Harry heard nothing from Draco on Sunday morning, not that he had expected to. He'd given strict orders to the Ministry that all owls sent to Mark Birmingham were to be forwarded to him, but only a single owl arrived and that one was from Hermione reminding him about dinner. That afternoon, he put on his best Weasley jumper (with a garish H and an embroidered Snitch on the front) and travelled by Floo to the Weasley's.
Arthur met him with a bright smile and a clap on the shoulder.
"Hi Arthur. Where's Ginny?" Harry asked, as she was the one that usually greeted him.
"Apparently she had a date with some Quidditch fellows."
"Fellows, plural?"
"I have discovered it is better not to ask." Arthur tapped his temple. "In order to save what little hair I have left."
Harry nodded and Arthur led the way to the kitchen. Inside, Ron was nibbling on a slice of oat bread and watching Molly and Hermione with an expression that made Harry think of a nervous hound.
"Do you see how the edges of the roast are crisp, dear, and the meat shows no pink on this side? That is just the way Ron prefers it, isn't it, sweetie?"
Hermione's jaw was clenched so tightly around a fake smile that Harry was afraid she might crack a tooth.
"Harry!" Ron cried. "Glad you could make it!"
Molly bustled over and gave Harry a hug, fussing over him whilst Hermione glared daggers at her back and Ron sent Hermione a commiserating grin.
With Ron's help, Harry managed to stave off most of Molly's attempts to show Hermione "the proper way to win a man's heart" and keep the conversation flowing in a non-lethal direction.
Bill, Fleur, and their children arrived to provide additional distraction and soon they were all gathered around the table listening to anecdotes from the proud parents.
When the last bite of pudding had been forced down amidst protests that he couldn't eat another morsel, Harry followed Ron out to the back garden. It was not raining, but the air had a wet, cold crisp to it that felt nice after the full meal and warm house.
"Hey, you know how I'm assigned to that Quidditch dinner on Tuesday night? The one where they all play nice and then pose for photos after?"
"The boring dinner?" Harry laughed. The Department of Games and Sports had ramped up the publicity surrounding the World Cup to a fever pitch. The players barely got a moment to breathe between events.
"That's the one. I'm hoping to find someone to cover for me. I sort of promised to take Hermione out that night weeks ago. I know she'll forgive me if I have to reschedule, but…"
"Is that your subtle way of asking me to take your place?"
"Not very subtle?"
"Not really, no."
"I wondered if you might want to go because that Montoya bloke will be there. Ginny said you two got a bit cosy at the Gala."
"Montoya?" Harry's stomach clenched at the name. "He's with Malfoy."
"Seems that way, doesn't it? But I have it on authority that Malfoy and Montoya aren't really an item. It's just an act. They are together for the positive press. Malfoy wanted a public figure everyone would love and Montoya wanted the hottest bloke he could get. And there are rumours that Malfoy pays Montoya's gambling debts."
Harry goggled at him. "What authority? Who told you all of that?"
It's just an act. The words seemed to rattle though Harry's suddenly-hollow skull.
"I got it from Neville, who got it straight from Blaise Zabini. They're mates now that Zabini teaches-"
"Defence Against the Dark Arts. Yeah, I know." Harry dragged a hand through his hair. Neville had mentioned Zabini before, but Harry hadn't realised they were close enough to exchange gossip, especially personal gossip about Zabini's nearest and dearest. "Is he sure?"
"Yeah, and apparently Malfoy is thinking about cutting Montoya free."
Harry thought he might need to sit down. He wondered if Malfoy's decision had anything to do with Mark, and if he hadn't felt anything for Roderick, then why had he been so upset about the kiss? Harry shook off the questions for which he had no answers.
"Anyway, will you do it? Will you fill in for me at the Quidditch dinner?"
"Yeah. Yeah, of course I will."
As Ron clapped him on the shoulder and uttered his thanks, Harry looked over the fence into the dark night. One way or another, it was time to talk to Montoya.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ o ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pansy waltzed into Draco's bedroom unannounced. He glared at her, but did not bother to complain; she never listened anyway.
"Why are you still in bed? It's past noon. Are those crumpets?" She sat on the edge of the bed and reached for a partially-eaten crumpet on his breakfast tray. Draco had barely nibbled at the food brought to him by a house-elf when he'd given up trying to sleep the day away and resolved to possibly get out of bed. He had no house-elves in London, but they always seemed to know when Draco hadn't eaten and popped out from the Manor to supply him with a meal.
"I was tired," he lied. In truth, he'd simply been moping.
"Really? I thought you were in a depressed funk, but I've come to cheer you up. Blaise asked me about that fellow, Mark Birmingham, so I went and did some digging. I'd thought it dreadfully strange that I'd never heard of him."
Draco barely understood her when she insisted on chewing and speaking at the same time. She had impeccable manners in public, but in private she often behaved like a creature raised by goblins.
"Well?"
"Well…" She swallowed and then raised a brightly lacquered nail to pause the thought as she drank the last of Draco's apricot juice. "I've just returned from Cambridge and it turns out that Mark Birmingham owns a substantial estate there. You should see the grounds! Even I was impressed. He wasn't there when I 'happened' by, so I stopped in to ask a neighbour about him. The elderly gentleman was quite happy to see me."
"Or he was quite happy to see your breasts," Draco suggested dryly, glancing at them pointedly. Pansy had a habit of displaying her assets nearly to the point of obscenity.
Shameless to the hilt, Pansy jiggled them with a smile. "Those, too. But, anyway, dear old Charles explained that the Birminghams were very private and always kept to themselves. They sent their children away to Beauxbatons, believing Hogwarts to be a substandard school filled with barbarians, brutish clansmen, and Mudbloods. His words, not mine."
