Reflecting

'Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein:
and he that rolleth a stone, it will return upon him.'

Proverbs, 26:27

****

They say it's the greatest hope of every teacher that one of their pupils will, some day, outperform them.

It is the hope of every parent that their child will have a better life - a greater life - than them.

It's true.

I remember when my son was born. So small, so tiny, I could fit him into the space of my forearm.

I remember watching him grow up - much of it from afar after he went off to Hogwarts.

I remember the irritation I had with some of his antics - as I remember doing some of them myself and the reaction of my father. Much the same...

I remember the hopes I had for him, that I have for him. The hopes - and the fears.

"He will be special, this one."

The Dark Lord said that to me when he was born. I was surprised, but... pleased. Proud.

I watched him this morning. Draco knew what day it was, yet, as I watched him at breakfast, I couldn't see the tension, anxiety or anticipation that was in him. At least, I presume it was in him. I don't think he's gone that far that he wouldn't feel something.

But I watched him and I couldn't see anything.

Just for once I wanted to feel something from him - I wanted him to ask "What's going to happen?" or "What's it like?". Anything, just to let me talk to him as a father, not as a... tutor.

But he didn't.

I can't remember the last time he did ask me something that was... personal. We talk, yes. But it's almost always about work or the Dark Arts. The closest we ever get is a comment about the Quidditch scores.

Yet my son is going to join the Dark Lord's inner circle; he's going to take his place and stand by my side.

This is what I've been grooming him for his entire life. This is what he was destined to do, in the same way I was to take my place next to my father when I was old enough.

My son will be great and will surpass me - I know that he is reaching my level of skill already - and he is so much younger than me. There's little left that I can teach him. The Dark Lord will take over his education now. He will surpass me, of that I have no doubt.

I know that one day he will take my place as head of the family. He will have no problem - he has the cunning, the skill, the ambition to do well.

I've pushed him to this - I've been hard on him, I've demanded a lot.

And now he is achieving his potential.

I should be proud.

And I am.

Do I have regrets?

I remember when he was one, maybe less, kneeling by his cot, his small hand closed on mine.

I remember his mother presenting him to me - "Our son, Lucius." Seeing his grey eyes: there was something in them even them, something I could somehow see.

I remember when he was four and fell, cutting his leg. I told him to stop crying, stop being weak.

I've never seen him cry since.

I remember throwing a weak Stupification Curse at him - in practice during the summer of his second year - and being furious with him when he failed to block it fully.

I berated him for wasting his time with that Parkinson girl, he had more important things to worry about.

I made him hard; I made him cold.

This was the way things had to be. I could have been softer - but how would he cope in the Dark Lord's inner circle if I was soft on him? I needed to be hard on him, he needed to be pushed. He would not have been able to take my place otherwise. I did it for him.

"Draco?"

My voice is slightly dry, and I swallow. He looks up at me. He really does look like me. He has my eyes, my hair, my build. And my bearing. He's looking at me; his manner is respectful, curious as to what it is I have to say; but guarded, closed to me.

My son will surpass me.

But I realise then - I do not know him.

"It's time."

I see something flicker across his face, and as he takes a breath to stand I see, ever so briefly what it is.

But before I can say anything, do anything, it vanishes.

As he stands by me to Apparate I glance at him. Cold, calm, almost aristocratic in his bearing, without a flicker of emotion.

Yes, this was the way things had to be.

And I'm proud.

Proud.

I have...

...

...

I have no regrets.