New Year

The sound of breaking glass and indignant muttering pulled him out of his concentration. The letters lost his attention for a moment, and he looked up at his mother, who tried to get a red stain out of the carpet, but failed horribly. His father didn't do anything; he was simply looking at his hand, his eyes glassy, and then frowning at the broken glass on the ground.

For a moment he considered helping his mother, but then her gaze turned to his father, and Draco left the room. He could predict what kind of fight would follow – 'We're not fighting' – and he'd rather not be there. The clock was kind enough to inform him it was half past eleven. Only half an hour and the new year would begin. When he was young, it had always been so exciting; as if a complete new world would unfold once the clock would strike twelve. It was the time of the year that all Christmas decorations were up, and a simple mood of happiness was in the air.

This year, however, there were no Christmas decorations to be found in the Villa, and the mood wasn't there at all. As soon as he got the possibility, he hid behind a book. Not because he was suddenly that much into reading, but because that was the only way he could escape any conversation. When you had a book into your hands, you could pretend you were completely sucked into it. He had found a book about the use of Stardust in Potions, which was actually really interesting. He sighed, and thought back to his first vivid memory of New Year.

"But I don't want to go to bed," he protested. "I want to see the new year."
His mother laughed softly. "There's nothing to see, dear. The year won't run away; it will be there tomorrow when you wake up.
"Will it be really different?" he asked, his eyes wide.
"What would be different, darling?" his mother asked, while she lifted him unto the couch. It was nearly nine o'clock, and he was already starting to yawn.
"Everything," he said, confused "Will everything be new?"
His father looked up from the paper he was reading, and smiled weakly. "It's just a number, Draco. A number changing. The world will stay the same."
He looked at his father, surprised. "But I thought that you wanted to change the world?"
"That's not going to happen that fast, and it certainly doesn't have anything to do with the new year," his father said, now truly smiling. "It's time for bed, young man," he continued. He lifted him and carried him to his bedroom. He didn't remember his father putting him to bed; he must have fallen asleep in his father's arms.

And changing the world did. It hadn't happened in the blink of an eye, as his father had told him, yet it sometimes felt like that anyway. It didn't feel like that when the Dark Lord returned; not when his aunt broke out of Azkaban. But when his father was locked up there, everything changed, and now he didn't recognise the world he lived in anymore. He wished that a new year would change everything, but he knew very well that that wish was empty hope.

"You have not been to the prisoners yet," he heard a harsh voice, and he looked straight into the sharp face of his aunt. "Why are you still here, boy," she nearly yelled, "go!" As fast as he could he obeyed and proceeded to the kitchen to collect some food. There had been many prisoners, especially during Christmas – the Death Eaters' way of celebrating Christmas wasn't exactly tasty –, but most of them were gone now. Escaped, released, or simply killed; he thought mostly the last. Ollivander and Lovegood, however, were still here. They were probably useful, one way or another; the Dark Lord wanted them alive, and that was a luxury not many enjoyed. His family certainly didn't.

Bored, he made for the dungeons. Sometimes he wondered which of his ancestors built it, and to what ends. He was sure his father would know, but he'd never dared to ask. He whispered the right spells to open the door, and closed it behind him. "Lumos," he said, even if it was just to let them know he was there. Lovegood was sitting against the stone wall, about a meter away from Ollivander. The man seemed to be sleeping, but the girl looked at him with owl-like eyes. "How late is it?" she asked. The question was plain and simple enough, and she looked at him, certain expectations written in her eyes.
"A quarter to twelve," he said. It was a neutral and safe conversation. Earlier she had asked inquisitive questions. He hadn't answered them, but he wondered about it anyway. He didn't know where her sudden interest had come from. She was probably just bored. She looked at him, a smile decorating her face.
"What's there to laugh about?" he said, harshly. He didn't have anything to laugh about, and surely she hadn't. She was locked up in here, purely because her father had been stupid enough to support Potter in that magazine of his. He could have expected it.
"It's nearly New Year, isn't it?" she said. It wasn't really a question. He nodded, looking at her suspiciously. "That's something to be happy about, right?" He recognised this as a question, but chose to ignore it. He put down the plate in front of her. "A new year, new resolutions, new things to do," she went on.
"You can't to a lot from within this cell," he said, his voice filled with sarcasm. Lovegood didn't seem to mind, and her smile stayed where it was, plastered to her face.
"I always make apple pie with my father on New Year's eve," she said, as if she was at home for the moment, as if everything was normal. She glanced at Draco. "How do you usually celebrate the new year?"
He frowned. He should have walked away; he had no reason whatsoever to still be here, but he was nailed to the ground. "Not with apple pie," he answered, and her laugh rang through the cell. Then she was quiet, and it took a while to sink in that she was still expecting an answer. "With my parents," he said, without looking at her. "With Christmas they usually give a party, but New Year we celebrate together." He felt awfully hollow. "Celebrated. No one's really in the mood this year."
He felt Lovegood's eyes on him. "That's a pity," she said softly. "New Year is one of my favourite feasts."
"I bet all feasts are your favourite feasts."
"I like the fireworks."
"You like everything."
"Why are you saying that?" Lovegood asked, her forehead knit into a frown, while her eyes were looking at him. Not angry, or even annoyed, but simply interested.
"You're just so –" He didn't know what he wanted to say. He had just wanted to insult her, but for some reason the words got stuck in his throat. "You're here – you're locked up – and you're still so – so happy."
She smiled. The words didn't seem to come through. "Shall we celebrate together?" she asked, her eyes little lights in the dark.
He didn't answer, but he let his head fall against the wall. She grabbed his hand and put her head against his shoulder. He felt her hair tickle his neck.

For minutes they sat like that, until the fireworks sounded, a distant booming. Luna sat upright again and pulled up her knees against her body. "It was nice not to have to spend New Year's eve alone," she said softly.
Draco nodded, nearly indiscernible, while an strange chill crept over his back. He missed her warmth.
"You'd better go back upstairs," Luna said. "They'll miss you."
"I doubt that," he said, grimacing.
"You always celebrate the new year together," she encouraged him.
Slowly he got up to the door.
"Draco…" he heard behind him. "Happy New Year."
The corners of his lips curled up for a bit. "Happy New Year," he said, just before he slipped away into the darkness.