Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by JK Rowling.
A/N: Written for Twistmas - A Dark Remix Xmas Fest, hosted by Slytherin Cabal. Thanks to the mods for such an interesting fest!
Prompt: Silent Night.
Trigger Warning: This is a dark fic. If you're good with murder, a bit of gore, and an off-beat POV, then go for it! This is one of my favorite things I wrote last year, so I hope you like it. The formatting might seem weird, but it's intentional. The blank spaces are just as much a part of the story as the text (although I had to cheat a little bit here on FFN because it wouldn't let me keep the blank spaces without the ellipses, so just pretend they're not there lol).
Wake up.
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Pry your eyelids open. The house is quiet now, and finally, finally, we can start.
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It's Christmas Eve. Tonight, everyone is going to get what they deserve.
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That's it. Slide out from your silken sheets; place your feet on that carpet, as soft as uncut grass. A good choice, these carpets decorating every room. They're going to help us. Help you move across the floor without making noise.
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It won't do if they can hear us coming.
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Moonlight bathes the room in silver. What it cannot touch, the shadows have laid claim. It's surreal, isn't it? A world that's been bled of color.
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Tell yourself you're dreaming, if you must.
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Convince yourself that you're wading through this dreamscape, this world of fragile, shimmering light.
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That you're really, safely still in bed; not opening the bedroom door, wand clutched in your hand.
Lull your anxiety.
Douse that feeling that something is wrong.
Smother that part of your mind—the part that's rattling its cage.
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Howling.
Raging to be free.
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Soon.
But not yet.
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Pad down the hallway. Don't make too much noise. Those vermin—fucking House Elves—might hear. Might investigate; though I doubt it. They've seen enough horrors in this god-forsaken place to be curious about a bump in the night. Too traumatized—by me—to wander these halls in the dark.
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There.
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The double doors at the end of the hall. White and tall and ornate.
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Wrap your fingers around the curved handle. Ease the door open, just a sliver.
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One shadowed lump on the wide mattress. The minute rising and falling of its chest the only movement in the room.
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Perfect.
This will make it easier.
One by one.
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The door clicks behind you. The room is painted in the same moonlight, and you glide to the far side, to the still-sleeping form.
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She looks innocent when she sleeps. Like the child I once knew, the little girl who came into my room and snuggled in my bed during nights like this. Nights when her nightmares became all too real.
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Cissy.
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My poor darling.
My sweet, little sister.
Pretty and soft and stupid and wretched.
Ungrateful, disloyal Cissy.
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She dies first.
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No.
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Stop...resisting. It's futile; and all it will do is make me even...angrier.
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Now point your wand. Say the words.
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Say them.
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Hm. Interesting.
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Your limbs, your hands, how easily I can control them. But your voice—you refuse to give me your voice.
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Refuse to say the words.
Avada Kedavra.
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Do you think this will spare her?
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Do you think, because you won't lend me your voice, that she will escape death tonight?
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Stupid boy.
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Now pick up that pillow.
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This is what happens when you dare defy me.
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See how she suffers because of your insolence? How she writhes, clutching at the cloth, scratching the back of your hands as she struggles for air?
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Sobbing.
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Gasping.
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Your fault.
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Your fault.
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Your fault.
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Your fault she betrayed our master, the Dark Lord. Your fault she and that spineless husband of hers turned their backs on everything they stood for. Defiled our sacred mission.
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All for you.
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And now, their deaths are on your hands, too.
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Are those tears escaping your eyes? Streaming down your cheeks and dripping onto the pillowcase, turning the grey cloth black?
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Fine.
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Cry all you want, as long as you keep a firm, steady pressure over her face.
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She'll be gone soon. Her arms are weakening; there's no fire in the way she struggles as if she's resigned to her fate. Her legs are no longer thrashing, getting tangled up in the sheets.
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A moan.
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A whimper.
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And then she's gone.
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Her chest no longer gasping for air.
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Her limbs askew like a rag doll thrown on the floor, abandoned and forgotten.
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Ease up, now; there's no need to push down on the fat pillow. Would you like to see her?
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See what you've done to her?
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Oh, Cissy.
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Even in death, she's quite pretty. Cheeks mottled purple and white and blue. A work of art. Eyes glassy and unseeing.
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Don't close them.
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Let her eyes stay open.
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Don't give her a semblance of peace.
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She shall have none in the afterlife; I'll see to it myself.
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But not yet. We're not done here.
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He's probably in his study—he's always hiding in his study, finding comfort in a glass of liquor. Consumed so much of it during the Dark Lord's reign; even more so when he couldn't resuscitate your family name after the war. Chose to cower in his manor rather than do anything about it.
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This angers you, too—I can feel it. A burning in the center of your chest when you think of your bastard of a father. All the torment he subjected you to for the sake of his cause, only to pull out of it when it was too late. When the damage had been done among your peers.
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You were a lonely, frightened child; and now you're an ostracized, hated man.
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All because of Lucius Malfoy.
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Well.
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I have a Christmas present for you, nephew.
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Go down to the kitchen.
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Pick out a blade. The sharpest, longest one you can find.
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Grab the hilt, and let's go on a hunt.
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You're trembling. From fear? Or excitement? I can feel you recoil from my laughter, the goose flesh along your arms, the tingle down your spine.
