"What did that Avery boy want last week?" Her mother said over breakfast one morning.
"Huh?"
"What did he say?"
"Oh -- um, I dunno. . . . I'm not very fond of him. . . . I think he wants to -- court me, or something."
Daphne looked at her with wide eyes, her father too. Her mother slowly sipped her tea, and said, her voice level, "Did you tell him you were engaged?"
Astoria nodded, and said, "Yes. But, he was very. . . determined."
"Determined?" Her father said.
"How so?" Daphne asked.
Astoria shrugged, all the prying eyes making her a bit uncomfortable. "He's an arrogant bloke who thinks 'there's nothing wrong with just talking'. I dunno, he's just --"
"Were you polite?" Her mother asked, looking quite worried now.
Astoria studied her for a moment. "A vision of propriety," she murmured, standing from her chair and pushing it in, scraping the floor with a deafening screech. She trotted back up to her room. Her sanctuary. Her prison.
They really only cared about whether or not she was polite? Not the fact that this pompous, arrogant prat annoyed her the whole night, completely disregarding the fact that she was engaged? Okay, well, she wasn't really engaged, but he didn't know that.
She flopped down on her bed. The thought of engagement brought up another source of vexation. She couldn't seem to get the image of Draco proposing to Pansy out of her mind.
Sighing, she crossed her arms over her chest. It'd started to feel like she was making a real friend. Not her sister, and definitely not Lawrence's definition of a friend -- no, a real friend.
She couldn't shake the calmness that seemed to root in her after she'd cried in that alcove. It was probably silly, probably childish, but it was nice to have someone there who genuinely opted to be; wasn't forced to by blood relation. And, of course, he remembered her favorite candy, which for some reason felt like a victory to her.
But the whole situation was completely ludicrous. Was she really laying there, telling herself she was friends with Draco Malfoy? No. Ridiculous. He was everything she resented -- a blood purist and a death eater.
But then again, he did seem rather aggrieved at his family. They're suffocating, he'd said. So, maybe he wasn't everything she resented. After all, he was forced into proposing to Pansy; perhaps there were other things beyond his control, in which he was forced to partake in. She liked that thought best.
Though it didn't matter. For, as of the last weekend, he now belonged to Pansy. So, whatever friendship she possibly could have had would have to accept its fate; some things were just beyond their control. Most things, for that matter, were beyond their control.
* * *
By the time the next party rolled around -- which was in hardly any time at all, for the richest and most powerful needed to keep themselves entertained and in the know -- Astoria had finally transfigured her dress to look different from the elegant black swirls on the white bodice.
Or, her mother finally transfigured her dress.
She decided the most proactive move would be to further drive her theory of making Astoria look as boringly adequate as possible if she wanted to sort out the Lawrence Avery debacle (considering her faux engagement ring seemingly wasn't working -- though it was still ever present on Astoria's finger).
So, her dress was now comprised of a completely black skirt, and completely white top, no more swirls. And, the dipping, curving, flattering neckline was now a straight line, the sweet, feminine touch, gone. At least she had the decency to add a silver sash about the waist.
Astoria willed herself not to care, to be relieved that perhaps this would indeed draw less attention to herself, which was not an unwelcome notion. But indignation flared in her. For, though she hated the meaning and use of the original dress, she still did find it very pretty. But now she was a walking grayscale. How fun.
This weekend's party was to be hosted by the Flints, and their house, while grand and sumptuous and gargantuan, could not compete with the size of the Malfoy Manor; it was more akin to the Parkinson's house.
Per the usual, she and her family greeted and thanked their hosts, settled themselves at an open table, and awaited the other families to wade in, for then they could begin their sycophantic behavior.
Bored and already dreading the appearance of Lawrence Avery, Astoria spotted Draco, lingering about his parents, who were taking their turn at thanking the Flints.
She walked over to give him her condolences -- er, congratulations, on his engagement. He was loitering a few feet away from his family, looking around absently.
"So, you and Pansy are. . ." she said politely, as she was still in probable ear shot of his parents and the Flints. He jolted a bit, not having seen her before she spoke. He rolled his eyes, then, glancing behind him, motioned his head in the opposite direction, away from his chattering parents.
