The Prodigal Son

By Somigliana

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter Universe belongs to JK Rowling. The original characters playing in her world, however, are mine.

He stared at the door to his father's office for a moment, steeling himself for the long anticipated confrontation. He had been dreaming for a week; countless scenarios that played through his subconscious, leaving him fatigued and unsettled, despite a full night's sleep.

He caught sight of his refection in the gleaming nameplate that was mounted on the office door, and barely recognised himself. He had not seen himself wear this impassive mask in months, and its presence left him feeling resentful that his father should herald its return. He was not that man any longer—he refused to allow himself to be that man; for the sake of the woman he loved, and for his unborn son.

He raised his hand, and knocked sharply, before taking a deep breath and stepping into the proverbial lion's den. The office was as he remembered; large and ostentatious, with that life-size portrait of his father resplendent above the large fireplace. Today, the room was cast in shadows—ironically appropriate—and lit only by the amber glow from an antique lamp on the enormous desk.

His father was seated behind the desk, his chair turned slightly, so that Vincent could see only his profile, his fingers steepled below his chin. He appeared to be deep in thought, a slight frown creased his forehead, and his eyes were narrowed slightly. Vincent watched him warily for a moment, before approaching the desk with graceful, purposeful strides. "Father," he said stiffly, in greeting.

Jacques Clare turned, his face an identical, impassive mask, mirroring Vincent's expression. There was an intangible air of tension evident about him, that Vincent could not quite place, something new, that he'd never experienced with his father before. Vincent was nervous and determined to have his say, but he sensed that his father too, was uncharacteristically anticipatory of something. What, he did not know. His father stood smoothly and they shook hands formally, before each took a seat on opposite sides of the desk; a metaphorical divide that reflected their relationship to this point in their lives.

Vincent did not see any point in delaying the inevitable. At this stage, he desperately wanted to talk, leave and get back to his new life with his new family and his nascent feelings of contentment. His father beat him to the first words however.

"Your progress with the construction is going better than I ever expected, Vincent," Jacques stated neutrally, nodding his head slightly.

Vincent narrowed his eyes at the implied insult built into the compliment; that his father had not expected much. "Yes," he agreed. "Although if you had given me this responsibility years ago, you would have known what to expect." Vincent was tired of playing games. He stated his mind, and held his father's gaze.

Jacques Clare did not react with the affronted anger, or cool fury that Vincent expected. Instead, the corner of his mouth twitched with amusement. Vincent frowned, completely set off balance. His father's amused smile grew a little more, before he picked up a heavy fountain pen from his blotter and examined it closely, before gazing up at Vincent again. Jacques sighed, before he spoke softly, so that Vincent had to lean slightly forward in the chair to hear him. "There is something that I need to talk with you about, Vincent, now that you are ready to hear it."

Vincent shook his head in negation. "And what do you know of me?" he sneered, "Father." The last was exhaled with an incredulous laugh. His father did not know him, had never known him, had never pretended to want to know him.

His father's face hardened with the previously anticipated anger, and strangely, Vincent felt comforted by this—at last, a predictable reaction. Jacques Clare rose from his chair, placed his palms on the desk and leant forward, hissing, "You will listen to what I have to say, Vincent." It was not a request, and Vincent felt his hackles rise, with the familiar contempt that accompanied a visit to this office. This, this was vintage Jacques Clare, at his most intimidating.

He was about to tell his father than he would do no such thing, when Jacques Clare, sighed heavily, and sat, dropping his stony countenance, revealing depths of sadness that Vincent had never before witnessed. "Please..."

Vincent froze, his hands still on the arms of the chair—where he'd been fully prepared to push himself up and leave abruptly. He stared at his father for a moment, stunned. The range of emotion that had accompanied that single word was beyond all that he'd ever heard spoken from the man's mouth in thirty years. Vincent forced himself to relax and sit back again, if only to discover the reason for this most uncharacteristic behaviour. He folded his arms across his chest and waited.

His father nodded imperceptibly and pressed his lips together, before speaking. "I ask that you listen first and keep your reactions under control… just until I am finished," he stated. "After, you may ask or say what you will."

Vincent raised an eyebrow, surprised, but conceded. "Fine."

