Banquets for the Sacred Twenty-Eight were once exciting, but have long since worn off on Draco. He remembers his first banquet, when Mother spent hours dressing him in robes and Father lectured him on acceptable conversation topics. Although he now dresses himself, Father continues this tradition.
"If the Sterlings should decide to show, do not ask about Margaret-"
"Actually, that won't be necessary," Mother chimes in. "There's a rumor that Margaret Sterling has returned with a daughter in tow."
Father chuckles. "Has she managed a husband, or is the child a bastard?"
"Mrs Parkinson tells me the husband is deceased." Mother straightens out Draco's tie, fussing over him. "Don't ask about the husband, Draco."
"I won't," he promises, and disengages himself from her fretting fingers. "I'm going to floo now."
The table is long and arranged by alphabetical order. Draco sits by Mother, as usual, and rearranges the name cards so his right hand seat is for Theodore. Across from him, the Hufflepuff - Macmillan - keeps his gaze set firmly at his lap, trying his best to avoid Draco's eye.
"Alistair and Cordelia Nott," the doorman announces.
Theodore's mother is pretty enough for an old witch, although she has mousy hair that her son has unfortunately inherited. Alistair is another story: sweaty and overweight, his robes barely able to bundle him together, with a large hooked nose not unlike Professor Snape's. As soon as Theodore Nott's name is called, Draco sees him linger at the top of the stairs for a second before he catches his eye. He sits next to him and mutters something about Pansy, who later manages to squeeze herself only five seats away from Draco.
She had asked him to take her, but he'd ignored her owl. Escorting witches to Sacred banquets is a disastrous business; he'd have to find new robes that matched her dress or her eyes or some other nonsense. Pansy is, quite frankly, not worth the effort.
Before long there are only a few notable holes in the table: the Shacklebolts, likely doing business; the Weasleys, traitors to their blood and status; the Longbottoms, because their only son never did learn to run with the right crowd; Sirius Black, long since blasted off the family tree; and the Sterlings.
"Maybe Margaret is still in America and the entire family decided not to go out of shame," Theodore snickers, and Draco smirks.
He proves himself wrong not ten seconds later, when the doorman announces the arrival of the oldest Sterlings. The entire banquet is watching out of the corner of their eyes, awaiting one - no, two - supposed arrivals. Several Sterlings come and go, including one of his housemates.
"Garrick Sterling."
Draco tries not to look away in disgust, but fails. Garrick is short and scrawny, with buzzed hair and a bulbous nose. He seems to have taken the worst qualities of his parents and combined them to spawn a truly hideous excuse of offspring. More Sterlings come and go, until one name catches his interest.
"Margaret Sterling."
A low murmur ripples through the table as a tall, skinny woman appears at the doorway. Her features are sickly stern and the trademark mustard yellow Sterling hair on her head is covered with a large hat. She wears a conservative dress the color of mud that matches her eyes, and surveys the room with a learned wariness. She looks like a Sterling, through and through; the years in America seems not to have changed her. Her heels clack against the wooden stairs.
"And now for the daughter," Mother murmurs, and Mrs Nott laughs in amusement.
"Vanessa Sterling."
Vanessa, Draco has time to think before she appears at the top of the staircase. For a second he thinks that Margaret must be playing a joke; Mrs Nott has gone silent.
Vanessa Sterling has long, wavy brown hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her skin is a healthy tint of gold, and the dress she is wearing is more of a gown: cut enough to almost be indecent, cinched at the waist and billowing out to the ground, rippling as she makes her way down the stairs.
Vanessa Sterling, the supposed bastard halfblood of the Sterling house, has decided to show to the banquet.
Draco has seen pretty girls, with both pure and tainted blood; he has never seen a girl like her anywhere. She is absentmindedly smiling, unaware of the uncharacteristic silence from the banquet.
"It's safe to say she takes after her father," Aunt Bellatrix says loudly.
Amused, nervous titters escape their section of the table. Draco is still watching her as she descends the staircase and strides to the table. She walks like a cat, graceful and uncaring of her surroundings. When she gets to her chair, Garrick drops his napkin in haste as he prepares to pull it out for her. She puts a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down, and flicks her wrist easily. The chair slides out by itself, no wand in sight.
Next to him, Nott curses spectacularly. Draco feels an inkling of shock; wandless magic before Fifth Year? Impossible, and yet-
"Draco," Mother says with a knowing look, and he returns his attention back to Mr Ollivander, who asks about Quidditch.
He tells Mr Ollivander about his training, despite the Quidditch Cup from the year before being canceled due to the Triwizard Tournament. Despite it all, he cannot help but sneak looks at Vanessa Sterling, who is currently talking to Slughorn with a lovely smile on her face.
After the banquet is over, the tables fold themselves away, and Draco ponders how he can go see if Vanessa Sterling is as perfect up close as she is far away. In his experience, there are no completely attractive faces; there is always a flaw. He himself finds his own nose spreads just a centimeter or so too large for his liking when he smiles.
"I'm talking to her. Distract Pansy," Draco hisses to Theodore, staring at Rosier. Due to his unfortunate luck in having the letter R quite close to S, Rosier has been able to make eyes at Vanessa all evening.
"Hello, Professor Slughorn," Draco greets, effortlessly digging his elbow into the soft flesh of Rosier's stomach and allowing himself into the tight circle. To his satisfaction, the other boy leaves. "Have you ever considered returning to your teaching position? Although Snape is not unskilled, your classes were much more compelling."
