CONVENIENT FESTIVITIES
Time. It's a funny thing.
It seems that wizards possess both too much and too little of it.
Whilst muggles can only live a pitiful amount of years, wizards find themselves entrapped within bodies that can last centuries; withering away as time takes its rounds on their very morsel of existence.
I am, in all qualities, condemned to this endless purgatory, counting days like lines on a tally chart.
There's so much time, and yet,
Somehow the clock ticks, and time slips by like sand through an hourglass.
. . .
Christmas rolled around as all things did, like the very dark grey clouds upon the surrounding hilltops.
The first term of Hogwarts was on all accounts splendid.
Never in my life had I enjoyed my childhood to such an extent. We were free to be kids, enjoying the innocent parts of life that had evaded our falsely glamorous upbringings.
Although nothing spectacular happened outside of the occasional failed plan to evict Harry Potter from the school, days turned to weeks, and then weeks to months, and suddenly, one morning mid-December, Hogwarts woke to find itself covered in several feet of snow.
"We have a free period next, how about a snowball fight?" asked Theo as we streamed into Potions. Everyone had been buzzing about the weather all week. I'd found much amusement in the number of enchanted snowballs I'd seen stalking Professors through the halls.
Quirrell had shown up — well, practically ran — to Defense Against the Dark Arts with an awfully damp turban, stuttering about the Weasley twins as he hurriedly attempted to dust snowflakes from its folds.
"And freeze to death? I think not," replied Pansy, taking her usual spot at my side, "Why can't we just sit by the fireplace and be warm?"
For such an old castle, it was unsurprising how little central heating the place possessed.
Every hallway felt as though you were walking through an endless refrigerator, and the worst of all was the very dungeon classroom we sat in, where our breaths spewed out in mist above our heads and finger tips turned flush pink with blood flow.
Snape, however, refused to let us wear our house scarfs, hats our gloves during class.
"Because warm is boring," Blaise was toying with a shrivel fig that we were supposed to be cutting, looking disinterested in the task. At the moment, I'd have argued on the contrary, my arms crossed and hands tucked in the pockets of my robes in a failed attempt to keep warm.
"We could ice skate on the lake," I suggested. I'd been eying up the Great Lake ever since it'd frozen over.
"And drown?" Pansy raised an eyebrow.
I scratched at my neck, imagining getting eaten by a mermaid or the giant squid, "On second thoughts..."
"Oh! There's a perfect lake near my house we enchant every winter," Theo suggested eagerly, "One week this holiday, you should come and visit —" he was cut off by an idea that came into his head, "unless you're staying here?"
Goyle laughed, "I think Narcissa would faint."
As he spoke, half of Crabbe's shrivelfig shot across the room, rolling under a work desk and out of sight. He cursed under his breath.
I wasn't sure Father would mind if I decided to stay, but the picture of my mother's reaction to that letter gave me heartache, "and eat Christmas dinner with Dumblydoor? I'd rather die," I huffed loudly. In the corner of my eye, I spotted Potter staring right at me, eyebrows knit with the same hatred that had plagued me all term.
"I don't actually know when I'm heading home. I haven't seen my owl since the snowstorm."
"Has anyone? I'm actually a little relieved. My mother kept going on about her new husband..." Blaise's sour expression said it all.
There had been a significant lack of owls throughout the whole school. I'd battled the elements to get to the owlery earlier that week only to receive a bleeding finger when I attempted to hand Ulysses my letter.
I didn't blame him. The few owls that managed to battle their way through the storm had to be nursed back to health by Hagrid before they could fly off again.
"I do feel sorry," I looked over at Potter, who'd conveniently turned away as soon as I returned his gaze, "For all those people who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas because they're not wanted at home."
Crabbe and Goyle began snickering.
The last month hadn't been any easier than the first. The Quidditch season had kicked off with Slytherin vs Gryffindor and as Flint had predicted Higgs wasn't in form.
I didn't shut up for a week when Potter landed on the dirt, hands clutching his stomach, and threw up the Golden Snitch — to the ecstatic cheers of the red collars.
"How are you guys going to spend your time back home?" I asked, putting a relaxed effort into cutting my shrivel figs, "Personally, I think my mansion is a lot cosier than Potter's muggle shoebox."
I was still staring at the side of Potter's face. The muscle in his jaw flexed. His chopping effort was a lot more strained as he fought off the obvious desire to throttle me to death on the workbench.
