Invidiosa

So Are The Norms of Our Lives...

The last time Attia had been standing on the sidelines, watching with 'Draco Malfoy' specifically in such a manner might have been before their fourth year. There had been two complimentary invitations sent to their house, courtesy of her mother writing in when Jules and Attia were lamenting about attending the Quidditch World Cup. The Normandeaus were reserved when it came to social gatherings— or rather, Leraine was, unless her children asked. They didn't beg; their mother had a vicious disdain for begging. They'd idly asked in passing if they would be allowed to purchase tickets, and be chaperoned along with the Weasley's father and their mother hadn't said anything. So they said no more, and made sure not to look mopey. A few days later, the minister's carriage that had gone past Malfoy's manner had gone past theirs as well. It was sort of odd, the way the influence of Leraine had gotten them something so easily, but they didn't question it.

It had first been uncomfortable silence, Jules and Attia entering the magically expanded interior of the carriage— reigns pulled by an invisible force. Before leaving the house, since Madame Normandeau was sending her children off with the minister, they of course had to dress well. Their dark, overcloaks were embroidered with with velvety blue designs and sat around their shoulders, cascading down the front and almost dragging at the back. Underneath, they wore dark clothing, tighter tops up to their neck and nearly touching their fingertips in length, completely buttoned up. Attia had gone with a skirt despite her mother deeming the slits way too high, with nylons and boots, and Jules his slacks. He had all of his favourite gaudy, silver rings, which made Attia roll her eyes, which was doubly obvious with her hair slicked back into a tight braid.

There were tables, refreshments, and food within the carriage. None of which she indulged in. She hated how—- adult she had been made to look by her mother. And the dark robes made her look like she could be Lucius Malfoy's best pal.

Whom, by the devil, was sitting in the same carriage. Attia's neck turned to observe him chatting up the minister, and Draco wearing his snub people pleasing face beside him. It was so incredibly fake she almost gagged, but if she made such an expression in front of Fudge and it made it back to her mother she would be hung by her ears.

By the time they reached the stadium for the world cup, Draco had been excluded and all the ministry officials were bustling around and talking about everything besides actual Quidditch, and Attia could not find her place among any of them. She'd even shut her mind out of annoyance that no one was even thinking about Quidditch. It was a lame crowd to be watching a game with.

She watched him curiously— he had been hanging out in their vast vineyard since the summer before the last, always in secret. Never did his father hear about it, and Leraine kept her mouth shut on the condition that he didn't bring any of his father's bigotry with him. Not to worry, this was intensely enforced by Attia and Jules. Two a side quidditch, or in on the general banter of Jules and Attia (Alex, not so often, would join too). Attia wasn't sure why her mother had allowed it.

When Draco would come over, the conversations were surprisingly mundane, almost as if they all silently agreed to avoid the more pressing, uncomfortable topics that might remind them of their differences. Draco rarely brought up anything about his family, his life at home, or his father's expectations. Instead, they would talk about Quidditch, the latest broomstick models, or the odd hex Jules had discovered in some old book. Sometimes even an old dark artefact Draco would bring over for them to observe, though Leraine had looked irate a number of times when she had caught them, especially as Draco was not a practiced occlumens.

Yet every social gathering he seemed to pretend not to know them as well, as if it were to stain his reputation. They never talked about the future, at least not in any meaningful way. It was as if they all knew that whatever this was—this strange, tentative friendship—was temporary, something that couldn't survive the return to Hogwarts and the real world. He'd stick to Goyle, Zabini, Parkinson, and Crabbe and Attia would only be greeted as a formality and left to her own devices. As if Attia cared at all. They were pretending, those times in her home. That's all that was.