His Father's Son

His Father's Son

He is his father’s son, first of all.

He knows this, even as he silently reads her quick reply. Okay. I’ll see you later, it says, black solitary words in the middle of a square of parchment. Her penmanship is smooth and straight, as if written on one of those ruled Muggle papers. Like his. Like his father’s.

Her loops are curvy, and the words are wide. Her handwriting speaks of controlled freedom. He, meanwhile, has been taught to inscribe letters tall and thin since he could pick up a pen. Small q’s that look like small g’s. All letters begin at the bottom, and end upward, only upward. His father has instructed him how to hold a pen. He would not write like a kindergartener all his life, Lucius had said, forcing an Aurora quill in between his fore and middle finger, where it stood, intrusive, as his fourth finger clamored to be allowed to hold.

He puts the piece of parchment away and dreads. He knows what his father thinks of her, a Muggle-born, a Mudblood, a filthy, dirty... different girl. He knows what Lucius would say if he told him he loved her.

He has been taught so much, from the proper way to tie his shoes, to complicated Dark Spells. But he has never been taught how it is to love.

His father has never spoken of it. He thinks it likely for Lucius to look at it as a farce: as a waste of time and effort. But he’s been under his father’s wing since he was born, so he thinks he must love his father, some way. And he knows his father loves him as well. It is only because Lucius has the best intentions for him that he has to be nothing short of perfect. And he does his best to be -- because he is punished when he shows he isn’t, and more importantly, because it is what has always been expected of him.

He is his father’s son, first and foremost.

He knows what he has to do.

~~*~~/

i. it started

He was in the library, losing his thoughts in books made only for seventh years who wanted to work on potions for a living. The common room was a cacophony of food and noise and celebration of Slytherin’s victory over Hufflepuff. Two hundred to eighty. Draco had caught the Snitch.

Oddly, no one seemed to be looking for him.

Which was nothing he could complain about. His father had been there, taking time out of his busy schedule to watch him. Draco had been nervous, of course, but had hidden it with his usual suave composure.

He didn’t need to do Snape’s extra credit work -- his grades were flourishing -- and he’d never wanted to make potions for a living. No, his father had better plans for him than that. And maybe, that was one of the reasons he needed to get away -- from the expectations, the plans, the judgments, concentrated now in the Slytherin dungeons. It rarely happened, but sometimes, too many things gathered somewhere inside him, suffocating him, leaving him bereft of air and thoughts and his usual indifference to emotion.

It was hectic these days, what with the Yule holidays coming. The library was filled with students catching up on the homework that Draco had already finished. He wasn’t sharing a table with anyone; the Potions books were scattered messily across it, and he was browsing their pages for something interesting he could concoct in his free time, when Hermione Granger arrived.

“Can I sit here...?”

Draco looked up and saw that the reason why she had missed his unmistakable blond head was that her eyes were hidden behind a tall pile of books in her arms. Her hair, meanwhile, was so bushy that it was clearly visible. After last year’s Yule ball, it had not become any straighter.

“Go ahead,” he said, going back to work. He didn’t know why he did it, but at that time, it didn’t occur to him, not even a little, that it would be something he’d regret. His father’s rules and petty antagonism: right now he wanted only to get away from them.

She put her books down and set his to one side to make work space for herself. “Thanks...” She hesitated for a moment, and he knew she had seen him now, and was thinking of how to continue. “...Thanks, Malfoy.”

She sat down, and then they worked in silence.

~~*~~/

ii. when he was young

He attended wizard kindergarten and met Miguel, a Muggle-born Mexican immigrant whose father had been assigned a job three blocks away from where they studied. Miguel looked poor: he knew enough about Muggle clothes to know that Miguel’s were of very low quality. But Miguel was wonderful when they first met, cheerful and polite and friendly, so he forgot all that he had been taught about how Muggles and Mudbloods did not deserve to associate with the likes of the Malfoys.

Three months into the school year, they had become good friends, and no other Malfoy ever knew. He was taken to and from school by a house-elf driver who thought he was the sweetest being on earth. But one day, he was playing with Miguel in the magical slides when he spotted his father walking over to them, looking at his playmate with utmost loathing. Before he could look surprised, he was being hauled forcefully into his father’s limousine without any parting words.

