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A festive buzz enchanted the air. Champagne, rosé and canapes were passed around.
Draco Malfoy stood in the corner of the Whimsical Rose function hall, nursing a glass of champagne he picked up from a silver-patterned tray. He surveyed the perpetually smiling couple, almost scoffing at the magicfolk drowning them with what he was sure were delighted congratulations. A famous fiery Quidditch star and her famous saviour fiancé - the perfect couple, Aphrodite’s favourites, Ginerva Weasley and Harry Potter.
And Draco was happy for them, truly.
However, he had stared at his invitation letter, confounded, for at least 10 minutes. Even at that moment, all Draco could see was a magically reinforced glass wall, separating him from them - those who actually had a place at the private engagement party.
Draco vaguely supposed everything was patched up with Potter.
“Draco!” he turned around to the too-familiar voice that was jogging towards him.
“Hello, Potter,” he nodded. He was exhausted, covered in dirt and blood and unidentifiable purple liquid. He wanted to go home. But apparently, Harry Potter had other ideas.
“That was some brilliant curse-breaking there mate.” Harry exclaimed. Mate? Draco questioned, what is going on inside that scarhead?
Draco nodded again, muttering a barely audible thanks. He could already hear his mother’s nagging about manners and to never mumble.
“Anyway,” Harry began, after acknowledging the somehow-heard thanks, “Valerie said you healed some of our guys, after you stopped that little trinket from eating all of us.”
“Little trinket.
Sure
.” Draco drawled, scoffing. “The medi-wizards were late Potter, it just had to be done.”
“Still, thanks Draco. And what did I say about calling me Harry?” Draco looked back incredulously.
Something knocked on the glass.
Before he could respond, a witch - Valerie - asked for Potter, who quickly rambled to Draco’s distant consciousness about getting together sometime. Then Potter left as quickly as he appeared.
Potter waved at him from the middle of the room, like he was signalling for Draco to come over.
It knocked harder.
And join that crowd? No thank you. Draco nodded back, and purposely drew his attention back to his champagne, staring very intently at its bubbles.
His highly entertaining focus was interrupted when a girl with blonde hair whiter than his suddenly was in front of him, dressed in bright orange dress robes layered with chiffon.
“Hello, Draco.” She said brightly.
The glass cracked.
“Hello, Lovegood.” He replied sceptically.
“Would you like to dance?” she smiled brightly, yet whimsically.
“Why are you asking me?” He asked, increasingly suspicious. Had Potter put her up to it?
She answered in an absurdly logical tone, “Because you look lonely standing here in the sad corner.”
“This corner isn’t lonely or sad.” He sniped.
“The wrackspurts are confusing you Draco - they’re making you childish,” she said indulgently, “let’s just go. You’ll have fun. Promise.” She spoke with such soft finality, dragging his sleeve along with her. There was no decision to be made. He went.
And the glass came shattering down.