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I'm simply…
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Ecstatic.
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Oh, how I wish I had my own body; could do what you're doing with my own bare hands. Have dreamed of it in the years since my death, stuck in the crevice between here and the afterlife with nothing but fantasies of revenge to keep me company. Seeking to punish those who failed my master and besmirched his name.
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Hurry, nephew.
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Hurry.
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We must find Lucius. We must—
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Yes.
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There he is.
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As predicted, standing in the study with his back to the door. One hand curled around a glass of amber liquid, the other grasping the long mantle.
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Careful, now; quiet.
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He hasn't heard us—heard you. Hasn't been aware that his wife is no longer on this plane of existence.
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He's always been oblivious.
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I volunteered to do it, you know—to be the one to kill him when the Dark Lord was furious with his incompetence.
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I've thirsted for his blood.
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Tonight, I shall have it. At last.
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Firelight crawls along the edge of your blade. Your silent prowl has gone unnoticed. Closer.
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Closer.
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A whiff of pungent liquor.
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The crackle of the fire, the heat of it against your cheek.
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The sharp point finds its way between two ribs.
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Then,
a satisfying, wet squelch as the knife cleaves through flesh.
Lucius grunts; breath whooshes from his chest like you've stolen it.
The crystal in his hand falls to the stone hearth, breaking to a million shards. Flecks of glass and liquor splash your bare feet.
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His knees buckle as he turns;
grasps your shoulders.
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Wide-eyed,
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he opens his mouth to say something.
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Scream.
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Retract your arm; then, plunge it again. It's sloppier this time, nicking a hard rib. Blood pours out in time with his still-beating heart. It runs over the black hilt,
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covers your fingers,
and trails down your hand and wrist—
over the linear welts and half-moon scratches your mother made minutes ago.
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Warm, sticky blood, flavoring the air with notes of copper.
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More.
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I want more.
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Fill the room with the scent of his death. Bury that blade deep inside him; yank it out.
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Do it again,
over and over,
not stopping until every inch of his body is dressed in red
and his grey eyes dull
and his cheeks as white as parchment as the blood escapes every single wound—
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He opens his mouth.
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Gurgles.
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Once more.
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Just once more.
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Can you feel it, Draco?
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Feel the life shudder out of him, the last tendrils of it like a puff of breath on a frozen day? Going now. Going to that great beyond where Narcissa waits.
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Where I will soon find them both, and the chase will begin anew.
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He sways.
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Then, he crumples to the ground.
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The knife clatters next to him.
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Sated.
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I am sated.
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My sister is dead. Her nothing-husband along with her.
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Shall you be next, Draco?
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Shall I have you pick up that knife, slick with your father's blood? Make the razor-edge kiss your neck, open you up?
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Or.
Perhaps.
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You can still be of use.
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There are people who need to be punished, beyond the traitors in these halls. What shall we do now? Visit the remaining Death Eaters to...convince them to join their master once again? Like vassals of an ancient lord, entombed with their master's corpse to continue serving him in the afterlife.
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Or should we pay a visit to the Accursed One? The Dark Lord's nemesis...and yours and mine.
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How strange, boy. I can feel you turning from the very idea like a slug on salted earth. Does your blood no longer boil when Harry Potter is in your midst? When his friends, equally responsible for the sorry state of your existence, roam the world unscathed?
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Forgiveness.
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Understanding.
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Mercy.
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You are...disgusting. Filth. Have you no pride in your lineage? In your status as the heir to a pure legacy?
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No.
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No. I will not allow it.
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Where are they tonight? Show me.
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Show me.
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Together.
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At...the Burrow.
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Your growing, fragile friendship with them has at least earned you that bit of information.
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Tonight, they are all there. Those filthy Weasleys. Potter. Even that frizzy-haired little chit, Granger.
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Oh, I'm looking forward to seeing her again. To finish what I started long ago. When I'm done—when you're done—it will be carved all over her body. Across her chest. Down her back. Over each leg and arm. Even on her forehead.
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Mudblood.
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That Weasley bitch...you'll tie her up. Bind her until she's only a pair of eyes. And then butcher her family in front of her, one by one.
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Leave her ears uncovered, too. So she can hear every single cry, every plea to be spared.
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Perhaps I'll be lenient; will choose one of the offspring to live. Mutilate it beyond repair, so that dear Mummy can have someone to take care of for the rest of her miserable life.
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And I would want her to live a long life, after that. Many days, and every single one would be filled with the memory of her family being slaughtered.
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As for Potter.
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His death will be swift. Don't give him a chance to turn down death once again.
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He shall be taken this time.
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Draco. Dear, pitiful Draco.
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Are you ready? To exact vengeance for me and my lord?
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You won't be able to raze them down. Not if you don't give me your voice. We will have to do it the hard way again, and you won't make it past the first or second kill.
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Then, they'll bring you down. And they won't know that you weren't in control; they'll think it's just you, Draco Malfoy, who wanted this, hungered for their deaths, thirsted for their blood.
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Your flimsy reputation will be washed away like a paper boat in a maelstrom.
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But if you lend me your voice...just a few words, Draco.
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A few words, and it will be over.
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Then, you'll be free.
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Say the words, Draco.
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Say the words.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews for this fic would be awesome! Cheers!