Clean

The Nightmare

Chapter 2: The Nightmare

Draco stood at the door to his parents' lavish estate, his posture uncharacteristically slumped. Malfoy Manor had recently been filled with an exhaustive number of undesirable – and unwelcome – guests. He snorted humorlessly at the stark contrast between last year's holiday and this one. No longer would he find Christmas morning a source of joy. He'd abandoned what was left of his childish material needs.

He strayed from his usual confident stride as he attempted to pad softly to the dining room. He hoped not to attract attention, although he should have known that would be impossible.

"Ah, Draco!"

The Dark Lord curled a long, bony finger his way, beckoning him to sit at his left hand. Draco warily complied, taking his place beside his father. Across the table, his mother, as impeccable as always, nodded ever so slightly in solidarity. Her hands were shaking.

It is said that sons look to their father for protection, and to their mother for comfort, but Lucius's eyes, averted from his son, were emotionless and cold.

No, Draco thought. My father's protection no longer applies.

"Draco, you seem so unhappy, and on such a joyful occasion!" Voldemort exclaimed, goading him with false sincerity. "Are you, perhaps, finding your task unsavory?"

"No my Lord!" Bellatrix interrupted, rising from her seat at Voldemort's right hand. "It is an honor, a privilege for our family to serve you!"

Voldemort leaned towards her, his long black nails scraping along her jaw to caress her cheek. Bellatrix shuddered in response, looking as though she would explode in ecstasy.

"Do you agree, Lucius?" he asked. "Is it an honor for the Malfoys to serve Lord Voldemort?"

"Yes my Lord, the highest honor," Lucius said instantly, reduced to a mere puppet. Draco decided then that his already waning affection for Lucius had evaporated. He only resented his father.

"Draco, Draco," Voldemort continued, raising a goblet to the light and fingering the jeweled M of the Malfoy family crest. "How are you progressing with your . . . assignment?"

Draco swallowed hard, trying to meet the Dark Lord's eyes. He did not wish to show fear or uncertainty in front of Lord Voldemort, though it was inevitable.

"My Lord, I – "

To his relief, the heavy wooden doors opened and Jugson, a Death Eater assigned to the Ministry of Magic, burst into the room.

"My Lord, we have fai – " he started, then corrected himself. "We were unable to gain control of Meadowes."

Seeing Voldemort's dispassionate expression, Jugson hurriedly continued, "We will locate him shortly, no doubt. He is not so skilled that he would succeed in hiding for long."

"Perhaps not . . . and yet," the Dark Lord sneered, "You are not so skilled that you would succeed in restraining him."

With a flick of his wand, Voldemort raised Jugson in the air by his ankle, allowing him to rotate him slowly. Draco, seated close to where Jugson had been standing, tried to block out the hollow echo of his whimpering. Wand still raised, Voldemort turned back to his youngest servant.

"You have nothing to fear, Draco," he said silkily, "if you do as I ask. If you do not, however, you'll find that Lord Voldemort is . . . not so merciful."