Draco Malfoy adjusted his tie as he walked into the drawing room where his mother was fussing over last-minute preparations for the afternoon social gathering. His nose wrinkled as he took in the decorations, annoyed by his required attendance. An entire afternoon spent tittering amongst the Wizarding world's most elite family patriarchs and their wives was not on his list of enjoyable ways to spend his summer. He knew why he had to, of course. His father was out of the house on business and thus unable to attend. Draco was the Malfoy heir, and already fifteen years old—too old to get away with merely making an appearance before being dismissed to play quietly in the yard like when he was younger.
At the sound of his approach, his mother spun to face him.
"Draco!" She took in his slim-tailored black suit and smiled brightly. "You look so handsome, my love." She crossed over to him, brushing her fingers over his shoulders and smoothing down his jacket. "So very grown up."
He sucked in a deep breath, suppressing his frustration for his mother's sake. "How long is this expected to last?" he asked, fidgeting with his tie again. He had been tying a Half Windsor since he was eleven, but never a Trinity knot.
"A few hours," she answered, swatting his fingers aside to straighten the silk. "You'll greet the guests, converse awhile, take tea, and then you may be released. It will be over before you know it." She tightened his tie and plucked a single blond hair off his collar. "You might even enjoy yourself. Amaris Grey will be coming."
"Who?" The question tumbled out without thought, but the answer came to him as soon the word left his lips. Grey. He never called her by her first name and had momentarily forgotten it. She was a student at Hogwarts, in his year, a Hufflepuff, and ran in the same social circles as Potter. They were not exactly friends.
"Sagun Selwyn's niece," his mother answered, oblivious to his revelation. "You used to play together when you were children."
Once. They had played together one summer when he was eight. The Greys and the Malfoys had been friends, the former being avid travelers who had convinced his family to join them that year. They spent several weeks vacationing together in Ireland. As both he and Amaris were the only children, they had taken their adventures together. It was so long ago that he had completely forgotten about it.
It had been a fun summer. Everyone had enjoyed the time together. Why had they stopped?
His mother's smile faltered right as the answer hit him. Grey's parents had died while traveling in India. An accident, they'd said. Grey was only nine.
"It will be lovely to see her again," his mother said, bringing him out of his thoughts, "after all this time." She gave his jacket a final sweep of her fingers and took a step back. "She was always a darling child."
He considered telling her that Grey wasn't so darling anymore. She may be a Pureblood, but she shared none of his parents' values regarding blood status—not with the Mudbloods running around her social circle. Why would she be coming anyway? None of his friends were coming. The party was for adults. He expected to be the only young wizard in attendance and purely in place of his father. But Grey would be there? It didn't make sense.
"Why is she coming?" he asked, but a gentle bell tinkled throughout the hall, announcing the first of the guests had arrived, and his mother swept from the room. Draco swept his fingers through his hair and followed begrudgingly.
They greeted one guest after another as the witches and wizards drifted from the grand entry hall into the drawing room, sipping wine and brandy and nibbling on finger foods made available by the house elves. Draco smiled, shook hands, kissed knuckles, fielded compliments, and doled them out, as was expected. Inside, he groaned. Beside him, his mother beamed.
After nearly an hour, Draco wondered how much more of this he was expected to tolerate. He was bored, tired of standing, his face hurt from smiling, and he was hungry, having not had a single bite to eat all day. Not to mention, he felt a bit like a dressage horse on display, performing tricks just to show the clapping masses that he could.
When his mother left his side, he sighed imperceptibly in relief. There were still guests they hadn't greeted, but it seemed he was being released from his post. Shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, he glanced around, eyeing the crowd milling about the foyer, when suddenly a couple shifted and all of the air seemed to be sucked out of the room.
