Title: To Overcome
Pairing: Harry Potter x Lucius Malfoy, mentions of Draco Malfoy x Blaise Zabini, and some mentions of Narcissa Malfoy x Lucius Malfoy
Rated: M for various sexual themes
Summary: Lucius Malfoy finds himself at a crossroads a year after the war. He doesn't know who or what he is anymore, and unwanted attention from Harry Potter makes finding himself all the more difficult.
Disc: Not my men
Notes: A good chunk of this story is already written. It's gigantic so I thought it'd be best to carve it up into chapters.

(*) Chapter 1 (*)

"Father?"

Lucius looked up from his book at the figure of his son standing in the door way to his study. "Yes Draco?" There was some hesitation in his son, he saw from the way he shifted in his position to the way he tugged on his sleeves- it was as if he was eleven again, rather than eighteen. "Is there something the matter?"

"Well… yes. Father, you rarely go out anymore. Everyone keeps asking me where you've been, why you've hauled yourself up in the manor like a hermit."

He sat his book down as he looked up at his son from his position sitting at his desk. He saw that his son meant him no harm, his question was one of concern over his well being rather than one trying to prod an answer out of him. "I have no reason to go out, Draco. My reputation is beyond destroyed through prison and bad decisions, my closest friend is dead, my other associates are dead or in prison, and quite frankly I have no desire to explain myself or my actions to others. I will remain here. Like a hermit as you so kindly put it."

"But you need to get out! It's not healthy." He protested. "Please reconsider, even if it's only as a favor to me. You could take a class-"Draco bit his lip in anticipation. His father had been through so much in the past few years, jail, the dark lord, and now finally his own exile. He recalled the jokes leveled at him during his sixth year at Hogwarts about his father and what they did to attractive men in prison. They made him sick, and they weren't funny.

Lucius gave him a cross look. "What type of class would I take Draco, do tell. Knitting, mayhap? I could make you a sweater."

"You know father, you're impossible sometimes." Draco tossed down a scroll on to the desk. It rolled out over Lucius's book, advertising a wide variety of different courses being offered by the ministry. "At least pretend to look at it."

The older man sighed, looking down at the scroll and the wide variety of different subjects offered on advanced education. It was a garden variety of various topics, ranging from simply hobbies to college level lectures on topics not covered in depth by the wizarding schools. One however, did stick out in his mind. He made an interested noise, gathering the scroll in his hands. "Painting." He said out loud. "Maybe I'll take this painting class."

"In all seriousness, father?"

Lucius nodded. "Of course. I've painted before, some of them hang downstairs. They're just landscapes, but I did enjoy making them. There's something rather peaceful about it. Maybe I will try this one. Does that soothe your troubled thoughts, Draco?"

"It does!" Draco brightened instantly. Lucius was going to try and go out again, that was more than enough for him. "You'll have to let me know how it goes."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll get an earful."

(*)

Lucius felt a nervous lump form in his throat. He stared at the door to the studio, his hand trembling as he reached for the door knob. He jerked it back suddenly as his finger tips barely grazed the metal, acting like he was burned. He stepped back, frowning. If he turned back now, Draco would make sure he'd be marched right back into the studio. It was best to just do this on his own or risk never hearing the end of it. He swallowed hard, taking a step inside.

He was greeted by the sudden rush of smells, paints, varnishes, and other supplies. It was oddly welcoming in it's own way. He glanced around at the witches and wizards making up the body of the class. There were only a few of them, which was fine. Every one of them though was doing their hardest to show him that he wasn't welcome there. He swallowed taking an unoccupied easel by the door, noting his fellow classmates all moved one space away from him. He glanced longingly at the exit.

"Ah, welcome Mr. Malfoy. My name is Jackson Kline, artist and wizard. We've just begun. We were wondering if you were going to join us or not. We've been watching your feet pace outside of the door for the better part of ten minutes."

Lucius kept his jaw clenched painfully shut.

