Patriarchy

Chapter 2: Far, far away

"The first step to getting the things you want out of life is this: Decide what you want."

[Ben Stein]

Draco had thought about it. Over and over again. There was no where he could go. Nothing he could do. He couldn't flee from his father, couldn't escape from his grasp. His father was everywhere, controlling his life, every single part of it. He made sure of that. Draco felt utterly helpless, and it made him even angrier. There had to be something he could do. He couldn't possibly be in the hands of this man, he had to have a choice. But he couldn't think of one. His perspectives weren't the greatest; he had fought in war, so what did that qualify him for? What could he do to escape from a life in sheer boredom, working at the Ministry, waiting for his father to die and hand him power on a plate, if he wouldn't die earlier, out of free will? Draco closed his eyes and sighed. He wanted to get away from here.

Far away from everything he'd called home or family, Draco's felt his lips twitch. Not that he'd ever really meant it. When he was small, yes, perhaps. He had been proud of how graceful and arrogant his parents were, how they impressed the people around them, how they dominated talks and servants, how they reigned their private kingdom. And then, the shouting had begun. And later, it was only his father who shouted, and sometimes, in the middle of the night, he'd hear his mother scream or whine. He'd lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing that it would soon be over. In the morning, everything would be like it had always been, but Draco learned to dread the nights. Even when he was older, he felt awkward at night, and there were nights when he couldn't find sleep because of the thought of what, at this very moment, his father might do to his mother.

His father had been kind to him, when he was younger, but when he grew up, his fathers behavior changed - rapidly. He forced rules upon Draco, controlled him wherever he went, and made him suffer for every single one of his mistakes. And Lucius Malfoy was a careful man. Draco remembered his punishments - Lucius didn't always prefer curses. Sometimes, to emphasize his point, pure violence and cruelty was the best in his eyes. Draco remembered one night, when he caught the look in his eyes, and froze in sheer fright. It didn't seem to be his father he looked at; his features were frozen with anger and a strange kind of joy and the same moment, and in his eyes was a glint of sadistic satisfaction with what he was doing, and Draco suddenly knew how his father looked like when he punished someone who had opposed the Dark Lord. He suddenly understood what it meant to be a Death Eater. And he was afraid.

Draco shook his head to ban these thoughts from his mind and stared up at the ceiling once again. Who could he possibly turn to for betraying his own father? Who could understand the humiliation that he felt?

His knock on the door was silent, tactful, and exactly how he wanted it to be. He slid halfway through the door without waiting for an answer and looked at his mother, who sat in an armchair, her look turned towards the door. She looked tired, as always, and for a moment, it nearly hurt Draco to use her. Nearly.

"May I enter, Mother?" She nodded her consent and he entered, slowly making his way towards her, bowing next to her to kiss her cheek before settling on the sofa in front of her.

She watched him enter. He resembled his father, so much it hurt. His fair, blond hair - without as much as a curl from her -- fell down around his face, and his eyes were of the same grayish blue color she both adored and loathed. His eyes, though, weren't as distant and icy as his father's. They were livelier, and yet thoughtfulbut no more boyish. She pitied this fact - he was a boy, only 18, there should at least be a hint left. But sitting in front of her, adorable, young, and charmingly attractive, was a young man. And she had missed him growing up.

"What are you here for?" She finally broke the silence in which the both of them had been sitting. He slightly lifted his head and his eyes met hers - he looked almost questioning for a moment, as if he tried to read her.

"I wanted to talk to you," he said very calmly, still not breaking eye contact. She noticed that his face, though, was slimmer than his father's. His features seemed more fragile, and it pleased her. He bore a slight resemblance with her. She wasn't completely forgotten, not even by nature.

"What about?" She let her hands rest in her lap.

"My assignment to the Ministry." She flinched inwardly, but her eyes remained cool.

"Shouldn't you talk to your father about that?" she responded without as much as a hint of impatience.

"Well, Mother, let me revise my formulation," he said coolly and his eyes glinted almost mischievously, but as soon as she took a second glance, the glint was gone.

"About me not taking up my work for the Ministry." She couldn't hold herself from flinching, now, she straightened up and looked at him with wide eyes.

