Light in the Darkness

Chapter Seven

The ballroom she found herself standing in was not unlike the Malfoy's. The same ornate pillars and high ceilings. The same horrid people.

This time, she greeted the host family, the Notts, trailing politely behind her family. She laughed at the appropriate times. She said the appropriate things. She behaved the appropriate pureblood she was.

From across the room, she caught Draco's eye. He half smiled at her, and she the same, Pansy Parkinson clutching his arm as she went on and on to his parents about something Astoria would never know.

Making to go back to the table her family sat at, she was greeted with light blue eyes. A chiseled face. Perfectly gelled curls. She held back a groan. Lawrence Avery.

"Astoria," he drawled in his smooth voice. Astoria thought he sounded like a young boy who was desperately trying to push their voice down a few octaves to sound suave.

"Hello," she said back.

"You look enchanting," he said, his white teeth flashing.

Every ounce of her was made uncomfortable by his words. "Er -- thank you," she said, desperately trying to sound polite; trying to hinder any ammunition Daphne could throw her way, accusing her further of being inappropriate at these events.

"I was most disappointed to have missed you the other night at the Malfoy's."

"Oh, um, yes, yes, that was most. . . unfortunate."

"I was hoping we could pick up where we left off. . ." he said, his charming smile aglow.

She smiled uneasily. "Oh, that's -- yes, um. Lawrence, would you excuse me for a second?" she said, placing a light hand on his shoulder. He nodded, his expression never devoid of arrogance. She smiled again, and set off in the opposite direction.

She couldn't disappear again. She couldn't let Daphne be right. But she had to stall somehow. Possibly gain a few minutes by slipping off to the washroom? But no, she hadn't the slightest clue where that was.

The dessert table, her tried and true desperation destination, came into view. Glancing behind her, she saw Lawrence engaged in conversation with some very old looking man.

She ducked behind the impressively large cake set in the center of the table. A fluttery sensation took root in her chest, behind her sternum. A dread filled, anxiety drenched, feeling. Her breath was quick and shuddering. Her hands were shaky and clammy.

The feelings had little to nothing to do with Lawrence. It was because of Daphne, their argument swirling thickly in her clouded thoughts. Because of how, no matter what she did, her best friend, her favorite person in the universe, her sister, would always hold resentment toward her. And she couldn't blame her. She wanted to, she wanted to so badly, but she only found herself agreeing.

Oh no. More tears pricked at the back of her eyes. Push it down, she told herself, holding her breath, trying to recede the emotions. But try as she might, she just wanted to cry. She felt foolish, and stupid, and -- childish.

But she just wanted to cry and cry and have Daphne there to hug her and tell her everything was alright --

"Are you okay?" Someone whispered.

She opened her eyes, which she hadn't realized she'd shut. "What?"

It was Draco standing beside her. "You look almost ill. . . ."

Part of her brain laughed ruefully, almost ill, while the other part, the part that reached her mouth, said, "Oh um, I'm -- I'm fine." She said the words quickly, hastily, returning her eyes back to the elaborate silver cake before her.