Holiday Horror
"When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you love it." -Unknown
Draco awoke Christmas morning, his eyes slammed shut against reality as an awful premonition rolled his stomach. Despite the serenity of his room, interrupted only by the occasional popping log in the fireplace, Draco feared that opening his eyes would unveil whatever unnamed horror had his stomach in knots.
However, realist that he was, he knew he couldn't lie in bed forever; even if the cowardly side of him warmed at the thought. Draco opened his eyes on a resigned sigh, the air leaving his body all at once turning to relief at the sight of his unoccupied room that now sported a modest pile of presents atop his desk.
Swinging his legs over the bed, Draco shrugged into his slippers and padded over to the gifts. The pile was smaller than he was used to seeing, for sure, but he couldn't conjure up any care past the relief that something about this holiday would indeed be normal.
Most of the gifts were from his parents. Three, less perfectly wrapped packages came from other senders. Glancing at the tags Draco found that the large, square package was from Theo and the rectangular one was from Blaise.
The third was unsigned.
Curiosity drove him to grab the smallest of all the gifts, his hands turning it over methodically even as his heartbeat picked up in hurried anticipation. Draco finally ripped off the wrapping and threw it on the ground, finding underneath a white box with a bitten apple engraved into its center. A folded bit of parchment slid into his lap when he removed the lid but all thought of reading the alleged note fled him once he saw what was nestled inside the box.
A jet-black music device- he believed Granger had called it an iPod all those months ago- sat shiny and unblemished, inanimate, and yet supremely dangerous in the box's molding.
He dreaded touching it.
As much as he loathed the fanciful thinking of Hufflepuffs, Draco worried that in the highly unstable environment he had to live in at present, something as innocuous as sharing space with the muggle device would jinx him.
The paranoia was enough to color Draco angry because there would be only one person bloody stupid enough to send such a gift. Snatching up the parchment, he wrenched it open and immediately recognized the handwriting.
~To the wizard who has everything magical at his fingertips- I hope this gift helps you to discover magic beyond your narrow-minded comprehension.~
The note crumpled in Draco's clenching fist. Fuck, she has nerve. Send a gift but insult the person at the same time?
Accioing his wand from under his pillow- he refused to sleep unprotected anymore- he incendioed the note and watched how all his good feelings went up in smoke as well.
Draco looked at the box again and considered what to do with it. He pulled the device out then proceeded to set the box on fire as well, determined to leave as little evidence as possible. As the flames licked the white box, he just managed to see the ear-thingys tucked underneath the device. Instinctively he snagged them.
The little orbs on strings tangled around his fingers like a snare and in that moment, Draco's ire cracked; he knew that no matter how upset he was at Granger's foolish gift, it served too poignant a reminder of their beginning to also be destroyed.
He opened his trunk and stuffed the gift down into its depths near the journal he couldn't bear to even look at. Before closing the trunk, however, he paused; it was damning enough to carry around the journal but to now have a distinctly muggle product in hand?
That's beckoning death to come have its way with him. Draco looked, unseeing, into his trunk before a niggling memory snagged in his mind's web- Thankfully I consider myself a rather bright witch and a false bottom in my trunk with a little locking charm should do the trick
Comprehension unfurled from the flashback of Granger's journal entry. The damnable witch had given him the answer over a week ago. Merlin, she does have nerve, although the observation now came on a wave of grudging admiration.
Draco quickly removed the items from his trunk, depositing the mess on his bed, so that he could see the bottom. After a moment's concentration, he muttered a charm to conjure a fake bottom that would remain solid until he utilized his personal signature to unlock the thing. Slowly, a bit reverently, he placed the journal and iPod into their new haven, flicking his wand to "lock" the bottom before replacing all of his items haphazardly into the trunk.
Satisfied, Draco leisurely opened the rest of his gifts now that he knew the most unpleasant surprise had been dealt with. Blaise got him a broom servicing kit- although Draco couldn't recall the last time he flew- and Theo sent a ridiculously stuffed box of Weasley Wizards' Wheezes with an addendum stating "he needed more laughter in his life".
Draco snorted from the irony.