Amaris Grey stood beside her uncle, a picture of perfection. Small and slim, she wore a simple, light gray dress that hugged her torso and flounced in an arch around her knees, the back of the dress long enough to tickle her shapely calves. The sleeves were tight on her thin arms, highlighting delicate wrists, while the wide neckline was high enough to hide any cleavage but reveal dainty collarbones. Her white-blond hair fell to her mid-back and curled at the ends, and her light-colored eyes looked out from under the barest hint of make-up. Even that alabaster skin, which usually made her look sickly, now made her look like a marble statue.
Draco swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. He could feel an interest stirring below his belt. When the bloody hell had she started looking like that? Their Hogwarts robes certainly hadn't hinted at such a figure. He tried to remember seeing her at the Yule Ball, but he just couldn't recall. Had she attended? Of course, she had. They all had. Who had she gone with? Did he know them? What had she worn? Had she looked like that?
Draco was moving before he realized it, moving toward her. She hadn't seen him yet. In fact, she stood very still, staring at the floor. He may have felt on display, but she most certainly was. From her straight posture and the gentle fold of her hands in front of her to her demure smile and silence, as she was not to speak until spoken to, she was the presentation of a perfect, Pureblood wife.
Wife. The realization nearly stilled his stride, but he recovered quickly and continued making his way toward her. It was all suddenly so clear. The reason for his attendance, the reason why she was here—his parents were shopping for his future wife. He knew his mother, at least, would never force him into anything. He was allowed to choose his wife, but this had absolutely been arranged for that purpose. They were meant to meet, to mingle, to see what connections might be made. He nearly scoffed. How would his parents react when he told them of how the last surviving Grey was a Muggle-lover? He didn't know what was funnier: the expressions they would wear when he told them or the ones they would make if he didn't.
"Grey," he said, and her gaze snapped up in alarm. He tried to recall all of the nasty things he had said to her over the last four years, but he couldn't think of a single one as he realized that, in spite of her ridiculous heels, he was still taller than her by almost a head. Not that he wasn't used to that. Draco, standing 183 centimetres, towered over most of the girls in his life. "Funny seeing you here."
"I was invited," she said quietly, her posture rigid as stone. There was nothing snarky or malicious in her voice.
Grey was a meek little thing, renowned for her kindness, for sweetness. At her worst, she remained civil, even when he was bullying her, a thing he did very little of. Not out of the kindness of his heart, of course, but because it was so bloody boring. And not just because she didn't fight back, but because she didn't show her weakness either. There wasn't a single tear. She just clammed up and walked away. It was like punching wet paper at the height of frustration—it just left you feeling unsatisfied and stupid.
"Calm down, Grey," he said. "I wasn't suggesting you were gatecrashing."
Just then, her uncle turned to him and smiled brightly.
"Draco!" he exclaimed enthusiastically, the brandy he clutched in his left hand already half-empty. He squinted, his eyes glittering mischievously, and shook his finger in the air. "Mr. Malfoy," he corrected himself, thrusting his right hand in front of him. "So good to see you."
"Mr. Selwyn," Draco greeted, giving his hand a firm shake. "It's wonderful to see you, sir. Welcome to our home."
"And what a lovely home it is. You know my niece, Amaris," he said, turning to the girl on his right, "from school."
"Of course," Draco replied, but before the conversation could go further, a man interrupted them, pulling Selwyn's attention away.
Draco looked at Grey, who stood stiff and stared at the floor. It was so strange to see her so aloof. At school, she was lively, usually had a smile on her face, was always laughing at something one of her idiot friends had said. This version of her was like a different person entirely. Like a statue. Did she know why she was here? Had she realized she was currently being marketed as a future wife for any one of these family's available son? For, quite possibly, him? Not that he would ever consider it, but it did make him want to tease her a bit.
"I suppose we should do this properly, then," he said, drawing her blue eyes to his. He offered her his hand. She stared at it as though he held out a viper. Oh, yes, he realized. She knew exactly why she was here. The only indication of her nervousness was in the shallow dip of her pale throat as she swallowed and then she placed her narrow hand in his. Her fingers were so thin, the touch so delicate, that he felt like he could break her if he wanted to. He knew the true strength of witches and wizards resided in their magical abilities, not their physical ones, but holding her small hand like this filled him with a sense of power. "Ms. Grey," he said as he bent to brush a kiss over her knuckles. "Welcome to my home."
