Awakening

Draco fastened the last of the clasps on his robes and stepped back, looking appraisingly into the mirror. “Very dapper, sir,” it said. Draco ignored it. He hated these galas, hated posing for Daily Prophet photos with his parents, hated the snobbish wizards and witches flashing smiles in their finest robes, hated the outlandish food. The elven wine was not so bad, and the women were opalescent in their beauty, but he could never shake the feeling that he was as phony as the people around him.
The ballroom was nearly full when he entered it from a side door at around midnight. There they were, the fakes, the flatterers, the sycophantic waifs in their puffy ball gowns. He looked around the room with casual interest. They had really outdone themselves this time, Draco thought. The towering walls of the room were decorated with sweeping, sheer draperies that hung loosely over tall windows and French doors leading to dimly-lit terraces and the frosty night air. The ceiling was aglow with lanterns, complete with live fairies, the likes of which Draco had only ever seen at Hogwarts. The floor swirled green and grey under the feet of the dancers, and a great stage protruded a little into the dance floor. He watched Death Eaters whirl past where he stood in a nearly deserted corner. Each of them was leering haughtily at their dates as they danced to the plucking and pounding of instruments and sultry voice of a boldly thin woman in violently purple robes languishing on the dais. He tried not to look at her, tried to block out the incessant twang of the harp and tap-t-tap of the snare drum and the wavering chords of a giant grand piano.
Draco wolfed down a few hors d'oeuvres and a crystal goblet or two of wine. He was not hungry. He just wanted to leave as soon as possible. His father spotted him and nodded. He nodded back, noting the smugness in his face.
“Dear boy! What year are you in now, Draco?” asked a plump man Draco recognized as Cornelius Fudge.
“My seventh.”
Fudge nodded congenially. “Good, good. Well…” Then he was distracted by a fellow ministry official and abruptly left Draco’s side.
In she swept then, through the arch from the great entrance hall, her ebony hair out of her face in a loose, elegant bun and turning every eligible bachelor’s head. Her dress was a black tool confection, layers of transparent fabric overlapping each other like petals, the hems left un-sewn. The deep emerald tear-drop earrings and matching necklace complemented her gown well. She was a vision, much older than she normally looked in her school uniform with the skirt she had bewitched to her mid-thigh. How she got away with such things, he did not know.
Her hand rose to her mouth, and Draco saw a silver cigarette holder poised between her fingers, an unlit cigarette fitted to the end. He crossed the few yards of marble floor between them and procured an antique lighter from a pocket inside his robes. She smiled and leaned in as he flicked the flint with his thumb. Flame embraced the fragrant tobacco before he snapped the lid shut, and smoke billowed from the remaining embers. She took a long drag, her cool eyes smoldering.
“Thank you,” she simpered, smoke spilling from her mouth.
“You look…” he paused, allowing the right flattery to come to him “…exquisite,
Darling.”
She gazed at him as if deciding whether or not this was to her taste, then inclined her head slightly. “Again, thank you. The invitation said formal.” She took another drag. The glowing coal blazed bright red, but ash quickly smothered it back to deep orange. “Fancy a dance?”
“If I wanted to dance, I would have asked you.” She looked somewhat crestfallen, but regained her composure quickly.
“Fine, then I’ll find someone else to dance with me.” Her refined elegance was replaced with the girlish air he was so used to at Hogwarts.
He scoffed at her. “Do whatever you like.” He made to walk away, back to his corner, but she grasped his arm and held him back.
“Please, Draco, I want to dance with you.”
“You cannot always have what you want, Pandora.” He rested his hand on her cheek, bending his lips to her ear. “Especially when what you want cannot be bought with your father’s money. Now run along.” He straightened and left her side. She fumed, but did not follow him. Instead, she walked seductively by a line of eager young men, all of whom gaped at her. Soon she was asked to dance and her dress swayed beautifully around her and her jewels sparkled dazzlingly, but her eyes were malicious and her skin was chalk-white.
