Fest Fic: Pharo Part 3

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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.

Link to Part 2
Link to Part 1



Seventeen: Stringing the Bets (in which the Ladies practise their meddling)

“I hardly call that fair,” complained Miss Parkinson, glaring at Miss Weasley over teacups and little cakes. “Miss Granger, you are encouraging her to be naughty, admit it!”

“Oh, pooh! It’s only because your old harridan of a mother won’t bestow her permission, Pansy! Don’t be huffy with poor Hermione, here. She can’t help it if she’s been elected the brains of the operation!”

“Exactly the issue!” Pansy scowled, wrinkling her snub nose. Some said it made her resemble a small Muggle dog; others toasted her—and her father’s purported millions of Galleons. “I, too, have been known to summon up a well-laid scheme—“

“Oh, but I do recall clearly, believe me!” Miss Granger interrupted, baring her very white teeth. “That incident when we visited Hogwarts for the TriWizard shall not be forgotten any time soon! But do go on, Miss Parkinson. You’re intimating, I believe, that you wish to join our party?”

“Precisely,” Pansy replied. “And changes to hair colour aside, this is to your benefit, Miss Granger. It requires a Slytherin to understand a Slytherin, naturally, and you are all, to a one, sadly Gryffindors, even your Plain Old Potter. I shall indeed make myself one of your party and, for the sake of parity, I shall bring along Millie Bulstrode. She’s most useful when one is in difficulties.”

“Pish tosh!” Miss Granger bit into her biscuit and chewed with ladylike brevity. Swallowing and topping off the mouthful of shortbread with a sip of Oolong, she glared. “We shall give ourselves away, with so many females.”

“Not at all, Granger,” Pansy shot back, and sipped her tea. “There’s footmen and Muggle servants aplenty, are there not? Not everyone must be garbed as a sprig of fashion or a passing country bumpkin’s heir. I fancy donning those silver-grey breeches myself; the livery Malfoy outfits all his servants in. Most attractive—for one who can claim a passable figure!”

“Now, now—“ Miss Weasley, watching the interchange dubiously, made attempts to intercede, as Miss Granger visibly swelled with indignation.

“Firstly, I’ll have you know I’m credited with a very fine arse! Secondly, you will not insult Harry, Parkinson!” Miss Granger hissed. “I may’ve attended Beauxbatons and not been part of your Scottish hijinks at Hogwarts but only very briefly, but Harry and I have become fast friends these last few weeks! He’s like a long-lost brother to me! He’s hardly to be scoffed at!”

“Oh, my dear,” Miss Parkinson chuckled, and for once a deep charm illuminated her sharp, opportunistic features, “as if I’d harm a hair on his dear little head! Draco would murder me twelve times before breakfast, I’m sure! Besides, your Potter’s not a fool, and I’ve never claimed so. I’ve heard tell of any number of Slythindor escapades during the War, all authored by your personal Hero!”

“Well!” Miss Granger huffed, but then seemed to settle. “If that’s clear…then I don’t see why not. Reinforcements are always acceptable, and we may have to overpower that horrid old cardsharp.”

“Miss Granger!” Pansy Parkinson went from amused to grave in an instant. “Don’t underestimate him. Lord Voldemort is an evil man. He’s had my parents quietly under his thumb for years now, and bled Papa nearly dry in the process, via blackmail. He means to seize as much as he possibly can, and more. You mustn’t think this is merely another form of entertainment during the Season.”

“I don’t, Miss Parkinson,” Miss Granger had assumed her most bookish look, head cocked inquisitively and pert chin at an angle. “I’ve done my research, trust me. As has Harry, so…yes. It is best we cooperate, perhaps.”

“Very well,” Miss Parkinson glanced over at the paltry array of cakes left, after three young ladies had taken tea. She sneered, and turned back to her most recently acquired bosom beaux, Miss Weasley. “Weasley, I declare, your house elves are sadly behind the times. It’s twenty pastries per person, not twelve!”

“Oh, stuff it, you cow!” Miss Weasley burst out laughing, and threw a spare petit fours at Miss Parkinson’s daring dark blue ensemble. “Greedy boots!”

Eighteen: Shuffling the Deck (in which the Player’s positions are set)

“All clear?” asked the Honourable Ronald.

“Aye—“

“Mate! Fire—“

“Away!”

“I don’t like this! I really don’t like this at all!” groaned the Hon. Ronald, but he offered each of his arms to a young lady and Apparated from their meeting point deep in the heart of Vauxhall’s famed Walks to the servant’s entrance at the rear of Malfoy House, Belgravia.

“Do take note, Hermione!” he whispered rather urgently to his fiancé, currently clad in breeches, waistcoat and all the finery of a Malfoy man-a-waiting, and looking rather fetching because of it. “We’ll not be engaged in such flibbertigibbiting about when we’re married! I’ll not have it! A quiet life, that’s the ticket!”

“Fustian!” Miss Granger replied, sternly. “You’re as bad as that milquetoast Percy, Ronald!” and then ignored him roundly.

For a moment, there were only the staccato sounds of repeated pops, as the rest of the party joined the Weasleys and Miss Granger. Then the door to the kitchens swung open slightly and it was quiet again, the gaggle of ‘hired Muggle help’ having been ushered discreetly indoors.

Inside the bastion of fashionable nobility, there were any number of gentlemen, bent intently over tables of baize, and the sound of continuous chatter and flapping pasteboard as cards turned. Whoever had said females were the worst gossips had not spent much quality time with the male of the species.

“Did you hear about Brummell?” was the question on all the Muggle’s lips. “Such a pity!”

“Always did believe he was a bounder, Apollo.”

“Oh, I know, Cupid, but his cravats! Poetry, old man—pure poetry!”