Draco smirked as he stood upright, enjoying the flash of shock in her eyes. But like any properly trained Pureblood daughter, she just dipped into the shallowest of curtsies and lowered her head.
"The pleasure is mine," she said evenly, her hand still in his.
"Liar," he snorted, amused, and dropped her fingers, which she immediately snatched back to be folded in front of her. He shoved his hand back into his pocket in mild disappointment. The shock had been satisfying, but he had hoped for a stronger reaction. He was going to have to try harder. "You clean up well, Grey. I almost didn't recognize you."
It was a backhanded compliment if there ever was one, designed to both flatter and insult. By the look on her face, she knew it, too, but she gave him a polite smile anyway.
"That's very kind of you to say."
Draco almost laughed. He was going to have to try much harder. He took a single step closer to her, his tone dropping a decibel as he murmured, "I certainly could do worse for company." The surprise on her face lasted longer this time, but it wasn't nearly enough to satisfy him. "I meant it, you know." And he did. "You look stunning."
She blinked at him, still completely surprised, but there was a pink tint in her cheeks. He had never seen her blush before. He liked it.
"Do you know why it is that you're here, Grey?"
And there it was, the emotion he had been angling for. Fear. Raw and absolute. In her eyes, on her face, in the tensing of her entire body. It was so utterly gratifying. She looked like a gazelle who had wandered into a pride of lions. Vulnerable. He laughed and she looked away.
"That's a yes." He glanced around the room at the crowd, assessing his next move. He certainly didn't want to continue smiling at all of these people, feigning his pleasure, echoing false sentiments, and he didn't think she did either. He looked at her again. "Seeing as we're both trapped here for the afternoon, how about we agree to make the next few hours a bit more tolerable."
Her head angled in his direction but she didn't meet his eyes. "How do you mean?"
"We are classmates. I'm sure we can find something to talk about." He held out his arm. She eyed it apprehensively. "C'mon, Grey. If you agree to keep me from dying of smiling, I'll protect you from the unwanted advances of potential in-laws."
The look she gave him nearly stole his smirk—with a sort of sad reproach, as if there was no stopping the inevitable pain. But she took his arm anyway.
"I'm afraid you'll make this worse for me," she whispered and he tensed, borderline offended. Was she insulting him?
"And how will I do that exactly?"
"By being the Malfoy heir," she answered.
Oh… Draco's sneer dissipated. He knew what she was getting at, that being on his arm was as good as modeling her appeal, but she continued to explain as he guided her from the room.
"When they see me on your arm," she elaborated, "they will believe the Malfoys seek a union with the Greys and, instead of wondering what power and influence they might gain from such a match, they will become convinced of its significance and may try to make a match first."
"No one would dare cross my family," he told her. "If they think I intend marriage with you, they won't risk souring relations by attempting to poach my future bride."
"Such protection lasts only as long as the rumors."
"Your uncle will—"
"I doubt my uncle would turn down any match," she said, and there was something resigned in her voice, a truth between the lines. He knew immediately what it was that she wasn't saying: she was an unwanted responsibility that her uncle was ready to be rid of. Before he could comment—and he was struggling to find a response—she gasped. "What a lovely room."
He looked up to see they had come to the drawing room. "Mother outdoes herself every year," he said, but the drawing room was the grandest room of the house and made an impression no matter how it was decorated—today, in pale gold and white. Light music played, creating an elegant and airy ambiance.
"It's lovely," she said again, eyes bouncing from one corner to the next, up to the thirty-foot ceilings, and back down to the marble fireplace.
"Have you never been here before?" he asked, leading her across the room. He honestly couldn't remember if she had or not. He could only remember that one summer in Ireland.
"Once," she confessed, "a long time ago. But I only saw the sitting room."
"When was this?" he asked, stopping in a far corner where they could talk in relative peace.
"Six years ago."
