This is a response to the prompt "You sit in that chair like it's a throne, but you don't even rule yourself."I obviously don't own Harry Potter or anything like that. Please feel free to read and review, I'd appreciate it.
Seated at the edge of my bed, I stared at my hands. My pale, perfect, slim, soft, manicured and pampered hands. They were perfect. Not a single blemish in sight.
I had always taken pride in my appearance. Anyone who met me would be able to say as much. Never to be found was a hair out of place, a wrinkle in my clothing, a robe unfitting. My nails were always filed, hair trimmed, accessories perfectly tailored to me by professionals. In appearance, my hands were no different.
How could things so beautiful be so deceiving?
To think that such hands had held a wand to the great Dumbledore, forcing him to stay in place as I mustered up the courage to kill him, was unbelievable. I didn't actually kill him, of course, but I knew I was the one who allowed it to happen. Then again, I also knew that technically I didn't bear the full blame.
Bringing myself back to the present I could do nothing but watch as my right hand crept along the sleeve of my left arm, the cloth finally crumpling up at the elbow to finally reveal my greatest shame and flaw, and the reason for my attempt at murder.
The dark black ink snaked beneath my skin to form a gruesome skull, its maw gaping open and a serpent crawling out, forming a figure eight before extending its own mouth, poisonous fangs on display.
My fingers -damn those fingers., those "perfect" fingers- traced over the mark tattooed into my skin. If it hadn't been for that mark, I wouldn't revile my hands so much.
The dark mark, the mark of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, required that I followed my so called "Master's" orders., which in turn required that I kill Dumbledore. What used to be perfect forearm turned loathsome in my mind, and it had the gall of spreading its repugnance to my hands.
I would never have taken the mark of my own volition. I knew that it was a mistake on my father's part to ever follow the Dark Lord, and I never intended to make the same mistake.
But then he came back, brought back by a mere rat, and my father enslaved himself to the man all over again, and decided to sell me into his service as well. I had no choice - it was join or die, along with the rest of my family. And family was everything back then. So I took the mark, and immediately afterwards I was charged with the single most difficult task I could be given.
I was to kill Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.
My father did nothing. My mother could do nothing, as she didn't hold much worth in the Dark Lord's eyes.
And so I tried. During all of my free time in sixth year, I worked on killing Dumbledore and repairing one of the vanishing cabinets out of a pair.
When the day came, I couldn't do it. I hesitated, and Severus swooped in and did the deed himself.
If I hadn't disarmed Dumbledore, no, if I hadn't accepted the Dark Lord's order, no, going further back, hadn't taken the mark, I wouldn't be tainted today.
But it wasn't my fault. I didn't insist on taking the mark. It had been my father to doom me to be like this.
Lucius Malfoy.
My eyes lifted from the mark on my arm as I heard a slight popping sound before me, and I saw a house elf standing before with trembling ears.
"Master Draco, Gizzy is being here to says master Lucius is wanting Master Draco in his office," it squeaked before quickly disapparating with another pop.
I couldn't stand the thought of him summoning me after what he had done. I stood, eyes narrowed, wand tucked in sleeve, intent on seeking him out now that I had ascertained that the only reason I was no longer perfection was his fault.
My robes fanned out behind me as I stalked through the halls, ignoring the magnificence and riches I was accustomed to around me. Within minutes I was standing before his office door, and without pausing to take a breath, I shoved it open, not bothering to knock. Something which was taboo in this house. One never knows what one will find behind closed doors.
When the door slammed open, my father was revealed sitting behind his desk, head raising in disbelief that anyone would enter without permission. I advanced until I was a few feet away from his dark mahogany desk, my eyes never leaving his face, assessing his reaction.
His eyebrows lifted along with his head for a moment in muted shock before smoothing out, a sneer taking their place. His upper lip curled back in disdain as he spoke.
"You would charge into my office like an insolent child? How is an immature boy like you supposed to serve our lord?" He inquired, leaning back and crossing one ankle over the knee of the other leg, a hand lifted so his fingers rested on his lips.
"You would summon me after what you did? How is someone less than a man supposed to be a father?" I retorted, my face taking on an expression similar to his before I realized what I was doing. Everything I had, from my belongings to my personality, was his. It was repulsive. Nonetheless, it would have to do for now. I couldn't change myself in the spur of the moment based off emotion; I'd be less confident in my actions, being so unused to new mannerisms.
I didn't allow him time to speak before continuing.
"Did you realize the mistake you made when you accepted the dark mark all those years ago? When you sold your son into the servitude of a madman? How about when you forced him to choose potentially dying at the hands of a man who had killed hundreds, or one of the greatest wizards of all?"
I stepped forward, leaning my weight on the pads of my fingers, which now rested on the smooth surface of the desk.
Lucius looked shocked that I'd have the gall to confront him. After all, I had always been a suck up. If I recall correctly, my most used sentence was "My father will hear about this!" when I was a kid.
"You doomed me to a life I would have never chosen. Even when Voldemort is gone, I will still be reviled, not only by others, but also by myself. Will I ever be able to get a job? Continued education? Or will I be forced to live off your blood money?"
Breathing deeply, I lifted my wand. "Tell me, do you regret any of it?"
Lucius replied instantly, expression indignant, obviously believing I would never use my wand on my father. "I regret nothing." His hand drifted down to his armrest, drumming softly as if bored.
I smiled without humor. "You sit in that chair like it's a throne, but you don't even rule yourself." With my last words to him, I knew I would ensure I deserved my self-disgust; I did to my father as I didn't do to the headmaster.
…
"Avada kedavera."