That afternoon was when he got the most severe beating by far in his life, along with a long lecture and his father’s last words, which would stay with him forever.

“You are always better, Draco. Always. Remember that. If you forget, I will remind you of it.”

His father’s eyes were like his -- stormy, tumultuous gray, which darkened when he was angry and lit up when he was amused. But his father had seen much -- evil, pain, death -- and they were there, somehow, reflected beneath the gray clouds and flecks of silver dust. Though they scared him more than anything, he knew he had to obey; and he would face them if his father wanted him to.

He never played with Miguel again.

~~*~~/

iii. and went on

“What is it with you and your dad?”

He looked up from his schoolwork. Sixth year, second term, and Snape was already asking them to write an essay on the various effects of dragon’s blood when mixed with different measurements of boiled athelas.

When Ron and Harry weren’t around, she sat with him in the library, and he always forgot to remind her that being seen with her would mean instant seclusion from the Slytherins, even if all he did with her was study and sometimes make small talk.

“What’s it to you?”

Hermione shrugged. “I mean, you always say Father this and Father that, I was just curious.”

“It’s none of your business, you know, asking about my father and all. I don’t even know why you’re here. There’s lots of empty tables round there.”

He pointed, expecting her to turn and look, but instead she gave a small smile and went back to her Arithmancy charts. He sighed inwardly. There, he’d tried, and it looked like she wasn’t willing to leave this table anytime soon. But that was all right, as long as no one spied them next time she decided to ask about his father.

She had a beautiful smile, he thought; then he reinked his quill and continued his essay.

~~*~~/

iv. when he grew

He was fifteen when his father took him to Voldemort.

Or, rather, tall, thin creature with white skin, red eyes, and a colorless mouth. It was a repulsive sight; as his father had never considered his master’s looks an important matter in their dinner conversations, he had always imagined him to be a respectable-looking fellow with black hair, an evil mustache, and eyebrows that always seemed menacingly raised.

He shouldn’t have expected so much. He realized this just in the nick of time, when he felt his face being touched by shriveled fingers and his lips caught in the middle of a disgusted wince. His father was glaring at him from behind Voldemort.

“You will bring him over when he is of age?”

“Of course, Master.” Lucius made a slight bow.

Voldemort tilted his chin up, and his poor excuse for a mouth twisted into something that hardly resembled a smile. “Good. He will do well.”

“He is very excited, Master,” Lucius lied. “Just yesterday he was telling me all about--”

“Yes, I’m sure he is.” Voldemort let go of his face, and he wondered if someone with such a face could really, as he’d heard, tell if people were lying. He, in fact, wasn’t excited at all, but he dreaded it more than anything. And though he showed he was looking forward to being a Death Eater, he’d never told his father about it voluntarily, and certainly not last night.

“We will see. Once we know where his loyalties really lie, Lucius, we will do as we see fit.”

And the two were dismissed. They Flooed home, and once they were back in the comfort of their drawing room, Lucius paced back and forth, troubled.

“What’s wrong, Father?”

“It seemed he was a bit... dubious about the whole thing. About you.” He cast an unreadable glance at him and continued. “I was expecting more than a ‘we’ll see’. I was expecting an assurance. I suppose, though, that after all the others who betrayed him, it is only right that he be extra cautious.”

He was silent.

“Draco,” his father continued, “You are enthusiastic about what is in store for you, are you not? I expect...”

Expectations. I expect, I hope, I wish. But it all came back to You will. It was all about obedience, he had learned at a young age. He lived to obey. If he couldn’t, he would pretend he did. It was the only way to survive when he grasped for freedom and yet could not let go of what bound him.

He nodded. “I am, Father.”

“Good. I will be very, very happy once you are part of us. You will make me proud, son.”

And that was the first time Lucius called him son. He didn’t know what made it so hard before, why Voldemort had to be in the conversation. He didn’t know why his father never acknowledged him the way other fathers did, never called him son or Sport or some other stupid nickname. Draco was a good name, he had told him once, and he was to live up to it. Do what was expected of him.

That had always been the problem.