Theo and Blaise shrugged. The Boy Who Lived had somehow got the entire Slytherin house impressed with his Quidditch skills, and jokes simply didn't land anymore.
. . .
When Potion finished, I was so eager to leave I practically ran, abandoning half of my friends in the classroom out of the desire to escape the spine chilling cold. Crabbe and Goyle had ran after me — Goyle eager to tell the story of one of his bullying escapades.
"And so... I grabbed that Longbottom kid and said —"
He was cut off by Crabbe, "Merlin!"
My otherwise dwardled attention was wrenched from me, my head snapping up. I stepped backwards. Crabbe had almost walked straight into two abnormally large legs poking out from beneath a ... fir tree?
It was the size of a muggle bus and somehow flat on its side across the width of the hallway. From behind it came huffing as someone — or something attempted to move it.
"Hi, Hagrid, want any help?" I hadn't noticed the red head until now. Weasley was speaking casually, sticking his head through the branches as if this were something to be expected from the named giant. I glanced to my pocket watch, feeling annoyed when I realised the rare minutes of my free period were dropping like stones.
There was a gruff mumble of a response.
"Would you mind moving out of the way?" I asked, irritated, "Are you trying to earn some extra money, Weasley? Hoping to be gamekeeper yourself when you leave Hogwarts, I suppose — that hut of Hagrid's must seem like a palace compared to what your family's used to."
Suddenly, there was a flash of red hair as Weasley emerged from between the branches, and then I watched him lunge for my lapels.
"WEASLEY!"
I turned around so fast I thought I snapped my neck. My heart thrummed in my chest like a bird flapping in its cage. Snape had emerged from the Potions classroom, strutting towards the group, his cape swaying side to side like a peacock's tail.
"He was provoked, Professor Snape," Hagrid's big hairy face appeared from amongst the fir needles to defend his strange little friends, "Malfoy was insultin' his family!"
I glared at the half-giant, a few odd insults brewing in my wind-pipe.
"You're one to forget Hogwarts rules, Hagrid," Snape drawled with a sense of knowingness that caused Hagrid to avert his gaze, "Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley. Be grateful it isn't more. Now move along, all of you!"
Goyle sent me a hesitant glance as if waiting for my approval to move. I huffed and went about trying to force my way through the branches, sending needles scattering everywhere as the twigs snapped beneath my feet.
Once on the other side, I brushed my robes of sawdust and made my way towards the staircase, wanting to put as much distance between myself and those two self-righteous red cloaks as possible.
"Malfoy, wait!" the heavy footsteps of two running Slytherins caught up to me by the time I'd reached the landing. I stopped. Theo and Blaise had made it over the fir and were now looking slightly winded from their sprint, "What was that?"
"It was cold," I responded plainly. I wasn't in the mood for their dry humour on top of my own self-depreciation.
Although, it was slightly amusing when I thought I could hear the sound of Weasley's grinding teeth from all the way at the top of the stairs.
"Our snowball fight," Blaise breathed out heavily, "We said we'd do it now."
"If I could feel any colder I think I'd turn to ice," I sniffed.
'Oh, forget about weasel and glasses for half an hour, please!"
"Where's Pansy?" I narrowed my eyes.
"Library with Bulstrode and Greengrass," Theo replied, "She's being boring. I know you're not boring, so you have to play with us."
I pandered for another moment, my eyes finding Crabbe and Goyle, who were watching me expectantly, "Crabbe, Goyle?"
"Sure mate," replied Crabbe, "It'll be like old times."
Goyle echoed his sentiment.
"Fine," I relented, "But last one to the flying field gets snow in their boxers."
And then I took off sprinting down the hallway, ignoring the onslaught of yells from behind me.
. . .
"Oh you will write, won't you?"
Pansy almost looked emotional as we stepped off the train and onto platform nine and three-quarters. The eerie reminiscence was striking. Somehow, it'd felt like years and moments all at once.
Yet, the difference was stark: There were no Malfoys on this platform other than one. A son so loved he had to make his own way home at just eleven.
"If it's not snowing too much, sure," I shrugged.
"Good," she smiled, seeming satisfied. I'd given her an if, but that was better than a probable no.
Pansy turned towards the crowd of people, searching for something until she seemed to find it, and then she threw her shoulder back, her plain hair rippling as it hung from her shoulder blades.
