Christmas Eve.

The loneliest time of year for the loneliest of people.

I elbowed my way through the London crowds as drunken office Christmas parties spilled out onto the streets.

"Nice hair!" The occasional lout would holler, followed by a spate of tittering laughter from easily pleased morons. "How much do you charge, love?!"

I didn't care. Their words, their voices, their lives, would just float over my head. I felt as detached from these people as a fish feels detached from a memory.

Shivering, I pulled my coat tightly around me as Canary Wharf loomed into view, the tall buildings littered with various colourful lights. Was there not a single part of London which Christmas did not touch?

There had been no question about me accepting the invite. For a year and a half I have had non-stop questions buzzing around my head, plaguing me day and night to the point of insanity.

I needed to know why. Why had Draco been killed, and why I had been spared? Who were these monsters?

Maybe... maybe I could get at least one of my questions answered tonight.

It was easy enough to find One Canada Square: the tallest tower in Canary Wharf. Just looking up to where the fiftieth floor scraped the night sky made me feel dizzy.

The thought of being at such a height caused my heart to race uncomfortably. Screams echoed in my head followed by the deafening splats of bodies. Tug-of-war... glass stepping stones. I was reliving it so vividly that, for a solid minute, I considered turning around and leaving.

Especially seeing as the foyer looked very much closed, sitting in darkness beyond doors which were surely locked.

I turned on my heel, all set to head back home, when a whirring sound behind me made me freeze.

I whirled back around. No one was there. But the doors which had appeared locked, were now wide open, lights flickering on in the deserted foyer, calling me inside.

My heart hammering noisily against my ribcage, I took a tentative step forward, and then hesitated. Would I be crazy to go inside? But if I did not, then crazy was surely what I was destined to be for the rest of my days.

So I entered.

The heels of my boots clicked against the marble floor as I moved swiftly across the foyer towards the lifts. There was not a soul in sight.

To my non-surprise, the doors of the lift opened before I reached them, almost as though they had been expecting me. For the entire journey up to the fiftieth floor I kept expecting to hear the familiar voice of the announcer welcoming me back to another game.

But all I could hear was the gentle whir of the lift as it took me smoothly to my destination.

Reaching the top, I found myself stepping out into a large open floor space.

I looked around, taking in my surroundings. The entire level was empty, with floor to ceiling windows looking across the vast city. There was nothing occupying this floor... no desks, no chairs, no plants: nothing. However, in the far corner of the room, sat what looked like a hospital bed, facing the view out of the window.

Confusion flooded my mind.

What in the actual fuck was going on?

My mind couldn't seem to register what I was seeing until a wheezing cough drew my attention to the patient lying on the bed: a tired, aged man with long, scraggly white hair, an oxygen mask attached to his face.

Blood began to roar in my ears as I marched across the room towards him, lights dotting the edges of my vision. I was no longer afraid - just very, very angry.

"You?" I said in an angry breathy whisper. "Was it you? Were you behind the games? Is that why you invited me here?"

He coughed again, gasping and spluttering as he reached up to drag the mask away from his grey face. Slowly, he turned to look at me, his pale eyes struggling to focus.

"W-water-" he rasped, beckoning across to the empty tumbler on his bedside cabinet. "Please."

I did as I was told, but only because it was clear I wasn't going to get anything out of him otherwise. My hands shaking, water slopped everywhere as I poured it and I slammed the jug down a little harder than I meant to.

It was only then, as I waited for him to take a sip of water, did I notice the portrait on the wall. The sight of it filled me with fury, and I wanted to reach up and snatch it down, away from his eyes.

"Why exactly did you invite me here?" I said again, trying to keep my voice steady, but not being able to disguise the curl of my lip.

"Tell me, Alia," he said, frustratingly ignoring my question. "Have you been enjoying my generous gift?"

"Gift? Gift?!" I spluttered, feeling more emotion in that moment than I had in a long time. "I'd hardly call being in possession of blood money a fucking gift!"

His lips twitched up in amusement, making my blood simply boil in anger. "I've been watching you, Alia," he murmured, pausing to cough yet again. "You have been quite the good little Samaritan of late. Thanks to my gift, of course. You haven't minded using it for that."

I felt a sudden uneasiness tighten in my stomach, and I took a step back from him, feeling repulsed... violated.

"Come on, Alia," he chortled, "surely you can't deny a dying man a little fun in life? And, my, wasn't it a lot of fun?!"

Trying my hardest not to punch a dying man on his deathbed, I took a deep, shaky breath and closed my eyes. "Just tell me," I said quietly, "why did you invite me here? To gloat?"

A beat.

"I'm afraid I cannot answer that question," the man shrugged as he tried to place his glass back down, his hand so shaky that it missed the edge of the cabinet and crashed to the floor.

My eyes flew open. I wanted to pick up one of the shards and slice open his smug face. Instead, however, I reached over and forcefully grabbed the front of his plaid pyjamas.

"Answer me, damn it!" I demanded, violently shaking him with both hands, "Tell me why I'm here!"

"But I- I can't," he whimpered pathetically, his hair falling around his face as he held his arms up in protest, "I did not invite anyone here tonight."

His words filled me with instant confusion as I frowned, searching his face for answers. "Then... who did?"

"I did."

I froze at the voice... the voice that haunted my dreams over and over again, the voice I could never quite forget, not for as long as I lived.

Hardly daring to breathe, I slowly released the gasping, dying man, and turned around, a small startled noise escaping from the back of my throat as I did so.

For, from out of the shadows, stepped a man dressed in a suave, black tailored suit made solely for him; his sleek, white-blond hair so light, it was as though it had an energy of its own.

"Hello, Alia," Draco Malfoy murmured smoothly, fixing his tie as those silver eyes flashed into mine. "I see you've met my father."

******