𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟 (Draco Malfoy x OC)

𝓞𝓷𝓮

Olive

I lean my head, letting my face rest against the glass window. Frost and ice from the other side of the window nips at my cheek, making it feel numb and cold, but I ignore it. 

I stare out of the window, looking up at the midnight sky. A million stars gleam down at me, each one as beautiful as the next. They all look like little diamonds hanging in the sky, just out of my reach. The moon hangs full in the sky tonight, the moonlight washing over me, making my skin appear to have a silvery tinge. In this one glorious moment I feel completely relaxed, as if nothing but the stars matter. 

When the end of a star's lifetime comes, it ends in a magnificent expulsion, one last burst of light, and it's gone forever. When my time comes, I want to go out like that. No, I don't mean I want to literally burst into a ball of flames and die. I want to be remembered as something, something as spectacular as the stars. 

I trace my fingers against the pane of glass, tracing patterns onto the frosted window, in attempts to distract myself from everything. But the faint, hushed whispers I hear coming from downstairs bring me back to reality. Sighing, I turn my back away from the window, letting my temporary illusion of calmness shatter.  

My faint smile crumples to a frown as I remember where I am, who I am. I glance around my dimly lit room. My room has tall, arching ceilings with intricately painted floral designs. In the center of my room I have a huge, four poster bed, complete with a canopy fitted along the perimeter. Expensive, hand-carved furniture is placed around my room, and my closet is enormous, with hundreds of pieces of clothing imaginable. I know some people would kill for a room like this, but I'd like nothing more than to rip everything to shreds - from the silk canopy, to the wool rugs. My room only reminds me of who I am, and what I'm going to do. It reminds me of the coward I am. 

I listen carefully to the voices coming from downstairs. I hear the quiet voices of mother and father talking to the people they like to call their 'friends', but I know very well that 'friends' is the last word anyone would use to describe them. Downstairs I hear the soft clinks of cutlery and tea cups, and the occasional bit of laughter. I don't need to listen in to know what their talking about. I've known about it for weeks, and thinking about it makes my stomach churn. Soon their plan will start into motion, and there'll be nothing I can do about it.

I hear footsteps coming upstairs, approaching my room. I suppose I knew eventually I'd have to face the reality of everything that is about to happen. I hear a quiet knock on my door, and I stand up, smoothing down my perfectly ironed red satin dress, forcing myself to keep my expression neutral. I walk over to the door, opening it. I stare out at the face of my mother - a mirror image of myself. We both have light brown hair, reaching down to just above the waist, creamy brown eyes, and freckles lightly dusted on the bridges of our noses. 

Mother purses her lips together, "It's time." 

Her face is unreadable, just as I trained my own to be. Mother and father taught me that emotions are your weaknesses, especially in times like these. I give my mother a curt nod, keeping my face completely still and unreadable. I follow my mother as she starts to walk in front of me. I watch as her dress sweeps gracefully behind her, hands carefully folded in front of her. We walk down the grand staircase, which has a beautifully carved wood banister. I follow mother to the living room where I know our 'guests' will be. 

As I enter the living room, instantly I feel as if the room temperature has dropped ten degrees. The living room is decorated with delicate, hand-carved wooden furniture. There are six chairs with in front of me, each one seating a person.

Inwardly I gulp, as I skim over the people sitting in the seats. I've done this many times before, but I can't help but feel a bead of sweat roll down the back of my neck; though I suppose you'd have to be insane not to react this way. My eyes flutter to the chair at the far end. My father sits, his piercing eyes staring through me. His hands are clasped tightly in his lap, his face as still as stone. He doesn't display a shred of emotion on his stern face, but I suppose I'm used to that. 

My mother, Carmelita Beauford, sits directly beside my father, Theodore Beauford, her face as serious as my father's, looking forward at me intently. I can't help but to feel a pang of loneliness as I stare at my parents faces. They've never been the type to show any sort of affection to me, their only child. From a young age they've spoken to me as if I was perhaps their business associate, but never as if I was a child, or their daughter. I've wondered how two people can be so cold-hearted to their own child, and how I've managed to tolerate it for this long. 

My eyes drift to the other end of chairs. There sits three people, all with terrifyingly platinum blonde hair - almost white. The Malfoys. I've met them on many occasions previously, and none of those times I've enjoyed it in the slightest. The Malfoys consist of Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco Malfoy. 

Lucius Malfoy reminds me a lot of my own parents - cold, stern, and unloving of their child; or maybe at least that what it appears like on the surface. Narcissa Malfoy, on the other hand, is different than her husband. I can tell she cares for her son; I can tell by the way she sneaks glances at him, and looks at him like she couldn't bear to live without him. I've always wished that my parents would look at me like that, more than anything, but at this point it's a lost cause. 

My eyes drift to Draco. Draco is different from the other six wizards sitting in front of me - and I don't mean that in a good way. Unlike the others, he hasn't mastered wiping his face clean of his emotions. He is like an open book, which makes him very vulnerable. His nervousness and fear is very obvious by looking at him. He clutches the chair tightly, turning his knuckles white. His face is ghostly pale, and I notice a few drops of sweat on his forehead. In his eyes I see a flicker of fear. 

It's strange to see Draco so nervous, as when I usually see him, he's always confident and fierce. 

My family, the Beaufords, and the Malfoys are rather close. In fact, all the pure-blood families are - even more so now that the Dark Lord has returned.

At least every other month, one of the Deatheater families host an unnecessarily extravagant and posh dinner-party for all of the other pure-blood and Deatheater families. At this point, pure-blood and Deatheater go hand-in-hand, and it's quite difficult to find a pure-blood family that doesn't at least support the Dark Lord. There are exceptions, of course, such as the Weasley family. 

Thanks to Mother and Father I've attended each and every one. Honestly the parties can be quite tiresome and dragged-out, and lately the only topics talked about at them are money, how mudbloods are ruining the pure-blood line, and of course Lord Voldemort. 

When I was younger the parties used to be at somewhat tolerable, but now they've turned rather sinister and morbid. Or perhaps they've always been that way, and I've only just noticed.

These parties are probably the only time I spend with Draco Malfoy, or any of the other pure-blood children, but even then it's very brief, and I tend to keep quiet and stay out of the way. 

"You may sit," The voice sitting in the middle seat says, causing my attention to shift forwards, and I feel my heart race as I glance towards the middle seat.

"It is time to discuss our plans." The wizard in the middle says as I sit down. 

I force my lips to form a small smile, "Yes my lord." I say, making sure my voice doesn't tremble as I stare into the lifeless eyes of Lord Voldemort. 

***