the Malfoy Masque, part deux
Date: Twelfth Night! (January 6)
Location: Malfoy Manor, the 'Ballroom'
Characters Involved: those ready to dance!
( Yet Another Pithy and Relevant Quote Here )
Location: Malfoy Manor, the 'Ballroom'
Characters Involved: those ready to dance!
( Yet Another Pithy and Relevant Quote Here )
When they finally arrived in the grounds of Malfoy Manor, Monica Greengrass yanked her daughter by the upper arm, away from the pool of light emanating from the entrance, and in to a shadowed area.
"Pathetic..." she hissed, her eyes dancing with rage behind an elaborate, yet entirely predictable mask. "We're late, because of you. What will they think? And look at your dress...look at yourself!" her voice intensified in pitch and vigor after every tense syllable, little flecks of spittle gathering on her blood red lips. "You're useless. Disgusting. I knew I shouldn't have brought you along - should have left you with your ingrate Father. Do you see the time? DO YOU?"
Daphne wasn't sure whether she was supposed to reply, so simply bowed her head, staring fixedly at the icy ground.
"Look at me when I am speaking to you!" a raised hand, swiping at her just in time for her to see it coming, as she raised her head again. The back of her mother's hand struck her just on the cheekbone, the rings she wore tearing at her delicate skin.
"It's fortunate for you that I know a few menial house-hold charms." she shot Daphne a twisted smile "...and that you have a mask."
With a twirl of her wand, Daphne's dress was mended, and clean again. She looked down at it, trying to keep a blank face - to register complete apathy to everything going on around her. From experience, it was the best way not to anger her mother. Privately, she was wryly amused. A masquerade ball, and here she was decked out in typical pure blood attire - a low-plunge overbust corset, which made her somewhat uncomfortable (both physically and otherwise), and a simple (but thankfully modest) silk skirt. Once her mother had finished adjusting her outfit, she slipped on her mask to hide the scratches, and blossoming bruise. The only atypical part of her outfit, she reflected, was its colour. Pure white, virginal and pure.
So typical of her mother, to dress her this way. At least she complied with the rules of the masque.
This is a lie. This is not at all who I am.
The perfect pureblood. The society girl. Wealth. Prestige.
It was all a lie, now.
The irony was palpable, though her mother appeared not to notice, as she adjusted her own garments, tossing her auburn hair.
"You've disguised that horrid device, haven't you?" she demanded, for what seemed the hundredth time that night. Daphne merely nodded, and fell in to step behind the woman, as they approached the Manor.
Once inside, Monica made a beeline for the ballroom, crossing it (Daphne in tow) to greet their hosts. They were recognisable, if for no other reason than their location - central. A good vantage point.
"Good evening Lucius. Narcissa." she bowed deeply. "I apologise for the late hour."
Daphne stood back, a little behind her mother, mimicking her motions like a puppet. She felt numb, inside. Almost as if she were on the verge of auto-pilot. Depersonalisation. She'd lengthened her hair for the night, to further disguise her appearance - much as it had been in school. It hung down her back, long and sleek - heavy. Like an albatross.
Reply
As if on cue, two more guests approached Lucius and Narcissa. Females. One of them - the younger one - was nearly busting out of her top. It was rather low-cut, Narcissa thought. Too revealing for her taste. Almost as though it were second nature, she snuck a glance at her husband to see if he was staring or not. No matter what anybody said, Narcissa Malfoy was a jealous person. She once nearly slapped a girl at a party for making passes at Lucius. Bella, who had thankfully been there as well, had stopped her and promised she'd take care of it. That had been many years ago however, and Narcissa liked to think she was over that sort of behaviour.
"Good evening," Narcissa replied to the older woman. She too looked familiar. Narcissa was certain they had been at various social events together and perhaps even talked. "The hour is never late. There is still plenty of fun and entertainment to be had." Her eyes moved past Monica to Daphne, who looked displeased to be here. It was immediately clear that this was a mother and daughter. Although Narcissa had no girls of her own, she had been a daughter once. Daphne reminded her a bit of Andromeda, who hated being dragged to these things.
Reply
Lucius inclined himself in a slight bow toward the two women, eyes on them the whole time. "Of course, as Narcissa said, the hour is never too late. Seven was merely the time we opened our doors," he said soothingly. "The musicians will arrive shortly if you are in the mood for dance, young lady," he said to Daphne. Or," he gestured as he spoke, speaking to Mrs. Greengrass, "there is a more quiet room to rest and chat in or a room to play games, if dance does not suit your fancy."