Jacques began, speaking in his cultured, measured tone. "I think first, you should know that what I speak of now, your mother does not know. I wish for it to remain so. She and I, we have not spoken openly in many years," he said, sighing once more.

His statement did not wholly surprise Vincent. His parents did not share a bedroom after all, and they only seemed to interact when there were other people watching. He nodded a silent agreement. By this stage, his mind was running through a million new scenarios, each completely varied from his restless nightmares of the preceding week.

"Until recently, when you discovered that you enjoyed this responsibility, and were accomplished at achieving your objectives, you did not truly seek it," his father continued speaking with a knowing smile. "And I, I did not have any reason to give it to you until a short time ago either. At least not to the son I had then."

Vincent frowned now, wanting to ask why … why would he do something like give him a vice-presidency, let him spend millions on the British branch, if it was not what he'd wanted. He opened his mouth, but Jacques held up a quelling hand, gazing intently at the empty pages of his notepad before him, almost as if he could not dare to look up and examine Vincent's reaction. Vincent sighed, wondering who the hell this man was, and forced himself to concentrate, so that he might find that out.

"I could not let a young, reckless, irresponsible man into my carefully built and maintained business. No matter that it was entirely not his own fault that he was so," Jacques stated carefully, glancing now up to scrutinise his reaction.

"Not entirely my fault?" Vincent echoed, laughing. "When you and maman left me alone with strangers for my entire childhood? Let me do as I wished? Gave me what I asked regardless?" With each short sentence, Vincent leant closer, so that he was on the edge of his chair, his eyes narrow and his tone bitter.

Jacques nodded gravely. "I am well aware of my short comings as a parent, thank you, Vincent."

"Somehow, I find that difficult to believe," he shot back. The admission was completely uncharacteristic for his father, and Vincent felt at a distinct disadvantage; his father knew something that he did not. He would never utter words like that unless he had an ulterior motive. He and maman had never taken responsibility for their terrible parenting. Why now? What the hell was going on?

He left that for the moment, and narrowed in on something his father had mentioned earlier—the inconsistency of not trusting him, yet giving him an entire branch to open. "So then why give me England? What was your point, or were you merely bored and felt like manipulating your son a little more?"

Jacques smiled enigmatically. "Eventually, I wanted to expand to Britain. But right now, my growth strategy is towards the East. If you failed in your task, it would not have been of much consequence to the company. It was a test, Vincent. One which you passed admirably, might I add. Your last chance to prove that you were worthy."

"I should be worthy no matter!" Vincent yelled, standing. His father would never know how much those words hurt.

He paced the expensive hand-woven carpet and turned, his hands held up in defeat. "A test? A test for what? To see to what extent you could control my life? Hmmm? Perhaps to see how long it would take me to crack? WHAT?"

Jacques appeared to consider his question for a moment before folding his hands together and speaking. "I wanted to see if you were capable of handling such responsibility. I wanted to see if you would ever grow up enough to run this company. That is all."

Vincent shook his head. "Why would you want to know that now? You could have done this years ago… why do you suddenly give a shit? You will be running this company for years to come. What difference does it make whether I am or not capable?"

Jacques pressed his lips together for a moment, and shook his head. "Sit, Vincent, please."

Vincent shook his head. "No. I will damn well stand if it so pleases me. You are DONE controlling my life. I am through with doing your bidding. I have had ENOUGH." Vincent could feel that his face was flushed, his repressed anger escaping now, all his frustrations flooding out.

In a smooth movement, Jacques was on his feet, his hands on his desk again, his own face contorted with… frustration? "I am DYING, Vincent."

The moment that followed seemed to stretch outwards, each man staring at the other, faces flushed and breathing heavily. Vincent struggled to absorb his father's words. Eventually, the tense silence became too heavy for Vincent to bear. "You're dying," he stated flatly, as if repeating the words would make them more real. "Wizards can heal all those genetic diseases… prolong life." He shook his head, unsure of what his father was on about.

Jacques sat heavily and rubbed a hand over his face. "The Healers cannot cure this." He gestured to the chair. "Sit."

