Six to Eight Cloaked Men
The subtle light from the fireplaces danced around the room as it bounced off the dark wooden furniture and the blood red tapestries shone maliciously against the silvery light of the full moon peering down from the almost black sky. The mansion appeared to illuminate like a ghost. The oversized tree adorned with green and silver décor lacked that festive quality that could be found on most family trees and the garland and festive trinkets appeared to simply blend in with the background. It was Christmas Eve in the Wizarding world, yet it appeared like the house had been abandoned many a Christmas time ago and simply never revisited since. Malfoy Manor had always had the gloomy quality though. Draco remembered that much from his happier childhood memories. Even years ago when the house lacked the presence of his, for lack of a better word, frightening aunt and the presence of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named it was still not the epitome of the perfect family dwelling. Still, Draco had to admit that apart from Christmas two years ago where all of his presents were sent to Tijuana after he decided to set the family house elf, Ollie, on fire, this had to be the most miserable holiday of his short yet melancholy life so far.
Lucius Malfoy had just been returned from Azkaban as an early holiday present from the Dark Lord. He had recovered a lot in the last two weeks, however it was clear that the wizarding prison had taken its toll on his sanity because he had isolated himself from the rest of the group and chose instead to reside in an armchair that rested in the farthest corner. The room was painstakingly quiet except for the occasional outburst of gibberish from Lucius that would result in a rather ferocious hiss from Voldemort's pet, Nagini, which Lucius would then retort with a rather obnoxious wail. This went on for what felt like a good hour to Draco who watched in horror as the Dark Lord's face contorted in anger and annoyance. When Draco was pretty much certain that Voldemort was about to murder both his father and Rudolphus Lestrange who found the whole situation to be beyond hysterical, the only person proven to irk Voldemort more than anyone else in the whole house ran into the room with a terrified squeal as he leaped to avoid a blast of green light that nearly amputated his entire left foot.
"Pettigrew! You little rat! If I get my hands on you I swear I'll Crucio you to next Tuesday!"
A rather fanatic Bellatrix had entered the room looking more disheveled than usual, wielding her wand her eyes glaring a hole through her pray. Pettigrew had bolted out of the dining room and into the large resting hall and was now trembling behind Voldemort's chair whimpering in a very pestering fashion and the large snake that was resting by the Dark Lord's feet was hissing violently at Pettigrew who must have stepped on her tail upon escaping Bellatrix's wrath.
"M-my Lord! I can explain, I swear!-" The rat faced man was imploring a rather un-amused Voldemort but his pleads were soon drowned out by Bellatrix's squeals.
"That little pig-faced THING tried to involve me in some strange, hideous muggle tradition involving some plant 'fissile-toe or whatever and he had the AUDACITY to try and kiss me!"
"My Lord! I was simply trying to explain to Bellatrix a small holiday tradition in the muggle world."
"You tried to kiss me!"
"Madame Lestrange I assure you it was simply meant to help you understand the concept, there was NO meaning behind it I swear!"
Before Bella had the chance to retort the shady man that was residing in the corner rose to his full height, towering a good foot at least over Pettigrew, his dark almost black eyes leering down on him. Pettigrew began to crumble into the ground his knees giving way slowly but surely as Rudolphus approached him, his wand drawn.
"Master Lestrange!" With this exclamation Pettigrew's knees finally gave way and he collapsed to the floor looking like a helpless weeble-wobble. His shining silver hand gleamed and reflected the light into Nagini's eyes who then hissed and attempted to consume whatever that shiny item was that was that was pestering her. Voldemort quickly hissed something to Nagini who gagged in retort and slithered onto his lap as her caressed her head. Rudolphus was now casually seated back into his comfy position, his wife Bellatrix was perched on his lap her eyes intently focused on another man in the room. There was an intense silence that lasted only a couple of seconds until Draco felt incredibly awkward with the arrangement and proceeded to break the ice. "Well, I wonder if Santa's already left the North Pole. Aha, ha….ha…uh." Draco's awkward statement received many a questioning glance from the other men and his aunt. Narcissa entered the room as if she were cued and saved Draco from the awkwardness of the situation by placing a steaming pot of hot chocolate on the table before her guests. She glided across the room with a sophisticated grace and planted a small, caring kiss upon Draco's forehead and gave him a look that basically read "Nice try." Draco's face became red as he wished he could just apparate to his room and become a recluse for the rest of his life, which judging by the way the Dark Lord was still staring at him, wasn't going to be too much longer. As Draco's mind began to trail from plain embarrassment to suicidal notions he was ripped quite aggressively into consciousness by the sound of his aunt's high pitched taunting voice.