“You know, Malfoy’s nearly sunk,” murmured any number of lesser Wizards, peering about them and wondering if the contents of the Malfoy stables would soon be up for sale at the Wizarding Tattersall’s. “Bound for Newgate in a beggar’s cart, the rapscallion. Always knew he ran with a dangerous crowd!”

“Hasn’t paid his tradesmen in absolute ages, I heard. Up the River Tick.”

“Oh, but old chap, who does?”

“Point.”

“Fasse!”

“Quinze et le va, Taillèur!”

The Viscount, who’d been tucked into bed by a careful Potter in the early hours of dawn, sat gingerly within his Banquer’s cutaway at the premier baize-covered table. His arse was sore from repeated assaults and his nipples still throbbed. Potter had been quite, quite unbearably careful, though, and he’d only himself to blame, for wanting it rough. For demanding it that way, though he knew full well Potter was already on thin edge. But what else was he to do, after having suffered the unbearable insult of shrieking his Muffliato’d ejaculation in a room full of Weasleys?

Especially the girl Weasley, for whose sake Scarhead had so publicly dropped him. Brighton had been the nadir of the Viscount’s young existence and never again would he allow his lover that absolute degree of power over his emotions.

No, he’d pursue his own course, and brunet, green-eyed, soberly-clad Wizards be damned!

“Sleep, Draco,” Potter had ordered him, his lips tickling Draco’s ear. “I’ll stop in this evening, later, after I’m done with Vauxhall. And you make certain to guard that pretty little bum of yours if you do venture out—I want it pristine when I return,” that same irritating Wizard had murmured, not twelve hours previous. “Take no chances, alright? There’s gossip going about already about us. I’ll not abide it.”

Draco had grunted wordlessly his ire over being ordered about like a mere flunky and his general sense of discontent at Potter’s high-handed attitude. What Potter would or would not abide was no longer Draco’s concern!

“Seriously, love,” Potter was insistent. “I’ll not have you take the brunt of the biddies’ tongues. Keep your head.”

“Mmmphf!” he sputtered, by which he may’ve meant ‘Fuck off, Potter!’ or possibly ‘Fuck me, Potter!’ but Potter was gone before the Viscount could summon the gumption to decide.

It was a quandary, this night. Lord Voldemort had determinedly emptied the Viscount’s personal coffers over the past few weeks, perhaps not with the flare and sleight-of-hand he’d displayed whilst routing the Viscount’s father, the Earl, but steadily, all the same. And Draco had allowed it. Encouraged it, indeed, as bait for a hunt. And had taken note of every sanded and shaved card-edge, every blot of sepia ink almost too small to see and every move that scoundrel ‘Silver-Hand’ Pettigrew had made, as Lord Voldemort’s pet casekeep.

It was abominable, yes, and the Viscount planned to put a stop to it. Voldemort had fleeced just one too many when he chose to target a Malfoy, and Voldemort would pay. Not to mention, the ugly rumours Crabbe had mentioned flying about concerning Potter’s safety. His Scarheadness was admittedly not on top of all the gossip, but one did not take the threat of possible lycanthropy lightly.

But was it the proper time? the Viscount wondered, surveying his personal gaming hell. True enough, Prinny was present and the Lord Voldemort was currently glued to his elbow, courting favours. The Regent’s closest friends and advisors—some Muggles, some Wizards—also crowded the many little Pharo-Banques the Viscount had laid ready for their pleasure. The Silver-and-Green contingent was naturally in place at every one, playing Banquer or casekeeper or punter as necessary. All was well, and in readiness, just as he schemed. Except—and it was a monumental exception, and not at all in the card—Draco had just been dragooned into Banquing the table that hosted both Plain Old Harry Potter and the flushed and obviously inebriated Honourable Ron Weasley.

Demned Potter!

The pathetic prat had sworn he was to attend a musicale at Vauxhall Gardens in the company of the Weasley chit and then be occupied strolling the gardens until the celebrated fireworks were begun. He’d practically written out an oath that he’d be elsewhere, this eve. The Viscount had assumed, incorrectly, that if Plain Old Potter showed his face upon his doorstep, it would be well after he’d the pleasure of dealing summarily with the cheating Lord Voldemort, once and for all.

For the Viscount had a Scheme, and a fine example it was, worthy of Slytherin himself. Spruced up a bit by the additional and somewhat unconventional wisdom of his Papa, the Earl, (currently ensconced in the Viscount’s study, catching up on the gossip via elderly issues of the Prophet) and the Viscount’s trusted godfather, Lord Snape. But now likely doomed to failure, all because of one stupid Gryffindor, who knew not when to let well enough alone!

“Demned Potter!” the Viscount swore softly. “Bets, gentlemen, if you please. I shall shuffle.”

“Excuse me, milord?” A young gent who looked to be no more than twenty leant his head nearer Draco’s. “What’s that you say? Power?”

“Bets, sirrah,” sneered Draco, and the cards between his hands fanned prettily and slide together perfectly, all in order for the splits he’d require momentarily. “Place them. We begin momentarily.”

“Oh, capital!” trilled the Muggle Prinny and slid into an empty seat, his growing bulk not nearly as well disguised by his waistcoat as he no doubt thought. Poor Prinny had been indulging his excesses in a royal manner. “Is it too late then, milord Malfoy? May I still horn in on the game?”

Draco inclined his sleek head, the excruciatingly high points of his collar disguising the marks that rotter Potter had left behind. He was the very image of smiling affability before the Muggle Regent.

“By all means, Your Majesty. Five Guineas to a Galleon is the current ‘Change, yes? How many cheques do you require?”

“Oh, hallo there, Mr. Potter! Good evenng!”

Prinny was distracted for a mere moment, exchanging pleasantries. When he turned back, his entourage had caught up with him and Wellington himself was seated at his left.

