AN: Written for:

The Mix it up Competition – Draco and Narcissa;
The Eurovision Competition - Norway: write about someone who is angry (at least 500 words);
The Hunger Games Trilogy Competition – Alma Coin: write about someone making bad decisions(at least 600 words);
The Harry Potter Chapter Competition - Through The Trap Door: Write about a character feeling strongly about something(at least 500 words).

Word count:2,311

This chapter is the 1st place winner of the "Mix It Up Competition" on the HPFC.

I

On the platform, he had not noticed, too absorbed in the rage and humiliation of having been hexed into a grotesque, inhuman form and thrown aside, like some unwanted would-be freak show attraction. Now, he mentally berated himself for failing to see that even his mother's well-applied cosmetics and her indignation at Potter and his colleagues were not enough to hide the aura of tiredness that hung about her.

There were no signs a stranger would see – those every Slytherin could expertly conceal, but the empty chair at the head of their dining table had affected the way she arranged her hair, settling for a simpler style, and the way she held her silverware, as if it had got heavier over the terrible last week. Her relationship with food also seemed to have been altered, as the plate before her was nearly empty.

Draco directed several questioning glances at Narcissa, hoping she would justify her apathy towards dinner with something mundane, like having just been to tea with someone, but she remained silent. Taking the lack of response as confirmation of the unpleasant obvious, he proceeded to stab his filet mignon and cut it with unnecessary violence. How dare they reduce his mother to that subdued wreck?

At last, when Draco had finished eating and Narcissa had finished examining the engravings on her fork, the table was cleared. There was no dessert.

"Are you alright, Mother?" he finally asked.

"Yes, dear, don't you worry about me; go get some rest."

But Narcissa sounded drained, disheartened, tense – anything except "alright". Obviously Draco had expected her to be upset, but he had also been certain she would reassure him that the Dark Lord would come to his father's aid, and that they would get their revenge. Finding his mother in such a… fragile state came as an infuriating surprise.

He sighed, and aware that nothing he could do would be of help, thought it best to simply retire to his bedroom. He wished his mother good night and walked away once she had replied.

Each step he took up the grand staircase brought with it a new surge of irritation. Bloody Potter! What did he think he was playing at, trying to get both Draco's parents killed? Was Potter jealous that Draco actually had parents? Or perhaps he did not care how many families he tore apart, as long as he could show once more what a hero he was – hmph, hero! Pretentious bastard, more like.

He would not even have made it out of the Ministry alive, if Dumbledore had not stepped in to save the day; ought to keep his deformed nose out of other people's business, that one – but, ah, of course he would fight for his precious protégé, Potter the perfect pupil! It was no wonder they got along so well: both were power-hungry celebrities who liked to play humble and kind.

By the time Draco had reached his desired floor, he was having much difficulty preventing himself from blowing up the entire house by accidental magic, and needed to repeatedly warn his hands and feet not to destroy everything within their reach.

He changed into his nightclothes. The delicate task of undoing the buttons on his shirt proved itself quite difficult at first, but soon he was able to focus on it, and when he had finished buttoning his silk pyjama top, he noticed his jaw was no longer clenched.

The effect was short-lived, however. Now that the distraction was over, his mind's eye produced the horrifying image of Lucius Malfoy, the wealthy pure-blood, the fine wizard – Lucius Malfoy, Draco's father! – shoved into a disgusting prison uniform and confined to a barren cell, while Potter rested peacefully in his filthy Muggle house, undoubtedly very pleased with himself.

Draco desperately needed to wipe that imaginary grin from his rival's face, but making justice by his own wand was impossible, at least for the time being. Thus, he resorted to walking feverish and pointless circles, in an attempt to work off his energies, and inadvertently snarled bits of his inner monologue.

It was always Potter – Potter, his blood-traitor sidekicks and the Mudblood Granger; always the same vermin who were forever eager to cause Draco as much damage as possible. They were all very reckless indeed to disrespect the Malfoys, but for years they had been so lucky! Potter and his friends had no ability, no talent, no intelligence, but they acted like their every drink was spiked with Felix Felicis. That was the problem: luck was unpredictable and unfair.

With quivering hands, Draco grabbed the snake-handled vase that sat on his dresser and threw it ferociously against the wall. Smashing the vase brought no relief, and as if that would serve as a strange punishment to the broken object, Draco snatched his wand and pointed it at the scattered pieces of china.

"Reparo!" he bellowed, so that the shards zoomed towards one another with such force they were broken into smaller fragments.

"Reparo," echoed a gentle voice from behind him, and in an instant the vase had been fixed and flown back to its place.

He spun around to see his mother standing under the archway that separated the sitting area from the rest of his bedroom. They both put away their wands and Narcissa sat on his bed.

"Why is it that he always manages to ruin my life, Mother?" he yelled. "What have I even done to him?"

"You've done nothing, darling," said Narcissa, who knew exactly who 'he' was.

She did not seem in the least surprised or offended by the shouting – Draco had been much too composed at dinner – and patiently listened to the endless ranting and raving of her son about Harry Potter, Dumbledore, the Aurors, the Minister, the Wizengamot, and anyone else who had had any responsibility for Lucius's arrest.

That inevitably reminded Narcissa of the time when her husband lost his post as a Hogwarts governor. Draco had been infinitely more displeased than Lucius, who was the one to tell him that his, Lucius's, influence over the school would stay unaffected, and that those eleven imbeciles would not be missed. But alas, Lucius was not there this time. And what was Narcissa to say to her son, that his father's reputation would stay unaffected, and that his freedom would not be missed?

"I almost wish he wasn't an orphan," growled Draco, "so I could get his father thrown to the Dementors."

"Well, he had a godfather who spent plenty of time with Dementors, and Bella has taken care of him, hasn't she?" said his mother with a small smirk.

