Try to have a good day today, wherever you are, whatever you do, whoever is near, if no one is near. Try to be happy, because you may not see tomorrow. There is someone this morning, who didn't wake up, who will never see this day. Try to feel lucky that this is not you. ~ Margaret Cho

Harry, Hermione, and Ron all sat together in the cozy, warm living room of the Burrow, sipping at piping hot mugs of cocoa and listening to the battered old radio play some kind of symphonic piece. Over in the next room, the kitchen, Mrs. Weasley could be heard whistling along with the song on the radio as she did the dishes from dinner; as always, she bustled around the room, wand held aloft, and flicked her wrist in him with the music. Mr. Weasley, Ginny, Fred, and George were busy out in the yard having a magical snowball fight. It was the middle of the Christmas holiday, and the snow covering the ground was perfect for making things out of. Earlier in the afternoon, Ginny had sculpted a giant snow rabbit, and, always thinking ahead, she had charmed it to rebuild itself every time Fred and George would attempt to knock it down.

For Harry, though, there was nothing quite like sitting in front of a fireplace with your two best mates and, for once, not worrying about battling the forces of darkness, finding Horcruxes, or any kind of rubbish like that. Even though Ginny had pestered him into helping her build the snow rabbit, and Fred and George had pummeled him with snowballs before dinner, the day had gone fairly well. Peace was always a pleasant change in their lives. He had even heard that Bill and Charlie would be coming around in a day or two to visit for Christmas. Being with the Weasleys made him feel wonderfully cheerful, and having a break from schoolwork didn't hurt, either. Yes, sir, he wished days like these would come about more often.

"So, Harry," Ron began casually, "Having a good holiday?"

"Oh, the best, thanks," Harry replied in earnest, though he didn't shift from his lounging position by the fire, "Days like these are wonderful."

"I bet I can wager which part was your favorite," came the slightly cool reply.

Harry's eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline. "Sorry. What?"

"Yeah," Ron continued accusingly, "Bet you quite liked it when Ginny asked you to help her build that rabbit, huh?"

"I guess it was pretty fun, Ron, but I don't think I'm quite understanding your point here," Harry informed him, craning his neck to get a better look at Ron's expression. The redhead looked positively indignant.

"Ron, honestly, what are you going on about?" Hermione asked, a hint of exasperation in her tone, "Why are you trying to pick a fight with Harry now with Christmas right around the corner?"

"Because, Hermione," Ron replied stiffly, "He's moving in on my sister!"

"Am not," Harry retorted calmly, but he could already feel his previous state of serenity slipping away.

"Oh, so you mean to tell me that you didn't want to boost her up on your shoulders to finish the ears or, or, or have her smiling at you like that the whole time?" Ron asked nastily. His voice rose an octave as he began to imitate his sister. "Ooh, Harry! You're so strong! Do you work out? Just a little higher! My, it's cold, but I bet you don't mind, do you, Harry?"

Harry frowned, his patience for his best friend wearing thin. "Funny, but I don't remember her saying anything like that. She's my friend, Ron. Don't be a git."

"Bet you're after a little more than friendship, huh?" Ron continued as if he hadn't even heard him.

"What is wrong with you?" Hermione asked sharply, looking for all the world as if she were going to smack Ron.

Harry returned her sentiment. "Really, Ron, what is wrong with you?"

Without waiting for his friend's reply, Harry got up and strode out of the room. He passed Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen, who didn't attempt to stop him, but nevertheless forced him to put a sweater on as he made his way to the front door. "Pay Ron no mind, dear," she told him in a hushed voice, "I'll never know where that boy gets his manners."

With a mumbled "thanks", Harry pushed open the door and crunched through the thin layer of snow on the front path. The four Weasleys had moved their fight to the back yard, so Harry wasn't intercepted as he pushed his way through at least of foot of untouched snow in his effort to get as far away from the house, and Ron, as possible.

Why did Ron have to go and ruin a perfectly good evening? He had no tact, the git. Times like this made him wonder what Ron had done with his common sense. Anyone could see that he and Ginny were just friends. Sure, he had been her crush for a few years, but they had moved past that and became good friends very quickly. She was a trustworthy, spirited girl who loved a good banter and had a wit as sharp as a tack, but that didn't mean he wanted to shag her. The whole Weasley clan had unofficially adopted him as their own, and he thought of them as if they were his real family. Bearing this in mind, he couldn't very well have romantic feelings for someone he felt brotherly affection towards. Yet, Ron was obviously determined to fight him over this. Funny in the head, that Ron.

He sighed as he watched the moon begin to form in the sky. Huh. It was full tonight. He frowned. He wished he could enjoy the sight, but his thoughts were churning around in his head, and he wasn't ready to let go of his anger just yet. Ron was such a git sometimes. Why'd he have to go and ruin a perfectly good night?

