Disclaimer: The wonderful world of Harry Potter is not mine.
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Masquerade by: Harry Potter you're my hero
For him, life had always been like a giant party; a masquerade to be danced through with great skill and stealth.
Not that it was difficult for him, being from Slytherin House, where 'those cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends'. He was able to dance his way out, or in, to any place he wanted to be.
But no one knew how much of his life had been lived behind a mask. A mask of hate and selfishness that brought him no friends and more enemies than one should be allowed. It came as second nature to the boy, to be cruel and hurtful, given the life he had been born into, and the role he was destined to fulfill.
His father was a Death Eater, the crème de la crème of evil. He would tell his son often that there was no higher honor bestowed to a wizard or witch than to have the Dark Mark placed on his or her skin, as a constant reminder of the great sorcerer they served. The boy had believed his father; his role-model; and felt his chest swell with pride as his father would pull up the left sleeve of his robes and show the boy his blackened skin, in the shape of a slithering snake and say, "Someday, you will have the same privilege." The father would then lift the boy's sleeve and point to the spot on his pale skin that in the future, would be the exact spot where the mark would be on his skin, forever branding him evil.
He had learned from a very young age to ignore his surroundings. To ignore the relentless screams from his mother in the middle of the night, yelling for his father to stop hitting her. The sound of hand hitting skin night after night caused the boy to grow angry and bitter, allowing him to become exactly like his father; cold and emotionless.
His mother was a different story entirely. When the boy was young, his mother showered him with love and attention, giving the boy everything he wanted. Up until the young age of seven, that is. On the day of his birthday, the young boy's mother changed. Something must have happened within her, and she was never the same again. She became distant and refused to even look at the boy some days. When the boy went to his father to find out what was troubling his mother, he merely replied, "The world is harsh. You need to learn how to deal with its cruelties. Your mother is simply teaching you how to handle it."
The boy nodded. That day, he learned how to be cruel. He bottled up the devastation that had come with his mother rejecting him and used it to inflict pain in others. The boy wanted to make other people feel the same way he did that day; wretched and alone.
And for the most part he succeeded. Taking that anger with him to school, the boy made countless enemies; but most interesting enemy he made was with one Harry Potter and his two friends.
Sure, one was in Slytherin and the other Gryffindor which made for a rivalry from the get-go, but the biggest reason was jealousy. He was the one who was supposed to be getting all the attention, not Harry! He was just some stupid baby when the Dark Lord tried to kill him… it wasn't like he was anything special; all he had been left with was an ugly lightning shaped scar. He, on the other hand, was the son of a very prominent man, and the heir to a fortune more vast than any witch or wizard could imagine!
And those so called friends of his… the boy would have rather puked slugs for the rest of his natural life than be caught with them. There was the Weasel, one of the seemingly endless amounts of Weasleys (his father had once compared Arthur and Molly Weasley to two rabbits). From the boy's point of view, he was nothing more than the drooling dog striving for the attention of his master. Then there was the Mudblood. Ungodly large and frizzy brown hair and eyes the color of mud. She was no doubt the brains behind everything and Potter's biggest asset.
He had his own friends of sorts also. Vincent Crabbe, a stocky dark haired boy with the intelligence of a two year old, and Gregory Goyle, a tall and very muscular boy not much smarter than Crabbe. They weren't really his friends, merely the sons of his father's Death Eater friends. Crabbe and Goyle proved their worth, though, as very handy bodyguards. The boy was very intimidating when they were with him. He felt unstoppable; inflicting as much pain as possible to everyone (especially Potter, the Weasel, and the Mudblood).
As the years progressed, the boy grew nastier and nastier. He became very creative with his antics that ranged from beating up first years to shoving their heads into toilets. By his fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he had finally made a name for himself. Draco Malfoy, venomous pureblood extraordinaire! Becoming a prefect and a very valuable member of the inquisitorial squad, Draco thought he made his father proud.
But it made no difference. Upon being home for the Easter holidays, his father had informed him of something even more important.
The time had finally come. Draco was to become a Death Eater; one of the youngest to ever do so. His father had been positively radiating with pride for his son's achievement, a thing that Draco would come to despise in his later years.
Draco had been very excited himself. He was pleased that his father finally was proud of him, and his mother even seemed to come out of her shell.
His excitement didn't last. The stupid Dumbledore's Army gang got into a spat at the ministry and succeeded in ruining whatever it was they had been after (Draco's father had never told him), and in ruining his family. His father was sent to Azkaban and his mother began drinking, for being in a drunken state allowed her to not think about the fate that was already beginning to befall on her son.
