Disclaimer: The character in this story are not my own. They are the property of J.K Rowling and the various entities they are liscenced to.
A/N: Lucius teaches his son something new. Kind of weird. The tense switches every once in a while. Adapted from a longer fic
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Draco Learns a Lesson
Lucius lights a cigarette and takes a long drag.
He didn't smoke, it was bad for his image with all the health boards that he was on at St. Mungo's, not to mention the segregationist groups he headed. But he could cop one of Narcissa's every now and then. She always had some around, hidden in her boudoir or the tool cupboard in the greenhouse.
He didn't smoke, but still the numerous stubs sat piled like little ashen logs in the Mediterranean glass tray on his desk. He had been under a lot of stress lately. He wasn't in the habit, no matter how elegantly the tailor-made balanced between his fingers, the smoke curling from the orange glowing tip, up around his pale face and platinum hair before it disappeared into the thick atmosphere of the room. He wasn't in the habit of hypocrisy. Muggle things appealed to him only so far as he found them useful.
He had never cared for things like blenders and lawn mowers that went about making shit loads of noise and hashing up the place with the messes they made and the inelegant way they made them. But certain things that muggles claimed as their own, a fine French silk pressed shirt with ivory buttons, a 1946 Rolls Royce Silver Wraith, a pack of fags, these things were acceptable -- these he could appreciate from time to time.
He even owned an antique Winchester that hung above the fireplace in his study. He had used it too, in the past. It brought him a sort of perverse joy to see the muggles murdered with their own crude technology. Well perverse only to those uncultured souls that could not appreciate the paradox, the poetic justice that he served out like so many slices of chilled revenge. And a rifle that size could blow a hole in one of their guts the size of a coconut. The messy deaths always had been the most effective and ultimately fulfilling. He was a collector of fine things, Lucius was. Like his father before him.
Things lined the house -- books, paintings. Some were in fact muggle. He owned authentic Victorian manuscripts, encased in protection charms in various drawing rooms around the manor. He owned an early Matisse, thought in the muggle world to have been lost to pilfering during the Second World War. Some things were great enough to transcend the line between muggle and wizard. But he gave no credit to the muggles themselves.
By a fluke they would stumble on a clever invention or a bit of brilliance in poetry and sciences, but they did nothing but waste these rare gifts. Lucius never doubted their inferiority. He meant even to prove it with their downfall. With the banishment of their progeny from the wizarding world, from complete segregation and then to the ultimate destruction of a race that was too feeble to be allowed. Survival of the fittest. It was their own scientific theory after all, Lucius reveled in the feeling, and this too would bring about their end. The destruction of those who sought to interfere with his world.
Mudbloods and muggles trying to mess with his life, asking for rights and trying to cheat the purebloods -- the real wizards -- out of their rightful share. It disgusted him to think of their meddling. Going about, thinking they're equal. "Equal to me...it cannot be allowed. It will not be tolerated. Ones without magic are lesser beings. Those with impure blood are tainted by the disastrous tendencies of muggles, and are not fit to live in this world...ignorant of the proper society, always seeking to destroy it! Falling victim to their natures...their impurity. They need to be ruled over for their own good. And they persecute us...they are a danger to society...so we must stop them before their insidious natures take hold of all of us. I hope you're taking notes Draco."
Lucius pushes the tip of his cigarette into the ashtray set at the corner of his desk and looks down at the petite blond boy sitting lazily in the chair across from the desk, obviously not paying any attention to what his father is saying.
"Oh. Yes, of course father," he drawls with a lazy yawn.
Summers always grated on Lucius' nerves. Not because of the sun -- though he preferred the mild weather of early fall, weather more tolerable on his thin, pale skin -- but because of his son. Having the boy around was something of a novelty now. Lucius barely saw him, as busy as he had suddenly become, head of a department, reappointed a governor, and of course his other job. And then Draco was away at school a full five-sixths of the year.
But when Draco was there, every moment he spent with the boy tore him to pieces. Every time he looked at him, the doubts grew, the worry worsened. Was his son capable? Was his son loyal, was his son living up to his name? Draco seemed aloof all the time and lazy, spoiled. And he should have been spoiled; he was a Malfoy. But he should not have been so spoiled that he was useless, and the more time Lucius spent with the boy, the more useless he seemed.
Draco wasn't particularly bright. Not in the ways that mattered for a life in service to the Dark Lord. Sure he got good grades, but he lacked restraint...discipline. And Lucius had done everything, short of beating it into him, to teach him these skills. Beating him was actually all there was left to do. But it was too late for that type of reinforcement. Lucius couldn't help but worry.
The Dark Lord had started to ask questions.
Why is it that all the other boys have joined my ranks...but *your* son, Lucius, you do not bring him to join me. Do you not wish for him to have the honour of serving me? Does he not wish to have this honour?
Dangerous questions.
No master. It's just I don't think he's quite ready...I'm still training him.
Well you are taking your sweet time aren't you Lucius. Perhaps I need to refresh a bit of your own training.
And then the Cruciatus burning through his ribs.
"Damnit Draco pay attention this is important!"
"But father I am."
"No. You're not."
Eyes wide as he take out his wand.
"Crucio."
And a boy on the floor, writhing in pain. That was the first time. And he's crying now. And begging.
I knew he wouldn't be able to take it. But he needs to learn.
"Finite Incantatem."
Draco lies shivering on the floor. And looks up through teary eyes at his father, questions burning in those eyes, flames of confusion and hurt, extinguished none by those heavy tears.
"You will learn just as your father and his father before him."
The eyes were the same as his. He'd never wanted his son to have his eyes. He'd never wanted to see tears sparkling like diamonds against a platinum setting. And he'd never wanted to feel those tears in his own pale eyes ever again.
"You will learn." He repeats. He stares deep into his son's gaze, searching for what? Forgiveness? Anger? Love? Respect? Fear? Draco wipes the tears from his eyes and nods slowly, painfully so. Understanding. It is there. In young eyes, bright with new knowledge of old truths.
And now we are getting somewhere.
A strained smile. A hand outstretched. The boy takes it and is lifted to his feet.
A father finds relief.
end.
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La-la-la-Lucius is a ba-ba-ba-Bastard! Ch-ch-ch-Changes... Umm...thanks for reading?
For a little Damagedn'Dangerous!Draco read Pure of Heart, Crosswinds, Spilt Milk, and esp. The Darkest Day...