The Yule Ball
folder
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
1
Views:
947
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
1
Views:
947
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
The Yule Ball
The Yule Ball
It was an elegant party. Anything hosted by the Malfoys was, as a matter of course. That it was not quite as gaudy as parties had been when Draco was a child was passed off as a defference to elegance rather than he and Pansy having to keep an eye on their treasuries since the grandiose war fines had depleted many of the Malfoy vaults. Social events were extremely expensive, but they were also a necessity.
As was inviting the Goody Gang, apparently. As much as they rankled both Malfoys, they were War Heroes, and not inviting them would be a major faux pas.
Draco swirled his drink.
He was bored. He was always bored at these functions, and always had been. He'd never been allowed to skip one, though. Not even as a child. A Malfoy always had to be present and presentable, no matter how he felt. Draco had once come to a Yule Ball with the dragon pox, back when he was six. Uncle Severus had used one of his best spy glamours and Draco had been forbidden from scratching on pain of death, and it had passed. No one knew Draco had ever had such a common childhood disease, and no one would ever know. Not even his wife.
Speaking of whom, Draco really should keep a better eye on her. Not because he distrusted her, on the contrary—he trusted the woman to coordinate these things, and that was a major accreditation. He needed to be keeping an eye on the people who talked to her, or rather the people that didn't talk to her. Glancing around, he found his wife safely conversing with his godfather and his cousin, Gregory Goyle. He also saw Potter dancing with that Weasley girl, half a room away. He didn't know why his vision had been drawn there, but it was now stuck on the couple.
They danced so... vivaciously. Like there was only this moment, and they were putting all their soul and energy into it. It was entrancing, and started Draco thinking.
Potter was still not officially attached to anyone. There had been rumours about him and the Weasley girl, just as there had been about him and the Granger girl, and even the Weasley boy, although it seemed that now the latter two had gotten together themselves. They were also dancing happily, but not quite as catchingly as Potter and the youngest Weasley.
Draco shook his head. Not once had he been able to dance like that with Pansy. Or anyone, really. Not once had he just let it all out and let life take him over. It looked invigorating, and — well, fun actually; although the colloquial word would never issue from the mouth of a Malfoy.
Not that he was unhappy with Pansy. The pug-faced girl had grown into a decently attractive woman. Nothing like his mother, of course, but then again his mother was now rotting away in Azkaban for multiple counts of Aiding and Abetting Death Eaters and their Activities. His father had been given the Kiss, for said Activities. But such was the cost of failure in the dangerous and convoluted game they played. Growing up in its labyrinth, Draco had never been secure enough to do anything without a good cause and decent chance of success. Not even in his love life.
He'd essentially been paired with Pansy since childhood. Their parents had never stooped to anything as barbaric—or binding—as a betrothal, but there was always an underlying expectation. Pansy had been the guest of honor at many of Draco's birthdays. Draco had always sent her a valentine, ever since he could write with a decent hand. There were quite a few advantages to the arrangement; there were no surprises or awkward meetings with parents, but it was also... confining. Safe, and enjoyable, but confining.
They had never danced like that.
The song ended, and the couple finished with a flourish, then parted, laughing. Potter looked up towards Draco, and smiled. It was a genuine smile, one that had stayed with him from the dance.
Draco raised his glass and let his cold gray eyes meet Potter's lively green ones. It was an acquiescence. Potter had indeed beaten him; the Gryffindor had used his ballroom floor better than he, or even any of his ancestors most likely had.
The Malfoy line had endured. Draco had survived.
Potter lived.
It was an elegant party. Anything hosted by the Malfoys was, as a matter of course. That it was not quite as gaudy as parties had been when Draco was a child was passed off as a defference to elegance rather than he and Pansy having to keep an eye on their treasuries since the grandiose war fines had depleted many of the Malfoy vaults. Social events were extremely expensive, but they were also a necessity.
As was inviting the Goody Gang, apparently. As much as they rankled both Malfoys, they were War Heroes, and not inviting them would be a major faux pas.
Draco swirled his drink.
He was bored. He was always bored at these functions, and always had been. He'd never been allowed to skip one, though. Not even as a child. A Malfoy always had to be present and presentable, no matter how he felt. Draco had once come to a Yule Ball with the dragon pox, back when he was six. Uncle Severus had used one of his best spy glamours and Draco had been forbidden from scratching on pain of death, and it had passed. No one knew Draco had ever had such a common childhood disease, and no one would ever know. Not even his wife.
Speaking of whom, Draco really should keep a better eye on her. Not because he distrusted her, on the contrary—he trusted the woman to coordinate these things, and that was a major accreditation. He needed to be keeping an eye on the people who talked to her, or rather the people that didn't talk to her. Glancing around, he found his wife safely conversing with his godfather and his cousin, Gregory Goyle. He also saw Potter dancing with that Weasley girl, half a room away. He didn't know why his vision had been drawn there, but it was now stuck on the couple.
They danced so... vivaciously. Like there was only this moment, and they were putting all their soul and energy into it. It was entrancing, and started Draco thinking.
Potter was still not officially attached to anyone. There had been rumours about him and the Weasley girl, just as there had been about him and the Granger girl, and even the Weasley boy, although it seemed that now the latter two had gotten together themselves. They were also dancing happily, but not quite as catchingly as Potter and the youngest Weasley.
Draco shook his head. Not once had he been able to dance like that with Pansy. Or anyone, really. Not once had he just let it all out and let life take him over. It looked invigorating, and — well, fun actually; although the colloquial word would never issue from the mouth of a Malfoy.
Not that he was unhappy with Pansy. The pug-faced girl had grown into a decently attractive woman. Nothing like his mother, of course, but then again his mother was now rotting away in Azkaban for multiple counts of Aiding and Abetting Death Eaters and their Activities. His father had been given the Kiss, for said Activities. But such was the cost of failure in the dangerous and convoluted game they played. Growing up in its labyrinth, Draco had never been secure enough to do anything without a good cause and decent chance of success. Not even in his love life.
He'd essentially been paired with Pansy since childhood. Their parents had never stooped to anything as barbaric—or binding—as a betrothal, but there was always an underlying expectation. Pansy had been the guest of honor at many of Draco's birthdays. Draco had always sent her a valentine, ever since he could write with a decent hand. There were quite a few advantages to the arrangement; there were no surprises or awkward meetings with parents, but it was also... confining. Safe, and enjoyable, but confining.
They had never danced like that.
The song ended, and the couple finished with a flourish, then parted, laughing. Potter looked up towards Draco, and smiled. It was a genuine smile, one that had stayed with him from the dance.
Draco raised his glass and let his cold gray eyes meet Potter's lively green ones. It was an acquiescence. Potter had indeed beaten him; the Gryffindor had used his ballroom floor better than he, or even any of his ancestors most likely had.
The Malfoy line had endured. Draco had survived.
Potter lived.