Chapter Text
Friday December 18, 1998
Seven days before Christmas
It's the most detestable time of the year.
The forced cheer, the tacky, plebeian decorations, the wizard and witches of London lying to themselves shamelessly, pretending this Christmas could be no different than any other Christmas.
Just pretend last year didn’t happen! Or the year before! Or the year before that!
Sure, just pretend that dozens of people didn’t die last year, that hundreds weren’t tortured, weren’t hunted down. Just shove all the cruelty into the back of your mind and get on with your life. Out of sight, out of mind? Yeah, there are people who don’t deserve to just “move on”.
Himself, probably more than anyone. Definitely more than anyone else at Hogwarts. What a sadistic torture it was, having to return to the place his whole life was destroyed before his eyes. Oh! Without counting his childhood home, that is. Desecrated by the intruders who lived there, bloodstains on the floor that never quite seem to disappear completely, a rotten smell that never truly escaped from the walls, the remnant of screams that still echoed down the long hallways. A haunted house if there ever was one.
The only thing worse than spending Christmas at Malfoy Manor, was spending Christmas at Hogwarts.
Draco never stayed at Hogwarts for Christmas. Hell, he used to turn his nose up at the students who did. And now, look at him. His father in Azkaban, his mother in France, “visiting old relatives”. Draco sometimes wondered if he looked so much like his father that his mother couldn't bear to look at him.
He heaved a sigh and adjusted his book bag on his shoulder as he made his way past groups of students and staff. He only had to endure a few more days until mostly everyone left and he would finally be alone. The fake cheer on everyone’s faces along with the smell of mistletoe was already making his head hurt.
He enters the library just as someone’s exiting it, making his bookbag fall to the floor.
“Bollocks!” said a female voice. “I’m sorry, are you alright? I should’ve seen where I was go- oh. ”
He picked up his bag and looked up to see round brown eyes staring at him.
Hermione Granger. It hadn’t really been a surprise she returned to school. Draco had heard she was heavily involved in helping rebuild the castle, but he tried to avoid her and her particular set of friends as much as possible. As big as Hogwarts was, it proved impossible most days.
“Sorry, Malfoy, I didn't see you there. Er- happy Christmas, I suppose.”
He watched as she scurried away, without looking back. Safe to say the avoiding was going both ways.
He didn’t have time to ponder over missed connections. Slughorn had really outdone himself for homework over Christmas break. Draco was secretly grateful for the distraction it would bring to his solemn two weeks of loneliness.
Setting his bag down at his usual table by the window just before the Restricted Section, he decided to make his way over to peruse some books for light reading. He would never admit this to anyone, but he loved this section. Filled with fantasy, adventure, mystery. Since his hellish sixth year, the library had become a sort of safe place. He knew the nonfiction section practically by heart. The smell, the alphabetical order of the books, the way the spine colors clashed into each other.
Which is how his eyes caught on the red spine of a book that had never been there before. He was sure of it. He frowned and made his way over, grabbing the book, already having half a mind to override Pince and go straight to McGonagall: the only valid reason for misshelving a book had to be senile dementia, the old bat.
He glanced at the book cover and did a double take.
Do you dare?
It looked handwritten. Draco frowned. He couldn’t see an author’s name, or a publisher. Against his better judgement, he opened it. On the very first page was a handwritten message:
Do you dare?
I've left some clues for you.
If you want them, turn the page.
If you don't,
put the book back on the shelf.
He looked around him. Was anybody watching him? Was this a prank? His curiosity got the better of him and, taking a deep breath, he turned the page.
So, you've chosen to play.
A revealing choice.
Shall we begin?
“ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ?”
A coded message.
You can decipher it with the right books.
But only if you can find them.
Your first clue
requires some heavy reading.
Look for the book a man with his spells wrote, used in runes of old.
Draco scoffed. He knew this library like the back of his hand, as well as almost every book in it. The book the mystery writer was referencing was obviously Spellman’s Syllabary. If the rest of the dares were this easy, he could solve this in a heartbeat.
He made his way two aisles up to the Runic Section and quickly found the copy he was looking for. He opened the book and there, on the first page, was a note with the same handwriting he saw in the little book of dares.
First word: Page 127, seventh line, second word.
Second word: Page 55, second footnote, thirteenth word.
Draco flipped through the pages of the Syllabary.
“Are,” he found the first one. He flipped back to the second clue. “You.”
He frowned. “Am I what?”
He put the Syllabary back and filled in the blanks.
“ARE YOU _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _?”
Next clue: The second most important ingredient in making Amortentia wrote a book of poems.
The second most important? He was sure the first two ingredients of Amortentia were rose thorns and rose petals, but which one came first? And this supposed ingredient just happened to become sentient and write a book?
He didn’t have time for this. He should just leave the book back, make it some other poor sod’s problem. He considered it for half a second before making his way to the Potions section and grabbing the first Advanced book he could find.
Amortentia, Amortentia. Three rose petals, two rose thorns. Draco smiled. Got ‘em.
He found several books written by one Rose Thorne, but only one poetry book.
“ARE YOU GOING _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ?”
Draco decided he was in too deep to not see this through now.
For the third clue I’ll give you an easy one. Unfortunately, you won’t find this one in the Hogwarts library: A famous playwright known to muggles wrote a sonnet, whether or not, that is the question.
