Like a Game of Chess

You are a Malfoy. A Malfoy does not sulk. A Malfoy identifies, evaluates and solves any problem accordingly Power is all about placing yourself in the most advantageous position, like a game of chess, really.

His father stood on the balcony, a glass of champagne in his hand. As always dressed in black immaculate robes that seemed to suck in the sparse light from the windows. A cascade of silver hair falling down his back. Arrogant poise, exuding power. The epitome of what his son used to admire.

A Malfoy shows no fear, he thought, suppressing a giggle, verging on hysteria, and whispered the first spell.

* * *

It felt like wearing a mask, with a permanent smile etched onto it. From the corners of his eyes he could see the smirks and when they thought he wasn't listening he could hear people talking. Gossiping. Oh, how he wished he could join in the slander. Everyone seemed to know his father was making a fool of himself.

But he couldn't. He had to pretend he was happy. Even if he cringed inwards at the mere thought. He had to make people think he was glad that his father had found happiness after such a great loss. The whole thing made him feel nauseous. And to have such base things as love and happiness applied to his father made it all more sickening. He had always admired and respected his father. Always strived to be like him, to gain his respect. Not anymore.

This is just a phase, he kept repeating for a month, like a mantra. Soon his father would find someone else. She was just a pretty plaything, nothing more. His father just couldn't be serious about such a creature. It wasn't like she was anything vile, such as Muggle-born; she was pureblooded enough, even if the family was quite lowly in rank and had lost every galleon sometime during the last century.

No one could doubt that she was after the Malfoy fortune and name. That she was out to snare, use and betray. A man such as his father shouldn't fall for that kind of cheap trick. He tried to convince himself that the man would come to his senses, rectify his mistake and send the woman packing.

He was called into his father's study one afternoon. Straightening his shoulders as he walked through the doors. Now everything would be all right and back to normal. Soon there would be no shallow ugly bitch, pretending to be nice to him, wearing his mother's jewels, prancing about in the halls.

But that small hope fell apart when his father started to speak. The woman, smiling at his side, had truly trapped him. His father informed him that he would marry her, in a small ceremony a couple of weeks later. He barely had time to compose his facial features when his father landed yet another blow and announced the arrival of another addition to the family line, a little brother or sister, wasn't that nice? As nice as being drawn and quartered by rabid Hippogriffs, he thought.

A lifetime of training to never reveal how he really felt saved him from making a complete fool of himself. He managed to smile and congratulate his father and the vile creature at his side before he was dismissed to his room.

There was no way he could let this happen. He thought about his mother. He supposed he missed her, not as a mother, since she had never shown him much of maternal comfort. But she had been a constant in his life, and he knew she had been proud of him even though she barely showed it.

His mother had been a stern woman, lacking the passion his father had for causes, games and numerous love affairs. If his mother had known, she never said a word about it. Above all, she had been loyal to the family values.

Even if his father was a whoring son of a bitch, never in his life could he have thought the man would remarry. And even less begat spawn that would foul the family name and blood. At least his mother had been of a proud and ancient bloodline, more than worthy to mix with the Malfoys.

* * *

He began making lists. Scratching out one alternative after the other as he put them down. Always burning the pieces of parchment afterwards. He searched the library and pondered for hours over dusty tomes, filled with ancient spells and incantations.

His father was no fool and it would take more than a simple spell to accomplish what he wanted. A Malfoy never underestimates his enemies.

* * *

The black and white marble squares of the ballroom were polished to gleaming perfection.

The room always reminded him of a chessboard. One of his uncles told him once that it had been used for chess games with living pieces.

"Like wizard's chess?" he had asked.

"Sort of, but with real living beings," his uncle had answered, "well, sometimes house-elves. But some of them seemed to be distraught when they had to clean up afterwards, so it was thought to be more convenient to use other creatures like goblins, trolls, werewolves and even Muggles. Those were games befitting the pureblood traditions, mark my word, young Malfoy."

He remembered Uncle Ambrosius chuckle with a shiver. No, uncle Ambrosius wasn't fitting company for a child, as his mother had pointed out more than once. His father only laughed and said that Ambrosius knew more about the family history than anyone, even if he went a little over the top sometimes.

"There is no harm telling my son about the ways of his family," his father had said. He twitched a little uncomfortably in his chair. His mother had been particularly upset at Uncle Ambrosius when her five-year old son had told her that he wished he was old enough to visit a brothel, since his uncle thought it was so much fun. Somehow she found that more upsetting than the stories about killing Muggles over a game of chess in the ballroom.

It wasn't the painful memories of trying to sit down afterwards, that made him learn never to mention the things uncle Ambrosius told him in front of his mother, ever again. It was the humiliating indignity of being punished by the house-elves, even if it was on his mother's order. A Malfoy never resorts to manual labour if there is someone else to do it.

* * *

In chess, like any game of power, you have to know which pieces to sacrifice, to anticipate your opponent's next move, and place yourself in a position where you cannot be touched.

