Disclaimer: I don't own them. JK Rowling does.
Notes: I've been wanting to write a fic about Lucius' leather gloves and it's taken me nearly two months to come up with one I was happy with. Nita made me think of the snow being so fitting for Lucius with her fic "Before the Kiss" (which I highly reccomend).
Alone in the Snow
I walk slowly up the long drive toward my home, my boots crunching in the fresh snow that covers the pathway. The snowflakes dance lazily on the wind in front of me before floating gently to the ground. I remember a time when I loved the snow, a time when I would spend hours in the yard, watching the flakes glide through the trees at dusk. I can no longer afford such luxuries, though I must admit that the desire to act as rashly as I was once allowed is very strong. I am just a man and I can only be without human contact for so long. I wish to feel once more, to touch my son's face, my wife's hair. I wish to be allowed what I once was.
Instead this night, like every other night for the past twenty years, will be exactly the same. I will enter my house, turn and close the door behind me before leaning my walking stick against the wall and removing my cloak. I will take off every article of clothing that protects my skin from the bitterly cold wind except for my gloves. The black leather gloves remain on my hands at all times, never to be removed by me and never to be taken by force. They are my protection from human contact, my barrier that keeps my emotions at bay. I don't believe that I love Narcissa anymore, but just to feel her skin as she ages would be a sensation that I haven't felt in years.
I haven't laid a finger on Draco since the day he was born, I've never once held my son in my arms as he grew or played a game with him. When he was a baby he was never allowed to wrap his tiny fist around one of my fingers and chew on it like babies do. I never brushed my hand over my son's head as his hair grew in, I never felt the soft tufts running through my fingers. I suppose I missed out on something because Narcissa's face used to light up like a candle whenever she held him and he would smile at her like he had never seen anyone so beautiful. I was never a father, I don't pretend that I ever was, and I don't understand what I missed but I do know that it must be something special.
I held Draco on the night he was born while Narcissa lay on the bed, far too tired to even form coherent sentences, let alone hold her child. The midwife who had helped Narcissa wrapped Draco in a towel and wiped the blood from his face before handing him to me. His eyes were so blue, they matched mine in colour and depth . . . everything about him looked like me and the only thing I could bring myself to do was stroke my thumb over his cheek, then press my lips softly to his smooth forehead. That was the first and the last time that I touched my child. I don't want to touch him anymore, my hands have become so cold.
The snow still falls around me and I find I've stopped only a few yards from the door. A fire dances in the fireplace and it's light pours through the windows, casting an orange tinge across the snow. My home looks welcoming, but it's anything but that. I feel nothing in that place, only the cool leather sliding under my fingers as I pick things up or remove my clothing. The only time I take off the gloves is as I slip into my bed at night, the only time I know no one will be able to touch me by mistake.
I stare down at the gloves and I remember the last time I touched a person, the last time my fingertips connected with the warm skin of a human. It's burned in my mind like no other memory because it wasn't meant to happen. She was never supposed to reach for the book the same time that I did, her long fingers grasping to take hold of the leather cover at the same moment that my fingers closed over the book.
It was only two months ago when I spotted a book I'd be searching for on a shelf in Flourish and Blotts. I took off my gloves in order to better turn the pages and then reached for it. It was such a simple movement, but it was my undoing. For the first time in nearly twenty years I touched human skin, I felt the warm fingers beneath my own and it startled me to the point where I could no longer move. I simply stared at the book and her hand beneath mine. Her fingernails were painted a pearly pink and I still remember that minor detail above so many others.
"Mr. Malfoy?" she asked softly and I looked up to see the brown eyes of Hermione Granger peering at me curiously.
Of all the witches and wizards, my hand had to fall on the one type of person I despised. Mudbloods were the reason I wore the gloves day in and day out in the beginning. I didn't want to touch them, afraid they would infect me somehow with their own disgusting inferiority. Then after all those years the first person I touch is a Mudblood.
"Miss. Granger," I drawled, my hand still over hers.
"You're cold," she stated.