Shortly after the summer holidays began, Draco received his painful induction to the Death Eater's circle. He climbed the ranks quickly and received his first huge mission and a chance to prove his worth; one that haunt him the rest of his days.
At first, he had been eager to find out the exact details that entailed his mission, but it diminished as he found out what he was to do.
Kill his headmaster. Not as simple as it sounded. Kill the man who was a legend for his power and notorious for that damned twinkle in his eye. The simple truth of the matter was that he was scared. Draco Malfoy, the master of cruelty, was more scared than he had been in his entire life. A challenge like the one he faced would be more than enough for a full-grown wizard, let alone a 16 year old.
An entire year he worked; making preparations for what would bring him glory or lead to the collapse of his family name. He had lost his position as a Prefect, being unable to keep up his grades because of spending every night in the Room of Requirement fixing the cabinet that would let the Death Eaters into the school that was supposed to be safe. Draco tried numerous ways to get his task completed; the necklace – stupid Gryffindor girl; the poisoned wine – miserable oaf Slughorn gave some to the Weasel, almost killing him (pity it didn't work, he decided); and finally, the cabinet.
He had intended upon using it only as a last resort, not wanting to ask for help unless he really needed it. But when it had become obvious that Draco could not take down one of the greatest wizards of all time by himself, he decided it was time.
He seized his chance when Dumbledore went out for a drink. But the night that was to bring him glory and recognition from his fellow Death Eaters went horribly wrong. He was practically frozen with fear as he looked down the end of his wand at Dumbledore. He could have done it. He could have said those two words… just like that and the old man would be dead... He couldn't do it.
Draco Malfoy had forgotten the steps to his own precarious dance. He had waited so long to do to prove that he too, was a valuable servant of Voldemort. He failed. Draco could not bring himself to utter those tiny words.
He had disgraced his family. The once all-mighty name of Malfoy was ruined by his actions. The Death Eaters made sure to mention this to Draco's family at every available opportunity, chastising them for every little mistake.
To make it up, his home was used as headquarters. Screams echoed throughout the halls all night long, more terrible than the ones he heard when young. Some begging for mercy, some begging for death and the whimpering of one small girl whose mother had been killed right before her very eyes.
Over the next year, the war took its toll on Draco. He had seen things that no one should ever have to be subjected to seeing; he had done things that he himself thought he would never do. He became worn-down and ragged, though he still managed to put his mask of nastiness and bring fear to all he came in contact with.
He failed nearly all his classes at school that year, and was frequently missing to attend various meetings and events where Voldemort would insult his family in a subtle way, even going to the extent of telling his father, who had recently broken out of Azkaban, that his wand would be of no further use, taking it and then having it destroyed by Potter.
It wasn't only at home that he was chastised, it was at school too. He was accepted by his Slytherin house mates, but everyone else loathed him. Draco couldn't go anywhere without receiving death threats and evil glares from everyone. Even the teachers were rude to him! He managed to squash down his shame, though, and put on his mask of maliciousness.
By the end of his seventh year, the war had gotten to Hogwarts. He lost Crabbe, of his so-called friends, to Fiendfyre, and nearly his own life when he encountered a Death Eater who knew that Draco didn't want to be on the dark side anymore. After someone had punched him from out of nowhere, the rest of the night passed in a blur.
When it was finally over, and Voldemort had been defeated at long last by the now even more famous Harry Potter, Draco escaped the confines of Hogwarts for the last time. Staying with his parents only long enough to ensure their safety, Draco left his home.
He needed time to forget everything that had happened in his short life. He wandered all over the world, never staying in the same place for more than a few days, unless the bar had a particularly good brand of whiskey. He drank away his pain night after night; bottle after bottle, trying to fill the void that war had made in him.
Until she came along, that is.
He was surprised at how fast her fell for her, but didn't realize what was happening until it was too late. There was just something about her that made him feel complete; like she was the missing piece to his puzzle.
She had been the one he had teased most mercilessly. The one he called Mudblood; the one he strived to see cry. But she hadn't cared, she put their past aside. He asked her repeatedly why she felt the need to help him fix the shambles he called his life and her reply had always been, "Even you, Malfoy, do not deserve to be this way."
The fact that it was forbidden made Draco fall all the faster and harder. He was pureblood, royalty of the wizarding world; he had everyone bowing at his feet. She was mud, the lowest of the low, the type of person who would never be good enough to wipe the dirt from a house-elf's foot. They were from opposite sides of the spectrum.
He was supposed to hate her with every fiber of his being.