"Awww, Does wittle Dwakey wakey need to go to bed early so dat Santa Claus can come fill his wittle bitty stockings with toys!" A couple of seconds of silence was then greeted, much to Draco's dismay, by a loud uproar of cackling, laughing, chortling and plain out humiliation from everyone present. Draco's faced must have invented a new hue of red when he even saw his mom attempt to conceal a small giggle within the fabric of her sleeve.
"Santa, what a silly thought" chuckled Fenrir who now made his presence known to the rest of the room. He had up until then been enjoying the warmth of the fire from a big red rug close to its source.
"IT IS NOT!" Draco yelled, realizing he sounded a little too defensive for boy his age, especially on the topic of Santa. He was only a couple short months from becoming of age, he was Hogwart's residential bully and he was a death eater for crying out loud! The most embarrassing thing he could possibly have done was debate the existence of a childhood figure like Santa; especially to a group of the wizarding world's most feared and wanted murderers. Draco felt like a complete idiot, but this idiocy was taken a completely new level when Voldemort himself claimed Santa and all he stood for to be "against the 'cause'" To Voldemort, Santa was a hideous and childish fabrication from the grotesque muggle mind. The thought of a jolly, chubby man who frighteningly appears to resemble Dumbledore who flies around in a sled pulled by reindeer and who's entire life's work was dedicated to making and delivering toys to all the children in the world was humiliating even to a race as filthy as the muggles.
"But My Lord. If Santa doesn't bring the gifts young Wizards and Witches get on Christmas, who does?" Draco was already beyond the point of caring, considering his level of humiliation in the last hour had reached such a high that he figured he had simply become momentarily sensitized to the screams of his ego and dignity as they perished in agony.
"Lucius! Narcissa! Did you not teach this boy ANYTHING? No wonder he is such a miserable git! He knows nothing of Christmas tradition in the wizarding world!" Draco's greatest fear was realized when he gazed upon his mother's horror-stricken face. He could once again hear the horrible screeching of his dignity and he realized how ignorant he had been to think he had not leaped over the line with his last question. Now, there he was facing the horrified faces of his parents as they were being chastised by the greatest dark wizard in the world, and on the topic of Santa! Not to mention he was just called a miserable git, but that was the least of his problems at the moment.
"My Lord, forgive me but you still have not answered my question. Who brings the presents to all the good little wizards and witches on Christmas Eve?" Draco was awaiting a rush of pain and the words "Crucio!" at the very least he expected to hear his aunt's taunting resume but instead the room was silent and Voldemort had perched to the edge of his chair to tell the true story of Santa. So, Voldemort proceeds to tell about the day he learned about Santa.
"I've never really been one for guidebooks, so while trying to track down some new, vulnerable prey in a strange city, I normally start by asking the local bus driver or hotel clerk some pointless question regarding the latest census figures. I say pointless because I don't really care how many people live in London, England or Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. They're nice enough places but when I'm out looking for a particular boy with a lighting bolt scar on his head; those numbers are rather useless to me. My second question might have to do with the price of coffee, which again doesn't tell me anything that may aid me on my quest to destroy Potter, unless Potter happens to be craving a venti mocha latte at the same time I am craving a grande skinny vanilla.
What really interests me are the local wand and curse laws. Can I carry a concealed weapon and if so, under what circumstances? What is the average sentence for inflicting inconceivable torture on a mudblood? Does the penalty for using an unforgivable curse change with regards to the situation, like if I were recently divorced or fired from my job? I've learned from experience that it is probably best to ease into this topic as delicately as possible, especially if you and the local citizen are alone in an enclosed and relatively small area. It's also best not to try and threaten this information out of them by telling them you are the most feared dark wizard in the world, or that you bear a snake tattoo on your arm. They tend not to react quite the way you'd like them to. Bide your time though and you could end up walking away with some amazing stories. For example, did you know that the blind can legally duel and hunt magical creatures in both Tinworth in Cornwall as well as some other places in the wizarding world. In most places a sighted companion must accompany them but in Tinworth they are allowed to go it alone. Are the Tinworth blind allowed to fly as well? Anyway, I ask about hex laws not because I fear I am going to get in any trouble for doing forbidden dark magic, but because the answers often vary so widely from place to place. In a world polluted by mudblood filth and becoming frighteningly homogeneous by the second, I am reassured by these last charming touches of regionalism.
When I was new to Hogwart's school of Witchcraft and Wizardry I found that there were a couple of good icebreakers that worked quite well. "When do you open your Christmas presents?" was my favorite around the holidays. One night I was discussing this with a good friend of mine, he was a pureblood Slytherin whose name was unimportant to me, but that doesn't matter. Anyway it appeared that if you were a member of a prestigious pure blood family, you tended to follow the tradition of opening your presents on December 5, in celebration of St. Nicholas Day. It sounded soft and fuzzy until this boy explained the story to me in full detail as we walked to Hogsmeade one snowy afternoon.
