Rigid
By: epiphanies
Draco Malfoy walked lazily into his father's study. He had never done that before. Walked into his father's study, sure. Walked lazily, sure. But not both. Never both. No, when he walked into his father's study, he always had to have a straight back. Perfect posture. And thin, cruel lips, so that he could prove to his father that he simply didn't care.
Care about what, it didn't matter. Just simply didn't care was all that Lucius had ever been bothered about.
It had started when Draco had turned three, and his cousin Malicia had grabbed his toy wand away from him. He had cried.
But, as Lucius taught him later that evening, Malfoys do not cry. For anything. Ever.
Malfoys do not cry when their toys are stolen from them. Malfoys do not cry when they are rejected by the Boy Who Lived. Malfoys do not cry when they are not chosen for the house Quidditch team in their first year, like one Harry Potter had. Malfoys do not cry when they don't get their own way. Malfoys do not cry when they break an arm. Malfoys do not cry when Dumbledore outwits them. Malfoys do not cry when their house loses the House Championship. Malfoys do not cry when muggle-born witches do better at them in every exam at school. Malfoys do not cry when they get slapped straight on the cheek by a raw, pink, raging hand. Malfoys do not cry when their fathers are taken to Azkaban.
So. Draco didn't cry.
Draco wasn't crying. Not as he found out his father had been caught. Not as he found out that his mother was under deep suspicion. Not as he found out that the Manor could be taken away from their family to which it had belonged in over seven hundred years. Not as he walked into the Manor, which was still his and vowed would be his. Not as he, for the first time, walked lazily into his father's study.
He cocked his head as he leaned on the doorframe, staring at every inch of the room that epitomized his father.
Ancient portraits. Family trees. Ink bottles. Vials with unknown potions in them. Shackles. Knives, swords, daggers. Tapestries. The Hand of Glory, which Draco had wanted when he was twelve, and his father had bought for himself, not allowing Draco to touch. Scrolls of parchment strewn everywhere, with seemingly nothing written on them. However, Draco knew better that they were written in invisible ink.
Everything in the study was his father's life.
Draco took notice, not for the first time, that there wasn't a single photo in the room. There wasn't a single picture, not of Lucius, not of his parents, not of his wife, and not of his only child.
Draco had never been surprised at this fact. He had never felt remorse or resentment to this fact.
Draco sat down in his father's dragon hide chair and threw his feet up onto the enormous desk.
He stared into the fireplace, which crackled suddenly into merry flames with his glance.
Draco sometimes wondered what his father did in this room. Did he talk to his fellow Death Eaters? Did he ever speak to the Dark Lord directly? Was he an important Death Eater? Did any one of them look up to his father? Idolize his father?
They surely don't now, Draco thought bitterly, unsure of his feelings about that fact, Surely now they are laughing, and saying "What a fool, that Lucius Malfoy, he got himself caught."
He'll break himself out soon. Who knows, maybe he's out already. Maybe he's walking up these stairs right now, his hair perfectly blonde and in place, with his back rigid and straight. Like he taught me to walk.
Draco stood from the chair, and looked around him once more.
His father would re-enter his study yet. And when he did, he would know that Draco had been sitting in his chair with his feet up.
Whether or not to be afraid of this fact, Draco didn't know.
All he knew was that, pride or anger, whichever Lucius felt, however he decided to punish his son...
He would not cry.