Title: Raise Your Glass
Summary: This is not a toast.
A/N: Yes, I'm listening to Raise Your Glass by P!nk on repeat.
You don't remember the last time light has filtered through the familiar windows. The clouds refuse to part, its ominous gray spelling danger to anyone who dares enter.
The dining table looms ahead, looking even longer those few times your family of three was actually present for dinner sitting on opposite sides of its rectangular, Victorian design. The portraits lining the walls all have their heads bowed in respect while wearing their blackest robes.
You know there is blood somewhere in this room; there is always blood.
It is caked on the grounds, the tables, and the walls. Everywhere you turn, each room you enter—every carpet you walk on—there are splotches and splatters.
It's not real, you think. You blink and the reddish brown—mudblood, your father calls it haughtily—on the carpet by the fireplace disappears.
You sit down beside your mother, who is doing a spectacular show of appearing emotionless and regal. You see the—fake?—fiery pride and respect showing in her eyes as they glance over first at your father and then the man at the head of the table. You do your best to stay unnoticed, your head bowing as low as is respectable as dinner is served.
Pansy is four seats down across from you to your left. She is already chatting up their fellow comrades (you feel nauseous just thinking that word.)
Crabbe and Goyle look proud, and are fighting over who will take it first the only way violent, unintelligent boys know how.
A fork lightly tapping a raised wineglass and the man at the end of the table has everyone's attention.
The man raises the glass, half full with red wine. What pureblood resembles, your mind supplies, courtesy of your father's teachings.
A toast, the man says, pulling his hood off and revealing his position as Lord. To the children.
Slowly, there is a ripple effect as metal utensils clink on china plates. It starts with the seats closest to the Lord, arms outstretched as they offer up their drinks and clink with their Lord next to them. It reaches the other side, where you are sitting to the left of your father on the other side. Your hand cups the glass.
Raise your glass, your mother's expression says. If she could hiss at you without drawing his attention she would but you both know that is impossible.
You are normally not one to resist, but in this case your stubbornness rears its ugly head.
Your right hand refuses to budge from its position around the drink.
A light kick is delivered to your shin underneath the table and moments later, your hands move without your consent. When your eyes fly up to meet your mother's, she is looking directly at you, eyes piercing and lips sealed shut but you know—you know that was wandless magic.
Your father finally raises his glass.
To the children, your father repeats as the clinking of glass can be heard all around before everyone takes a sip.
This is not a toast.