He snorted. Whoever this was apparently had a sense of humor. This was most definitely not an easy one. Scratch that, it was easy, it was just worded in a way meant to confuse the reader. And he knew exactly who the mystery writer was referring to.
A famous playwright known to muggles didn’t necessarily mean a muggle playwright. Wasn’t the question always “to be or not to be”?
“ARE YOU GOING TO BE _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ?”
Clue number four:
Fear to be me? Seek a crowd;
Though it may not help--it may just be loud;
My gift: your secrets ever kept;
My curse: at your death noone wept.
He may have sung his victories a little too soon. Now this one was confusing. Fear to be who? Who could you avoid being by simply finding a crowd? Who could you tell a secret to to be kept forever?
The answer came to him like a bucket of ice water.
Not a who. A what .
“ARE YOU GOING TO BE ALONE _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ?”
He had a sneaking suspicion the answer would be yes, no matter how the question ended.
And finally, if you’ve made it this far, you’re obviously clever… but are you brave?
Well, wasn’t that the question of his life.
There’s an abandoned classroom on the third floor of the castle, two doors left of the Transfiguration classroom. It used to be a Muggle Studies storage, and there’s still so many treasures left unused and collecting dust. In there, you’ll find a sort of box, called a turntable. On top of this box, there will be a black disk, called a record. Find the needle on the side of the turntable and place it on the edge of the record (look at you learning all this vocabulary!). One of the most beautiful songs ever written will start playing. Listen to it. Breathe it in. If you’ve made it this far, I would love to hear your thoughts about it.
Draco noticed his eyebrows were almost touching his hairline and he reminded himself to bring them back down. Okay, that was… a lot of information for that last one. He took a deep breath. He really shouldn’t. He had to keep up with school and he couldn’t really risk any chance of detention, he was already on thin ice with most of the teachers since the war. He closed his eyes briefly and wrinkled his nose in frustration. Damn him. Where was his Slytherin sense of preservation when he needed it?
He rolled his eyes and went back for his abandoned book bag, sprinting out of the library. Running up the moving staircases, he almost tripped over a group of first years who were making their way down.
He reached the Transfiguration classroom and kept walking. Two doors to the left. He had to be honest, he’d probably walked through this corridor at least five hundred times in all his years of Hogwarts, and he never once wondered what could be on the other side.
His heart racing, he put his hand on the doorknob and turned.
It was locked.
He sighed and rolled his eyes.
“Alohomora,” he said, a little sterner than intended.
The door opened.
“Dusty” was not a strong enough word. Dust ful was more like it. There were cobwebs in every corner as far as the eye could see and the floor creaked when he took his first step in.
He wrinkled his nose in disgust. He was supposed to dig around in this sty? He was? He tried to take a deep breath in, only for his nostrils to be covered in that ancient dust. He sneezed and coughed and choked. That was his breaking point. He didn’t even truly understand why he was doing all this in the first place. He didn’t even know who the mystery writer was, they could’ve been in Hogwarts 50 years ago for all he knew. Hell, the writer could probably be dead already.
He told himself the weight he felt in his lungs was from the stupid mouthful of dust he just swallowed and not from disappointment.
He turned to walk back out but a flash of red caught his eye. Sticking out like a sore thumb was the only artifact not covered in dust at all. It was a box, with a disk on top.
His heart did a double beat. He could actually finish this.
He walked over, trying to make sense of the foreign artifact. It was, indeed, a box. And it had, indeed, a disk on top. What was it the mystery writer had said? Something about a needle? He whispered a quick Lumos and found it.
He picked it up, and gingerly placed it on top of the black circle. It immediately started spinning, and a soft piano started playing.
It’s coming on Christmas,
they’re cutting down trees,
they’re putting up reindeer
and singing songs of joy and peace.
Oh, I wish I had a river to skate away on.
Draco listened, and when it was over he played it again. The song was about Christmas, sure, but it was also of sadness, nostalgia, loneliness. Everything he was feeling, put into a few words, a few piano notes, sung by a hauntingly bittersweet voice. He was not above listening to the song for a third time, but just as he was about to, he noticed a note stuck on the other side of the box.
Hello, again. You’ve found the last note. Congratulations are due.
I would hope you would have enough clues after hearing the song to complete the puzzle.
So… are you? Tell me how this time of year makes you feel.
Leave the notebook at this same classroom. If I like your answer, you just might hear from me. Good luck!
See you soon. Or not.
Well, he’d already come this far, hadn’t he? Besides, he needed to personally thank whichever genius had discovered this room, and this turntable, and this song. He took out the little book.
“Are you going to be alone… what? Alone… on Christmas?”
Could it be that easy? And how did the mystery author know that yes , actually, he would be.
“ARE YOU GOING TO BE ALONE ON CHRISTMAS?”
The words fit perfectly.
The puzzle was done.
He should be proud of himself. He should feel satisfied. But instead, he wanted… more.
The writer had offered to write him back. As long as he wrote a good enough letter, he could probably get a reply from them.
Draco felt as if he was standing at the edge of a gold mine. When else would he have the chance for someone to get to know him just as who he is? With no preconceptions, no biases, no judgements? He needed this opportunity like a glass of water after a Quidditch game.
The dusty room didn’t even cross his mind as he sat down on the floor and took out a quill and flipped the notebook over to an empty page. He started writing.
You asked me how this time of year makes me feel.
I suspect you're a kindred spirit,
so I know you'll understand when I say,
It's the most detestable time of the year.