"Beauxbatons."
Pansy nodded. "In addition, the Birminghams adored travel. Charles says they were seldom home-Mark's parents died in Istanbul in an accident, by the way, the poor dear- always jetting off to one country or another. He says Mark only recently returned from America, but he'd popped in to say hello to Charles because he was a lovely lad, always considerate and charming and would likely make someone a fine husband."
"Did you resist vomiting?"
"Not only that, but I resisted mentioning that his friend Mark would much rather fondle a hard cock than squeeze these melons." She wiggled her breasts again.
"Would you please desist?"
"Are those sausages peppered?"
"I don't know. I didn't eat any."
"You were moping to the degree of avoiding sausages? Draco, for shame. But all is well now. You may go and find Mark and climb onto his manpole, or vice versa, however you prefer. How do you prefer, by the way?"
"As if I would ever divulge that information to you, especially after hearing you refer to it as a manpole."
Pansy sniggered around her bite of sausage. "Your pillar of manly delight?"
"Have you been reading those rubbish romance novels again? Why don't you take my breakfast tray and run along?"
"No, I'm not hungry. Are you going to see Mark?"
Draco sighed and looked away.
For all her faults, Pansy was perceptive. She scooted closer and snatched up Draco's hand. "Darling, what is it?"
"I'm afraid I made a mess of things with Mark." He explained the dinner, the kiss, and his subsequent flight into the rain. "And I haven't heard from him since. Quite unsurprisingly, I might add."
"Oh, please. He obviously likes you and was so overcome with desire that he kissed you even when he swore he wanted nothing but your friendship… Draco, stop lying in bed whinging, forget your ridiculous Potter plot and go get the man!"
"But-"
"No buts! Into the shower now and I'll find something for you to wear." Humming happily, Pansy hopped up and bustled to Draco's wardrobe where she flung open the doors.
Knowing there was no hope once clothing had been invoked, Draco crawled out of bed and headed for the shower. Somewhere between the shampoo and his third conditioner, Draco decided Pansy was right. He would forget Potter and concentrate on Mark.
He felt a twinge when he remembered the Gala, and Potter's ever-so-green eyes as he leaned close. You know, it is possible that you deserve better.
Draco nearly shivered when he thought of the potential there. Potter was… well, he was damnably attractive, and powerful, and rich, and socially perfect, but then there was Mark, who was also damnably attractive, possibly powerful, and rich, and socially acceptable, and… well, Draco was relaxed and comfortable with him and he simply liked the man. And Draco was definitely attracted to him, and vice versa.
Yes, Pansy was absolutely right. Mark was the right choice.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ o ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry nodded at one of the Korean players and suppressed a grin. He supposed Ginny had a point; they were all rather adorable, with spiky dark hair, sunny dispositions, and bright smiles. The player, one of the Beaters, Harry recalled, nodded back and then walked towards the wall where the photos were being taken. The Beater passed Roderick Montoya, who had just finished his photo shoot.
"Hi," Harry said when Montoya approached.
Montoya's eyes widened. "Mr Potter. Hello. Er… how are you?"
"Brilliant," Harry said. Montoya seemed different than he had been at the Gala. He was more reserved and looked somewhat tired. "Are you okay?"
"Si. Never better." Montoya gave him a smile that was obviously forced.
"Do you mind if I talk with you?"
At the question, Montoya's smile shifted from forced into pained. "Of course. Is it acceptable to remain in this room? I should not like my teammates to leave without me."
Harry glanced at the others, who had returned to their seats at the dinner table to await either their turn with the photographer or dessert, which would be served once all of the photos had been taken. They obviously were not going anywhere for a while. "All right."
Montoya stalked to a far corner of the room and stood at the window, staring out onto the brightly lit London skyline. Harry joined him, standing close enough that their elbows nearly brushed, but no closer.
"I wanted to-" Harry began.
"I apologize for my behaviour at the Quidditch Gala. It was unconscionable."
"Um…"
Montoya turned dark eyes to Harry, imploring. "I did not mean to lead you on. I was trying to make Draco jealous."
Harry's question dried up in his throat.
Montoya nodded. "I can see this surprises you, so you must know more than what is printed in the papers. Draco believes that our relationship is a simple matter of pretence. For me, it is not so. You see, I love him with the passion of a thousand sunsets."
Harry frowned, wondering how a sunset would achieve passion, but Roderick's pain seemed real, despite his words.
"Draco sees me as nothing but a game piece. A means to an end. My flirting with others annoyed him, but it was not jealousy I saw in his eyes, it was my dismissal of his carefully crafted plan that caused his distress. You must think I am a fool, to continue to play the game, to pretend for Draco that I have no love for him while showing the truth to the world."
"No, I… I can see the difficulty."
Roderick nodded. "Yes, I saw you and Draco in the garden the night of the Gala. It was enlightening."
"How so?"
"Mr Potter, there is no need for pretence. Your desire was obvious, at least to me. And I believe I cannot compete with one such as you, not when Draco desires a good name above all." Roderick turned as if to leave and then paused to lean closer. His voice turned harsh. "But know that if you cause him any pain, I shall find a way to harm you in return, no matter that you killed an infamous dark wizard."
"Fair enough."
Roderick nodded curtly and moved away, leaving Harry to stare into the night. The patterns of white and black that stretched away to the horizon brought forth an image of chess; it seemed Harry's life was a game and the board had a multitude of pieces arrayed against him.
His left breast pocket vibrated and Harry started. Bloody hell, someone had triggered the wards at the Ministry property he'd used as an address for Mark Birmingham. It could only be Draco.
And Harry didn't dare let Draco meet Mark. Not ever again.
~TBC~
*pets Roderick* :D