~~*~~/

v. and changed

Seventh year, first term. A Friday afternoon found him lounging on a blue armchair in the room he and Hermione had discovered the day before they had to part for sixth year Christmas break, figuring they couldn’t possibly hold snogging sessions in the populous astronomy tower anymore. It consisted mostly of a few tables and many chairs, and he had dubbed it the ‘sitting room’.

She was seated on a folding chair beside him, busily scribbling on a sheet of parchment, books spread out on the table before her. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, and her face was calm, being so used to work that it came as a habit. But her quill was held firmly in her hand, between her third and fourth fingers, with her knuckles jutting out in a most bizarre angle. He used to grip like that, until, to appease his father, he had turned his knuckles’ angles to curves and moved the quill a notch up.

She frowned when she noticed him looking. “What are you staring at?”

“Why, am I distracting you?” His lips curled into a half-smile.

“Draco,” she said in an annoyed tone. “Yes, you are. Aren’t you supposed to be doing your homework?”

“Talk to me. I’m bored, and don’t tell me we meet secretly just so you can do your homework.” He wiggled his eyebrows lewdly. Hermione rolled her eyes.

“I’m nearly done, and I’m not going anywhere.”

And he liked that, among everything about her. Probably, knowing the strength of his father’s ire, consorting with a Mudblood was something of a risk; but she was always there, and he had never known something this constant, something so much like a guarantee that he needed never worry it would slip out of his fingers like sand. He learned to hold on to it, even when a voice inside kept telling him to let go.

“My father wants me to go to Voldemort, you know,” he said suddenly, surprising Hermione and even himself.

She blinked successively, another of her endearing quirks; then a frown swept over her lips. “Are you?”

He shrugged. “Not much choice, is there? I either go or get Avada, or worse.”

She dropped her quill, crossing her arms over her chest. “You don’t want to go, do you?”

He thought of his father -- his father who expected so much and encouraged so little, and whose only freedom was service. Words refused to leave his lips.

“You don’t have to, Draco. Tell him you’re... going to be an Auror, and say you’ll hit the Ministry when they trust you most! Or an Unspeakable, so you’ll have so much mystery about you, your dad won’t know where to find you...” And Hermione noticed that he was silent, his eyes cast downward, with nothing to say about the matter.

“You... seriously plan to...?”

“I have no choice but obey my father.”

“But he...”

“I’m a Malfoy, I will act like one.”

“Lucius told you that.”

Of course, she was right.

“Why did you tell me this?” And she stood, eyes wandering around the room as if it held all the answers. He gazed at her, her long ponytailed hair and her flaring eyes and her pouting lips, and inside something clenched at his chest.

“I don’t know. I guess I just wanted you to know.”

“So this” -- she gestured wildly with her arms, at the chairs, at herself and him and how far it had come from enmity to friendship to what strange love he had first known -- “this won’t change things, will it? Will it, Draco?”

“I don’t change the way things have been for centuries, Hermione, and in our family no one disobeys...”

She made a sound -- tuh -- and said, “You can say no if you want to, but you don’t because you’re afraid! Do you think it’ll make you proud hearing people tell you you’re just like your father? I don’t think so.”

She sat back down on her chair with a huff and started writing again. He sat back, not knowing whether to feel ashamed, or angry, or hurt. He didn’t try to speak. And even if he did, he knew he wouldn’t have anything to say.

~~*~~/

vi. and soon became

Surprisingly, their disagreement led Hermione to spend more time with him, here and there suggesting ways on how to avoid or at least stall his admission into the Dark Lord’s Circle. It took a lot of getting used to, and by the time he went home for the winter holidays, he was confused as ever about what he was to do.

Their dinner plates were from Spain, a gift from its Minister to his grandfather a long time ago. Ornate designs of bull-riders and horses and galleons and warriors were gracefully hand-painted on the surface, and they moved around like normal Wizard pictures, doing mostly violent things. He hated them with all his might, but his father loved them and took great care of them. He and his father were just so different in some ways, and after all he had picked up, he didn’t know why.

“Draco,” Lucius started.

“Yes, Father?” A cannon came firing from one side of his plate to another, causing a splashing of blood. He moved his baked potatoes to cover the sight.