"Admittedly when I saw your name on the roster, I wasn't sure of what to think." Kline began as he leaned against his battered desk. "And I'm pretty sure you heard the uniform shift to the right everyone's done away from you."

He felt his cheeks burn, but played it off as nothing. He nodded, feeling worse than he did when he was a first year at Hogwarts, knowing well that this was the type of scrutiny he was trying to avoid by staying put in the manor. His grey eyes flitted over to the others in the class, wondering who they were and if he had any contact with them. He doubted it, if they were in his social circle they were either dead or in prison. His sights firmly set on his stocky, balding instructor again; he waited impatiently to hear what he could possibly say next.

"Then I remembered something important. To be a great artist, there's a level of personal trauma that's needed. Trauma, rage, frustration, anger, lust- dark feelings are better vehicles for art than positive ones because they are raw. Art should be raw. It should be powerful. When you look at it, there should be no appraisal of what is nice, it should draw you in because there's real meaning behind it. With two terms as a deatheater, one stay in a nefarious prison, and other dark deeds behind you, I want to see what you're capable of as an artist."

Lucius looked up at Kline, feeling the pressure already. So far, he was having a wonderfully miserable time. Apparently the instructor considered him to be a tortured painter and the rest of the class hated him already. Five minutes had passed and every possible negative outcome had already been reached. He wasn't sure if it could possibly get any worse.

"Your first assignment is a quick one. Paint how you feel. It doesn't have to contain any recognizable imagery. I want you to put your feelings on the canvas."

He blinked stupidly at the instructor, unsure of where to even begin. He had only painted landscapes before. How do you paint feelings anyway? With a small sigh he began to create his pallet of colors to work with, fiddling idly around with his brush. If Draco was still getting an allowance, he would have revoked it. Though, he could always retroactively charge him for forcing him out here. An annoyance fee was a brilliant way to get back at him for his current position. "Oh father, take a class. It'll be wonderful." He muttered to himself, sitting in a room where everyone was still doing their damndest to shun him.

Lucius pushed the color around on his pallet, his fingers hesitating to do anything. It felt like ages before he lifted it to the canvas, creating a long thick line. Did that constitute as a feeling? He snorted at the absurdity. His shoulders slumped in a defeated gesture, glancing to what his fellow classmates were doing- at least what he could see from his position. They chattered endlessly about this and that, how excited they were to be in a class with Jackson Kline, and what their emotions meant to them. It was all so inane. He shook his head, his eyes back on the canvas with his one painted line. As if anyone of them knew what it was like to feel, or what their feelings were doing to him.

Everything was stupid, this class was stupid, and his fellow students were stupid. Painting emotions was stupid. Why should he even bother to try? He picked up his brush again, stabbing, swiping, and slashing at the canvas until he had covered it in haphazard strokes of various dark colors. When he was completed, he gave it a flippant look. He painted how he was feeling, and the irony that it did reflect what he felt inside was not lost on him. Lucius sat back on the wooden stool, a smug look on his face. If he got thrown out of the class, Draco couldn't say a damned word about him not returning. He reached down for the leather bag containing the painting supplies he brought with him, grabbing his pallet knife. His nimble fingers unscrewed the handle from the metal part, and with a quick jab stabbed the canvas. He made a sizeable hole in it, using the tool to make a large gash from the middle down to near the frame.

The sudden sound caught people's attentions as they slowly started peering over in his direction. Kline walked over to him, his paint stained robes dragging on the floor as he went.

Lucius cleared his throat before speaking- making sure to drone the happiness at his potential departure from this class out of his voice. "Clearly I'm emotionally disturbed. Maybe even dangerous. I should probably just go for everyone's sake. You can throw me out, you won't hurt my feelings. I won't even ask for my money back! You can keep it- as a donation to the arts."

Kline looked at the canvas, with the deep cuts, and the pallet knife sticking out at the bottom for quite some time. "You are emotionally disturbed. But that's why you're in this class. Keep up the good work- it's not boring and I want to see what's inside of the soul of a man like yourself. You're a fine addition to this class." Kline left his side, and Lucius's mouth hung open for just a brief second. He quickly shut it as it was not proper, scowling inwardly.

