lokifan_import

Title: A Soiree For The Suave
Word count: 1700
Characters/Pairings: Harry/Draco
Summary: Draco’s parents are having a posh do for his birthday
Disclaimer: The boys belong to JKR, even though I’m often nicer to them than she is.
Author’s Notes: Written for slythindor100's current ‘15 words’ challenge here - I got all fifteen! - and as a belated birthday fic for Draco.

Draco’s twenty-ninth birthday party was a big deal. He thought this was probably because it was his mother’s way of finally saying goodbye to the dreams of him marrying a nice pureblood girl from the Continent and producing an heir by thirty. Not that she didn’t like Harry; he was polite, and ever-so-earnest in his attempts to impress her. Narcissa liked that. Besides, saving each other’s lives created a bond.

Draco, of all people, should know.

Still, the summer afternoon soiree his mother was having at Malfoy Manor was a big event; all attendees were grateful to be invited and nervous about what to wear and how to look – none more so than the birthday boy’s boyfriend.

“Is this right?” Harry said, standing before Draco for inspection. “I’m not wearing something backwards, am I?”

Draco smiled. Harry never failed to underestimate his own allure, and that just made him more appealing; his big green eyes anxious in that famous face, his strong hands fidgeting at his sides. He looked very handsome, and Draco congratulated himself on a Knightsbridge trip well-spent. Harry was ready for Ascot, which was lucky, considering the sort of people his parents knew.

He himself was in a grey linen suit, to complement his eyes and show off his bright hair. Harry, though, was in the traditional white linen. The white against his jet-black hair and stubbled, strong jaw, not to mention his tan, was enough to have Draco swallowing and reminding himself that birthday sex was not to be had anywhere that might upset his mother. Ginny Weasley and her bat-bogey hex had nothing on Narcissa Malfoy’s sweetly-smiling, tidy methods of revenge.

They arrived in the big fireplace in the drawing room. Even after all these years, this place still brought up unpleasant memories: Bellatrix and Voldemort, capture and a friend screaming. A few memories were even worse: Draco introducing Harry to his parents. His mother, naturally, had put on one of her more charming smiles and made small talk, while his father steadily drank brandy, glowering eyes fixed on his son’s corruptor.

People were already milling around, greeting each other as though they hadn’t seen each other in months – which was possibly true. The wizarding aristocracy, much like the Muggles, had a summer social season of balls and sport; Draco’s June birthday had become the de facto launch of the season. They were beautifully dressed, and Draco’s own refined accent issued from their mouths. This was something of a relief after the recent invasion of the Weasley hordes. They were cultured, too. When Draco went to say hello to Daphne Greengrass and her debutante sister, their tinkling laughs were a million miles from Gryffindor guffaws. They enthused about the Globe’s current matinee, Titus Adronicus, instead of gleefully recounting the latest professional Quidditch foul. Of course, they were going to end up drenched: they’d dressed in pretty little outfits designed for hot summer days. In Wiltshire, early June could mean hot summer days. Today, though, it meant an entirely grey sky threatening torrential rain.

“Draco!” Draco’s mother had seen them. Her pink smile was wide, and her perfumed hug warm. Draco felt some indefinable part of him relax; the part that was still so frightened she was disappointed by his choices.

“There’s a marquee set up in the garden, darling. Why don’t you go and see some of the guests who are already out there? And don’t scare the peacocks, they’re tense enough as it is.”

Draco raised a sardonic eyebrow at this. Torrential rain was presumably off the agenda, then; his mother would not allow anything to spoil his party.

They headed outside onto the still slightly dewy grass that dampened the hems of their trousers. Sure enough, an enormous white marquee had been erected, and various eminent – and not-so-eminent – purebloods were milling around.

“So...” Harry said, clearing his throat. “Shall we have a look in the marquee?”

Draco smiled at him, deliberately meeting his eyes. “Yes. And don’t worry too much, all right? All the people who’ll come wish me a happy birthday, they all want to impress you.”

Inside the marquee was a huge teak table spread with an impressive array of food; no accusations of parsimony would be tolerated by the Malfoys. There were unlit candles scattered across it ready for the evening, and each one had a green dragon painted on the wax. The food was as elegant as expected – cucumber sandwiches and whole salmon, water bottled at mountain springs and champagne. However, Draco’s sweet tooth was also indulged. Butterscotch pudding was ready for later, and marshmallows were piled high next to the fondue set.

“Hmm,” Harry murmured teasingly. “Almost all your favourite things. No melted chocolate though.”

