Fest Fic: Pharo (Part 1)

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Title: Pharo

Author: tigersilver

Prompt: #100; Draco Malfoy is a 17th C. rake.

Pairing(s): H/D, R/Hr, BZ/GW, TN/PP, LM/NM, implied SB/RL

Summary: It is some years after the Battle of Waterloo and peace settles leerily over Muggle England and the Continent. The Beau Monde is a glittering chandelier at which all the lights of the world gather, Wizard and Muggle, and for a gentleman of means and perhaps also title, there’s only a few items of importance to consider: the Season, the gossip and the perfect construction of one’s cravat,not necessarily in that order. However, the Viscount Malfoy’s papa has just been cruelly ruined, his fortune lost in a game of Pharo to the scurrilous Lord Voldemort, an elder rake with an eye toward rapid political advancement. The Viscount, darling of the Ton, faces a loss of face in the world of Polite Society, on par with the unfortunate Beau Brummell’s, and feels he must serve comeuppance to the villain, plus settle a few old scores along the way. Harry Potter, fellow veteran of Wizarding Waterloo and Malfoy’s longtime compatriot from their schooldays at Hogwarts, is of the decided opinion the Viscount goes much too far when he sets up a Pharo-Banque in his own drawing room, scheming to reverse his endangered fortunes.

Rating:NC-17

Disclaimer: The recognizable characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and legal assigns; no profit is intended or made via this work of fiction. Credit is also duly attributed to the collected works of Georgette Heyer, specifically the novel ‘Faro’.

Warning(s): Explicit descriptions of sexually-oriented male-on-male behavour. Entirely AU & EWE. Bottom Draco.

Word Count: 34,000+/-

Author's Notes: This fic requires that your suspension of disbelief be left firmly at the coat check. In fact, don’t bother with any sorts of canon expectations or requirements: they do not apply here, except for in one specific case only (I hope): character. Literally, I’ve lifted the characters from HP and set them down wholesale and as I saw fit, right in the midst of the insular, extravagant world of the British Regency period and squarely amongst the Muggle Upper Ten Thousand. I’ve rearranged their pasts, their timelines (as well as a few Muggle events) and their futures to suit my nefarious purposes. Further, this owes a great debt to the Muggle author Georgette Heyer, author of Faro. Heyer was the acknowledged Queen of the Regency Romance; this is my homage, as I teethed on her as a cub. Not literally, of course! Prompter, I owe you an immediate apology: this is set approximately fifteen years after the end of the Georgian era. My excuse is that I cannot, for my life, write convincing late 17th C. dialogue, forsooth, and the fic would’ve suffered. Please forgive me. I hope this suits as a replacement. Lastly, I owe an incredible debt of gratitude to the wonderful, patient Mods and my more-than-amazing, equally patient betas: My Patient Built-In Beta, the Demi-Goddess, the Wicked One and my Darling Spice Girl, Nutmeg (lonerofthepack, demicus, eevilalice and megyal), for their feedback, comments, and willingness to romp with me unimpeded through Almack’s and private gaming hells, Bond Street and Vauxhall. I cannot thank you sufficiently, ever. NOTE: Pharo (aka Pharoah; Faro) is a card game in which much advantage is perceived to the players (or ‘punters’). The dealer (or Banquer, Banker, Tailliure) deals two cards at a turn from a closed box after shuffling, and bets (cheques) are placed and paid on those two cards dealt: one the punter’s favour and one the Banquer’s. The cards are kept track of by a cardkeeper, who ably wields an abacus-like device and also by individual tally cards, but there is much room for cheating on both sides of the baize-cloth table. The game was immensely popular with the nobility of France in the 17th and 18th centuries, and then spread throughout Europe and the Americas. Fortunes were lost and won on a turn of a card, and passions ran high and feverish. For more information on Pharo, please consult the sources listed at the end. Chapter titles used here are based on terms from the game, as appropriate. It is not necessary to be conversant in Pharo to read this piece; one only needs accept that gambling, particularly with card games, was perfectly acceptable and expected in the Regency Era.





One: Soda (Introducing Viscount Malfoy)

Draco Lucifer Regulus Malfoy, Sixth Viscount Malfoy, scrawled his initials across the parchment bill of lading, directing the charge be paid out against his running tab.

“I’m afraid, milord, we are unable.” The tradesman’s protest was jittery ‘round the edges, as if he fully expected to be hexed within an inch of his miserable life. “To—to accept!”

“Pardon?” Malfoy blinked, angled pale eyebrow at the ready.

“We--we cannot honour your note, milord! I’m so sorry!”

“What!?” hissed Viscount Malfoy. He rose, practically levitating on ill temper alone. “How dare you, you cretin? Of course you may! My credit is in excellent standing! Excellent, I tell you!”

“Malfoy—Draco!“

“Oh, Goyle, you’re here? Wait but a moment, will you?” The Viscount flapped a white hand toward his lifelong hanger-on and friend-cum-minion, Baron Lord Goyle. “”I’ve a need to settle with this ruffian, whether it by short swords or wands makes not the slightest difference—“

“Milord,” twittered the unfortunate tailor, whose aging viz was a positive study in fear and consternation, “Milord, in the papers this morning, there was—“

“Malfoy!” Goyle said again, more urgently, his voice a bass rumble. “It’s crucial, Malfoy---y’see—“

“Goyle,” the Viscount bit out, “be silent.”

“But—but!” Goyle sputtered, until the Viscount’s heavy glare had him silent again.

“Now, then, my very dear fellow,” the Viscount turned back to his tailor, and spoke through gritted teeth, “perhaps you’d care to lay out for me precisely why you feel you cannot—“

“Draco, listen!” It burst out of the larger man’s lungs with all the force of a Sonorous. Goyle’s nagging voice was beginning to prove quite irksome; young Lord Malfoy pinched his brow with gloved fingertips. “You must not have seen it in the papers--!”

“--accept the standing commission for my garb and be grateful to get it,” the Viscount went right on, despite his growing headache, “before I take all my custom elsewhere, you slag—“

“--in the papers, milord, concerning the Earl, milord, and it’s most unfortunate, I agree, but—“ Bagshotte, the tailor, babbled.

“Draco!” Goyle barked, his deep chest rumbling. “You’re bloody father’s gone and lost his fortune at Pharo! You’re—“

“—and I’m sure another establishment would be more than happy—“ the Viscount soldiered on, pinching his brow between two gloved fingertips.

“Ruined!” squeaked the squirming individual with a pincushion attached to his arm like a bloody puppet. He was so very downcast, Malfoy spared a moment to wondering if he sink through the floorboards in shame.

“Ruined!” blared Goyle, in stentorian tones, worthy of the battlefield they most recently returned from as heroes: Waterloo. “You’re ruined, Draco!”