“Let’s say a thousand, milord, shall we? No point in playing for kiddie’s stakes, is there? And I do fancy a jab at those odd boney horses of yours. They do fly, I hear! Might as well run one at Haymarket this coming Sunday,” he grinned genially. “Make up for my trouncing by that sly old Voldemort over yonder, eh?”


Nineteen: Court Cards (in which all the required Toffs are gathered, as are several pertinent details)

The magnificent ballroom of Malfoy House was alive with candlelight and magical sconces, and scented with exotic blooms. But no dancing went on and not a single gentleman present was expected to pencil his name on some blushing debutante’s card. T’was an evening designed solely for the entertainment of the male half of the species, and as such, the ballroom was a small sea of green-clothed tables and coats from the best tailors.

A sumptuous cold collation was set out in the next room, and Malfoy had thrown open several additional rooms for gentleman in need of a rest from play. Men milled to and fro, chatting and laughing, and the sheer amount of potential gain on the hoof was staggering. Hatchard’s and its Wizarding rival Flourish & Blott’s had just delivered pallets of freshly printed decks that very morning and Wibble and the other elves had outshone themselves in their thorough preparations. Malfoy House sparkled. The owners of White’s would’ve been sadly green with envy, had they thought of the loss incurred to their own proprietary tables.

The thought of White’s elicited a fretful twist on the Viscount’s lips. He’d spotted his and Potter’s names in the Betting Book just at nuncheon, prominently displayed, and the running favourite was, of course, Plain Old Potter. The nature of the bet had been obscured by another gentleman’s highly starched collar points at first, but the Viscount had assumed it was the outcome of a duel or some such the other Members were betting. He and Potter had challenged each other in plenty of those. It was only when he read the particulars he got the wind up: Potter was to kiss him, publically, and directly under the noses of the Patronesses of Almack’s!

Draco had been coldly furious. Such an act was practically a declaration of intent to wed—and that would never happen! Since their public falling-out at Brighton, and Potter’s tacit choice of an eventual marriage to the Weasley puss, he’d come to learn via his connections to the Bow Street Runners that Voldemort and his band of ruffians meant to take revenge upon the irksome Scarhead. Voldemort was a very downy fellow, as Crabbe said, and jockeying for power in both the Wizarding Ministry and the Muggle government. He long espoused the tenet of Grindlewald concerning the sanctity of Purebloods and the foul dishonor inherent of those noble Wizards who chose to follow the Athenian ideal and practice open homosexuality.

Voldemort’s actions during the War—as leader of a small select coven of like-minded Wizards who served only as starting hares to bait Bonaparte’s superior forces—had been vastly overshadowed by the heroic doings of the Red-and-Gold and the Slytherin Silvers at Waterloo, and word on the street was that he was incredibly jealous of Potter, the Iron Duke’s bosom mate and Prinny’s much-loved pet. He called his followers Death Eaters, and gathered any number of weaker Wizards to his side by dint of oily charisma and the sheer threat of his magical power, and by leading promises of a Utopian future in which only Wizards would control all the world’s resources. A much nastier rumour was that Lord Voldemort sought power over his Majesty the Prince Regent as well, and would do whatever necessary to seize it. But first they’d preyed upon the Earl, Malfoy’s Papa, for daring to finally turn his coat and choose sides. The Malfoy’s had been key to the War efforts, with their ties to France, and between the Viscount’s skill with hexes and the Earl’s skill with words, Bonaparte had been besieged from within and without.

Voldemort, who’d been under the impression he held the Malfoys firmly in his pocket, had been thoroughly disabused of that notion. The Earl—no longer of use to Voldemort—had been soundly ruined, had fled posthaste to Calais, and his heir and lady wife left to their own devices. The Viscount, at last choosing his first loyalty over any ephemeral pleasures, had not made up with that git Potter, nor would he. Not before the eyes of Society, at least. What they got up on the side was another matter.

It galled him cruelly to take second fiddle to that ginger-haired minx. She did not love Potter as he did; wouldn’t die for him as he would; wouldn’t open her thighs as he had, willingly, almost from the day they’d first wanked off together by the shores of Hogwart’s lake. In truth, he’d been woefully besotted ever since their first meeting. But Potter—Plain Old orphaned piteous Potter—seemed to crave more the comforting sprawl of a huge and extensive family than he required the showy charms of an acknowledged fair-haired boy of the Ton on his arm, and had disdained Draco’s offer of a hasty Bonding at Gretna.

They’d separated, ostensibly at daggers drawn, and the Viscount had not seen hide nor hair of Potter ‘till the commencement of the Season. Then, when it came, Potter had sauntered into Malfoy’s study in his same old careless manner, two weeks late, had offered no apology, had made no excuses, and had proceeded to snog Draco to utter incoherency without so much as a polite ‘By your leave, sir?’ He’d been bent over his own Hepplewhite settee in a matter of twenty minutes and hadn’t said a word to the contrary.

Hadn’t allowed so much as a peep to escape his well-bred lips concerning the actions of the Weasley wench since, either, despite Zabini’s encroachments on her virtue. It would not serve Potter’s best interests to kick up a dust, and Potter was Draco’s first priority.

T’was shaping up to be a highly profitable evening, Malfoy concluded, surveying with satisfaction the numerous small games in progress with his trusty seconds as substitute Banquers. Already his substantial stake (funded primarily as the result of an anxious Owl to his mother) had been quadrupled, and he anticipated more of the same. The rustics—with the notable exception of Potter and his lot of straggling gingers—the younger sons, and the poorly equipped lesser gamesters had been weeded out over the earlier hours of play. Servants circulated with trays of champagne and Firewhiskey, keeping the proceedings well oiled, and an air of camaraderie balanced atop the underlying lying passion for winning all punters showed when confronted by the baize.