The first one just left one day. When he innocently asked his father why, he could barely conceal his glee. She had the most annoying habits, his father said, without further explanation. Her constant spilling of beverages over robes and pristine tablecloths and the sudden urges to speak with food in her mouth during formal dinners must have been grating on his father's nerves.

He couldn't believe it had been so simple and congratulated himself that he actually had been putting down some work on his summer assignment in potions. Pity though, that most of his work only was useful for extracurricular activities and never could be included in the parchments he would turn in, come September.

The second one was disposed of after having been found in a rather compromising position with one of the stable hands. Both denied that anything untoward had happened. She insisted that the complicated fastenings of her dress just had happened to fall apart in front of the boy when his father came back after his morning ride. His father did not believe it was an accident.

He mourned the loss of a good stable hand. The summer before, in an abandoned box stall, the same boy had taught the heir to the Manor a lot. His father had never known about those lessons in skin, sweat, and pleasurable exchanges of bodily fluids, which had nothing whatsoever to do with the grooming of horses.

While consoling his father (Who strangely enough seemed more affected by the loss of a servant than a mistress.) he secretly rejoiced in having such good tutors during the school year. A couple of potion drops spilt on a dress, a delaying spell, a charm to urge her down to the stables and timing it with his fathers riding routine.

The third one craved a little more planning. While accompanying his father to a party he noticed the interest he lavished over a non-important blonde girl from a poor family. The girl was barely out of school, and couldn't be no more than a couple of years older than he. Neither his father nor the girl wasted any time, and barley a week later; she was installed in the Manor and his father's suite.

He had no doubts that the kind smiles and gentle words was nothing but a façade. His suspicions were confirmed one morning when he saw the swift movement of a hand over the cup his father emptied seconds later. This one would not merely be sent away, she would be broken like a twig, crushed and eradicated like the infesting bug she was. She might have swayed his father, but forgotten that the son also was a Malfoy, with the implications that followed with the name.

It all came clear the evening his father called him to his study and told him about the impending marriage. He smiled and congratulated him and was exceedingly polite to his stepmother-to-be. His father beamed at him, for once. He hoped the despise he felt didn't show in his eyes.

From that moment the game changed. He realised he had done it all wrong, but there was still time to rectify and solve the problem the proper way.

* * *

The evening before their engagement party his father stood on the balcony, looking out over the vast expanse of black and white marble, sipping a glass of champagne, overseeing the preparations.

He didn't scream on the way down. Just hit the black and white marble with a sickening thud. Not surprising, since he was already dead when he fell. It wouldn't do to have him survive, able to tell the tale. Even severely crippled, his father would have been too formidable an enemy to take on. Most full-fledged wizards would surely think twice before attempting anything like it. He didn't want to think about the consequences for someone who still was a child in the eyes of the world and hadn't even reached his majority yet.

He would never forget his father's eyes when he lost his balance and fell over the railing. Maybe he knew that this would happen. Maybe this was the natural order of succession in the Malfoy family.

The first whispered spell made him tip over, the second enclosed his body in silence and the third spell soundlessly broke his father's neck before he even started to fall. He was thankful for the silencing spell, as he imagined how the crunching sound of separating vertebrae and his father screaming his son's name on the way down would have echoed in the vast room.

He tucked his wand back inside his sleeve, closed the panel he had peeked out through behind him and went back to his room. The wand he had used earlier that day to remove the wards on the stairs, the wards that kept drunken guests alive even if they fell twenty feet from the balcony or the wide marble staircase. That wand was in his father's bedchamber, probably resting on the rosewood vanity that once belonged to his mother.

And it was sure to be found among the belongings of the woman who would never bear the Malfoy name, or a Malfoy child. The guards in the castle would see to that. They would also find a small half-empty bottle with a strong poison that weakens the will and ultimately leads to a slow and painful death, the same poison they would find in his father's blood and in the remaining drops of champagne on the shards of broken glass on the balcony. Regardless of whatever protests she would come up with, that would be enough to send her to Azkaban, if not for the Dementor's kiss.

After removing all traces of the spells he cast on his father he put his wand back into a hollow walking stick that once belonged to his great-grandfather. If they would test his wand it would show that it had last been used in the practical for the transfiguration O.W.L., when he was still at school. No magic done inside the mansion could be traced back to him, his father had seen to that. Useful practice for the upcoming year, indeed. He opened a book waiting for the servants to alert him to what had happened, but couldn't concentrate on reading and started to walk around in the room.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Trying to rehearse a truthfully shocked and sorrowful look. His father's grey eyes stared back at him like they had done for all of his sixteen years. He wondered how he would look with longer hair, and decided to let it grow. He could hear running steps in the hallway and frantic knocks on his door.

"Master Lucius, Master Lucius, are you in there? You have to come quick, it's your father, sir, he fell...in the ballroom, sir! Blood all over! It's so terrible!"

He gave the mirror a final victorious grin before arranging his features into the practiced distraught expression and walked to the door.

This is how it was supposed to be, he thought. It was required of me. You made your move. I made mine.

Check mate.

- End -