Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
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"Well, If it's not little Hayley Bennett, only she's not so little anymore!" A man with long blonde hair with an uncanny resemblance to Draco commented. I knew that it was Lucius Malfoy, judging by the company he kept. Moreover, the fact that I only knew one man with hair that blonde.
"It's funny how it happens, isn't it?" I remarked with my most sincere smile. One of the things that my grandmother had taught me was how to be a proper woman. One of the rules of that—treat your elders with respect.
"Quite," he remarked.
"Oh, darling, It's been too long," Rodolphus pushed past Lucius and hugged me tightly, "If only I had a son," He laughed lightly, "I would be doing everything within my power to make sure that you ended up marrying him, I wish you were my daughter." He grabbed my left arm, holding it out and staring at it with an awed expression, "Bella and I are so proud of you, Hayley."
"Leave the poor girl alone," Lucius replied, "You did see Draco, didn't you?" I turned and looked several feet to my left, at Draco, and then back to Lucius. "Well, I see I must've missed him." He smiled, "Have a great time this evening, Hayley," in parting.
"Bella and I must have you round for tea! How about this coming Wednesday? Are you free?"
"I'll have to speak with mother about it first, but it shan't be a problem." I smiled sweetly.
Bella was my hero...She was beautiful, and she was smart, and she bettered herself. She's one of his favorite servants.
I want to be just like her. I always have.
"You know, I find it rather funny," The sandy haired boy remarked, "We're at a ball, yes?"
I nodded, "Yes, of course we are."
"Well, not many people have begun dancing; perhaps you might consider dancing with myself?"
I studied him for a moment, "I have nothing better to do. Why not?"
After thirty seconds of dancing with Urquhart, I heard a loud throat clearing, "Mind if I step in?" Urquhart looked at me, trying to convince me with facial expressions to protest, when I didn't, "Lovely."
Over Flint's shoulder, I watched Urquhart storm angrily off to the rest of the people our age, "That wasn't very nice." I scolded.
"Sure it was. You should be dancing with someone better than Thomas Urquhart."
"Oh yeah? Who is better than he? Are you implying that you are?" I asked, raising a brow.
"Of course I'm better than he is. His mother had an affair with a Muggle, You know?" leave it to Marcus Flint to be gossiping...He hadn't changed in the least. My eyebrow, at this point, only climbed higher up my forehead.
"No, I didn't know," I recoiled slightly. "Well I suppose you want me to thank you? Although, I have to admit," I bit my lip and let out a low breath, "I barely find him objectionable."
"How is that possible?" He asked, scrunching up his eyebrows, and suddenly I was very aware of his hand on the bare skin of the small of my back.
"He's not bad looking," I quickly explained. Stabbing his ego first was the way to go. I licked my lips and rubbed them together, "And he's been extremely charming and pleasant."
"He's just being nice to you because you're beautiful," Flint quickly explained for me.
"Yes, I do realize that. Just like you—you're only being nice to me right now because you're attracted to me." I frowned, "So how is he any better than you?"
"I assure you, I only have honorable intentions in regards to you. Whereas Urquhart is already sizing you up for his mantle." Flint protested. I didn't even pretend to fawn over him for protecting me from that. That's the role he was playing: Protector. Only, as Marcus should well know, I do not and shall not need the protection of any man.
I'd beaten him up before, in my youth as his picking on me was merciless. He was always teasing me (something that I've grown to understand now as the way young boys handle attraction). I didn't like his picking on me, so I bloodied his nose a good time or two.
Or maybe more like thirty-eight times, but hey, Who's counting?"Sizing me up for his mantle? That's something that you say that you are not doing?" I inquired, my expression unreadable.
"No, of course I wouldn't." He answered uncomfortably.
"Funny, we're at my coming out ball, that's what all the eligible bachelors in the room, with my parents invitations, are summoned to do." Which brought me to another thought entirely, "Pray tell, Flint," I began, "You pretended not to recognize me, when you knew that the ball was hosted in my honor, and whilst I was announced in front of everyone."
"I suppose I was out of the room when they made that particular announcement."
"Is that so? Or were you just trying to flatter yourself—it has been your object all evening of sizing me up for your mantle, has it not?" I replied, my voice even killed and not showing the slightest bit of irritation at the daftness of the boy in front of me.
"I'm afraid that I don't have the slightest idea what you mean." He replied, not looking at me, but instead over my head and into the throng of people.
I could tell, that by this point—I'd wounded his fragile male ego. Something that my grandmother repeatedly talked to me about as I grew up. Boys hearts were much tender than they'd ever let anyone see—you have to take extreme care with them. At the time I didn't believe that a woman's heart could be less tender than a man's. But a woman's heart is made to regrow, a man's is not.
I let the subject drop, and instead focused on the dance—the way that my skirt fished around my legs, focusing on the way that our bodies swayed to the same tempo. Flint had changed so much since the last time I'd seen him. He'd lost some baby fat in his cheeks, which made his jaw line more distinctive, and his face more serious. His hair had grown out, making his head look significantly less as if it had a point at the top.
While I'd been Boobless Bennett growing up, he'd been Tent-headed Flint.
The most important change in Flint's appearance—he no longer had buckteeth. Something that I feel greatly improved his appearance.