Unlike the Jolly, obese Santa that you mentioned earlier Draco, our Santa is painfully thin and dresses not unlike the minister of magic, topping off his robes with a hat that resembles an embroidered tea cozy. The outfit, I was told, is a carryover from his former job as the overlord of Azkaban."
"Forgive me, my Lord. But could you repeat that?"
"Why certainly, Draco"
One doesn't want to be too much of a cultural chauvinist, but this seemed absolutely wrong to Draco. For starters, Santa didn't used to do anything. He's not retired and he certainly had nothing to do with Azkaban, it's too dangerous there and the people wouldn't appreciate him. When asked how Santa got from Azkaban to the North Pole, Voldemort told the crowd of avid listeners with complete conviction that Santa currently resides in Godric's Hollow, which again is simply not true.
"My Lord." Interrupted Pettigrew. "What about the reindeer?"
The whole crowd turned to face Pettigrew, some with a quizzical expression on their face, others with a look of plain amusement or absolute boredom. Fenrir yawned heartily then his gravely voice spoke out before Voldemort had the chance to resume.
"Pettigrew, you idiot! There are no reindeer in Godric's Hollow! And besides we all know Santa arrives on an eight legged horse."
"But that's not true!" Pettigrew's face glowed red from frustration as tears streamed down his bloated cheeks. The reindeer were always Pettigrew's favorite part of the story growing up and no one was about to tell him they were all a lie.
"I think you all forgetting WHO is telling the story here!" Voldemort's high voice hissed over the commotion and lingered in the air long after he had spoken his last word. Nagini stirred on his lap and Lucius let out a faint moan from the corner. The room was silent and all eyes were upon him once more. Voldemort peered around the room to make sure he had everyone's undivided attention. Lucius was an almost indefinable lump lurking in the shadows, but his big blue eyes were reflecting back the light as he waited for the Dark Lord's next word. Pettigrew was still whimpering on the floor beside his feet and Fenrir was attending to an itch behind his right ear. Narcissa was rigid and alert beside her son Draco who, more or less, just wanted to hear the story. Rudolphus had fallen asleep and Bellatrix's eyes were focused like lasers directly at Voldemort's face, practically peering through his skin. She had a look of intense longing in her eyes and as soon as his red snake-like pupil met her black ones she leaned in ever so slightly catching him off guard and causing him to jump back drawing the attention of all of his guests. She glanced away from him for a second, obviously embarrassed for her lack of self-control but in a second she had resumed her usual infatuated stare. Voldemort regained his composure and proceeded.
"While your ridiculous muggle Santa figure flies on a sleigh pulled by reindeer, the real Santa arrives on a white hippogriff."
"Is it just him alone? Where are the elves? Someone as rich and powerful as the great Santa must certainly own a few house elves." Bellatrix seemed a little too enthusiastic that she had succeeded in gaining the Dark Lord's full, undivided attention.
Her face which had at first held an expression of confidence and blissful excitement became contorted in humiliation and perplexity when Voldemort snickered at the notion calling is foolish and silly. Perhaps she was just a bit overly sensitive but she couldn't help but display her disapproval at Voldemort's jeering at the elf concept. Voldemort proceeded to make his already increasingly ridiculous rendition of the "Santa story" even more unbelievable than it's original North Pole, flying reindeer counterpart.
"The real Santa.." Voldemort explained "Travels with what is consistently described as six to eight cloaked men. I've asked a couple of other prestigious purebloods to narrow it down, but none of them could give me an exact number. It was always six to eight, which seems awfully strange considering they've had a couple hundred years to get an accurate head count.
"Men?" Bellatrix seemed rather offended "Are they all men?"
Voldemort took a second to prepare himself for what he predicted would be another one of Bella's feminist outbursts before he replied: "From what I recall Bellatrix, yes they were all men-"
"That's stupid!" Bellatrix piped, her pale face growing a hue redder. "Like we women can't do the same things men can. What are we not good enough? I'm a better death eater than all the men. What are women not worthy to serve Santa?"
"Bellatrix, please stop your whining. History was written by MEN, for MEN and therefore Santa travels with all MEN! Alright! If you don't like it, track Santa down tonight and beg him to allow you to be part of HIS inner circle." Voldemort took a deep breath in. There was a silence again in the room that was occasionally interrupted by Bellatrix's soft whimpers. She never took it lightly when Voldemort yelled at her. Voldemort gave her a caring smile that probably would have made the average child scream in terror before catapulting itself out of the nearest window and Draco felt slightly ill to his stomach at the sight of it himself, but this seemed to calm Bella enough for him to resume his tale.