Slughorn gives him a gummy smile. "I find my position of retirement to my liking. I was just talking to Essa about the potion skill of Indigenous peoples. Ilvermorny is quite different from Hogwarts in several ways. I find it fascinating."
A bit surprised by her nickname, Draco turns to her, extending his hand in a practiced, casual manner. "I don't suppose I've introduced myself. I'm a Malfoy, you see. Draco Malfoy."
She gives him a grin, flashing white teeth. "Essa Sterling." She hesitates for just a fraction of a second before her last name, so quick that he almost misses it; he folds this information away in the corner of his mind. She is tall enough that he does not have to look down very much, a feat that few accomplish. Her hand is cool in his.
"Do you go to Hogwarts? I'll be a Fifth Year in September."
Her American accent peeks out more and more as she continues speaking. He's heard of American accents, but has never experienced one in real life. He finds it odd, but intriguing. As she speaks, he notes of her freckles, likely the effect of spending too much time in the sun. Perhaps she plays Quidditch as well. He affirms to her question, informs her that he will also be a Fifth Year, and smoothly inquires her to as if she will try out for the Quidditch team.
"I want to try out for Seeker," she says, and he barely refrains himself from smirking in amusement. He supposes the old saying is right: it is impossible to find a woman with both brains and beauty.
"Please excuse me saying so, but I don't believe that is possible," he tells her. "I am the Slytherin Seeker. However, there are two openings for Beaters."
"The positions don't reopen every year?"
"No," he says. "And I don't believe that you are suited to be a Beater."
"I've been a Seeker back in America since I was eleven," she says, and he is vaguely impressed. She does not speak of this as an accomplishment, rather stating it as a fact, and he is even more intrigued.
"The student that has accomplished this feat in Hogwarts currently has a father that serves as the Quidditch referee. Gryffindor, too."
She blinks those large, glittering eyes at him. "Slytherin and Gryffindor don't get along," she notes.
"You would be safe in your assumptions. Have you been sorted into Slytherin yet?"
"Not yet; I'll be sorted when school starts. Why are you so sure that I'm going to be a Slytherin?"
"You're a Sterling," Draco says impatiently. She is American, after all; she will learn.
Her eyes narrow just a bit and her smile slips slightly. Before he can think about the meanings for too long, she turns back to Slughorn, who is watching with an indulgent expression.
"Professor Slughorn, what is your experience towards those in different houses?"
For several minutes Draco attempts to chime in with his own thoughts and control the discussion, and Essa always offers him a few statements or opinions. However, she always returns to Slughorn, asking more questions, ignorant of the fact that he is an actual student and can answer with far more credibility.
Disgruntled, he leaves as soon as Mother touches his elbow instead of politely excusing himself. The second his feet land in the Malfoy's fireplace, his parents have their attention on him.
"What do you think of the Sterling girl?" Father asks. "Margaret offered her hand in marriage after the banquet, but I wasn't sure of her blood status nor her behavior. The Sterlings are a powerful family and a union would be beneficial; I, however, do not wish to risk our standings."
Draco thinks. His heir will certainly be fine on the physical aspect, with both his face and Essa's, and Essa is obviously an upgrade from Pansy, his current assumed betrothed. Pansy's eyes and mouth are passable, but her hair and nose are more than a bit undesirable.
"Her conversation is a bit dull," he remarks, "all she wished to do was talk about was Potions with Professor Slughorn, even after I openly expressed my disinterest."
Mother sniffs. "Her blood is clean enough. I heard that her father was from a famous American family, although it's curious she takes her mother's surname. We'll have to make sure she's not a bastard."
"I'll talk to her when our families convene." Draco hesitates before continuing. "She seems too nice to be a Pureblood." It would truly be a shame if her blood was anything but pure - a waste of both her physical beauty and surname.
Father sneers. "It would be in your favor to discipline her, else she might end up as a Hufflepuff."
What a truly abhorrent thought.
"She will learn, Lucius," Mother says, touching his arm in an effort to console him. "She didn't grow up in the healthiest of households, I remind you." Her tongue clucks in pity. "To be raised away from other Purebloods and neglected of her own culture… it's a miracle she even managed to survive at the banquet."
"The other girls will take her under their wings," Draco says, pushing away the thought of Essa swathed in yellow and black. "I'll make sure of it."
"Perhaps a bit of Slytherin influence over the summer is all she needs to be sorted into our house. Malfoys do not marry Hufflepuffs. Look at me, son." Father says, gripping his son's chin and lifting it so their eyes meet. Draco looks up into his father's face, so like his own, and struggles not to tear his gaze away. Lucius's voice lowers. "It does not matter how beautiful the girl is. If she is sorted into Hufflepuff, she will never be your wife."
"She won't be. Essa is very cunning," Draco lies smoothly.
She always returns to Slughorn, asking more questions, ignorant of the fact that he is an actual student and can answer with far more credibility.
She will never make it in Slytherin at this rate. She will be crushed underneath her obliviousness towards society's mannerisms. Without the guidance of his Pureblooded circle, she will crash and burn. If they get started soon, she has a better chance at survival.
Perhaps Father ignores the coolness in his expression, for his fingers release their bruising grip and return to his staff. "Very well, son. Do not forget that the Malfoy legacy rests on your shoulders. You are excused."
Draco bids his parents good evening with a bow, eager to abandon the conversation..