“Er—ruined?” echoed young Lord Draco Malfoy, and promptly turned as snowy white as his cravat. “Pardon?”

“They’re all saying as how the keeping box was gaffed, Draco, but your pater—he’s gone and done the bunk to the Continent, the Earl has!”

The tailor’s cramped quarters fell deathly quiet. One could only hear the eerie snap of the young Lord’s white teeth as they clamped together.

“Er—“ the tradesman ventured after a long and quite uncomfortable moment. “Ah, Milord.”

“Draco—“ Lord Goyle began, apparently also of the feeling the extended silence of the Viscount was ominous. “Your lady mother—“

“Bagshotte!” Lord Malfoy turned on his boot heel and regarded the tailor with a steely glare. Apparently, he’d arrived at a course of reasonable action in that split-second’s pause. “Precisely how long have you and yours done business with the Malfoys?”

“Er, um, ah—thirty years, Milord?” the tailor quavered. “Ever since the Earl that is now was a young lad, Milord; your age, like—“

“And do you honestly feel a Malfoy—a Malfoy, Bagshotte!--would cheat you of your proper due for services rendered?” Viscount Malfoy demanded, his left brow twitching upward ever so faintly. “Do you, Bagshotte?”

“No, sir!” the tailor replied hastily, bowing and scraping. “Of course not, sir!”

“Then you shall have no further objection to providing me my hunting jacket, Bagshotte, and forwarding the lading as per usual, shall you?”

“Malfoy?” Lord Goyle had stepped back a pace and had assumed an air of high puzzlement. His somewhat grim and meaty face was tentatively accepting, though. “Are you certain—“

“Bagshotte?” The grey eyes were intent and never left the tailor’s own faded blue ones.

“Milord! No…of course not,” the tailor replied finally, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “As you say, sir. Delivery tomorrow and a pleasant day to you.”

“Thank you, Bagshotte,” the Viscount replied softly, and smiled, his full lower lip thin. “You shall not be disappointed, of course. Come, Goyle. I must see to my mother, as you’ve mentioned. No doubt there is are any number of groundless rumours to be squashed forthwith. Hah! As if a Malfoy was ever ruined!”

“Oh—er! Right, Malfoy!” Goyle burbled, backing his bulk around in the tiny confines of the shop. “Of course! Yes, yes—let’s be off, shall we, old man?”

Two: Punters (Those Who Play)

“Maman,” the Viscount said, taking up his mother’s parchment-pale hand, “my honoured sire, the Earl, appears to be residing semi-permanently on the Continent. Are you desirous of joining him there? I believe the most recent missive related that he was in Calais, eagerly awaiting you.”

“Dear boy,” Narcissa, Countess Malfoy, Viscountess Black and, in her own right and by hereditary act, Comtess Rosier, inclined her patrician and very dainty, nose. “I should imagine he is, the rapscallion,” she sighed, and rose in a sweep of ice-blue watered silks, releasing her son’s long fingers in order to rest her hand on his arm.

She huffed, also daintily, expressing a ladylike degree of annoyance, and allowed a tiny frown to cloud her fair brow.

“Though I’ll find it vastly inconvenient, no doubt, removing to France. The Season has just now begun, dear boy, with the Prewitt’s bal masque. Come, walk the gardens with me, yes?” she urged and her dutiful son made a slight leg and proceeded to lead her out the French doors and into the nearby Knot Garden. “I’ll be most pleased to introduce you to my newest roses.”

“Of course, Maman,” Draco replied, instantly, as befitted the ‘good son’. It was a role he’d been fulfilling ably ever since the fateful day his father the Earl had used a strap to put the fear of Merlin in him over the unfortunate ramifications of minor run-in with a titleless charity-case cretin by the name of Potter, well back in his boarding school days.

Her only child, Narcissa Malfoy mused idly, was in particularly fine spirits this morning. Her husband’s recent disastrous downturn at the tables seemed to have not affected him in the slightest, but perhaps that was due to the certain knowledge his mother was possessed of her own considerable fortune, and also the main estate was nicely entailed and thus completely unassailable by an irresponsible paters familias, and further, that Great Grandpere Rosier had willed him a sizeable portion of his own to spend as he so pleased, as well as the title of Comte. Her Draco’s air of bonhomie was quite understandable. Too, she’d heard whispers to the effect that that Potter boy had emerged at last from rustication.

“Will you go, Maman?” he queried, stopping at her gesture before her favourite rosebush, a violet-hued beauty studded with copious blooms. The scent was of lavender and vanilla, and Narcissa was fond of scenting her toilette waters with the dried petals. “I should wager the estate in Champagne would be most delightful in the spring. And Father does seem bound and determined to give the whole Season a miss this year. I’m sure he has his reasons.”

“True, true,” Narcissa bent her swan-like neck to sniff daintily at a rosebud. “France is not the same, though, as it was in my salad days. The Muggles there are still quite unsettled, poor things, after that little contretemps with the Boney person. But you, darling…What might your plans be? I confess, I am curious.”

“Oh, I believe I shall remove to the townhouse and set up a Pharo-banque,” Draco smiled sweetly, as if he were announcing something far less shocking for a gentleman of antique title and consequence. “It seems fitting, don’t you agree?”

“Ah….” Narcissa—or Cissy as she was known to her sisters—snapped open her gilded Chinese ivory fan, a gift from the gadabout Muggle Regent--before he became quite so portly. “Hmm. I see. You shall be entertaining punters at home, my love? How droll. Do mind Great-Great Aunt Hesper’s silver cauldrons.”

“Of course, Maman,” Draco nodded, and the sun turned his distinctive hair into a cap of silver-gilt brightness. “The wards are more than sufficient, I believe, but I shall take every precaution. There are scoundrels about, and even in broad daylight.”

“Oh, yes,” Narcissa reached the center of the Garden and they took a sultry turn as she flapped her fan lazily, “that does remind me, dearest. Your father has expressed a wish that you cultivate both the Parkinsons and the Greengrasses most assiduously this Season. They’ve marriageable daughters on the market.”

Draco wrinkled his Norman nose. “The Parkinson’s still stink ever so faintly of trade yet, Maman, despite our numerous connections with them and three full centuries, and the Greengrasses have always been vastly rustic and hidebound in their thinking. ‘Bovine’ is the proper descriptor, I believe. Whatever is he thinking, matching me up to either of them?”

“No doubt that you’ll shore up the reduced Malfoy fortunes by way of a marriage of convenience, dear one,” Narcissa twinkled, “but you must do as you please, son. I wouldn’t endanger your future happiness with your father’s scheming, not if I were in your shoes. To each, as they say, his very own.”

