How Draco hated Christmastime!
It was an unfortunate time of year: not only did the occasion require him to scrounge for a gift for his implacable wife, but he also had to seclude himself with people whom he generally disliked: his relatives. Though six years had passed since his mother’s unforgivable betrayal, Draco still felt uncomfortable and distrusted in the presence of his fellow Death Eaters, a number of whom counted themselves among his family circle. Marrying Bellatrix’s niece, his cousin Eloise, had been a necessary strategic move that had only solidified his redeveloping reputation.
His marriage had been difficult to secure in the first place. In the year after the fall of the Order of the Phoenix, Draco had pointedly curried favor with the Dark Lord in an effort to regain some of his dignity. This work was somewhat successful, which led Draco to personally reach out to his comrades and make clear his loyalties. This, too, had been successful; it led to Draco’s meeting Eloise, a pureblood woman ten years his senior. She was Rodolphus Lestrange’s neice, born to his younger brother”a man who lacked the capacity to step out of his infamous brother’s shadow. The uneventful life of the lesser Lestrange brother had already concluded by Draco’s birth, due to an unfortunately fatal encounter with a vicious warlock. Eloise had inherited her father’s inferior position in the Dark Lord’s esteem. Neither she nor her father was a Death Eater: her father had never successfully impressed the Dark Lord. At the time of the Dark Lord’s assumption of power, her situation had been similar to Draco’s: she had had ground to cover in order to establish herself. The marriage had suited them both, as it united their ancient lineages, pleased their superiors, and symbolized a step in the proper direction.
The elite branches of Eloise’s family, of course, had no respect for Draco, despite his best efforts to win them over. While he had publicly estranged himself from his father and repeatedly proven his loyalty”in particular, by working diligently at the Ministry and rising through the ranks”the Lestrange family did not truly welcome him. Lucius’s isolation in the Malfoy Manor did not satisfy them, as he and Draco still lived under the same roof. This proximity did not impress any self-respecting Death Eater. On the contrary, his situation rendered him a consistent recipient of hostility. Consequently, Draco preferred to avoid associating with Bellatrix and her lot on an intimate level. Christmas was usually the exception to this rule.
In years past, Draco had suffered through the dinners, the celebrations, and the jeering, but this year, he refused to subject himself to their disapproval. He had gotten enough negative attention lately, so he was keen to evade the company of his family. To avoid a communal Christmas, Draco had talked Eloise into taking a second honeymoon to the Scottish countryside. It was close enough to home that they could leave four-year-old Scorpius behind in good conscience. It was also just far enough that Draco could avoid contact with his disgraced father or cruel extended family.
Draco could not help but congratulate himself for successfully evading the Lestrange clan as he stood by the large window of his bedroom, which framed an excellent view of the countryside as it sloped gently away from the house into a picturesque, snow-covered dale. Eloise was dressing in the next room, which afforded Draco a moment of silence as he contemplated the white tableau before his eyes. This holiday was precisely what he had needed: an uneventful, predictable interlude in his normally chaotic life.
Draco retrieved his mug of cinnamon tea from the small table beside him and sipped it demurely. This was indeed a much needed escape, but not just from the derision of Bellatrix and her lot. In some ways, what Draco appreciated most was avoiding from his father’s withered spirits.
Publicly denouncing his parents had been traumatic enough, but Draco’s trials did not end with a statement. The Dark Lord had seen fit to leave Draco saddled with his father, under the pretext of having Draco keep an eye on him. What that translated to was an uncomfortable hostility as the alienated pair continued to split Malfoy Manor between them, avoiding one another save for at meal times. Lucius clearly felt abandoned, but Draco had no desire to reach out to a man who had lost the drive to redeem himself. Draco could not bear the awkward silence and unspoken accusations. For this reason, a trip to the north was a complete relief.
Eloise emerged from the dressing room in a sleek silk robe. Draco turned to look at her, regarding her regally clad form dispassionately. Marriage is boredom, he thought, noting without surprise his wife’s obvious disinterest in him. There’s no fire, not even heat.
“Good morning,” Eloise said at last in a distant tone. She approached the mirror opposite the large window and began teasing the knots out of her hair with her fingers.
“Good morning,” Draco repeated, turning his back on the scenery as he sipped his drink. “The sky’s clear today.”
“Naturally,” Eloise sniffed. “Of course the weather is decent the day after Christmas. That’s to be expected, I suppose.”
Draco shrugged. He did not particularly care.
“Have you already arranged for breakfast?” Eloise asked vaguely, her eyes glued to her image in the mirror.
