Me: *rolls eyes* I do not own Harry Potter... unless some weirdo granted my wishes of being the most riches and fortunate kid in the entire universe
A pale haired boy lay on his stomach in a dark room looking out the window his features only illuminated by the tiny glow that the scented candle gave off.
It was cold with the window open and the frosty wind tossing up the velvety curtains every once in a while but he was beyond caring at this point.
He looked forlornly at the snow-covered terrain below to the grandly lighted buildings twinkling with the frosty magnificence only the most rich could buy.
Grandly, not cheerfully
Cold, artificial, untouchable...
But beautiful...
Like him?
His left hand held some exotic food called, what was it, fried noodles? His right hand held chopsticks, which he had managed to master using in 5 short minutes. Some of his pale blonde hair fell down in his icy blue eyes. Instead of slicking it back like he usually did, he just left it alone not even batting an eye. The flowery scent washed over him reminding him of what it could have been.
The smell of turkey, roast beef, and other various foods entered his nose but he disregarded them knowing he would be more than likely to be punished for sneaking down there
Some floors down his father¡¯s hearty laughter rang up suggesting that Lucius Malfoy was probably drunk with an insanely expensive wine from the 1700s. Along with the laugh a shrilly-fake voice laughed sending shivers down Draco¡¯s back. His eyes clouded over then hardened at the irony of his situation.
After all these years,
Same thing over and over again
Same lines
Same laughter
All the same
Like clockwork regularly resetting
He heard the melted wax dripping off the red candle to the golden holder below, unsettled he put down the cold noodles on the windowsill flipping on to his pack and absentmindedly reaching out. He touched something solid, he felt it around for a bit tracing the delicate patterns that it possessed and pushed a small button to open it.
He sighed and sank into his silken bed facing the spotless ceiling listening the soothing tune that the box played.
He reminisced about the past, four... or was it five years wincing in turn at every painful memory that his mind turned up.
He stayed like that for a while, his skin slowly turning into a color of marble, his lips turning blue, fingertips shaking unsteadily, his breathing visible as moist puff of air, his eyes drooping as they counted the minuscule swirls on the sparsely decorated walls that only existed behind his eyes.
And he wondered as the dragon patterned, silver music box on his desk began to play its mournful song
Perhaps Christmas was not about family and friends
He closed his eyes despite his efforts to keep them open; his fingers were no longer shaking as he curled up into a fetal position
Perhaps Christmas was meant to be spent alone