“Precisely so.”

Draco took up his mother’s hand and pressed a kiss to its back, still as lily-white as in her youth. She was sans the requisite gloves this morning—a sin, really, in the Muggle Ton, and tantamount to traipsing about half-unclothed—but she’d such lovely skin, she’d be forgiven. The Viscount blessed his lucky constellation, for he’d inherited it, along with her well-disguised but vibrant sense of the ridiculous.

“I rejoice that we understand each other, Maman, at last,” he grinned slyly. “No other parent is as admirable as you—nor anywhere near as fair.”

A quick flick of her fan to his superfine sleeve let Draco know his mother was vastly pleased with the compliment.

“Oh, you!” she chuckled. “Be off with you, love. Go charm some young ladies—or p’raps gentlemen, as the case may be. That should serve to put a damper on the gossip just as well as your foolish scheme of Pharo.”

“I’ll take my leave, then,” Draco bowed. “An arm back to the Manor, Maman?”

Lady Malfoy shook her head slightly, waving her fan with a swish and watching as it transformed into a lovely, delicate wand. She pointed it at a nearby yew bush, trimmed to within an inch of its life by zealous house elves, which promptly Transfigured itself into a comfortable bench, well-padded with tasseled cushions.

“No, love, I am content. I shall sit and enjoy the scent of my French roses. Your father has just forwarded me a new variety. Scorby has the gardeners settling them in, even now.”

“Then, be well, dearest Maman,” Draco smiled and leant forward to clasp her free hand once more. A quick brush of lips across the tips of her buffed fingernails avowed his affection. “I’ll take my leave, if I may? No doubt I’ll be dining in Town this evening. Don’t allow poor old Scorby to wait up for me, please.”

“Of course, Draco; as you will,” his mother nodded. “Oh, and Draco—Son,” she added quickly, just as her eldest and only was on the verge of Disapparation.

“Maman?” The Viscount paused, a step away from his standing appointment with the Lords Nott and Goyle. “Yes? Something more?”

“Did you wish to know who won the game with your father, Draco? Or would you rather discover that yourself?”

Draco smiled grimly and shook his perfectly coiffed head sharply.

“No…I believe I may guess the culprit, Maman. There are really only the three possibilities, are there not?”

“That is so, darling,” Narcissa nodded. “Only three. Do take care. Town is full of ruffians.”


Three: Carte Anglaise (Introducing Mr. Harry Potter, the Hero)

Mister Harry Potter was to be found at Gentleman Jackson’s on a Friday afternoon, on Bond Street, engaging in a bout with his good friend, the Honourable Ronald Weasley. This fine May day, the two pummeled one another with a certain exacting science, collecting a ring of admirers, until finally a dirty white rag was thrown in the ring by Master Weasley’s groom-cum-trainer, Mr. Finnegan.

“Tha’s enough now, boy-o,” he cried out to the Honourable Ronald. ‘You’re all over bloody on yer beak. Your Mum’ll be right arsed w’you, getting all mumpsy-like.”

“Oh, now, Seamus, I’m more than good for another go,” the Honourable Ronald protested. “You, Harry?”

“Oh? Er, no, actually. I’ve an urgent appointment. ’Pologies, Ronald, but you know how it is,” Mr. Potter replied, ambling easily from the sanded square that did double duty as a practise ring and a betting arena on certain nights of the week.

“Oh, I see,” the Honourable Ronald drawled, nodding, with a long slow drop of a milk-pale eyelid over a fiery blue eye. Like all the Weasleys—and there was a bounteous assortment to chose from—the Hon. Ronald was ginger-haired and quite tall and broad once he’d reached his majority. “M’sister’s expecting you, eh, Potter? Best hurry off then; our little spitfire doesn’t like to be kept waiting. The Park, then?”

“Er, no, Ron,” Potter replied, buttoning up his shirt and settling the high points of his collar, “not a’tall. Something else I’ve on—a gentleman’s wager.”

“Oh, is it, Potter?” the Hon. Ronald perked up as he, too, repaired his fashion. His clothing was not quite of the same quality as Potter’s, given that Potter had bags of it to spend freely and of course the Weasleys did not, being legion, but it was more than acceptable for a younger son of a baron. “Anything I should be in on? Duelling, p’raps? Another broom race? Or are you trying out your hand at those Muggle curricles again?”

“Nothing of the sort, Ronald,” Potter answered repressively, having been helped into his coat of green superfine by the deft hands of Seamus Finnegan. Frowning, he checked his boots for the sanctity of their polish, and fussed with his cravat. “Merely someone I’ve neglected to call upon. Duty requires it. And our wager that I wouldn’t, of course.”

“T’is likely another doxy,” Finnegan chimed in, and, when the two gentlemen stared at him, aghast, he made haste to continue, “the female Muggle sort, of course, Mr. Potter! Heavens forefend it t’were t’other!”

“Again, no, Seamus,” Potter chuckled, “most definitely not a doxy, of any sort, but my thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll be off then, Ron. Good day!”

“Oh, Harry! I say!” the Hon. Ronald cried out after him. “See you at Almack’s this evening?”

Potter, nearly out the doorway and into the bustle of Bond Street, turned back for a moment, his face assuming a constipated air. “Er, p’raps, Ron. We’ll see.”

“Oh, but--!”

The Honorable Ronald was quick to hop after Potter, though still attempting to jam one foot into a well-polished boot. He thumped along, until he fetched up at a confiding distance, elbowing aside newcomers to Jackson’s Parlour with a flurry of ’pardons!’

“Harry, I most particularly wished to introduce to you Miss Granger, an…an acquaintance of mine! Mum’s sponsoring her come-out, you know. Was rather counting on it, old man; do say you’ll attend!”

“Ah…” Mr. Potter assumed a look of contemplation, regarding his oldest—or nearly oldest--friend. “Well, then,” he sighed, at long last, “if you require it, Ron, than I shall make every attempt to be present. My fondest regards to your mother, then—and your mysterious Miss Granger, of course!”

Potter was off with a quick wave, striding down Bond Street. He’d a destination in mind and indeed, an appointment, but it wasn’t a matter to be bruited about with the Honourable Ronald, who’d definitely take Mr. Potter’s appointment amiss.

No, this engagement was with none other than Viscount Malfoy, famed rake of the Wizarding Regency. The Weasleys and the Malfoys were not entente cordiale, sad to say. Long had simmered a volatile resentment between the Viscount, Mr. Potter’s first acquaintance amongst Wizardkind prior to arriving at the school all three had attended, Hogwarts, and the Honorable Ronald Weasley, whom Harry had met and befriended on the long carriage ride to Scotland. But Mr. Potter’s odd bonding with the haughty Viscount persisted through thick and thin, and, when the War had come to the Continent and Napoleon Bonaparte’s forces had invaded Brussels, both young gentlemen had promptly followed the drum straight out of Muggle Oxford, the university they’d both attended after graduation from Hogwarts.

