Draco took a measured sip of his drink to avoid answering promptly. He wanted to hate that he was here, but at the same time, it was an odd comfort, being amongst society. It reminded him of the nights in his youth that he watched Narcissa and Lucius host their friends, leaving Draco to run around the manor with Goyle, and Crabbe, along with the Parkinson’s when Pansy’s parents bothered to show, or Theo when Mr. Nott made his rare appearances. Draco had always looked forward to joining the casual atmosphere his parents enjoyed, over expensive appetizers and elf-made wine. It was Christmas Eve after all, so Draco assured himself that he couldn't be culpable for enjoying the company of other wizards, because it wasn't as if he'd really joined them, right?As it stood, for nearly a decade, Draco had heard the snide comments and felt the judgmental stares in every room he entered. He was as widely loathed as he was known, with the large majority of the wizarding world wishing he was in Azkaban. He had hoped that this stigma would disappear over the years, put even after eight, it was as prevalent as ever. In the King's home, he was an outsider, sure- but he was respected. He was one of them. Acceptance, at the cost of what few morals he had left. 