Babblings of a Muppet-Loving Freak

Author: Meltha
Rating: PG at this point, but likely to rise
Spoilers: Currently, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s (Sorcerer’s) Stone. Again, this will rise.
Summary: Christmas is coming, and Draco is going home.
Disclaimer: All characters are created by J. K. Rowling, a wonderful writer whose works I greatly enjoy. I have borrowed them for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.

Previous chapters can be found here

Chapter 22: Christmas Holidays Are No Picnic

Draco soon found out that Slytherin’s dormitory did not remain damp all year. No, once the winter weather of Scotland started to set in, it became cold as well as damp. He’d tried pulling his chair closer to the common room fire, but it did little to help. Actually, he’d very nearly set his robes on fire, causing Crabbe to fling a full flagon of pumpkin juice on him.

“I had that completely under control,” Draco lied, wincing at the mess, then noticed Crabbe’s grumpy expression. “Still, good thinking.”

Crabbe brightened up again, then wandered off towards the kitchens for a refill on his drink. Goyle was in detention for flinging Bicorn dung at Lavender Brown in Herbology, which really had been a remarkably stupid thing to do since Sprout had been no more than three feet away at the time and couldn’t have missed his doing it even if she’d been blind. Also, the stench had clung to Goyle for hours. They’d forbidden him to enter the dormitory until he’d scrubbed with the strongest soap available.

As Draco went up to his room to change his soaking robes, he considered his options for the afternoon. He could sit alone in the common room and freeze, try to do work on his Potions essay back in the dormitories and freeze there, or he could go somewhere warm enough to restore circulation to his fingers. It really wasn’t much of a competition. Draco went out the door and began wandering through Hogwarts, which was refreshingly quiet and very nearly empty as it was a Sunday morning.

He wandered in the general direction of the Great Hall, but his mind was back on the Quidditch pitch. Though Slytherin’s loss from a couple weeks ago still stung, that wasn’t what was bothering him the most. His odd meeting with Hermione had raised questions in his mind, ones that he couldn’t answer at all. What exactly had Snape been doing? He was certain his godfather, as much as they both loathed Potter, couldn’t have been trying to kill him, and yet Draco was fairly certain that the broom really had been jinxed, not that he’d admit it to anyone. His own attempts to turn Potter into a laughing stock over that incident had backfired spectacularly, and Draco had finally shut up about it, realizing he was accidentally making Potter even more popular. But who would jinx a student’s broom? Things like that had been known to happen in professional Quidditch, though of course anyone caught doing something like that would receive a lifelong ban, as Yerevin “Swampy” Swinton had found out five years ago when he’d tried hexing the broom of a the Chudley Cannon’s Keeper, a ridiculously stupid idea since the Cannons were utterly useless at the best of times. But at school? Everyone wanted their house to win, but he couldn’t imagine anyone taking it that far. He hated Potter, but actually trying to kill the idiot really would fall under the list of things that could and should get somebody expelled. Even he would have agreed with that, though most likely silently. But someone had done it, and it was unnerving that no one had been caught yet.

If a possible attempted murderer wandering Hogwarts’ halls wasn’t enough, there had been that jibe of Hermione’s about his family’s background, suggesting that something wasn’t quite right about them. That had to be utterly untrue, of course. Both the Malfoys and his mother’s family, the Blacks, were highly regarded pure-bloods of impeccable ancestry. Still… he had no idea where the family’s money came from. It was just there. That did seem odd, the more he thought about it.

His wanderings had taken him past the Great Hall, up the main staircase, and in the general direction of the library, so with a shrug he decided that there were worse places to be than there. For one thing, Pince always kept it as warm as toast in there to protect her precious books from damage from the cold, particularly the volumes that were bound in dragon hide and needed the extra heat. He entered the enormous room and took a deep breath of the musty air. Draco actually quite liked it there, but he usually avoided it for a good reason. Unfortunately, that reason was currently sitting at a table near the windows, her bushy head bent over a book large enough to be a dining room table in itself. She was so engrossed in her reading, though, that he was certain she wouldn’t notice him if he did nothing to draw attention to himself.

Very quietly, he crept towards Pince’s desk and cleared his throat.

“What is it?” the librarian hissed at him in what he thought was an unreasonably aggressive manner.