Malfoy and Potter had advanced the ranks rapidly, as well. The Viscount soon commanded a crack squadron of Slytherin’s Green-and-Silvers, a noted broom cavalry, and Mr. Potter became a celebrated front-line duellist, as well as leading the Old Red-and-Gold, the most celebrated division of Wellington’s Wizarding forces. They often flew sorties together, joining ranks to chivvy and herd Bonaparte’s Muggles into capture, as well as performing various devastatingly deadly assaults upon the battalions of the opposing Wizards. Mr. Potter had even played spy upon occasion, and had at one point been rescued from certain disaster by a careless voucher from the Lady Malfoy, a nodding acquaintance of the French Emperor’s haughty consort, Marie-Louise.

The defeat of Bonaparte at Muggle Waterloo had seen them both decorated for their bravery by a grateful Ministry and the Muggle Regent, and Harry Potter elevated firmly to the rank of Major, the only title he claimed. Long had the Potters been landed gentry, with a sprawling estate marching peaceably along the Welsh border, but never before had they claimed noble title. Nor wished to, as Mr. Potter had cheekily informed the Viscount numerous times, whenever the Viscount taunted him with it, his usual teasing mood being always prevalent.

“Plain old Potter has finally come calling,” the Viscount sneered when Mr. Potter Apparated into his Library a short time later. “At last, and against all odds. Will wonders never cease?”

Major Harry Potter cuffed the Viscount gently on his shiny locks, careful of his collar points, and took up the glass of Firewhiskey the Viscount had ready at hand for him.

“You are, as always, a rude old get, Malfoy,” he chuckled, settling himself on the sopha. He examined his fingernails and then buffed them lightly on the breast of his blue cutaway coat. “And you owe me a pony. Now, what’s this I hear tell about someone stiffing your poor innocent papa at Pharo? That true?”

“Oh, he’s lost it all—again, Potter,” the Viscount huffed. “ Nothing out of the usual way,” he added, shrugging in a nonchalant manner, as was his way. Always played his cards close to his chest, did Malfoy. “Of course. Maman had said at first she would join him in fleeing Newgate, and then that she’d not countenance deserting the countryat the very start of the Season, unless it’s to repair to London, so I know not what her game is, presently. Father has settled in nicely at Calais, meanwhile, in m’godfather’s company, and stays as usual at the Rose and Garter, doubtless frolicking with the maidservants. A cloud in a cauldron, all this. Nothing more.”

“You don’t say, Malfoy,” Harry Potter narrowed his green eyes at the elegant length of the Viscount, returned to lounging carelessly on the matching armchair across from him. “Then why establish your Pharo-banque? You’re aware the Ministry frowns on such things?”

“Bosh! All a wild rumour, Potter! There’s no confirmation I’ve even got one.”

The Viscount rose and crossed to the finely carved escritoire that held the flagon of Firewhiskey. He topped up his crystal tumbler and waved the bottle at Potter, who motioned it away with a short shake of his head.

“The Ministry knows nothing of it, Potter,” the Viscount went on. “T’is naught but a hand of cards amongst friends to their blind eye. The Regent is the one I’m concerned with, and he is far from frowning, Harry, I assure you. Was present just last week, playing deep. Took a thousand of the Queen’s Guineas off him in a heartbeat. And he smiled, Harry. Too rich, that.”

“Draco,” Potter also rose, and took the glass from the Viscount’s hand with a quick deft motion. “Draco, my old arse.”

The Viscount turned upon Mr. Potter a look of mild enquiry, but there was a wild gleam deep in his silvery eyes Potter knew all too well.

“Potter?”

The untouched contents in the glass barely sloshed as the old familiar visitor to Malfoy’s townhome set it down. He’d lost his seemingly casual air of bonhomie altogether and become very grave of mien in the blink of an intent green eye.

“You’re playing too deep a game,” he stated, frowning building ferociously. “Call it off, Draco, there’s a good fellow. Your Father will fleece some other less fortunate French lordling any day now and then all will be again right with the world. There’s no need for this. You’re taking risks that are entirely unnecessary.”

“Harry!”

Draco whirled on his heel, spinning away in a sudden tempest of fury, only to be fetch up straightway against Major Potter’s broad chest. He thumped it firmly with a fist for emphasis.

“You don’t understand, do you, you dolt? And you don’t know the whole of it, Scarhead! I was refused by Bagshotte! Bagshotte the tailor, Harry! It was atrocious—Goyle was present and likely had it all over White’s within the hour—“

“Now, Draco—you’re doing it up much too brown!“

“--an insult of great severity to my House! It’s not to be borne, Harry!” The Viscount ripped himself away again and began pacing, his boot heels clacking as he strode the parquetry floor of his Belgravia residence’s Library. “Not to be borne. The damage is too high! What have I but my pride, Potter?”

Mr. Potter rocked back on his boot heels, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“Hmmm. So, it’s revenge, then, Draco? You plan to entice this unfortunate gentleman into your parlour for a bare-handed bout of pasteboard—all to settle up a pointless slight from your tailor?”

“But, of course it’s revenge, Potter!” the Viscount burst out. “Are you a fool? A sheep? Would you have allowed that to stand for even one instant, had it been you? I think not, decidedly, and further, Potter, it’s not just any old sharp who’s fleeced Father! It’s Lord Voldemort, and you well recall what was said of him during the War! This is for England’s sake, Potter!”

“Voldemort, eh? Well, well, well.” Potter murmured, pausing his hand as it stroked his smooth-shaven chin. “Hadn’t realized he’d dared to show his mug in Town during the Season, not after the sad incident with that poor Muggle heiress,” Potter mused, contemplatively. He quietly resumed his seat on the settee, eyes gleaming a deep quiet forest-green. “Any rises yet, Malfoy, or are you still casting for him?’

“Oh, he bit, just last evening.” The Viscount, his mercurial flash of temper having dissipated, deigned to settle in beside Potter on the cushions. He sipped his reclaimed whiskey and smiled, slowly. “And was allowed to take away a paltry sum and my two third-best racing Thestrals, Potter. He’ll return, I’m sure, for my next little soiree.”

“Then, no callers this evening, Draco?” Potter once more removed the tumbler from the Viscount’s white hand. The lace at their cuffs wove together briefly and the Viscount cast his eyes upon it, apparently deep in private musings. “No hands of cards between friends?” Mr. Potter prodded.