Vincent moved back to his chair in a daze. He didn't really know what to think anymore. He was struck with a sudden dread that it was some disease that would affect his son. "What is it?" he demanded. He didn't know how his father expected him to react… embrace him and weep. No, there was too much bitterness that remained for that. Vincent did not know if he could forgive quite so easily.

"AIDS," his father said. "The one disease that the Healers cannot fix. The HIV virus is resistant to magic. Ironic, no?"

Vincent stared at his father, confused. "Where the hell did you get the virus from?" The implications flooded his mind—there was only one way really… and there were prophylactic spells that were most effective at preventing just that.

Jacques laughed, a hollow, defeated sound. "Where you caused scandal with your string of affairs, I was more discreet. A Muggle Courtesan."

Vincent shook his head, unable to believe that his father had been so meticulous in all areas of his life, but so careless with this. "You cheated on maman, with a Muggle whore?" he asked in disbelieving tones. "And you did not use the spell?"

Jacques' shoulders seemed to droop a little and he looked very old, and very tired suddenly. "Once," he said softly. He sighed heavily. "It should not surprise you that I cheated on your mother though; she's a complete bitch, did you know that?"

Vincent had to laugh. "You have only just realised that now?" he asked sarcastically.

"I have realised a great many things recently," Jacques said. "When faced with death, one sees very clearly. I knew that you would not listen, had I merely called you in and told you. You had to see for yourself, of what you are capable. You had to choose the path for yourself."

"Deftly manipulated by yourself, of course," Vincent said sharply. "Do you expect me to forgive you, father? After all these years of disregard?"

Jacques looked at Vincent with infinitely sad eyes. "It is my most desperate hope," he said softly.

Vincent shook his head. "I do not know if I can do that." His whole life had been dictated by this man, and now that he was dying, he wanted absolution. Vincent sighed. "I do not know if I can forgive the past so easily. You were a horrible father. I will never…"

"I see now, that you are a good man, Vincent. You will be a good father to your son," Jacques said.

"I beg your pardon?" Vincent asked, frowning. "How did you know…"

Jacques gave him that penetrating look. "I have had somebody watching you since you moved to England. How else would I know what you had been up to?" he asked simply. "I know all about your lover… Echo, and the son that she carries."

"You had me FOLLOWED?" The angry and betrayed feeling returned. "How could you violate my privacy like that? Violate Echo's privacy like that?"

Jacques shrugged. "Because I could."

As simple as that. Because he could. Vincent could see that his father was just the same still. Dying perhaps, but still the same callous bastard, caring only for his precious business.

Standing once more, Vincent shook his head. "You may see clearly now, father. But you have not changed."

"I never said I had," Jacques said simply.

"What do you want from me?" Vincent asked. "Besides my forgiveness," he sneered.

Jacques stared at his blotter for a moment again, before answering. "I want you to take my company when I die, and continue its legacy. I want to meet my grandson before I die. And I want some peace and quiet, away from your harridan mother."

Vincent opened his mouth to speak, and Jacques cut him off again. "Do not say anything further. Think on what I have said."

Vincent felt exhausted suddenly and shrugged. He was tired of arguing, tired of his father's revelations of manipulation. Right now, he just wanted to leave, and never return.

"I will see you and Echo at the party tonight, Vincent. Watch out for your mother, she is keen for your blood after you dropped your owl in with the news that you would not take Genevieve tonight. You might do well to warn Echo as well."

Without a word, Vincent turned to walk to the door. He couldn't think straight anymore. He was angry, disappointed, shocked, bitter, and at a loss. He opened the door, and stepped into the reception area, his eyes searching for Echo.

A/N: A quick context: Vincent is a French wizard in his early thirties; the son of immensely wealthy parents, who was completely spoiled and emotionally neglected as a child. Until recently, he led an irresponsible life, partying his way through Europe. He moved to England and was tasked with opening a new branch of the family business. He met and fell in love (for the first time) with Echo, an orphan witch who grew up in Eastern Europe--a body modification artist. He has changed from the arrogant, impassive man, and is just learning who he is. Echo is pregnant with his son. He is meeting with his father in Paris, before his mother's birthday party, to tell him that he no longer wants to be controlled and manipulated.