Patriarchy

Chapter 4: Mask Dance

"The power of hiding ourselves from one another is mercifully given, for men are wild beasts, and would devour one another but for this protection."

[Henry Ward Beecher]

Draco let out a sigh, inaudible, while he slightly turned his glass in his fingers. He watched his father standing on the other side of theoom, pretending to be in a deep conversation, but every now and then letting a look slip. Of course not at Draco.

Draco turned around and laid his eyes on the girl standing next to him. He smiled at her coolly, and she smiled back, almost shy. But he wasn't easily fooled.

"So, where did you say where you from?" He slightly bent towards her while speaking. She was shorter than him, but not very much, and her dark eyes shone up to him, almost intimidating. He would never understand what kind of weakness his father had for dark eyes.

"Egypt," she answered, her voice dark like her eyes, which she never took off him. "Cursebreaker." She certainly didn't make too many words - obviously another trait his father preferred. Well, indeed, so he could hear himself talk even more.

"Interesting. Dangerous occupation, I suppose?" He took a sip from his glass of wine to keep him from sighing again, and looked at her. She sat her glass down on the table.

"Don't you fool me into believing you," she smirked and he arched an eyebrow distantly. She walked a few steps and turned around to him. "This is the moment where you ask me to dance with you." Draco threw another look at his father, now obviously and intensely watching the two of them. Who was he to say no to a beautiful woman? He smirked not only inwardly and held his hand out.

"Would you honor me with a dance, My-lady?" She smiled and let her hand slide into his.

"I would love to, Sir."

It was almost funny, Draco mused as they danced, that this woman didn't give his father as much as a glance. His father certainly wouldn't be pleased about this, but he couldn't care less. He let his eyes slide over the people attending this evening. On the outside the most pleasant of parties, yet attended by monsters. Officials of the Ministry mingling with acquaintaces of his father - those who had been clever enough not to be caught. Most of the people didn't even know whom they drank their glass of Dom Perignon with, he supposed. They were so carefully masked.

Masks, it was all about masks, Draco decided. Their faces weren't hidden under the dark hood anymore, but, nevertheless, they were wearing masks to keep from being discovered as what they really were: monsters, cunning sadists, maniacs waiting for a chance to be fully recovered. Predators moving within masses of prey. And workers for the Ministry were so easily fooled. They liked what they saw; hence they chose to ignore the bad signs. Morons. He despised them for their weakness, for their fear that made them close their eyes to the important truth, for their slothfulness that made them revel in what they believed was security. They did deserve their punishment, they did deserve the pain and fear that had been planted amongst them. Draco had believed that Voldemort was no more than what the Wizarding society deserved for its foolishness. They had let him rise to power, they had done nothing to stop him, and they got what they deserved. Draco almost snorted. Morons. It was obviously logical, because when a few had stood up against Voldemort, the problem had resolved itself, hadn't it? A few against the darkness; a boy against the most powerful wizard of all ages. And they had succeeded, he had succeeded.

Draco lowered his gaze on the woman in his arms. She pressed up against him, carefully concealed by the dance, her dark, enchanting eyes locking with his own. And he felt not aroused at all. He didn't have his thoughts at the body in his arms, nor did he mind the looks his father shot him. How could he enjoy these trivialities when there were so many other, more important things to have his mind on? How could he enjoy bread and games when he knew there was something dark, something disturbing going on behind the facades? How could they?

The woman obviously felt she had to take action, so she leant her head against his shoulder and let out a contented sigh. If his father hadn't been plotting his death until this moment, he was surely doing so now. Draco could probably be happy that he wouldn't be sent away to the Ministry of Timbuktu. Draco smiled at that and let his fingers ever so lightly trail over the back of said young lady. He could practically feel his father's scowl. Lucius Malfoy was no man to fool with. Draco rested his head against hers, smirking. They turned slightly in tune with the music, and Draco's eyeset those of his father. Lucius didn't even try to conceal his glare, and Draco responded to this look as calmly and coolly as he could. It was not his fault if a trace of superiority crept into his look. Lucius would have to learn that Draco was no pleasant enemy himself. He would learn; Draco would ensure this.

Lucius' hands slightly tightened over his cane as he saw the insolence in Draco's eyes. The child seemed to forget that he could still make him wince and sob. And Lucius considered this, his insides twitching with jealousy he hadn't experienced very often. He had to admit he had been slightly stunned at his son's arrival at the party. He was fully aware that his son was no longer a child, rather a adult. But when Draco had entered the room this night, Lucius had for the first time noticed it. It made him go mad. What did that make him? An old man? How could the child dare? The black robes made him look aristocratically pale; he seemed taller in them than he actually was. His light hair was not falling around his face as it had so many days before, it revealed his eyes now, which seemed as grayish-cool as his own. His held himself with arrogance and pride he didn't even try to conceal, and he resembled Lucius so much that the elder had narrowed his eyes in disgust. His son had changed from a fly to a mosquito. Now he could sting, and he did. Lucius had watched him, the whole evening. He made his way around with a certain grace - every one of his steps carefully set, as if he was circling an enemy within a fencing duel, making out their weak points and waiting for the opprtunity to attack.