Draco was superbly outfitted in his latest creation from Bagshotte, who rivaled the great Weston himself for a nicely seamed shoulder and taut, nipped-in silhouette. His coats were sought after and horribly costly. But it was a charcoal wool so dark as to be nearly black and did wonders for his Pureblood complexion and elevated cheekbones and the Viscount had been unable to resist its purchase. His breeches were of olive green, and the embroidery on his waistcoat was of dull gold thread, though the buttons themselves were of purest silver. His cravat was his favored Waterfall, artfully pinned with a single intricately faceted emerald, and the hereditary ring of the Malfoy heirs flashed proudly on his pinkie finger, tiny serpents hissing and twisting with excitement at the crowded quarters. His wand was tucked up his lacy cuffs, easily at hand but no threat to the Muggles. His scent was from Floris, crafted solely for him, and a hundred Galleons an ounce. But Draco was particularly pleased with his boots, newly delivered from Hoby and of the very highest degree of champagne-and-blacking polish. One could see one’s reflection in them, and he’d seen a very handsome young Wizard earlier as he made ready: narrow-faced but with a generous lower lip, scarlet as any bit ‘o muslin’s, and piercing grey eyes, pale arched brows and an ever paler coif, arranged a la Brutus, and brought to a shimmer with pomade imported from the Orient.

Milord Snape had quietly slipped into a spindly chair to the Viscount’s right moments previous, taking up the role of casekeeper, the Muggle abacus-like device in hand. To Malfoy’s left sat Plain Old Potter, then the Hon. Ronald, followed by the Viscount’s mates the Lords Nott and Zabini. Another Weasley was present, as well, and then the remainder was comprised of his Muggle Majesty, the Iron Duke (with whom Malfoy shared a warm smile), Cupid and the Lords Sefton and Cowper.

“Ten, and Nine, as well,” Potter bet, and showed his mettle, matching up to Prinny’s cheque with nary a flinch.

“Three and stay,” the Hon. Ron glared at Draco, and then transferred his fulmination to his closest mate, and the Viscount spared a thought to wondering if they’d fallen out. Or perhaps one of the ladies had taken faint at Vauxhall and Weasley had been denied keeping company with La Granger? Or perhaps the staider Hon. Ronald merely disapproved of his friend’s proclivity towards high-stakes gambling? It was mystery, but of no real import. The Hon. Ronald was a good enough fellow and handy with his fives, and Draco couldn’t fault his legendary loyalty to Scarhead.

“Four and Nine,” Cupid set down cheques amounting to a hundred on each spade, and the motions of betting continued ‘round the table.

Draco shuffled, to his satisfaction, and noted no sanding of the cards from Hatchard’s or the box he’d procured on Pall Mall as a curiority.

“Split, gentlemen,” the Viscount announced quietly a moment later his pleasure over the ‘lucky’ pair of Nines entirely disguised. With a few intakes of breath and a burst of chatter, his winnings were pushed forward. A thousand from Prinny, a matching thousand from Potter, whose cheques had ranged all over the suite of spades, smaller sums each from Cupid and the older of the Weasley Wizards. The Duke chose to stay his cheques and the rest scrambled to place more as Draco laid a long-fingered hand on the card keep, waiting. To his credit, the ornately inlaid box was not rigged. The Viscount abhorred such foul means of cheating—the bulwark of such plebes as ‘Silver Hand Pettigrew’ and the like—and preferred to trust his luck to the all-important shuffle. He was a talented shuffler and could place splits at will and splits were the meat-and-drink of the Pharo-Banque. For every split, he took half of the staked cheques and over time, it amounted. When the stakes were verging on the astronomical, as they were in the rarified company of Muggle royalty and Potter (heir to two known fortunes, and a bloody Nabob, fumed Viscount Malfoy), the steady production of splits was crucial.

“Better luck next time, gentleman,” Malfoy smiled sweetly and drew the next pair, propping his noble head carelessly upon a fist and avoiding Potter’s intense stare. This time he lost, but he expected it. A few more hands and he’d recoup that and more.

Potter’s luck was off—either that, or something was fishy in the state of Denmark. Nearly every cheque was to the Banque’s benefit, and Draco watched with growing horror as his sometime lover forked over close to ten thousand Galleons.

“Oh, I say! Bad show on my part!” Malfoy heard the clarion voice of Percy Weasley from clear across the room. He was at Voldemort’s Banque and appeared to have been stripped of his quarterly allowance. “Now I shall have to avoid the pater like anything.” He sounded odd, Weasley did. As if he’d been carefully rehearsed. “What a demned shame, that.”

“Rotten luck, old chap,” the Lord Sefton clapped Weasley on the shoulder. “But rejoice that you’re still single. M’lady wife spends our guineas like water, and I’m always turning away the tradesmen.”

“Oh, may I see that?” Weasley hadn’t drifted yet from where Voldemort held court. He laid eager hands on the Lord’s card box. “How unusual! What detail in these mother-of-pearl inlays, milord. Wherever did you get it?”

“An heirloom,” Voldemort returned tightly, and turned away, whispering in Pettigrew’s ear and sending him scuttling off after champagne. He rose, and McNair and another gentleman fell into ranks behind him. “I’m off for bite, Weasley. Do give my fondest regards to your father.”

“Oh! Oh! Thank you, milord!” burbled Weasley, and Draco flared his nostrils, scenting something definitely amiss. “I’ll be sure to pass it on!”

He trundled off, murmuring about ‘Imagine that!’ and ‘What kindness!’ and the Viscount let it go, for if that particular Weasley chose to clutch at Lord Voldemort’s leading strings, it was no skin off his nose. There were other, slightly more worthwhile Weasleys, and entirely too many of them altogether in the first place.