“I’m trying to find history books on pure-blood families,” Draco said in a whisper.

“Third row on the left, second shelf from the top, through fifth row on the left, bottom shelf, alphabetized by name of family,” Pince said automatically, glaring at him. “Do not spill anything on them, get dirt on them, or in any other way besmirch these volumes unless you want detention from now until doomsday, boy.”

She immediately lowered her head back to the stack of index cards she was sorting and ignored his existence completely. That in particular was a strange and unique sensation for a Malfoy. Obviously, the woman must be demented.

Draco moved to the section she had indicated, first taking a rather intimidating tome entitled Toujours Pur: The Black Family in History from the shelves, then adding Magic and Mayhem among the Malfoy Clan.

“Mayhem?” Draco muttered, raising an eyebrow.

Despite the very low volume of his question, Pince shot him a glance so deadly that he was sure some of Sprout’s prized plants must have just died from being within a five mile radius of it. He bit back the urge to apologize and instead sat down and opened the book on the Malfoys first.

An hour and a half later, he put it down and stared at the opposite wall in complete confusion for the better part of another half hour. What on earth had that even been? According to this writer, for the past seven hundred or more years his family had been involved in practically every twisted, bizarre, and highly illegal activity that took place in the wizarding world and a very good portion of them amongst the Muggles as well. Malfoys (and the horror of learning he was French on top of everything else!) had managed to keep their hands tidy, but their money and influence could very nearly be traced to everything from the assassination of the Muggle Archduke Ferdinand to the infamous Quidditch Cup gambling fiasco of 1822.

However, he reasoned, it was only one book. Perhaps the writer was prejudiced against his family or even pure-bloods in general. Surely he should look at more than one source to check the matter, shouldn’t he?

As he slowly wakened out of his shocked thoughts, he noticed a piece of paper sitting next to him on the table, one that had certainly not been there when he sat down. A single glance at the tiny letters told him who had written it.

If you want further information, I highly suggest the following works:
A History of the Magical World by Ichabod Grundy
Pure-Blood Mania and Its Detrimental Effects on Progeny by Tagentia Portand
Bloody Pure-Bloods by Warfle Bogson
The Myth of the Sacred Twenty-Eight by Melchior Twinette
The Blood behind the Bloodlines: A Survey in Wizarding Murder by Alenda Issachet (pages 37 through 54 are particularly useful)

And for a bit of balance from the opposite side, try:
Pure-bloods and Poetry: The Graceful Art of Perfect Breeding by Jennetta Yaxley
Leaves on the Tree of Perfection: A Wizarding Genealogy by Hyperion Abbott

At least you’re thinking. That’s more than I thought you’d do.

H.

He looked around quickly, but there wasn’t any sign of her. She’d obviously gone, probably a while ago.

He knew he should tear the note to shreds, burn them, and then flush them down a toilet. He should pour bleach on his hands to keep them from being soiled by something a Mudblood had touched. He should do anything other than what he was doing, which was folding the paper up and putting it in his robe pocket.

Feeling a little sick, he left the library, strange thoughts running through his mind that he simply wasn’t ready to pursue. The sun had long since set, and the winter wind was howling outside the castle walls.

The Christmas holidays arrived much faster than he thought they would, and with them the promise of returning home. He missed the Manor, but more than that, he missed the sense of perfect security and safety that his childhood home now represented. It would be a holiday free of doubt and lingering suspicions, and while his godfather would undoubtedly stop by for a glass of goblin-aged mulled wine at some point, no other shadow from Hogwarts would darken the days, or at least he hoped so.

The Hogwarts Express was bustling with activity on the day the students boarded, looking forward to seeing parents, grandparents, and younger siblings who had been absent from their lives for months. Potter, of course, wasn’t one of them, and apparently the Weasleys were remaining at Hogwarts as well, as were Crabbe and Goyle. Crabbe’s mother had caught dragon pox, though thankfully a mild case with relatively few fire-breathing cough spasms, but she was contagious, so her son had to spend the holidays at school. Goyle had volunteered to remain as well to keep him company. Draco couldn’t be sure, but he thought that Goyle had actually looked relieved not to be going home. He didn’t really know much about the Goyles, just that they were pure-blood and fairly wealthy. He supposed that made everything all right with them, or rather he would have, but now he was starting to suspect those qualities weren’t an automatic guarantee of a peaceful or happy life. He made a mental note to ask Goyle about it when school started again.

