A Father's Love

A father's love is one of the greatest things in the world.

A father's love is what every child wants.

My father's love is the only thing I have never had.

I love him, because he is my father, because he gave me my life. He taught me how to achieve greatness, intelligence, power; he showed me how to be a true Malfoy. I love him, because I am his son, and all sons love their fathers.

I respect him, because he commands esteem, because all who look upon him revere him. He can make your blood freeze with a glance of silver daggers, can stab into your soul with a piercing of grey eyes. I respect him, because he is powerful and cunning and all that I have ever wanted to be.

I fear him, because he is ruthless, merciless, and dangerous. He would kill anyone if they showed signs of betrayal or cowardice, I am sure of it. Even the Dark Lord fears my father to a certain extent. I fear him, because he is feared, and he is great.

I hate him, sometimes, too.

I hate him for being what he is; hate him for making me who I am.

I hate him for all those missed Quidditch games and all those times he would punish me for achieving only second ranking, for allowing a Mudblood to best me. I hate him for all those times he wasn't there to spend Yule with me, for all those times he hit me in the front parlor of Malfoy Manor while his Death Eater friends watched and laughed.

I hated their raucous mirth, their leering grins, the painful, mortifying slaps across my face and arms and back. I hated how my skin would bruise so easily into blossoming red flowers of shame, how my blood would flow so freely like rivers of red ambrosia across my white, ever-so-pale wrists and ankles, neck and chest.

I hate how he would allow them to take me in the most humiliating way possible, and how he would smirk, his thin lips curling up into a delicate smile. I hate how he never did anything to stop them, even when tears were threatening to fall from my eyes.

I hate him, because I know that, deep down inside, I still love him.

He comes to me, wrapped in the cloak of night and robes of shadow, but his skin is moonlight and his hair is starlight.

He whispers words of malice in my ear as he thrusts into me, piercing, brutal, hard.

He whispers words of love in my ear as he comes in me, warm, gentle, loving.

I say nothing, and feel nothing.

Long ago, there was a little boy who cried when his daddy first took him in the most intimate way possible.

Long ago, this little boy had hair of platinum and eyes of sapphire. Long ago, they were filled with innocent life and naïve hauteur.

Now, there is a young man with the soul of the devil, hair of the angel, and eyes of sin.

He no longer knows how to cry.

His long, elegant fingers leave lovely red roses upon my skin. There are ten of them on my shoulders - ten dappled briar patches among the snow that is my body.

His nails leave red, welting trails across my body, too many to count. They criss-cross over one another - the interwoven lines of destiny that is my twisted fate.

Come morning, he is gone.

Wounded pride keeps my company.

They call me many things.

Sweet Draco, with his voice of velvet and hair of silver, my mother's friends coo at social gatherings. Darling Draco, with his impeccable manners and beautiful robes.

Ferret-boy, Malfoy git, Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws whisper. Bloody bastard, spoiled brat, Death Eater scum!

Lovely angel, the shadows whisper as they take me, over and over again. Pretty whore, sweet dragon, beautiful child.

Lucius' son, the Malfoy heir.

Quidditch Captain, Slytherin Seeker, Potion's pet, sixth-year prefect.

Sing the song along with them, won't you?

They call me many things, but I am never just Draco Malfoy.

I am never my own man.

I tell the night about the briar patches and maze of lines that look so pretty on my pale skin. She smiles gently, her dark caresses flickering around my body.

Only the night sees my scars and my pain.

Only the moon sees my love and hate and respect for this man I call my father.

My father loves me, I whisper in my head. He loves me as much as I love him.

He is only too blind to see it.