Erloyha! i got a bit impatient waiting for 60 reviews on my other story...so i wrote this just now. Just a little look on Draco as a kid, before and after a Christmas social. Enjoy:)
Draco made a face in the mirror. His mother had dressed him in the foulest of dress robes, with frills and lace—the hideous works. At least it was traditional black and white, or he would have gone starkers, he would have.
Narcissa Malfoy was, as usual, hosting her traditional uppity Christmas social, for the high-society purebloods. Draco was, as usual, dreading it.
Every year he and Blaise tried to worm their way out of it, by claiming to be sick, or injured, or by hiding. They were always found out, dressed like a doll in revolting robes, and dragged to the social for all the pureblood women to pinch their cheeks and plant sloppy, lipstick-y kisses on them.
A house-elf materialized in his room.
"Mistress would like to remind Young Master that the guests will be arriving soon, and that if the Young Master tries to hide in the cellar again he'll lose his broom for a week."
Draco gave a small nod to the terrified creature. After it vanished he cast one last glance at his reflection.
His platinum-blonde hair was slicked back in that way his mum liked, and he despised. He resisted the urge to ruffle it up, the way he liked it, because he knew his mum would hate it.
His posture was slouched, as he was pouting. He straightened his spine and practiced his perfect smile. The smile that trademarked him as a Malfoy, the highest of the high-society.
He was frustrated. He couldn't get his eyes to cooperate. Everything about him portrayed him as the ideal pureblood son, the revered Malfoy heir. His robes, his stance, his smirk—everything but his stubborn eyes.
He rather liked his eyes. They were a nice grey color, like the color of the pond in the gardens right after it rained.
They gave accurate ideas of his mood, when he let them. Though sometimes he could command them, tell them to remain a cool, protective wall, masking his emotions, and leaving the commanding Draco Malfoy on the surface.
It was a skill that had taken him many years to learn, and he had yet to completely master it. Many times he thought he had it down, and then he'd trip up and lose his control.
Yes, his eyes were stubborn. They were free, which Draco found rather ironic, seeing how trapped and restricted he himself was.
The house-elf appeared again. "Mistress would like Young Master to come to the ballroom immediately."
It disappeared again. Draco hated it when they did that—appear, give their message, and then pop away, before you could clarify.
He sighed and ran a hand over his unnaturally smooth, slicked back hair. He hoped Blaise was down there to suffer with him.
Draco stood before his bathroom mirror, furiously rubbing at his face with his monogrammed washcloth. The lipstick stains were visibly gone, but he could still feel them creeping on his delicate skin. He wouldn't be surprised if a bright red rash appeared on his pale skin tomorrow morning. It had happened before.
Blaise hadn't been there. The lucky bastard had managed to convince his mother that he really was sick, with a terrible cough, and the worst rash along his entire leg. He had probably faked the cough, and rubbed the poison ivy—which, you should know, Draco had given him, from the Malfoy gardens—to get the rash.
Draco was not only mad that Blaise had left him to survive the night alone, but that he had stolen his idea. The poison ivy was Draco's idea, it was his ivy.
Ah, well. He would get him back when it was time for the Parkinson's annual Easter banquet.
The evening hadn't even been torturous, really. Just boring, and rather predictable.
These things always went the same way—the guests would show up, his mother and father would preen and make ridiculous toasts, then it would be socializing time. His mother would parade Draco around to all the pureblood ladies, where he would get complimented and kissed, and he was expected to smile and nod and make witty comments for the women to laugh at. His mother and Mrs. Parkinson would mention how one day he and Pansy would make a wonderful match. Draco would try his hardest(and occasionally fail) to not retch at the idea.
Then it would be his father's turn. Lucius would keep a hand on his son's shoulder at all times, keeping him in front. The men would talk about Ministry happenings, and recent Quidditch results. They would mock the lower-class witches and wizards. His father would talk to the men about Draco making a fine School Governor one day, just like Lucius himself. Draco didn't want to be a Governor. He wanted to play Quidditch. But he mentioned this once, and all the men began to give him reasons why Quidditch was not a real career. Apparently it had no power in it.
At some point he had learned to stay silent when with his father and his acquaintances.
Draco knew exactly who he had to be at his parents' social gatherings—the perfect heir, the perfect son. Draco Malfoy, the epitome of a high-society pureblood son.
When he was alone, in his room, like now, he wasn't sure what he should be. Sometimes he was the Quidditch player in training, zooming around on his broomstick, diving and soaring. Other times he was the schemer, creating plans with Blaise, trying to escape whatever was on the social agenda that day. Or he was the scholar. He would never admit it, but he loved books. He loved the knowledge, and the true power he got from learning something new. He tried to play it down, but he was incredibly excited for Hogwarts. He knew all the book facts; he wanted to learn the practical skills.
Tonight he was Draco Malfoy, exhausted boy. Exhausted from pretending, and acting, and his cheeks ached from smiling his perfect smile for so long. His bed looked so inviting...
As he snuggled into his green silk sheets, he stared out the window at the moon. He wondered what it might be like to touch the moon...
While he slept he became Draco Malfoy, little boy dreamer.
Hope you liked it:)