Draco was worried about Harry. His friend smiled at all of the right times, and replied to all of Draco's parents' questions. He whooped when flying, and giggled when he hit Draco in the back of the head with a surprise snow ball attack. He went through all of the right motions convincingly well, but it was all an act.

It was the night of the Ministry Ball, and Harry's newly formed 'perfect house guest' mask was firmly in place. Draco couldn't crack it.

He didn't know what to do. Normally, he would ask his father. Lucius Malfoy was better at dealing with people than anyone else alive, and Draco idolized him for his ability verbally spar with people, while reading his opponents give away all of their secrets, like an unfurled scroll.

Draco's father seemed just as baffled and frustrated by Harry's sudden cold shoulder as Draco was, though, and the more Draco played things back in his mind, he could not help but think that his father had said or done something to offend Harry at dinner that one night.

Draco wished he knew what was bothering his friend, so he could make it right, but every time he asked, Harry would smile in a way that didn't quite reach his eyes and say everything was fine, but then retreat into himself just a little bit more. Draco didn't know how to break Harry out of it, and he didn't know how to fix things, without Harry admitting what was wrong.

Things were so desperate, that Draco was actually looking forward to meeting up with the likes of Longbottom, Daphne, and Pansy at the ball, in the hopes that one of them could slip past Harry's façade and bring him back to the surface.

Hel, he'd spend all night rubbing elbows with Weasley if it brought a spark of life back into his friend.

Draco just wished he knew what had gone wrong. It was Christmas, damnit! He and Harry were supposed to have fun getting into trouble all over the manor, and roll their eyes together at his mother's obsessive party planning, and strut their stuff in front of a bunch of boring old ministry officials who wouldn't know fun if it hit them in the face, and then they were supposed to open presents together on Christmas morning, as a family, and everything was supposed to be perfect.

It was taking all of Draco's energy to hold himself back from grabbing Harry's shoulders and shaking him hard enough to knock some sense back into him. He was ruining the holidays for Draco's whole family, and making Draco's mother anxious that she was being a bad host, and making Draco's father surly and distant, and making Draco feel like a failure as a friend, and it WASN'T FAIR!

Draco passed the portrait of Grandfather Abraxas as he paced the hallway in front of his and Harry's rooms. The old man had never thought that Draco measured up to family standards when he was alive, and his opinion had not improved, in death.

The previous Malfoy patriarch had taken to sneering openly at Draco and Harry every time they walked past, and Draco had had enough.

"If you have something to say, Grandfather, then say it! This passive-aggressive bullshit is rather unbecoming for a collection of brush strokes and oil paint, don't you think?"

Abraxas huffed at Draco's impudence and foul language. "Watch your tone, boy. Your father has always been too soft on you. He should have taken you over his knee ages ago."

Draco scowled. "We've all heard the tales of your reign of terror, Grandfather. How old was my father when you used an unforgivable against him, for the first time? Five?"

"Better a sharp spell and a firm hand than watching you drag my family's name through the mud with your spoiled attitude and poor taste in company."

"What do you have against Harry, anyway?" Draco asked, poking a finger threateningly against the tightly stretched canvas.

"That boy nearly cost our family everything, you fool! I don't know what dark magic that little freak conjured as an infant to banish Our Lord, but his presence in my ancestral home is unacceptable! Your father should have killed him the first time he laid eyes on him, and he should have whipped you bloody the moment news of your disgusting association with the half-blooded abomination reached his ears."

"Draco!" his father snapped from behind him, making Draco jump, "You should be getting ready for the ball. This is an important event for our family."

"And you, Lucius," Abraxas snarled. "Suffering that boy to live will be the undoing of everything you hold dear. Mark. My. Words. Nothing good will come of this."

"Shut up, Father," Lucius said, cold and hard as iron. "You're scaring your grandson. Go get ready, Draco. Now!"

Draco scurried to obey. He paused in the doorway to his room long enough to watch his father unstick Grandfather's portrait from the wall and levitate it in the direction of the attic.

Shaking with fury, Draco pulled off his casual robes, and began to scrub his face and arms in the sink of his ensuite bathroom. What had Grandfather Abraxas meant about Harry?

He had spoken like a true believer in the Dark Lord's cause.

Father had always insisted that he had been cursed into He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's service. If Grandfather had joined up willingly, did that mean that Father had done so too, and had been lying to Draco and to everyone else? Or, more horrifying, had it been Grandfather Abraxas that had cast the Imperius Curse that had enslaved Draco's father to the losing side of the war?

Both options were too horrible to think about. Preserving blood purity and wizarding culture was one thing, but the Dark Lord had been unhinged. No self-respecting Malfoy would willing debase himself by following such a cause.

Maybe Draco's grandfather had been cursed too, or deceived in some way. Maybe his portrait had been painted from a time when the Dark Lord had not yet revealed the full depravity of his plans, and he was confused about what his liege lord had become.

Draco was relieved that his father had moved the portrait out of the hall. What would happen if Harry heard his grandfather's mad ramblings? He'd think the entire Malfoy family was everything people like the Weasleys claimed they were.

Draco's pink skin was turning raw with the force of his scrubbing. He forced himself to stop and get dressed.

A Malfoy treated fashion as armour, and Draco was no exception. The impeccable combination of wealth and taste could protect against and deflect all sorts of distasteful perceptions that were hunting for a vulnerable place to stick. Malfoys were more enticing targets than most, and thus a Malfoy must always be prepared for battle every time they left the family manor.

Draco was quite pleased that his mother had allowed him a more adult cut to his dress robes, and preened at how he had noticeably grown taller since summer. He wore dove grey robes with charcoal and silver accents, in an intentional departure from the garish holiday colors that most wizards favored, and deliberately distanced from the harsh black stereotype of dark wizards.

The quality of the material and the craftsmanship spoke for itself, in a language that only the most elite would translate, and that in and of itself would set Draco Malfoy apart from the common ministry riffraff. There would be no mistaking him for nouveau riche.

As soon as he was properly primped, Draco crossed the hall to knock on Harry's door. There was no telling if his friend would even allow the house elves to assist him in dressing, let alone if the little creatures could do the robes his mother had purchased for Harry justice.

"Come in," Harry called out in a haggard voice.

Draco allowed himself a smirk before smoothing his face into one of compassion and understanding and sweeping in to Harry's room to get him sorted out. If anything could get Harry to crack his polite façade, it was formal wear, and Draco was going to take full advantage of it.