“I received a letter from Hogwarts today.” And then Lucius chewed on a small chunk of mutton chop, the grinding of his teeth timed and subtle and perfect, as he did most everything else.

“And?”

“You qualify as one of the top ten students in your graduation, which, as you know, is a great honor. But a great embarrassment if you don’t do well in your upcoming N.E.W.T.’s. You have a few days left to prepare before your summer term begins. I expect, Draco, we will have no problems?”

“No, Father. I’ll do my best.”

“We’re very proud of you, Draco,” his mother said, but his father seemed not to have heard her.

“Good. Now, graduating as one of the top students guarantees you an immediate job in the ministry.” He gave a half-laugh, half-snort, then continued: “I was planning, though, to use this position to let you into the Master’s Inner Circle instantly. What do you think of that?”

Now his parents were both looking at him for an answer. As if they were actually giving him a choice.... He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I was thinking, Father, what if I didn’t want to...”

“Want to what?” Lucius fixed his eyes upon him calmly; but they were beginning to darken, and his lips were in a tight line. His knife was poised forcefully against his precious plate, his fingers holding it in a tight grip.

“Want to... join you. Not right away, I mean...”

“Why don’t you want to join us?” And his tone was precarious, suspicious, the edge of his voice trailing off into a menacing silence.

He recognized fear in his veins when he drew a deep breath and he felt a rapid beating in his chest. It was never as raw as when he was with his father, being lectured, being taught, being threatened -- but it seemed worse now, now that he had asked to defy his father’s plans.

“I... I was thinking of joining the Ministry, as an Auror first.” He paused for half a moment, aware that that wasn’t what he’d really meant to say, but afraid to spark his father’s fury. “So I can strike when they trust me most, Father. When you think it appropriate. That way we can get the Ministry at their core, and, well. I thought I would be useful that way.”

Lucius nodded slightly -- head down, then center -- yet he still looked stern when he spoke again. “That’s a good suggestion, though I have to ask the Master about it. Draco, if you falter in any way,” -- and at this he noticed that his mother was glancing worriedly from his father to him, as if she sensed something bad was about to happen -- “you will disappoint me beyond all bounds. I trust you, and I hope you do not betray that trust.”

“Never, Father.”

They continued eating.

He saw Hermione somewhere in his mind: the fire in her eyes, the disbelieving twist of her lips, the angry curve of her fingers as she motioned.

So this won’t change things, will it? Will it, Draco?

He didn’t know.

~~*~~/

vii. no longer

He is seated on his blue armchair when she arrives. The sun is out, and the afternoon is beautiful. They would be taking a walk in the gardens, admiring the fresh blossoms, discussing life and school and how to turn spy against the Death Eaters -- if he didn’t ask her to meet here.

She smiles down at him, muted and less sincere than usual. This is the first time they meet after the holidays, and she should be happier -- but she discerns that something’s wrong. He doesn’t blame her.

“I spoke to my father about it in the holidays. You know, about my future.”

She sits quietly on her folding chair, the closest one to his. She can’t look him in the eye, as if she dreads what he’s about to say next, and ventures, “What did you tell him?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Hermione.” He sees, from the corner of his eye, her slim fingers gripping the edge of her chair. He is reminded of his father and his Spanish plates, and the way he had clutched his knife over them. But her grip has an unrestrained grace to it. She hasn’t been taught, but she has learned. He is jealous, although he knows there is really nothing he can do.

“We can’t... stay like this. Not after Hogwarts. We can’t expect to keep what we have once we go out into the real world. It’s not--”

“You’re joining them, aren’t you?”

“I--”

“Draco, I thought you didn’t want... I thought you were going to do something about it... I can’t believe you didn’t...”

His jaw drops in surprise. True, he imagined something like this to be her reaction, but for her to speak as if she had a right to say what he wanted to do in and with his life when he’d already made his decision, well. “You’re not my mother,” he says, his voice skittering over anger, a tone that he remembers his father’s to be.

“Even if I were, you wouldn’t even try to listen. You only listen to your dad, remember? Your dad who has taught you right and wrong since you were born, is that it?”