A smile graced her as she looked back at me once more, "My mother is over there — Do you want to walk with us to the floo?"
"I—" My sentence cut off at the tugging of my arm. She grabbed me and jostled me before I could articulate some form of rejection. I felt myself bustled through a crowd until she stopped abruptly right in front of a woman with similar dark brown hair.
The woman she led me to could've been her sister. Her features drew an uncanny resemblance to her young creation: wide doe eyes and a pointed nose. It was stark.
Pansy stepped straight into her embrace.
"Mother, this is Draco Malfoy," she hummed into her shoulder. Mrs Parkinson pulled away, smiling the glamorous smile her daughter had inherited.
"Ah, Pansy has told me so much about you," her welcoming predisposition left me hesitant.
We had a great way of acting, us pure-bloods.
"Mother!" Pansy protested.
"I didn't say anything dear," she teased, gazing at her daughter with a strange sense of adoration — as if she'd really missed her.
The ebbing and flowing of heartache prodded at my lungs. I felt jealous. Not for the action in itself, but that Pansy's mother was here, and mine was in Wiltshire, maybe in her garden.
Wherever she was, she was not thinking of me — perhaps not even expecting me today.
It was easy for time to get lost at the manor — I didn't blame her, but it still didn't feel nice when I hurried through a muggle train station, feeling like I stuck out amongst the swarming crowds — all of which seemed to know exactly where they were going.
My almost white hair was unique. I glowed like a beacon despite having masked myself in entirely muggle clothes. I passed a flock of muggles staring at a map that looked almost drawn by toddlers with crayons.
THE TUBE — read the sign.
I wasn't sure what a tube was. The staircase revolved downwards, creaking with the mechanicals of a flawed muggle invention. I merely glanced its way, feeling vaguely curious as I followed Pansy's mother out of the station exit.
The street was wider than the platform, bustling similarly with tourists and workmen in black suits and coloured ties. No one was coordinated, everyone seemingly in their own worlds. The road was filled with muggle taxis, buses, the occasional bikes.
I'd never been to the real London before. Somewhat, the towering modern buildings were daunting.
It was impressive that muggles could do this much with so little. No levioso, no transfiguration spells, just grit and determination. If I hadn't despised them, I'd have admired it.
There was a floo network in the back room of an unassuming muggle-looking pub only a few blocks past the station. Although its location remained on a strictly need-to-know basis.
Even I had been unaware of its very existence up until my mother had owled with my returning home instructions — a letter of which Ulysses had risked a day in Hagrid's hut recovering from hypothermia just to deliver.
I still remembered my groan when I'd learned I'd be travelling alone.
We arrived outside a small, green tiled pub building stood cramped between a bank and a run-down pizza place. The floor was littered with old news papers, photos pitifully unmoving. I grimaced.
THE COOKING POT
"This is it," Pansy's mother announced, her nose wrinkling at the sight, "You'll get used to the smell."
The door made a ringing noise as we stepped in. The pub was small and cramped, with a few too many round tables clustered throughout the room. A muggle family was tucking into a meal in a corner, looking entirely satisfied with the lack of any other real customers.
Behind the bar, a tender with a thick moustache and a grey flat cap was scrubbing glasses, in a heated discussion to a customer who'd sat on one of the bar stools.
A regular, I'd deduced. The drunkard rambled about the "missus" and swigged on a pint glass, looking merry despite the unkind words he seemed to have for the woman he'd wed.
"Hello sir," Mrs Parkinson greeted, "We're here regarding the..." her voice quietened, "sofa."
"Ah," The bartender's shoulders tensed at the words, an eyebrow raised. He turned his attention to her, lowering his tea towel and clunking a handful of clean cutlery back onto the counter. His black eyes scanned the three of us with suspicion, "Names?"
Mrs Parkinson looked hesitant, "Primrose Parkinson, my daughter Pansy..."
"Draco Malfoy, sir," I added.
He looked me up and down, "Right, Malfoy. Your dad passed the message that you would be... visiting today."
"He talked to you?" I was a little taken aback. After the standard I'm glad we didn't have to disown our only living heir letter, the most I'd heard from him since week one was through my mother's graciously watered-down letters.
Even then, whatever message he'd asked her to relay was always straight to the point and short.
"Of course," replied the bartender, he didn't look exactly happy about it, his eyes flickering to the customer sitting at the bar with caution.