She wears rage well, he thought, lighting a cigarette of his own and taking several long draws from it before letting his hand fall to his side. This was pointless, boring even, and Draco wondered when would be an appropriate time to extricate himself from high wizarding society.
What a ruse, he thought, taking another drag. How amusing my father must find all of this, throwing a party to celebrate his release from Azkaban. He seems to have recovered nicely. Lucius, arm around Narcissa’s waist now, was speaking with several high-level Ministry employees.
Draco decided the best time to leave was the present, as both his parents and his “date” were occupied. He flicked his half-smoked cigarette onto the dance floor and slipped once again though the kitchens, following the maze of hallways back to his rooms. Once there, he cast off the constricting, high-necked dress robes, cursing Madame Malkin under his breath, and stripped down to his boxers. Just as he was pulling pajama pants over these, he heard voices in the hall outside.
“Just here, Miss.” There was a shuffle as the house-elf bowed and backed away, then a knock.
“Draco, it’s me.” Pansy had pursued him. He was tempted to send her away, but instead he picked up his wand from the dresser next to him and unlocked the door, tugging his pants up as he did.
“I left the party to be alone.”
“I’ll be alone with you.” She batted her eyes at him and took several brave steps forward, allowing the door the creak shut behind her. It thudded closed, the sound echoing through the room. She gave him an once-over with her eyes, drawing ever closer. “What are you doing? It’s too early for bed.” The space between them closed, and she coiled her hand into his coyly. Pansy gazed up at him, her gray eyes cowish. Her other hand chanced to his bare chest, and she walked it up to the base of his neck. “Kiss me.” He did, though it was lackluster and devoid of emotion. He let her push him backwards into a bureau chair. She sat on his lap. He felt disgust wind up his body from the places she was touching his skin, hot and pounding.
“Not now, Pandora.” He pushed her roughly off of him, and her dress rustled as she stumbled to regain her balance.
“Stop calling me that. Everyone calls me Pansy now, Draco.”
“I am not everyone.”
“I don’t care who you are.” Her face was defiant, but her voice quivered.
He stood up and turned to stare into the mirror. “Don’t be silly, of course you care who I am.” Draco watched her move behind him. He picked up a simple cotton shirt from the bureau before him and slid it over his head. “I’m tired now, Darling, please go away. Your adoring fans are waiting for you.”
“I don’t know why you call me ‘darling’ if you never act-”
“Enough,” he whispered. Her mouth closed abruptly, as if he’d shouted at her.
“I’m not scared of you.” He moved so suddenly this time she did not have a moment to react. He was inches from her, his fingers tight around her wrists, pushing her backwards into the wall adjacent to his bed. Her back hit the hard plastered stone with a dull thud; her hands wrenched, trying to break his grip. His hands constricted further, and she stopped struggling.
Draco leaned in, and her hair brushed his nose and cheek softly as, once again, he spoke into her ear. “Oh, I think you are scared of me.” Her eyes darted to the black tattoo on his arm, and it twitched menacingly as if in response. “You have no idea what I am capable of, Pandora. If you are not scared, you are even more foolish than I thought.” She made a tiny noise, like an animal in pain. He released her and strode to his bed.
She left quickly and without another word, and he showed no sign of noticing her parting. The sheets were cool and soft against his bare arms and feet. The comforter seemed to absorb his body heat and release it ten-fold. Soon, he had drifted off into a dreamless sleep, thinking how meaningless the night had been.


A week later, Christmas break ended, and school began afresh. NEWT year was proving difficult, and Draco privately wondered whether all of these foot-long essays and extra star charts were worth his time. His father’s voice would creep into his mind then, saying “we must keep up appearances, Draco.”
Why should he keep up appearances, Draco thought spitefully, with two-thirds of the golden trio gallivanting around Great Britain in search of the Dark Lord himself? He should be out fighting, he thought, he should be doing something useful instead of describing the various functions of pixie wings and filling out diagrams of chimaeras. Snape was gone, Potter and Weasley were gone, indeed, nearly a fourth of the students had not returned to Hogwarts in the fall.
