AN: HA! I told you. :D So I intended this chapter to include Harry's perspective but I promised I'd have it up by tonight so it's uh, just Draco thinking you get to hear. I think it's kind of cool that way, though. Cause see, I know what Harry is thinking but you don't. You'll have to wait for next chapter! Hahaha. I'm in a good mood.
WARNING: If you read the first chapter for I put up, go back and read it again. It's no longer a chapter, it's an author's note. THIS is chapter four. But I'm going to refer to it as chapter five cause otherwise I'll get confused. So this is actually chapter five, and chapter four was an author's note. ... Cause that's less confusing and all. ;]
ALSO I DON'T OWN THIS STUFF OK? JK ROWLING DOES (lucky ho)
Draco had woken up before sunrise. Practice started at eight in the morning and it was imperative that he be totally prepared and presentable. Not only would he be facing certain… persons of past significance, as it were, but he would be representing the Malfoy family to all of England. Though the Malfoys had come a long way since the war, they still received mixed public opinion at best.
His family had come a long way indeed. He shivered inwardly while practicing a look of complete and total detachment. It was nothing like it had been in the first few years after the war. He had not been able to go out in public without people jeering or spitting or throwing hexes. His father had been forced to put up wards to keep owls away- they had been receiving too many howlers and death threats and cursed envelopes for their own safety.
Only time and many very charitable donations had helped put the public at ease. His father was no longer involved in politics, and instead spent most of his time in France with Narcissa. Draco remained in England year around running the Manor and playing quidditch. It had always been a dream of his to be a professional Seeker, but for a time it seemed he would have to give it up and study potions instead. It was a frustrating few years in which team owners and coaches were so distracted by the pale hair and smooth, pointed features that they did not see the talent.
Not that there was anything wrong with his pale hair and smooth, pointed features.
Draco smiled into the mirror, getting his hair to fall just so about his eyes.
It had been nothing more than sheer luck that finally got him on a team, as much as Draco was loathe to admit it. An old friend of Lucius had purchased a small time team with more losses than fans and had been more than willing to take Draco on.
It was not long before people remembered him for his skill and not merely his past.
And now he was going to play the World Cup.
A part of him still couldn't believe it- it was an incredible honor for someone with his shambles of a reputation. He was sure that he wouldn't be the most popular player on the team (at least not at first), and that didn't bother him. He was used to being counted guilty by association.
However, if he was going to be honest with himself, he was nervous about seeing Potter again and for more than just the fact that they hadn't gotten along in school. Potter had seen Draco at his worst- he had seen Draco amongst Death Eaters. He had heard Hermione tortured in Draco's own home.
And Potter didn't even know the worst. He didn't even know how Draco had stood, trembling, wand drawn and pointed at Albus Dumbledore, and intended to cast the killing curse.
How Dumbledore had offered Draco a choice, a way out of the madness he had fallen into, and how Draco hadn't been strong enough to take it.
The Malfoy heir suddenly could not meet his eyes in the mirror. When he finally brought himself to look, his face was drawn and his expression haunted.
He covered it beneath a look of ice and shamelessness that he truly didn't feel.
He tried not to think about the past, most days. He tried not to dwell on his mistakes; he tried to forget the horrible things that he had done to people. He tried to forget how relieved he felt when he was behind the Crucio and not the target. Thinking about it just left with a sour taste in his mouth and a deep seated self-disgust.
And he was afraid that, when he finally saw Harry Potter for the first time in years, the past would be all he could think about.
Draco smoothed out his quidditch robes (they were the same terrible blue from last year) and prepared to apparate the quidditch pitch. He would deal with Potter when the moment came. He would deal with his stinging pride (it was an honor to be on the team, but as an alternate?), and he would deal with his past. Just so long as he was polite he doubted Potter could say anything so terrible.
Not that it mattered what Potter thought, Draco amended. Not that he cared. Draco chewed on his lip thoughtfully. He shouldn't care. Why would he care? He shook his head and apparated to the field an hour and a half early.
He was the only one there, as he had hoped.
He tossed his bag to the ground after charming it to be inconspicuous and mounted his broom. He would watch the players arrive from the safety of the sky. It would give him a chance to observe his teammates, identify potential allies, and choose the opportune moment to 'arrive.'