Contrastly, his parents' gifts were more sedate consisting mostly of new clothing as well as two books, one on Potions and the other on Transfiguration. If that old bat didn't teach the subject, I'd wager I'd take to it more. He thumbed through the text curiously, almost missing the small pop signaling the arrival of an elf.
Draco paused in his perusing and lifted his head to the small creature who looked clean and rather festive in a tea towel embroidered with holly leaves. Draco had thrown a fit after the debacle that had lost his family his favorite of all house elves- Dobby- and in a rare moment of concession, Lucius agreed to treat the elf staff better so there would be no cause for similar incident in the future.
And so here stood one such house elf who had reaped the benefits of Draco's pre-pubescent tantrum, but damned if he knew the creature's name.
In true Malfoy style, he raised an inquiring eyebrow. The thing squeaked its nervousness before speaking, "Master Lucius and Mistress Narcissa is ready to partake in Yule brunch and is inviting you to join them." Then, with a shaky bow, the little elf disappeared.
For the chance at some small slice of peace, Draco hastened through his morning ablutions and donned one of his new sweaters, a charcoal gray that went with his standard black, pleated trousers. Standing in front of his floor-length mirror he swiped his hands through slightly damp, Malfoy-pale locks. He all at once recognized the reflection staring back at him and felt like a complete imposter. In the space of a few short months, all the truths that had fit so perfectly together and constructed his person were now scattered to the floor by fate, the careless bitch, and now…
Now, he wasn't sure if he was going to be able to get them to fit again.
A meal chime vibrated through the cavernous hallways of the Manor, reminding Draco he needed to get a move on and fast. He apparated to the entrance of the dining room and strode in, sending a faint smile of greeting toward his mother bedecked in silver dress robes, her dark hair pulled back from her face by the silver and opal clips Draco gifted her for Christmas.
His father stood by the head seat and Draco nodded stiffly in his direction. Lucius flicked his dress robes out- since he too found it fit to dress ostentatiously- before descending into his seat and signaling the start of the meal.
"I see you've taken to a casual form of dress, Draco," the patriarch remarked. A steaming bisque popped into existence and the family dipped their spoons, almost in unison, before the remark was addressed.
"It seemed pretentious when it would be just the three of us," Draco replied, warming perversely at the overloud scrape of his father's spoon against the china. Narcissa interjected. "You look handsome, dear. And rather grown up too without the robes to hide you."
They proceeded through their soup silently after that.
When the bisque had been eaten and the main course of thinly sliced roast with coddled eggs and stewed tomatoes appeared, and Draco's patience reached its capacity, the silence was yet again broken.
"Thank you for the gifts," he offered to the empty air. Although his eyes never left his plate, Draco could feel his father's incredulous stare burning a hole into his bowed head. He lifted his gaze, instead, to his mother who seemed rather intent on studying Draco although her thoughts on his uncharacteristic gratitude proved unfathomable.
For all our impeccable etiquette, it seems, a thank you falls a bit out of bounds.
The delicious food turned cumbersome in his throat. His statement was atypical, true, but he couldn't stand to sit in stilted silence for the entirety of the meal. It left too much space for thinly veiled untruths to float into the ether, revealed by the flickering chandelier.
As the heavy clinking of silver against china tailed Draco's awkward comment, the already tense atmosphere pressed more heavily once the doors shot open to admit Bellatrix.
"Don't stand for me," she trilled as neither man stirred in their seats. The eccentric witch lowered herself into the seat next to Draco where a setting magically appeared. She crooked a finger at the roast and a few pieces zoomed to her plate, unable to resist her will.
Draco gulped a discourteous mouthful of wine. Then he felt the eyes, cool and calculating.
"Cissa," Bellatrix said although her eyes remained steadfast on her nephew, "I think you need to have a word with your son. He has become too distracted. It's shameful!" The word snapped, a verbal whip, and Draco couldn't help but raise his eyes to his mother for her reaction.
Narcissa's lips, pressed into a firm line, quivered slightly at the edges but steel suffused the rest of her posture. Eyes trained on Bellatrix, she answered succinctly, "I trust Draco to have his priorities straight."
