Thestrals—the very concept of such majestic creatures—were viewed differently by many. Just to be able to see them in their sad, haunting glory, you first had to witness a death. Any sort of death. Some may find it a prideful thing to be able to see something that not many could, but well... for a certain category, it was different. In a more sickly manner. When you had been born into such a family, you had grown familiar with the creatures—the darkness of their aura reflecting the thick, tall walls of your life.

Your eyes stray away from the extended black, bony wings that highlighted the skies of Wiltshire, down to the giant manor—straightening up immediately from just the presence of such a new, grand structure.

You were from the U.S., from a long line of pure-bloods, dark arts running through your veins with every slow heartbeat of vengeance. Your family had decided to come to England to... say, get familiar with likely folk. But you knew exactly why you were here—the Dark Lord was back. Any family like yours worshipped such, even from afar, and wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to be at his feet.

The soft trotting on the gravel comes to a halt, the door quickly opening by the — your father the first to get out, followed by your mother, taking his hand to get out. Not much kindness lingered with the act. You aided yourself out, straightening the slight crinkles in your dress from sitting so long in the carriage.

“Oh, Vincent, how good it is to see you again.” A man waltzes out, a smirk across his face like one you’d often see your father carry. He had platinum blonde long hair slicked back, a black cane that he didn’t seem to need—maybe just more so for show. A woman with black hair with a streak mixed in quickly followed.

“As so you, Lucius. I’m so happy you could invite us for such an event.” Your father replies. Oh right, the event. Your eyes follow your belongings being carried in with a charm by the maids, a few house-elves helping.

The Malfoy Ball—a giant event for pure-bloods your father always talked about. Big. Beautiful. He always came, but with your family moving, he had decided this would be the perfect time to present themselves into the dark, close-knitted community in Britain.

“Draco’s upstairs getting his suit tailored for tonight. He just now decided he wanted to come, with your arrival.” The mother... Narcissa, directed at you as if the family was hoping you two would become, well, a pair—as if hoping you’d care for his coming to the party. You knew she was lying about him just now deciding to come. He probably just didn’t want to come down to greet your family. You wouldn’t blame the boy—this was dreadful.

•• ━━━━ •• 𓆙 •• ━━━━ ••

Your eyes trace the decor—silver, dark. It was all somehow dangerously graceful. You hadn’t strayed far from your mother, shoulders tense, not the happiest to be here, sipping the bitter alcohol from the beautifully sculpted glass probably made for this very event. It had been placed into your hand with expectancy—maybe to show how... grown-up you were.

“Oh, Draco. Draco, dear.” Narcissa called—a silent demand. Your eyes glance around, even if she wasn’t calling for you—catching onto silver eyes looking at you. This was definitely Draco. A spark in his eye—maybe that’s why he looked at you first before his mother. They must’ve gone over this as his duty as a pure-blood boy.

His steps are slow, less purposeful than his father’s had been when first meeting him, even if they shared such a close resemblance. He stops in front of you, staring down with a click of his tongue to convince himself to act before his mother pestered.

He reached down, taking your hand from your side that was unoccupied, and gave it a squeeze. “Malfoy... Draco Malfoy.” He says, leaning down and raising your hand, meeting halfway with a soft kiss of greeting—his eyes remaining trained on you, searching, waiting to see if this was acceptable.