"These six to eight nameless cloaked men were categorized as personal servants until the mid 1950's when the political climate changed and to avoid being tossed onto Azkaban for parading around with what appeared to be a cult, Santa and the six to eight nameless cloaked men decided they were just good friends. Though as all of you very well know any powerful figure with followers usually gains that support though bloodshed and mutual hostility. We purebloods have and still do engage ourselves in such acts of violence, but rather than duking it out amongst themselves, Santa and his former followers decide to take it out on the public. In early years if a child was naughty, Santa and the six to eight cloaked men would beat him with what was described to me as a broken piece of a broomstick"
"A switch?" Implied Narcissa, her voice quite and inquisitive.
"Yes." Said Voldemort "That's it. They'd crucio him and beat him with a switch. . If the young Wizard or Witch was really bad, they'd put him in a sack and take him to a small cave in the middle of nowhere and leave him on an island surrounded by inferi."
"How did you get away?" Pettigrew realized that his small, innocent question was received with some malice by the Dark Lord and he proceeded to slink underneath he nearest object of furniture to avoid the Dark Lord's gaze and perhaps a hex or two.
"Saint Nicholas would?" Narcissa was absolutely mortified by the thought. Voldemort felt slightly bad, or perhaps was just pretending to feel bad about frightening Narcissa like that so he added.
"Well, not anymore. Now he just pretends to crucio you."
Draco just couldn't comprehend any of this. What kind of Santa spends his time pretending to crucio people before stuffing them into a canvas sack? Then of course there are the six to eight nameless death eaters who could potentially go off at any moment. Perhaps that is the greatest difference between Pure bloods and those of filthy heritage. While a certain amount of pure blood families would be completely fine with the arrangement, if you told the average half blood or mudblood that six to eight nameless death eaters would be sneaking into their house in the middle of the night, they would barricade the doors and arm themselves with whatever they could get their hands on.
"Six to eight, did you say!" Draco realized that he had fantasized a little too long and apparently appeared to be drifting off because when he regained his consciousness he realized Voldemort was no longer speaking.
"Draco, considering you are the one who asked about this whole Santa business, I'd expect you to at least pretend to pay attention."
"Sorry my Lord." Draco mumbled almost inaudibly and the Dark Lord continued his tale.
"In the years before central heating, good little pure blood children would leave their shoes by the fireplace, the promise being that unless they planned to beat you, crucio you, or stuff you into a sack, Santa and the six to eight cloaked me would fill their clogs with presents. Aside from the threats and violence this isn't really too different from the muggles hanging their socks on the wall. Now, as you know, most magical fireplaces require no chimney. When Santa and his six to eight cloaked men arrive on their white hippogriffs they jump from the floor to the roof. At this point I guess they either jump back down and use the front door or apparate into the home. My friend wasn't too clear on the particulars but who can really blame him."
Draco's thoughts began to trail off as Fenrir and Voldemort got into some sort of strange Santa related discussion. He could just barely hear the words "fruit cake" "muggles" and "Oprah" As he drifted off into deep, intense and philosophical thought. While eight flying reindeer are a hard pill to swallow, the Christmas story Draco grew up loving and believing remained relatively dull in comparison. Santa lives in a remote polar village and spends one night a year travelling around the world. If your bad he leaves you coal, if your good and pure blood, he'll give just about anything you want. We tell our children to be good and send them off to bed, where they lie awake, anticipating their great bounty. A pure blood parent has a decidedly harrier story to relate, telling his children, "Listen, you might want to pack a few of your things together before going to bed, the former overlord of Azkaban is coming along with six to eight nameless cloaked men. The might stuff you in a sack and drag you to a cave, they might just pretend to torture you. We don't know for sure, so we want you to be prepared." This is the real reward for being a pure blood. As a child you get to hear this story and as an adult you get to tell it. As an added bonus throw in a whole lot of money and rationalized murder and genocide- so what's not to love about being pure? As Voldemort finished his conversation with Fenrir that ended in a flurry of hexes and a howl of pain from the latter, Draco couldn't help but feel second rate. He had been denied six to eight cloaked men and a very good bed time story. He had grown up believing in a jolly sleigh driving, chubby Dumbledore instead of the Santa that was introduced to him tonight. Draco felt jealous and then a bit bitter. He was edging toward hostile when he remembered that who ever this Santa really was; whether he was coming with elves or cloaked men he was coming to Malfoy manner in only a few short hours to bring Draco a plethora of amazing gifts. With his anticipation beaming within his heart Draco kissed his mother and father goodnight attempted to hug his aunt, got pelted into the wall and scurried up without another word to his bedchamber where he lied awake for hours anticipating his great bounty.
The End ^_^