The sallow face that stared out of the mirror would have frightened Draco Malfoy several years ago. He would have been horrified that he had allowed himself to reach such a state, mortified that he had gone out in public in such a state, and terrified at what his father would do to him for being in such a state. Now, however, five years after the end of the war, he couldn't be bothered to care. He knew he had to, knew he had to look presentable, knew he had to be more stately than he felt, but he just couldn't muster the energy to care about how he looked. He went through the motions of shaving, making sure he'd done the job right, and went through the motions of braiding his hair the way he did on days he actually felt like being alive. When his hair was braided, he looked back into the mirror. Clean-shaven and with his hair away from his face, he didn't look quite so haggard, but he still had dark purple bags under his eyes, and a frown that seemed to be frozen in place where he used to be able to smirk and sneer.
"What have the years done to me?" he said aloud, and jumped at the sound. He hadn't meant to speak. The words had just come out accidentally. He sighed, thought for a moment, and decided that since he hadn't put on his dress robes yet, it was alright for him to curl up in a ball on the floor and try not to lose it. He hated the times when he had comparatively little to do other than think, because those were the times he usually fell apart. After about a half an hour of near-hyperventilation, he dragged himself up off the floor and looked in the mirror again, thinking how he could cover up the bags under his eyes. He settled for a muggle cover-up, not feeling it was worth it to use magic to cover up the purple discoloration. That done, he made his way to his bedroom, where his deep emerald dress robes hung, perfectly pressed and ready to be worn. He slowly changed into them, being careful to do each button slowly, so that his hands wouldn't shake. His hands tended to shake when he was feeling like this. Because of his care, it took far longer than it should have to finally get the dress robes on. He left the bathroom and went to the staircase in the lavishly green parlor, assuming a haughty air with only a slight bit of difficulty as he descended the stairs to the potions shop beneath his flat.
The potions shop was simple but elegant, with dark hardwood flooring and a pale green patterned wallpaper, though the latter was barely visible from all the shelves against the walls. Each of the shelves was filled with various ingredients for potions, most of them common. There were some rarer ingredients, but these were in the locked cupboard behind the simple wooden counter, only to be taken out by Draco himself per a customer's request, to prevent theft. There were a few display tables, arranged strategically on the floor of the shop, with some simple, ready-made potions on them. Some of these simpler potions could be used as bases for other potions, which was the entire reason for Draco's selling them. Most shops would just trust the customer to make the base potions themselves, but Draco had found that there was a high demand for these ready-made potions. As he walked through the shop in his dress robes, looking over his various wares, the ghost of a smile stole onto his face. The shop was his pride and joy, his prized accomplishment. It was something that was entirely his, something nobody could take from him. Being inside of it always made him feel better, if only for the span of time during which he was there. He ran his fingertips over the polished wood of one of the display tables and finally made his way to the door, unlocking it to let himself out and locking it again once he was outside. The ghost of a smile disappeared as soon as he was outside the shop, and he took a deep breath to steel himself before apparating as close to the ball as he could get. People were already inside, of course, and other people were arriving around him in much the same fashion as he himself had arrived. Draco started to walk towards the entrance, not bothering to put on a smile until he was close enough to smell the champagne being served inside and the multitude of overapplied perfumes and colognes within.
"What is a Death Eater doing here?"
"Why did he even bother showing his face? It's a lost cause."
"I think it's admirable what he's trying to do, even if there's no chance in all the world he'll succeed."
"How did he even manage to get an invitation? He can't possibly have made a contribution. He's a Death Eater!"
Draco let these comments and others slide past him as he entered the ballroom, nodding and smiling to those who deigned him civilized enough to greet. He was used to such cold greetings. The Dark Mark on his arm may have been covered, but everyone in the room still knew who he was and what his family had done. It was part of the reason he was there: He wanted to better his family's reputation through his own. He wasn't like his family. He felt guilty, too, for what all of Voldemort's supporters had done, and he wanted to help as much as he possibly could. He had, in fact, donated to the organization for which the ball was being held, and they had sent him an invitation as thanks for his donation, albeit grudgingly, as a separate note carried by the same owl had noted. Draco recalled having received a Howler from his father over that. He looked around at the general splendor of the place – three crystal chandeliers, two smaller and one larger, hung from the ceiling, and opulent curtains were drawn back from intricate French windows. A set of doors opened onto a garden, and Draco could see roses near the doors. It was sure to be a beautiful garden. Each table had an enchanted crystal centerpiece that danced around the pristine tabletops, smiling at and interacting with all those seated around them. There was an orchestra made up of nothing but enchanted instruments playing themselves, and in front of the orchestra, an expanse of empty floor for those inclined to do so to dance.
Draco took all of this in as he talked as pleasantly as he could manage to the few people open-minded enough to talk to him. He scanned the guests, too, noting the abundance of Ministry officials. The Minister for Magic was there, and Draco recognized much of the jury from his father's trial. There were Aurors, of course, and others from the Auror Department, mostly chatting amongst themselves. So many important people were scattered throughout the ballroom it was impossible to see them all, but one person in particular caught Draco's eye and wouldn't let the blonde look away. Even from the distance Draco was at, he could see the green eyes clearly, and the dark, messy hair, and the distinctive glasses.
Sitting miserably across the ballroom, as if he wanted nothing to do with the place, was one Harry James Potter, and Draco couldn't drag his eyes away.