He had noticed that Daphne appeared unhappy in the presence of her mother and, so, was eager to break them up. He already knew that he could count on her mother's support, but Daphne was, as yet, a question mark. If her mother upset her, it would be better to somehow get her away from her before he sounded Daphne's leanings and malleability out for his 'new' Death Eater group.
Returning his gaze to both women, he paused for a significant second before continuing. "Later this evening, the Masque will be graced by additional merriment. Please do make yourselves at home wherever you wish," he finished with a very social smile.
Reply
Daphne watched, with some amusement. The gesture of respect, courtesy - even admiration - seemed so genuine, yet she knew perfectly well that her mother disliked Narcissa Malfoy. How many times had she heard her ranting, vehemently, about how weak the other woman was. How incapable. Just a trophy wife, on the arm of her powerful husband.
She had vowed to Daphne that she had promised herself, when she married, never to become like that. And she had warned her daughter that if she thought for a second she would be 'safe' in a marriage - taken care of, looked after - she could think again.
'No daughter of mine...'
Whilst she mused, silently, Monica turned to Lucius, offering him the same courtesy, a nod, a small smile - though far more sincere.
"Daphne and I are very pleased to be here..." she murmured, pointedly dropping their 'names' so there could be no mistaking who they were - not to the Lord and Lady of the house, at any rate. "We both look forward to the latter celebrations of the evening..." she smiled again, pausing for a moment, expecting Daphne to fill the silence.
"...yes." Daphne responded, mechanically "...I'm...er...honored to be here."
It sounded awkward, and silly. She flushed, beneath her mask.
"Excuse me..." Daphne curtsied to both Narcissa and Lucius, and nodded her head to her mother. "I think I might go and sit quietly in the games room. I'm feeling a little light headed."
Reply
From behind the hosts of the grand Masque approached a new and mysterious figure, tall and lean and grandly decked in silks and satins distinctly characteristic of 18th century French Royalty. In fact, the attire was aimed to be much more specific than a simple era-Draco Malfoy was dressed as Louis XV, King of France, known as ‘The Beloved.’ This particular king had a complicated history, and although the theme of a Masque was essentially to become someone you are not, this young king’s life and reign possessed an uncanny resemblance to Draco’s own existence.
Louis XV was engaged into rule at the impossible age of five, but did not rule alone without the aid of his mentors until he was thirty-three (how listless and oppressed, how similar). He was immensely popular during the first stages of his reign, but as time wore on he lost favour with the populace; incredibl affinity for solitude hidden behind a façade of imperiousness, eclectic, starved for affection, and cursed with the task of living up to the glorious reign of Louis XIV, he eventually failed as the proper symbol of a king in the public’s eye. Draco thought the parallels both poignant and melodramatic, typical of him and yet subtle enough that one must have an ample education of foreign history to catch his eccentricities.
But this history made for no lack of splendor in appearance-Draco’s costume practically glowed with majesty and a certain delicate grace. His ruffled white muslin cravat was amplified by a gold satin ribbon done up at the collar, and the similarly muslin-clothed waistcoat was cut low to emphasise the ruffles. This was all cloaked in a supremely elegant coat of silver cloth, embroidered in light gold and fine sable with a double line of silk buttons, the holes of which were encrusted in what appeared to be diamonds. The waist extended out in back just slightly with the aid of a whalebone ring. The pattern on the coat matched that of his narrow breeches: brilliantly arranged peacocks, standing in various proud poses and displaying their fine, colourful plumage-though the colours were not so loud as to disrupt the delicate nature of the costume. His white stockings were of silk, and his white leather shoes, tied with white satin ribbons, were accentuated by a high red heel, characteristic of the French Court.
Beneath his coat he had fastened a leather belt, ready to hold what rested in his hand-a delicately carved ivory cane, waist-level, the head of which was molded into the shape of a coiled serpent. The cane was actually a sheath, and the head concealed his wand, ready to be drawn when the time came.
And it would.
Reply
Draco Malfoy would never enter into an endeavour half-way.
If he was to disguise himself, let it be complete.
He knew his parents would recognise him (although he hoped others would not, not just yet), as they had afforded him the means to acquire the costume, and because Lucius and he had discussed the intricate plans for the evening carefully, closely. Draco was not to disappoint his father. Draco was not to betray him again-not if he wanted back into The Family and Fold.
Whether Draco truly wanted this, he did not own. He simply complied. It was most advantageous for him at the time, no matter how great the bitterness was that he felt. If he grew close to his father again, who knew-he might be able to do damage in more ways than one. And he needed power… he needed strength. He needed direction and a channel for his rage.
