The winter blossoms of your garden might grace white with pink,
But my heart still remains white.
White, the colour of snow, the colour symbolizing pureness and death.
I believe my heart died years ago,
When you disowned me for just admitting,
My love for you.
I knew you had always been more than a father to me,
In my childhood,
When other boys dreamt of marrying princesses or mermaids,
I dreamt of you.
You were a lover to me,
Everything you said was etched clearly in my heart,
Every single time you picked up the whip and made my body beautiful with the lashes,
Every moment you looked at me,
Every time I saw the fury and disappointment in your eyes,
When you saw the marks I received,
I felt like asking you,
Father, of what importance are marks?
Of what importance when your only son loves you plainly from the bottom of his heart?
I remember my childhood,
Full of naïve thoughts and acts,
I recall choosing clothes with the Slytherin colours,
Even though I secretly hated them,
Why? You always asked that,
I replied that I was a true Slytherin and the Dark Lord's future servant,
You were pleased and satisfied but would you have listened to the truth?
The truth that I wore Slytherin colours because you liked me to.
I just wanted to please you, to see the satisfied smile on your handsome face.
No, the answer was plain, just years ago,
When you accidentally read the secret diary I kept.
I still love you, Father,
No matter how much you've said or done to hurt me,
And I swear, my heart will always belong to you,
Because to me, you are the most beautiful person on earth.
Draco sighed. He hated his father for disowning him, yet he also loved his father more than anyone else. Hatred and love were not a very good combination, only one which drove him insane more quickly. He stretched languidly on the crouch. His bank account which its many piles of galleons certainly had served him well all these years. It had been four years since his estrangement from his father and family.
His mother had come once, during the first year of separation, and expressed her concern for her only son. But, as Draco had snorted in irritation, what was the good of a mother? Draco now slammed the piece of paper he had been writing on. All these years, he had written poems reflecting his unrequited love for his father.
He often wondered how his father was getting along. *Must be pretty well, of course, he's got rid of the son he always detested and now even hates* Draco thought unceremoniously. *At least he went to your graduation* a little voice said but Draco just frowned bitterly.
*Yes, he went and when I went to him after the ceremony, he didn't say 'Draco, I'm proud of you, of course I never ever expected him to say that, he simply said 'I read your diary, you're not my son from this second onwards'. How simply convenient.* Draco's frown deepened and then vanished, replaced by a bitter smile.
But still, the pain and humiliation as his father had slapped him publicly and disowned him so loudly that even the Gryffindors heard were still there. Draco had simply stared blankly at the man whom his heart belonged to. The familiar silver-blonde hair, how many times had Draco wished to run his fingers through it as he kissed his father in his dreams? The grey eyes which now held scorn and hatred were a vague reminder to his own life.
Then, gone. Draco was not stupid, he didn't return home for the holidays, he simply wrote to his mother for his things to be sent to him. He had simply gotten a job as the ministry ambassador for France and found an apartment in a muggle vicinity. This new-found independence and mockingness was meant for his father. He wanted to show his father 'See, I can cope even without your help'.
Admittedly, he had had a rough time finding a place to live in but he eventually set aside his dislike for muggles and lived next to a mad old lady who had screaming fits in the middle of the night. And his job as an ambassador wasn't very nice either, a great use of the French language and its multiple dialects were needed and Draco could not cope very well with the dialects.
But troubles aside, he was actually having quite a nice life. He drew a monthly salary of ten thousand galleons and lived in a three-bedroom flat. Quite ideal.
And now, Draco was interrupted by a knock on his door.
He opened the door cautiously, no-one visited him nowadays, and his wand was clutched tightly in his right hand.
'Good evening, Mister Malfoy,' the surname made Draco stiffen and he allowed the ministry officer to enter the flat.
'I'm Christopher Bigg from the Ministry Of Magic. I regret to tell you that your father has died,'
Your father has died.
Your father has died. Died in the sense of not alive.
Draco felt his knees buckle slightly and he leaned against the wall for support.
**************************
Malfoy Manor
'Draco, I'm leaving the country. The manor is now yours,' Narcissa tearfully told her only son. Draco was now standing before the fireplace in the hall. He had not seen this enormous place for years. Now, his fingers ran along the carved ebony wood, finest in the world, the velvet curtains, the smooth carvings on the wall. 'Your father wanted you to have it,' the sentence made Draco grow more emotionless.
'Goodbye,' he watched silently as his mother disapparated with a house elf which was lugging some suitcases.
This place was now his. His alone. His father, his most loved person, his dream lover, was dead. He had died of cancer, something no healer could save him from. Now, all the money in his father's vault went to him. All businesses went to him. And the whole manor, complete with the house elves and dungeons.
Draco softly walked to the familiar study. It had belonged to his father and there were still traces of the man. The snake-head cane, the books on dark arts, the many wands his father kept, the map of the manor, the different documents and so on.
Draco left the study for his bedroom. It was still the same. In fact, it had been spell-locked and Draco entered without difficulty. Everything was intact. His bedsheets neatly folded. The curtains drawn as he liked it. The shelves of books on Quidditch still intact. And the photographs still there. Draco saw his favourite one, cut out from a magazine two years before his birth, on his parents' wedding night.