He thought back but his mind was drawing a blank. "I don't remember at all."
"You wouldn't." She exhaled a breathy laugh. "You weren't there."
"Where was I?"
"In the garden, playing." She spared him the briefest of glances. "Your mother tried to send me out to you, but we couldn't stay. We were traveling that afternoon."
"Traveling? To where?"
"To India."
Shit. He looked down at her in morbid shock. He wasn't sure what expression he had anticipated—sorrow, tears even—but her face was so passive, it might have been carved from stone.
"I called out to you when we left," she continued, "but you didn't hear me. I wanted to wish you a happy birthday." A tiny smile quirked one corner of her lips. "I don't know why I remember that."
Draco was sure she remembered very clearly many details about that summer and every little event leading up to her parents' death. His mother had told him they had died in a traveling accident… He hadn't realized that Grey had been with them. What had happened to them? Had she witnessed it? How had she survived? But those weren't questions even he felt comfortable asking—no one would want to deal with the blubbering such an interrogation would incur—so he changed topics.
"You didn't this year either," he said.
"Didn't what?"
"Wish me a happy birthday."
Her blue eyes rounded in surprise and her lips parted to draw in a silent breath of shock. He could almost see the wheels in her head spinning, quickly recalling the date in question. He saw the moment she realized it was last week, the recognition that flashed in her eyes. He struggled not to smirk and, instead, pinned his eyebrows back expectantly.
"Well?" he snapped.
She shook her head as if admonishing herself. Then she angled her body toward his, laid her hand on his arm, and smiled sincerely. "Happy birthday, Draco," she said.
He nodded once as he scanned the room, as though the insult of her oversight was so beneath him that his forgiveness was hardly necessary, though most definitely required. He had seen his father do it a million times. She seemed to realize she had been dismissed because her hand left his arm, and he noticed only then how warm her touch had been.
"So where is it, then?"
"Where's what?"
He finally looked at her. "My present," he said, and amusement flickered over her face.
"What would you like?" she asked patiently, trying to hide her smile.
He briefly considered answering with something outrageous and impossible before his thoughts took a lewd turn. Such a request would certainly scandalize her and he was sure to enjoy the reaction, but then he might lose her company and he wasn't ready for that. So, he settled on the truth.
"I got everything I wanted, Grey," he said, "but if I think really hard, I'm sure I can come up with something before the day is up."
She nodded once, still that small smile on her lips, and turned toward the crowd. They stood quietly side by side, observing people socializing on the sidelines and couples dancing in the center of the room, until Draco could no longer stand the silence between them.
"Do you remember—"
"Amaris!" His mother's bright voice interrupted him as she swept through the crowd, smiling. She took Grey's hands in hers. "It's so wonderful to see you, my dear. You've become so beautiful, just like your mother."
Grey's smile became softer, sweeter than before. "Thank you," she breathed. "It's lovely to see you again, Mrs. Malfoy. It's been so long."
"Too long, my dear," his mother corrected her with a gentle shake of her hands, "and we mustn't let it continue this way. You simply must come more often." His mother released her hands only to briefly cup her cheek. "Oh, I'm so happy to have you here at last." She then turned her gaze on him and he nearly gulped at the meddlesome gleam in her eye. "Draco, my love, Amaris looks positively bored out of her mind. Don't be neglectful." She smiled. "Ask the lady to dance."
His mouth dropped open in protest but no words came out, too stunned to respond. His mother just kept smiling. How dare she force him into this? It wasn't even that he didn't want to, just that he would have preferred to make his own move.
"Oh, no, it's all right—" Grey started to say, but his mother shushed her with a wave of her hand.
"Don't be silly, my dear," she said. "It's a party, after all."
Draco nodded once to let her know that he understood but refused to act until she went away. She flashed another loving smile and slipped back into the crowd. Draco took a deep breath then eyed Grey, who was looking rather sheepishly at the wall. The way she stood so stiffly, her arms tucked in front of her as though trying to fold in on herself, was infuriating. Did she not want to dance with him? Was the idea really so revolting?