Twin gazes clashed across the table, the collision invisible to the audience and yet felt as threatening reverberations down deep. Past skin and blood, to intractable bone. Draco longed to shake off the unsteadying feeling but wagered any fidgeting would be a sign of weakness, and Bellatrix did not need more fodder for Voldemort's ear.
His crazy aunt, after an eternity of glaring, couldn't resist getting in the final word. "If you won't motivate him, Cissy, then the Dark Lord will."
The air chilled considerably. In the eerie press of anticipation all perfunctory movements of dining quieted and Draco wondered for the first time if he would survive this visit home.
He also wondered about Hermione and what her Christmas looked like, if it held free-flowing conversation with her parents and warm drinks and worry free hours in front of a fireplace. The few paltry journal entries came to mind, then. No, he thought rather pityingly, that is nowhere near her reality. What a match we make.
All at once the anticipation swirled into something more sinister as the dining room's doors opened, yet again, to harken the arrival of the Dark Lord himself. He glided in barefoot as usual, with the folds of his black robe trailing more tenaciously than a shadow. Lucius bolted from his seat at the head of the table to settle next to Draco's mother; before Voldemort even descended into the abandoned chair, the place settings had been switched.
Smart elves.
"Begin," the spectral man intoned and the food shimmered away at his command, to be replaced by a vegetable gratin with hollandaise and cold ham. With even more rigid movements, the Malfoys began dining again. They were afforded only a few minutes of some weak semblance of peace before the Dark Lord addressed them.
"Tardiness is such a grievous offense. Don't you agree, young Draco?"
The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He chewed the bite of his gratin long after it turned to mush in his mouth as he pondered the best way to answer. Eyes cast downward, Draco swallowed and postulated, "I imagine, my Lord, that you always arrive exactly when you mean to." He took a bite of ham and tried to ignore the breathy snort released by Bellatrix.
An eternity-in-a-moment's silence, then, "Quite." Draco breathed but was immediately bombarded again; this time, the hissed words held more bite.
"Draco," Voldemort began thoughtfully although his eyes remained narrowed in accusation, "I can't help but wonder as to why you believe it appropriate to show up to dinner dressed as a mudblood. Care to explain?"
An array of reactions flickered in Draco's peripherals- from Bellatrix's disgusted, scrunched face to his father who arched a supercilious brow screaming "I told you so"- but all the young Malfoy could focus on was schooling his own to not betray his discomfort at the slur. The slur that he once said as often as declaring the weather. The slur that epitomized everything and nothing of Hermione Granger's identity.
A slight indent appeared as he clenched his jaw but Draco plowed ahead with all the smoothness of a snake. "My sincerest apologies, my Lord," as Draco placed his hands atop the table palm up in silent supplication. "I wrongly assumed that I would be dining solely with my parents this day and hoped to show gratitude of their gifts by wearing it openly. Would you like me to retrieve my robes?"
The accusation drained slowly from Voldemort's expression, leaving behind a carved look of skepticism. Nevertheless, the man resumed eating with an apathetic air, replying enigmatically, "No. That won't be necessary. I can appreciate the need to honor your parents."
The party as a whole continued to their meal. Draco sunk into his internal mire, only vaguely hearing the unbelievable compliment by Voldemort to his mother on the food, and then hearing even less when the adult males spoke on the status of the Ministry. In fact, he would have felt completely insubstantial if it weren't for the vaguest sense of double vision on the inside of his skull.
The view of his half-empty plate dissolved into blips of life at Hogwarts this past term and too late, horrific comprehension struck Draco like a Stupefy. Fighting against a now-racing heart, he focused on what he hoped were some of the less incriminating memories from the past 4 months all as the members gathered attempted to engage him in conversation.
"Tell me, Draco, have you learned anything particularly exciting so far?" Voldemort speared him with his intense red eyes and Draco could feel the slip in his mental defenses as he tried to scrounge up an answer.
"Well," Draco stalled, his inner eye skirting the last Hogsmeade trip playback, "the mastery of nonverbal spells has proved challenging, my Lord." Draco swallowed past the anxiety clogging his airways because despite his passable Occlumency skills, lack of practice left him tripping through his thoughts like a blind man. He may be able to throw walls up for the most intimate and damning moments but he could tell the Dark Lord had been able to latch onto something, regardless.