The Slytherin house was just as full as ever, brimming with students whose fathers wanted to “keep up appearances.” However, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff had noticeably fewer occupants.
Unfortunately, one chary little know-it-all had come back for her final year. Draco’s mouth went dry at the thought of her bigheadedness, of her interfering, graceless conduct. Still, she had managed the best grades in their classes every year, surpassing even himself in every subject. He told those who bothered to ask it was because he was not putting all that much effort into his schooling, but inwardly he knew that he had been, that she had beaten him, and he hated her for it.
He was taking six NEWT level classes this year: Defense against the Dark Arts, Potions, Transfiguration, Astronomy, Arithmancy, and Charms. Even so, on Monday mornings, one of his precious few free periods was devoted to school dealings and his head boy duties. The morning classes started again, Draco had one of these meetings with the prefects and head girl. Many of the previous prefects had not come back to Hogwarts, so new ones had been chosen from the appropriate years. There were six from each house, and they were, across the board, incapable of getting any work done without bickering among themselves for at least an hour before doing it.
A long table cut through the narrow room, and papers were scattered along it. Draco was battling a headache as twenty-five voices melded into one cacophonous hum. The argument was over the appointment of a chairperson for the Committee of Proper Punishments and Admonishments, something Draco did not care about at all. The preceding chairman had stepped down due to a particularly nasty jinx he received from a “disgruntled student,” and now he was trying to explain the dangers of such a post to a wholly deaf audience.
Draco stood up, gathered his papers together with a flick of his wand (some jetted over from the other side of the table to rejoin their mates), and marched from the room. The door had hardly shut behind him before Hermione Granger darted out if it, pure rage painted on her face.
“Where do you think you’re going, Malfoy?” Draco ignored her, and continued his slow walk down the corridor. “I am talking to you, you git. Come back here! We are not through.”
He rounded on her. Her wand was out; she looked absolutely livid. “I am.” His eyes flashed dangerously, but his voice was low and composed.
“You are head boy, Malfoy. This is your respons-”
“I didn’t want this, Granger. You like being bossy, so you just handle it. I’ve got class.” He turned on his heel and began to walk away again.
“Malfoy! We have the same class!” She was following him now. Draco wondered if the others had even noticed they were gone. He was halfway down a short flight of steps when she said the magic words. “Just because you’re a Death Eater-” Finally, the wrath he had barricaded inside for so long erupted and in a flash he was a yard or so from her, his wand raised, white hot anger pulsing through him.
“Do not pretend to know anything about me, Granger. You cannot understand! No one-”
“And you know me so well, then, do you? You think no one can comprehend what-”
“Stop interrupting me-”
“You first!!” They stared at each other in a deadlock. Draco could not believe how brazen she was to speak to him in such a way, but she had a point. He couldn’t help but compare her to Pansy, who was so fickle and dull, bold in her men and money, yet with a personality like dead grass. Hermione had style, and he admired her for it, but that didn’t make him hate her any less. She lowered her wand an inch or two, and this time her voice was relatively calm. “You’ve never tried to explain… what I mean to say is… well, I’m listening, and I understand more than you think.” He scoffed at her, and she glared at him reproachfully. “I’d be surprised if you knew my first name, let alone anything else about me.” She turned her back on him affectedly and flounced off toward the meeting room.
High windows cast alternate shadow and sunlight on her as she went, and he watched her go, wand at his side. She did not glance over her shoulder, nor did she even seem upset. Her robes billowed behind her, and her walk was as confident as ever. When her fingers gripped the door handle, he shouted “Hermione. You’re name is Hermione.” She showed no sign that she had heard him, and her long auburn hair swished as she disappeared back into the riotous sounds of the meeting.

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Ok, so there's that. If you like it let me know and I'll add. :) Please R&R and I need a Beta.
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TooMuch