“No…I am horridly free of all obligations, Potter,” the Viscount murmured, having taken that moment to shift his weight imperceptibly closer, “and am bored to tears already. And you?”

“Almack’s, to my eternal woe. The Honorable Ronald commands me,” Potter revealed, allowing his arm to slide ever so gently around the Viscount’s wide shoulders, only barely padded by Mr. Weston’s minions. Malfoy was tugged closer, and went. “But that’s not until eight, Draco. I’m very open to being amused in the interim.”

“Are you, Plain Old Potter?” The Viscount occupied his restless hands with deftly removing Mr. Potter’s much-abused cravat. “I see. And you’ve come to me for alleviation of your doldrums?”

He scowled suddenly; Mr. Potter’s intricately embroidered waistcoat was next and the cloth-covered buttons were giving the Viscount some little trouble.

“I have, Milord Malfoy,” Mr. Potter replied, patently pleased at being summarily de-garbed for the second time that day and grinning like a veritable schoolboy. “Knowing I’m always welcome to trouble you for such amusement. Any objections?”

“Although you’ve not called upon me once and have been in Town for over a week now? Still alright, is it, to trouble me?” The Viscount continued to frown, unabated. “Despite your contemptible rudeness in avoiding me, my Poor Plain Potter?”

“Been just a bit busy, Malfoy,” Potter flushed, the colour shading into the bones of his jaw nicely. “And that’s gammon. You’ve not made any effort to be in contact, have you?”

The Viscount raised the stormy eyes he was known for and glared haughtily at his visitor, a simmering muted fury in his gaze, and then attacked Mr. Potter’s coat fiercely.

“You use me, Potter—always you use me, and don’t deny it! Every. Single. Time!”

“Hardly using you, Draco, when you enjoy it as much as I do!“ Potter rejoined hotly. “Get off your high ropes, you bleeding bast--!”

“Whether I find enjoyment in your cock or not is immaterial, Harry,” the Viscount spoke right over Potter’s minor outburst, smiling tightly. “The fact of the matter is, it shames you to be seen in my company, my dearest Mister P. O. Potter. As a known rake, I’m not sufficiently respectable for your doting clan of Weasleys, am I?” he demanded, eyebrows slashing skywards in challenge. “Nor do I possess the conventional means to bear you heirs for your vast estates.” The pale silver-gilt hair that proclaimed him a Malfoy sifted forward, abruptly disguising his troubled brow as he grimly pried apart Potter’s fashionable buckskin breeches. “It is still the same as it ever was, is it not? I’m only your Cyprian and never to be considered eligible parti for the prestigious Potters!”

“Draco!” Potter exclaimed, as the Viscount took confident possession of his half-erect prick. “That’s fustian! You make far too much of this, as always. And it goes both ways, does it not? I’m hardly your boon companion when you’re out on the Town with your cronies from Slytherin. You brush me off, every time.”

The finely-moulded head tilted back up again and the Viscount set his sharp chin firmly, even as he stroked Potter’s cock into matching rigidity through his muslin drawers with a practiced roll of the wrist. The flash of quicksilver in Malfoy’s burning eyes reminded the Major of their first tempestuous meeting at Madame Malkin’s. So long ago, and it had set the tone between them ever since, something the Honorable Ronald appeared not to understand.

This was passion, and it existed nowhere else in Mr. Potter’s dull-as-ditchwater life.

“Harry,” the Viscount bit out, “I am not the fool who disdained to take up company after Hogwarts—nor after Waterloo, when the iron was hot to the strike and all would’ve been forgiven by Society, even by Father. I am not the one who dropped me like a stone to a still pond last summer in Brighton and then disappeared without a word off to that miserable hole you so rightly call ‘Grimmauld Place’. You, as I recall, had your ‘obligations’, and it was to your so-dear Weasleys, naturally. ‘Obligations’, if I may point out, upon which you’ve acted on in an age. I begin to wonder what Miss Weasley is thinking, allowing you so much free rein. She’ll end up an ape leader, bet on it.”

“Miss Weasley and I had—have--an understanding, Malfoy,” Potter averred stoutly. He’d regained his habitual calm and was smiling ever so faintly, his cheeks creased with attractive lines. “You knew that when we took up again after Waterloo—and stated often enough that it made no matter to you! You, Malfoy, were not in the market for a lifelong connection—or so you claimed. You disdained it, in favour of an heir begotten from a Witch of good breeding! I hardly think you may object to my choices now!”

“Oh! Button your lip, Potter!” the Viscount ground out, impatient with the same old brangle and, lunging forward, he toppled his visitor backwards onto the overstuffed cushions, pressing the hard lines of his sneering mouth into Potter’s parted ones. “Just shut your sodding trap! You only ever speak nonsense these days!”

“Gladly, Malfoy!” Potter growled, all calm fled hastily, and hauled the Viscount to him in a crushingly close embrace. “And likewise!”


Four: Case Keeper (Introducing the Earl Malfoy and Milord Severus Snape)

“Malfoy, they dine abominably late here in Calais.” The tall, dark-haired Wizard with the thin lips and fusty black robes pinched his lips to the uttermost thinness. “I’m amazed you’ve not expired yet, what with the sheer energy you expend chasing skirt. I’m equally bewildered I’ve lasted this long, keeping you company in this stinking hole you so laughingly call ‘lodging’.”

“What, Sev? Boffing servants and Muggles? Hardly; they come to me. Have some brandy; settle your liver,” Lucius Malfoy, Earl Malfoy, replied absently. He continued to peruse the latest Owl from his beloved wife, Narcissa.

“What news on the home front, if you don’t mind my asking?” his companion asked idly, pointing a wand at the brandy decanter.

“Cissy writes the idiot boy’s taken up with that Potter again,” Lucius related. He snorted. “Needs putting a stop to, that. Severus, old man, you did mention you weren’t lingering beyond tomorrow? Perhaps a pop into Town might be in order on your way back to old Hogs?”

“What, and do your dirty work, Lucius? Why should I?” the other Wizard sneered, dark brows gathered in a habitual frown. He sipped his brandy and lifted a saturnine arch in the blond Earl’s direction. “I’ve far more interesting items on my docket; dissecting dried flobberworms, for instance. Harvesting seven-toed newts.”

“For a crack at your pet peeve, Sev. I’ve learnt a few things here, in Calais. Items you might find of…interes,” Lucius Malfoy drawled. He, too, helped himself to a tot of brandy and they sat sipping in mostly companionable silence, whilst Mr. Severus Snape considered.

Snape, unfortunately, in the Earl’s opinion, was by birth Muggleborn, but he’d also been Lucius Malfoy’s elder at Hogwarts, and then at Muggle Eton, after. The connection was a deep and mysterious one but, suffice to say, Malfoy generally made no significant move without Severus Snape’s say-so. His beloved Cissy agreed; Snape was a deep ‘un, and a prime fellow to cultivate.

