Fest Fic: Pharo Part 4
Nov. 22nd, 2010 08:38 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
bottomdraco-mod.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
bottom_dracoTitle: Pharo
Author:
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
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 1
Link to Part 2
Link to Part 3
Twenty-Two: Needles & Sand & Imperios (Goes without saying)
“Ready, Milord Malfoy?” Lord Snape’s liquid chocolate voice enquired.
“But of course, sir,” the Viscount, spiffed up and looking not at all as if he’d just allowed Potter his way not ten minutes previous, shuffled the fresh deck of cards. “Bets, milords? Place them, do.”
“If I may join you?”
Lord Voldemort slithered into a chair at Snape’s other hand, smiling condescendingly. He’d done every well this evening, with his own Banque, and he blessed his good fortune the Viscount was known more as a rakehell and profligate than a deep thinker. More to the point to avoid the likes of Nott—a known intellectual—and that foreign lizard Zabini, who boasted a prosperous yearly income, than young Malfoy, who was no better than he should be.
Voldemort sneered. It had been bruited about that the Viscount had been Potter’s plaything—until bad blood arose between them, last Little Season. Potter, fortunately or unfortunately, was present this evening. Thus were presented several very positive possible outcomes, not the least of which was young Malfoy’s obvious air of distraction. With his eyes glued to Potter, he’d not notice a thing till it was far too late, Voldemort decided. The Malfoy fortunes would be his, in their entirety. Meanwhile Fenrir, hastily summoned from his perpetual indulgences in the alleys down near Newgate, would arrive momentarily and wait outside the walls of Malfoy House. Potter would be trailed after his departure, and attacked at the point of Apparation. He’d not survive that, Voldemort concluded, his satisfaction with his ad hoc plan growing.
T’was seldom such brilliant coincidences occurred. He’d long been jockeying for a position in Prinny’s staff, as a final step towards subjugating the monarchy. The Wizarding Minister, Fudge, was neatly in Voldemort’s pocket, and he’d accumulated sufficient wealth through his machinations to bankroll a large following of mercenaries and delusional Pureblood ninnies. The Malfoy holdings would be a feather in his cap, and the step towards cementing his ties to the Muggle Bonaparte, presently awaiting events at Elba.
The domination of all Europe was but a breath away, and just a few cards would start the juggernaught rolling.
Pettigrew, as per cue, arrived, and warmed his way round the crowded table. As expected, the Prince Regent creaked across the room, his girth making way through the masses. The lesser lights followed in his wake, including, Voldemort noted, that tiresome Wellington and Potter.
Draco allowed a few more moments to tick by, whilst the flurry of cheques were laid.
“Have you finished?” the Viscount stared round the baize, the crisp deck still shuffling softly between his practiced fingers. “We may commence?”
A general murmur of agreement went up, as gentlemen caught up their tally cards and Snape fingered his obolus, the counter used to track the cards revealed in play.
“Bon chance, then,” the Viscount smiled. “Coup. A Five it is for you punters.”
“Awww,” murmured a few, whilst others smiled.
“And the Queen of Hearts, for the Banque.”
“Noted,” murmured Snape, sharing a meaningful glance with the Lord Voldemort, his supposed Master. All round the table, gentlemen drifted closer, drawn by the rumours of high stakes.
“A thousand Guineas, Malfoy, if you please, in your counters,” the Regent requested politely, and Draco took his vowels with a smile.
“At your service, your Majesty.”
The next turn but one was a split, and Draco carefully observed Lord Voldemort’s twitch of ire. He’d stacked his deck so that splits would be well and far between, enough to continue to keep the Banque afloat but not enough to rouse suspicion. Play continued, with Prinny losing at his usual rate, and various others collecting and paying out in dribbles and drabs. Potter held steady, betting minimal cheques whenever possible, and beside him the Hon. Ron only watched, his flaming red brows rising ever higher with every ‘Paroli!’ and ‘Paroli-Doublet’.
“Sept a le va,” Voldemort murmured, when it was down to six cards remaining.
“Of course, milord,” the Viscount smiled, and watched with great equanimity as his Banque dwindled.
“Coppering the Jack, please,” Potter leant forward, and a pile of ivory cheques appeared there.
“And I,” Prinny jumped in, and laid his own counters besides Potter’s. “Trusting that marvelous luck of yours, Potter!” he added cheerily. Potter flushed, faintly, and ducked his head.
“A Jack,” Malfoy drew, and laid down the carte Anglais. “of Hearts. Ah, and another! Split, gentleman. What amazing good fortune this night brings.”
“One would think it was created, Lord Malfoy,” the Lord Voldemort remarked, as Malfoy began the process of collecting cheques, his voice loud enough to be heard over the swell of chatter. “Where does your card box hail from, if I might be so bold?”
“Flourish and Blott’s, milord,” the Viscount returned. “Either that or Hatchard’s, I forget, really.” He laid his chin upon his fist and raised his eyes to meet Lord Voldemort’s somewhat bloodshot ones. “Why, pray tell? What does it matter?”
