Perfect

Closing his eyes in a mixture of frustration and exhaustion, he placed his face in his hands and sighed heavily. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the image of his father torturing his mother. He let go of his head then, and pulled his knees up to his chest, hugging them there. He rocked back and forth very slowly, a comfort he remembered from his childhood. He realized then that he was all alone in the world. No one left to hug him when he needed it, no one left to talk to when he just needed to talk. And as childish as he felt for missing it, no one to send him letters or packages while he was away at school. He sighed again, though not as heavily as the first time. He sat there for a long time. Minutes, hours, maybe days even. He didn't know how long it actually was before he unfolded his long legs and slowly stood up. He opened the door cautiously and peered at the room surrounding him. When he saw the room was empty, he took the first few careful steps out of the closet and closed the door behind him. There was no going back now.

He crossed the room to the bedroom door, noticing the house-elves had collected his mother's body as he passed the spot on the floor he last laid eyes on her. She'd been so beautiful; how his father could have killed her he'd never understand. He sniffed then, catching himself before any tears fell, with one hand firmly grasping the doorknob. He squared his shoulders and raised his head high, jerking the door open with anger. He walked out into the deserted hallway, unaware of where his father may be at that moment. He made his way to the stairs, down them and into the front foyer. He saw then that the front door had been left hanging wide open. He closed it and proceeded slowly down the front hall and into the dinning room, no one there. He passed through a small archway and came to the library, his mother's favourite room. He found his father there, a large glass of Fire Whiskey sitting loosely in his hands, his eyes lost in the dying embers of the fire in front of him as he sat in the large black chair placed before the hearth. His father made no movement, no acknowledgement that his son had entered the room.

He cleared his throat when he noticed his father would not speak first.

"Father?" He waited for an answer, not sure if he'd receive one.

"Father?" he called again when he'd decided the wait was too long. His father answered this time. Or rather, attempted to. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. He raised his eyes to his son, showing him eyes filled with emptiness, not remorse. The son frowned then, his father sitting before him lifelessly.

"Why did you do it?" he asked angrily. His father shrugged and took a sip of his whiskey.

"Why won't you talk to me?" the son demanded. The father looked at his child again, his eyes still empty.

"You're a tarnish on me, a tarnish on our name. Your mother was also a tarnish to me. She made you the way you are..."

"The way I am?" he shouted, "I am what you've always demanded me to be. I've been cold, heartless, vile...I've been as Malfoy as possible and you punish me by killing my mother! I hate you!" He threw the nearest thing to him then, a copy of the Malfoy Code of Conduct. It hit his father's chair, but never disturbed his father. He calmly took another sip of his whiskey, then set it down on the table beside his chair before slowly raising out of his chair.

His father's voice was eerily calm now. "If you hate me so much, why did you do this for me?" he asked, pulling his son's sleeve up to reveal the Dark Mark forever pressed, burnt into the pale skin of his wrist. He jerked his eyes away, trying to forget that he still had the Mark on his arm. His eyes filled with tears as he answered his father.

"I did it because I thought you'd be happy with me. I... I was trying to make you proud of me," he explained. His father narrowed his eyes then.

"It's too late now for that. If you'd wanted to make me proud, you'd have done so long ago." His father spoke just above a whisper, his voice hissing. His father turned then and threw his glass into the fire.

"I didn't want to kill your mother," he explained. "But she drove me to it. Trying to convince me to spend quality time with you, like taking you to a Quidditch game. But you know I could never do that. Not with my loyalties to Him. He and the others would forever mock me and I see no reason in doing it. I was never treated to Quidditch games with my father as a child, why should you enjoy such a luxury then. I am second-in-command and I must show how fearful I can be. How am I supposed to stir fear in my enemy's hearts if I'm taking my only son out for an afternoon of fun?" He turned from the fire and faced the boy.

"When you have children, treat them as you wish. But know that they'll never be as perfect as you want them to be." He turned then, with a swish of his cloak and started to leave the library but he stopped short at the doorway when his boy spoke.

"I'm never going to be good enough for you, am I father?" His father shook his head slowly.

"You know, you used to be my hero. When I was little and all my friends bragged about their fathers, I was always proud to say you were my hero. Every time someone made fun of you, I stuck up for you. Remember that time I came home from the Parkinson's with a bloody nose? Endora had said you were nowhere near as good of a father as hers, so I pushed her off her bed. When she finally got up off the floor... she punched me. I didn't care, because I was still proud of you, no matter what."

His father tightened his grip on the doorknob, slowly twisting it open.

"No, Lucius. You'll never be good enough for me," his father said before leaving. Adolphus Malfoy never looked back; otherwise he'd have seen his only son, just twelve years old, his face streaked with tears.