“Your cub’s set up a Pharo-banque, Lucius,” Snape essayed, apparently apropos of nothing. “Done well enough. Prinny’s dancing attendance, regularly.”

“I’m aware,” the Earl returned grimly. “Young fool. Should let well enough alone.”

“I fancy that’s more to the point than diverting Major Potter, don’t you?” the other Wizard asked curiously. “This venture of Draco’s? T’is highly unseemly, a banque. What clubs are for, yes?”

“Both are of importance, Severus, but I’ll rely on m’wife to settle that matter of Potter, if you’re not up to it. Depress his pretensions a bit, if you know what I mean?” The Earl shrugged, tossing his fine fair hair back from his high forehead. “Afraid, are you, Sev? Potter’s quite the reputation as a duellist.”

“Hmmm, Lucius, you disappoint me woefully,” Snape observed, eyeing the colour of the last of his brandy. It was a tawny gold and of excellent vintage. He was demonstrably unruffled. “That was juvenile. Try again, do.”

“Pah! Severus!” Lucius rose, and crossed the room to open the door. He stuck his head out and shouted. “Ho! A bite to eat here, Innkeep! Wine, cheese, bread!”

“How kind,” Snape remarked, piteously. He uncrossed his legs and sat forward, staring at the returning Earl intently. “To prevent my death by starvation on your impecunious doorstep, Lucius But do not seek to bribe me with pub fair. . You know what it is I want.”

“The nosh here is quite decent,” the Earl returned, his voice bland. “And of course I do, Sev. You’ll have to wait upon it, though—I’m sunk. Visibly so, you know, old man.”

Snape chuckled, a deep rich sound that would’ve caused the Muggles and the maids who chased the Earl coattails to turn their eyes his way in a merest flash. “You’re never truly busted, Lucius, and of course I know that. Don’t seek to pull the wool over my eyes. Now, as to fair recompense for my time? Surely, we can settle the method if not the means?”

The Earl grinned—a boyish, warm thing that quite reminded Snape of his charming only son and heir, the Viscount—and replied calmly, “You’ll take my IOU, then?”

“Of course. With a guarantor,” Snape shot back. “Cissy, perhaps. She, at least, can stand the nonsense. I’d say our old agreement will carry over nicely, Lucius. Information for favours rendered, with Crown’s evidence, naturally.”

“Demned woman!” the Earl grumbled. “Always in charge of the purse strings! Fine, then—done.”

“Very good. Now, to supper, mayhap? I shall need all my strength, I fear. Do pull out the good brandy you’ve cached away, Malfoy. I know for a fact you have it.”

“Botheration, Sev! Allow me some secrets!”

“Coxcomb,” Snape replied suavely, Accio’ing the venerable and quite dusty bottle forthwith.


Five: A Suite of Trusty Spades (That Old Slytherin Gang)

Viscount Malfoy was out and about, his distinctively pale head the first thing one noticed on Bond Street. He’d business to carry forward.

The Baron Goyle was run aground at Gentleman Jackson’s, in fact; where he was observed to be lazily pummeling an unfortunate man, who boasted a bloody lip, two black eyes and a quite befuddled expression.

“Goyle,” the Viscount Malfoy exclaimed, “whatever are you on about? Poor McNair seems fit to expire. Has he offended or is this sport?”

Goyle grunted amiably and finished off the job, dropping the elder gentleman to the sanded floor of the ring with a lovely bit of science, claret pouring from his now bulbous nose.

“Oh, well done!” the Viscount clapped. “Nice to see you keeping up with that hobby, Goyle. McNair, do take care of yourself, old fellow. You’ll be wanting a Healer, I don’t doubt. Goyle, here, have you a moment to spare for me?”

The man on the floor groaned. The Viscount gave him a jaunty nod and drew his childhood friend aside.

“Of course, Draco; always,” the Baron replied, rescuing his coat and accoutrements from a lackey. They made their way to one of the smaller rooms, kept in reserve for gentlemen wishing to take a breather.

“Care to stop ‘round the digs for a hand of cards this evening?” the Viscount enquired, pouring a tot of Firewhiskey. “I’ve got up a small party. A few intimates, some Muggles—that sort.”

“Don’t see why not,” Goyle nodded. “But…Draco, are you really in a position to play? The Earl and all…”

The Viscount glared at the large, round, innocently bland face of one of his oldest acquaintances on this mortal coil. “I’m hardly pockets to let, Greg, if that’s what you’re on about. Don’t worry your head over it; the Banque will be well-funded, I assure you. You shan’t be stiffed nor sharped. I employ only my exquisitely mind and my hands, unlike some loose screws we know,” the Viscount huffed.

“Oh, well. That’s all right, then.” Goyle had gotten his coat back on with some difficulty, shrugging it over his meaty shoulders with a series of small grunts. He’d moved on to fumbling his previously discarded Belcher neckerchief into a misshapen approximation of the latest casual fashion. The Viscount’s meticulously perfect Waterfall was a thing of beauty in comparison.

“Oh, here!” the Viscount exclaimed, struck to the soul with the enormity of the fashion faux pas being committed. “Let me do that, you galumphing idiot.”

“Oh, thanks so much, Draco,” Goyle smiled. He was an innocent man, still, for all he’d flown Tiger at Malfoy’s flank in the recent Wars and at Waterloo. “’Preciate it, I do.”

“No matter,” the Viscount snapped. “Now, tell me, as I find I am terribly curious: why exactly were you flattening old McNair? Did he lay hands on your current bit ‘o muslin or some such?”

“Oh, no,” Goyle grinned, and his moon-face was vaguely hopeful, much like a Crup puppy’s when begging for table scraps. “Insulted you, Draco. Had to knock him down, you know. Doubt he’ll be good for much for the next little while.”

“Insulted me, Greg?” the Viscount asked, raising a brow. “Did he? Curious. How so?”

“Called you a ponce and a nancy-boy, Draco,” Greg replied simply, “and said you were more of a bleeding female than old Beau Brummel. In front of that Muggle Lady What’s It and the Minister, as well. Just last night, at the Opera, it was. Had to lay him low, after that. Not a female, Draco.”

Malfoy frowned. “No, of course not, Goyle, but it’s hardly a crime to prefer the company of Wizards. McNair’s m’father’s friend. I wonder, why ever would he…?”