"Excuse me," I heard a voice being cleared, I turned to see my next suitor, "May I cut in?"
Flint regarded me with a look saying, Tell him to sod off. He was practically begging me with my eyes. "Yes, that is quite fine with me." Flint gave me a stern look, "A dance with an old friend."
"You heard her Flint," he responded, "Pardon me." In a mere matter of seconds, I went from being in Flint's arms, to my former best friend's. We had grown up together, and been close for years. After I'd moved in with my grand mummy, I'd stopped talking to him completely.
It just hurt to be away from him.
"You grew up well, Hayley." He remarked, studying—not my chest, but my face, "Prettier than I expected, as a tomboy."
"France does bring out a tomboy's inner girl, my grand mummy always says." I replied, smiling easily, "You know, Draco—you didn't turn out that bad yourself."
"Is that a compliment?" He inquired, "Or a half compliment?"
"That was a compliment, Malfoy." I growled, teasingly.
"I hoped so." He was quiet for a moment, but thoughtful. I gave him the time that he needed to organize his thoughts, "Ever since my parents told me that you were back in town, I kept wondering, How do I approach her? What do I say to her? Because, you see, there is so much that I want to say. So much that I need to say."
"Draco," I chided, "That was ages ago. We were both so little then," I argued. "The past is the past," I assured.
"No, I don't think it is." He replied quietly, "Something that I have to know, that for the last six years has bugged me almost every day—why didn't you write to me?"
I shrugged, that had been something that I'd thought about a lot, too. I had every intention of writing Draco, I really had. As an eleven year old girl, I'd grown up from childhood with a crush on him. I was so certain that I'd marry him, and we'd grow old together. Then, I got to France, and I began trying to think of how to write to him. What would I say in a letter that was sufficient? Every time I tried to write something, I'd end up with a blank page, and eyes full of tears. I'd been eleven then, I knew that my infatuation with Draco was something that would wear and disappear over time.
Six years had passed...
I did not ever plan on coming back to England, how I cursed my parents for bringing me back here. I did not want to open that assortment of problems, so I stuck with a much simpler answer, "I don't know."
"I don't know why either—I wrote you." He accused. I knew that what I had done was a low blow.
"What did you expect me to say back?" I asked, "That I'd be home soon, that I'd come back and we'd instantly be the best of friends again?"
"I didn't care. I just—I felt like you completely forgot about me," He replied truthfully. I sighed, wanting very much to just lay my head on his shoulder—just like old times. But I didn't.
"After a while," I admitted, "I did." I didn't want to hurt him, so I quickly elaborated, "I just mean, that I was in France, and you were in England—we were living lives separate from each other. You moved on, too."
"That's true, I did." He was quiet for a while, and like always, I gave him room to think. It was either that or I was too nervous to speak.
"We're not the same as we used to be. The seasons have changed, and so have we. There was little we could say. And even less that we could do..." I quoted my guilty pleasure—A Muggle Band...I shrugged, "There wasn't anything I had to say to you, Draco. It was too hard."
"So you're saying that you don't have feelings for me at all anymore?" He asked, his blue eyes as cold as ice. I wanted to be the force that melted them—just like I always used to. But I couldn't let myself.
"No," I said shakily.
"Is that why you didn't write?" Not the angle I was thinking about, but it wouldn't hurt...
"Yes."
He didn't look at me for a long time, I let the silence bloom so he could arrange his thoughts. Draco was always a thinker. At last, he looked up, traces of sadness still lined in his brow, "So tell me, Hayley Bennett, as you've changed, who have you become? Is the girl I once knew still there somewhere?"
I laughed lightly, "I'm the same as before. I still love playing quidditch, and my favorite color is still red." I offered. Since pink is technically a tint of red...
"You seem so different." He scrunched up his brows, thinking about the past, certainly.
"Is that bad?" I asked, I did not think it was bad.
"You don't look like anything I would have imagined," He replied. He looked exactly how I'd imagine. Same, white blonde hair, slicked back from his face. The same icy glare he gave to the people he disliked. He walked the same—with one hand shoved into a pocket, the other free. He looked at me the same.
"How did you imagine me, now?" I asked.
"I kept picturing you, eleven years old, and I couldn't get past that image of you." He chuckled, "I wasn't expecting this."
"I am sorry if the fact that I am a girl took you by surprise. I know that as a child, you probably looked more like a girl than I did. The one thing that is different. I wear makeup, and I love," I swallowed hard, "Well, I love shopping."
"That's not too surprising," He laughed.
"Oh, it's not?" I teased.
"You are a girl after all." he replied, pursing his lips.
"You did not just say that." I laughed, "I bet I can still beat you at quidditch."
"I don't know," He smirked.
"Draco Malfoy, Don't you dare have the audacity to smirk at me!" I playfully slapped his arm.
"That's one thing that's the same—you still hate my smirk."
"Yes, and I shall until the day that we both die. It irritates me, Malfoy." I narrowed my eyes.
"You really still play quidditch?" He smiled.
"Of course I do, why wouldn't I?"
"Well, you're a girl."
"You're such a chauvinist!" I complained.
"I'll tell you what—the next time the weather is nice, you can come to my house and we'll all play quidditch. And we see who wins." He grinned, one eyebrow went up, higher than the other.
"Deal. I hope you're a better sport at losing than you once were."