Villainy was the most likely answer. It was the role they all expected of him.
All of them.
Draco bowed regally to ‘the Count and Countess,’ after which he cast a short but hard look to Lucius through his mask. He was playing the part, was he not? He was fulfilling his duty, the prodigal son. He knew Lucius would be watching him. Well, watch this, Father.
The Young Master Malfoy once again bowed, but this time he directed it toward the ladies Greengrass. “Madame Greengrass, Mademoiselle Daphne,” he rumbled imperiously, his voice deeper than usual to complete the disguise. “It is a great pleasure to see you at such a joyous occasion.”
He turned to Daphne, nearly purring. “You are exquisite; your charm humbles even this French Royal.” Draco tilted his head imploringly. “I beg of you, do not escape to the next room, but honour me with a dance, for the musicians have just struck up their strings.”
He gestured to the empty floor with his cane, for indeed, the small band of musicians had finished tuning and had begun their first song of the evening, a slow and pleasant waltz of violins, cellos, and flutes. Draco held out his other hand for Daphne expectantly, then looked askance at Lucius once more. You see, Father? He would be sociable now, he would be regal, elegant, the prominent navigator of the evening and aid to his parents, in opposition to his recent reticence and reclusive behavior. Moreover, if Daphne was to be swayed to their side, Draco was the one to do it. Draco had such influence over her, the malleable, pretty little thing.
And although he’d dubbed her Daphne the Daft and had been rather put out with the girl for her impudence on his journal, they had delved a bit deeper but five days ago. That was an advantage now. He could get past his discomfort to play the flattering, beguiling manipulator.
Reply
She turned toward it, or rather him, almost against her own will. She really had wanted to escape this. This awkward socialising. This pageantry and mock sincerity made even more ridiculously fake by the theme of the evening.
Her mother, she noticed, was lapping it up. No surprise there.
She looked the newcomer over with curiosity. Lean build. Costume that put her in mind of 16th century France, though she didn't pick up on the specifics of it. Despite his courtesy towards Lucius and Narcissa, she gathered from his general demeanor and body-language that they were close. Probably family, of some sort (though who here wasn't related to them, in some obscure way?). And he knew her name...
She had her suspicions, but didn't voice them. Clearly, he wanted to remain anonymous - unlike she and her mother, he'd gone to great lengths to disguise his appearance.
Lord knows why he wanted to dance with her.
She shuffled her feet awkwardly, catching her mothers steely gaze out of the corner of her eyes. If Monica Greengrass could have gotten away with ushering Daphne physically in to the arms of 'the anonymous Frenchman', she was quite certain she would have.
"...Well, er...if you insist..." she murmured, softly, taking his hand and letting him drag her away on to the dance floor. She hated dancing. She always had. Not that she wasn't any good at it - she was passably adept, her mother had made sure of that. But she always felt so silly. As if people were staring at her, and only her. Waiting for her to make a mistake. Waiting to laugh.
"...at least your mother will be pleased..." she hissed to herself, her nervous tick returning under the pressure of the current social situation.
Reply
Draco, at least, was well attired, as well as Malfoy money could buy. He had done his level best to put on the appearance of getting into the spirit of the Masque, echoing his parents' theme of royalty. But he had played it to the hilt, choosing a lesser-known king severely overshadowed by his high-achieving, extraordinarily powerful father. It sent quite the message, especially from a son who ostensibly hoped to return to the family fold. A son who had chosen to aid his father and new old friends in certain, less wholesome festivities this night.
But Lucius did admire the boy's audacity. He wore the costume well and seemed to be playing the part adequately enough. Whether the boy was actually enjoying himself was another matter entirely, and one that concerned Lucius not in the slightest. The boy was here to work and to be seen. Whether he had fun doing it did not even enter Lucius's thoughts to wonder about.
Lucius nodded his head at his son's bow to him and Narcissa--after all, he might know it was Draco on sight, but others would not. Above all else, form and protocol at to be observed--but stood pleasantly impassive as his son cast him a following hard look. Honestly, the boy could not be daft enough to expect any sort of reply in front of the throng, could he? Lucius wondered. He was doing as he was told again, for once; grudgingly begging for readmittance to the Family. But that petition for entry was not looking all that strong, if he was looking to Father for a pat on the head and an acknowledgement of a job well begun. It was his mother's job to--within reason--coddle the boy, not Lucius's.