I swallowed hard and stared at her.
"Did you want this book?" she asked.
She was much older than the last time I'd seen her, nearly twenty years old and just as pretty as any other girl on the street. She had changed though, she looked more calm, more pulled together.
"Did you?" she pressed, gesturing to my hand that was still clamped over hers.
"Yes," I answered hoarsely, but I did nothing to take my hand away.
She was powerful. That was what I felt that day in the bookstore, a power current running through her body. She was nothing more than a Mudblood but she was far more powerful than anyone I'd ever encountered before.
"Take it then," she said finally, slipping her hand out from under mine. "I can find another." She smiled slightly, then turned and walked from the store, her hair swinging behind her as she went.
I remember everything about that encounter, every sensation and every sound the room around us made as we talked. I finally touched a person that day and it was a breath of fresh air, a glimpse into everything I've been so wrong about and everything I've missed. My heart has been frozen over the years from the lack of physical contact, my body adjusted to the distance I kept from people but it wasn't right. I'm not meant to be who I have become.
Yet, will I remove the gloves when I enter my home? The snow can't reach me there, the cold can't sting me by the fireside but will I dare to finally remove the gloves? My eyes scan my home looking for someone in the windows, my wife or son waiting for me to come inside and to welcome me home. The windows are empty, there is no one waiting for me. They don't care and why should they? I haven't been there for them for far too long. Why did it take the fingers of a Mudblood to show me that?
My hands shake angrily and I noticed finally how cold it is outside. The snow falls steadily and silently around me, masking me in it's whirling wind. I want to stay out here forever, to be a child once more and not care about who I touch and how I act. I want to be irresponsible, to be anyone but the man I am. I want to take off my gloves and touch my wife, but I know that once I step into my home I won't do any of the things I've said I want to.
I am alone, standing in the snow with my collar turned up and my eyes on my home. I'll always be alone and I have only myself to blame.
As I continue the walk toward the door I wonder how long it will be before the next time I take off my gloves and let someone else feel how cold my skin has become.
End
Notes: I've been wanting to write a fic about Lucius' leather gloves and it's taken me nearly two months to come up with one I was happy with. Nita made me think of the snow being so fitting for Lucius with her fic "Before the Kiss" (which I highly reccomend).
Alone in the Snow
I walk slowly up the long drive toward my home, my boots crunching in the fresh snow that covers the pathway. The snowflakes dance lazily on the wind in front of me before floating gently to the ground. I remember a time when I loved the snow, a time when I would spend hours in the yard, watching the flakes glide through the trees at dusk. I can no longer afford such luxuries, though I must admit that the desire to act as rashly as I was once allowed is very strong. I am just a man and I can only be without human contact for so long. I wish to feel once more, to touch my son's face, my wife's hair. I wish to be allowed what I once was.
Instead this night, like every other night for the past twenty years, will be exactly the same. I will enter my house, turn and close the door behind me before leaning my walking stick against the wall and removing my cloak. I will take off every article of clothing that protects my skin from the bitterly cold wind except for my gloves. The black leather gloves remain on my hands at all times, never to be removed by me and never to be taken by force. They are my protection from human contact, my barrier that keeps my emotions at bay. I don't believe that I love Narcissa anymore, but just to feel her skin as she ages would be a sensation that I haven't felt in years.
I haven't laid a finger on Draco since the day he was born, I've never once held my son in my arms as he grew or played a game with him. When he was a baby he was never allowed to wrap his tiny fist around one of my fingers and chew on it like babies do. I never brushed my hand over my son's head as his hair grew in, I never felt the soft tufts running through my fingers. I suppose I missed out on something because Narcissa's face used to light up like a candle whenever she held him and he would smile at her like he had never seen anyone so beautiful. I was never a father, I don't pretend that I ever was, and I don't understand what I missed but I do know that it must be something special.