And yet, he let her in.
She was the only one he ever let his guard down to; she was the only one he ever trusted completely. She was the only one he ever let see past his mask. The only one who would EVER see past it all and see his true self.
She was his first real friend, his only love, his first lover. The time they spent together was, to him, the closest to heaven he would ever get. She made him feel alive, not just some empty shell.
For one year they were together. One blissful year neither would ever forget.
But, as life often does, their lives were turned upside-down in the blink of an eye.
He was called to the Ministry for questioning about his days as a Death Eater. Being who he was, and wanting to avoid going to Azkaban as much as possible, Draco fiercely denied having anything to do with the Dark Lord, which earned him a two year sentence in the place he dreaded. It had nearly driven his father mad, and he had seen the horrors first hand while visiting his family there.
Draco spent everyday in Azkaban thinking about her, replaying images of her in his head. The way she laughed, the way her eyebrows creased when she concentrated hard, the way she looked at him when he first told her he loved her…
She visited him every chance she got. Placing her hands through the bars of his cell, she would look in his eyes, reassuring him without words that everything would be alright.
He hated seeing her like that… dark circles under her eyes, her face pale and a constant frown plagued her features. That was not how he wanted to see her. Finally, when he could bear it no longer, he did what he thought was right.
She had come to him, like every other time, with a weary smile on her lips as she got down on her knees and held his hands through the bars. "Only one more year, love, and then you will be with me again," she said softly.
He looked at her, the one beautiful thing in that dark and dreary place. "Listen," he started slowly, "I don't want you to have to wait for me."
"What are you talking about?" she asked.
"I have watched you come here, week after week, month after month. Every time, you look more worn-down. I know it is because of me."
"What? Draco, I'm fine." She held onto his hands tighter than ever. "It is you that needs worrying about."
"I don't want to have to watch you suffer because of me! I love you, don't you understand? I don't want to see you like this… just move on, forget about me."
"I think this place has finally gotten to you."
"No, it hasn't. Don't make this harder than it has to be."
She blinked back tears hurriedly. "Are you saying you want to end this?"
"We both knew that it would come to this eventually. How long do you think we could keep this up?"
"But – but I thought…"
"Just go, please," he said, pulling free from her grasp, "forget about me."
"But you only have one year left in here! Then we can be together!" She was on her feet, her voice raised.
"We can't be together. We are too different. I could never be the man you deserve. It is just easier to end it now before we are in too deep."
"What is wrong with you!?" she shrieked, "I don't want us to be finished! I'm already in too deep! I want to be with you for the rest of my life! I love you! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
Unable to meet her eyes, he replied, "Just go." She stood before him, boring holes in his head. "LEAVE!" he bellowed.
She never returned. Draco regretted not stopping her before she left. What had he been thinking? She was possibly the one person in the entire world who would have waited for him, given up her life for him, be willing to love him for him.
He left Azkaban a very different person. A large piece of his heart had left with her, never to be seen again.
Draco did his best to forget her, marrying another pureblooded witch. She had obviously forgotten him, as he saw she married one of the Weasels.
His body had gone numb as he looked at the large picture of her on the front page of the Prophet, looking lovingly into her husbands eyes; the way she used to look at him. Part of him died that day, right at the breakfast table. He shut himself off from everything and everyone, spending most of his time in his library staring out the window. He became cold and lonely, and no matter what he did, he couldn't' get the image of her from his mind; smiling at her husband.
It could have been him. But he let her slip away like water in his hands.
Years passed. He had a child, she did too. He nearly worked himself to death trying to forget her; but every time he got close to having her out of his mind, one tiny thing would come up to remind him of everything he could have had.
But he did the right thing, he told himself. She was happy now, happier than she could have ever been with him. He made the right decision by letting her go.
Or so he thought.
All his resolution went out the door when he saw her again.
Platform 9¾ had been just as crowded as he remembered it being. Draco felt strange being back, this time as a parent, not a student. Steam had hung thick in the air as he waved to his son. Turning from the train, it was as if he had suddenly been thrown into a Muggle film. She emerged through the mist, just as, if not more, beautiful than the last time he laid eyes on her.
He suddenly felt more alive than he had been in a long time… she was there, holding her husband's hand, waving goodbye to her children… his friend… his lover… his Hermione.
He knew she felt it too. As gray eyes met brown, he felt his mask slowly falling again, and he felt as though not a day had gone by… they were still eighteen; young and in love...
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A/N: Tell me what you thought! This was my first attempt at a oneshot, so please tell me what was good, what needs improvement, etc.