20/07/11 - A quick but undying thank you to Orochi132 for creating a recommendation for this story on TVTropes! If you are interested in seeing it, it can be found at http:/ /tvtropes. org/pmwiki/pmwiki. php/FanficRecs/HarryPotterShipping, and if you would like to add to it after reading then please feel free.

Story: If Only Your Father Knew

Rating: M

Author: TechnicolourGrey

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, or anything, really. Except for this story.

Okay, so.

This is my first ever attempt at a multi-chapter fic. With many thanks to the people who listened to me go on about how long this took me to write, and many thanks to you for stumbling upon it.

I hope you enjoy.~

The sound of quills each forming the same words resounded throughout the classroom – identical scratches of harsh points and ink, recreated thirty-two times over, save for a few slower students who were out of time of the harsh, grating tune (naming no names, Victor Crabbe, Marius Goyle) and finished a considerable time after everyone else had put down their quills. The same words at the very top of their parchment, right hand corner, underlined with precision; September 2nd 1972.

The students shifted restlessly, but did not exchange words. They stared rather expectantly at the dark desk at the front of the room. Sombre, wooden, gleaming in the dim light of the torches which lined the walls, the chair behind, rather comfortable looking, made from leather as dull as the desk itself. The items upon the desk were not of much interest: an hour glass, idly turning itself as though in boredom, the sand within being tossed from side to side at every twist; a pile of supposedly blank parchment to the right of the desk (in the perspective of the person sitting at it, were there someone sitting at it); small but ornate pots, adorned with meticulous silver detail, filled with various colours of ink to the left.

The students, fifth-years now, knew better than to talk to each other during the absence of their teacher. They knew well that if the professor walked into his class room to find his pupils in uproar - which included idle chit-chat and gossip between class mates - the consequences would not be pleasant. Keyes had discovered this in his first year, when he threw a charmed parchment aeroplane across the room in line with a Gryffindor's head while the professor's back was turned. The aeroplane had combusted into flame and the boy was issued with an instant week's worth of detention without the professor even having to look around, and no one had really dared question the teacher's authority ever since.

Chalk wandered of its own across the blackboard, clicking and swishing as it too formed the date in time with the students. It continued, instructing the rows of rather bleary-eyed teenagers to turn to a specific page in their textbooks, A Guide to: Surviving and Combating the Dark Arts – 1970 Editionby Phineas M. H. Hexington, (page 153, if one must know) and underlined the subsequent word: Vampires. It then hovered itself to the teacher's desk where it landed with a soft thump on the bare wood. It wheezed, coughing powdered white chalk onto the dark mahogany, and lay still.

Turning to the designated page, Narcissa Black didn't bother to stifle a sigh. Had she tried it would have been futile anyway, for she was not one to hide when she was not best pleased. Her father could vouch for that. Ignoring the girl beside her – Maurice Parkington, who was too busy picking her nails, scrutinizing them over her upturned nose, to worry about Narcissa anyway. - she placed her head on her hand, leant heavily on it and stared listlessly out of the window.

The sky was iron grey, sunlight trying and failing to pierce through the downcast clouds. The lake mimicked the colour, which, if anything, made the whole scene ever more depressing, while the Forbidden Forest, fairly foreboding at the best of times, was made ever more dreary and boring – and that hut in front of it. Merlin's beard. The peasant who lived there was no better than the dirt on which he walked.

In Narcissa's first year, on hearing that he was relatively new (well, compared to McGonagall. How long had she been working at Hogwarts, a hundred years or so? It certainly looked like it) she had done her best to make his life a misery. Although, yes, that may have just been dropping a trail of Honeydukes sweet wrappers over the quidditch pitch and observing, high in the stands, the miserable ogre pick them up like a Muggle, or watching Rodolphus throw dungbombs into Greenhouse 3. Well, she would have done it herself but Rodolphus was two years older and a man (loose term) so he could risk his education. Not that if Narcissa finished school it would do her much good. She would never get a job, as was tradition of pureblood witches. She would be the housewife of an unattractive noble man – erectile dysfunction and near-poverty was optional, but she hoped her father had the sense to choose someone lacking those qualities. So what was the point? Really? She was sitting in a dreary classroom with a dreary view out of the window and a dreary outlook on life.

Well, there was some consolation. At least she would never end up like that lumbering oaf of a gamekeeper, sitting by a pathetic fire in his pathetic excuse of a one-roomed hovel with his pathetic food and pathetic-

"Now." Narcissa blinked twice at the sound of that voice, pulling herself from her hate-filled, rather stroppy reverie. It was low, commanding, familiar. Her expression softened from the stony, sulky complexion it had taken on while glaring out of the window and hating everything beyond it, and turned instead to fix on the man who had spoken.