‘If I may examine it, milord?” Voldemort was all that was courteous, but a hush fell upon the gathering. Various footmen stepped solidly into place before doors; various other gentlemen exchanged glances. A punter did not question a card case unless he suspected a cheat. It was tantamount to requesting a duel.
“If you wish, milord,” the Viscount replied. He raised his wand and levitated it over the green felt, so that the lacquered box landed gently before Voldemort. Pettigrew drew back, gasping. The various Muggles present, well used to the occasional display of magic, turned not a hair. “There is nothing untoward there, I’d wager, unless old F& B have gaffed it. Is that what you mean to say, then?”
“Of course not, Lord Malfoy,” Voldemort smiled, glancing around him. “I’m sure all is right and tight, but…”
“But?” The Viscount’s reply was soft, belying the glint in his eyes.
“I would, actually, feel a great deal more comfortable if we played with this box here,” Lord Voldemort suggested, and a box inlaid with mother-of-pearl shimmered into existence before him, quite putting the F&B box to shame in its plainness. “As I’m positive t’is square and true. As I’ve a fortune riding upon the draw. Gentlemen?” He glanced about him. “Any objections to that? And perhaps a fresh deck of cards, Lord Malfoy.”
He snapped his fingers and a deck appeared, still in its wrapper.
“None,” came the oiled tones of Snape. “However, I’d just like a look-see, Lord Voldemort, if you will.” So saying, he took up the Lord’s heirloom box and poked at it, with wand and knobby forefinger, examining it from all angles. The other lay discarded, and no one noticed when Potter took possession of it, and tucked it away.
Lord Malfoy sat, a smile frozen upon his lips. Events were progressing more quickly than he’d prepared for. He glanced about and saw Potter and Weasley sitting back at their ease, chatting about upcoming nuptials. Prinny had his head together with the Duke and was murmuring. The other gentleman merely waited for Lord Snape to vet the box.
“All is well with this, I’d say,” Snape pronounced at last, and the Lord smiled again, oozing an air of great humility.
“I did not doubt it, truthfully,” Voldemort confessed. “It’s a small thing, that, but of great sentimental value. M’mother’s, you know. She played whist with it. And loo, with the Queen at Versailles, upon occasion. A keepsake, you understand, from better times.”
The gentlemen murmured. Mothers were generally sacred persons and respected, even by the loutish. And the golden time before the Wars and Bonaparte’s dismal swathe through the capitals of Europe were nostalgic.
“Most admirable,” Prinny, evidently pleased, nodded his acquiescence. “Malfoy?”
“Your Banque, then, milord?” Malfoy asked. His eyes narrowed. “I’ll take my stake back, then.”
“Oh, I shan’t presume upon yours, Malfoy,” Lord Voldemort replied easily, shrugging. “Mine, of course. And still at a thousand a cheque, naturally. I won’t disrupt play further, unless it is to deal? Pettigrew, if you’ll mind the obolus for us?”
“C-Certainly, milord!” Silver Hand stuck his hand out and the Lord Snape turned it over without a murmur.
“Your bet, Malfoy? As we’ve had a reverse?” Lord Voldemort prompted. “All punters may place their bets, please.”
“I’m afraid I tire, Lord Voldemort,” the Viscount lifted his chin off his hand and used it to collect all his cheques—the sum of his fortune, as Voldemort was well aware. The Malfoy scion leant forward and laid them out liberally across the livret. “I’d soon enough have this little game concluded.”
“I’m sure you would, Malfoy,” Lord Voldemort relied, bland as porridge. “Wouldn’t we all?”
“There, done and done,” the young Viscount remarked, and Voldemort contained his glee with effort. The Viscount was playing court cards, and Voldemort—he’d a whole array of marked highs at the ready, thanks to the clerk at F&B. Indeed—the Malfoy pup would soon be entirely finished, and well up the River Tick.
“Taillure, if you please, milord,” muttered Pettigrew, and watched with resignation as Voldemort began dealing, making a great business of throwing down the squares of pasteboard. No one seemed to notice the nearly invisible blots of india ink or the way the cards hesitated, at times, as he pulled from his box.
Soon enough, Prinny was saying “Soitraitte et le va, Lord Voldemort! Oh, this is exciting! Isn’t it, Major Potter? Such a very interesting turn of events, yes?”
“Very, Your Majesty.”
Potter nodded to the Muggle Regent with great grace and then returned his attention to the baize, playing his favourite Jack, plus a Ten, coppered. The Honourable Ronald Weasley glowered steadfastly behind his ex-Commander, eyes fixed suspiciously on the Viscount.
Two sealed decks later, Malfoy pushed the last of his counters atop Potter’s with a careless gesture.
“With you, Potter, and your infernal good fortune,” he commented, and various gentlemen snorted. Gossip had been rife since the events of the Little Season.