The result of Crabbe and Goyle’s absence was that Draco was without his usual companions. He decided that, rather than sitting with Millicent, Pansy, Theodore, and Blaise, he preferred his own company for the ride home. He had a compartment to himself at the end of one cars, watching as the sky quickly darkened during the shortest nights of the year, and within another hour, the stars were gleaming above with surprising clarity. The snow of the Highlands glowed in the moonlight, and he let himself look out the window at the lights of towns and villages in the distance and think of nothing for a change.

He didn’t know when he’d nodded off, but a sudden jolt as the cars bumped together woke him. For a fleeting second, he thought he saw movement in the aisle next to the compartments, but he told himself it had only been his own reflection in the glass partitions. If that reflection had seemed to be female with dark, chin-length hair and a rather intense expression, he shrugged it off and soon forgot about it, lulled back to sleep again by the rhythm of the train.

It seemed like the train ride back to London took less time than the one to Hogwarts, and before he knew it, the scarlet engine was pulling into the station at King’s Cross. He grabbed his own trunk from the overhead rack, not caring if it was beneath his dignity in his desire to see his parents again at once, and jostled his way towards the door with the rest of the students. Once he was on the platform, he scanned the crowd for his father and mother, peering through the throng of students being hugged by their parents and happily bustled out the door and towards their homes, laughter and chatter following them.

As the crowd thinned, he became certain of what he’d suspected. They weren’t there.

“Master Draco?” piped a small voice beside him. “You is growing so much, I was not recognizing you! Please to be giving your trunk to Dobby.”

Draco looked at his elbow, and there stood the little house-elf, smiling up at him, but he also noticed a large plaster on his right ear.

“Where are my parents?” he asked.

“They was inevitably detained and sends their greetings to you. I is to show you to the car outside, and you is to be driven to the house,” Dobby said.

Was it Draco’s imagination or was there just the smallest note of pity in the house-elf’s voice?

“Right,” he said, handing him the trunk. He checked that no one else was about before quietly adding, “It’s good to see you again at any rate.”

Dobby blinked in surprise as Draco strode away in a fair imitation of his father.

The Rolls Royce Phantom III was waiting outside the station, and Draco got in without even pausing to admire it again. He closed the door firmly and heard the trunk go into the boot along with the quiet pop of Dobby Apparating away. That was rather disappointing. He’d actually hoped for the elf’s company on the journey home, even if they couldn’t speak at all according to the rules of society. As it was, Draco was totally alone. The driver from the previous journey had been replaced by a mirage created by a spell; the car was driving itself.

It was perhaps for the best as Draco found that the car was remarkably dusty, enough to make his eyes inconveniently watery. At least, that’s what he told himself.

When the car pulled up to Malfoy Manor, Draco waited for a house-elf to open the Rolls Royce’s door, then exited, looking completely unruffled in any way. Another elf opened the massive front door, and Draco walked into the entryway, still expecting to see his parents.

“Master Draco?” Dobby’s voice came from behind him, and Draco just managed not to jump.

“Your dinner is in the dining room. We is hoping it is not cold,” Dobby said.

“They… aren’t home, are they,” Draco said.

“No, sir,” Dobby said. “We is not to be expecting them back until very late, your father said.”

Draco nodded curtly, then went to the dining room. The single setting at the table had a portion of roast beef, potatoes, and carrots, his favorite, so perhaps they hadn’t forgotten him entirely, but a doubt crept into his mind.

“Dobby?” he called, and the elf immediately appeared beside him.

“Yes, sir?” he asked. “Is something not to your liking?”

Plenty, he thought, but he only asked, “Whose idea was it to have roast beef?”

“Dobby’s,” the elf said, bowing his head. “If I was wrong, I is sorry and shall have anything you like prepared.”

“No, it’s fine. Go,” he ordered, but almost immediately he felt the emptiness of the room again.
“No, wait. I want bread.”

