Title – Family Portrait
Authoress – Phoenix Tears
Summary – Second in a series of short vignettes, 'Bad Faith', in which Draco reflects on his pureblooded heritage, and paints a mental family portrait...
Rating – PG, angsty.
Warning – Insulting of Muggles… I really think that's all. I hardly consider it to be a warning, but considering that we are Muggles… ^_________^
Disclaimer – I own nothing, except for this plot. Everything else belongs to J.K. Rowling, including Draco and Lucius Malfoy. Fabergé eggs belong solely to Carl Fabergé and I apologize for having to fabricate my own Fabergé egg.
Feedback – Of course, as for every writer, questions, thoughts, and constructive criticism are all greatly appreciated. Thank you, and enjoy.
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I long, ever so much, to be like him. Father is my paradigm, my exemplar, my role model. He is everything I have ever longed to be.
Just a few weeks ago, he sent a pricey Fabergé egg to me, wrapped in diaphanous, luscious layers of silver tissue paper, by way of WizardEx. Father daren't have sent it by owl post – Archimedes' talons, even with the tissue paper acting as a barrier, were far too sharp, and would most likely scratch the precious surface.
Fabergé eggs originated in Russia, and were made exclusively for the tsar and his family. Many of them are located in Muggle museums today. Carl Fabergé was the goldsmith and jeweler of the highest-ranking nobles. Unknown to most, he was a wizard as well. How did those tsars expect him to craft such flawlessness?
I had kept my eye on an untraced Fabergé for a while – a few months, perhaps. I wrote of it to Father on one occasion, and described it to him in painstakingly detailed explanation. One week later, the Devaque Egg arrived. Upon opening its emerald green outer shell, I found on the inside a curled serpent. Smirking, I prodded the snake gently with my wand, and it uncoiled and hissed gently at me.
Being a Parselmouth myself, I spoke with it for a while. Did Potter actually think he was the only one at Hogwarts who could speak Parseltongue? Honestly, all Malfoys ranging from the first generation down the genealogy to me have been able to speak the tongue of the snake. After all, the Malfoys are the true heirs of Slytherin, while the line of Marvolo is tainted with many intermixings with Mudbloods and Squibs.
Shameful, really.
What is even more degrading is that the Dark Lord – ha! Sodding Dark Lord, he is – is half-Muggle. Absolutely disgraceful.
Voldemort's blood is even more tainted than Potter's blood. At least Potter had a pureblooded father, even if he did have a Muggle-born witch for a mother.
Our 'Lord' had a Muggle father – no magic whatsoever – and a mother with dishonourable, tainted blood.
How can he even expect any of the new generation to respect him, when his lineage is so soiled with Mudblood interbreeding?
I have always looked up to Father for the fact that he kept our line pure. He prided the Malfoy line on being clean of any taints. I had done enough years of extensive genealogical research on our family's history to know that no relative of the Malfoy family had any tainted blood. It took quite a lot of work to keep the line so unsullied.
I am a direct descendant of the earliest, Caesarius Malfoy, with no dirtied blood in my aristocratic veins. And I am proud of that fact.
My father, Lucius Zephyr Malfoy, was raised like I am – the sole heir of the entire Malfoy fortune. He was the only child – as are all Malfoy heirs – and scandalously attractive – as are all Malfoys. Even now, when he is nearly forty years of age, he is always dressed immaculately, has a wonderful taste for fashion, and commands respect and awe wherever he goes. Women cling at his side like a bee flocking to a fragrant flower, but Father upholds the Malfoy pride and is only seen with Mother.
Even though I know he and Mother have no romantic inclinations to each other whatsoever. They do look like the perfect mother and father, nonetheless, and I complete the family picture quite nicely.
Like any Malfoy should, he hides his emotions flawlessly. I envy the way he can be absolutely seething inside, ready to boil over with anger and rage, but can put his mask on perfectly well and seem cool and composed. I envy the way he can look at me with a mere raise of the dark gold Malfoyian eyebrow and a sharp glance of silver eyes, and tell if I am lying or not. I envy his physique, his poise, his charm, his manners, all of him.
But he teaches me, day by day, and I find myself becoming more and more like my father. I find myself molded into the perfect Malfoy – I do not protest, for Malfoys are superior and nearly faultless. The only thing I will not follow my father's footsteps in is becoming a Death Eater. Though he loathes saying it, I believe that Father did not truly want to become a servant of Voldemort either, and that he does not want me to.
My mother, Narcissa Giselle D'Voire, was brought up in a strict and noble French household. Of course, the D'Voire family was pureblooded, and all of them were skilled in diplomacy and tact. That was the D'Voire family motto: 'La fierté, le tact, et la diplomatie'. In English, it was as short and curt to the point: Pride, tact, and diplomacy. The D'Voire line was quite a respected on in France, and was descended from a royal line of counts and other high aristocracy.
She was graceful, willowy, and had a perfect figure. I loved her – she loved me, of course, but only as you would love a pet or a possession. She taught me etiquette, proper dress and fashion, dexterity, composure, poise, and Latin, French, Italian, Celtic, and German. To Mother's pride, I was completely fluent in Latin and French. However, Father was quite chagrined, as the Malfoys were originally both Latin and French. Pity.
At school, students of all genders want me. I have my pick of the whole academy, and since my bloodline is pure and full Veela, even Harry-bloody-Potter wants me. Perhaps the only ones who don't pine after me are the professors. Though Severus does look at me sometimes with that predatory gleam in his eyes, when he's tutoring me privately on advanced potions far past our seventh year level, and the Muggle Defence teacher, Professor Devriato, makes more contact than is necessary when we fence.
I am quite skilled at fencing and swordsmanship, in fact. Which makes it even more infuriating for Professor Devriato, as he has quite a hard time of keeping me in check. But, of course, Father is much better. He can outmaneuver me greatly.
On the other hand, Professor Devriato is quite handsome. He has that fresh, dark look about him, and he has been voted best-looking Professor at Hogwarts.
Though I would never dream of holding a relationship with someone so senior my age. It is simply unbecoming of a Malfoy.
That is what I am, isn't it? A Malfoy. I, Draco Kael Malfoy, son of Lucius Zephyr Malfoy and Narcissa Giselle D'Voire, am a Malfoy, in body, in soul, in essence, in heart.
And I am proud.
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Authoress' Note: Malfoy pride! Puahahahaheeee. xPP And yep, I've gone insane. It's all those finals and unit tests… Review and I might feel better…