PART TWO: DRACO

 As far back as Draco could remember it, Christmases at Malfoy Manor had always been fast affairs. His mother, ever the gracious hostess, knew how to throw the most outlandishly decadent parties that his father’s vaults could more than cover. He had a vivid memory of white elephants Imperiused to tap-dance to the tune of Irish Carols and Pixies dressed to look like snowflakes.

This year, alas, was a severe departure from the Malfoy tradition. There was no scrumptious banquet covered in exotic delicacies, no lavish decoration along the corridors leading to the pièce de résistance that was the winter-themed ballroom where enchantments and diamond-encrusted baubles awaited the Pureblood guests that had made it on the most exclusive guest-list.

Filled to the brim with unsavoury guests, the hallways of Malfoy Manor were, for the first time ever, desperately bare, and the ballroom, dreadfully gloomy. Most of the heavy drapes had been closed, and the furniture enchanted to look as if it were made of dark mahogany wood. Most of the carpet had been removed, which added to the austere ambience that permeated the entire residence. Even the white peacocks that liked to feast on the lush shrubs that lined the gravel path leading to the Manor’s entrance seemed to have understood that it was better to stay as far away from the residence as possible.

Death Eaters came and went at all hours, as per their master’s wishes, treating the noble Manor as if it were a mere run-of-the-mill brothel. As a result, Draco had never before spent so much time locked away in his bedroom. Though instructions had been given that the Malfoys’ quarters were off-limits to the Dark Lord and his followers, it was a concept that some seemed to struggle with. When Draco woke up, one morning, to find a creepy Bellatrix Lestrange perched on the edge of his bed, he’d nearly had a heart attack. The smile she’d given him then made him want to take a headcount of the peacocks, for she sure as hell looked like she had just eaten one for breakfast. Determined that such an event should never occur again, he’d taken to barricading his door with spells upon spells to keep intruders and homicidal aunts at bay. And as a rule, he stayed as far away from the rest of the house as he could.

All in all, this Christmas holiday had turned out to be the worst that Draco had ever had, and he found himself languishing for the day he’d return to Hogwarts—something that had never happened to him before, either. Worse still, he envied the orphans and the penniless who’d been forced to stay at the draughty old castle for the winter break.

Being the Dark Lord’s follower was nothing like what he’d imagined. And follower, he’d found out, was too kind a word for what went on behind the ballroom’s closed doors. More like servants, he thought bitterly, the whole lot of them.

Having heard his parents speaking of Lord Voldemort, for years, as if he were the best thing that had happened to the Wizarding World since Merlin, Draco had been unprepared for the twisted, barely-human-anymore wizard that had slithered his way towards him earlier that year. His sibilant voice had scraped at his very brain, like nails scratching a chalkboard. But that wasn’t the worst of it: the more sickening part had come later when he saw his father—his father!—regal, proud Lucius Malfoy bend the knee before the inhuman creature. And if only it had stopped there but, while on his knee, his father had bent his head down to kiss the hem of the Dark Lord’s dusty robes, prostrating himself before him like a mere house-elf—worse, even. And then, for some reason unknown to his son, Lucius had been made to suffer his master’s displeasure, writhing on the ground as the Cruciatus Curse hit. He moaned in pain until he couldn’t hold it in anymore and his mouth let out agonised screams of pain. Draco had never seen his father like that before, and the image had broken something within him. Irrevocably. It had thrown his carefully constructed world out of its axis and sent it spinning to new uncharted grounds.

Surrounded by madness, locked within his own room, a huge Damocles sword hanging over his head, a bottomless pit edging ever-closer to his feet, Draco had never felt so lost and alone. And for the first time in his life, he realised he had no friend to turn to, no one to seek help from. He had allies and associates, people he was expected to frequent. But that was the extent of it. He didn’t trust any of them within an inch of his life. And by the looks of things, his parents were out of commission, too.

Weighing his options was a quick affair. If he wanted to survive, he’d have to toe the line—for now. He had to carry on as he had, to buy himself another day of respite, and then another, and another. It didn’t matter what he thought, or what he believed in—in truth, it never had. But the status quo wouldn’t last forever. The chips were bound to fall sooner or later. And for the first time—and it truly was a season of firsts—Draco wished they would fall on the side of the Light.

“Merry bloody Christmas,” he muttered to himself as he stared at his haggard reflection in the full-length mirror that stood next to his wardrobe. He was dressed in black from head to toe: black slacks, a black satin shirt, and a black vest. It made a sharp contrast with his too-pale skin and blond hair. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he looked like he had aged ten years in just as many days.

Despite the sea of blackness that already enveloped him, Draco knew more was to come. It was Christmas, after all, and Christmases always came with gifts. His father had been ecstatic when he’d told his son that the Dark Lord had one for him. “A special gift for a special boy,” he’d said, and if that didn’t sound perverted, he didn’t know what did.

The Malfoy heir was to receive his Dark Mark today: a magical tattoo that would be etched deep within his skin like a permanent reminder of his servitude. It was a brand to identify the cattle’s owner and make the herding easier. Merry bloody Christmas, indeed.

Staring unseeingly into the mirror, Draco spent the last minutes of his life as a free man bringing up his Occlumency shields. He’d first learned to protect his thoughts from his mother and couldn’t thank her enough for the lengthy, arduous lessons. Even his crazy aunt, Bellatrix, deserved some of his gratitude for the pointers she had given him more recently. And his godfather, too, of course. Severus was the one who had taught him the most—not that he’d been very gentle about it, but at least it had been effective.

The Dark Lord was a fine Legilimen—or so he’d been told. And while Draco had no hope to keep the truth from him—if he truly went looking for it, that was—he hoped to be able to keep the surface of his thoughts calm enough and panic-free. It wouldn’t do to show his fears now—not to the Dark Lord, not to his parents, and not to anyone else who’d be in that room when he took the Dark Mark. He had to stay strong and play the part convincingly. And then perhaps the Dark Lord wouldn’t look further.

He dreaded to think what that madman would do if he knew the truth of his thoughts. How would he express his displeasure? If the rumours were true—and Draco was pretty sure they were—it would probably cost him his life. He’d heard others had died for a lot less. Steeling his resolve, he started to get ready.

Inhale, count to five. Exhale, count to five.

No fear.

Inhale, count to five. Exhale, count to five.

The Dark Lord is my master.

Inhale, count to five. Exhale, count to five.

It’s an honour to serve the Dark Lord.

Inhale, count to five. Exhale, count to five.

“I don’t want to die.”