Dobby shot off to the kitchen and came back with bread. Over the course of the next half hour, Draco sent him for butter, milk, a new fork, an apple, a sharper knife, and salt. It was ridiculous, he supposed, but the elf’s constant coming and going made the room seem less vacant.

Draco ate the roast beef, but it tasted like nothing at all. When he was done, he skipped dessert entirely, then went up to his room to sleep. His pyjamas were laid out on the bed, dark green satin, waiting for him. He changed out of his school robes, dropping them tiredly on the floor, climbed into his bed, but tried not to sleep. He hoped he would hear his parents return home, even though he couldn’t rush out to greet them as it would be too undignified. He just wanted to know they were there.

He fell asleep hours later, but still before there was anything to be heard.

The next morning, he found his unpacked trunk back in his closet and a new set of robes at the foot of his bed. His old ones, he realized with some surprise, probably wouldn’t have fit him as he really had grown quite a bit since September. His stomach rumbled for breakfast, but he was half dreading going downstairs, wondering if the dining room would be empty again. However, the growling became louder and made his decision for him. He walked somewhat less confidently down the stairs, then into the dining room.

“Draco,” his mother said, rising from her seat at the table. “I was hoping to see you this morning.”

“Good morning, Mother,” he said, and he could have cursed himself for how relieved he sounded. Quickly, he tried to mend circumstances by adding in a casual voice, “I hope you slept well.”

“Adequately,” she said. “Your father and I had to attend a pre-Yule event at the Carrow house last night, and unfortunately I have business this morning in Diagon Alley while your father needed to be at the Ministry early. He has already left.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?” Draco asked, hoping for her to agree.

“Now, now,” his mother said smoothly. “Father Christmas has a bit of shopping left, and it won’t do to have one of his recipients in tow.”

Draco nodded. It made perfect sense, of course, but he still wished he could spend some time with her.

“Might we have lunch?” Draco suggested. He barely restrained himself from adding that he’d missed her, but that seemed like he was being childish.

“I believe that would be possible at about one o’clock,” she said. “Yes, let’s do that. I will instruct the house-elves to prepare something festive, and we’ll have a small party of it, shall we?”

Draco nodded his agreement with seeming nonchalance, though the truth was he didn’t trust his voice not to crack with emotion if he’d spoken. The rest of breakfast (Scotch eggs, bacon, fried tomatoes, toast, and tea) was pleasant enough, with his mother asking how his classes were and what he thought of his professors, whether he liked his roommates and if the sweets that were delivered to him every fortnight were acceptable. In turn, he asked her about her friends and social calls, the different Yuletide parties she and father would attend, and if there was anything new about the Manor.

“We did have a spot of rather silly trouble yesterday that might amuse you,” his mother said, smiling. “That ridiculous Dobby has got himself into trouble again.”

“Oh?” Draco asked, thinking of the plaster he’d noticed on the elf’s ear the night before. “What did he do?”

“Disobeyed a direct order,” she said, cutting a tiny piece of tomato and putting it into her mouth.

“That was wrong of him,” Draco said. “What did he do?”

“You remember your Quidditch figures?” she said.

“The ones in the box in my closet?” Draco said. He was rather proud of the set as he had managed to collect nearly all the current players for the top five teams in Britain plus the Irish team.

“Yes,” she said. “I simply told him that as you are now far too old for such nonsense, he should remove them from your room and burn them in the kitchen stove along with the other things that no longer fit, robes that are too small and shoes with scuffs and such.”

Draco was stunned. He wouldn’t have told his parents, as he was sure they wouldn’t approve, but he loved those figures, and he knew from school there were any number of much older students who still collected them.

“You what?” he asked, sounding rather angry, and his mother’s eyes flashed.

“Now, I thought you’d be an adult about this,” she said. “You’re eleven years old now. Stop acting like a child! Dobby tried to hide them in his quarters instead, but of course he couldn’t stop banging his head against the walls every time I saw him because of his disobedience. After I had him confess to his crime, which really was ridiculously horrid, stealing from his family, for Merlin’s sake, I had him use the apple corer on his ear as punishment.”

Draco wasn’t able to cover his look of horror.

“Oh, I had it thrown away immediately after, no worry,” his mother said. “I really can’t imagine what’s got into that one. We may have to behead him if this keeps up. Still, I did think it rather funny that he risked punishment for a silly shoebox filled with plastic toys. Imagine! Perhaps he was going to sell them or something, so he quite got what he deserved.”

