Hours later, when Christmas Eve had nearly given way to Christmas Day, Draco sat alone in his study at Malfoy Manor, Firewhisky in hand. A warm fire crackled in the grate. He had foregone Celestina Warbeck warbling God Rest Ye, Merry Hippogriffs in favor of a vinyl record of American jazz Granger had gifted him with, spinning on an old phonograph.
It would be a lonely holiday, only his second since Astoria's death and with Scorpius sulking at Hogwarts, but at least Draco had his creature comforts. Last year, there had been Granger, and their first kiss stolen under the mistletoe, but that seemed very long ago.
.. . . the little gift you send on Christmas Day
Will not bring back the friend you turned away . . .
A few glasses in, Draco realized he had the misfortune to be attracted to brown-eyed brunettes. If he held his glass towards the midnight-shaded windows, the dark depths reminded him of Astoria's eyes, sometimes glittering with laughter but more often shining with the pain of the curse that had killed her. But if he raised his glass to the firelight, the liquor shimmered with amber, too much like Granger's eyes when she was angered - or passionate. So instead, he knocked the Firewhisky back, draining his glass.
He went to pour himself another, but the bottle was empty. Rather than interrupting the house-elves' Christmas celebrations, or preparations, or whatever they were doing all night in the kitchen, Draco stumbled to the sideboard to see what else was available.
His mother had brought him a bottle of absinthe on her last visit from Paris, which she now called home. Draco grabbed it with a grunt of approval. The bright green liquor was untainted by association with any failed romance - and yes, he was damn well aware that Potter's eyes were the color of a freshly pickled toad.
He was on his second glass when a draught caused the flames to flicker in the fireplace. Somewhere deep in the Manor, a bell chimed, though, checking his watch, Draco saw it was not yet midnight.
"If you're going to drown yourself, the pond on the grounds would be faster," an acid voice suggested. "It's not yet frozen over."
"Father?" Draco gaped at the apparition now sitting in the wingback chair opposite own.
"So your mother always claimed, and I doubt she'd lie about that."
"But . . . but . . . you're dead," Draco sputtered.
"As a doornail," Lucius agreed, lifting one manacled wrist to examine his translucent fingernails. "Though I chose to move on, so I'm not a ghost."
"What are you, then?" Draco demanded.
"I am a warning, Draco," Lucius intoned.
"To not mix Firewhisky and absinthe?" Draco snarked, hoping his father was an alcohol-induced hallucination. He set his glass down with a punctuating thump. "And why are you in chains, anyways? They don't use them at Azkaban."
Lucius glared at him. "I wear the chain I forged in life. I forged it link by link, yard by yard, through my arrogance, my prejudice, and my deeds in service of the Dark Lord. I molded you in my image, and set you on the same path - but I've come to warn you now, Draco."
"I don't need a lecture about blood traitors and Muggleborns at this hour of the night, Father," Draco bit out.
Lucius shook his head. "Those beliefs still bind you, more than you know. But you have a chance to escape my fate. Three beings will visit you tonight, the first as the clock strikes one. Listen well to their counsel, and perhaps you make break free of the chains that bind you."
Draco blinked at the empty chair across from him and shook his head. "No more absinthe for me," he muttered, before making his shaky way off to bed.