And then, the women had noticed him; and he did. The words that flowed out of his mouth like the music drifting in the background had charmed them into gathering around him. Lucius could very easily imagine how amiable and tactful his son's words could be. He had no doubt that the heir had inherited his tongue. But it was a snake's tongue after all, it dripped sweet poison into the ears of its prey, it wound around them in dance, but it did nothing without reason.

But Lucius didn't care about the reason right now. He knew that Draco was dangerous. The child had grown far too fast and far too well, and Lucius would certainly not nurture the snake on his own breast.

He was the master of this mansion. And he would stay exactly this.

"You called for me, father?" Lucius almost hadn't noticed Draco coming in. Draco was dressed almost casually - a black suit, even though the jacket probably lay abandoned in his room. His hair was tied back as good as possible. Lucius acknowledged with a growl that a few strands had searched their way out of the tail and fell pretty handsomely around his face. Tracing the lines of his cheeks and his neck with slightly narrowed eyes, Lucius noticed an ill- concealed mark of lips half-hidden under the collar of his shirt. Lucius seethed.

"I did indeed, son." He regained his composure very quickly, of course, and took a few steps towards the chimney. "Sit down." He gestured towards one of the armchairs, and Draco settled himself in it without further words, looking at his father in calm, wryly manner.

"And why is it you would call for me, father?" Draco had to keep himself from tapping his fingers on the armrest. That man could be awfully slow with expressing what he actually wanted. Draco, however, didn't want to wait.

"We have a matter to discuss," Lucius answered and turned towards his son.

'Old man, come to the point!' Draco couldn't suppress the impatient growl in his mind. He was only a few words away from knowing whether his first try, his first steps towards plotting, had worked out, and his father withheld him from possible success. The rise and fall of his first plans lay on the shoulders of a man with an impeccable sense of dramatic composure. Draco drew together all composure and calmness he could muster.

"And which matter would that be?" he asked in his calmest voice, meeting his father's grey, cool eyes with his own, hoping that the other couldn't see the impatience burning inside.

Lucius folded his arms slowly and looked at his son.

"Son. You have grown up fast within the last year," Not that you had another choice, "and it seems only natural for you to take on tasks that exceed the frame of this house, and of your family."

So far no news for Draco, and he began to wonder whether his father had only called him for brushing up the uncomfortable Ministry-issue again. But he kept silent and let his father go on.

"But I began to wonder, Draco, whether a task like that would succeed while you're still warm and safe in this Mansion," Draco almost snorted at Lucius' choice of need."

"What do you mean, father?!" Draco found he had managed a very skillful mix of suppressed outrage and irritation, showing that he objected, but had learnt his lesson out of the last time.

"I mean, my son," a genuine smile spread over Lucius face at Draco's sight, nearly sitting on the edge of the armchair, his eyes firmly fixed on Lucius as if in disbelief. "That I think it is time for you to fully take your steps towards the Wizard World. I'm willing to recognize the grown-up that you have proven to be, and I think you should grow independent enough to handle your life on your own. Therefore I have decided that you will move out of this Mansion and take an appropriate apartment in London near your place of occupation."

Draco's shoulders slumped visibly, and it seemed for a moment as if he had to fight with himself to not jump up with disagreement as he had done the last time.

Draco had indeed difficulties to remain seated. His legs were burning in a nearly childlike desire to run up to his room and begin packing. He lowered his head to not let his father see the smirk that forced its way through towards his features.

"If you say so, father," he finally forced out and stole a glance at his father, towering over him, seemingly glowing with self-content. His father gave a sharp nod.

"I decided that this would be the best solution for you, another step towards making you a worthy heir of the name Malfoy." 'Any step further away from you, father,' Draco silently mused, 'is a step towards worthiness.' But instead, he only nodded silently and rose slowly when his father finally allowed him to do so.

He closed the door behind himself and walked down the corridor. He faintly heard his father calling a few house-elves and giving them orders. That man obviously couldn't wait to have him out of the house. Draco leered. Then his hand found the mark on his neck. His slim fingers slightly rubbed over it and his lips fell back into their original position. He remembered that it had been uncomfortable - the woman seemed nearly desperate, harsh, and so near. Draco slightly shuddered with discomfort at the memory. He was fine with dancing, but did she have to come so close, invading his personal space in such a forward manner? He slightly narrowed his eyes and shook his head to himself. He had better things to do than to think of a random woman. He had more plans to make.