Snowflakes danced through the air, falling softly on the ground below. The cold breeze was too kind; not a piercing, stinging wind, but more a flutter of chill floating through the winter air. The moon, the queen, took her rightful place in the night sky.
As peaceful as the night was, the Christmas Eve, not all were happy. As most moods were light, there was one who lay in bed, wide awake, contemplating what was to become of himself.
The Dark Lord had lost, and no one thought of him the same way. He was an outsider; still an enemy. If people could just look past who he used to be, maybe they would treat him better.
Nothing was the same after the Battle. And that was the truth of the matter.
Everyone had lost someone, something, and he was no different. There was nothing left of him now. The Dark Lord had fallen, his family was in grief, and nobody believed in him. In everyone's mind, he was still an outsider, and that seemed to be how it would remain.
Tossing in bed, he wished he could fall asleep. He wish he could forget everything; he didn't care that it was Christmas Eve. In fact, he probably didn't even know. He was so out of it, so out of everything, that life seemed to be a blur around him. Everything moved in slow motion, and he was not particularly fond of it. He was hardly living anymore.
Moonlight poured in from his window. He wanted to close it; why did he want that brightness to disturb him as he tried to sleep? He reached up to close it; the light was too bright. It was getting stronger, closer … surely it was only his imagination playing a trick on him?
But he was thrown back, and, frightened, he looked around wildly.
"Please," said a voice coming from what seemed to be the window. He did not see anyone though, "don't scream."
A cold mist, perhaps no more than a breeze, drifted in. His eyes, not up to speed, slowly morphed the figure into a shape he had seen so often, yet feared to look at. It was the Dark Lord. He nearly fainted.
"M-my lord!" he exclaimed, not quite sure what to say. "What brings you here?"
"Lucius," he said, "I come with important news." The figure, the ghost, had a plea in his eyes. Was it his imagination? Was he asleep? Lord Voldemort would never plead …
"What is it my lord?" Whether it be a dream or not, Lucius still wanted to know what was happening.
"Change, Lucius. Look out your window, feel the beauty of the moon, wrap your arms in the presence of the midnight wind, and never let go. From me, this may sound … pathetic, or maybe dreamlike. But it's true, Lucius! You must now lose the beauty that stays with you! Relish it, grab hold of it!" Voldemort was nearly panting now. He was trying so hard to be convincing that he showed it all in his face. Lucius could not help but believe him, but what was he going to try to convince him to do?
"My lord, what are you trying to tell me to do? Every since the Battle, nothing has gone right for me. Can't you see this? I am nothing; I am useless. Tomorrow is Christmas, now is it? I can hear the word on the street. Do I care? Do I need something as useless as Christmas? No. I don't need anything anymore." Lucius stated this, as he felt that was the truth. It was the principle he had been living by for so long.
"No! Lucius, you are wrong! Treasure Christmas. I never did. Life is … precious, Lucius. You will see, just as I did. And I lived all wrong! I made all the wrong choices. I did all the wrong things. I don't want you to make that mistake, Lucius. And this may not sound right coming from me, but please. It's your only chance." Voldemort bent down, nearly collapsing, onto his legs until he was nearly laying on the floor defeated.
"How am I supposed to realize that life is precious? What proof can you give me? How do I know that this is not just some kind of dream?" Lucius asked. Nothing, nothing at all could work for him now. He was nothing.
A twinkle in Lord Voldemort's eye was a sure sign that something was about to happen.
"I can prove it to you, Lucius." And Lucius was swept away in the midnight breeze.