“I thought you only barely tolerated Potter, Malfoy?” Goyle whispered loudly, shooting speaking and rather theatrical glances over at the seated Hero. “What with the Weasley chit?”
“If he wins this turn, then I don’t care if he’s tipped every ginger’s skirts in the nation, Goyle!” Lord Malfoy took up his glass of whiskey with an unsteady hand and had a gulp. He was flushed and now slightly mussed and perspiring, his cool demeanour slipping away as the Banque, under Voldemort’s quick hands, grew apace. “That was the whole of my Irish stud just now, Goyle. Must stem the tide, yes? Any port and all that.”
The Hon. Ron sneered blackly in Malfoy’s direction, his contempt of the rake highly visible. “Ruddy grubber; using Harry’s good fortune to feather your own dirty nest, Malfoy! Do you never learn?”
“Gentlemen!” Lord Voldemort’s voice was sharp. “Play is in progress, here. Do keep your petty squabbles over the fair ladies out of it.” He turned his narrow face in the Viscount’s direction, leaning forward, much in the manner of a striking cobra. “And you, Milord Malfoy. I would counsel minding your own business before you’re completely bellows to mend. The River Tick carries any number of heedless young heirs away hourly.”
“Hear, hear!” snickered Pettigrew, and a number of other gentlemen nodded and murmured agreement, all Wizards they and Milord McNair prominent amongst them.
In the far corner of the ballroom, half-hidden behind a grouping of hothouse flora, two ginger-haired, remarkable similar young men appeared with a quiet ‘pop!’ with a third—a clerk, from the looks of it—held fast between them. One of the French doors leading out the gardens opened quietly, almost entirely unnoticed as all eyes were now upon Potter and Malfoy, occupied with glaring venomously at one another across a spread of cards. An olive-complected dandy appeared, brushing invisible wrinkles from his impeccable coat sleeve. He bore, for all his swarthier skin tone, a remarkable resemblance to Milady Malfoy.
He nodded amiably as he sauntered through the crowd, snatching up a glass of champagne along the way, and Mr. Harsquack’s eyes widened beneath his pomaded locks.
“Hsst, Pansy!” Miss Granger stepped casually back to stand alongside a particularly petite footman in smart livery. “Who’s that man?”
“That’s milord Rosier, Granger—the Comte, cousin to Draco. Wonder why he’s here? And now, of all times?”
“As long as he doesn’t get in the way, it doesn’t matter,” Miss Granger murmured in reply. “We’re nearly ready. Twins just popped in. You alright, then?”
Miss Parkinson grinned and allowed the tip of her wand to show. “Your sister-in-law-to-be’s just showed me the Bat Bogey Hex. They shan’t know what hit them!”
“Excellent!” exulted Miss Granger. “Carry on, then.”
She elbowed and excused her way to the very forefront of the sea of gentleman, seeing Nott and Crabbe, Charlie Weasley and Percy, the stick-in-the mud, and their scheme’s lynchpin, and catching the eye of any number of other alert Wizards—and a few well-Glamoured or Polyjuiced Witches.
“Ah, my apologies, gentlemen,” Voldemort was saying. “A pair of Kings and it appears to be to the Banque’s advantage. If you please…?”
“Cheat!”
Mr. Potter rose to his feet suddenly, his chair falling back behind him with an awful clatter. “Cheater, Lord Voldemort! That’s a marked card you’ve laid down!”
“Harry!” exclaimed the Viscount, and struggled up as well. “For Merlin’s Sake, not yet!”
“How dare you, Potter!” Voldemort rose slowly, like a cobra, and had his wand out and at the ready, pointed straight at the young man’s chest. “How dare you?” he demanded. “That is preposterous!”
“What? What?” Prinny gaped and stared, appalled. “But—but I thought all your Wizards guarded against this sort of thing? A straight game, isn’t it? For I‘ll not abide cheating!”
“Not all Wizards, Your Majesty,” Potter replied grimly, staring down Lord Voldemort. “Sadly, not all. With great power comes great temptation to misuse it, and Voldemort has proven himself unworthy of being a Wizard. In other words, once a cheat, always a cheat, and here you have a blood traitor, as well. He has conspired with Bonaparte against England, Sire. He seeks your downfall. We have proof!”
“Not nice!”
“God’s blood!”
“What’s that he says? Voldemort a traitor?”
“Does he refer to the Wars, d’you think, Cupid?”
“This demands satisfaction, Potter!” Voldemort shrieked. “At once! No one accuses me and goes scot-free! No one, and especially some not a little half-blood Wizardling! You may be lucky, Potter, but that ends this night! Pettigrew! Summon my Death Eaters! Snape! Take Mr. Potter out of play this minute! McNair, prepare to Obliviate these stupid Muggle slaves!”
“My god!
It’s the bloody war, all over again!”
“Will this never cease?”
“What?”
What’s happening?”
“Harry, to your left!”
“Harry, get down!” Malfoy called out, frantically scrambling ‘round the table to get to his lover. “Harry!”