“It’s that Lord Voldemort fellow, Draco,” Greg confided. “He’s putting it about that it’s a sin against Wizarding itself to take up with the same sex. No decent heirs to be got upon wet nurses or some such incendiary Pureblood nonsense. Bloody zealot; got some sort of stick rammed up his arse, if you ask me! ‘Sides, everyone knows you’re planning to get the next Malfoy properly on some moneyed puss, don’t they? Why, isn’t your mother arranging with the Greengrasses—or is the Parkinsons? I never recall these things, sorry.”

“There! All sorted, old chap,” the Viscount pronounced, firmly interrupting the Baron and stepping backwards to admire his own work. “It’s neither, if you must know. And the Greengrasses and the Parkinsons are of no importance, Greg, not to this matter. And what McNair thinks—or Lord Voldemort, for that matter—is entirely boring, as well, to anyone who actually matters. But my thanks, old chap, for the quick defense. Very handy with your fives, you are; I remember it clearly from Hogs. McNair will be thinking twice, I’m daresay, before he opens his silly piehole in public.”

Goyle’s face assumed an ear-to-ear grin. “Doubt he’ll be able to open much of anything, Draco. Or close it properly, for a good long while. Fixed him properly, I did.”

The Viscount clapped him on the back with brilliant cheer, the tiny frown in his grey eyes hardly a gleam. “Excellent, Goyle! That’s the spirit! Now, what’s old Crabbe up to, by the by? I’ve a fancy to invite him along as well. Nott, too, that cent-per-center, if I can but scare him up.”

“Oh, well, I couldn’t say, Draco, but I’ll be glad to accompany you ‘round for a look-see,” Goyle offered. He tossed back the shot of Firewhiskey the Viscount offered him as if it were nothing but orgeat, and grinned mightily. “Don’t forget ‘bout old Zabini, Draco. Heard he was returned from his Grand Tour, just last week. Bedded that Muggle bear-leader of his, Byron, and his mother came over all Friday faced hauled him back from Italy by the ear. Haunting the Season now, hanging out for a fortune ‘mongst the misses, I don’t doubt.”

“That old Casanova? Oh, very good. We’ll stop at Tattersall’s to collect Crabbe, then; he’s always fancied the Muggle horseflesh—“

“And Hatchard’s for Nott, I’ll warrant. You know how noddy Theo is. Likely had his head shoved in some circulating library specimen, even at this hour. And I’d wager old Blaise is hanging after the skirts at Drury, bosky as usual.”

“Perfect. We’ll save him for last; give him a fighting chance to attain sobriety. After you, Goyle, old man, after you.”

“Don’t mind if I do, Draco.”

With a faint pop, both gentlemen Disapparated, business all set to rights.

Six: Masque (Introducing the Heroines, Misses Granger and Weasley)

Major Harry Potter had indeed shown his famously scarred yet handsome viz at Almack’s the evening previous, as requested, only to be descended upon by a great horde of red-haired persons, led by the irrepressible Weasley twins, Frederick and Georgie.

“Pot—“ That was Frederick.

“Er! Well!” And there was the Honourable Georgie. Their common habit was a very rapid exchange banter; a barrage conducted at lightning speed. Major Potter, fortunately, was accustomed, though his neck often ached unpleasantly, after.

“Met, Harry! Have you been?”

“Rusticating? M’sister’s—“

“Champing at the bit—“

“Harry. You’ll want to—“

“Make yourself scarce!”

“Harry, my dear boy!” exclaimed Lady Weasley, and Harry made an elegant leg to her dashing get-up in a midnight blue silks and feathered turban, still chuckling.

“Lady W,” he nodded. “Sir!”

“M’boy, a very great pleasure,” chimed in the affable and slightly daft Lord Weasley, and graspedf his hand. “Always, always. How was your experiment with the Muggle windmills? Successful, I hope?”

“Most successful, sir,” Mr. Potter replied, twinkling. “I shall call upon you with details--if that’s agreeable?”

“Of course, Harry. I’ll look forward to it,” Lord Weasley nodded. “Don’t forget to bring along the blueprints, will you? I’ve a mind to construct one of those m’self.”

“Oh, you and your Muggles!” Lady Weasley laughed. “Such nonsense! Harry, dear, I’m sure you’ve not spoken to our little Ginny for every so long! Do--”

“There you are, Harry!” burst out the Honourable Ronald, arriving late and somewhat breathless, and towing after him a young woman dressed in the very height of fashion, as per requirement, yet somehow giving off an air of sweet, unadorned sensibility. Her coif, most fortunately, was brunette in hue, a visual oasis after all that ginger. “I’ve been waiting ages for you to arrive!

“Mr. Potter!” blushed the final ginger-haired member of the teeming horde. She lifted her pert chin, displaying a swan neck and lovely bronze ringlets, entwined with budding peach roses. Her gown was of the same shade exactly: watered silk with a gauzy overdress of ecru lace and gathered just below the bust with an almond-coloured satin ribbon, in the Empire style. “How very lovely to encounter you here! Ronald hadn’t said a word about you attending!”

“That’s a bald-faced lie, Ginny,” the Hon. Ronald interrupted. “I did, indeed, and you were all atwitter, remember?”

“Oh, do hush, Ron!” Miss Weasley blushed a slightly less attractive shade at that.

“Miss Weasley, Weasley, my pleasure,” Harry nodded, entirely urbane in the face of the usual Weasley assortment, and then bowed again as the Honorable Ronald blushed and stuttered through an introduction to the pretty young deb in Lady Weasley’s wake.

“May I present Miss Hermione Granger, Potter? She’s recently arrived from Chudley-cum-Hie, and is staying with the parents. Mum’s sponsoring her Season, you know,” the Hon. Ronald nodded his bright-red head wisely, much as if he knew all the ins and outs of a Ton presentation like clockworks and Mr. Potter maintained his determinedly bland face only with considerable effort.

“Miss Granger,” he smiled and again made a bow. “The pleasure is all mine. I do hope you’re enjoying it? It’s early days yet, but Town should please you, I hope. Is this your first visit here?”

“Oh, yes, as a matter of fact, it is. How perceptive of you, Mr. Potter.” Miss Granger took back her hand gracefully after Potter brushed his lips across the back of her gloved wrist. “But I’ve made some rather considerable progress already with my List. I’ve been to Almack’s, of course, and Hatchard’s and the adjoining circulating libraries, but I’ve yet to visit Vauxhall, Drury Lane and the Astley’s Amphitheatre—and then there’s Rotten Row and that horse market—Tattersall’s, is it not? And Fleet Street, and Newgate, and of course, Bedlam.“

Mr. Potter’s eyebrows quirked quizzically, but he only continued smiling pleasantly as Miss Granger assaulted his ears with a list a league long.

“O, my dear!” Lady Weasley tittered, flapping her fan. “Surely not all those places! The haunts for the lower classes, dear--one mustn’t!”