"You don't have to—"
"And disappoint mother?" he scoffed. "Not likely. Besides, it would be rude of me to neglect you when you seem so eager."
His lips lifted in a sneer as he offered her his arm. She grimaced but took it. He moved them to the edge of dancing couples, crushed her fingers in one hand, and gripped her waist in the other. It was so tiny beneath his palm that he hesitated ever so briefly. It was a simple touch, nothing less than what he had done last year at the Yule Ball, but with Grey, it somehow felt more intimate than it should. She wasn't any shorter than Pansy, but the two girls were built so differently. Grey was so thin, so delicate, breakable. It drew attention to their differences, heightened his awareness of his masculinity.
He cleared his throat and led her into a waltz. She followed easily. The subtle hint of her perfume was infuriatingly arousing. They didn't speak for an entire minute, as though it were a game to force the other to speak. He refused to break first, and he could only hope she was writhing in the awkwardness as greatly as he was, though he was careful not to let his discomfort show on his face.
"What were you going to ask me?"
"Hm?" He pretended to have been ignoring her out of spite, but for her or his mother, he wasn't sure.
"Before, you started to ask me a question when your mother came over and interrupted."
"Ah." He didn't immediately answer her, maintaining the façade that he was distracted just a little longer, as if whatever she wanted to discuss was not even remotely important to him. Finally, he gave her eye contact and found her brow furrowed in concentration but her eyes focused on his. He crumbled. "Do you remember that summer we spent in Ireland?"
"Of course," she said immediately. "How could I forget? We turned that glade into a Quidditch pitch and mum knitted us team scarves." There was tension in her voice, as though she struggled to keep her tone even. "And your father even enchanted those couch pillows to be the opposing team."
The memory floored him. He remembered their game but had completely forgotten his father's contribution to it. Forgotten how he had smiled, had laughed. When was the last time his father had smiled at him? Had laughed for any reason?
"I think I still have mine," she said, bringing him back into the present. "My scarf."
If he still had his, he had no idea where it was. He cleared his throat. "Did we play together much before that?"
"No, it was our first time." A cheeky smile briefly quirked her mouth. "I think so. I'm not sure I would remember if we shared a sandbox at four."
Draco smirked, conceding the point. He studied her then, took in the details of her face up close. She was really very beautiful… How had he not noticed before? And the way she moved was so graceful. She was a good dancer, a good partner—followed far better than Pansy had last year—and he was loath to admit he was enjoying himself. It irritated him to think she wasn't doing the same. He couldn't help but notice the tension in her brow, the downturn of her lips the moment the conversation dried up. She didn't want to be there with him like this and it chafed to know.
He squeezed her fingers and twirled her suddenly, hoping to catch her off-guard. It worked and she almost tripped. He caught her waist and her breathy gasp of surprise sounded more like a wince. That's when he noticed the tears in her eyes. He frowned, leading them into a turn, when suddenly she stumbled. She clutched his jacket, pulling him forward, and he had to yank her against him to keep them both upright.
"What the bloody hell was that?"
"I…I'm…so sorry," she stammered quietly. "The shoes, they're…they're new. I…"
"What…?"
Draco looked down at her feet and realized with a pang of horror that she was in pain. She hadn't wanted to dance not because it was him offering, but because her feet were in agony just standing there.
"Bloody hell," he grumbled, leading her off of the floor. Her whimper was only loud enough for him to hear. "Lean on me." He slipped his right arm around her waist and let her clutch his left, putting her weight on him as though he were a cane. She was so light that it took barely any effort at all for him to whisk her out of the drawing room, down the hall, and into the sitting room, which was thankfully empty. "Here." He eased her onto an ottoman.