“Are you insulting my father?” He stands, indignation flooding his senses. And as she does the same, realization sweeps over her.

“You’ve never called him ‘dad’ -- it’s because he’s never been that to you.”

“You don’t know anything.”

They are nearly back to where they were before, three years ago, with acrid remarks and insults and even slaps delivered to his face. Nearly. He feels weak now, not like he used to be when he deigned to associate with her. And he can think of no more insults. He has come to know her far too much.

She speaks next in so soft a voice, he strains to hear it. “You’ll live to follow him all your life, Draco? Follow him to evil, follow him to your grave?”

His father would be proud of him and praise him and be satisfied with his only son. It would be a sin to disobey, because Malfoys live to follow and be followed, without changing the rules. That is what he has been born and raised to learn, and if he gives it up, he will be wasting everything. He asks himself, is it worth it?

He knows what his father would answer.

“This goes against everything that...” He stops midway. He doesn’t owe her an explanation, or anything besides.

“When will you learn that he doesn’t have to rule your life? You have to know how to say no, for once! You...”

“I’m Draco Malfoy!” he shouts, meaning so many things, and it’s all she needs to hear.

It’s over, then.

Perhaps it has indeed come a long way, and he doesn’t know how; but, like many other things, it no longer matters. It starts, it ends, and you try to have a good time in between: something his father said at a time he cannot remember.

Hermione backs away slowly, taking in his features, memorizing them, because she’s never going to see him this close again. There are tears rolling from her eyes -- the first time he sees her cry, and the last -- and she closes her hand over the doorknob. She turns to the door. “You’re a person, Draco,” she says, her voice laced with tears. In the next moment, she’s gone.

Her words whisper and scream and murmur and cry to his heart.

He doesn’t think they should make a difference.

~~*~~/

vii. his father’s son

Years pass in the way they nearly always do: crawling like caterpillars until you’re left wondering where they’ve all gone.

His gray eyes search the hallway as he walks, looking for room 205. It’s the largest apartment building in the London Wizarding community, and he’s heard that she stays here with a roommate, Lavender Brown. It’s Sunday morning, and Gringotts is closed -- it’s where she works, as manager or something. She’s bound to be at home. And if she isn’t, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to pluck up the courage to come here again.

When he sees the door, he straightens his robes and primly knocks three times. Nearly laughing at himself, he adds another one for good measure. His father once told him never, ever to over-knock -- three times is enough. To hell with that now.

She opens the door abruptly, and her eyes widen. She’s still the same as he remembers her to be, from that hair to those eyes. She opens her mouth, pushes her hand into her wand pocket, and says cautiously: “Come in.”

He walks in and they enjoy pleasantries for a while. She’s doing well: the goblins hold her with much respect, which isn’t too surprising. She’s recently been trying to convince a small group of them that they don’t need a sixteen-Sickle raise. She’s also working on a proposal to allow house-elves their own vaults. Just a simple job, really: work in the day and sleep in the night.

He, meanwhile.

“I’m an Auror,” he finally says, showing her his badge. She stares at it, wary, but not surprised. She must have heard about his official admission in the news already. It was too controversial for the Prophet to let go.

He thinks he can hear the questions in her mind, and so decides to answer them. “I haven’t joined Voldemort, and I’m not planning to.”

“Why should I believe you?”

When he really looks at her, for the first time in many years, he can’t read her eyes. It’s strange, like searching your cupboards only to forget what you’ve been looking for in the first place. He recalls how they used to tell him everything. Maybe it’s just been too long.

He sighs, but speaks nonetheless.

“Because I’m not about to devote my life to a skeleton frame with red eyes and slits for nostrils. Honestly, I’m better than that. And he likes touching Death Eaters’ faces, you know. I’d rather not have to sacrifice my good looks.”

She levels his gaze. His eyes are gray storm clouds and a dusting of silver and beneath that, no. A single no. There is no evil or pain like in his father’s; but there is the freedom it took so much and so long to find.

She smiles as she leads him to the kitchen for tea. It is the beautiful smile he remembers from long ago. “You’re just like your father, Draco.”

He doesn’t bother to correct her.

© 2003 by mg