I held Draco on the night he was born while Narcissa lay on the bed, far too tired to even form coherent sentences, let alone hold her child. The midwife who had helped Narcissa wrapped Draco in a towel and wiped the blood from his face before handing him to me. His eyes were so blue, they matched mine in colour and depth . . . everything about him looked like me and the only thing I could bring myself to do was stroke my thumb over his cheek, then press my lips softly to his smooth forehead. That was the first and the last time that I touched my child. I don't want to touch him anymore, my hands have become so cold.
The snow still falls around me and I find I've stopped only a few yards from the door. A fire dances in the fireplace and it's light pours through the windows, casting an orange tinge across the snow. My home looks welcoming, but it's anything but that. I feel nothing in that place, only the cool leather sliding under my fingers as I pick things up or remove my clothing. The only time I take off the gloves is as I slip into my bed at night, the only time I know no one will be able to touch me by mistake.
I stare down at the gloves and I remember the last time I touched a person, the last time my fingertips connected with the warm skin of a human. It's burned in my mind like no other memory because it wasn't meant to happen. She was never supposed to reach for the book the same time that I did, her long fingers grasping to take hold of the leather cover at the same moment that my fingers closed over the book.
It was only two months ago when I spotted a book I'd be searching for on a shelf in Flourish and Blotts. I took off my gloves in order to better turn the pages and then reached for it. It was such a simple movement, but it was my undoing. For the first time in nearly twenty years I touched human skin, I felt the warm fingers beneath my own and it startled me to the point where I could no longer move. I simply stared at the book and her hand beneath mine. Her fingernails were painted a pearly pink and I still remember that minor detail above so many others.
"Mr. Malfoy?" she asked softly and I looked up to see the brown eyes of Hermione Granger peering at me curiously.
Of all the witches and wizards, my hand had to fall on the one type of person I despised. Mudbloods were the reason I wore the gloves day in and day out in the beginning. I didn't want to touch them, afraid they would infect me somehow with their own disgusting inferiority. Then after all those years the first person I touch is a Mudblood.
"Miss. Granger," I drawled, my hand still over hers.
"You're cold," she stated.
I swallowed hard and stared at her.
"Did you want this book?" she asked.
She was much older than the last time I'd seen her, nearly twenty years old and just as pretty as any other girl on the street. She had changed though, she looked more calm, more pulled together.
"Did you?" she pressed, gesturing to my hand that was still clamped over hers.
"Yes," I answered hoarsely, but I did nothing to take my hand away.
She was powerful. That was what I felt that day in the bookstore, a power current running through her body. She was nothing more than a Mudblood but she was far more powerful than anyone I'd ever encountered before.
"Take it then," she said finally, slipping her hand out from under mine. "I can find another." She smiled slightly, then turned and walked from the store, her hair swinging behind her as she went.
I remember everything about that encounter, every sensation and every sound the room around us made as we talked. I finally touched a person that day and it was a breath of fresh air, a glimpse into everything I've been so wrong about and everything I've missed. My heart has been frozen over the years from the lack of physical contact, my body adjusted to the distance I kept from people but it wasn't right. I'm not meant to be who I have become.
Yet, will I remove the gloves when I enter my home? The snow can't reach me there, the cold can't sting me by the fireside but will I dare to finally remove the gloves? My eyes scan my home looking for someone in the windows, my wife or son waiting for me to come inside and to welcome me home. The windows are empty, there is no one waiting for me. They don't care and why should they? I haven't been there for them for far too long. Why did it take the fingers of a Mudblood to show me that?
My hands shake angrily and I noticed finally how cold it is outside. The snow falls steadily and silently around me, masking me in it's whirling wind. I want to stay out here forever, to be a child once more and not care about who I touch and how I act. I want to be irresponsible, to be anyone but the man I am. I want to take off my gloves and touch my wife, but I know that once I step into my home I won't do any of the things I've said I want to.
I am alone, standing in the snow with my collar turned up and my eyes on my home. I'll always be alone and I have only myself to blame.
As I continue the walk toward the door I wonder how long it will be before the next time I take off my gloves and let someone else feel how cold my skin has become.
End