A/N : I wrote this while in the middle of "Love Shmuv.." , you know to counterbalance the silly humour …so anyhoo read and lemme know how it is
Disclaimer : Harry is such a common name..so is Potter.. but together they belong to JKR..so yeah..
He saw her.
She was sitting at one of the tables to the front of room. The lights from the stage fell on her. She seemed to glow. Her hair was illuminated like gold tissue, rays of light filtering through every little tender curl. The lights were dim now or he would've been blinded as he continued to stare at her. Something about her fascinated him. He didn't find her to be particularly breathtakingly beautiful. No, she wasn't. Her beauty was common. The hair was a shade of brown that wasn't distinct, no it was just like the brown of the many women who hurried down the streets of this big city. The eyes were brown too, and again not that special. They reminded him of honey glazed dark chocolates – a specialty of Honeydukes and incidentally his favourite. He could see her profile against the light, her features were soft and almost delicate. Taking a sip from his champagne flute, he cocked his head to a side, yes, he thought, a common beauty. But he found this somehow .. reassuring, comfortable.
The band was playing a soulful melody now. It was relaxing , the beat almost placid as compared to the loud, cheerful, energetic songs played in the beginning. Maybe the band decided to tone down as there were hardly any people left, the dance floor was almost unoccupied, a few stragglers sat slumped at the open bar, a few dozen guests scattered around the room occupying solitary tables.
That is why he found it surprising that she was still present. Remembering earlier, when he had watched her forced to make small talk with the Minister's wife and other socialites of the Wizarding world, whose spouses made up the top rungs of the Ministry, he had expected her to flee the moment she got the chance. But here she was, still at this extravagant Ministry gala to celebrate some inane event which would benefit no one but the few who had thrown this stupid party, he thought idly. He was here as a special guest of the Minister. He should have been in Italy for an important merger with a smaller but substantial company, but eager to redeem his family's name in his home country he had cancelled the meeting and rushed back to London.
After the war had ended the Malfoy name was severely tarnished. He snorted into his drink - that was an understatement. Thanks to his dear father's allegiance to that mad man, the Malfoys' lost everything – money, power and what little of respect they had in the Wizarding world. It was actually a miracle that he wasn't in Azkaban with his father, who was serving a sentence of ten years, still, he thought he had got off easy mainly because of his mother, who had played a small but significant role in the final battle. He, himself, had been pardoned as he had fought in the battle for the opposite side and also, surprisingly, due to the testimony of the Wizarding world's saviour.
He snorted again, he knew he should be thankful to the 'hero', but he couldn't help but feel resentful that it had been him that had saved him from incarceration – after all they were school rivals, even though in the end they had fought on the same side. He had spent the last six years rebuilding his family's business, painstakingly dragging out the Malfoy name from the mud. So that today, the name was respectable enough for the Minister of Magic himself to invite him to the gala. Although that may have been because the Minister owned quite a number of shares in his company, which he thought smugly, was set to become one of the largest in western Europe.
He swirled the drink in his hands, took a sip and put the flute down and glanced at her again. He was surprised to see her there. He knew she worked in the Ministry but she didn't strike him as the type to attend these soirees regularly, the people who did were those more-talk-no-work types, but he knew she was the opposite. Last he had heard, the Daily Prophet (which had along the years filled the spaces between articles with small reports of what went on in the lives of the 'Golden Trio') reported that she was pushing through a controversial law, something about to set the house elves free and give them their rights as equal magical beings. He smirked, so typical of her, always upholding the 'good' – that foolish Gryffindor courage and spirit. A small crease marred his brow as he remembered the scene in the battle. He had thought many a night since then, of why he had done what he did. He reasoned he wasn't thinking straight, because until then he had neither cared about her nor deemed her life to be anything more than worth a knut. He had never spoken a word to her since then, and now six years later there she was sitting a few meters from him and he felt , for some reason he couldn't understand, compelled to speak to her – to hear her voice…
She was frowning a little and seemed to be deep in thought. Her eyes seemed to be fixed on her fingers as she idly rotated her glass. He noticed she hadn't even taken a sip and it was still full. There was something melancholy about her as the slow beats of the music washed over her. Her face seemed to be a bit pale and she was lightly chewing on her lower lip. He watched her, as though mesmerised. He suddenly felt the need to go up to her and he stood up without thinking, but at the same moment she had gotten up. As he stood still, he watched her make her way to the large glass doors to the side that led to the balcony of the sixteenth floor that they were on. He stood indecisively, then moved out from his table. His robes accidentally brushed against his flute and it tumbled onto the table, spilling its contents onto the pristine table cloth and staining his dark blue dress robes. He cursed under his breath and quickly took the napkins marked with 'The A. A' and proceeded to blot some of the spilled wine. Breathing out in frustration he took out his wand and wordlessly cleaned the mess. Thankfully his robes weren't damaged.
He made his way weaving through the tables towards the balcony. He didn't know what he would say to her but his feet refused to turn back, even as his heart seemed to beat an erratic rhythm, contrasting it to the music around him.
OoOoOoO
A/N : if anyone has read my bio, you'll know from where I got the inspiration for this fic.