Remembering Sirius Black's death made Draco chuckle, but when he spoke there was no amusement in his voice. "I doubt he's much shaken, though. Potter only cares about other people when he gets to play the saviour. He must be the one to suffer, to hurt... And I'll get him, I swear, even if it's the last thing I do!"

At once Narcissa regained most of her usual vigour. It had been preposterous to think she could keep acting like a vulnerable grieving wife.

"Draco, that's enough," she said, her voice firm yet kind. "You have every right to be angry, but we must be cautious. The Dark Lord is displeased with our family, and we certainly do not need Aurors trying to capture you as well."

"Sorry, Mother," he replied in a much calmer tone. Only then he realised he had a slight headache.

"Quite alright. Just don't do anything rash."

He nodded half-heartedly.

"Come here," she said, patting the spot next to her on the mattress.

Draco took a deep breath and sat beside his mother. Narcissa placed an arm around him and allowed him to mutter a few more words of discontentment, before deciding to put an end to the episode.

"We'll be fine," she soothed. "Your father will soon come back to us. But for now just sleep, yes?"

He nodded again and bade her good night once more; her reply was accompanied by a kiss to his forehead. Then, she got up, put out his candles and left the room.

Exhausted from the eventful train ride and his subsequent breakdown, Draco did not take very long to fall asleep. However, troubled by the motive behind the eventful train ride and his subsequent breakdown, a couple of hours later he found himself awake.

In the dead of night, any doom seemed more impending. That was it, Draco had to act. It was no child's play anymore; the Dark Lord's return had announced the start of a war, and Potter had made it clear he had picked his side. It was now Draco's turn to either make a move or watch his family's honour go down the drain. Obviously he would choose the former – after all, he had promised to make Potter pay for what he had done.

Draco knew those thoughts would keep him awake for the rest of the night, so with the certainty that resuming his pacing of the bedroom would not suffice, he pulled on his dressing gown and set off the wander the shadowy corridors of Malfoy Manor.

oOo

Draco had just entered the drawing room when there was a burst of green flames and a figure appeared in the fireplace. Startled, he instinctively took a few steps back, hand darting towards the wand in his pocket. The intruder strode into the room; Draco recognised the mane of untamed curly hair silhouetted in the moonlight as belonging to one of the few people he would never dare attack.

"Who's there?" she barked. "Lumos!"

Her gaunt face and wild eyes, which had been disturbing enough last Easter, looked even more unsettling by the dim wandlight. Draco had the urge to scurry away from his aunt, but she had already seen him.

"Ah, it's just you," said Bellatrix, relaxing. "Most convenient; we have matters to discuss."

She extinguished her wand and swished it to set a few candles alight instead. Then she perched herself on a sofa, next to the side table on which stood the ornate candelabra. This new illumination did nothing to help her sinister appearance, intensifying Draco's desire to leave.

"Do we?" he said. "We can discuss those matters in the morning, whatever they a -"

"Sit," ordered Bellatrix, in a tone that convinced Draco it would be unwise to disobey.

He made to sit on the armchair farthest from the Dark witch, but she immediately hissed, "Closer, Draco, or we'll be overheard!", so he moved to the opposite end of her sofa, wondering who might overhear them in the Manor, in the middle of the night.

"The Dark Lord wishes to speak with you," she whispered bluntly, her eyes darting in all directions to ensure they were alone. "You are to come with me to a meeting next week."

Draco was certain he was still asleep. It seemed hardly possible that he had heard correctly: what in Merlin's name could the Dark Lord want with him, a sixteen-year-old? It was bound to have something to do with the catastrophe at the Ministry, but that meant...

"Why does he wish to see me?" he asked, instead of dwelling in grim suppositions.

The question seemed to bother Bellatrix, for she gripped the arm of the sofa so tightly her black claw-like nails left marks on the wood, but showed no other signs of annoyance.

"He has plans for you, Draco... Great plans," she sibilated.

They were being given a chance, then. And Draco would not waste it: he knew that if the Dark Lord was granting his family such an opportunity, then he still had an ounce of faith in them. It was as if the Universe approved of his resolution to avenge the downfall of his father and was providing him with the means to do what he had been planning.

His mother had told him not to make rash decisions, but evidently she would not want him to go against the Dark Lord's will. Besides, if he fought alongside the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters, there was not much threat any Auror could pose.

Draco's brief reflections were interrupted by Bellatrix, who had slid across the sofa and decided her fingernails would be happier to dig into his right arm. Unfortunately, the boy's flesh was not as resistant as the ebony wood, but he did not flinch. "And I trust you will not disappoint him, Draco," she said, "unless you would like to make failing the Dark Lord a tradition in your family."

"Of course I will not disappoint him," he guaranteed, and considered adding that he did not need her threats or her scorn to comprehend how privileged he was, but his aunt's satisfied leer, which displayed many rotting teeth and not a trace of sanity, stopped him.

"Very good," said Bellatrix, who had finally let go of his arm. "And you must not tell anyone about this."

Draco drew a breath as if to say something, but Bellatrix was quicker: "Not even Narcissa. The time will come for her to know."

Again he meant to speak, but- "I'll find a way to get you out of the house without her noticing," she said irritably. "Leave those trivialities to me, Draco; think only of the glory of serving the Dark Lord."

And so he did. In the following moments, with a sneer half-hidden in the shadows, he thought of how he was going to join the Dark Lord at two years younger than "his most faithful servant"; it then seemed ridiculous to have been scared of her. In the following days, with his chin held even higher than usual, he thought of how he was going to prove that the Malfoys were as worthy and valuable as ever.

AN: That was the longest thing I've ever written. How about leaving the longest review you've ever written? ;)