Draco Malfoy and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being in Love

Chapter 8: The Party/Orphans, Or Something

March drew to a chill, damp, close, and with it came the day of the Delacroix fête. Draco was reminded of the occasion when his afternoon nap was interrupted by Henriette the house-elf.

As Draco yawned with delicious languor, Henriette began to quiz him on his evening attire.

"This purple would be so becoming on you, Monsieur," said Henriette, holding a rich robe aloft for Draco's inspection. "Like a Roman emperor, non?"

"The black robes, please," said Draco.

"This silver, perhaps? With your eyes, it would be so fetching..."

"The black, Henriette."

Undeterred, Henriette produced the black dress robes, but also a set of constellation-spangled midnight blue ones. "Or perhaps?" she asked, holding the blue ones up higher.

"Did my mother put you up to this?" asked Draco, eyeing the insistent elf.

Henriette's large ears twitched backwards. "Madame suggested that you might be amenable to trying something else. Madame would like you to not look as though you were attending a funeral."

"I rather fancy looking like an undertaker. The black ones – leave them on the bed."

"As you wish, Monsieur," sighed Henriette, spreading the robes onto the bed.

She curtseyed and Disapparated.

Henriette was a well-spoken, well-trained French elf, but far pushier and more opinionated than the English elves that Draco had grown accustomed to in childhood. However, his mother loved her, and Draco had to admit that her cooking was a far sight better than the stodgy fare prepared by her UK brethren.

Draco showered, perfected his hair, pulled on the hard-won black robes, perfected his hair again, and observed himself in the mirror to confirm that he was devastatingly good-looking.

He was.

Which was excellent, because tonight, Draco Malfoy was going out on the pull. It had been far too long since his last shag (some witch at Pansy's last birthday party, at his best recollection) and he had been feeling the lack of action in the past weeks.

It was time to rectify the situation. The Delacroix party would make for an excellent opportunity. There would be witches aplenty – perhaps Mademoiselle Rosalie Delacroix herself, if she was interested, mused Draco as he applied his cologne.

Satisfied with his toilette, Draco descended to the Floo parlour.

"Henriette, did my mother leave yet?" he called as he threw Floo powder into the hearth.

"Oui, elle est partie," said Henriette. "She left about two hours ago, Monsieur. I believe she thought you'd be on your way shortly after."

Oops, thought Draco. "The Seneca," he said out loud, and he stepped into the flames.

-

Draco dusted himself off on the Seneca's hearth, assisted by a pretentious-looking youth bearing a charmed feather duster.

A moment later, he found himself accosted by Theodore Nott.

"There's fashionably late, and then there's you," said Theo. "Bordering on rude, I think: it's half eight and you've missed the speeches."

"Careless of me," said Draco, straightening out his robes. "Summarise."

"Very pretty words about the True Magic of Gratitude, and also please give money."