Draco knew what was coming before it had even happened. He remained perfectly still and relaxed on his four-poster bed and listened to the thumping of heavy boots on wooden stairs. He allowed his eyelids to drift shut, and he willed himself to be calm.

The door slammed open, the knob leaving a crack in the plaster of his bedroom wall, and a Death Eater, gaunt in appearance and wearing a toothy grin on his face, stepped into the room. "The Master requests your audience, Malfoy brat."

He didn't even wait for a reply; with another loud bang, the door slammed shut again, leaving Draco alone with his thoughts. He had really done it now.

For the past few months, the Malfoy Manor had been turned into a safe haven for Death Eaters. He knew this because his father had sent him a letter about it a few weeks prior to the start of the Christmas holiday so as not to give his son a heart attack upon his arrival. Draco snorted. And to think he used to consider himself one of them. Him, Draco Malfoy, a bona fide Death Eater in training. Living in a Death Eater hive, he had counted on Dark Arts training, open slandering of muggles and mudbloods at the dinner table, and chumming it up with the Dark Lord. What he hadn't counted on was the vicious fights in the stairwells that usually ended up in gory casualties, the constant use of his private living quarters by all manner of human vermin, and the torturing in his basement. Ah, yes, the torturing. Screams could be heard coming from the bowels of the manor almost constantly due to the large number of people, witches and muggles alike, having their guts used to paint the walls and floors. It was enough to keep a bloke up at night.

Draco, in his defense, had only been mildly curious about the goings-on of the Death Eaters in the cellars. What he hadn't counted on was walking in on a rather, to put it politely, private scene between the Dark Lord and his own father, Lucius Malfoy. As if the mental scarring of witnessing his own father performing sexual favors on the most terrifying wizard in the world while said terrifying wizard tortured someone to death hadn't been enough punishment, he had immediately been put under the Imperius curse and hit with a Cruciatus for good measure. Voldemort had made him walk all the way back up to his bedroom, and he was released under orders that he was not to leave until someone came to fetch him.

That had been two full days ago. And now, on the evening of the third day, he found himself oddly blasé about the whole thing. Not being allowed to eat for an extended period of time could do that to a person. All Draco could think about was how hungry he was and also how spoiled he was. Being used to having several meals a day didn't exactly make fasting a walk in the park. Oh, well. At least the blind terror had kept the hunger at bay for a while.

Heaving a sigh, Draco picked himself up off of his bed, and with a last glance in a mirror to ruffle his hair, he began his descent to the living room: the makeshift throne room of the glorious Lord Voldemort.

It took him no time at all to make the journey, and he fisted his clammy palms at his sides as he waited for Voldemort to call him to his side. The man himself sat lounging on a settee beside the grand Malfoy fireplace with Lucius at his head and Narcissa at his foot. To their credit, both of his parents looked decidedly uncomfortable, his mother bordering on hysteria and his father shifting from foot to foot as if he wanted to intervene.

"Draco, Draco, Draco," Voldemort said in a deep voice with a devious chuckle, "Do come in, my boy."

Draco stepped forward with a gulp that he hoped wasn't audible, all traces of glibness gone from his mind. Dear God, he was going to die right here in his living room with his dear, fragile mother watching. He thought that maybe pleading for his life might be in order, but a smarter part of him warned him not to open his smug little mouth, for he was bound to say something utterly stupid.

"Now, Draco," Voldemort began, pushing himself up off of the settee and pacing carefully towards him until they were mere inches apart, "I believe we both know what has to happen tonight, and since you are the child of a man I used to call my favorite, I think I shall give you a sporting chance. What do you say, my boy?"

Draco realized instantly what he meant. They were to duel. His mind went completely blank as he shakily reached his hand into his pocket.

"No!" Narcissa shrieked, her hands gripping the arm of the settee tightly, "Please, my Lord, spare my child!"

Voldemort clicked his tongue impatiently. "Now, Narcissa, we've been over this countless times, my dear."

In response, Draco drew his wand, holding it up in front of him stiffly.

"There's a good lad!" Voldemort encouraged, and damn it all if the man didn't look positively pleased, "Shall we? Lucius, if you would be so kind as to count for us?"

The pair began walking away from each other as Lucius began to count quietly. His volume increased to match his wife's tearful sobs.

It didn't matter anyway. Draco was dead on seven.

A/N:

Welcome, dear readers, to my debut into the world of Harry Potter fanfiction! And, really, what a piece to start off with. This was exceptionally hard to do because I love Draco to the point of obsession.

Do leave a review for me, won't you?