“But it is essential, Mama says, Lady Weasley,” Miss Granger looked very grave, “that one expose oneself to all manner of new experiences—“

“I’m sure, I’m sure, dear,” Lady Weasley said comfortably, “but perhaps we may discuss this later? I believe Freddie here wishes to request your card?” She elbowed one of the twins with a somewhat forced smile and he immediately took up the gauntlet.

“Oh, yes, Miss—“

“Granger, may we have—“

“The pleasure?” Freddie finished off triumphantly. Both had their hands outstretched for the tiny pasteboard dance card attached to Miss Granger’s reticule. She giggled, and then stifled it at a warning glance from Miss Weasley. One was not encouraged to giggle before the Patronesses at Almack’s.

“May Miss Granger waltz?” Mr. Potter enquired, smiling, “For I, too, would be honoured.”

“Oh, they both may!” Lady Weasley was fluttering with pride. “My dear Maria has permitted it, as of the very first evening we attended! Most kind.”

“Delightful,” Mr. Potter smiled. “If I may, Miss Granger? I see our Ronald’s left a very few dances for the rest of us. Of the waltz and the cotillion, I much prefer the former. One may converse.”

“Oh, I say, Harry!” the Hon. Ronald protested. “No more than the regulation two, you know! I’ll not have you conversing with my—I mean to say—er.” He went beet red and ceased making noise, though his mouth opened and closed several more times.

“And Miss Weasley?” Harry, taking pity, turned to his best friend’s baby sister, the apple of her parent’s fond eye. . “Might I also escort you round this crush? A waltz, too, I think, if it pleases.”

“Oh, Mr. Potter!” Miss Weasley was visibly in transports, a far cry from the tomboy girl Mr. Potter recalled before the War. “Indeed, yes!”

Mr. Potter smiled politely in the face of such enthusiasm, and if his bonhomie was a bit forced, very few of the many eyes upon him took note.


Seven: Couche (Revisiting the Viscount Malfoy)

“Unh!” the Viscount grunted and sunk his teeth into his bounteous feather bed pillows. Mr. Potter emitted a similar noise of satisfaction, shoving at the Viscount’s narrow pelvis with such force the nobleman nearly struck his perspiring scalp against his Italianate carven olivewood headboard.

“Brilliant, Draco,” Potter bit out, withdrawing in s short, sharp stroke that had the Viscount keening. “So tight inside you; so very—very—tight!”

It was the middle of the day and Major Potter had come from the Royal Opera House late the previous night, reeking of Firewhiskey but not at all in his cups, with a light in his eyes that had set the Viscount to shivering delight before he was even touched by so much as a fingertip.

“Angh!” he replied, the clear crisp light of day mocking his eyelids, “Not so beastly fierce, Harry! You’re murdering me, at this pace! Bloody plebe—always in a tearing rush!”

But he made no move to wriggle away; couldn’t, with his knees like that new-fangled rubbery substance the Muggles used for those odd knee boots call Wellies and his spine slung in a low reverse arch. Could only crouch there and take it, high-born arse well up for Plain Old Potter’s pleasure and his whimpers muffled by goosedown and satin.

“I wanted you, Draco,” Potter intoned, paying no heed, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Thought of you, endlessly, all these two days. D’you know just how stifling Carleton House is when all you can think of is some git’s lilywhite arse? Do you even know?”

“I—know,” the Viscount panted. He rolled his hips back frantically, when Potter grasped his dick. “I know, trust me!”

“And that scent you wear,” Potter went on, his voice as grim as if he were hexing the Viscount instead of shagging him mercilessly. “Your bloody hair, so fine and soft—your eyes, Draco! I can’t walk around as if there’s nothing between us but this! I can’t, you stupid silly rotter, and I won’t, not any longer!”

“Harry!” Draco moaned. “Harry—you can’t! M’father—“

“Your father be damned, and the Weasleys as well, Draco! This—is—ridiculous! Ahhh!” Potter stalled, clenching as his cock throbbed, lodged deep within the steamy channel that gripped him. “Ah—ah—AHHH!”

“—Coming!” the Viscount howled and jammed his entire body back reflexively, thrusting himself as close as he could against Potter’s fit form. “Oh—Merlin! Coming!” he panted, and then toppled off his knees, Potter’s sweaty weight and his own enervation his downfall. “So…good,” he whispered, and settled himself comfortably under the steam bath that was Potter. “So…very, very…good.” He sighed, and closed his damp eyes gratefully.

“Don’t persuade yourself for even a moment I don’t mean that, Draco,” Potter informed him, some half-hour later as he eased on his boots. He spelled them into a fine high polish and rose, reaching for his discarded robes. “I’m warning you now. Once and once only.”

They’d closed their eyes for a few moments earlier to doze, exhausted, but neither were at all sleepy. The night had been a long one, punctuated by catnaps and shagging, and the Viscount’s stomach was rumbling in a very plebian way.

But the way they’d been wrapped together, just now—that had been sweet. Nostalgic, in a way that left the Viscount’s chest aching. He swung away, his silk robe flapping, revealing a long measure of pale thigh and the darkening bruises Mr. Potter had left there.

“You shouldn’t, Harry,” he informed the window grimly, gazing sightlessly at the gardens falling away into the distance. “It’ll go badly. I know it; feel it in my bones. Father is not a force to be taken lightly and neither is m’mother. And besides, whatever has happened to your great plan of begetting proper heirs upon the Weasley chit? Surely you’ve not abandoned it? You were seen at Almack’s with her just t’other evening, and danced the requisite two waltzes. Good as Bonded, now.”

“Draco,” Potter murmured into the Viscount’s ear, coming over to wrap his arms ‘round his stiffly-held lover. “You mustn’t fret your pretty little head over what’s happened at Almack’s—not that anything did, as it happens. Two waltzes are not the be-all and end-all of a proper courtship. My business is well in hand, love; look to your own. I don’t fancy the idea of Voldemort here, in your house.”

“He’s a crucial player in this little amusement of mine, as it happens, Potter,” the Viscount hissed. “And I’ll thank you to take your misplaced concerns away with you. T’is my business, not yours, as you’ve made note of.” He whirled away from the window, striding toward the attached water closet. “Now be off with you. I’ve matters to attend to and no time to waste on further frivolity.”

Potter smiled. It was a fair dangerous smile and one the Viscount recognized from the War.

“We’ll see, Draco. We’ll see about that.”

Part 2

Comments

[sweetiedogood.livejournal.com]

It's terribly late and all the pretty words confuse me because of the lateness...BUT "anon" writer I know who you are. LOL LOL
(this is my first time recognizing a writer from their writing)

[tigersilver.livejournal.com]

Heee! Huggles you a 1,000,000 times over! Thank you:>