“Your Majesty, duck! Under the table, right now!” Wellington grappled his Highness to his knees and shoved him, stays popping, beneath the relative safety of the baize.
“But you first, Malfoy!” Lord Voldemort swayed, and it could be seen that he had broken. One hand trailed through the huge piles of the cheques he’d accumulated, the other had switched the wand to aim at Malfoy’s pale brow. “You little bootlicker! You whore! Formicating with a plebe and Mudblood plebe at that—you are a disgrace to the True Teachings of Grindlewald! You deserve ruination, just like your turncoat sire, you whoring ape! Now, die! Avada—“
Potter launched himself bodily across the table, firing incantations. Weasley snatched up a handy hard object and sent the obolus spinning through the air with force. With a ping and a rattle it knocked into Voldemort’s clenched fingers and sent the spell harmlessly off toward the ceiling. Plaster rained down and dust clouded the immediate area.
“Not so fast, Voldemort!” thundered the Earl, popping into the midst. “That’s my son, you bastard, and my future son-in-law, and you’ll not have them!”
“You scum, Malfoy!” Voldemort frothed, his eyes a full and brilliant scarlet, pupils eclipsed by the blood hue. “Turncoat! Traitor! Avada--!”
“Expelliarmus!” cried out the voice of Potter, and Voldemort, wildly shooting, jumped and twitched as his wand was wrenched from his grip.
“WHAT! How dare? I’ll kill you with my bare hands, you little dirty monster!” he roared, surging forward. “Right now!”
‘No! No, milord! I promised!” came the frantic shout of Pettigrew, leaping forward. “No, milord! You cannot!” he screamed, as Voldemort’s wild swinging clipped his jaw. He stumbled, falling harmlessly across the green felt. A spray of ivory cheques was set up, striking those around with small missiles.
“No,” Snape said quietly, sending off a lightning-quick Stunner. “You shan’t, false Lord. Your day is done, dog.”
Voldemort, hanging in mid-air, his hands like claws outstretched, scrabbling for Potter’ neck, dropped like stone at Snape’s booted toes, staring helplessly.
“And that’s enough of that, McNair,” the Hon Ron added, having felled that unfortunate gentleman with a handy bit of science. “Quiet, if you please.”
“And you, too, you beast!” shrieked the still Polyjuiced Miss Granger, dancing madly about a huge figure, twice her size even her borrowed body and quite rudely unshaven before company. “Have at you!”
“Hah! Bat Bogey! Bat Bogey! Thrice Bat Bogey!” An unGlamoured Miss Parkinson had joined her compatriot in battling the sodden werewolf, who lurched from side to side, slavering with menace.
“Bad dog! A Shrinking Pox upon your bits!” Miss Weasley—also Glamoured--got the final, conclusive word in and Fenrir Greyback halted mid-froth, whimpering and hurriedly clutching his groin. He subsided into a quivering heap and a quick-thinking (and thankfully still sensibly Polyjuiced as a strapping though retired yeoman of the Guard) Miss Bulstrode Incarcerated him on the spot, with an exultant cry of “There! That’s it, dog-breath!!”
“Harry! Harry! You alright?” demanded Malfoy, deft hands patting Mr. Potter up and down, reassuring himself by feel that his lover yet breathed and blinked, albeit somewhat dazedly. “Harry, speak to me!”
“Merlin, yes, love. I think so.” Mr. Potter stood upright and looked about him quickly, searching for threats. Seeing nothing further, he contented himself with gathering a nearly incoherent Viscount to him and embracing him nearly to asphyxiation. Their lips met a second after and both were lost to the tumult about them for several quite sensual moments.
“Silence! You will all comport yourselves this instant!”
The Lord Snape was well accustomed to crowds of useless idiots milling about; he was Headmaster of Hogwarts, after all. When the first quiet request was ineffectual, he roared “Silence!” once more, aided by a Sonorus, and the room instantly hushed to the mortuary stillness of an ancient crypt. All eyes turned to him and also the Earl Malfoy, casually stepping up to Lord Snape’s right hand.
Earl Malfoy inclined his head to the masses and smiled coolly. “Rumours of my demise, or rather my fortune’s demise, have been greatly exagger—“ he attempted to remark only to be cut short by the Headmaster’s whipcrack call to order.
“Much better,” announced Snape, definitively. “Now, let’s have this sorted, shall we? You’ve been cutting up my peace routinely, Major Potter, with all these subterfuges of yours. I cast blame for it on your careless upbringing at the hands of those Dreadful Dursleys. Remind me to hex them the next time I run across them, Potter. Their debt to society is not yet paid up.”
Mr. Potter grinned sweetly at the Headmaster of Hogwarts, entirely unfazed by this reference to his humble beginnings and horrid early years. The Viscount raised a free hand to his pale brow, politically shading his pained glare from Snape’s view.
”Milord,” Snape went on, nodding acknowledgement to the Duke of Wellington, his Muggle compatriot during the late Wars, who was currently ably escorting an addled Prince Regent out from under the Pharo table, “may I proceed to debrief the civilians present, by your leave?”