At the side of his desk, upon which the hourglass now remained still, slowly trickling sand upwards from the bottom dome to top, Professor Malfoy. Teacher of Defence Against the Dark Arts for her past five years. Long platinum blonde hair, chiselled face, voice that could make a doxie pregnant. Yes, that's the one. He looked as pale as ever, exaggerated by the silken black robes he always sported for his job; fastened at the neck with a brooch adorned with a coiled up snake, poised to strike, eyes gleaming with flashes of green of which there was no question whether they were real emeralds. Most thought Professor Malfoy would rather puncture a lung than wear something which didn't involve real jewels. Narcissa was included in this 'most'.

"As you are aware – or should be – your O.W.L.s are fast approaching. And since all of you have decided to continue the subject in the foreseeable future, I will tell you now. I will not be accepting any… failures in my examinations." His eyes cast around the room, halting momentarily on Crabbe and Goyle.

They were quietly guffawing together, though it didn't take a genius to work out that that wasn't the only reason that the Professor's eyes stopped on the two boys. Probably why they looked confused when the rest of the class turned to look at them also, Narcissa reasoned, for they were most certainly not synonymous with the term 'genius'. With practised ease and agility, Professor Malfoy had removed his wand from his cane and flicked it soundlessly in the two boy's direction.

Their desks parted immediately, pushing them away from each other. The issue of Play Wizard which they had balanced between them on their laps fell to the floor, on a not very conservative page, unless one would call a gyrating double page spread (quite literally) of a woman in rather lacy and minimal underwear conservative, which Narcissa would not.

Eyes rolling, Narcissa scribbled boredly in the top right corner of her page, not bothering to watch Crabbe and Goyle stumble over their excuses, grunting even more than usual between slightly coherent words, or the magazine close and levitate to Professor Malfoy's desk, where it was swiftly swallowed by the bottom drawer. Instead, she amused herself by drawing a host of geometric shapes which held no use nor meaning. She just let her quill roam free until, inkless, she was doing nothing but scratching at the parchment.

Picking up her wand – nine inch, ash wood, dragon heartstring - from the desk top at her side, she whispered a charm directed at the parchment, causing the shapes to whirl and dance together, and created a number of distorted patterns. She was told it was how wizards like Braque created their artwork and became famous in the Muggle world. Narcissa wasn't convinced, since her father liked to tell her all sorts of stories to keep her happy by making her feel special, but liked the effect anyway and, fairly skilled at charms, she found it simple. Almost nothing pleased her more than to impress friendly acquaintances that would set fire to their parchment should they try the same spell themselves.

She liked being the only one.

"As I was saying," Professor Malfoy continued stiffly, after issuing two detentions and flaring his nostrils dangerously, "I will not accept any failures. Anyone to not pass my examination will not go on to the proximate year. Instead you will be held back and redo the entire course with the fourth years." Again, his eyes swept across the room. They settled on Narcissa who, at the end of the middle row, could find this understandable, but he had a certain pointedness in his gaze.

She lifted her head off her hand to stare back, her blue gaze wondering up her Professor's angular, rather aesthetically pleasing face to meet his eyes, accentuated by his high cheek bones. As always on the rare occasion when she fixatedly looked at him eye-to-eye, she noted how very grey his eyes were. Like today's sky. Or the lake. But much more beautiful. And lacking a giant squid.

As he turned to the blackboard, Narcissa decided that grey wasn't such a bad colour after all.

Funnily enough, vampires were not the most interesting things to learn about. Narcissa found herself completely zoning out, watching Professor Malfoy's mouth move for the hour and letting the Ravenclaws, more renowned for their cleverness than herself, answer all the questions and scribble the notes. Though she could hardly say she was the only one. Most of the Slytherin girls had their heads in their hands, staring rather dreamily – placate expressions with sewn on smiles and wide eyes and fluttering lashes. Even some of the boys were staring at the Professor's hair for the entirety of the lesson – how the acidic green of the torches, burning endlessly in their brackets, caused a dancing shimmer on his blonde locks which would no doubt elicit even the rapt attention of an ADHD suffering house elf let free in a clothes shop.

She looked down at the end of the lesson to realise that she had written nothing but the date and her dancing shapes. Her quill had been poised over the parchment all lesson, blotches of dark ink staining the page above which the tip of her unused feather had been positioned. Damned Professor,he's the reason I haven't done anything for five years.

She glanced slyly at Maurice's parchment and noticed that she hadn't even stopped staring at the teacher yet, eyes still glassy. Narcissa jabbed her unceremoniously in the arm with her quill, eliciting an indignant whine from Maurice, but neither made any further comment as they began to get ready for departure.

She rolled up her parchment and dumped it into her school bag – a Hermes. Deep green snake skin, probably cost more than most people's entire house, a large bow adorning the front of it, chosen to match her Slytherin tie and skirt and the bow not dissimilar to the small ones which decorated her white socks. – and quickly did the same with her quill and pot of ink, taking care to cork the latter properly.

