verity || d.m.

03 - vines of ivy

1 SEPTEMBER, 2001

—

recollection pooling in your vision
silver flowed as obsidian stilled

- excerpt from poem #20, "verity" in my poetry book aftertaste

—

For someone raised in such a strict line of wizards, it's no surprise that Draco takes his appearance seriously.

As he stands in the middle of the shower, he's forced to confront what he is walking into tonight. It's been six years. Part of him thinks she'll be the same witty girl he met at 14. Of course, that would be foolish of him to expect; he can barely recollect everything that's changed in his own life.

He has to admit he has thought about what would happen if they saw each other again. He likes to imagine she does the same.

Hot drops of water pile on his skin, singeing it a rosy shade of red. Back at Hogwarts, the other boys in his year used to heckle him about looking like a "strawberry princess" when he stepped out of the shower. By far the most heinous nickname was when Theo said he looked like "a Gryffindor's arse at a Quidditch match." At the time, he wanted to slap them all into the following week. Now, these are just memories he yearns for. Memories of innocence, memories of naïvity, memories of simplicity.

Draco could easily stay under the darting water for another few hours, but he knows better than to be late. Quickly wrapping the towel around his waist after using it to pat his damp skin dry, he steps out, blond hair hanging loosely in front of his eyes. What was once the distinct platinum trademark of Malfoy has now become a warmer, honey-like shade. He only hopes he can reflect that on the inside as well.

Grabbing the pale blue jar that sits on the counter, he scrapes the last bit of moisturizer out, making a mental note to ask his mother when she's going to the apothecary next. It occasionally crosses his mind as he's getting ready that he actually hasn't the slightest idea what he's putting on his face, but it's whatever she uses, and that's good enough for him. But as far as he knows, it could be salamander snot and dragon droppings.

Ironically, if you looked inside his dresser, you would not assume it belonged to someone who saw these dinner parties as nothing more than an obligation. Not only does Draco own a plethora of suits, but they're highly decorative, each uniquely embroidered with metallic thread intricately weaving in and out to tell their own story.

The one he has laid out for tonight is a dark blue, almost black shade. Depending on where he stands in the light, you'd probably miss the deep ocean hues. Along the collar and the lapels, long vines of ivy are sewn in silver thread. If you weren't standing up close, the suit jacket would resemble constellations scattered across the night sky. Inside the breast pocket, a blush-colored silken pocket square sits comfortably. He carefully slips on the suit jacket after meticulously doing the buttons on his freshly ironed shirt, finishing off by clasping on cufflinks that have been pressed with the Malfoy family crest.

A marbled glass ring dish sits near the inner edge of his desk, and he carefully slides the ornate metals onto his fingers. Over the years, the collection has slowly grown larger. First came the signet family ring his father gifted to him on his 15th birthday, which routinely sits on his left pointer finger. That following Christmas, he received a dark titanium band with a dragon engraved inside from his mother; he places this one on his right ring finger. The newest addition to the dish is a thick, black diamond ring with large emeralds paved in the center, which was an impulse purchase a few weekends back when he was on his way back from the Ministry after a meeting for PRIME. It hasn't left his right thumb since, save for when he showers.