"Some risk it is leaving your son to travel here alone," he added as an afterthought.
"Seemingly," I drawled, still feeling a little bitter.
The conversation died into an uncomfortable silence. My eyes found the drunkard, whose eyes seemed to clumsily flicker between us and the bartender. He was too drunk to comprehend anything suspicious about our arrangements.
Mrs Parkinson clutched her purse tightly, her grey eyes skirting the room. After a moment of quiet foot shuffling, she cleared her throat.
"Anyway — the sofa?"
"Right. It's in the back," he nodded towards a door just off from the bar marked with a 'DO NOT ENTER' sign haphazardly nailed at eye level, "Do take the back exit when you're finished looking at it."
"Thank you Harlow," Mrs Parkinson lowered her head, "Good day."
As we walked away, I overheard the drunkard pipe up, "Jesus, John. You should stop offloading all your furniture — this must've been the tenth this week."
The door creaked open, revealing a dark, thin hallway that stretched a few meters into another dimly lit room. Its only source of light source was a skylight blocked out by moss and the remnants of a bird's nest.
The room was barely thrown together, its most notable content being an old dirtied table and a grand marble fireplace that stuck out like a sore thumb.
"You'd have thought they'd have tried to make it presentable," I commented, dusting off my muggle clothes with disdain.
"Have you not been here before?" Pansy asked. Her nose was scrunched with as much disgust as mine, yet she seemed resigned to her fate.
I shook my head, "Father used a chauffeur."
"Snobby git."
"Pansy!" her mother scorned. She looked to me, smiling apologetically as she subtly elbowed her daughter, "I think it's noble of Lucius! He is most wise."
"Maybe..." I shrugged, disinterested, "But awfully slow in comparison to this."
I approached the fireplace. It looked as though it'd simply spawned here, so vastly different from the rest of the room that it unsettled the eyes. Upon the mantel sat a pewter pot. My fingers tugged at the lid.
Inside, piled high, was glittery powder, sparking away in the grimy light. Floo was such a strange invention. Anywhere in the wizarding world it could take you and they wondered why we didn't take muggle transport.
"Well, go ahead dear," Mrs Parkinson encouraged warmly, "Send your parents my kindest regards. I haven't seen them in years."
"Thank you for escorting me," I bowed my head. I dug my hand into the pot until I pulled out a fist full of the glitter, feeling it seep out the cracks of my fingers and onto the floor with every second I hesitated.
Pansy stepped forward, her eyes narrowing, "What did I say earlier?" she asked, her tone suddenly very stern.
I thought for a moment, aware of how little time I possessed to find an answer, "That I should write to you..."
She poked me with her finger, "You will write to me."
"Maybe," I humoured.
She cracked a smile, "I hate you Draco Malfoy."
I stepped backward into the fireplace.
"Good," I smiled, "MALFOY MANOR!"
Within a cloud of floo dust, I vanished.
. . .
When I appeared out of the haze, the room had darkened, losing its brown hue.
Suddenly, I had stepped into a square room with clerestory windows, revealing only a slither of grey, blanketed sky.
I knew this place like the back of my hand, yet the scent of polish was somewhat threatening — as if my senses had become less accustomed to it in the time I'd spent away.
Had I missed this place?
On one hand, at Hogwarts I had never felt so free, yet on the other, less enjoyable hand, stepping outside of the box only left me struggling to stay afloat in my mindless, nonsensical ideology.
The box was warm and safe. Draped in cashmere, filled with plush cushions with silk covers.
As far as I would be concerned for a long while, Malfoy Manor was safe — in both a haven for my beliefs and physicality.
This room was covered in black wooden cladding, walled by at least twenty identical polished doors like the centre of a maze. It took me only a moment to pick one of the doors and open it, feeling relieved when I set eyes on the twenty-foot Christmas tree adorning the stairwell.
"Draco?" called a voice from the room over. I knew that voice like the back of my hand. I felt my shoulders relax at the presence.
"Yes, mother?" I paused in the doorway, my lips upturning at the fast-paced click-clacking of heels. An identical door leading off into one of the reading rooms opened and my mother appeared from it, wearing the same dress she wore the morning I'd left.
Mother beamed when her eyes set on me, "You're home early?" she asked, seemingly genuinely surprised at my appearance.