It was a full hour before a young brunette sauntered onto the pitch. He had delicate, almost angelic features and carried a beater's bat. It must be Zachary Fray, then, the Beater.
Zachary Fray came from a pureblood mother who had, much to the dismay of her family, married a half-blood man with little wealth or intelligence. It was a waste of a bloodline. Had she married a pureblood their offspring would have been suitable for marriage into the Malfoy line.
Fray himself didn't seem particularly interesting. He had a pretty face, but it was a common sort of pretty that was too feminine to be properly attractive. He sat down on the pitch and didn't move once until the rest of the players began trickling in.
Second was the other beater, Gardenia Jones. She was a stocky, muscular woman with a loud rasping voice and a crass air. She was a nobody as far as bloodline went and Draco didn't feel like wasting time watching her.
As a matter of fact, only a few of the players seemed worth forming friendships with. Namely Edric Trumeau, who came from a French pureblood family with incredible political influence, and Liliana Porter, whose family was of smaller consequence but who was reputed to be both charming and cuttingly intelligent.
And, of course, Harry Potter, whose reputation and influence alone could improve circumstances for the Malfoys greatly should he choose to associate with them. Draco frowned, blowing on his fingers, which were starting to go numb. Unfortunately, Harry Potter was not a possibility.
It was now a few minutes before practice should have started and it seemed that the entire team had congregated below. Draco landed his broom at the edge of the field with no one noticing. He had mastered the art of deflecting attention in the first few months after the war. It had been necessary then, and it was still useful now.
The rest of the team was already caught up in a lively conversation in which Potter seemed to play a key role. Though he should have introduced himself then, Draco couldn't bring himself to attract Potter's attention. It was embarrassing, this hesitation, and not something he would ever admit to. He pretended instead to be perfectly nonchalant and above such petty things as friendly chatter. In truth, he hadn't even summoned up the courage to look at Potter. It was ridiculous and childish and he couldn't bring himself to act any other way.
All too soon, however, he lost the chance to make the first move in introducing himself. A woman with pale, calculating green eyes was focused on Draco quite intently. The moment she realized that Draco was watching her as well, the calculating expression melted away in favor of an open and friendly look that didn't fool Draco for a heartbeat.
She was beautiful, and if the way she carried herself was any indication, she was fully aware of her beauty. She kept her chin tilted upwards, throwing her features into the sunlight rather than masking them in shadow. She had smooth, creamy skin and rose pink lips that were slightly parted in her smile. Her hair seemed to flow from her head rather than merely hanging as hair ought to do, and shimmered like spun gold. Undoubtedly she had charmed it that morning; much the way Draco would charm his eyes some days to make them appear more silver and less steely gray. It was a mark of self-awareness rather than self-absorption, and a common practice amongst pure blood families. The body could be used as much as a weapon as anything else. People were much more likely to trust a beautiful face. Or, even if they didn't trust, people were more likely to succumb.
He nodded his head gracefully, his expression unchanged. She nodded back immediately before allowing herself an open smile.
Based solely off her immaculate appearance and attention to courtesy, Draco knew she must be Liliana Porter. He was a bit surprised by her looks, however. He'd heard that she was intelligent and witty, but not that she was beautiful. Usually that meant the girl was less than blessed in appearances and destined to marry a lower ranking family. Liliana, however, was up to Malfoy standards.
Draco considered this for a moment, turning the thought over in his mind like one might taste a foreign food, unsure whether or not he liked it. It would be a suitable match for him. She was of good lineage and would bear attractive, intelligent children. He would not have to force himself to take her to bed- she was more than pretty enough to serve. Her family was just low enough that they would see marrying into the Malfoy line as a step up, rather than be worried about sullying their reputation. Perhaps they would even get along, as Draco's parents had learned to do.
And if not, the house would be big enough so that they might never have to see each other outside of the public eye.
She was looking at him again with that calculating expression, not minding if he saw. She wanted him to know what she was thinking. Draco knew.
If he wanted, he could have initiated a courtship right then. It would not take much- a few delicate meetings in a group setting where they would have conversations filled with innuendo and double entendre. If all went well, if Liliana did not suddenly become diseased or disfigured and the Malfoy's did not suddenly become destitute and vulgar, they would proceed to the next level. More private meetings where they would feign interest in each other and maybe even pretend at love.