Malfoy turned his attention to toting up his winnings. They were considerable and he spared a glare at Potter’s spine, bent over to give an ear to a shortish, younger chap several feet away. Potter, the scoundrel, had engineered his losses somehow, and the Viscount was incensed. This was not the way he wished the evening to go. The Banque should be ready pickings; that was the ticket, to ensure that Lord Voldemort scented the kill, but not overly flush. That would lure even the slyly knowing Voldemort into a false sense of security, that satisfactory notion of administering the final death blow to the family Malfoy, and then Draco would have him. Lock, stock and barrel and dead to rights.

Before Prinny and Snape and yes, even Potter. Before credible witnesses, the most noble in either the Wizarding world or the Muggle. For Voldemort was going down.

b>Twenty: Queens Rule (in which the Countess smiles and nods)

Araminta Bellows-Barton’s ball was a success, much to the delight of her ape-leading aunt, Lady Thistlethwaite-Smythe.

A positive horde of dowagers and grande dames said so, and they would know. There were well-heeled, titled,single gentlemen aplenty and the rooms were so crowded and thronged with elite it was considered quite the crush.

The Countess Malfoy said so, and her coterie of ladies and Witches nodded smugly. The Countess then tittered slyly and blessed Salazar that she hadn’t a daughter to launch and those who hadn’t were instantly struck by the good sense of that. Teenaged females were so contrary, it was agreed, and prone to faints, fits, and mopes. Better indeed to have sons.

The Countess then related her son’s—the Viscount Malfoy’s, that is—latest fancy: a Pharo-Banque.

“Quite a bumblebroth,” she remarked, flirting her fan desultorily. “I quite thought he’d come amiss, but then that young man—oh, I’m sure you know of him, even you, Maria. Potter—Harry Potter. He’s quite taken with my son, it seems. Has rather stepped up to support him in this.”

“Oh, really?” Lady Parkinson raised a dark brow. “I’d heard they’d a falling-out, Narcissa. In Brighton, this last Small Season, wasn’t it?”

“Nothing but unfounded rumours,” the Countess replied coolly. “They are the very best of…friends, Mr. Potter and my son. In the War together, of course.”

“Decorated, weren’t they, milady?” asked a Muggle, a Miss Ponsonby, who was relegated to dowager stature by way of being ancient, deaf and staunchly single. “It’s Major Potter, is it not? At Waterloo it happened. My nephew’s a Guard, y’see. Knows about such things.”

“Oh, indeed,” the Countess nodded, raising her voice, just so Miss Ponsonby would lower hers to a level more genteel. These ear trumpets the elder Muggles employed were not at all ideal. She cast a discreet spell to enhance Miss Ponsonby’s audial range, under guise of folding her ever-present fan. “Conferred by the Iron Duke, no less. Such a handsome man, is he not?”

“Your son is no less handsome, my dearest,” cooed Lady Goyle. She and Narcissa Black had attended quite a number of years of school in each other’s company and Lord Goyle, before his unfortunate death at the teeth of an unknown assailant, had been close acquaintances with the Earl. “My Gregory has always said so. A real Bond Street Beau, the Viscount.”

“You do it up much too brown, darling,” the Countess protested, laughing lightly. “Though, mind you, I do believe young Mr. Potter shares your son’s opinion. There’s not a day passes that he’s not calling upon dear Draco. Fixing his interest, naturally.”

“Indeed!” barked the Lady Parkinson. “That’s not at all what I’ve heard, Narcissa! Potter is to wed the Weasley chit, is he not?”

“No, indeed, my love,” purred the Countess, “he is not. Hardly the thing, as he’s called upon the Earl to discuss portions. I believe the contract is in process of being drawn up by our mutual agents.”

Lady Parkinson’s florid cheeks darkened, her wattle wibbled and she snorted, loudly. The other ladies drew back slightly, for such visible choler was quite unseemly.

“I beg to differ, Narcissa! Your son had paid court to my Pansy for months now—nay, years! It had always been my dearest wish to unite our families--!”

“Has it, milady?” the Countess asked curiously, her tone most airy and uninterested. “Shame, then. Wishes so often are nothing more than childish fancies. One sees the truth as one ages. Young Master Potter has always trailed after my Draco, since their schooldays. So romantical!”

“But--but, I quite thought the family was against it, Lady Malfoy?” Emily Cowper had no trouble at all speaking up and being heard, Muggle or no. “A little bird told me the Earl had forbade it, months ago. Matters have changed, then?”

The Countess laughed, a trill of light notes that floated merrily amongst the gaily dressed ladies, the debutantes all in white and the eligible gentlemen, engaged in a minuet only a few steps distant. She sipped her orgeat, and smiled.

“Come now, Emily,” she chuckled, and her smile was infectious, “do you honestly believe the Earl would ever deny the family access to three fortunes?”

“Three!?” screeched Lady Parkinson, half-rising from her groaning chair. It was delicate, in the Oriental design, and not at all up to supporting her bulk. “No! I knew of two, certainly but three?”

“Three,” pronounced Narcissa, smugly. “Potter, Black and Lupin. Godfathers, of course. Such a pity they’ve passed on beyond this mortal coil.” She dabbed her eyes with the lacy kerchief she’d conjured and then tucked it back up her sleeve with a flourish. “No, no. Mr. Potter, despite being ‘Plain’, as my mischievous son does insist on labeling him, is a Nabob of the highest order. It shall be a splendid match for Draco, dear ones. And, naturally, Mr. Potter. Do congratulate me.”

The ladies twittered with excitement—all except Lady Parkinson, who tromped away, glowering—and Araminta’s dance card was full to overflowing. Quite a successful evening, actually.


