Letters

Draco brought the full wineglass to his lips and slowly, but steadily drank the contents of the glass. His lips stretched in an obscene imitation of a smile, as he poured another glass. He held the wineglass aloft, regarding the blood-red liquid inside. The firelight made it glow like a living thing. He deliberately brought the glass down to his mouth and drained it as he had done the previous... How many had he had tonight? Four at dinner. And in the study... The glass he was pouring made it five. Nine all together. Draco was slightly surprised to see his hand was still unwavering as he picked up the glass. This one he sipped, allowing each drop to slide down the back of his throat. He wasn't worried about running out of alcohol. There was another bottle on the desk, its cork already removed.

Draco sighed and looked outside at the gently falling snow. They had stayed in Wiltshire for the Christmas holiday. Scorpius moped around the house like... Like a what? Draco wondered fuzzily. Like a wilted plant. Draco looked into the bowl of the glass, and swirled the wine. Maybe we should have gone to Nice. But Draco wasn't interested in trying to deal with all the Ministry hoops he would have to jump, just to go spend a holiday with his mother. They would have had to wait for Scorpius to come home from school, because Daphne would have insisted on his joining them. Draco snorted. His father would have left on holiday and made Draco stay at school. But I'm not my father. Draco wasn't sure whether to be proud of that or ashamed.

He swallowed the rest of the wine and sloshed the rest of the bottle on the table next to his chair into his glass. He knew his drinking had gotten worse since his last probationary interview with Potter. He couldn't make himself care.

He thought it was probably too late to try and repair the remnants of his relationship with his mother. And Draco suspected it was the same with his wife. Not that he'd loved her especially, but he'd never given himself a chance to at least try and like her. He had never even tried with his son. He was too afraid to try.

And now he was irrelevant.

Narcissa and Daphne had gone to fetch Scorpius from the train. They had gone to get a tree for the sitting room, which Scorpius insisted on bedecking with handmade ornaments. Draco had shut himself in the study that evening, leaving the door cracked. He could hear the laughter and music from the wireless and smell hot cider and popcorn. Later that night, Draco had gone into the sitting room to look at it. It was homely, festooned with fairy lights and chains made of brightly colored paper. Someone had taken silvery paper, and made snowflake cutouts. Draco had sniffed derisively and gone up to his bedroom. When he was Scorpius' age...

When he was Scorpius' age, he would have given anything to have an evening like that with his parents. He was just too stubborn to admit it.

Draco heaved himself to his feet, swaying as a wave of dizziness swept over him. The room tilted dangerously as he tried to walk to the desk. I must be drunker than I thought. He dropped into the chair behind the desk, unwilling to make the trip back to his armchair. Damn. I left the glass over there, too. Shrugging, Draco decided to just drink from the bottle. It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last.

The firelight flared, highlighting the Mark on his forearm. When did I roll up my sleeves? He thought, perplexed. Draco picked up the bottle and took a long pull from it, wincing at the harsh bite. He turned the bottle and squinted at the label. It was one of the cheaper bottles of swill his father favored in the days before he died. It nearly made Draco laugh out loud. It didn't matter. As long as it took him to where he was going. Seeing the Mark made him think of his aunt Bellatrix. 'Ah, Auntie Bella,' he sneered. She had been the one to hold his arm out as Voldemort burned it into his skin with his wand. She seemed to take some sick sense of pleasure in his obvious pain. She had spent hours, harping about duty and honor, afterward. Draco hadn't bothered to listen. It would have been too much effort.

Thinking about Bellatrix seemed to trigger something in Draco's memory. Ah yes! He yanked open a drawer of his desk, and pulled out a sheet of parchment and a quill. He plunged the quill into a bottle of ink, heedless of the droplets of ink splashed on the desk, and began to write in an untidy, nearly illegible scrawl.

23 December 2018

Dear Mrs. Weasley,

I realize this is a little late, but really, thanks ever so much for ridding the world of my aunt Bellatrix. Seriously, the woman was a menace to society. She was a barmy old slag anyway. Used to try to give Voldemort a peek at her knickers when she thought everyone was looking. Gave me nightmares. Honestly, I could have lived the rest of my life without knowing that Auntie Bella wore knickers with the Mark printed on them. Offing Bella was the best thing that could have happened to the wizarding world. Well, after Potter gave Voldemort the old heave-ho.

Sincerely,

Draco Malfoy

Draco clumsily folded the letter, and lurched to his feet. He stumbled down to the kitchen, where the owl perches were, hoping his barn owl was not out hunting. His owl was not there, but Daphne's tawny owl was. Draco went to the owl, moving deliberately, his movements a study in exaggerated care, as if he were trying to prove to the owl he wasn't drunk. 'Ish fer Molly Weashley,' he slurred. The owl reluctantly allowed Draco to tie the letter to her leg, and launched herself into the night sky as soon as she could. Draco grunted and reeled back down to the study.

This deserved a toast.

Draco picked up the dusty green bottle on his desk and held it up. 'Happy Effing Christmas!' He tilted the bottle back, taking several large swallows, lowering the bottle with an explosive gasp.

*****

Molly Weasley went into the kitchen and stopped short at the unfamiliar owl sitting expectantly on the back of a chair. It held out a leg, and Molly cautiously took the letter it offered her. The owl flew out the kitchen window with nary a backward glance, leaving Molly to examine the address on the front. It was hardly legible, but it was addressed to her.

She opened the wax seal and scanned the letter inside. She burst into peals of laughter. 'Oh, that George...' She set it aside so she could show it to George when he brought Sophie over before he went to the shop. 'A fake thank-you note, I tell you...'

*****

'George, that note you sent last night was too much,' Molly told her son, handing him the badly ink-splotched parchment.

'What note?' George took Sophie's coat off and hung it up in the scullery.

'You sent Grandmum a note?' Sophie's grey eyes turned up to George. 'Why would you do something so daft, Dad?'

'Just because you don't write,' George told his eleven-year old daughter, sending her off to the sitting room with a light swat on the rear. He looked down at the parchment. 'I didn't send this.'

'Oh, go on with you!' Molly leaned against the counter. 'You can't tell me Draco Malfoy really sent this and called a family member a... What was that again?' Molly took the letter from George. 'Ah, a "barmy old slag". Do you really think Draco Malfoy sent this?'

George took the letter from his mother. 'Mum, I can assure you, I didn't send this. And by the looks of it, if Malfoy did send it, he was rat arsed. Shitfaced, even.' George folded the parchment and gave it back to Molly. 'He'd have to be for the likes of Malfoy to deign to even acknowledge any of us,' he said dryly.

'You mean this is real?' Molly brandished the envelope.

'It looks that way.' George shrugged.

Molly carefully put the letter down on the table, looking at it thoughtfully. 'Interesting.'