Dracaena Malfoy: Reflections (Pt1)

The mirror had opinions about the dress.

Dracaena Malfoy stood before it in a gown of deep azure silk, one hand resting against her hip and the other extended to let the sleeve drift with her movement. Her gaze swept the form before her as she examined the fall of the fabric with the same critical attention of a jeweler inspecting a flawed stone. The bodice was cut with a bold yet tasteful plunge, the waist fitted without a wrinkle to her lithe form, and the skirts flared around her hips to fall in a smooth, unbroken sweep to the floor. Gold thread traced delicate vines along the hems and neckline, catching the candlelight whenever she shifted her weight.

The dress was, by any reasonable measure, quite lovely.

“Too much gold,” said her reflection.

The soft smoke of Dracaena's eyes turned to flint. “The embroidery is tasteful.”

“The embroidery is tasteful, yes,” the mirror shot back. “But the dress is not. It clashes with your complexion.”

“It's the Yule Ball, not a funeral,” she sniffed, still admiring the sweep of the long sleeves. “I'm supposed to stand out.”

“Then perhaps you might consider dressing for the occasion rather than attending it in the guise of a very expensive rug.”

Dracaena let her arm drop and stared at herself.

The standing mirror occupied the corner of the bedchamber that she shared with Pansy and Daphne, its three opulent panels framed in polished mahogany and carved with curling serpents. House Malfoy had owned it for generations, and its enchantment was older than any living member of the family. Much like a wizard's portrait, the reflection possessed a will of its own, though unlike a portrait, it had no painted face to confine it. It could turn in place while Dracaena stood still, letting her examine the back of a gown without straining her neck, and offer its observations whether they were welcome or not.

It had also been sworn, upon pain of immolation, never to lie to its mistress.

Dracaena had inherited the mirror at thirteen – a Christmas gift from her mother. She had been regretting it ever since.

“Fetch the green one,” she said absently.

“I am not your maid.”

Dracaena felt her eyes roll, wondering if her family had been cursed to suffer disobedient servants. Then her gaze met its twin. “You are a mirror.”

“And yet somehow I have more dignity.”

Dracaena bit back a retort, then reached for her wand and gave it a flick. The azure gown loosened at the seams, its silk flowing away from her body in a controlled ripple before folding itself neatly over the back of a chair. Another swish of her wand and the green dress was plucked from where it hung beside the wardrobe, and she stepped into it, guiding the fastenings into place with a practiced movement of her fingers.

This one was simpler. Emerald-green satin, with a slightly more modest neckline, and silverwork at the cuffs and along the edge of the overskirt. It brought out the color of her cheeks and made her pale hair look almost white in the candlelight.

Her reflection regarded her for a long, lingering moment.

“Well?” Dracaena demanded.

“Better.”

“Better?”

The mirror rolled its eyes in an all-too familiar way. “Would you prefer that I tell you it is the most magnificent gown ever stitched by human hands? I can do that, if you would like. It would be a lie, but apparently we are already indulging in fantasy tonight.”

Dracaena's lips tightened. “I shall remember that when the hinges on your frame need oiling.”

“Threats. How droll. Have you considered the black one?”

Dracaena almost said yes. She'd considered them all. The black gown was a reliable choice, severe and elegant. It would do perfectly well for the Yule Ball, where half the school would be watching to see which families had spent the most coin on their daughters' appearances, and the other half would pretend not to care. Nobody had ever accused Dracaena Malfoy of dressing too plainly.

But it reminded her too much of her mother, and she wasn't looking to evoke the Malfoy matriarch at a school dance. Instead, she found herself glancing at the dresses still hanging by the wardrobe.

There was a pale cream dress, the kind that older women wore to luncheon. A white one, as pure as freshly fallen snow, with a soft shimmer like frost on a dewy morning field and that the mirror had likened to a window curtain. There was also the wine-red gown her mother had recently sent from home, accompanied by a note reminding Dracaena that the Malfoy name was not to be worn carelessly.

And then there was the dark green one that she was still wearing. Her hands slid down her front, considering the way that the emerald satin seemed to change color in the candlelight depending on the angle, swinging from a deep, umber forest up into an intoxicating malachite.

