry."
Most of them turned away in confusion, or outright grinned—that was from the ones who knew him and Harry, including Hawthorn Parkinson and the Bulstrodes. Draco grinned back. The nice thing about suddenly breaking with custom, he thought happily, is that no one knows what to do with you when you do.
His father could certainly seize the moment, though, and he did, appearing from between the dancers to place his hand on Draco's shoulder. Draco tilted his head back to look at his father, and saw a faint, cold smile on Lucius's face.
"Truly," Lucius murmured, "an occasion such as this should be a joyous one, and a polite one. I am sorry that it could be neither for those who chose to stare. Our own—lack of discrimination in sending out invitations must be to blame."
Draco felt a sharp joy rising in his heart. His father wasn't furious with him for breaking from tradition; he was furious at the guests who refused to recognize what was right in front of them. And he was making sure and certain everyone understood that his family was allied with Harry, and planned to stay that way.
"The ceremony is officially over with the dancing, and Draco's second invocation," Lucius said then. "House elves will assist you to the Floo and outside the Manor's wards once you leave the hall, if you plan to Apparate."
Draco choked back laughter as he watched the undignified scramble that ensued. Not everyone left that way, of course; the people who had given gifts to him and Harry, and several others who could recognize reality when it was staring them in the face, bowed their heads, their eyes bright with amusement, and stayed to offer their thanks to Lucius and their congratulations to Draco and Harry. Owen and Michael Rosier-Henlin approached for a rather different reason.
"Where would you like us to stay?" Michael—Draco thought it was Michael, the one who hadn't spoken so far—asked Harry.
Harry looked at them and sighed. Then he said, "I'll be leaving Hogwarts near the end of June, most likely. Do you want to accompany me there, or not? I'm afraid it will be rather boring."
"It would be relaxing," said the other, Owen, dropping his voice. "We're quite recovered from Durmstrang, thanks, but our parents aren't ready to believe it yet."
Harry wore a brief wistful expression before he nodded. "Then come with us. I'm sure they'll be able to find room for you. Most of Hogwarts goes unused right now."
Owen smiled briefly, and he and Michael melted away to wait. Harry turned to greet some of the others who had lingered.
In passing, his eyes met and held Draco's for a moment.
Draco held in a gasp it would not have been dignified to utter. In Harry's gaze was utter gratitude, and relief, and a love so profound that Draco felt a bit humbled by it.
For a moment.
Then he lifted his head. Well, I am a Malfoy, and this is my confirmation festival. And that was a rather nicer gift than any other I got.
Pleased with the way the evening had turned out after all, he turned to talk with Adalrico Bulstrode, and exchange politely barbed insults with Arabella Zabini.