During the hustle and commotion of the bustling classroom, Professor Malfoy had taken his seat at the front of the class. A board rubber worked of its own accord behind his head, rubbing out the page number and subject, the chalk shakily rising and writing the necessary information for the next class. Narcissa watched as he idly brushed the chalk power off his desk, looking quite reproachfully at it as though wondering how the chalk dare leave its distasteful residue of its inferior self over his belongings. He then reached down, opening his top drawer, and picked out a quill. Of course, like everything else, it was more than overly elaborate. Huge, more than likely plucked from a hypogriff, if not a highly genetically mutated owl (or peacock? Naricissa mused), and pure white. He dipped it in black ink and because scribbling on a piece of parchment in front of him.

"Homework," he declared, not looking up from his parchment, to a soft ripple of groans through the class, "an essay on the life of the vampire, why they pose a threat to wizards and the correct ways to protect oneself against them. Three rolls of parchment, for next week."

"But Professor!" a Ravenclaw girl Narcissa didn't care enough to know the name of protested, "it's the first day back!"

Professor Malfoy looked up, locked eyes on the girl. For a second Narcissa thought the girl was about to get a serious berating, which she would have rather enjoyed to watch. Instead he smiled quite patiently, condescendingly. His head tilted good-naturedly, looking politely interested. "I had heard Ravenclaw had the brains, but didn't believe to this extent. Well done."

The girl flushed.

The Slytherins didn't try too hard to stifle their various chortles and giggles. For their head of house, all was forgiven (for now, until they realised they still had an essay to write). Even Crabbe and Goyle, who had been sulking for the entire lesson, brightened up and wheezed out a few breaths which resembled the laughter of a Neanderthal, remembering why Malfoy was their favourite Professor.

Face like thunder, the silly little girl slung her bag over her shoulder and stalked from the room – slow enough for Narcissa to notice and turn her nose up at her scuffed, clearly rather cheap shoes, however – followed by a murderous group of Ravenclaws.

Professor Malfoy had long since returned to writing and, assuming they were dismissed, the rest of the class followed suit. Maurice sauntered off in order to find her, sickening as it was to Narcissa to quote it, 'one true love', leaving Narcissa at her desk. The youngest Black carefully shouldered her bag, rearranged her tie, her skirt, bending over to pull up a sock before she could leave the room. Well, she had to look presentable. She eventually joined the line of students forcing their way out of the classroom door, behind the two chastised boys to whom the Professor next spoke: "Master Crabbe, Master Goyle, I want you in here tomorrow night for those detentions or I'll start planting Play Witch in your dormitory." Again, he didn't look up from his parchment. The two boys grunted and shuffled from the room.

Narcissa was about to follow them, hand on the door frame. "Miss Black," came the cool voice from behind her before she could reach the corridor beyond, however, "a word, please."

Narcissa stopped, hesitated momentarily, turned, raised an expectant eyebrow. Since the Professor made no other movement she approached his desk, letting the door softly close behind her. "Yes, sir?" she inquired politely, holding her hands demurely in front of her and tilting her head in questioning. A trick she had learnt to use on her father when she was in trouble. Look innocent.

Neither made any other sound for quite some time, save for the scratching of the man's ostentatious quill forming just as ostentatious handwriting. Narcissa found herself transfixed by the production of such elaborate and ornate letterings from those deft fingers, and she also noted that, as usual, the hand holding the parchment steady, his left, displayed no rings. The only other sounds were the soft swishings and splutterings of the chalk as it wheezed over the blackboard and the idle chatter of the portraits around the room. She thought to clear her throat, but decided it would be improper – rude – for a young lady, and waited patiently.

Eventually, he finished his final sentence, put his quill down, interlocked his fingers and turned his head to survey her. His eyes searched her face, found her own, and he sighed quietly. "Miss Black," he repeated, with quite the resigned expression, "show me the notes you have taken down today."

Narcissa stared at him. Cast her eyes downwards, over his cheekbones, down his neck, coming to a halt when she was staring at the dark wood of his desk. She knew she should not have averted her eyes, but she could hardly show him the nothingness she had done that lesson. Her eyes searched the plainness of his desk, seeking out something to concentrate on.

The patterns in the wood were boring. She could not focus on them. Her investigatory gaze moved towards him open top desk drawer. Oh, what have we here. A number of quills identical to the one on his desk, of course. Spare, tattered copies of text books, naturally. Chalk for when that one gives out, which sounds like soon. But… what are they? Narcissa squinted so better to see the little white box, the firelight making it hard to see the delicate golden writing. She was conscious that she was still under her Professor's scrutiny, but she could not help her curiosity now. She leant down a little so better to read the box. …Vanilla truffles?