“Harry,” Draco hissed in embarrassment, feeling his cock twitch at the images that hushed tone conjured up. He silently told it not to be silly and behind making the rounds, greeting people and accepting their birthday wishes, while firmly putting off any requests for his hairdresser’s Floo address.

“Oh Christ,” Draco muttered, coming to a halt.

“What?”

Draco nodded towards Hermione, who was looking very pretty (and very chilly) in a jade green sundress. She was standing on the lawn near the crumbling grey stone of the Manor itself, talking to a hulking man who looked rather like Marcus Flint.

“That’s Magnus Flint,” Draco said, wincing. “Not only is he a raging misogynist, he’s also an idiot. Every other word that comes out of his mouth is ‘Quidditch’, and even that’s a struggle, with the whole two syllables.”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe she’ll give him a dictionary.”

Draco gave him an acid glare. “She’ll get annoyed and he’ll get angry and my mother will be humiliated! Come on. I’ll talk to him and you’ll get her away.”

They made their way across the damp grass, but even as they did so Harry was giving him a sceptical look. “Are you going to keep your temper? You don’t suffer fools lightly either.”

Draco gave him a melting smile. “I like brainless Quidditch players.”

To Draco’s vast amusement, it took Harry a few seconds to get it. When he did, he smacked playfully at Draco’s side. Draco pouted at him, and when they reached Hermione and Magnus Flint he said petulantly, “Hermione, Harry’s abusing me. Take him away.”

“Big meanie,” Hermione chided, to Harry’s outrage.

“You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“She’s fallen for my ineffable charms.” Draco flashed his most supercilious smile. “She can’t help it, I have power over women.”

Flint snorted. “If you had power over women, you wouldn’t have to resort to fucking Potter,” he muttered.

Draco had once been used to muttered insults and petty jibes; once, he’d ignored them. But this was Harry, and this was his birthday soiree, and he was damned if he’d let that go unchallenged.

“Would you repeat that, Magnus?” he said with the charm he’d learned in sailor suits at his mother’s knee, the sweetness that oozed poison. “I’m not sure Harry and Hermione heard.”

“I certainly didn’t,” Hermione said, brown eyes hard. “No one at this party could possibly be so rude. Surely I misheard.”

Draco was never sure if Flint had missed the sarcasm, or if he was just stupid enough to challenge Hermione Granger, force of nature.

Either way, he should not have used the word ‘bitch’.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, and her cheeks reddened. Draco decided that he didn’t want to be around for whatever came next.

“Why don’t you and Flint discuss this in the drawing room, Hermione?” he said. “Harry and I will make sure you’re not disturbed.”

“Thank you, Draco,” Hermione said crisply.

“Sure,” Flint said, his expression ugly in its aggression. “I’d love to have some time alone with her.”

~*~

Draco closed the big double doors firmly behind the pair, and cast a Silencing charm. “Now all we need to do is make sure no one goes in there. My mother will kill us if she finds out there was hexing at one of her soirees, and I don’t think Magnus is clever enough to stop provoking Hermione.”

“Says the boy who got slapped by her.”

“At least I learnt my lesson!” Draco protested. After a minute or two of leaning against the doors, quietly trading snark with Harry about the snobby guests, he sighed. “Bored now.”

Harry grinned. “Want a hand job?”

“I can’t take you anywhere!”

“All you have to do is ask.” Harry gave his slow smile, the one he knew made Draco weak at the knees.

Draco chuckled even as he knew his pupils were dilating, his breathing heavier. “I’ll be taking you up on that later. I am the birthday boy, after – Mother!”

Harry spun. At the sight of Draco’s mother he backed up, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Draco – whether to support him or for protection, he wasn’t sure. Narcissa prowled closer, and both boys pressed tighter against the doors.

“Is someone in the drawing room?” she inquired.

Silence.

“Magnus Flint.” Draco cursed inwardly, and wished he was capable of lying to his mother. Her blue eyes flashed; she didn’t take kindly to men who dismissed her.

“I see. Is he quite well? I’m not having this party disrupted by anything... untoward.”

“Hermione’s taking care of it, Mum,” Draco said, smiling maniacally. “I’m sure nothing untoward is happening.”

“I see.” His mother stepped back, and headed for the lawn again. Draco and Harry relaxed, shoulders pressing against each other as they slumped. Then his mother paused at the door, late afternoon sunlight falling on her blonde, happy radiance.

“Just make sure you help her tidy up whatever’s left when she’s finished.”

With a satisfied, inscrutable smile, Narcissa left her slack-jawed son and son-in-law and stepped out into the sunshine.