“Yes. I imagine the food will arrive soon,” Draco said. Not permitting himself to sigh, he set his mug back on the little table.
“Good,” Eloise commented, and they lapsed into silence again.
As grateful as Draco was for having avoided a Death Eater Christmas, he had to admit to himself that his holiday in the countryside was extremely dull. He really had nothing to do other than observe his wife as she coiffed herself before the mirror”well, it was either that or watch the snow fall. The more he contemplated his state of boredom, the more he realized how much it reflected his marriage on the whole. Everything was mundane, meaningless. Draco missed the days of skipping History of Magic to have illegal, bewitched snow fights outside Hogwarts Castle. Crabbe and Goyle would run around stupidly as Draco laughed. What imbeciles they always were, Draco recalled. And they had always done precisely what he wanted them to do, never second-guessing his commands. On top of it all, Draco had always gotten away with anything and everything.
How times had changed! One of his old cronies was dead, and the other seemed keen on working his way into the Ministry and had no time to pay attention to Draco. Draco did not miss the company, but he was undeniably miffed at the loss of petty influence he had once enjoyed.
A quiet knock sounded from the ornately carved bedroom door. “Enter,” Draco called in an elevated tone, ready to eat a hearty breakfast. Perhaps he could convince Eloise to take a sleigh ride? He mulled over various ways of presenting the idea, wondering if she would bother listening to his suggestion. On principle, Eloise set her own plans for her husband and herself and executed them without consulting Draco’s mood.
A young house-elf entered, trailed by a series of platters floating in a neat line behind him. Eloise ceased adjusting her hair but kept her eyes locked on her reflection as the dishes settled themselves onto the table in the corner. “Excellent timing,” she said in a pleased tone. “Do sit down, Draco.”
Draco obeyed without thinking, settling comfortably into one of the plush chairs. Eloise joined him in a moment, and they began to eat in silence.
Marriage, Draco thought pessimistically as he chewed, not looking at his wife. I wonder if my parents had the same experience. The boredom is overwhelming.
Draco’s thoughts were interrupted by a second knock. “Come in,” he called, expecting more food.
Another house-elf entered this time, but the platter he presented to Draco carried only a small envelope. Draco placed his fork on the table with a frown and began reading the letter.
“What is it?” Eloise asked, pausing as she ate. “Something work-related?”
Draco’s frown deepened. “No,” he said stiffly. His eyes raced back and forth over the short message, scripted in Bellatrix’s gothic script.
His wife raised her eyebrows curiously.
“Actually, my father is dead,” Draco said sharply. “It appears he took his own life sometime after dinner last night.”
Eloise pressed her lips together. “That is an unfortunate turn of events,” she said in a diplomatic voice, resuming her meal.
Draco let out a frustrated breath. “I quite honestly don’t know what to call it,” he said. Just a minute ago, he had been dwelling on the irritation his father caused him, but the sudden loss of his childhood role model left him unsettled.
“Frankly, it does not matter,” Eloise advised. “The Dark Lord will not be terribly interested. You should take care of this business quietly and then move on.”
“I’m not sure matters will be as uncomplicated as you say,” Draco said irritably. “Our house-elf brought Bellatrix to the body first, and of course she did not waste an opportunity to regale the other guests of Manor with the tale of the latest shame brought on the Malfoy family.”
Eloise did not seem terribly interested in this development. “Well, I suggest you write the obituary immediately, then, to separate yourself from Lucius once and for all. That way any story intended to embarrass us will stop circulating.”
Draco nodded. That was really all this event”which would normally blacken the day”came down to: another potential blight that forced Draco to do some heavy damage control. Feelings of intense aggravation at his father’s decision clouded his mind. How selfish, Draco thought cantankerously. And to top it all off, I’ve lost my appetite. There’s nothing like death in the morning to fill one’s stomach.
Eloise continued to eat as Draco pulled his wand out from his robes and summoned ink and parchment. Writing immediately was wise; he might even be able to get his obituary into the Evening Prophet.
“Lucius Malfoy, aged 50,” Draco began, his head bowed over the parchment. “Deceased Christmas Day.” As he penned the words, a wave of agitation washed over Draco, preventing him from continuing. His feelings on his father’s death were too complicated to truly grapple with: on the one hand, he strongly disliked the wraith that Lucius had become; on the other, Draco mourned the loss of his only remaining family. This notion troubled him.
No matter how hard Draco tried, he could not bring himself to see Eloise as family the way his parents had been, and little Scorpius lived in a world suspended between his struggling parents and a legion of Death Eaters. The child had no love for his grandfather, and he was old enough to sense that his parents were not infrequently the subject of scorn. There was no trust or respect in Draco’s family, and though he and Lucius had lost their ability to connect, these news gave Draco a prickly feeling of isolation.
