Through a Son's Eyes

Through the Son's Eyes

My father is corrupt and my mother is shallow, or so the general populace would love everyone to think. They don't live with us, and the use of our preference to purebloods tends to taint our family wherever we go. I would like them to come, spend a day with us someday, and see what we are. I would like them to watch my mother and my father especially for when we are a family in our own home with nothing but house elves by our side, they aren't what the media makes us out to be, or even how we conduct ourselves outside of our home.

My parents are always awake before I am. I am not sure when they wake, but I do know that I am not allowed to sleep past eight on weekdays and nine on weekends unless it is Christmas holiday, then I can sleep in however late I want, which is rarely past eleven. They always have breakfast together, and when I come into the kitchen, they are still at the breakfast table that is used only for breakfast. Father is always glancing over The Daily Prophet and Mother is always sipping at her tea and always greets me with a smile and a kiss to the cheek even if I try to squirm from it. I always give the excuse that I am a Malfoy and I must act dignified, and then she always reprimands me that it is dignified to accept a morning greeting from one's mother.

Then Dobby brings me whatever breakfast Marelle has made. We tend to ignore his presence unless he makes it know, then Father reprimands him, threatening to give him a sock, and Dobby always complies right away. Then after my breakfast, I excuse myself to go and do whatever I wish within the limitations of our house rules. I am not allowed to do whatever I want as most people believe, nor am I hurt when I misbehave. If anything, I used to be spanked when I was very young, but now they send me to my room without my Quidditch magazines.

Yet, what no one understands the most is why my parents are together. There is always someone somewhere that thinks they're unhappy, that it's a marriage of convenience, and Father is a tyrant in our home. Never once has my father struck my mother. They aren't giggly lovebirds - thank God - but the last thing he is abusive. It's true that outside of our home he isn't that nice to people, and personally they do give him reason to be, but he isn't with Mother. He treats her almost as though she will break and when it gets too much, she'll be cross with him, but he doesn't hit her or hex her or whatever they say he does.

When they are together, they are quiet. My mother's nose isn't turned up as everyone says and Father doesn't look like he has a bad headache or is too above everyone. Their faces are relaxed and their favourite place to be is in a back room with a marble fireplace and two high-backed Victorian chairs that have been in our family for centuries. They sit a few metres apart and do their own thing. Father works on whatever he has brought home from the Ministry and Mother reads books from our personal library. They sit like that from after supper until long after I'm supposed to be asleep. I hear them come up the stairs quietly and shut their door quietly. They're always quiet with each other, but it's not a strained quiet. When we visit the Parkinsons over winter holidays that is when silence is strained. Like my father and my mother, Pansy's parents were a forced marriage, and the strain is always there. If two people that are more incompatible were to marry and stay together for their own selfish reasons, I hope never to meet them. It's insufferable to go to their house each holiday, and I loathe each visit.

I'm rarely with them for lunch. I must admit that I prefer to stay in my room and work on whatever I wish. Mostly I think about Quidditch and how to be faster and try to sharpen my skills to become the best Seeker at Hogwarts. Even if Potter isn't Seeker for the rest of our years, I will still lead Slytherin to victory over Gryffindor always. Next year Slytherin will win!

However, sometimes I have lunch with them. When I do, it is at our breakfast table mostly only Father is not behind The Daily Prophet and Mother doesn't give me a kiss. That is when they talk, or at least when I see them talking. Father always floos home for lunch unless he has a business luncheon. When I was very little, I asked Mother why he bothered. Father is a very important man, so why would he sacrifice time at work just to come home for a half an hour? She told me that he used to ever since they were married, long before I was born. It is their special time, and that is why I rarely take lunch with them.

Father comes home from work at five-thirty every day, except for Sundays in which he comes home at two-thirty instead. Usually Mother has forced me into spending time outside of my room with her I take tea with her around four and then I try to escape when Father comes home, but that is my time to stay and "interact" with them until supper at six-thirty. I used to count the hours until he came home, even though we never really "interacted" as Mother calls it. Now he tries to ask me questions and tries to make some sort of conversation. He always asks about school, but that most likely is because I'm not home all the year anymore. I must admit it's rather annoying. Yet, I suffer through it and then we take our supper in the dining room. When we have guests, Father sits at the head of the table and Mother at the end, and then I sit wherever I am required to, however, when it is just us, Father sits at the head and Mother sits to his left and me to his right.

They usually continue whatever conversation they started when he comes home. Mostly it's about whatever happened at the Ministry. Lately Father has begun to complain about the Weasel's father, but nothing too repetitive. Tonight he recounts how the Ministry received another paranoid call from Moody, an old man who's gone absolutely nutters. Mother remarks that he was always nutters and he's always going on about something. Today it was about three cats that were on his fence together. He warned them about some omen with black, grey, and white cats sitting in a row. Father says its rubbish and I'm inclined to agree, but Mother argues that a possible omen must always be taken with a grain of salt. Father considers it and I roll my eyes. It's just Moody! A crazy eccentric!

Father says that he doesn't know and he won't speak anything more on the topic. Mother accepts this and then changes the subject. Now she's telling him about how we're going to see Pansy's family in a few days. She's wondering if we should bring a chicken, a duck, a goose, or turkey with us. Mother is always bringing something. Last year we brought blackberry and current pies. Father decides on duck in a simple answer, and then Mother asks how many and he says one per person, then she goes to leave and tell our house elves, but then he grabs her hand and guides her back down. Then he gives her the briefest of smiles and she returns one that lasts a bit longer. That's as romantic as they get, either that or they're sparing me, but I doubt that.

Then supper ends and I go upstairs, glancing over my shoulder as they disappear into their special room, Mother carrying a worn copy of some book Grandmother used to read, and Father has his bag.

Just an average day in our house, I guess.

The End