Purity

I am not sure how long I have been in my room. I've had a lot of time to think, though. I apparently wasn't doing enough thinking back in the study.

I don't blame Father for being upset. I probably would have been as well, in his situation. Knowing this, however, doesn't make it any easier. Now that I've said it out loud, I am positive that I love him. I don't know why; I just know it's the truth.

Maybe it's because he is everything I have always wanted to be. He is always so sure of himself, so confident. He knows where he is going in life. He is extremely high in the Dark Lord's favour, and he leads in large Muggle-torture sprees that I would love to be a part of. I want to cause Muggles and Mudbloods pain like they have never known -- I want them to suffer.

Just the same, there is something nagging in the back of my mind: If Father didn't want it, would I? I realise that I am not sure.

All my life I have wanted to make him pleased with me. He has always been good to me, and I don't feel like I deserve it sometimes. Especially when grades come out. He always looks so...not angry, exactly; closer to annoyed. The fact that the Mudblood, Granger, always manages to have a one-up on me in exams just adds insult to injury. Just once, I want to make him proud of me.

At times I think that all I am experiencing really is the desire for attention and my father's approval, like everyone thinks. It makes logical sense, after all; more so than the idea that I am in love with the man who helped to bring me into being. But then the other things that happen either in my mind, or, on more than one occasion, physically, always out-balance these.

There are times that I wonder what it would be like to hear him tell me that he loves me. I fantasize every now and then about kissing him, not in the innocent way of children and their relations, but really kissing. Judging by the way that he kisses Mother, he must be pretty good at it. This thought is sick and I know it, but I can't help it. I know that kissing a woman and kissing another man must be two entirely different things; I've done my share of it and I've never kissed any of the other Slytherin boys quite like that. But still, the idea remains that I would like to see what it is like to kiss Father as he kisses Mother.

Before they started having problems, I sometimes heard them at night as well. I couldn't help but imagine what they were doing, what Mother must have been feeling like as they had their way with each other. I would fall asleep and dream about Father having his way with me. After the night was over I would wake up alone with the sheets and bedclothes wet, my legs covered in white. This isn't right, and I know it. People my age shouldn't wake up panting from dreams that involve one of their parents, their bodies wracked from exhaustion and mass emotion at what it would feel like to be with them, to receive their sex as a lover would...

I need something to preoccupy myself now. I don't want to think about it anymore.

I stand up and walk around my room for a bit. My scalp is still tender from when he grabbed my hair. Looking around, the glint of the scissors on my desk catch my eye. I took them from one of the Mudbloods quite some time ago; I never thought they would be useful. But now...

I can hear Father coming up the stairs as the first locks of my hair begin to fall, pale and shining against the dark carpet. He tries my door, even though he knows full well it's locked. An impulse, I guess. He could open it easily, as he has in the past when he was angry about something, but he respects my privacy this time.

"Draco...what have you been doing up here?"

I don't want to mess up now; I'm working on my bangs. I keep my answer short so that I can concentrate on not stabbing my eye out with these damn Muggle tools.

"I'm cutting." As soon as the words leave my mouth I realise that what I meant and what he'll think are two extremely different things.

"Alohomora!"

The lock opens and he pushes the door with such a force that I wonder why he even bothered. He probably could have broken it down anyway.

I am suddenly painfully aware that what I'm doing isn't helping matters -- at the moment that the door burst open, I had moved the scissors away from my face and was letting them dangle from my fingertips, my other arm straight out, supporting me as I lean against the desk.

My room is a pretty good size, but he somehow manages to cross it in about two strides. He wrests the scissors from my hand, and then he verbally assaults me like I've never known before. I'm not sure what he's saying; the words aren't making much sense. I think he realises this too -- he stops suddenly and finally really looks at me.

"What in the name of all things sacred have you done to your hair?!"

"Cutting, Father." I want to discuss what I told him earlier, but I figure I should calm him down first, at least a bit.

It works. He laughs a bit. Not true laughter -- more like that high, relieved sort of laughter that forces its way from you when you realise that something is not as bad as you thought. But I notice that he sticks the scissors into his inside pocket. Not taking any chances.

He sits down on my bed and motions for me to sit as well. I look at the bed, think better of it, and pull my desk chair out. I sit backwards, with my chin resting on the top rung of the chair back. He doesn't realise it, but I'm testing him. If he yells at me for sitting like that, it is not a good time to discuss anything. He looks as though he wants to correct me, but instead he starts on a different topic.

"Draco, what you said to me this morning...that didn't mean that you..."

I lift my head a bit off the back of the chair, but say nothing. He stops and starts again.

"Are you implying that you need some more of that...father-son...bonding...thing?"

He raises an eyebrow, and for one crazy, panicked moment I am afraid I said it out loud. Then I realise he is just waiting for an answer.

"I guess," I say, not sure of what else to do.

He obviously doesn't like that. I have no idea as to if it was the way I said it or what, but he suddenly twitches slightly and snaps "What do you want me to do for you, then?"

I don't think I did anything that deserved to have him raise his voice like that. I can't help but feel angry. I lift my chin in an attempted show of defiance and hostility.

"You could try not acting so repulsed by me when you see me, you know. That might be a start." I don't know where the words are coming from, and for a moment I am afraid I will not be able to stop.

Luckily, he takes the matter of stopping myself out of my hands.

"Perhaps you could try being a little more co-operative and just remain silent about your...your abnormalities!" It feels as though he has slapped me. He isn't ready to stop; rather he continues with "What you told me downstairs, do you expect me to hear that and just be all right with it? It's just wrong on too many levels, Draco, far too many..."

It seems to go on forever. He finally stops, his breathing somewhat ragged in anger. I can't think of anything to say. I lower my chin back onto the back of the chair. My hair no longer covers my eyes when I do this. For a moment I miss my hair, but then I remember that it is no longer long enough to provide a good grip for pulling.

Several minutes pass. Even from across the room, I can feel him calming himself down. He is breathing normally again. I suddenly realise that I am also. That is a good sign, that I haven't let it affect me as much as I thought it did.

My eyes are burning. I reach up to rub them with the back of my sleeve. I am determined not to look at him. But then he makes some noise, something I sense more than hear, and I look at him.

Looking at someone who has just hurt you deeper than they realise is an odd business, but anyone who has dealt with adults who have hurt you know better than to blink. I don't know what it is about blinking, but it somehow destroys all the barriers you've worked so hard to set up.

I do not blink. I look at him for a while, then look away.

Of course he finds me revolting now. He would. I remember what Mother told me about him; several of the girls liked him when he was in school. I can see why; even now, several years later, he can still be considered attractive. Sometimes women still hit on him.

On top of everything, he is married. To my mother. He wouldn't give a damn if a male my age was to tell him what I just told him. But hearing it from his own son...that's just corrupt.

But at the same time, it's not. Not to me. I know I can't make him understand that.