Twenty One: Jacks Abound (in which Major assesses his forces once more)

“Hsst! Hermione!” Mr. Potter bent his head, for though he was not tall, he still of greater stature than Miss Granger. She made for a very stubby young sprig of the Ton. “Who’re you supposed to be, exactly, if I may inquire?”

“Ho!” the Hon. Ron exclaimed, sotto voce, “Harry! Don’t be addressing my fiancé by her first name! T’is not seemly!”

“Gudgeon!” Miss Granger exclaimed in turn and glared at her ginger-maned beau. “Be off with you, Ronald! You hardly know Bartholomew Harsquack and wouldn’t be seen speaking with him! Now, do go circulate!”

“Is that whom you’re Polyjuiced as, Hermione?” Mr. Potter asked curiously. “Where is he, by the by? Not present, I hope?”

“Hardly,” Miss Granger sneered. “As if I’d make that mistake! No, he’s safely at the Thisthlethwaite-Smythe’s,” Miss Granger replied smartly, and Mr. Potter marvelled silently that someone could actually manage that moniker without lisping. “Dancing attendance on heiresses, I’d imagine. Believe me, I made sure of his plans before I swiped the hair.” She cocked her head at her companion, inquiringly, and patted down the slightly robust figure of young Mr. Harsquack with a casual hand. “Do you approve then, Harry?’

“It’s brilliant, Hermione,” Mr. Potter replied, smiling. “An inspired choice, indeed.”

“Hah! Hermione!” The Hon. Ron was quite red in the face and puffing. He whispered fiercely, “Don’t you be addressing him as ‘Harry’, neither! He’s not your kin, y’know! Can’t be doing that—not till you’re wed. This is really not acceptable, none of it—“

“Oh, do shut your gob, Ronald,” Harry Potter smiled equably. “She’s practically my sister-in-law, aren’t you, Hermione?” he added, meaningfully.

“Indeed,” agreed Miss Granger, inclining her head. “And Ronald, we’re engaged to be wed, which is practically as good as. You’re far too high in the instep for a Weasley. Now, to business. Are we all in proper places?”

“Milord Snape’s agreed to be case keeper for the final Banque, and there’s loyal Slytherins everywhere you spy,” Harry reported, glancing about at various other players. “Perce has just played his part and most publically lost his quarterly—“

“Silly toad eater—er, sorry, Hermione!” interjected a sullen Hon. Ron. “One would think he still had a fondness for all Pureblood gabble of Voldemort’s! Too, he’s always been an absolute slowtop at putting on a show. You wouldn’t know, Miss Granger, but our Percy’s not a Siddons, not at all!”

“But Voldemort was convinced, or seemed so, so he’s definitely off his guard,” Miss Granger returned to the point, “and Miss Parkinson’s taken charge of the resident elves, the refreshments and the Muggle servants, so we’ve all the exits covered. Malfoy House is secure.”

“Where’s my other brothers, the scoundrels?” the Hon. Ron demanded.

“The Twins are due any moment with that unfortunate young man, Binkle, Ronald,” Mr. Potter replied calmly, “and—“

“Milord Snape’s chatting up Voldemort now, and, finally—“ Miss Granger put in.

“The Earl’s in Draco’s library, consuming port and well out of the way for the moment,” Harry concluded, nodding. “I think we’re set, then. Time for the next act.”

Mr. Potter nodded casually, and stepped back, preparatory to seeking some refreshment himself before play resumed. The Hon. Ron offered him a casual salute, reminiscent of their old days and stations, as Major and First Lieutenant.

“Harry!” hissed Miss Granger, turning back at the last moment. She raised her borrowed brows and darted a glance sideways, subtly indicating the Viscount Malfoy. “Does he suspect, d’you think? The Viscount?”

“’Course he does—he’s both a Slytherin and a Malfoy, not to mention old Snape’s godson,” Harry chuckled. “If he didn’t, I’d seriously feel great concern for his health. But he won’t confront me over it, even so.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely. He’s his own Grand Scheme of ruination, which he believes to be a secret. Plans to act the martyr, somehow, and sacrifice what’s left of his fortune too. He’s vain enough to think he’s fooled me.”

“More hair than wit! Truly, I’ve absolutely no clue why you remain acquaintances with that fribble, Harry, much less—“ the Hon. Ronald spoke up again, grumbling, and was instantly hushed by his fiancé.

“Ronald! Alright, Harry, we’ll trust in your instincts.”

“Not failed me yet, Hermione,” Mr. Potter nodded agreeably. “Now…I do believe I’ve lingered long enough?“

“Oh, yes! To work, gentlemen,” Miss Granger agreed, and bustled off, followed at a distance by her gangly betrothed.

Mr. Potter had barely made any progress towards the smaller room in which a veritable feast was spread when he accosted yet again.

“Potter!” the Viscount bit out, appearing before him much like an avenging angel. Indeed, he was angelic, what with his fair colouring and remarkable good looks. Had he been a woman, he’d have been instantly toasted as diamond of the first water. As it was, the Muggle ladies and Pureblood Witches swooned in his path nonetheless, for Malfoys were more than eligible parti, despite the current Viscount’s distinct taint of rakehell.

“Malfoy, a pleasure, as always,” Mr. Potter nodded and smiled, and made as if to pass on.

“Not so fast, Potter. I require a moment—in private!” the Viscount hissed. He laid a pale hand on Mr. Potter’s sleeve, drawing him after. Mr. Potter followed somewhat unwillingly, casting glances behind him to ensure no one noted either the Viscount’s high state of dudgeon or his own disappearance.

A moment later, the Viscount had ushered Mr. Potter into one the numerous smaller rooms off the main ballroom entry. He stepped back, releasing his grip, and surveyed Mr. Potter’s Corinthian elegance.

