A/N: Sorry about the helluva long wait between chapters, and I'd like to thank everyone for their patience and I love the reviews I've gotten so far! As far as Lucius being cleared, it'd be nice to sneak-peek into what happened at his trial, but since this is from Draco's POV, we only know what he knows, which so far is very little :) today we learn about the rest of the world's reaction, something Draco has been avoiding of late. And Draco has spent his whole life being spoiled and mean, whereas his parents find it easier to 'switch sides' because they've done it before, so it's just Draco having trouble with the core concept of going against his personality and sucking up to people.

And about the swearing, I think Draco is the main culprit, because he's not as cool-as-a-cucumber as he tries to make out he is, and he can be quite hot-headed and spiteful in the books too. Harry doesn't swear as much but is known to even in the books (though Rowling refers to it as rude words and hand gestures and I refer to it directly). My main goal is keeping it canon but using my own style, and I'm glad for any reactions and criticism :) this chapter is a short one, but the next one will be longer I swear.

Chapter Eight

After dinner that evening, while we're still seated at the table, Mother makes her announcement.

"There's a Charity Ball being held at Howarts. It's to re-build the grounds so it can open for the new term - I only managed to get one invite, so I think you should go, Draco." Her eyes gleam with excitement – and possibly the wine.

"Why me?" I say with surprise, not even trying to avoid sounding like a whiny child any more. I even cross my arms and pout. "I don't care about Hogwarts."

"Son." Father reprimands. "Remember what we talked about earlier?"

"Your father and I aren't sympathetic enough." Mother goes on, bluntly. "I've sent people to ask around about the general atmosphere of the Wizarding world, and everyone thinks we should be in Azkaban. It won't look good if we go swanning off to parties with the elite of society so soon. No one really sees you as a threat because of the Harry Potter business, so you can go and be charming for us."

I frown, rankled. "I can be threatening if I want to be. And there's no Harry Potter business, it was all-"

Mother cuts me off with a serious look. "This isn't the time to be a petulant child, Draco. Right now we're not trying to prove who's got the bigger wand. We're just trying to survive. I really don't want to have to up sticks and move to Bulgaria just to have a bad reputation in both countries."

That's what Greg's family did. It strikes me for the first time how much I miss having Greg and Vince around. The big idiots.

"I don't think Bulgaria sounds like a bad idea." I say, uncrossing my arms.

"You're going to this event." Mother says shortly, and stands up from the table. "You'll be fitted for new Dress Robes tomorrow, and you'll be nice. Besides, Harry will be there, so you can really milk the press."

She strides out of the dining room, heels ticking. I look to my father in despair, but he just shakes his head warningly, as if to remind me that arguing with Mother in these matters is never wise.

Later that night, while I'm in my room, I almost start getting excited about the prospect of going out, being a Malfoy again—but no. Apparently now, being a Malfoy means being nice. If I go to this stupid dinner and pretend to be nice then people will see right through me. They'll know it's an act, and they'll be unbearably hostile, or worse. And I won't be able to say anything back. I flump down onto my bed in frustration, causing it to let out a cloud of dust since I won't let the human cleaner in here, and hope there's at least free drinks at this thing.

Early the next morning, Mother took me to be fitted for Dress Robes by Madam Malkin. She gave us dirty looks when we arrived but wasn't going to turn down business. I'm sure she was deliberately pinning me in places, too. Afterwards, while we wait the longer-than-usual four hours to pick up my completed robes, we sit rather impatiently at the Leaky Cauldron bar. Mother is coaching me on my behaviour tonight, and I'm sulking.

"Eat what's on your plate, even if you don't like it. And eat only that, don't go picking around, it seems greedy. Drink one glass of wine with your meal, no more. Always compliment the host – that'll be Headmistress McGonagall - on their wine choice, even if it's absolute piss."

My face contorts into a smile involuntarily, but I hide it by turning my head. I never realised Mother's social graces were so... calculated.

"And," she continues, "when it comes to dancing, choose an ugly partner, preferably a Hufflepuff if you can find one, so people think you've really turned over a new leaf."

I can no longer refrain from remarking with a grin, "Mother, you're absolutely terrible."

She purses her lips and her eyes gleam with pride.

"Do you think people will be watching everything I do?" I ask, suddenly anxious.

"I expect so. So be polite, but don't grovel. Be nice without being oily. Don't be too witty. Laugh at their jokes. And don't show anyone your arm."

Shit, how am I going to remember all of this?

My anxiety only increases as the afternoon fades to evening, and I begin getting ready for tonight. I feel utterly strange to be pulling on fancy – if suitably muted - robes and planning to act normal. Worse than normal, nice.

Mother's fussing isn't helping with my butterflies. She's made sure every single hair on my head is in place, that my robes are straight, shoes buckled, and she even approaches me to curl my eyelashes before I grip her wrist in horror.

"Mother." I say, resolutely. "You have a son, not a daughter."

"Oh, Draco." She replies, looking at me intensely. "You have to understand how important this is."

I furrow my brows. "It's just to rebuild Hog-"

"It's to rebuild us." She says firmly, dragging her wrist out of my grip. I feel a punch of understanding. They're pinning their hopes - for what? - on me. I might not know exactly what sort of status they want– they have their Manor, their riches back - but I can't let them down in this, can't let them down like I always have done before.

A new sort of determination fills me - the sort that's warm and heavy in my gut. Determination fuelled by love, not cold terror.