"Thank you," she whispered then bent to undo a clasp on a heel. Her face wrinkled with pain as she eased it off. He could see harsh, red lines cutting across her feet and inwardly winced. He began pacing across the carpet as her thin fingers rubbed at her toes, thumb sliding across the deep impressions. "You've become quite a gentleman—"
"Surprised?" he snapped, running his fingers through his hair. Of course, his parents had raised him to be a gentleman. He always had been one. He just didn't show it to those who didn't matter. But Grey was a Pureblood witch, wasn't she?
"No, I only—"
Draco stilled. "Is that blood?" he interrupted her, noticing the dark stains on her fingers as they slid up the back of her heel. He knelt down and yanked her hand out of shadow. Her fingertips were glistening wetly with red. "You're bleeding. You idiot! Why would you wear new shoes to a party if this would be the result?"
Her mouth opened but words did not form and he knew then that she hadn't had a choice in the matter.
"Tippy," he snarled and their house elf popped into the room.
"Yes, Master! How might I—"
"She's bleeding."
Tippy took one look at Grey's bloody fingers and squeaked in shock. "Goodness! I'll be right back. Right back!" And she vanished again.
Draco reached for her second shoe but she tried to stop him. He held her wrist away from him, shooting her a warning glare, and then continued on to her shoe.
"Don't." She tried to stop him again but he held her fast. "Blood will get on the rug if I—"
"It's fine," he hissed, and removed the other shoe.
Tippy reappeared with a bowl of water and a stack of cloths. She cleaned Grey's hand and feet while Draco resumed his pacing. The clock on the mantle ticked thunderously. After dabbing on a healing salve, Tippy magicked the blood off of Grey's shoes.
"Can anything be done about them?" he asked. The elf gingerly picked one up and inspected it.
"I could dispose of it, if Master wishes."
"No!" Grey exclaimed, reaching for the shoe. Tippy eyed him and he shook his head. The elf relinquished the item.
"That will be all," he said and Tippy vanished. A stillness settled over the room save for the clock still ticking loudly. The room was dark, lit only by sunlight filtering in through the windows. Grey sat rigidly on the ottoman, staring at her feet. Draco stood across from her, staring at her.
"I appreciate your help," she said quietly. When he didn't respond, she continued. "We should probably return—"
"It's fine."
"Someone might think—"
"Drop the act, Grey." He shoved his hands into his pockets in frustration. "We go to school together. Do you think I don't know how you really are? Just quit pretending for five minutes. Merlin's sake, Grey, you're bleeding."
She met his eyes and, frowning, stared hard at him for a solid five heartbeats before all resistance seemed to flow out of her. Her shoulders slumped as she folded in on herself, grabbing up one foot with both hands and massaging it aggressively. She hissed through her teeth but kept working through the pain. He watched her, unable to look away. As though his eyes were chained to the movements of her fingers, as if the universe demanded he witness it.
"You always played a Seeker," she said, popping the bubble that had mesmerized him, "in our childhood games. And now you are one." She looked up at him right as he lifted his gaze to her eyes. "Will you pursue it professionally?"
Draco stared at her for a long moment. He always wanted to. It was his dream. But he had never told anyone that before… He wasn't good enough to go pro. He wasn't sure he ever would be. "Maybe," was all he said. "Why?"
She shrugged and switched to her other foot. Silence stretched between them again and Draco wanted to break it but he had no idea what to say. Seconds turned to minutes that counted higher and higher until Grey finally stood up.
"This room hasn't changed a bit," she said, slowly walking around. As she passed him, he couldn't help but notice how much shorter she was without those extra four inches. "It's just how I remember it as a little girl. If I turn around, I might see mother and father sitting just there," she pointed at the loveseat, "drinking tea."
Draco was surprised to find her smiling warmly. How could she be remembering this house so fondly? The only thing he could think of was that her parents were dead and it had happened just days after sitting in this room. He grappled for a response, for anything at all. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind, a memory that had only just resurfaced after being forgotten for nearly seven years.
"I remember your mother made the best scones," he said. "I always liked—"
"Apricot," she said with a smile. "I liked blueberry best, but…that summer, mom kept baking apricot scones. I was so annoyed with her that I confronted her and she told me that you liked apricot the best. When I asked her why that should matter when I was her daughter, she said that I got to eat her blueberry scones whenever I wanted at home but that you would only get them that summer, so it was only fair to bake your favorite."