And if the boy were to continue on tossing around hints about the upcoming 'true' festivities with pointed looks and gestures, he would find that petition of his ripped and burned in front of his eyes--or worse. Lucius had worked too hard on this chance for himself and the boy for Draco to ruin it with his impudence. Lucius was going to further his career, and Draco was going to have a chance to unstagnate his. Period. End of discussion. If the boy did not make a mockery of his assigment again, as he had on a certain tower...
Lucius was again pleased to see Draco exerting the Malfoy charm on young Daphne Greengrass. He would have a chosen someone of slightly higher prestige and bodice-line--perhaps Ms. Pansy Parkinson, if she were to show--but, thanks to proximity, Daphne would do. She would do nicely.
When Draco cast him yet another look, rather like a young pup that has finally achieved a wobbly success on a particularly hard trick--and Lucius reminded himself that Narcissa, his beautiful and recently warming to him Narcissa, stood beside him, also watching his interaction with their son--Lucius relented. He gave the boy a small nod of approval. Draco certainly was not out of the woods yet, but he had made a first few steps out of its center. Soon he might be seeing the light.
Reply
The boy was sullen and resentful enough about his family and friends and mentors and the whole lot of everyone and everything in his life being unable to understand him, being a lie (and what was worse, a lie he still wished he could cling to). But if Lucius thought Draco was looking for a pat on the head, a dog biscuit, or any such gesture of approval, he couldn’t be more wrong. Draco had learned never to expect real approval from his father. Ever. He had always been Not Quite Enough in the man’s eyes, he had never measured up.
He hated it. He accepted it. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t stick it to Lucius this evening, and show him how capable he truly was. Draco was tired of being underestimated-and with a young man like him, the more you underestimated him, the more dangerous it became. He was volatile, vengeful, spiteful… and cruel.
He was ‘his father’s son’ in more ways than people realised, even if he would like to change that.
And tonight… tonight he wanted to make sure his father saw it. More than any other night in his entire life, he wanted to know his father’s eyes were on him. For so long he had wanted to escape those eyes, but tonight he wanted to own them.
One day… one day, he was going to surpass this man, and those white-grey eyes would look back upon this night. Lucius would realise, too late, that this was the night when everything changed.
For now, Draco simply genuflected to the man and his mother, a smile behind his mask conveyed only by another pleasant tilt of his head, before leading his new courtier (or perhaps, courtesan) out to the center of the dance floor.
He pinned his steely eyes on the blonde girl before him. She looked so uncomfortable, she obviously felt as if she belonged anywhere but here. Draco would have to assuage her fears and her misgivings. Ply her into a more amenable state of mind, make her open to… possibilities. He would start with the dance-he would show her that dancing was not a thing to dread, but a thing to enjoy. And dancing with him… well, that was something in which to take rare delight.
Draco was putting aside his disdain (and seldom admitted fear) for touching, after all. A considerable effort.
Smoothly, he stowed his ivory cane in the belt at his waist, then slid his right hand about her torso, just below her ribs where it was proper. His grip was strong, the frame of his arm supportive. He was her guide, he would lead her out of her forest of doubts, and to demonstrate this he did not wait for her right hand, but lifted it instead of his own accord with his left, taking a firm lead.
Draco leaned forward to speak quietly in her ear. “It is just us, Mademoiselle. We are the first couple on the floor. We are alone, no one to disturb us, and you are radiant. The only eyes upon us stare in admiration.”
And he plunged her into the first steps of the waltz.
Reply
Like something out of a dream, she thought, recalling several dreams in which Draco Malfoy had featured prominently. Mostly when she was at school, though they hadn't entirely ceased when she'd left. The recollection caused her to flush, and break the gaze again, peering over her shoulder at the people who had begun to gather, watching them dance (or so it seemed to her).
She let him take her hand, trying to quell the shake in her arms, which seemed to her to be as powerful as a pneumatic drill, but was quite possibly imperceptible to anyone but her. His fingers was so slim. So perfect. She would have stared at them for quite some time, had he not broken the silence, by speaking to her.
"Don't..." she murmured, in response to his compliment, flushing yet again. "I'm not. I'm...they're all going to laugh at me..."
If they aren't already. the voice hissed, maliciously, causing her to look down, once again, coming face to face with her indecent cleavage. She wished her mother had let her cover it up. It felt alien, like it belonged to someone else entirely.
She wished she was someone else entirely. Someone who could deal with this sort of thing. Someone who didn't want to cry, or throw up, or run away and hide when she had to look directly in to Draco Malfoy's eyes.
Reply
Leave a comment