Disclaimer: I do not own, purport to own or have any ownership claim to JK Rowling's Harry Potter.
*************************************************************************************************************************
'His son, his heir, his pride?'
The flickering of the firelight mirrored the myriad of emotions that flitted across his face as he rested, sipping his brandy, allowing his thoughts the rare liberty of wandering as they chose.
'Pride'
It was a word that had first haunted, and now troubled the great man. And there was no doubt that he was a great man. When his father had died the family fortunes, whilst not dire, certainly were not of the level required to influence and attract those with power. It took greatness indeed to achieve what he had in such sort a space of time.
'Power.'
It had been the search for power that had first been the engine that drove him to those unpleasant acts. At the time both he and Severus had agreed that these had been drastic, but necessary. They were not meant to be prolonged, not meant to become the norm. They had been isolated necessary evils, though over time their infrequency turned to become almost scheduled appointments that could be pencilled into the social diary of the week.
'Guilt?'
If justification was conferred purely by results he would not have those occasional twinges of guilt. For the result of that campaign of terror had brought him what he had sought. Although he could not help but wonder if he would have desired these same results had he known then what he knew now to be the true cost of his power.
'Fame.'
Really, if he was honest, he knew that the real driver for him had not been the power, but pride. Not familial pride, as he could see radiating in his son's eyes, for the house of Malfoy before him had had a distinguished history but had not been one of the overly noted elder wizarding families. The fame, or more accurately, notoriety, that kept the family at the forefront of wizarding affairs today had been of his making.
The attention now lavished on him was beyond his control now; he had craved the spotlight but now its light shone when he wished to retire from it, tarnished his son's name before the child could even establish his own personality.
'Draco, my son, my heir, my pride?'
Draco had been a spoilt child, no doubt, for he was the only one on whom Narcissa and he could lavish affection without it being questioned. Yet every temper tantrum made the headlines and was recorded for posterity in the social pages of the major papers. At the time it had seemed insignificant; other people's opinions had no impact within the walls of Malfoy Manor. And almost no-one foresaw the detrimental impact they might have.
'Poison.'
The damage only became apparent as the boy started school, not amongst the Slytherins of course, but with the other children. Ravenclaws had been traditional allies of those of Slytherin house, not caring about snobbish attitudes if their intellectual capacity could be matched. But with Draco they took exception. Too often had he been held up in their households, over breakfasts or evening teas, as an example of the worst sort of child. He had been judged and condemned before ever speaking a word to them.
True, his attitude had been designed from the outset to upset and ward off unsuitable companions. However, the present situation where Draco could not call or even look to those outside his house for friends was, to put it plainly, quite sad.
This isolation that the House of Slytherin was now in had not always been the case, and was disturbing. These results were not what had been intended, in fact to this day were fought against. Snape, for all the doubts about his loyalties, was at least trying to bridge the gaps and gain his son allies, which, as the times began to darken, would provide a vital lifeline should his son need it.
'Should my son need it.'
Funny, the twists and turns your mind can take when you give it free reign.
In the presence of Voldemort, in front of his wife and other dark revellers there was never the question of doubt as to where his loyalties, and by natural extension, those of his son, lay. In front of the fireplace with no threats apparent he could relax somewhat and consider scenarios that could not and should not be reasoned through in the presence of others.
'Decisions.'
The choices that his son faced now on when and whether to enter the Deatheaters were not the same as his own considerations. When his decision was taken there was a blank slate as to what the Deatheaters were to be. There had been no killings no blood, wizarding or mudblood, spent, and though few would believe them now, it had not been the intention to maim, torture, kill and begin a civil war.
'Pride'
It had been about regaining pride. Of reasserting and emphasizing the traditions that he had been brought up to hold dear. About highlighting and proving the divisions and order within the wizarding community and preserving the old titles.
At first the collusions and support from the group had been enough. Doors were nudged open, not broken. People were persuaded. Pride began to be restored, ideas and ideals began to gain credence. Successes built upon successes but the rate could not be maintained and slowly but surely resistance in parts of the Ministry was met. Initially it could be combated with more emphatic persuasion, more cunning and guile, but soon a wall was hit. The doors to the upper reaches and thus to the ears of the leaders started to close. An impasse that could not be argued around.
Voldemort had seen this before the rest of them. Until then, amongst the upper echelons of the group the system had been of 'primus inter pares'. No-one dominated all the group members, factions existed with slightly differing aims. The Dark Lord truly earnt his leadership at this point, having understood that this was no longer a strategic game of chess where moves alternated. Already his mind was set on all out war with those who opposed us, whilst the rest of us were still strategising around the situation. He had by now turned his mind to war, and outmanoeuvred us all by being prepared mentally for the steps that needed to be taken.
'Revolution.'
With the benefit of hindsight perhaps it is obvious that that would be where our actions took us. Indeed, my son, the children of other Deatheaters, and almost everyone outside of the circle believe this to be the case.
The truth is often very different to general belief.
I did not join the Deatheaters to cause revolution. Revolution was the opposite of all my beliefs. I did not believe in discontinuity, indeed the discord caused by the sudden and overwhelming influx of the mudbloods into our society formed a major root in my thinking. The adjustments, the abandonment of so many of our traditions to accommodate them, a sense of shame that their presence caused to us, we who had had no part in their historical persecutions but were being made to pay the price of the prejudices of our antecedents.
'Mudbloods.'
These symptoms that I saw and still see caused by the rushed incorporation of these strangers in our community, angered me. It formed the basis of my dislike of them, reinforced by the anecdotes I heard from others that convinced me of their stupidity and inability to assimilate into our culture. My outrage was further compounded by the indignity of our ways being subjugated to theirs, of their rights taking precedence over ours.
'Betrayal.'
Perhaps all this in itself would have been bearable if I had seen those whom I respected put up more of a fight and argue for our way of life with some passion. But I saw nothing, heard nothing and felt around me a disinterest on these vital issues. I saw respected wizards, my own professors, bend over backwards to destroy what had taken over three hundred years to develop.
Perhaps I could have accepted the integration of mudbloods had I been given a say in the process. If the change had been as before, gradual. If we could have selected just the best to inject into our community and been given time to verify their skills.
It was not to be. I took the only path left open to assuage my pride and set about rectifying the ill situation.
'I did not want this.'
I did not want my son to be reputed to be able to kill in cold-blood. I did not want him to go to war for beliefs that he has not had the freedom to reach for himself. I did not want to place him in a position where his only outcome is to be a martyr, for whichever side, and I do accept that I may have forced him to hide his true beliefs.
'Pride.'
I only wanted for my child to grow in a world where he could be proud. Where he could have pride in the old ways.
I have succeeded. I see the pride in him, how it protects him from those who wish him ill. I should be satisfied. But I am not. I have learnt now that pride too has its own high price. I pray that it is I who will pay it.
**************************************************************************************************************************
Author's Note
This is my second piece of fiction. It's a standalone at the moment. I would appreciate any comments or feedback that you could give me, I'm just starting out so any tips, pointers, grammar corrections etc. would be welcome. Thanks for reading!