Voldemort hissed his repulsion, ripping from Draco's mind and leaving it open, exposed.
Wounded. The pain of the exit was so intense that Draco had to grip the table to avoid cursing out loud.
"I doubt," the Dark Lord spoke, each syllable dipped in venom, "that nonverbal spells were the only challenge you faced."
Someone's utensil clinked against a plate before the weight of the Dark Lord's disapproval burdened everything to inaction. Draco chanced a look at his face and saw the red of his slitted eyes glowing from their wrath.
"You know the fate that awaits your family and you get distracted by a girl?" Voldemort questioned and yet the answer sat in his deliberate relaxed pose, danced in between the accelerated puffs of breath from Bellatrix.
The master of his wretched fate continued. "Perhaps you don't know how… dangerous girls can be. Lucius, with me. Bella, I think Draco could learn a thing or two from you."
The men departed. Narcissa had turned white across the table from Draco who, striving for a moment of preparation, dabbed fastidiously at his mouth with his napkin. Then, without warning, Bella accioed the chair right from under him and he collapsed to the floor in a graceless heap.
No point in reaching for my wand. It'll only prolong the agony.
"Crucio."
The curse came on a wave of white-hot lightning, sizzling the first layer of his skin before burrowing deeper. Draco focused on breathing… one inhale and a shuddering exhale…
"So, nephew, you can't seem to keep your eyes off a girl? How pubescent." Bella cackled this before nonverbally casting another torture curse, the pain of this one longer. More intense. Heating his blood until the boiling pressure made his veins feel like they would implode.
Little inhales… little exhales… don't look at Mum…
"There's nothing more important than this, Draco! The task. Your family's security. And the Dark Lord's success." The mad witch's playful banter darkened quickly, as did the strength of her curse. A third Crucio, so all-encompassing that Draco felt his bones vibrate, his teeth chatter. He wasn't even sure if he could feel his lungs working inside his trembling rib cage anymore.
Breathe. Breathe, you fool.
His eyes, although glassy, registered Bellatrix's wild visage as she stooped to stare into his face. Her dark eyes, wide with disbelief, were at stark contrast with her mouth deformed by a maniacal smile. "Just tell me who she is, sweet nephew. I will make sure she doesn't distract you again."
An uneasy calm curled into the vacant air as Bellatrix waited for Draco's answer.
If she were any sort of Legilimens, she would have had it, because Draco couldn't hold back against the flood of memories washing over his beleaguered body.
For one, merciful moment, as Granger's last expression in the Room played across his mind, Draco felt a surreal sense of peace even in his weakened position scrunched fetally on the floor. But then, Bella's patience snapped under his silence; she bellowed the curse such that the chandelier shook and Draco's body, now entirely beyond his control, burned so fiercely that tears began to pour down his face as some meager plea for relief.
The last things his consciousness grasped was the agonized cry of his mother, a knife of which he gladly impaled himself upon.
Aftershocks vibrated along his skin, so strong that the blissful state of oblivion dissolved into nothing under the pain. Draco gritted his teeth against a groan and braced himself. When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to find himself back in his room, curtains drawn against what he assumed was the blanket of night.
Which night, he hadn't a clue, although the strength of the next tremor purported only hours to have passed since his torture.
Draco couldn't spare the energy to think too hard on that now. With supreme effort he dragged his uncooperative body off the bed and over to his trunks. The breaths slammed from his chest. He rested a moment; then, using what little strength had returned during his short rest, Draco heaved open the lid and dove to the bottom, using the Hawthorn uselessly gripped in his right hand to unlock the fake slat of wood before he clutched the small gift, sighing in pathetic relief. The ancient magic woven into the very air of Malfoy Manor would prevent the little music device to play. But the irony was, as Draco sagged into a trembling heap on his floor, that the know-it-all swot he called girlfriend turned out to be right- it held a magic all its own that happened to transcend the complex wards and the silent white orbs.
A magic with its own name.