date: 29 august, 2002 (8:45pm)
location: middle yard
status: closed to @luncslovegood
draco’s face is certifiably pleasant. his enchanted mirror has always said so, as has his mother, and he has eyes of his own to confirm their (albeit, obligatory) flattery. he was a lovely decoration between the pillars that were his parents, indeed. draco on liquor, however, is another story. his cheeks flush a scarlet red, and the black of his pupils swallow the gray, and his fingers start carding through his hair with abandon, mussing it up in a way that makes a mockery of the sleekeazy's he’d coated it in earlier, transforming the styled dishevelment into a bird’s nest. stuff him in maroon robes to boot, he’s practically a jester primed for the guests’ entertainment.
and as jester’s do, he charms; most of all, the angel on his arm.
they all shuffle into place for the waltz, some pairs half awkward, some half loose from inebriation. though, quite frankly, he’s in his element, his gilded upbringing good for something other than his fine taste for caviar and daddy issues, and luna is too perfect of a partner for there to be any fault in their pairing. he keeps his eyes anchored on hers as the crowd settles for the show, but he wishes to swing his gaze to neville for just a moment, to gauge their thinking as they stand toe to toe with ginny, to hide a kiss in the weight of his stare.
the chords of the song begin, the familiar melody beckoning rose-colored memories from his childhood, and his jaw relaxes, allowing the tune to compel his movements without any directions from his distracted mind.
the day had him tense, the unpleasant fear of suddenly being dropped from the programme all the more palpable with (strangers) guests trampling upon the grounds with faux proprietorship. one too-close look his way and they’ll remember he’s the malfoy boy, child death eater and lucius malfoy’s son, the latter surely too damning to ignore. they’ll flag this oversight to mcgonagall and she too will see clearly through the fog, giving him the boot with little remorse.
of course, he’s being ridiculous ⏤ he always is, he knows, it’s the consequence of being draco malfoy ⏤ which is why he hasn’t voiced his discomfort, in some far fetched bid to soften his edges and make himself seem worthy of his position amongst the others, the insecurity instinctive, if stilted, after everything. events like these were what he was forged for anyway, sculpted by his father’s iron disposition and his mother’s lengthy lessons in conduct. as his birth right proclaims, the spotlight is his to steal, and while he certainly has the practice to spend his night kissing the backsides of their esteemed (and boring) guests, he doesn’t have the patience for it, not when luna is lighting the room with their smile, twirling in his arms. he’s reformed, not a saint.
the short waltz ends without accident (his eyes strayed as they orbited around the dance floor, catching easily on neville thanks to the garish (blazing) weasley mane, though blaise is on the edge of his vision too, memories of the yule ball alive in the space between them) but he keeps luna’s hand in his, clasped with a gentleness reserved for them.