The color of Potter's eyes.

The thought arrived uninvited, slipping into her mind with the casual confidence of a thief who knew the lock had already been picked.

Dracaena went still.

Her reflection's eyebrows rose.

“Don't,” Dracaena warned.

“I haven't said anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I am a reflection. Thinking is just about all that I have.”

“You are about to be put in a cupboard,” she seethed.

“Then it is fortunate that you know someone who spent a number of years living in one.”

Dracaena felt her face grow hot.

“We're not talking about Potter.”

“No?”

“He is an insufferable little twit with no sense of decorum, who always sticks that crooked nose where it doesn't belong, and has an entirely unwarranted tendency to look pleased with himself whenever he manages to annoy me.”

“How dreadful.”

“He is rude.”

“Tragic.”

“He's probably incapable of distinguishing a proper ballroom dance from a Quidditch match.”

“Then you certainly ought not to dance with him.”

“I already said that I have no intention of dancing with him!”

The reflection leaned closer, studying her face with an interest that was almost indecent.

“Of course not. Well, if you'll not try the black, then let's see the red. I think it has more promise.”

Dracaena snatched the red gown from its hanger.

It was a mistake, she decided as she stepped into it, to have an enchanted mirror. A perfectly ordinary mirror would have reflected her movements and left the interpretation to her. It would not have watched her fasten the bodice, tilted its head when she frowned, and followed her eyes when they strayed toward the green gown again.

The red dress was lovely. The fabric caught the light in tiny, bloody sparks, and the fitted waist gave way to a skirt that seemed to drip from her long legs when she spun. She could imagine entering the ballroom in it, every head turning as the doors opened, the musicians striking up a waltz.

She could imagine the room falling quiet.

She could imagine Potter standing beside the refreshment table with his hands in his pockets, looking thoroughly unimpressed by the whole affair.

And then, because her mind had apparently decided to betray her in earnest, she imagined him looking at her.

Not at the Malfoy name embroidered on her handkerchief. Not at her platinum hair in an elaborate up-do, or the tasteful heels, or the very expensive dress that her mother had surely spent a fortune on.

At her.

His soft green eyes lifting to meet hers, his usual guarded expression giving way to something she could not quite name. A smile, perhaps – Not that sharp little smirk that he wore when he had caught her in a mistake, but something quieter, something meant for her alone.

Something low in her stomach did an absurd little turn.

Oh, absolutely not.

“Take it off,” said the mirror.

Dracaena blinked. “What?”

“The dress. Take it off.”

“You just said it looked better than the green one.”

“The dress is excellent, but it's making you look miserable.”

“I do not.”

“You look as though someone has informed you that your family fortune has been invested in a particularly disappointing bridge.”

“I am considering the fit.”

“You are considering Harry Potter.”

The name echoed across the room like a dropped glass.

Dracaena's fingers tightened until her nails bit into her palms.

“I am considering no such thing.”

The mirror sighed. “You know, for a girl who can dismantle a transfiguration in three seconds and brew a sleeping draught whose effect you can measure down to the minute, you are remarkably poor at recognizing the simplest changes in yourself.”

“Careful,” Dracaena warned, aiming a finger at her reflection.

“Your shoulders have been stiff for the last ten minutes. You have changed dresses four times. You have rejected every colour that does not remind you of him, and now you are imagining his face while wearing a gown that would make half the school's pureblood daughters weep with envy.”

“That is not what I am doing.”

“You are also a terrible liar.”

“I am not lying.”

“Then answer one question.”

Dracaena folded her arms.

The reflection folded its arms too, though with rather more satisfaction.

“If the Potter boy were to ask you to dance at the ball, would you accept?”

“No.”

The answer came quickly enough to sound convincing.

The mirror waited.

Dracaena lifted her chin. “I would refuse on principle. As I said before – he has no manners, no pedigree, and no appreciation for the traditions that make an occasion like this worth attending. In fact I would be doing him a kindness by declining.”

“Of course.”

“And even if he were somehow to acquire all three, I would still refuse.”

“Certainly.”

