Draco Malfoy wasn't always bitter, and he would never have been bitter in the first place if it wasn't for his father. Couldn't you imagine it? Draco sans Lucius, a happy boy with dreams other than joining the Dark Lord and making sure that when the Purebloods took over, there would be a golden chalice with his name on it. His mother was kind and protective, and although she was as blatantly blood count selective as her husband, she would've been better off, too. She would've raised Draco with a bigger, more accepting heart and he would've been much better off. But that isn't the Draco Malfoy we have here. No, the Draco Malfoy we have is turning out just like his father and as happy as he is to make his father proud, he loathes it too.
The summer he is having right now is a hot one, filled with house elves making him cool drinks and dinner parties he doesn't want to attend. He has to be the perfect son, the impeccable heir to a pureblood line. On one side, he's a Black with a lineage filled with cruel and great leaders and a scoundrel of an Uncle. On the other, he's a Malfoy, with what he supposes is a lineage filled with money and power. But who is Draco Malfoy, other than a product of money? What a good question, one he wants to know the answer to as well. But instead he stands with his back against, one arm behind his back and the other at his side, draped in expensive dress robes. He wants to be able to escape to his bedroom, mere flights of stairs away, but he can't because that is poor etiquette and not what he was raised to do. He looks for his parents and grabs a glass of fire whiskey that is in a delicate glass flute. He had watched them all be set out for the party by the house elves, and Draco wants to be drunk. So he takes a sip, and another sip, and another sip, until he begins to feel the clouds begin to form in his head. Before he knows it, he's on his second glass and his need to escape has lessened. He listens to the music and focuses on his parent's friends, all pureblood and all secretly hating each other. He laughs at the ridiculousness of it all, and earns himself a few queer glances of interest. And we have come in a full circle of bitterness. As much as Draco wants to live his life like this, he really, really does not.
He notes briefly that school starts in a few days. He doesn't like school. Although he is smart, and he is popular, and he can easily win over any lady with a quirk of a lip or a twitch of a finger, school is just as superficial as his parent's parties. He doesn't need more superficiality. What he needs is another glass of fire whiskey. Before he can grab one, however, he notices his parents approaching. They are accompanied by a stout man with glasses, his tall vela of a wife, and a little number of what he assumes is their daughter. His parents want him to mingle with a girl of their choosing, and he has yet to do anything but be as cold and uninviting as he can while meeting social expectations. This girl is no different. Although she is prettier than most of them, he can't really see her as anything more than the kind of girl he can get a quick screw from.
"Hello father, mother." He greets, scanning both of their faces for any sign of what he should do. He has his slurring under control, as Draco is nearing the point of no return with his alcohol consumption and slurring will soon be the least of his problems. His mother looks pleased, as usual. His father looks stoic and collect, as he normally does.
"Draco, I'd like you to meet Mortimer Rumple, his wife Blanche, and their daughter Gretchen." His father introduces them, as he always does. Draco smiles as pleasantly as he can muster and reaches out a hand to shake each of theirs. The man's hand is chubby and clammy, and the woman's is fine and smooth. He feels the alcohol take ahold of him and instead of shaking the girl's hand, he kisses it. His parent's seem pleased by his actions. 'What a good pureblood boy,' he can practically hear their thoughts relaying. He manifests the dry laugh that he knows is going to come out in the form of a confident smirk. The girl, Gretchen he thinks, seems less pleased. But she's playing the same game he is, and he finally feels the small inkling of a kindred spirit.
"Gretchen is in your year, do you know her?" The vela mother asks. In response, Draco quirks his head and pretends to try to place her. He's never seen that girl in his life. The girl knows it, too.
"Why, what house is she in?" He asks in a curious tone. They respond Slytherin, as he knew they would, and he shakes his head, "Sorry. I can't say that I recognize… Gretchen was it?" He directs his question at her. He can feel a large eye roll wishing to be directed towards him, but she is under social contract as well. Her blonde hair would frame her face nicely, if she didn't have the whole "parent approved" stamp.
"Yes, it's Gretchen." She has a hint of sarcasm to her voice, he notes to himself. Their parents would not notice that, however, as they are talking with themselves. And so, as social standards and etiquette have advised him, he asks her to dance.
The music is classical and requires knowledge in the proper way to dance, Draco has this. He assumes, as Gretchen has said yes to his request, she does as well. But as luck would have it, Gretchen Rumple is a terrible dancer and Draco Malfoy breaks character and doesn't laugh once. Every time she steps on his toe in her heels, or nearly falls over, he tells her that it's fine and that he's had worse dancing partners.
He has not.
She knows this. And she seems very glad that he doesn't make fun of her because she only said yes to dance with him so that she could convince her parents that Draco Malfoy is an awful, cruel boy. This doesn't entirely change her thinking because he isn't suddenly a different person, but it does cast a different light onto him as a person. She ignores her parents staring and listens to the music as Draco gracefully carries her stumbling form across the dance floor.