She laughed merrily, and Draco joined her, but he felt sick in the same way he had when he’d read the book on the Malfoys. A few months ago, would he have joined in with the same levity his mother showed? Had Hogwarts and distance from his family changed him, and if it had, was that even a good thing? Was he becoming a blood traitor and a freak?

“Yes, well, I do have some homework I should get out of the way before the holidays,” Draco said.

“Good,” his mother said proudly. “Your studies are important. I am very glad to see you taking them seriously.”

“I do,” he said, rising from his seat. “May I be excused?”

“Of course, dearest,” she said, angling her cheek towards him in an invitation to kiss it, which he did. “I shall see you at luncheon.”

“I will look forward to it,” he said, going up the main stairs.

His mother did not see him immediately run along the corridor, past his bedroom, without stopping until he had raced down the back staircase that led to the kitchens.

“Dobby!” he called.

“I is here, sir,” he said, coming into view immediately. “How may I be serving young master?”

He paused for a long moment, staring at the plaster on the elf’s ear.

“How long ago did that happen?” he asked, pointing to the injury.

“Two weeks ago,” Dobby said, wincing at the memory.

“Will you be able to heal?” Draco asked, then quickly amended the question. “I mean, will you be able to perform all of your duties and that sort of thing?”

“Dobby will be fine again in time,” he said. “Elves is healing faster than wizards for some things.”

Draco sighed in relief, checked to be sure they were alone.

“Just, never disobey my mother again, or my father either, okay?” Draco said. “I know what you were up to. You were saving them for me, weren’t you?”

Dobby nodded, his ears flapping sadly.

“I was being able to save one,” he said, producing it from a tattered rag he’d tucked into his pillowcase. “It is, I think, young master’s favorite.”

Draco took the filthy package and unwrapped it carefully to find Grantham Dipple, Captain of the Montrose Magpies. The figure looked up at him from the palm of his hand, wiping its face with its hands to remove the grime.

In that moment, Draco knew that regardless of what else he might receive for Christmas that year, he had already gotten his best present. Unfortunately, Dobby was currently banging his head against the wall to punish himself.

“Stop that, and that’s a direct order,” Draco said firmly, and he was glad to see that it worked. He considered his next two words carefully. “Thank you.”

Dobby looked stunned.

“But don’t put yourself at that kind of risk again,” Draco said. “Mother is seriously considering beheading you, I think, and if I’m away at school, I won’t be able to do anything to stop it. You understand?”

“Dobby understands the young master,” he said.

“Tell absolutely no one else of this conversation,” Draco said. “That’s another direct order.”

“Dobby will keep silent,” he said.

“Good,” Draco said, turning to go.

“Happy Christmas, sir,” Dobby called after him.

He stopped, but did not turn around. Then quietly, under his breath, he mumbled, “Happy Christmas, Dobby.”

Draco returned to his room and took out his school books, then seated himself at his desk with parchment and quill, facing the door so that he would know if anyone entered. He opened his Transfiguration textbook to the chapter on turning needles into matches and began the essay McGonagall had assigned. As he wrote, he felt Dipple’s figure fidgeting in his pocket. Draco sighed. By now, his mother was certainly gone to Diagon Alley and he was alone in the house. He closed his bedroom door and took out the little figure, holding it in the palm of his left hand. He gazed at it loving for a moment, then flicked his wand quickly.

“Incendio,” he said, and for the briefest moment he saw the figure’s shocked face before he was reduced to ashes.

He knew it would have been too dangerous for Dobby if he had kept it, but he still fought not to cry.

He had lunch with his mother, who talked about a series of shallow pleasantries and a list of the things she purchased for his father and a few other wealthy friends or distant relations. His own shopping had been done months ago through catalogues, pre-wrapped and ready for the tree. He kept waiting to feel he was back home again, but he felt like something was missing. Even his father’s long-awaited arrival for dinner that night didn’t banish the feeling, and when Draco went to bed that night, he was forced to admit that neither of them had changed. He had. And it had made him lose his home somehow.