“You’ve cleaned up nicely, Plain Old Potter,” he remarked, and only one who knew him well would be aware that his temper had not receded in the slightest. Far from it: a pleasantly smiling Malfoy was the most dangerous kind.

“D’you really think so?” Harry, affecting a somewhat false modesty, glanced down his front, admiring the close-fitting small-clothes from Weston and his newest pair of Hessian boots—deepest black, with leather tassels. “I do try, upon occasion. Besides, I rather thought you’d toss me out on the street if I turned up here not bang up to the nines, Malfoy. You are ever concerned with the latest mode.”

“Cut the gammon, Potter,” Malfoy glared. “Why are you even here? You’re scheduled to be at Vauxhall, with your pathetically ginger fiancé!”

“Not my fiancé, Malfoy,” Mr. Potter raised a saturnine brow. “You shouldn’t assume, old chap. Assuming, as you may recall, makes an arse of both you and—“

“Shut it, Potter!” the Viscount snorted. “As if I care whom your eventual Parson’s mousetrap will be! Point is, you’re not welcome here! Not tonight, at least, so take yourself off!”

“Point is,” Mr. Potter drawled, “I belong at your side, Malfoy, and that would be logically preclude my being elsewhere.”

“You do not!” The Viscount was furious. “You cast me away, Harry, most publicly, and by your own free will! You’ve no right to stick your nose in my business! No cause in the eyes of Society, at least!”

Mr. Potter leant his broad shoulders back against the convenient doorframe. They’d not budged an inch from the arched and moulded entryway, though each had discreetly sent a variety of locking and silencing spells toward it. He tapped the manicured fingers of one tanned hand across his folded arms and assumed an air of great patience.

“I’ve every right, Malfoy,” he stated. “I’ve applied for your hand and been accepted by the Earl. You’re nearly a Potter, now. Have your parents not informed you?”

“What!? What-what-what? P-Potter!” spluttered the Viscount, staggering back, so that Mr. Potter stuck out a steadying hand. “What is this Banbury Tale you spout? My parents don’t approve of the connection, Potter! Never have, not since the get-go! You lie!”

“I beg to differ, Draco,” Potter purred. “True enough, both the Earl and your lady mother took steps to warn me off last summer, but that was solely out of concern for your safety and a temporary measure only. Miss Weasley agreed to provide, er, a ‘cover’, as it were, for verisimilitude. But nothing has substantially changed, Draco. I still lo—“

“I repeat, you lie, Potter!” the irate Viscount snapped. “Bare-faced Banbury tales, at that, claiming this was all simply a ploy to protect my person! Bah! I’m not such a ninny-l! I’m more than capable, Potter, and a man—I’ve no need for a protector as these silly Muggle Ton ladies do, and that simply doesn’t fly! Pull t’other, damn you!—!”

“But, Draco,” Potter said, stepping carefully forward as if to follow, a tentative hand outstretched. “It’s true. Snape and the Earl both came to me, with information. Voldemort was—“

“Shut up! What do you know about it, Potter? I’ve had my ear to the ground as well, and the only news I’ve gotten all concerns you, Golden Boy!”

“Malfoy!”

“Stopper it, Potter! Just—just for a moment, Potter, let me speak, will you?”

“I—alright, Draco,” Mr. Potter replied softly, and let his restraining hand fall away.

The Viscount ripped his person away from Plain Old Potter’s touch and stalked off across the room, deftly avoiding the many console tables and Queen Anne chairs that impeded his progress. He fetched up before the Floo and stared into the green flames, brooding.

“You broke my heart, you know,” he remarked casually, after a tense little silence had elapsed. “All matters of Voldemort’s scheming aside, that remains true. I wished to wed you, honestly. It was all aboveboard, every word.”

“Draco, I’m sorry, but there was no other choice—I couldn’t!“

“Be quiet!” the Viscount snapped, and raised a hand to his forehead. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and closed his eyes. “Every word you speak, Harry, is nothing more than another lie, in the end. You’ll not have me—you’ve flat out stated it, sober as a judge—and whether Voldemort rises or falls is immaterial! You want—you want something I am not, nor could ever be. Did you think I wasn’t listening to every word when you so brutally gave me my congè, Harry? Blooded heirs for Potter, to make for the lack of title? The ‘old-fashioned methods’? ‘No scandals’—‘a quiet life’?”

“Draco,” Harry made his careful way through the maze of furniture. He stood at Malfoy’s back, so close his warmth travelled the inch or so between them. “Draco, listen to me, please. I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings, but it was absolutely necessary to put a safe distance between us. For your well-being. For your very life., Draco!”

“I cannot, Potter,” the Viscount replied, and it was only the tiniest crack in his refined tones which gave his inner turmoil away. “I cannot afford to believe you—not now. You may have me whenever you care to, however you wish—you know that—but I cannot allow you free rein of my heart. Not again, Harry. Never again.”

“Draco…”

Mr. Potter slipped his arms around the Viscount’s waist and gently drew him back, so that his long spine was flush with the ornate buttons down the front of Mr. Potter’s sartorial finery. The Viscount made no protest nor struggled in the slightest; merely sighed and slumped as Mr. Potter rested his chin on the Viscount’s collarbone.

“I had rather hoped,” Mr. Potter remarked softly, “that you would trust me, Draco.”

“I have never ceased trusting you, Harry!” The Viscount, incensed, made to spin in Mr. Potter’s arms and Mr. Potter caught the flash of temper in those grey eyes, overlaying the resignation that lingered beneath. He swallowed, and closed his own, in pain. “Never! You insult me!”

“Whoa! Calm down, love—calm down, do.” Mr. Potter soothed, wincing. How he regretted this—this playacting, but Voldemort was insidious, and he’d overheard Fenrir Greyback make wild, horrible threats against Malfoy when he was in his cups. The Death Eaters were gaining momentum. It wouldn’t do—it would never do to lose this beautiful man to such an inhuman monster.