"Yeah, me and Pansy," he said, shaking his head once they were a sufficient distance from any prying ears.
"I take it the engagement wasn't your choice?"
"You can't tell by my utter enthusiasm?" he deadpanned.
She sucked in a breath through her teeth. "I'm really sorry."
"Yeah, well," he shrugged and glanced at her left hand, "you'd know all about that, so."
She instinctively tucked her hand behind a fold of her skirt. He still believed she was engaged. Knowing she should have been happy for this, that his ignorance was better and safer for the whole family, she found no solace. She was lying to him, and something about it felt wrong. "Hm," she hardly mumbled in response. "Oh, don't look now. . ." she grumbled, watching Theodore Nott and his family waltz in. He stopped immediately by Daphne, and, to Astoria's disgust, kissed her hand.
"So I take it you don't like Theodore either?"
"Well -- no, no I don't. But, come on -- he'll never truly take the time to get to know her, or fall in love with her -- he just likes her last name -- not that she's any better. . . ." She kept walking, Draco trailing next to her.
"She's just so set on him, and. . . ." They'd made their way over to the refreshments table, and she took up a glass of pumpkin juice. Her eyes widened, she nearly gaged at the taste, a burning sensation arising in her throat. Scrutinizing the cup, she coughed, the scratchiness in her throat not subsiding. Draco laughed at her.
"That was Fire Whiskey," he said, motioning to the glass.
She looked at him, then back at the cup, placing a hand over her mouth to stop from laughing, or maybe vomiting. "Ugh, yuck -- here, you want it?"
He took it without comment as she scoured the table for actual pumpkin juice. Once she found an orange colored liquid, she sniffed it, ensuring this time it was indeed not Fire Whiskey.
"So, if you're against Avery, and you're against Nott, then who would you prefer her to be with?"
Swallowing a sip, she said, "I dunno, a rock?"
He snickered, shaking his head. "Speaking of which. . . ." He looked down at the table but motioned his head slightly right, toward the main doors. Lo and behold, the familiar curls and stupidly symmetrical face of Lawrence Avery. She groaned.
"I noticed you were rather wrapped up with him last time, how much fun was that?"
"Utterly enthralling," she deadpanned, taking a rather large gulp of pumpkin juice, perhaps at that moment wishing she didn't trade away the alcohol.
"Well, he seems, very. . . ."
"Persistent?" she hissed.
"That's a word for it."
"I keep telling him I'm engaged but he just --" she dragged a hand down her face, already dreading her impending encounter with Lawrence.
Then, Pansy and her family walked in. Draco noticeably slouched and stiffened simultaneously, a nearly imperceptible, dejected sigh escaping him. "I'd better go. . . ." He took a large swig from the Fire Whiskey, not even flinching at the taste.
"Good luck," she said, and he nodded, now audibly sighing, walking toward his fiancée.
Not ten minutes later was she captured in a conversation with Lawrence, now trying to sway his favor to another girl. Millicent looks very lovely tonight. Tracey's dress is beautiful, isn't it? But for some reason, he was determined to win Astoria's favor. A conquest he was sure to fail in.
She kept all her responses to him short, somewhere between softly polite and exceedingly rude.
And for weeks and weeks, each and every party they went to, Lawrence found her, and tried to woo her. But for weeks and weeks, each party they went to, she and Draco always found each other, talking in between their Lawrence and Pansy excursions.
Astoria was truly beginning to believe that perhaps he was a friend. The thought was exciting. She'd never had a friend that wasn't her sister before, someone who sought out her company. But in between their responsibilities, they would slip off to some corner of the ball room (still in sight, abandoning the notion of trying to leave the party after it only resulted in further strife) and actually have fun. Forgetting they were in the middle of a pompous party, forgetting they were in the middle of a broken world.
Astoria found herself awaiting each party eagerly, no longer dreading them with every fiber of her being. For, with each taxing conversation she had to endure with Lawrence, there was one with Draco looming somewhere over the course of the night, and that in itself was enough.