The rose garden was protected from the winter chill by a perpetual warming charm, and the white roses were always in bloom. He didn’t know why, but Draco was drawn to the ruins that night, and he got out of bed, rather thrilled to know he wouldn’t be punished for breaking school rules, and wandered down to the gardens in his pyjamas and a heavy coat. He hadn’t quite mastered Warming Charms yet and was in no mood to deal with setting himself on fire, particularly as Crabbe wasn’t there with a mug of pumpkin juice this time.

He looked at the blooms, still open in the moonlight, perfectly white flowers against the perfectly white snow. They were beautiful, he thought, utterly perfect without the smallest blemish. Or without even the smallest sign of reality. They were forced into a state of completely unnatural flawlessness, nothing of which was real. It was the wrong season for roses, the wrong time of day for them to be open. Even their color was a spell to remove any hint of pigment, including in their stems and leaves. They looked like they were made of snow and ice: beautiful, hard, and cold.

He was looking at his whole life if he followed what his parents wanted, and he nearly started to wretch.

He went back into the house, cold from the top of his head to his toes, but the warmth of the Manor didn’t thaw him at all. It wasn’t that sort of chill.

In later years, when he tried to remember that Christmas, he could never bring out the details. He vaguely recalled getting a new set of Quidditch balls and the latest broom, and his mother was suitably happy with his present to her of a diamond solitaire pendant surrounded by peridots set silver, while his father had murmured quiet appreciation of his gift of a silver letter opener set with emeralds that formed a snake along its length. His pocket money was essentially bottomless. He assumed they had the traditional pudding and biscuits, but it all blended together into nothing.

Mostly, he remembered wishing he were back at school.

The days dragged until his mother kissed him goodbye and said she would miss him (his father was at the Ministry again), but some part of him doubted she would even as he said he’d miss her as well. Then the self-driving Phantom III had dropped him off at King’s Cross with his trunk, and he’d boarded the Hogwarts Express again. The students aboard were a gloomy group. They didn’t want to go back, and he caught a few sniffling over leaving family and friends behind. Draco would have very much liked to have said he felt the same.

He sat with Blaise and Nott for a while, listening to them go on about presents and dinners and the awful homework they’d had to do over the break, chiming in with correct replies whenever they were warranted. Pansy and Millicent had taken off to the train’s girls’ loo to fiddle with new lipsticks and perfumes for the rest of the ride.

“I’m exhausted,” Draco finally said. “I just can’t keep my eyes open after all the holiday stuff my parents and I did together. It really was a brilliant holiday, best ever. I think I’ll sit in the back car and nap.”

The other two nodded, and Draco went to the last car, sat down, and watched the same journey from a few weeks ago pass his windows in reverse. He did try to sleep, but he kept having nightmares lately about carnivorous roses that dripped white blood, so he was awake when a tap came at the compartment door.

He turned to see Hermione Granger standing there. He didn’t say she could come in, but then he didn’t say she couldn’t either, so she opened the door.

“What do you want, Granger?” he said.

“Did you read any of the books?” she asked.

“What’s it to you?” he said.

“Because I happen to miss you,” she said, “at least I miss the person I thought you were, and I’m hoping you’ll see sense and stop being such a gigantic arse all the time.”

“Nice language,” he said.

“Better than some of yours,” she said.

“Yeah?” he said, and suddenly the confusion and anger he’d felt through his whole holiday came spilling out. “Well, at least I have a proper family! We had a lovely Christmas with presents move expensive than anything you’ll ever see, and parties with the finest families, and we laughed and laughed at the stupid things Muggles and Mudbloods do. Did your pathetic family do anything at all, Granger?”

“We had a nice, quiet Christmas,” Hermione said, her voice oddly level. “We played board games and went to a pantomime and visited with my grandmother, then made snowmen and had a snowball fight in the garden. I wouldn’t trade it for anything, not even a Christmas dripping with diamonds.”

Her gaze suggested she was seeing right through his act.

“Have a good new year, Draco,” she said. “I intend to.”

She left, closing the door behind her, and he muttered to himself, “Why did you have to spoil everything?”

Through the glass window, he saw her pause for the briefest moment in the corridor beside the compartments, just long enough that he knew she had heard, but she then walked away, back towards the other car, leaving him alone.