It was at that point that the other students in the class drifted on over, crowding around Lucius and his easel. He heard them murmur "He's tortured inside, maybe it's remorse" "I bet that's his inner child, speaking to him- acting out in rage and suffering" and finally "simply brilliant". If there was room for Lucius to shove his head through his gouged out canvas, he would have. Had everyone gone mad? He painted streaks all over a canvas then destroyed it. He just shook his head slowly, going about cleaning his tools.

(*)

Draco waited on the steps for his father to come out of his class, checking the time on the clock in the center square every couple of seconds. Finally, he saw the familiar tall, elegant figure of his father flanked by a few other students in his class.

"And the way you slashed at the canvas? Was it an extension of your own grief?"

"Yes. Grief." Lucius said flatly. He looked around to the other students, annoyed with their sudden interest in him, when only moments before they hated him. "I am tortured inside." He said equally as flat as his previous comment.

"It must have been a relief to put that pain elsewhere, rather than letting it build up inside…"

"Like letting all the air out of a balloon." He muttered and saw Draco waiting for him. "Excuse me, there's my son. I need to go-"

"Does he know of your inner turmoil and suffering?"

"Oh, if he doesn't- he will be made aware of it very soon." Lucius grumbled and pushed away from them. He grabbed Draco's arm, ushering them both rapidly down the stairs.

"Father! You have friends again!" Draco smiled at him. "Did they like your art? What did you paint? Tell me all about it!"

Lucius's upper lip twitched. "If you weren't 18, I would ground you." He grumbled, and aparated back to the manor with a loud pop. He heard Draco disapparate behind him. He kept up a swift pace, not really wishing to speak to Draco at the moment.

"It couldn't have been that bad!"

"Quite the contrary, I'm afraid. It was apocalyptic." Lucius quickened his pace, their movements down the long hallways of the manor magnified.

"Father, you're being dramatic."

"Sometimes the truth is dramatic!" He said rather shrilly as he turned around to look at Draco. "They think I'm some sort of 'tortured' artist who may or may not be 'emotionally disturbed'. For the first part of the class, they hated me. But once Kline said my work was good? They all wanted to ask me questions about my 'insanity'."

"…What in Merlin's name did you paint?"

"Oh it was simply idiotic!" Lucius moaned and sat back into the chair in his study. "The instructor wanted us to paint our feelings. Obviously he had no idea that purebloods do not express feelings especially in an art class, in public of all things."

"So you didn't paint anything then?" Draco sat down in the chair, confused and slightly crestfallen.

"Well no, I did paint. I splattered paint all over the canvas, and stabbed holes in it. I was hoping they thought I was deranged so they would kick me out. But as fortune refuses to shine on me, they think I'm sort of demented, tortured artist of all things. They like me."

Draco blinked. "Father, that's a good thing. The demented, tortured artist thing maybe not so much- but you can go to that class, and feel like you're not being judged. This is a chance to make yourself at home again in normal life! You should be happy."

"I should be mortified, and I am." Lucius shook his head. "I'm not going back there." Once the words had tumbled out of his lips, he saw the disappointed look on his son's face. "You can't expect me to go back there. It's humiliating! I'm not "demented" and I'm not "tortured"! I refuse to play the part. …Oh, please. Must you look at me like that?"

"One more class! If it's not any better, then you don't have to go. It would look bad if you never showed up again. It would look like… well… you're a coward, father."

Lucius cringed at the word. He stared at his son, who refused to back down. He let out a slow, frustrated sigh. Draco was only trying to help him. His son, whose life Lucius had influenced in all the wrong ways, was trying to help him be happy. Guilt overwhelmed him, and he fought to keep his face neutral. He knew, but would never admit, that he could deny Draco nothing. "Very well, Draco. One more class."

(TBC)