“Do you have writer’s block?” Eloise said sardonically.
Draco forced himself not to glare at her. “No. I know exactly what to say,” he retorted. He set his quill to the parchment once more, allowing the cruel but necessary vilification of his father to take shape. This was what the world required of him, and he did not hesitate to supply the damning article. As Draco wrote the last phrase, he realized dully that he had gotten what he wanted at last: he was free from his father’s dead weight. No more uncomfortable silences, he thought. Though this concept should have pleased him, Draco felt a touch of depression as he set down his quill.
* * * * *
It was a pitiful reaction, but Draco felt strangely safe as he waited in the broom closet next to Slughorn’s Potions dungeon. His father stood stiffly beside him, electing for discomfort. Draco was too tired to even bother to put up a dignified front: he had hunkered in and collapsed onto an overturned bucket.
Lucius did not look frazzled, angry, and exhausted as Draco did. His thoughts were elsewhere. Draco forced himself to ignore his father’s distant expression, for he knew the reason: the Dark Lord had made it clear that their status as traitors was as dangerous as ever. Narcissa’s monumental lie had seen to that. Avery had escorted them down here, jeering all the way at their continued misfortune.
Draco could almost envy his mother’s position: she had permanently withdrawn from the conflict, in a sense. To her, it no longer mattered how the Malfoy’s luck fluctuated on a seemingly daily basis.
At the same time, Draco could not comfortably embrace the freedom in death. He was not sure he totally believed in the concept of eternal rest or spiritual peace. After all, as a fledgling Death Eater, he was firmly trained to fear death and to consider life”however hellish”to be far superior.
So, despite his precarious situation, Draco consoled himself: he retained his life, if not much else. At this particular moment, the cramped nature of the make-shift cell he shared with his father gave him a small amount of security. As long as the dank walls confined him, leaving him to brood with his foot in a spider web as he watched the strip of flickering light underneath the door, he felt he could breathe in a calm manner. Sure, it would have been preferable to have a wand with which to illuminate the closet, but Draco did not fear the dark. On the contrary, he was well acquainted with it.
Draco knew Lucius did not share his relaxed mindset: on the contrary, his father was acutely aware of the fact that they had been lumped in with the rebels. Their detainment in the decrepit broom closet only put them on par with those about to be judged. Lucius hated sensing uncertainty in his future, so he brooded; that, at least, was Draco’s assessment. His father had always been a man of action, despite his growing powerlessness.
After a time, Avery returned to collect them. Draco kept his arms flat against his body, as directed, and followed the line of captives as it took shape around him. Lucius stared straight ahead, waiting to leave the castle so that the suspense would end. The pair of them looked distinctly out of place among the others, who craned their necks furtively to glance around for friends and family. Some called out to each other, but the Death Eaters herding them upstairs”past the gap in the wall where the giant had knocked it in doors”quickly silenced them.
Draco was not far from the front of the line, so before long, he was marching across the pockmarked lawn towards the Dark Lord. He could spy a table at their apparent destination. Official-looking boxes covered its surface, and a mess of papers had fallen off the table and lay in a heap on the ground. A few wizards who looked increasingly panicked were sorting madly through the files. They wore Ministry robes, Draco noted, and they clearly had not seen a battlefield before.
The Dark Lord hissed orders to the Ministry employees. They were visibly terrified, but they obediently stopped sorting.
The front of the line halted as it reached the table, not far from which the Dark Lord stood, a cruel smile on his face. Draco perceived that he was in a terrific mood; that sort of triumphant expression was one Draco had rarely witnessed on his master’s face.
Harry Potter stood at his master’s shoulder. Like Lucius, he stared straight ahead. Draco guessed smugly that he preferred not to pick out the faces of his friends from the crowd, knowing how deeply they loathed his betrayal. Potter remained unmoving until the Dark Lord turned to instruct him, at which point he stood forward to speak.
Inattentive members of the crowed jumped as Harry’s voice, magically magnified, called out a cross the grounds. Draco smirked. How typical. They had clearly not focused on the doom at hand.
“Attention,” Potter said firmly. “It is time to move forward. I urge you once again to accept what has been done.”
An angry rumble coursed up and down the line. Death Eaters stationed along its length cast Silencing Spells with great rapidity. Draco sighed. He doubted Potter would be able to curb the crowd’s anger. His first speech had already turned them against him, one and all.
