That one hour pretty much summed up my life. It was one hour or sixty minutes or god-knows-how-many-seconds. I don't care. But it summed up my life, and it wasn't even me! When I got back to my room, I felt a rock on my chest. I couldn't breathe. I can't believe that I'm seventeen and my life is nothing but a Masquerade, and I didn't even know until I was told.
I'm not one for poetry, but there was something about the night. Something about they quality of the air and the light of the moon. I had never felt quite that way before—the air was so crisp that it felt like a slap and it woke me up though it hurt to breathe.
We were having a Masquerade ball—our last in Hogwarts. I hadn't really bothered with a fancy costume. I had decided against wearing a neon green skin tight body suit covered in glitter, like Zabini. He looked like a freaking clown. All he needed was the tri-coloured hat with bloody pompoms and juggling balls. I had just worn a regular black suit, and a mask which my mother gave me.
No, I do not come from a freakish family where they give their kids masks—they're freakish for entirely different reasons. But my mother heard that I would be attending a Masquerade ball, and she'd sent me this mask (without my father's knowledge, I feel) and a note, which said that it had belonged to her grandfather many years ago, and he'd used it at the ball where he'd met her grandmother.
Many people would have taken it as a gift and been happy, but I saw it for what it was—a warning that I'd have to chose my bride soon. I let myself slump. I just felt so tired because of all the pressures they put on me. I just felt like I had to prove something. I don't know. I just had to.
The mask, returning to the original matter, was as beautiful as things came. I could tell from its craftsmanship that it came from Venice. It was a crafted porcelain piece, white in colour, with silver and black streaks and edged in glitter. It fit me perfectly. Either I looked like my great grandfather, or this, like so many other Malfoy belongings, was magical. I hoped sincerely it wouldn't suck my face off. I doubted my mother would do that—she needs me to form 'ties with other pure-blooded families'. In her words, I swear.
Either way, I went downstairs early, and no one saw me leave. I was pretty sure of my anonymity. I really didn't want to go. It wasn't disregard for orders. Not entirely, anyway. I was just that I had better things to do with my time, which I had a feeling would be limited. I had an idea that I'd play an integral role in some screwed up plan of my fathers. Blood sacrifice, probably.
Whatever the case, the hall crowded pretty fast. I would have blended in if I hadn't been taller than most of them, and if I hadn't been wearing such a different mask. Apart from Zabini of course, but he's a different story. Pansy (I knew her for her voice) was wearing a ridiculous bird mask in gold and scarlet and I choked into my drink, laughing.
Around five minutes into the ball, I saw a beautiful lady, all alone in the centre of the floor. Something about her, as implacable as the night itself, drew me to her. I was by her side, and I offered her my free arm and she accepted, perhaps seeing in me what I saw in her.
She was wearing a midnight blue gown, so dark it was almost black. It fit her like a glove till her hips and exploded out in a way which totally didn't suit the somber velvet of the bodice, if I'm making sense. Her dark brown, gold tinted hair cascaded down her back in rich glossy curls. Her mask was interesting. It was from Venice too. It covered both her eyes and the left half of her mouth, like a butterfly, kind of. It was white, and splashed with every bright colour imaginable. Attached, were accompanying feathers and it made her face the centerpiece as her dress melted into the background.
Smart girl.
"Hi."
"Hey."
It was blissful silence. He knew, and was sure that she knew, they couldn't dance for the sake of the blasted masks they were holding on sticks. He dropped the gentleman façade and held her hand, and led her to the gardens. They sat on a small bench in a corner.
"Draco," she said confidently, and he was stunned to the point of almost dropping his mask.
"How do you know me?" he demanded.
She laughed. "Your hair, your eyes. No one has quite the same in our school."
He had to admit she was right. "So… D'I know you?"
She nodded. "You know my name, but I don't know if you know me."
He sighed and leaned back, placing his mask beside him. He didn't care.
"Draco, I need to tell you something. I may seem presumptuous and unjust because I don't know you personally, but it's something I feel."
"Okay?" he asked more than replied.
"Okay, I know the whole Death Eater thing isn't—"
"Who said I'm a Death Eater? Bloody Liars!" He yelled in panic.
She rolled her pretty honey eyes, and replied, "Don't bother. I know. I'm not telling anyone. I know the whole thing isn't what you want. I know that you've been forced into it—the initiation, the rites, the ideas, everything. I just need you to know, you're not alone. No one's alone. Maybe no one's seen what you've seen, or been through the same as you, but you're not alone. We've all had to do things we don't want to—no don't protest, it doesn't make you any more of a man—we don't want to do, and we might be held responsible for our actions, but we're human. We're only human. What I'm trying to say, is that you can be forgiven."
There was silence.
He took a breath, and spoke; "Thank you," aware that his voice was almost feverishly grateful. She'd said what he'd needed to hear for a long time. It was like her words made perfect sense to his tormented mind, and soothed them like a salve.
"Have you ever felt like your whole life was a masquerade?" she asked, after a moments silence. He didn't know what to say, but she didn't seem to notice. "Like no one shows who they really are, and everyone's just wearing masks that don't let anyone see what they're feeling, or thinking?" she finished, gazing at the stars.
"Yeah," he said and she seemed to be startled out of her thoughts. "Like you're just trying your level best to be what everyone expects you to be, and wants you to be and you never get a chance to be who you want to be, or the show who you really are." He felt breathless, like he'd never even thought of it until she prompted him.
"And everyone's just dancing around each other in pretty clothes and stabbing people behind masks, not sure of who they're really killing, and no one knows who did it either, or why." He nodded.
She smiled at him, in a way that was somehow familiar—like he'd known her his whole life.
"We should go," she said quietly.
He agreed, not trusting himself to speak with the weight of the revelations of the evening.
She made to stand up, and he got up infront of her and extended his hand to help her. It was the least he could do to thank this girl, this Angel, his Angel for shining a light where he thought there'd been none.
She accepted his hand and they walked. "We shouldn't be seen going in together," she said, "everyone knows who you are. They'll just give you trouble."
He nodded. She made to walk in but he didn't let go of her hand. "Wait." She turned to regard him. "Thank you," he whispered and kissed her hand. "You don't know what you've changed. Thank you," and he let her go.
She blushed and looked down, before whispering, "Don't let anyone tell you who to be. Be everything you truly are, and people will love you," and moving away quickly. He followed a short while after and went straight to his room. He didn't feel like being around people now. He just needed to think.
So here he was, stone on heart, thinking. Free but not knowing it, full to the brim with pain and the knowing that no one would remember him with fondness if he died tomorrow.
His life meant nothing.
But his Angel. She'd said he could be forgiven. Could she be right? Why hadn't he asked her who she was? Why hadn't he kept her? Could he possibly find her again? He needed to talk to her. But Angels are like that, you know. You get their help when you least expect it, but when you want it, you can't find them, because you don't really need them anymore.
Yo people. Belated Disclaimer: I own nothing. Neither Draco, nor his Angel. His Angel is Hermione Granger, By the way. (Waits for shocked silence) Oh wait. Damn. Technical Error. Anyway, you can 'shocked-silence' me via review. :D
Love,
Lady Merlin
P.S. will has sequel.