Draco almost smiled. Mrs. Grey had been a warm, kind woman. He remembered that detail very well. Was that why her daughter was so infuriatingly kind, as well? She gazed at him, waiting for his response, but he said nothing.
"Are you looking forward to the start of term?"
"No," he snorted, but it was a lie. "I enjoy my leisure, Grey."
She sighed wistfully. "I am."
"Of course, you are," he muttered. "What's the matter? Don't know how to relax?" He was on the verge of some spicy comment about teaching her how when her shoulders drooped.
"I…I've had a tutor all summer," she admitted.
"A tutor?"
"She follows me everywhere, adjusts everything I say and do—" she motioned to the heels "—and wear. If I hold a spoon at the wrong angle! I'm a bit at my limit." When she suddenly looked at him, he went rigid, as though she might blame him as a potential suitor for her predicament. "Did you have to do it, too?"
"Do what?"
She motioned up and down. "The education. They turn you into a gentleman then teach you how to act like one."
He withdrew a single hand from his pocket to adjust his tie. "I've always been a gentleman, Grey," he said, then smoothed his hair back. "Good of you to finally notice."
He lost eye contact as she looked away, toward the window, but the light only served to highlight that she was blushing again.
"I suppose you've always fit the lifestyle. The look becomes you. The attitude, too, I suppose."
It wasn't quite the compliment he would've liked to hear—nothing as direct as "you're handsome"—but she was implying it in a roundabout way. He took a step toward her.
"And it doesn't suit you, is that what you're saying?" Before she could respond, he added, "Because I think it does."
He stood next to her, shoulder to shoulder—shoulder to bicep was more accurate—and glanced down at her. She was still pink in the cheeks. He looked out the window, squinting against the light, and took in the familiar, green gardens.
"This is strange," she said, and it was as though she had plucked the words right out of his head. "We've hardly spoken in six years and, in our limited interactions, you've made it perfectly clear that you dislike me. It was just one summer…"
She trailed off, but he knew what she meant. It was one summer and so long ago that it shouldn't matter against their last four years forgetting the other existed and his occasional taunting her, but there was a familiarity between them that seemed just as valid as all of the reasons why they should feel like adversaries.
And yet standing together, he was keenly aware of too many facts: that he found her social choices annoying, that he found her personality as insufferable as he found it pleasant, that they had had fun together that long-ago summer, that they weren't children anymore, that she was beautiful, that he had enjoyed dancing with her, that he shouldn't be feeling that way at all about a bleeding heart Hufflepuff.
Gods, her perfume was intoxicating—a woman's scent, not a little girl's. Was that her tutor's doing, too, or had Grey picked it out? Not that he would ever again be close enough to her to find out…
"We should go back," she said suddenly. He looked at her but she was eyeing the door nervously. "Someone might think—"
"What?" he drawled. "That I'm violating your honor? Keep your dress on, Grey. We're not there yet."
Her blue eyes went wide, the red in her cheeks deepening, and anger flashed across her face. He smirked. She ripped away from his side.
"I'm going back," she said, picking up her shoes.
"Not in those," he said, but she ignored him, bending to put them on. He snatched one out of her hand. "I said no."
"Give me my shoe—"
"You aren't wearing these," he said.
He didn't know why he was insisting. She was being stupid, it was true, and he wasn't going to allow her to hurt herself. But why? Concern for her well-being? Maybe a little, but it wasn't entirely that. It was the "not going to allow" part that truly stirred him up. He had always liked having control, and he liked this control he had over her now. There was nothing she could do to stop him, either. She was too small, too delicate to defy him.
"Give me the shoe, Malfoy," she exclaimed, and his surname in place of his given name, which she had used freely before, was the final straw.
"No," he said and snapped the heel clean off. The look on her face was exquisite. "Tippy." The house elf reappeared. "Get Ms. Grey some slippers."