The Malfoys would have the Porters to dinner. The Porters would bring the Malfoys a luxurious gift that was domestic in nature- usually a wine chalice or a flower vase or expensive silverware- and the Malfoys would accept the gift and put it on prominent display.
The Porters would then have the Malfoys to dinner. The Malfoys would bring the Porters a personal gift for Liliana- a necklace or a ring- and Liliana would wear the gift the next time she was in public.
Neither gift could be refused, as that would end the courtship.
If all went well and Draco and Liliana didn't waste time getting to know each other, they could be married within the year. Within two years Draco might have a son.
It seemed very simple and wholly undesirable. Draco allowed his expression to close down and become cold, angling his head the tiniest bit away from Miss Porter. Her smile faltered briefly before stubbornly reattaching itself to her face. He had rejected her initial offer but that didn't mean she would give up for good.
"Draco Malfoy, is it?" She asked, rolling her shoulders back to put her body at its best advantage. "I'm Liliana Porter." She smirked, lowering her voice, "It certainly is a pleasure."
"The pleasure is all mine, Miss Porter," he drawled.
The rest of the team had gone quiet at the sound of his voice. What, did they expect he not talk? The Malfoy name was not in a complete shambles- he was perfectly entitled to have public conversations. He was about to say something bitingly sarcastic when he realized that no one was looking at him. They were looking at one Harry Potter who, though he had not turned around, was immediately recognizable by the messy nest of black that he called hair.
Draco felt his insides go cold, though he showed no signs of it to the others. No matter what he says, it doesn't matter. He doesn't know me at all. He hasn't even seen me since I was a child.
No, Potter's opinion should mean nothing to Draco.
Yet, judging by the ice that had taken up residence inside Draco's stomach, it seemed that it did.
And, though he might try to deny it, it always had.
The real mystery was why.
Potter, besides being the Savior of the Wizarding World, was a nobody. A halfblood, a ragged boy with funny glasses and a funny scar. He was a trouble maker, a rule-breaker, yet unforgiving of loose morals in others. He was irrational and impulsively heroic to the point of suicidal. He thought with- well, God knows what he thought with, but it certainly wasn't his head.
He had not been the type of boy Draco should have been concerned with. He was not the type of man that Draco should be wary of. He was no dangerous and cunning wizard, he was probably incapable of laying delicate traps or playing political games, he had probably never been able to carry out a successful deception in his life.
Potter had never feigned interest in anyone. You knew exactly how he thought of you. He had no control over his expressions and so was incapable of hiding his emotions. In Hogwarts, Potter had never once been able to look at Draco without some sort of disgust or anger written so clearly on his face it could have been stamped on his forehead. He was useless as far as pureblood tactics went.
So why did Draco care?
Potter shifted slightly, and started to turn around. Draco went completely motionless, his face carefully guarded. He had prepared himself for hexes, shouting, and violence. He had prepared himself for threats and insults and mocking.
He was totally unprepared, however, when the Chosen One looked at him, merely glancing over his shoulder, as if he were an inch tall. The lack of emotion, the lack of recognition, was shockingly out of place in those brilliant green eyes.
Potter turned away again as if Draco didn't exist and resumed his conversation.
Draco tried to be relieved. He had seen Potter and nothing had happened. He should be happy.
And yet it was so irrevocably worse than everything he had been prepared for combined. It filled him with a sudden weighty void and a dizziness so intense he feared he might vomit. To think he had spent all of this time worrying and planning and nervous- and Potter couldn't have cared less.
Why was that?
Draco swallowed the bile that had gathered in his throat before muttering a quick excuse to no one in particular and heading off to the loo, away from the cold and careless penetration of Potter's gaze.
AN: So yeah. This wasn't supposed to be the ending but I ran out of time cause I said I'd have it up by tonight. n_n Anyways, you may have noticed that the mood and Draco have changed a bit from chapter one.
That's not cause he was a total idiot in chapter one or anything, but he kind of was. So just cut me some slack and accept the fact that I have changed as a writer and am less stupid now. :P
And also please review! When I get a review it literally makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.
ALSO please stop by my other story, The Masking Dawn. Its got an actual plot (haha) and its feeling neglected. :[ Plus I'll probably update that one more.
OK THANKS AND SORRY FOR THE REALLY LONG AUTHOR'S NOTE. 3
I also apologize for my grammar. I have no excuse. I'm an AP English student for goodness sake and it really should be much better than it is.