Slave Work
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter related indicia are copyright© J.K. Rowling. THEYARENOTMYCHARACTERS. Just the story is. Who'da thunk.
The soft click of high-heeled shoes sounded through the study, and probably most of the manor. Narcissa Malfoy quickly paced through the estate, her slender pale hands on her hips, her tongue clicking occasionally as she eyed the mess her home was in. It was disgusting, a complete mess. "Draco!" She sounded, her voice shrill and rough as though she'd been crying again. "We're cleaning the house today, don't make any plans until everything is clean. I'm tired of living in filth."
And he wasn't? "Yes, Mother." He answered dryly. He hated cleaning. He /hated/ it with a passion, that's what house elves were for. Damned the Potter for helping free that ungrateful bag of bones that used to keep their house clean. It was so easy to take out his anger on someone else, especially Potter. Everything was his fault, after all. Everything. He wouldn't be in this nightmare if it weren't for him. Ungracefully, Draco removed his feet from his father's wooden desk and stood, his arms crossed as he looked around the massive study. Where would one begin when cleaning up books, general mess such as soot, and papers?
Lazily, Draco bent down and picked up a few plain books he would never have read. If the books weren't dark they were generally boring. The books were then placed randomly on the shelves. Back when his father ruled this study, the books were in alphabetical order by genre of the information they held. That took far more effort than he was willing to use. He could hear his mother bustling around the hallway with a charm to act like a muggle vacuum and suck up all of the dirt and grime from the expensive carpeting. The difference from the muggle appliance was that there was no physical labor needed, no bag to empty, and no visible piece of machinery, just a little tornado looking spiral, larger towards the floor and closed nearer the top. It was a rather convenient spell, really.
A few more books were randomly placed on the shelves, the titled sounding far less interesting as time went by. This was slave work, it was, and he was doing it. What a great way to spend ones day. It wasn't as though he had much else to do, and his mother did need all the help she could get anymore. Pity he wasn't seventeen for about another year, or he'd be doing as his mother was and cleaning via magic. But no matter, even if he didn't agree, physical labor was clearing his mind from the thoughts he had previously been thinking.
Narcissa poked her head into the room and lit the fire in the fireplace, "Throw all of the papers in the fire, no use trying to sort them, it's not like anything that matters is still here anyway." Most of the remaining papers were just scraps torn from books, some old newspapers, and random notes that didn't have any meaning. Having said that, his mother went back to the hall way and began straightening the large oil based family portraits on the walls, as a feather duster followed her dusting them all gently.
The study was slowly starting to appear like it had before. The floor needed to be cleaned, but his mother would have to do that. The books were all back on the shelves, randomly of course. The desk had been cleaned, and the marble top was now visible. Just when he started to feel like his work was complete, a damp cloth appeared on the table, his mother had other ideas in mind. Grasping the cloth, Draco started to wipe down the entire desk, as most everything in the room was covered in some form of soot or dust. His teeth gritted as he wiped down even the legs. Might as well do a good job, or he'd just have to go over it again. He then moved to the wooden chair and cleaned it, as well. The cloth armchairs and love seats couldn't be wiped with water, save the wood, which he did with a rather cold facial expression.
The final bit of dusting would come when his mother straightened portraits and let the duster dust them and the book shelves, as some were far to high to reach without magic or a small flight of stairs. "I'm done mother." He said coldly. He didn't mean to be so cold to his mother, as it wasn't her fault that things had turned out so poorly, but cleaning hadn't really warmed his mood.
"That's one room down then," she said in the same curt tone. "Clean your room, would you?" It was more of a demand, rather than a request. Without commenting, Draco left the cloth on the marble top of the wooden desk and left the study, the fire still ablaze in the back. Quickly, he rounded a corner down the now clean hall and went up a set of marble stairs and to the right, where his rather large dark bedroom resided. It wasn't exactly a mess, as he tried to keep it as tidy as he could. But it had a good amount of grime and dust.
Upon entering his room, Draco noticed that there was a metal bucket of soapy water, a sponge, some dry rags, and some damp rags. His mother had placed them there, in hopes that he would dust, clean the windows, mirrors, and anything else that remained dirty. She'd clean the floor by magic. He thought to himself as he picked up the sponge and doused it in the bucket. Wringing it out first, he started towards one of his windows and pulled the thick, dark shades open, allowing a flood of natural light flow into his room. It was summer after all, and no matter how evil the manor was, it was no exception to the sun's warm light.
As he started to wash the windows, he looked out to the back yard that his window faced. It was overgrown and looked more like a jungle than a back yard. Silently he made a mental note to hire a landscaper to make their yard look as regal as it previously did. He continued to wash the window, and then dried it with a dry cloth before moving to the second of four large windows. As each shade was opened, his room looked more and more comfortable and warm than it did when it was dark.
"Draco!" His mother's sharp voice sounded up the stairs and into his room through the open door. "A letter's arrived for you!" Who in their right mind would write to him? His friends weren't friends. It wasn't time for any school letters. Putting the sponge back into the bucket, he quickly walked from his room and around the corner, to the stairs.
Edited by me, so expect some sort of error. :)