“By all means, Master Snape. I do believe it is prudent.” Wellington nodded vigourously and Snape snapped his eyes back to the waiting crowd. They dared not move, as many of them—the Wizarding ones, at least—had been Snape’s former students. The Muggles amongst them were visibly enthralled, as so often occurred in the presence of magic.
“Very well. Let’s see. Whom do we have present that is at all coherent when called upon to speak publicly? Ah! Comte Rosier! Yes, decidely. Weasley, Percy! Yes. Weasley, Twins! No…no, I don’t believe so. We shall pass you both over for now—I’ve no patience for your dual nonsense at the moment. Ah! And then there is Major Potter—of course, Potter,” Snape concluded nastily, pinning that young man down with a baleful glare. “Always, always Potter, is it nott?”
“Sir?” Mr. Potter grinned and bobbed his chin in fond salute. “You require my services? How may I help you—only tell me and I shall endeavour away.”
The Viscount, still entwined about Mr. Potter, rolled his eyes at their nonsense. This level of sparkling badinage had been a decade or more in the making, and both Snape and Potter were so fond of it, they carried on solely for their mutual amusement, much to the consternation of Miladies Malfoy and Weasley.
“But first, I wish you a fine good evening, Milord Snape, and oh, a pleasant evening to you as well, my Lord Malfoy,” Mr. Potter nodded amiably to the Earl, who merely sneered at him. “Or shall I address you as ‘Father’ now, Milord Malfoy? As the Viscount and I have just this moment plighted our eternal troth?”
“Likewise,” the Earl muttered reluctantly, a passable excuse for a civil smile curling briefly ‘round his thin lips. “Plighting aside, Potter, do get on with it, Sev! Cissy requires an escort home from the Thistlethwaite-Smythe’s in a mere quarter hour!”
“Potter, if you please,” Snape ordered, in a voice no one ever defied—excepting Mr. Potter, naturally, in his salad days. “As it seems you’re always to be found at dead centre of these little political imbroglios, make yourself at least marginally useful, will you? Do endeavour to explain to his Royal Highness and this august company the summary details of Lord Voldemort’s ill intentions. I believe many here are still functioning under the misapprehension Lord Voldemort is actually a gentleman—which, indeed, he is most decidedly not.“
Mr. Potter sent his reluctant mentor a mocking half-bow and a twinkle, learnt at the knee of that aged and most ebullient old gent, Headmaster Emeritus Albus Dumbledore.
“As you wish.”
Twenty Three: Paix, or Routing the Villain (in which Voldemort is Banished to the Antipodes, but not to Elba)
“Well,” Mr. Potter drawled, casting his person down in a nearby empty chair and taking the startled Viscount with him. “It’s rather like this, you see, ” he began, and settled his squirming fiancé firmly on his lap, much to the patent abhorrence of the elder Malfoy.
‘This’ was a complicated tale of Voldemort’s subversive actions during the war against Bonaparte, during in which he’d been hired as a mole by French spies and paid to feed Napoleon’s generals information on the movements of the English troops. His treachery had gone undetected, and indeed, he’d received minor mention in the Dispatches, but had still emerged from the war an ‘also-ran’, his feats on the field entirely overshadowed by the actions of Potter, Malfoy and so forth. His envy, greed, dissatisfaction with his lot and dwindling fortunes after the events of Waterloo led to further moral decay. He’d become a card sharp, and an adherent of Dark magic, and travelled the Continent, fleecing baronets at local watering holes, seducing the daughters of wealthy tradesmen and Muggles. Further, he’d espoused the skewed and hate-mongering teachings of the Wizard Grindlewald, variously denouncing homosexuals, Wizards of mixed Muggle blood and those Purebloods who didn’t differentiate.
The Earl Malfoy, well aware of the attraction between his son and that horrid Potter boy, had chosen to play a dangerous game, infiltrating Voldemort’s little cadre of believers with the ultimate purpose of revealing them as the pitiful but dangerous cult they were. Milord Snape, on Headmaster Emeritus Dumbledore’s advice, had also played an admirable hand in the matter, convincing Voldemort he was a secret believer in his foul ‘Cause’ and meanwhile keeping the various loyal English parties abreast of developments.
It had taken some time for Voldemort to scrabble a foothold in the inner circle of Muggle aristocracy, but once there, he turned that, too, to his advantage. Years of excess and the use of the Dark Arts had taken their toll, though, and his once charming, handsome visage was rattled and gaunt. A quick spell by Miss Granger revealed he was years older than anyone had thought, and in very poor shape.
His last mad scheme had been to Imperio Prinny, just as he’d Imperio’d several of the clerks at Flourish & Blotts and Hatchard’s into providing him with marked cards—sanded, cut, blotted—and gaffed card cases for cheating. Pettigrew had built the mother-of-pearl inlaid gaffed card box the Lord Voldemort had used to run his Pharo Banque (and had his own hand cut off for his troubles, so he’d never be able to create such again, a la Daedalus).