"Draco - consider your words!" she warned him.

"They are already considered, Mother, you know that as well as I do. I am not going to sacrifice myself for my name."

"But your name is all you are worth, Draco, believe me, don't underestimate the power of your name and its necessity for your life!"

"Don't underestimate the humiliation I have suffered in the last years." His voice was cold, and flat, his eyes narrowed and reminded her so much of his father that she froze and stared at him in shock.

"This name is nothing but dismay and humiliation to me, and I am not going to bow to the old man who calls himself my father. I'm old enough to legally make my own decisions, and that is what I did. I'm not going to work for the ministry, nor am I going to remain in this house, under his eyes. And you are going to help me."

It was no plea, nor was it a suggestion - and she knew that she had no other choice than to nod, defeated. He knew of his resemblance to his father and how much the determination in his eyes scared her. She had learned nothing other than to obey what men told her, Lucius had taught her very carefully, and here she was, nodding her agreement to her own son, to his plan to escape from his prison. She almost screamed in frustration at this thought. But he still was her son.

"I have spent most of my life in this prison, Draco, and I survived, so why shouldn't you be able to for the sake of your name, your family?" she attempted to make him understand, her eyes fixed on his. And she almost cried because of the flicker of grief and pity that crossed his eyes. No. He would not pity her.

"Because I'm not you," he answered simply, and she knew it was true. He wasn't like her, he was like...

"...nor am I my father," he finished, as if having read her thoughts. She looked at him with an empty expression on her face.

"I belong to no one but myself, and I am making decisions for no one but myself. You know that mother - don't you?" These last little words, just a hint on his insecurity, made her look up. Yes, she had known. She had seen that he was different, that he didn't give up, that he didn't want to suffer anymore. And she could understand him. If only she would be given the choice once again. But she had no choice but to obey her husband like all the women before her had done.

"If only you would understand the importance of your name..." she sighed, looking at him, and was only mildly surprised when he leapt up.

"It's only a name, Mother!" he yelled. "Only a word and nothing more than that. It can't take things from you!"

Now she straightened up again, facing him with a stern look at her face.

"Oh yes, Draco, it can! My name was taken from me the moment I married your father and I can never get it back. The name Black will always be connected with mass murderers and madmen, and, believe me, I suffered for this! I suffer the loss of my name and the loss of its power every single moment - your father holds great care for that!" She hesitated. It had been the first time one of them had spoken of what Lucius did to her, but she had been angry, and she needed Draco to understand what she was trying to tell him. His face had gone blank at her words and he stared at her for a moment, before catching himself, but still looking perplexed.

"I - I'm sorry, Mother," he choked out and let himself fall back into his seat. She had opposed him, spoken up for the first time.

"I understand what you're going through, Draco," she added, her voice calm and cool again, her attitude full of dignity. "Nobody understands your suffering better than I do. But, still, you can't openly oppose your father just like this. You can't stand up against him, for you are only a child." He opened his mouth, but she made a sharp gesture with her hand and continued to speak. "But you are his child. His son." She paused and then glanced at him.

"Do you understand what power that gives you?" He looked at her, then slowly got up, the look in his eyes one of mixed fright and coolness, a flicker of panic before his features settled to stone. She smiled at him, a sly, sad, hardly noticeable smile, and took up her needlework again.

"I see that you do."

His expression looked back on him, out of the body length mirror in his room, with a strange look in its eyes. His face seemed narrow, with his hair combed back again. He stuck a rebellious strand of hair behind his ear and let his hands travel down his robe slowly, feeling the cool, heavy cloth, half admiring, half pitying how pale black made him look. He lifted his chin again and fastened the collar with the family needle. He didn't know whether to laugh or to scream at the picture in the mirror. He looked disgustingly much like his father - his hair was shorter, and his face slimmer, but they had the same color of skin, of eyes, of hair. He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply. He wouldn't have imagined it so hard. It had sounded so easy in his head, when he understood what his mother meant. The "power that gave him". The power of becoming Lucius Malfoy's alter ego, to make him bathe in his own arrogance and the belief in his power to undermine the minds of ! his family only to stab his back when he least expected it, just as Brutus did Caesar. "You too, my son?" Yes, father. Me too.