Halloween

Draco Malfoy always throws up on Halloween.

When he was little, it was his favorite time of year. His mother would let him rummage through the attic. He could touch whatever he wanted and even put on whatever it was he chose. The first time... Merlin, he'd been maybe four. His father had been delighted when his first choice had been a jacket, shoes, and ruffed shirt that had belonged to a Lucius Malfoy from long ago.

That was why Halloween was so special. Of course Draco enjoyed the trips to the village below the manor; he was seldom allowed to venture off Malfoy grounds, and any journey was exciting. But mostly, Halloween was special because it made Lucius glow. It wasn't that Lucius often seemed unhappy, or even that he paid particular attention to Draco on the day. Lucius always had some time to spare for his only son.

But on Halloween, Lucius was... joyful. He would smile fondly at Draco when he presented his finding from the attic, and shrink them so they'd fit just so. He'd change into his disguise as Draco did, but Lucius never donned the clothes of an old family scion. Once, Draco had thought to ask why, and Lucius had laughed and said he need not imitate his ancestors because he lived among them. Draco had dropped his costume on the floor and cried, "I want to live among them, too!" Normally his carelessness would have earned him a sharp word or two, but Lucius had only laughed some more. "How else will you learn, my silly son? Understand our history because you will be part of it."

It wasn't until Draco was a little older that he noticed that his father's costume never changed. Always, Lucius would grin at him from within big, black robes that swirled much more than the fitted ones he usually wore. "The witching hour is upon us," he'd say, face crinkled up in a grin that lacked his usual dignity. Then he'd ruffle Draco's hair, mutter a charm to put it right again, and sweep into the fireplace with more drama than even Uncle Severus could command.

It wasn't until years later that Draco could recall the silver that was always in Lucius' hand at that moment before he stepped into the flames. Sometimes Draco was sure his mind had concocted that metallic glint. He certainly had never paid it any mind. But when he searches his memory, he can see the flash when the light strikes it or just an edge protruding from Lucius' sleeve.

It is easier to think that Lucius was just off to a nice ball with other wizards of his station, charming his contacts as he so frequently did. But Draco has learned better. Halloween pleases the Dark Lord as much as it ever pleased Lucius. On that night, his followers had more freedom than any other. Their billowing robes and shining masks were admissions tickets into crowded streets and parties where they could hex dozens of Muggle children undetected. The Dark Lord would send them out in pairs, moving swaths of destruction that would meet at some point to produce the largest Dark Mark of all.

Draco doesn't mind a few minor hexes, but he is terrified of his large and fanatical partners, who whisper spells that will cripple for life or start internal bleeding that will probably go undetected until someone drops dead. He tries to match their ingenuity, but the best he can ever produce is the odd bat-bogey hex. Even this feels like cheating, unsporting. Sometimes, when Draco is very bold, he even thinks it is a pointless exercise, though the Dark Lord appreciates it so. Draco finds it revolting, and his partners always tease him when they notice the tremble in his wand hand or his voice.

Draco finishes the evening wrecked, shuddering, drained. And this, this, is what always put his father in such a cheerful mood.

Draco always throws up on Halloween, and wonders where he failed his ancestors, that he is so much weaker than his father.