Insidious and still charismatic, he’d nearly succeeded in his scheme, too, charming the Muggle Ton, until Snape, the Earl and Dumbledore approached Mr. Potter and cajoled him into supporting their counter-scheme to reveal Voldemort as the true traitor and loose fish he was. Potter, terribly concerned by Voldemort’s plans for the Viscount Malfoy, had cooperated. Miss Weasley had agreed in private to set up a red herring and the Viscount had publically been scorned by Mr. Potter, in interests of convincing Lord Voldemort Malfoy the younger was not a threat.
The Comte Rosier testified that he’d observed Voldemort cheating, at all the many foreign capitals they both frequented. Mr. Potter and the Viscount Malfoy detailed their suspicions as to Voldemort’s calumny during the War, ably supported by Miss Granger’s research and Lord Nott’s graphic events time-lines. The previously Imperio’d clerk mumbled out condemning fact after fact about purchases of pallets of crooked decks, and Snape and the Earl revealed all they’d learned through years of close-range observation, in turn. Lord Voldemort, still helpless in his bonds, was disgraced, before Muggles and Wizards both.
“I’m appalled!” exclaimed the Prince Regent, when the telling was told. “Utterly! To think that such things go on under our very noses! To the Tower with this—this scum, and may he rot ‘til the hangman’s noose crushes his windpipe. Mr. Potter, my Lords—I cannot thank you sufficiently! The Crown shall be ever grateful and you shall receive your just rewards!”
“Brilliant, Your Majesty,” Mr. Potter made a fine leg, and the Viscount allowed a smile of the most intriguing charm and sweetness to escape him in his joy. “And if I may take this opportunity, as there’s ever so many witnesses to attest to my veracity—“
He fell to his knees, and clutched the Viscount’s left hand in one of his own. Potter’s other hand swept a sparkling circlet through the air and a tiny, velvet-covered box inscribed ‘Rundell & Bridge’ appeared in his palm, already popped open. Within it sparkled a marvel of a ring, faceted and many-coloured, and seemingly shifting continuously from gold to silver, from emerald to ruby, and from elegantly plain to a perfect example of the jeweler’s art of filigree and engraving.
It was amazing, and the Muggle gentlemen exclaimed quietly, “Magic! It’s magic! S’truth!”
“T’s but a token, Draco,” Mr. Potter said, and there was no need for a Sonorous. The room was agog. “But I’ve been waiting for a rather long time to ask this of you, and I’ve a special license in my pocket and I’d really prefer we had an audience, so there’s no wriggle room left for you. And there’s no time like the present, as I don’t wish to fritter another moment away without you, love. Draco?” he repeated, joggling the dumb-struck Viscount’s wrists. “Draco, are you listening? Do! Eyes on me, you bacon-brained cockscomb!”
The Viscount, frozen, went three shades paler than normal and swayed, as if he’d been suddenly struck by a blustery gale.
“Harry!” It was almost silent, his acknowledgement that he was, indeed listening; his reedy response hitting only on the consonants, and letting the vowels fly away, free as air. “Harry.”
“Draco, my chosen leg-shackle, will you do me the brilliant honour of—“
There was a mad scramble; a blur of fine fabric and lint-white hair, flushed cheeks and brilliant burning grey eyes, and then a sudden ‘thunk!’, when the elegantly attired scion of the proud Malfoy family staggered just as though he’d been struck with a Leglocker Charm and literally tumbled right off his pins.
“Marry me, Harry!” the Viscount all but shouted, his tenor drowning out Mr. Potter’s baritone altogether. “Wed me, you rag-mannered fool or I’ll wear the willow forever after, I swear it! Be mine! Be a Malfoy, you stupid Plain Old Potter! Say you will, damn it, or I’ll hex that foolish gob of yours permanently shut! I asked you first!”
All the while, both gentlemen were scrabbling ‘round on Malfoy House’s hand-laid parquet flooring, breeches sticky with slopped champagne and spilt Firewhiskey, clutching at each other’s hands and forearms and well-nigh wrestling over the velveted box and its contents.
“Eh?” Mr. Potter gasped, gawking—and fuming. “What’s that you say, Malfoy?” Mr. Potter swallowed with some visible difficulty, blinking. Then, with eyes narrowed to scimitar slits, he glared mightily. “Why, you! Stealing my thunder, you bloody pillock! Shoving your oar in, are you? Who d’you think you are, you—you stuck up son of a---!”
“Really, Potter?” Lord Snape raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t bode well for the in-laws to be, does it, Lucius?”
“Pot. --! Oh, shut it, Harry! Just say yes.!” the harried Viscount squawked and stuck his tongue in the midst Mr. Potter’s unending flow of vituperation, being mindful of the disguised ladies present. It was more than time for desperate measures.
Fortunately, for the innocent ears of the present, further prenuptial acrimony was sealed by a lengthy, vehement snog.
“‘Zounds, Harry! You’re both touched in the upper works, aren’t you? Silly sods! I wish you joy and all that rot!”
The Hon. Ronald, now standing proudly by his still Polyjuiced bluestocking bride-to-be, began to guffaw in earnest, a glorious infectious sort of sound that soon spread like wildfire, affecting even the broomstick-up-the-arse Percy and Prinny himself, who quite liked a good jest, upon occasion.
“Hear, hear!” said Prinny faintly, for he was a wee bit bewildered yet, and the cheer was taken up heartily and rang through the halls of Malfoy House in a jolly cacophony, till at last all was settled and a reserved and dignified quiet hush once again reigned. As was befitting a Malfoy residence.
Twenty Four: The Banque Wins All Bets (in which the Viscount is triumphant—as is Mr. Potter)
“You’re the fribble, Draco,” Mr. Potter pointed out, in the sanctity of the Viscount’s bedroom. “These buttons you sport are ridiculously large.”
“No, you, Potter,” the Viscount retorted. “These inexpressible are practically moulded to your hips. Did you use glue to affix them, I wonder?”
“And this coat?” Potter grumbled. “Was it sewn on? Have you had poor old Bagshotte here, toiling away behind scenes?”
“These boots, although gloriously well-made and of a mirror-like hue, Harry, are not the thing when one wishes to divest you of them quickly. Do reconsider your choice of footwear.”
“But I do admire your shirt, my love,” Harry remarked, tilting his head to observe the effects of his freely given kisses. “Such a thin fabric, muslin. Transparent, even, when one employs one’s mouth to transfer moisture.”
“Oh! You’re incorrigible, Harry! That’s foul of you! I shall have to press here,” the Viscount allowed his fingers to find Mr. Potter’s privates and spent a breath fiddling in their vicinity. “Just here, as you see, and employ this fascinating technique Zabini taught me—you know, the one all the best Cyprians use for a mere hundred Galleons an hour? Most scientific, the effect upon the circulation.”
“Like that, are we?” growled Mr. Potter, who might end as Mr. Lord Malfoy, or might not. “Vixen! I’ve a little science of mine own at hand, you realize. Not all of us need magic to enchant.”
“Mmmm, a challenge,” the Viscount chuckled. “I can charm you very well, beloved, just with this—and this—and this.” The Viscount’s tongue was, indeed, quite charming, especially as applied to pulse points revealed by discarded finery.
“Put that where my Galleons are, gudgeon!” gasped Mr. Potter, arching up on his toes and forcing the Viscount’s pale head down to crotch-level with both hands. The Viscount went more than willingly, folding his long legs beneath him and kneeling up on the heels of the Hoby boots he still wore. “You would be wanting something to ease entry first, would you not, Draco?”
“Aungh! Harry! Stop with that shoving!” Malfoy protested, rearing back. Settling himself, comfortably on the floor, he applied his talented mouth with great good will. A thorough lave of root and balls and then the steady slow swallow of which he was a past master had Mr. Potter merrily grunting his burgeoning pleasure.
“How?” croaked the Viscount, pulling off with a ‘plop!’ after he was satisfied Mr. Potter’s jewels were polished to blinding brilliance, and then tried again. “Ahem, how d’you want me, Harry?”
The lazily slitted green eyes popped open and Mr. Potter smiled down at his betrothed, long and slow, in a melt-causing method.
“Any and every way I can, Draco. And every day till we’re dust.”
A fond Viscount looked up at his Plain Old Potter, standing garbed only in all his bare-arsed glory, and returned that teasing grin with a very boyish one of his own. He was feeling rather flush, having gained both a fiancé and all his prior fortune, as well as a good deal more, in a mere three hours run. Too, the Muggle’s Prinny had more than hinted at further honours for all involved in the capture of the traitorous Lord Voldemort. The Viscount rather hoped such rewards were to be material—he’d enough titles to be going on with, Muggle and Wizarding. For the moment, though, he’d an odd impulse to play Devil’s Advocate.
“You do admit, Harry, you’ve taken quite a gamble here, accepting my suit? What if we tire of each other, now we’ve finally gained m’parent’s blessing? What if, say in a mere fifty years or so, you wake up to the realization a ginger filly would’ve been your better bet? What then?”
“Oh, erm…hmmm, let me think on that, will you?”
Mr. Potter cocked his head, enjoying the view before him, naked and nicely erect: Malfoy was a vision of pink-edged ivory and trim, lean musculature, broad shoulders atop a narrow waist, and an arse that belonged, quite honestly, on one of the Elgin Marbles (Adonis, of course). He was a bloody Nonpareil, in s’truth, for he’d never once, rake or no, given himself over to the excesses that plagued so many of their fellow gentlemen, rendering them paunchy, goutish fribbles with little to occupy themselves but the latest mode from Paris and the freshest on dits from Almack’s. Mr. Potter, not being a bad judge of horseflesh himself—nor of racing Thestrals, either—and having had the opportunity to cast long and contemplative gazes at both the sire and the dam, was more than willing to wager he’d be as satisfied a Wizard in fifty years as he was right this very moment.