She recoiled with a start when the drawer was slammed shut, gulping back a small cry and staring back at his face, albeit not necessarily his eyes.

"Miss Black, I think it would be in your best interests to… serve a detention with me. Tomorrow night. So that we may go over the topic studied today."

Had Narcissa the energy to have a tantrum, she probably would have thrown one right there and then, regardless of the portraits on the walls watching their every move or the fact that he was her teacher. As it was, she decided that the orange and glass of water she had consumed for breakfast were not substantial enough for a midday tantrum, and lunch would have to be had before she could stamp her feet about it.

The hourglass on the Professor's desk seemed to perfectly understand Narcissa's mood, however, and mimicked it for her; all of the sand flumped at once from the top dome into the bottom, the glass seemingly gone for an instant to allow it to do so.

"Sir, please don't," she pleaded, though with no conviction. She knew that when Professor Malfoy decided something, it was fairly final. "I'll work harder in class. It was just I-"

"What do you have to show for your past five years in my lessons, Miss Black?" came Professor Malfoy's biting retort, cutting her off with a stern tone. She bristled, feeling tears of annoyance and indignation already sting the sides of her eyes. His tone softened somewhat. "You are a very bright witch, Miss Black. Professor Flitwick tells me that you are very productive in his class. Listen closely and actually do the homework set." He picked up his quill, returning to his parchment. "I would like the same devotion from you." He paused a moment. "It will not be an official detention. More like extra lessons. Do not worry, Miss Black. It will not affect your report." His eyes narrowed as he studied his own handwriting. He murmured the last part in a hushed voice, as though she were never meant to hear it: "Merlin knows you cannot leave with a worse report than either of your sisters, in any case."

She opened her mouth to retort, to say something, anything, in their defence, but again, he cut her off. "You are dismissed." She hesitated, mouth slightly agape, before shutting it, looking rather disgruntled to say the least. She turned on expensive heel and stalked out of the classroom, being very careful to slam the door behind her.

Corridors unsurprisingly but mercifully empty for the most part, for everyone would by now be situated in the Great Hall, feasting, she made that her exact destination, praying to some heathen deity who clearly hated her that someone had saved her a seat, or that enchanted ceiling would be screamed off.

In the classroom, Lucius scanned the room once to make sure there were no stragglers hanging around, hiding under tables or staring at his display of a fully grown bufflemorphkin skeleton. Listening not very hard at all confirmed his suspicions that Miss Black was storming down the corridor.

Trying to ignore the fact that she had looked particularly pretty when she was angry, Lucius scanned through the letter once, reading from an outsider's point of view. No. No way to decipher it. if Miss Black had been reading it she would have not worked it out, and nor would the 'greatness' that was Albus should he intercept it.

He dipped his quill in the green ink to his left side, signed his name at the bottom of the parchment in overly elaborate, slanted, curled and obviously well practised writing, before rolling it up and tapping it once with his wand, which he unsheathed from his cane. A wax seal formed on the parchment, the letter magically bound. Only the recipient would be able to open it.

Lucius rose from his chair, opened the nearest window with another flick of his wand and whistled once. A great beat of wings and within moments his eagle owl, well-built and conceited as its owner, was at the window sill, shaking its ruffled feathers and fixing Lucius a wide, amber-eyed stare.

The blonde moved gracefully over to the bird, tying the letter to its leg, and muttering to it, "You know who to take this to."

The bird made a soft noise, before it beat its wings once and took off, soaring over the grounds of Hogwarts and soon disappearing past the canopy of the Forbidden Forest.

Lucius watched it depart, one hand on the on the windowsill, the other gripping his wand tightly, all the way until he could no longer see the elegant creature. It was a while, still, after it had gone that Lucius turned away from beyond the classroom, eyes fixing on the chalk which stuttered and stumbled over its words now, no longer being able to form a few coherent letters.

Leaving the window open, Lucius approached it, like a very large cat would a very tiny bird, and snatched it from mid air. It struggled in his fingers, clearly trying to get back to writing, but it had outlived its purpose. Its jerking movements between his fingertips were completely futile, for he did not even have to hold hard to keep it his captive. Pathetic little thing.

He threw it into the air, aimed his wand, carelessly swished and the chalk was instantly obliterated into a billion powdery pieces. He stepped back slightly, making sure that the residue would float down onto the floor rather than on his silken robes, his expression unchanged. As though he had done little more than ask about the weather, Lucius used his wand to open his top drawer, rummage around for the new pieces of chalk and charm a long, unused piece into replacing the redundant one. It got straight to work, much more quickly, more efficient, without coughing its remnants everywhere.

Sometimes change was for the best, Lucius convinced himself, with a none too small, self-satisfied smirk. Especially when some things were so easy to replace. Or would not be missed at all.

Thank you for reading thus far. c: