Work Text:
The invitation card was gilt edged and the writing was firm, with a flourish at the end of the message.
Count Draco of Malfoy requests the pleasure of your company at a ball to celebrate Yule. Venue: Malfoy Manor. Date: 31st December 1815. Time: 9.00pm onwards. Dress: formal.
R.S.V.P.
Harry strolled round to Ron's house and found Lady Hermione busy helping the servants to arrange flowers. It seemed her social conscience about the roles of the downstairs staff extended to her own home.
She confirmed that they also had an invitation and had already agreed to attend.
"But it's Draco," said Harry, heavily, a wealth of meaning in his voice. The meanings included bullying and pranking at Eton, rumoured membership of the Hellfire club, and the knowledge that The Earl of Malfoy, Draco's father, was exiled, whereabouts unknown, for some kind of collusion with Napoleon's forces.
"All the more reason to see what he's up to," said Hermione. She sounded cheerful and satisfied. She certainly knew all about the bullying from Ron, and the rest was common knowledge or common rumour as the case might be.
So Harry went home, responded that it pleased him to accept and told his valet to make sure his evening clothes were in good condition for the occasion. His man rolled his eyes; Harry's clothes were always in good condition. However, Harry elected not to notice.
~~~~~
He was late, of course, not because it was fashionable, although it was, but because he had forgotten all about it until he scarcely had time to dress and order his carriage brought round. And then there had been such traffic in the Haymarket and an altercation between coachmen that had held everyone up for longer than he might have wished. However, he was here.
"The Honourable Harry Potter-Black" announced the footman, who, Harry thought, was probably rather bored but trying gamely not to show it. And there he was, in a lavishly decorated ballroom in Malfoy Manor with Draco coming forward to greet him.
"My dear fellow, so glad you could come," murmured that gentlemen. He, like Harry, was dressed in formal evening attire but where Harry's cravat was plain and neat, Draco's was a froth of lace with a hint of diamonds on a discreetly placed pin. Harry told himself very firmly that it was an affectation which most definitely did not set off Draco's blond good looks and delicate aristocratic throat.
Niceties over, a dance card offered and gracefully rejected, the two moved towards the card room where a number of jovial young men were engaged in games of chance rather than ask the ladies to dance.
"Can't cut a caper for the life of me," said Neville, pre-empting Harry's question.
"I'd only tread on their toes and rip their hems," explained Seamus Finnegan, his soft Irish voice apologetic and hesitant.
"And their mamas would not look on me with favour," said Lord Dean, who had lost his entire estate in a card game only the previous month and was vainly trying to win it back from a smirking Vincent Crabbe.
Harry glanced at Malfoy, who was clearly in no way disconcerted by his recalcitrant guests. There were plenty of young bloods in the ballroom already and none of the hopeful debutantes would remain wallflowers for long.
"A game of Bezique, perhaps," said Draco, picking up two packs of cards and gesturing to a small table. Harry shivered slightly, the thought of playing a game only just arrived from France and perhaps connected to the Empire warring with the sheer audacity of it, which appealed to him greatly.
He took a seat, careful to arrange his coat tails in such a way as to prevent creasing. He was not personally concerned with his appearance but lived in some awe of his valet's strictures. Dobby could express disapproval in the flick of a cravat or a kerchief and had been known to mutter beneath his breath while pulling off Harry's boots.
"The stakes?" he said now, wondering what Draco had in mind. If he was surprised to have gained the man's personal attention he could not help but be pleased in spite of himself.
"I thought something personal," said Draco. "Something that would entail an expenditure of time rather than money."
"My time is at your disposal, sir," said Harry, rather stiffly, wondering what Malfoy meant.
"I rather hoped so," said Draco, "but just in case, let's play for high stakes." He shuffled the cards, watching Harry as he did so. His gaze seemed to be fixed on his partner's lips rather than making eye contact.
Harry reflected that he was unlikely to have any kind of beginner's luck in a hitherto unknown game, and resigned himself to losing gracefully. Something deep inside him envisaged the loss with satisfaction, not to say joy.