10 December, 2:15 a.m.
Slytherin common room
Draco sat completely still in the deserted common room, illuminated only by the feeble light of the quickly dying fire. He'd given up trying to tend the flames nearly an hour ago, and now simply watched the lazily dancing shadows they threw on the wall opposite. He longed for a window, but down here there were none. They were under the lake-there was nothing to look at. In the past he hadn't been bothered by this, but now he found the dungeon chambers unsettling. It was dark here even at midday, and the temperature ranged from cool in spring to bitterly cold in winter.
He was looking at an old photograph of himself; the year scribbled on the back told him he'd been seven years old. He didn't recognize the surrounding room, but he didn't care about that. He felt strangely protective of the small, alarmingly blond child in the picture. The little boy knew nothing of what was to come, a mere ten years later. At that moment he would have given anything and everything to go back in time, to become the small child looking back at him.
"You're so lucky," he whispered, running a pale finger lightly over the photograph. For no reason at all he thought of his third year, of the hippogriff who had cut his arm. He wished the wretched beast had killed him then.
He stood and made his way across the darkened common room, treading the familiar path to the dormitories. He didn't particularly want to sleep in the common room. He tentatively pushed open the door, barely enough to slip through, and stood as though petrified for a moment in the doorway. Mercifully, however, no one stirred. He crossed the room silently to his bed, closing the hangings as quietly as he could.
He desperately missed his mother-no, that wasn't quite right. He missed his mother the way she used to be, when he was small. She was never particularly affectionate during the day, especially not in the company of others, as though to show a softness toward her son would have been unseemly. Draco didn't know-perhaps it was. But by night she had hugged him, kissed him, told him stories, occasionally told him she loved him. She had not done this since he was eleven. Twice, during his father's long absence the previous year, she had hugged him.
He had thought his father's return would be pleasant, but far from it. Lucius had always been far too busy to accomodate his son, but now he barely acknoledged Draco's existance other than to brusquely demand assistance. Besides, Death Eaters had routinely visited the manor during the summer, and Draco dreaded these occasions. His father demanded that he be two things during these visits-present and silent. He loathed looking at the Death Eaters; they simultaneously frightened him and turned his stomach. He often sought his mother after these unpleasant visits, though she never comforted him or acknoledged his presence beyond nodding or distractedly murmuring "Draco." He didn't care-well, he did, but he did his utmost not to. It hurt.
During the four months he'd been back at Hogwarts, his parents hadn't written to him. He didn't care about that-it was highly unusual for them to write anyway. Besides, he didn't particularly care what went on at home beyond knowing that his parents were all right, and he knew he'd hear about it if they'd been killed.
He pulled his blankets tighter around him, thinking of home. But of course, the manor had become not so much his home as his father's headquarters. He would be returning there for Christmas in two days, and he dreaded it. For one thing, it meant seeing his Aunt Bellatrix, of whom he had been deathly afraid since he was very young. Bellatrix was younger than his mother, fifteen years to the day older than he. Though she very rarely spoke directly to him, her presence made him extremely uneasy.
No, Draco was not looking forward to going home. He'd considered staying at Hogwarts, but every moment he spent in the castle was a bitter reminder that it would never be the same again, and that this horrible change was entirely his fault.
Burying his face in his pillow, he closed his eyes against the tears that threatened to overpower him. He felt wretched. He had never been so miserable at Hogwarts, and he could scarcely remember ever being so miserable in his life.