Purity

I wake up in the morning light. The only thing I regret about having a bedroom on the east side of the manor is that it doesn't allow for sleeping in.

I sit up and stretch a bit. I must have slept in an odd position at some point; I can hear the bones in my back make a cracking sound. I wonder what happened last night. Is Mother home yet? That is yet to be seen.

I worry about my parents a lot nowadays, although I try to act as distant from them as I usually do. They have been fighting almost every night, and when it gets bad enough Mother throws some heavy object at Father, screams "Goddamn you, Lucius" and then she'll leave, slamming the door so hard you can feel the vibrations clear up to the third floor. She is gone for a long time, sometimes for several days. I stay out of Father's way as best I can when she's gone. He is never straight-out cruel to me, but he isn't exactly pleasant to be around.

I think about this as I dress, then I can't help but feel somewhat guilty as I realise that I worry about my parents for reasons that do not have to do with them. I am afraid of Mother leaving us for good, sure; but that's because I am afraid of Father acting the way he does when she is gone, all the time. I hate seeing Mother upset, but somehow watching Father is worse. He becomes so cold to me; I am no longer "Draco", rather I have undergone a transformation into someone called "You". It's somewhat better when Mother is around. He seems more in control.

There are times when I listen to Mother storming out, and I wish that I could somehow convince my father that it might be better that way. But that is for selfish reasons also. Father would never understand the way I think. He already knows that I am gay; I told him that at the end of last year. Coming out at the age of 15, to Father nonetheless, was the hardest thing I have ever done. But this, this would make him think I am abnormal.

I don't need to be told - I know it already.

I used to catch my parents making out like teenagers, usually when they thought I was asleep. They never knew, but it always gave me a sick sense of pleasure to watch them. This pleasure was often followed by a strange-yet-familiar feeling, a deep emotion that I knew there was no way in hell I should ever be having, especially not while watching them.

Jealousy.

It took me a while to figure this out. It's not a normal thing, is it, feeling jealousy at the fact that your parents are in love? Just the same, I know that Father deserves someone better. He doesn't seem to know it, but he does. Mother is wonderful to me, but the way she treats Father upsets me so much...

I try to force these thoughts out of my head as I finish dressing and run downstairs, taking the steps two at a time. I enter the study to find Father sitting in one of the high-backed chairs we have there.

So Mother hasn't returned.

I stand next to him, trying to figure out what to say. He breaks the silence first.

"Your grades are here, Draco."

Oh, joy. Grades. Always an interesting experience in the Malfoy household. I brace myself for what is to come.

He surprises me. He just flings the letter at me and says nothing more. I unfold it and read. Bad. As always. I wonder when he is going to yell at me.

He says nothing for a long time. I get tired of standing, so I decide to sit down. Rather than take one of the chairs for myself, I sit down on the floor at his feet the way I stopped doing when I was about four. I draw my knees up against my chest and stare into the fire. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder why he has a fire going so early in the morning. But I don't ask him. I never ask him why he does things. It's easier to stay out of trouble that way.

I sit and try to figure out just how angry he is. I know he's pretty pissed when he doesn't even want to yell at me about my grades. He seems to enjoy doing that. He says that it's to help me at least attempt to do better. I say he just needs to yell at people sometimes.

I know it's wrong to ask him this, but I just have to. It's some sort of morbid curiosity, I guess.

"Do you think she's coming back anytime soon?"

He thinks about this for a while, then says "I don't know" and rests his hand on my hair. Somewhere in my mind I know better than to say what I'm about to - I can just imagine him wrenching my hair in his fist - but something makes me continue pressing the matter. He lets me bully him far too easily. He stands his ground on some issues, but with personal matters it's not too hard to get things out of him.

"Does she still love us, y'think?"

"Us?" he asks, looking down at me. "She'll always care about you, Draco. Don't worry about the rest."

...Okay, the fighting must have gotten extremely bad. I wonder what happened after I finally fell asleep after the first two hours of them screaming. I've learned to tune them out. It's a sort of reflex. If you hear something enough, it becomes part of the background and you soon learn to close it out entirely.

My next question surprises the both of us; I hadn't exactly planned how to say it.

"Does she still love you, then?"

"I told you not to worry about that," he says shortly. I suddenly feel more pressure on the top of my skull. It's not a good day to push him any further. I know when to stop.

I can feel him starting to relax. I lean back against the arm of the chair and say "I love you, Father."

The words come out of nowhere. I know it's the truth, and in more ways than one. For some sick reason, I want him to know. I know he won't like it. I also know he probably won't get the message until I'm blunt about it. But I can't be blamed for not trying.

For a few minutes he doesn't say anything. He was never good at any of the sentimental stuff. He says it's a woman's job to be sentimental.

I know that I shouldn't be pushing anything at all right now, considering what I said earlier, but I can't help it.

"I said, 'I love you, Father'."

"I heard you the first time." I knew it. He doesn't understand what I mean. Not that I blame him; I've never said those words, in any way, since I was six. I know he doesn't understand me, if he did there would be more of a reaction. Much more.

I've learned one thing when trying to discuss anything with my parents: When in doubt, fear or confusion, be blunt. Since all three of those things are running through my head, one after the other, I take a deep breath and just say it.

"No, I mean 'I'm in love with you'."

I am rewarded by agonizing pain through my scalp as his hand tightens suddenly around my blond hair. For a moment I am afraid he's going to rip half of it out.

"What...did you...just say to me?"

I say nothing, hoping that he will release me. He doesn't let up; if anything he grips me tighter. "What did you just tell me?" he demands again.

"I told you the truth," I say shakily, trying to keep the moisture from my eyes as he twists his fist a bit. I am seriously regretting not having my hair cut when Mother offered to do it for me.

He seems to realise what he has been doing with his hand; he untangles his hand and releases me.

"Get out of my sight," he tells me. It takes a moment to register through the pain in my scalp. I stand up quickly, then run out and back up the stairs, and lock myself in my room.