His father was there. Not the cold, stern, emotionless man he knew but a handsome, smiling, charming young man. The hair was still as long and still as silky but as Draco watched his mother nudged his father and pointed up to Draco. His father beamed (he had never done so after his son's birth) and his mother waved.
Then, Draco's eyes caught his diary. It was flung to the ground. His father had flung it in a fit of anger.
Draco read the last entry.
*************************
18th August
I dreamt of Father again. Again as a lover. I remember him gently cradling me in his arms, his long hair brushing against my cheeks as he bent over to kiss me. Why, Father? Why can't you at least speak to me like a real father? You always hold that cane. That cane means more to you than your own son. Father, why can't you show pride for me? Why can't you smile at me? You always ignore me, at meals and at night when I say goodnight to you.
And then you always hit me. You make me stand upright and your cane falls again and again. It hurts, father, not just physically but mentally. Because I know, even if you try to deny, that you hate me. You hated me since I was born.. . .but why? Why hate your only heir?
****************************
Draco's P.O.V
I was the peach blossom in the winter afterall. I was the only thing different in this harsh environment. I was foolish enough to try blooming and surviving. In the end, I was probably more suited to grow in a warmer garden, not yours, Father. Not your cold winter garden.
****************************
As Draco flipped through the book absently, lost in his thoughts, words penned in green ink caught his eye at the last page. The words - his father had written them. They were very simple but they revealed why Lucius Malfoy had still left his heir with the inheritance.
In Lucius Malfoy's cursive script:
"I'm sorry, Draco,"
Draco Malfoy broke down and cried.
******************************
You are truly beautiful father.
******************************
Thanks for reading. This is my first attempt at incest, although one-sided only. I thought I'd better explain a bit what the last part meant in case anyone had questions (I don't know how confusing I might be).
Lucius Malfoy's words meant that he realised at last how much his son had given up to try to make him happy. He realised at last that Draco's love for him was pure and although Lucius never loved Draco in that way, he realised he should never have driven his son away in a fit of fury. He should have simply rejected his son and not humiliate the boy. I wanted it to be like at the deathbed, Lucius finally saw it from his son's viewpoint.
The last line. It meant that Draco realised at last that his father did not hate him anymore. His father loved him afterall, but not in the lover way, at his deathbed, his father realised that although he had disowned his son, he still loved Draco.
This story was hard to write as I had to picture myself in Draco's shoes and Lucius'. I guess all the reactions from the characters could be said as mine.
Love you guys,
Ice And Fire Vanessa
But my heart still remains white.
White, the colour of snow, the colour symbolizing pureness and death.
I believe my heart died years ago,
When you disowned me for just admitting,
My love for you.
I knew you had always been more than a father to me,
In my childhood,
When other boys dreamt of marrying princesses or mermaids,
I dreamt of you.
You were a lover to me,
Everything you said was etched clearly in my heart,
Every single time you picked up the whip and made my body beautiful with the lashes,
Every moment you looked at me,
Every time I saw the fury and disappointment in your eyes,
When you saw the marks I received,
I felt like asking you,
Father, of what importance are marks?
Of what importance when your only son loves you plainly from the bottom of his heart?
I remember my childhood,
Full of naïve thoughts and acts,
I recall choosing clothes with the Slytherin colours,
Even though I secretly hated them,
Why? You always asked that,
I replied that I was a true Slytherin and the Dark Lord's future servant,
You were pleased and satisfied but would you have listened to the truth?
The truth that I wore Slytherin colours because you liked me to.
I just wanted to please you, to see the satisfied smile on your handsome face.
No, the answer was plain, just years ago,
When you accidentally read the secret diary I kept.
I still love you, Father,
No matter how much you've said or done to hurt me,
And I swear, my heart will always belong to you,
Because to me, you are the most beautiful person on earth.
Draco sighed. He hated his father for disowning him, yet he also loved his father more than anyone else. Hatred and love were not a very good combination, only one which drove him insane more quickly. He stretched languidly on the crouch. His bank account which its many piles of galleons certainly had served him well all these years. It had been four years since his estrangement from his father and family.
His mother had come once, during the first year of separation, and expressed her concern for her only son. But, as Draco had snorted in irritation, what was the good of a mother? Draco now slammed the piece of paper he had been writing on. All these years, he had written poems reflecting his unrequited love for his father.
He often wondered how his father was getting along. *Must be pretty well, of course, he's got rid of the son he always detested and now even hates* Draco thought unceremoniously. *At least he went to your graduation* a little voice said but Draco just frowned bitterly.
*Yes, he went and when I went to him after the ceremony, he didn't say 'Draco, I'm proud of you, of course I never ever expected him to say that, he simply said 'I read your diary, you're not my son from this second onwards'. How simply convenient.* Draco's frown deepened and then vanished, replaced by a bitter smile.
But still, the pain and humiliation as his father had slapped him publicly and disowned him so loudly that even the Gryffindors heard were still there. Draco had simply stared blankly at the man whom his heart belonged to. The familiar silver-blonde hair, how many times had Draco wished to run his fingers through it as he kissed his father in his dreams? The grey eyes which now held scorn and hatred were a vague reminder to his own life.