The house elf vanished and reappeared moments later with a pair of thin, silk, soft-soled shoes that reminded him of ballet slippers. Grey numbly lifted her foot when Tippy tapped her ankle and she gently placed them on her feet. When Tippy vanished, the silence was deafening.
"Clean your face, Grey," he commanded her when he saw a single tear on her cheek, "or they really will think the worst."
She obediently crossed to a mirror and wiped her cheeks, smoothing out her make-up until it was as pristine as before. He offered her his arm, fully expecting her to refuse it, and was pleased when she took it. He led them back to the drawing room. They hadn't gone two feet before her uncle appeared.
"Amaris!" he exclaimed. "Where have you been?"
"My shoes," she began quietly, but she didn't finish the sentence, didn't know how to explain without seeming ungracious to their host. Her uncle looked scandalized when he saw her feet.
"What did you do?" he asked, accusation heavy in his tone.
"I broke them," Draco answered, affecting as bored a manner as he could manage. He didn't bother to explain how or why and knew Mr. Selwyn would assume it was an accident.
"Oh," the man sputtered in surprise.
Before anything else could be said or any conclusions drawn, Draco shook the man's hand. "Mr. Selwyn," he said as a farewell, his voice tight with annoyance. Then he turned to Grey, slipped his arm around her waist, leaned in, and lightly kissed her cheekbone. "Amaris," he said and the word felt strange on his tongue. "See you at school."
And then he extracted himself from the family as quickly as possible, disappearing into the crowd without a single glance back.
Draco didn't really understand what had transpired between them or why until, later that night, when he was lying in bed nursing a lingering regret that he hadn't claimed a kiss for a birthday present, he realized that he had been attracted to her. But what was so wrong about that? He was a healthy teenage boy and she had filled out quite nicely over the summer. It was completely normal, so why did he feel guilty about it? Like it was a dirty, shameful secret he had to keep hidden? Perhaps it was because he had enjoyed spending time with her. But that had been the point, hadn't it? To stave off boredom with someone his own age. So why was he so put out that his plan had worked?
Because he was positive the feeling wasn't mutual. She had been miserable the whole time—how could she not have been?—and it had scandalized her when he had implied he might later remove her clothes, hurt her feelings when he broke her ridiculous shoes, and appalled her when he bossed her around.
Good, he thought. He had been angling for a reaction and he had gotten it. If she had been offended, it was no less than she deserved.
But then one week later, an unfamiliar owl arrived at the manor carrying a small package addressed to him with a note that read, "Happy birthday, Draco." He opened it to find a bundle of freshly baked apricot scones. He grinned.
They tasted even better than he remembered.
Author's Note: I'm new to the Harry Potter fanfiction community so please go easy on me! The title is...a work in progress. I had no idea what to call it. It's still "Untitled" on my HDD. Honestly, I'm not actually sure where I'm going with this story, what my goals are. I never much cared for Draco Malfoy as a character. I usually go for antagonists, but not one whose sole role in the story is to be humiliated year after year, which seems to be Draco's lot in life. And then he hits 6th year and gets all angsty and interesting, but it never goes anywhere properly because, well, the books weren't about him. I sort of accidentally challenged myself to peer into his character to see if I could make myself like him, so here we are. I wrote this scene to see what it might look like for Draco to socialize with someone. We don't get to see much of that. However, imagining him as a person that exists outside of confrontations with Harry was a bit challenging... I hope I did the character justice. By the way, his father's "business" is at the Riddle house getting orders from Voldemort about obtaining the prophecy.
Amaris Grey is a character I created for the Harry Potter universe over a decade ago. I didn't intend for a blond-haired, pale-skinned character to be paired with another blond-haired, pale-skinned character... I even toyed with altering her looks but I just couldn't imagine her differently. Sorry.
The name Tippy was one I saw in another HP fanfiction and I thought it was so cute that I stole it! I don't remember the story or author, sadly, but I wanted to fess up that it was not my idea.
