Hey guys! I thought I’d write a fan fiction on Drastoria, for my favorite series. It’s a canon, and also my first time writing a fanfic, so I really hope you enjoy it.
Draco twirled his crystal goblet, full of his father’s finest Firewhiskey, in one hand as he sat sullen in a corner, hoping to blend in with the shadows. He did not see the point of his mother’s useless soirees and balls – Pureblood only, of course. The Malfoy name was long gone, trampled beneath the dark shoes of Lucius’ former Death Eater life. In some ways, Draco pitied his parents. He had seen, after the trial, how the fight had gone out of his father’s eyes and the once poised form of his mother slump in dejection, as they had been forced to give up everything they believed in.
Which was why Draco had bothered to even show up to this dull event, letting his mother coddle him into fine black robes – relics from his old life. No one in their right minds would sell to a Malfoy anymore. Checking the timepiece that his mother had gotten him three years ago, on his seventeenth birthday, he sighed. There was still a long time ahead.
“Excuse me,” a voice said, “Could I have a dance?” Frowning, Draco turned to see a tall girl, around a year younger than him, with shoulder length, dark curls framing an oval face. “Pardon me, but you seemed so bored, I thought I might use some company.” She smiled. It was a beautiful smile that lit up her face.
Draco found her captivating. Here was a girl, a Pureblood, no less, who openly admitted to not enjoying Narcissa’s parties. She must be either very confident, or very dull, he surmised. But her face portrayed a keen intelligence, and she did not seem the dull type.
Belatedly, he realized that she had asked him a question. “Yeah, sure,” he replied noncommittally. Intelligent or not, she was still a Slytherin Pureblood, and most Slytherins, including himself, could not be trusted right away. He recognized her as Daphne Greengrass’ sister, Astra or Astira or something like that, and he put himself on guard. The Greengrasses were a still powerful family, who could be seeking to exploit the Malfoy fall.
Still, he found himself observing her closely. She was no traditional beauty, with a small nose and pointed chin, yet something about the deep, ocean blue of her eyes seemed to draw him in. He assessed her with a shrewd eye, experienced in Pureblood politics. Her tall frame that stopped just a couple inches shy of his six feet was poised with a striking, elegant grace, her shoulders thrown back in a quiet, asserted confidence. A glimmer in her eye revealed a very sharp mind, and her face betrayed a knowing smirk – obviously, she had been reading him the same way he had her. He wondered what she had found. Then he shook himself. Since when had he cared what other people thought of him, no less a girl whose name he didn’t even know?
“My name is Astoria, in case you were wondering.” She laughed at the momentarily shocked expression of Draco – she wondered when was the last time someone had been able to see past his smug mask of indifference to the emotions of the lonely boy inside. Nevertheless, he was handsome to look at, with a mind just as fine, and she saw no harm in getting to know him – she was nearly twenty, after all. Her mother had been urging her to turn to Goyle for a marriage (“From a fine, wealthy family, and an easy boy too,” she had said), and Astoria, though too well-brought up to speak it, had found herself repulsed when introduced to him.
When she came to this dance at Malfoy Manor, she found herself drawn to the tall, dark figure in the corner, whose silver eyes betrayed a broken, lonely life – much like herself. So she decided to speak to him.
As they danced, she asked him questions about himself. She was glad to hear that, like herself, Draco shared an interest in art and sport. It had been her dream to play Beater, but her parents had forbidden her from taking part in an “unladylike activity” – just as Lucius had forbidden him from the “womanly” subject of painting. Their conversation, though forced at first, began to flow more naturally as they turned to more topics such as politics – they seemed to fit in a natural rhythm. They could relate to each other’s broken lives more than Astoria could have thought possible, and before she knew it, she was falling hard.
At the end of the evening, she turned to him. She had made the first move; now it was his turn. She was not disappointed. “Meet me at the Three Broomsticks, Friday evening,” he asked bluntly, those storm colored eyes glittering in anticipation.
Astoria smiled. Maybe life would not turn out so bad for both of them after all.
P.S.: You can find a more detailed version on my ff.net account, also called The Bookworm Fairy. I’m also going to be making sequels to this story since a couple of you asked. I’m still not sure if I’ll put them up here, but either way you can find all my stories here.