Then, gone. Draco was not stupid, he didn't return home for the holidays, he simply wrote to his mother for his things to be sent to him. He had simply gotten a job as the ministry ambassador for France and found an apartment in a muggle vicinity. This new-found independence and mockingness was meant for his father. He wanted to show his father 'See, I can cope even without your help'.
Admittedly, he had had a rough time finding a place to live in but he eventually set aside his dislike for muggles and lived next to a mad old lady who had screaming fits in the middle of the night. And his job as an ambassador wasn't very nice either, a great use of the French language and its multiple dialects were needed and Draco could not cope very well with the dialects.
But troubles aside, he was actually having quite a nice life. He drew a monthly salary of ten thousand galleons and lived in a three-bedroom flat. Quite ideal.
And now, Draco was interrupted by a knock on his door.
He opened the door cautiously, no-one visited him nowadays, and his wand was clutched tightly in his right hand.
'Good evening, Mister Malfoy,' the surname made Draco stiffen and he allowed the ministry officer to enter the flat.
'I'm Christopher Bigg from the Ministry Of Magic. I regret to tell you that your father has died,'
Your father has died.
Your father has died. Died in the sense of not alive.
Draco felt his knees buckle slightly and he leaned against the wall for support.
**************************
Malfoy Manor
'Draco, I'm leaving the country. The manor is now yours,' Narcissa tearfully told her only son. Draco was now standing before the fireplace in the hall. He had not seen this enormous place for years. Now, his fingers ran along the carved ebony wood, finest in the world, the velvet curtains, the smooth carvings on the wall. 'Your father wanted you to have it,' the sentence made Draco grow more emotionless.
'Goodbye,' he watched silently as his mother disapparated with a house elf which was lugging some suitcases.
This place was now his. His alone. His father, his most loved person, his dream lover, was dead. He had died of cancer, something no healer could save him from. Now, all the money in his father's vault went to him. All businesses went to him. And the whole manor, complete with the house elves and dungeons.
Draco softly walked to the familiar study. It had belonged to his father and there were still traces of the man. The snake-head cane, the books on dark arts, the many wands his father kept, the map of the manor, the different documents and so on.
Draco left the study for his bedroom. It was still the same. In fact, it had been spell-locked and Draco entered without difficulty. Everything was intact. His bedsheets neatly folded. The curtains drawn as he liked it. The shelves of books on Quidditch still intact. And the photographs still there. Draco saw his favourite one, cut out from a magazine two years before his birth, on his parents' wedding night.
His father was there. Not the cold, stern, emotionless man he knew but a handsome, smiling, charming young man. The hair was still as long and still as silky but as Draco watched his mother nudged his father and pointed up to Draco. His father beamed (he had never done so after his son's birth) and his mother waved.
Then, Draco's eyes caught his diary. It was flung to the ground. His father had flung it in a fit of anger.
Draco read the last entry.
*************************
18th August
I dreamt of Father again. Again as a lover. I remember him gently cradling me in his arms, his long hair brushing against my cheeks as he bent over to kiss me. Why, Father? Why can't you at least speak to me like a real father? You always hold that cane. That cane means more to you than your own son. Father, why can't you show pride for me? Why can't you smile at me? You always ignore me, at meals and at night when I say goodnight to you.
And then you always hit me. You make me stand upright and your cane falls again and again. It hurts, father, not just physically but mentally. Because I know, even if you try to deny, that you hate me. You hated me since I was born.. . .but why? Why hate your only heir?
****************************
Draco's P.O.V
I was the peach blossom in the winter afterall. I was the only thing different in this harsh environment. I was foolish enough to try blooming and surviving. In the end, I was probably more suited to grow in a warmer garden, not yours, Father. Not your cold winter garden.
****************************
As Draco flipped through the book absently, lost in his thoughts, words penned in green ink caught his eye at the last page. The words - his father had written them. They were very simple but they revealed why Lucius Malfoy had still left his heir with the inheritance.
In Lucius Malfoy's cursive script:
"I'm sorry, Draco,"
Draco Malfoy broke down and cried.
******************************
You are truly beautiful father.
******************************
Thanks for reading. This is my first attempt at incest, although one-sided only. I thought I'd better explain a bit what the last part meant in case anyone had questions (I don't know how confusing I might be).
Lucius Malfoy's words meant that he realised at last how much his son had given up to try to make him happy. He realised at last that Draco's love for him was pure and although Lucius never loved Draco in that way, he realised he should never have driven his son away in a fit of fury. He should have simply rejected his son and not humiliate the boy. I wanted it to be like at the deathbed, Lucius finally saw it from his son's viewpoint.
The last line. It meant that Draco realised at last that his father did not hate him anymore. His father loved him afterall, but not in the lover way, at his deathbed, his father realised that although he had disowned his son, he still loved Draco.
This story was hard to write as I had to picture myself in Draco's shoes and Lucius'. I guess all the reactions from the characters could be said as mine.
Love you guys,
Ice And Fire Vanessa