"No. Technically I'm late," I replied, glancing towards my pocket where my watch sat, undisturbed.
"Oh," her eyebrows knotted together with an unspoken contradiction, "Well, it's lovely to have you back... The elves have only just put up the tree."
That was it. No hug, no beams of admiration.
From the box of baubles that still lay lazily by the Christmas tree, this statement was obvious. They hadn't even gotten around to piling glitter on top of every countertop in the manor.
We didn't need to go all out. As I've mentioned before, it wasn't like we had any family to have around. Everyone was still either disowned, dead or in Azkaban. So, it was just me, my parents and this ridiculously large Christmas tree that always ended up kitted out with a thousand expensive gifts at its trunk.
"It looks... green," I hummed. And shiny. We'd used the same green and silver decorations for as long as I could recall.
"Well, we can't exactly have any red, can we? — Unless you lied about your placement," she humoured.
This was the kind of relationship I had with my mother. It wasn't so... grossly professional, "You got me, I'm a proud Gryffindor!"
It was so ludicrous she laughed.
"Your father would have a heart attack," she looked away, admiring the tree that sparkled in all its non-redness.
There was a glassiness in her pupils, as if her mind was suddenly elsewhere, "My aunt practically did when she found out Sirius had —" Become a traitor. "The wall can only take so many burn marks. I was convinced the house would've collapsed if Reggie..."
Although she'd spoken about this before, it never failed to make me pale.
"On the topic of, where's Father?" I asked, slightly apprehensive.
She smiled as if there was some humour to it, "Where do you think?"
It was a fairly idiotic question. When was he not at the Ministry? He spent more time peering over Fudge's shoulder like the overbearing and opinionated upperclassman he was than anywhere else in the world.
I opened my mouth to respond yet felt the awkwardness of my foolishness flush my cheeks.
"Anyway," she shook her head, as if dismissing whatever thoughts had been clinging to her from the topic of her cousins, "Would you like tea?"
"Please," I agreed with a polite nod.
"Wonderful," she turned on her heel, "Dobby!"
With a crack, the house-elf appeared, tray in hand as if he'd been awaiting this very order for hours. The teapot still spewed smoke from its spout.
"In the garden," Mother ordered, "Draco, walk with me."
The house-elf scurried towards the door, careful not to spill anything as he went. He looked as terrified as always — although he must've been aware he would receive no violence from mother, whose dainty pure-blood hand was too supple to hit.
"It's been very lonely, I must admit," Mother continued as we walked.
I felt slightly guilty, "Did you get up to much?"
"The usual," she smiled. Gardening and reading filled the majority of my earliest memories, "You may have a pile of knitted blankets on your chaise lounge. I read — although magic is wonderful — tactile skills are important for cognitive stimulation."
She had a habit of picking up hobbies based on what she read in Pure Witches Weekly.
For a moment, the sound of her clicking heels echoed through the rooms. We moved back through the manor, choosing another identical polished door that housed another living quarter. Off to the side were towering sliding doors leading to the patio.
"How was the term?" Mother asked, filling the air of silence with an understandably casual question.
"Alright," I shrugged, my hands finding my pockets. The patio was cold, overshadowed by the greyish sky and harsh breeze.
The House Elf placed the tray on the table and went about pouring the tea into some expensive-looking teacups. Mother took her place on one of the chairs, gently brushing her skirt before looking up at her son, her mouth forming a thin line.
"Alright? Is that all?" she raised an eyebrow, "I haven't seen my son in three months, and all he can tell me is it was alright?"
"Where can I begin?" I asked, my fingers running over the bone china teacup in an attempt to garner warmth. How do you explain the feeling of the universe being turned upside down, inside out and then being stampeded by a flock of elephants?
I had learned, I laughed and suddenly, well — the weeks turned to months, and next thing I knew, I was boarding a train back to Malfoy Manor, my head full of pixies as I tried to recount where I'd lost it all.
"Well, maybe at the beginning," she offered.
I sniffed observing a muster of white peacocks as they roamed the lawn, "But we'd be here all day."
She took a sip of her drink, "And I have time."
I realised quite abruptly that I did too — because no matter how busy I was at Hogwarts, the manor was always a prison in lavish clothing.
There was no Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, Blaise or Theo. I would always be tearing my hair out in boredom whenever I returned here.
Suddenly the idea of staying at Hogwarts wasn't so demeaning.