Potter continued in an inflectionless voice, “It is time to receive your judgment. The Dark Lord promised to show benevolence, but those of you who struck out anyway have tried his patience. Kindly approach in turn. You will be sorted into groups, but do not fear: the Dark Lord has assured me that he will uphold his promise to be forgiving.” Potter sent his new master a pointed look.
Draco swallowed uncomfortably. He was not entirely sure that the Dark Lord’s definition of “forgiving” matched his own.
The line moved forward slowly. Draco strained his neck to see around the person in front of him”Dean Thomas, he registered at last”to peek at what was to come. Nothing particularly noteworthy met his eye: as Potter had stated, the prisoners were forming groups. Draco spotted four growing huddles. It all seemed harmless enough, no different than any other sorting ceremony. It occurred to him that joining one group would likely offer more advantages than the others, but he had no way of knowing which it was. Even if he were clued in, he could not influence his fate.
As Draco drew near the front, however, he relaxed, letting his arms hang loosely at his sides. He should have known they would divide based on blood status.
Seamus Finnigan reached the front the line. Draco could tell by the officials’ obvious discomfort as they rifled quickly through papers that he was staring them down.
“Satisfactory,” once called at last, relief evident in his voice. The other gestured to the group on the far left.
As a wiry man Draco didn’t know approached the table, Draco noted how ridiculous he felt. He was being sorted all over again, like a child. The idea was preposterous. He forced himself to recall that it would be all over soon. The moment that he was free to leave, as he was certain he would be in due time, Draco planned to scheme his way back into good standing.
“Mudblood,” pronounced one of the officials.
The Dark Lord looked pleased. “This little skirmish has proven an excellent source of uncaught criminals,” he commented audibly.
The wiry man did not glance at him; he merely progressed with his jaw set proudly to the group farthest to the right. Only a few others stood there so far; by comparison, this last group seemed weak and forlorn.
Kingsley Shacklebolt stood calmly before the table. The Ministry officials scurried about, not daring to lock eyes with him. After a pause, one said hesitantly, “Undesirable.”
Draco looked on with fascination as Shacklebolt approached the group next to the Mudbloods. It became apparent as Draco took stock of its members that known individuals involved with the defunct Order of the Phoenix were in this category. In short, the most traitorous and dangerous of the batch stood there. Draco hoped not to number among them; these were clearly the wizards the Dark Lord considered his greatest enemies, those who had possessed enough temerity to defy him during both of his reigns of terror.
Arthur Weasley joined Shacklebolt, Hagrid, McGonagall, and others. Draco could not help but feel a little clammy as the line before him thinned. Despite his security in blood, he could not shake the fear of ending up in this group. Had his mother’s betrayal earned him a place among them? Draco clung to the hope that it had not.
Dean Thomas now stood for judgment. More quickly than Draco had anticipated, the second wizard called, “Questionable.”
When prompted, Dean joined the middle-sized group between the people of satisfactory blood and undesirable character. His condition was obvious: his magical heritage was uncertain.
Before Draco could conclude the likely fate of the Questionables, the Ministry wizard nearest him motioned for him to approach. Draco’s fears of undesirability immediately resurfaced. To maintain his composure, Draco assumed his usual haughty look and waited impatiently.
The two Ministry wizards were at a loss. It occurred to Draco that they probably did not possess any files on Death Eaters. This thought pacified him slightly.
Potter approached the pair as they moved to put their heads together. Tapping one on the shoulder, he interrupted the consultation and said something in a low voice. The wizard cast a frightened glance at the Dark Lord and nodded.
The other turned to Draco and stated, “Satisfactory.”
Draco let out the breath he had been unconsciously holding in. Shoulders straight, he marched over to the group at the leftmost end of the spectrum.
The rest of the sorting of rebels was a blur to Draco; he barely noticed when his father joined him wordlessly, followed shortly after by the rest of the Weasley clan. Molly Weasley wrung her hands, Draco saw, as she kept her eyes trained on her husband, who stood motionlessly in the Undesirable group. A pang of self-satisfaction touched Draco as Hermione Granger was directed almost instantaneously to the Mudblood heap.
The line emptied after a time, and Draco’s legs became unbearably stiff. How he longed for a long bath back at Malfoy Manor! Sitting down to rest for a few moments was out of the question, he decided; a seemingly pardoned Death Eater should stand tall among blood traitors.
Potter spoke momentarily to the Ministry officials, gesturing at the Questionables once or twice. They nodded repeatedly and began to clear up their files, returning them to neat stacks in order to properly stow them in boxes. They bustled about as the silent masses looked on.