“Because I despise him.”

The reflection's expression softened, which was somehow worse than its mockery.

“Dracaena.” Somehow, with that one word, she heard the disappointed tone of her mother speaking through her own voice.

“What?”

“If you despised him, you would not care whether he asked.”

For a moment, the only sound was the faint crackle of the fire.

Dracaena looked away first.

She hated that the mirror was right. She hated that the possibility of Potter asking her to dance had occupied more of her thoughts than anyone else who had asked her to the ball, and that she had spent the better part of the evening choosing a dress for a boy she claimed meant nothing to her. She hated, most of all, that none of it could be explained by ambition, or rivalry, or the perfectly reasonable desire to be the best-dressed girl in the room.

There were plenty of boys at Hogwarts who would be delighted to dance with her. She'd already turned down nearly a dozen interested suitors in the last week alone. Sons of old families, Prefects three years her senior, Quidditch athletes, polished young men with fine coats and carefully drilled manners, boys who knew which fork to use at a formal dinner and which compliments to offer a lady.

She could have her choice of any of them.

She did not want any of them.

The realization settled into her chest with the weight of a stone.

No.

She would not have it. She would not allow a baseborn wretch with a scarred face and an infuriating habit of surviving things that ought to have broken him to make a fool of her. She was Dracaena Malfoy. She had spent her life learning to master herself, her magic, and every room she entered.

She would not be undone by a pair of green eyes and a shy smile.

“We'll try the white one,” she said.

Her reflection's mouth twitched. “The expensive curtain?”

“The white one.”

“Very well.”

The red dress loosened around her, and the white gown slipped from the chair and rose into the air, its skirts settling around her legs as the fastenings drew themselves shut. Dracaena smoothed the bodice with both hands, adjusted the fall of the sleeves, and lifted her chin.

There. It was perfect.

The mirror turned one panel to inspect her profile, then another to examine the fall of the skirts, the reflection giving a pirouette so that she could see how it spun about her legs. Dracaena followed its gaze despite herself, checking the embroidery, the waist, the line of the shoulders. She looked every inch the scion of House Malfoy, composed and elegant and entirely beyond the reach of foolish sentiment.

“It's a lovely dress,” the mirror said at last.

“I know.”

“And you look beautiful.”

Dracaena paused.

The compliment was so unusual, so entirely free of barbed commentary, that she found herself looking directly at her reflection.

“Thank you,” she said, a little stiffly.

“You're welcome. Though I suspect you would look just as beautiful in a potato sack if you knew he would be watching.”

Dracaena snatched up a hairbrush and threw it.

The reflection ducked, and the left panel dodged. The brush struck the wooden frame rather than glass, and clattered harmlessly to the floor.

“Your aim is getting worse,” it observed mildly, the frame straightening.

“I shall have you dismantled and turned into kindling.”

“You would miss me.”

“I would enjoy the silence.”

“You would be left to answer your own questions.”

Dracaena's lips parted, then closed again.

The mirror smiled.

“Ah,” it said. “There it is.”

She bent to retrieve the brush, taking rather more time than necessary to smooth an invisible wrinkle from her skirt. The fire snapped in the hearth, throwing a brief spray of sparks up the chimney. Beyond the window, the shimmering moonlight spilled across the surface of the Black Lake overhead and illuminated its inky depths, and somewhere high above in the Gryffindor tower, Potter was doubtless going about his evening without giving her a single thought.

That, at least, was what she intended to believe.

“Not a word to anyone,” she said.

Her reflection gave a look of reproach. “My dear, I am a mirror. I have spent three hundred years listening to people lie to themselves. If I repeated everything I heard, I would have a greater death toll than You-Know-Who.”

Dracaena glanced at it.

“And if he asks you to dance?” it prompted.

“I shall refuse.”

The reflection nodded solemnly. “Of course.”

“I mean it.”

“I am sure you believe so.”

Dracaena turned away before it could see her smile, and went to choose her earrings.

The silver snakes she'd bought in Hogsmeade would do nicely. After all, if she was going to be forced to endure the Yule Ball in the vicinity of Harry Potter, she might as well look magnificent while doing it.