“Hmmm,” he murmured, tapping his chin with one contemplative finger, “upon real consideration, I’d say you’re fishing, Malfoy. But, in the interests of fairness, shall we lay a wager upon it?”
“A wager? Whatever are you on about, Harry? What type of wager?” The Viscount was understandably curious. He shifted, laying a proprietory hand upon Mr. Potter’s family jewels. Soon to be his own, he couldn’t help but exult, and most jealously guarded in the hereafter.
“Simply this,” Mr. Potter replied. “Ask me that same question again after this fifty years you’ve mentioned is past and see what my reply will be then—whether I’m still as happy with my lot as I am now. I’ll lay you that breeding pair you’re so fond of it’ll not have changed one whit. But if it has, Draco, then I’ll simply provide you another fifty years or so in which to convince me you Malfoys are the best of all options. Those acceptable terms, d’you figure?”
The Viscount leant forward once more and gave Mr. Potter’s captured cock a leisurely lick, much as he would’ve an melting shaved ice at Astley’s. His smile never slipped; perhaps even it grew more incandescent.
“Ah!” he said softly, drawing back. He licked again; a cat-like tongue tip curling scarlet, and ceased once more, resting his pointy chin on the slit of Mr. Potter’s tackle. “That’s neatly done, Harry, I must admit.” With a jaunty nod and a leisurely air, he rounded his lips once more and sucked in the blushing head of Mr. Potter’s cock one more time, teasing it to an exqusitely ripe fullness.
“Mmm!” Mr. Potter remarked, with a shiver. The Viscount halted at that and removed his wicked mouth. He glanced up at Mr. Potter’s rapt features, a teasing curl decorating his scarlet mouth.
“I win if I win, then, and…too, I win if I lose, as well. Is that not correct?”
Mr. Potter grinned. “Exactly, love. And of course we shan’t mention that I’ve suggested much this same wager previous—or at least the terms.”
“Gammon,” the Viscount replied decisively. He licked and sucked for a ten-second bout and then released the turgid flesh yet again, leaving Mr. Potter listing slightly in the wake. “That was my suggestion, Harry. I was the one who said we should be together first.”
“It wasn’t,” Mr. Potter insisted, breathing hard. “I brought it up, back at Hogwarts. I clearly recall.”
“It was not, chucklehead. I believe I mentioned the idea as early as Madame’s.” Having had his say, the Viscount returned to his task, lipping and sipping, till Mr. Potter at least burst out with an objection—though not to the Viscount’s oral activity.
“Bosh! When did you ever?”
Milord Malfoy stopped yet again, pulling off. He frowned heartily at Mr. Potter.
“No, really. I did, I swear it, Harry. Sometime between our discussion of brooms and the relative merits of Houses, it was.”
The Viscount resumed, increasing his previous pace, and Mr. Potter clearly felt the pressure.
“You’re..entirely…jingle-brained, Malfoy!” Mr. Potter gasped. The Viscount grinned secretively and concentrated on applying an intensifying degree of suction. “No—such—thing!”
“Not—at—all, Potter!” Draco retorted, licking furiously between words and frowning all the while in fierce concentration. With a heartfelt sigh, he pulled off yet one more time, his expression much put upon. “It was a rudimentary attempt at courting, discussing broomsticks at Madame Malkin’s; a euphemism, really. But what can I say?” he inquired. “It was calf-love, Harry. I was young—inexperienced.”
“And mad as a—bleeding--hatter!” Mr. Potter exclaimed. He jiggled his cock earnestly, in hopes of recapturing the Viscount’s interest. The Viscount promptly returned to his task and devoted the following moments to technique. Mr. Potter, apparently somewhat deranged by the on-again, off-again manner he was currently subject to, carried on with reminiscing. “We were eleven—hardly of an age! And even then you were imp--ah! Ahah! Draco! I’m—I’m!”
Mr. Potter ejaculated, with a garbled shout.
“…Mine,” the Viscount whispered softly, having swallowed. “Finally.”
“Coming!” managed a gasping and wall-eyed Mr. Potter, mouth lagging well after the fact. The smirking Viscount let his lover’s trembling thighs go just long enough to grasp him firmly ‘round the waist, steadying him as he slumped back against the wall and sagged inelegantly down it.
“Mmm-hmm. You bet, Potter,” the Viscount pointed out, pressing tiny kisses across Mr. Potter’s sweaty upper lip, and, as always, managing to have the very last word on the subject.
“But I win.”
End Game
For basic information on the game of Pharo, see the Wiki.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Faro_(card_game)
Cant/Slang for the Regency Period
http://sites.google.com/site/regencymurdermystery/slang
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-01-18 12:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-18 01:56 am (UTC){{{SMISHES U, still carefully, minding your poor back!}}}