“Please, love?”

Mr. Potter huffed hopefully and buried his nose deeper into Malfoy’s throat. So much collateral damage done, and all for the sake of accumulating power and influence where none should be given in excess. Bonaparte had not paid heed to that till Waterloo. Without doubt, Voldemort and his elusive adherents, too, had much to pay for, not the least the deliberate destruction of Harry’s happiness.

“Potter, do cease petting me,” the Viscount replied fretfully, but he didn’t take himself out of Potter’s embrace. “It’s not necessary; I’m not budging a step, am I?”

“Then,” Mr. Potter sighed, and turned his jaw so that he could bury it in Malfoy’s hair, “then, if you do. trust me, d’you think you might manage it for just a little while longer?”

“How long, Potter?” whispered the Viscount. He shifted, though, perhaps unconsciously, to allow Potter free access to his neck, his shirt points wilting under steamy breath. “How long this time?”

He spun on a heel and this time Mr. Potter didn’t stop him, only just keeping his encircling arms in place. The Viscount tilted his aristocratic head down, making up for the scant few inches between them, bringing grey eyes level with startling green. It had been Harry’s gaze that had first ensnared the Viscount, at a very young age. He’d not managed a step away from that hopeless ensorcellment since.

Malfoy sighed in turn, bent his head a scant inch or so and returned Potter’s steely grip, so that they stood nearly nose to nose, foreheads touching.

“Listen,” he said softly. “To me, just this once, Plain Old Potter. It’s not of importance at this point; how long, or whether you acknowledge me or cut me dead in the street—doesn’t matter a whit, Harry. Not to me. I’ll still be yours; I’ll be yours till the day I expire, and nothing—not a bloody thing—will alter that, no matter whether I wish it or no. You may legshackle your lot to your ginger chit; you may sire a round dozen miniature Plain Potters, and I will still be here for you, regardless.”

“Draco,” breathed Potter, eyes at half-mast with pleasure. Their lips brushed, lightly, as though to define what lips were really for: a means of communication that didn’t require all these unnecessary words. “Draco, I love you so—“

“Shhh, Potter,” the Viscount murmured. He struck a hand through Potter’s crop of curly locks, and marvelled at the black silk poking up between his knuckles. Lovely—just lovely. Like no other. “Shut it. You don’t have to—it doesn’t matter. It’s enough—this. is enough, understand? This is…everything. Just, um, promise me this one small favour, if you would?”

“Hmmm?” Mr. Potter hummed, occupied with nibbling his slow way across the chiseled planes of the Viscount’s handsome features. “What’s that, love? Anything, you know that. Anything, for you.”

“Promise me you’ll be safe, Potter. That you’ll stay well away from Voldemort. He is a very dangerous Wizard, Harry, and I fear for you.”

“Draco, shush, now. Hmmm?” Potter muttered, and captured the Viscount’s mouth with a wet slurp. Moments passed in slow motion, and the Viscount’s senses responded to sweet torment. Doggedly, he blinked and hauled his mouth away from Potter’s devouring lips, breaking suction. His words were a bit choppy coming, and he’d his eager groin grinding against Potter’s in a slow, seductive roll all the while, apparently helpless to stay it.

“Promise me, above all, that you’ll be safe. Voldemort is a loose cannon, Harry—you must be careful!”

“Hmmm…love you, Draco,” Potter muttered, and handily ignored the Viscount’s requirement for his safety altogether. “How much time d’you think before…?”

“Ugh!” the Viscount gasped, his throat bared to Mr. Potter’s remarkably clever mouth, He tipped his blond head back and allowed Mr. Potter to run a slow hand down the front of him, disengaging buttons and fasteners left and right. “Salazar! Ten—no, twenty minutes, Potter! What—what on earth are you doing to me? I need—I must! You’ve not said you promise, you great gudgeon!”

“Umm,” Mr. Potter sighed his satisfaction over all these revelations—and Malfoy’s almost palpable concern for him. “Yes, you must—and trust me, you will. More than enough time, love, to convince you as to my vastly honourable intentions as to that arse of yours. Come closer, will you? And you won’t be needing those,” he added in a drawl, indicating the Viscount’s satin breeches.

“Harry! Oh—bloody Merlin, Harry!” For being the taller, the Viscount was surprisingly limber. He bent knees and elbows as they fell over the back of the convenient sopha. Potter had a bolster stuffed under his twitching hips before he could say ‘Snap!’

“Harry, Harry, Harry! Don’t stop, Harry—don’t stop!”

“Right there!” Potter growled, putting a few dexterous fingers into place, and the Viscount yielded up any last momentary concerns over matters of time, along with his inhibitions—those few that remained.

“Annngh! Oooooh!”

“Mine, Draco. All!” Potter swallowed hard, his eyes clenched tight shut, and made ready, slicking them both. “Mine!”

Malfoy subsided into happy whimpers beneath him, allowing his arse to be levered higher and bared wide. Potter was, after all, a bloody Nonesuch, the dastard. And he was a damned fine whipster, too. Knew how to use his wrists to advantage.

Part 4

Comments

[geneva2010.livejournal.com]

"Their lips brushed, lightly, as though to define what lips were really for: a means of communication that didn’t require all these unnecessary words."

Sigh. . . so freaking romantic.

[tigersilver.livejournal.com]

You know, your comments are milk-and-honey for me, who slogged her sorry way thru' writing this monster. This makes it all worthwhile, luv--please know that, alright? You give such a wonderful gift back to me just by telling me you're enjoying it. GLOMPING another hundred million times over!

[geneva2010.livejournal.com]

I'm so glad. You deserve it!