Potter consulted with the Dark Lord. Once again, he prepared to act as spokesman. Draco thought he could guess what would come next.
After a minute, Potter’s magnified voice echoed over the crowds, “Thank you for your cooperation. If you will only listen for a few more minutes, any questions you have will be answered.
“To the group marked ‘Satisfactory:’ your wands will be temporarily held by the Ministry. You are to walk free once this day ends, and you are at complete liberty to tend to those who are injured or dead. You may return home, but you must remain within the country. In two weeks, please present yourself at the Ministry with a magically signed statement of allegiance, and your wand will be returned once the Ministry catalogues its official pardoning of your actions.”
The crowd around Draco took great interest at these words. Draco wondered if there existed any way to speed up the process and regain his wand before the rest. He hoped he did not require personal pardoning form the Dark Lord; he was sure that, as a Death Eater, he would be subject to different forms of forgiveness.
As if to answer his question, Potter resumed: “No statements will be accepted before that time. When you present your paper, please be sure you have signed it properly so the Ministry can put it in the archives. Remember that you will still be monitored in the coming months. Additionally, the Dark Lord has told me he will come up with a system to receive a full pardon, to be unveiled soon.”
Draco did not like the sound of that, but he pushed this uneasy thought away. As long as a full pardon was obtainable, he would secure one and somehow rebuild his reputation.
“Now, to the Questionable group: your status is pending further investigation. You may go about your lives as well, but your wands will only be returned when the Ministry has gathered enough evidence to support your blood status.
“To the Undesirable group,” Harry said in a monotone. He paused before continuing, “You will be detained by the Ministry. Your fate has yet to be decided. The Dark Lord has promised fairness, but your level of defiance is high enough that there must be consequences.”
Molly Weasley looked horrorstruck. Draco felt George Weasley push past him to comfort his mother.
Potter, too, bore a pained look. At a quiet command from the Dark Lord, he turned to face the last group. “To the rest,” he began, presumably to avoid the term ‘Mudblood,’ “you are to be banished from the magical world. Your wands will be broken or given to true wizards and witches. You will not be harmed, but you will not be allowed to stay.”
Molly Weasley was in tears now. Draco removed himself slightly from the knot of people forming around her.
“The fireplaces in the castle have all been connected to the Floo Network, and each has been stocked with powder. That is all. You may leave.” Potter’s voice was utterly mechanic as he finished. He let his chin droop, not wishing to watch as the crowd began to disperse.
Draco turned abruptly to find his father was not a foot away, standing listlessly. Draco approached him, resigned.
“Let’s not be the last ones out of here,” he said irritably, nudging his father. When Lucius made no move to depart, Draco grudgingly grasped his sleeve and pushed past those in his way, maneuvering himself to the first fireplace he reached as he entered the castle. His father followed him stiffly, ignoring the protests of the people whom he shoved. When Lucius did not immediately take the initiative to transport himself out of the castle, Draco tossed some Floo Powder into the flames and gave his father a push.
Malfoy Manor was deserted, a fact for which Draco had never been more grateful. He turned to his father. “I’ll have some food prepared,” he said.
Lucius settled into a high-backed arm chair and sank down. He took no notice as one of their few remaining elves entered and exited.
Draco sighed and took a seat. At least they would no longer play host to inconsiderate Death Eaters who reveled in his misfortune. The only problem Draco faced was his wandlessness. “I’ll draft my letter in the morning,” he said aloud. “Maybe they will accept it early. We’re different from the rest of the lot, after all.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lucius said cuttingly.
Draco looked up sharply. He had not heard his father speak in what felt like ages. “Pardon?”
“We are no better off than blood traitors in their eyes now,” Lucius said in an icy voice.
“I refuse to settle for that,” Draco said stoutly, “so why should you? Besides, you’ve always gotten by in the past.”
“I fail to see the point anymore,” Lucius responded dully. His resigned tone alarmed Draco. Of all the lessons his father had taught him, playing the game to survive had been the most important.
“Well, I do,” Draco disagreed. “It’s just a matter of showing the right face. Isn’t that what you’ve always told me?”
“I want no part of it,” Lucius muttered.
Draco felt repulsed by his father’s behavior. This was not the man he had grown up revering and fearing. “In that case, you’re on your own,” he said angrily, standing and leaving the room. He did not much care if he had just isolated himself completely. If Lucius was not going to help him regain their former power, then it was time Draco freed himself from the dead weight of his parents’ betrayal.
The Dunnest Smoke of Hell by Scarlet Crystal
Chapter Notes: "What's gone and what's past help
Should be past grief."
--A Winter's Tale