Chapter Two- As My Father's Son

"It's quite ridiculous, really," Father says, as I come into the dining room the next morning for breakfast. "Why, they're only drawing more attention to themselves. It's preposterous. Why don't they just wear checkers and polka dots?"

"Good morning, Draco," Mother smiles over at me, completely oblivious to whatever morning news has inspired Father's pointless rant.

"Morning, Mother," I smile. Father offers a glaring nod, "Good morning, Father."

"Mm," is all he gives me. "I think I'll have a word with Fudge about it myself," he goes on, as though nothing could interrupt his conversation. "After all, it's making the entire wizarding world look ridiculous. Something's got to be done."

"Oh, Lucius, it's Arthur Weasley, for pity's sake. We all know he's a not altogether right upstairs, and if he gets the Potter boy killed, whose fault will it be?" Father hates Arthur Weasley as much as I hate Harry Potter, if not more. Filthy-blood traitor, obsessed with muggles, just saying Weasley's name is enough sometimes to make his left eye twitch. This morning, it's obviously twitching because he keeps tugging with his middle finger at the corner of his eye. What's really got my attention though is Mother's mention about Potter's potential death. Today may not turn out to be so bad after all. My first thoughts about Scarhead have been a gory play by play of his destruction in some bizarre Quidditch accident.

I smile.

"Mm," he agrees and reaches for his coffee only to find it empty. His eyes narrow bitterly. If Dobby were still here Father's coffee would never be empty unless he wanted it emptied. "Zippy!" His bellow echoes through the manor and mother rolls her eyes, ducking behind the Community section of the Weekend Prophet to mask her irritation. The picture of Azkaban escapee, Sirius Black rages at me from the front page, which father is folding neatly in an effort to ready himself for the big confrontation. "Zippy!" I take my seat at the table and prepare for the morning show, unfolding my napkin in my lap.

He'll probably beat her; it's been awhile since he really unleashed his full anger on one of the house elves, and the whole thing with Arthur Weasley being in the paper again really has him riled up. Mother usually steps in if it gets too out of hand, but this morning she's not in the mood. Hiding behind her section of the paper, I catch nothing more than a glimpse of her hair. She's sullen today; I don't need to see her face to know it, and I think maybe it has to do with my leaving for school tomorrow. This should make her happy, "Could we ride today, Mother?" she moves the paper aside to peer over at me, a pleasant smile lifting away the gloom. "Just the two of us?"

"Three," she looks in my father's direction. "Just the three of us."

"Of course." Good lord. Father will ruin everything. Just mother and I could spend a whole afternoon together outdoors and barely find need to speak, but with Father along I'll barely get a word or thought in edgewise with her. He isn't happy unless he has all of her attention and I already see myself riding behind them while his slow, witty seduction inspires her laughter. Really, I should be glad that he loves her the way he does. Most kids come from broken homes these days, but my parents are still crazy about each other after eighteen years of marriage. I don't know why, but I hate being around her though when he's there. Is it because he's always got to have her attention? Is it because like she said yesterday he's more spoiled sometimes than I am?

I'm not spoiled; at least I don't think I am. I like to think I'm well loved. I know what I want, and then I go after it, but spoiled? I don't agree. He's shouting at Zippy now, who is cowering with her arm up as though she's expecting him to strike her. It wouldn't be the first time. Finally he excuses her, tells her that the next time his coffee mug is empty without him willing it so, she will find herself with a sack full of dirty shorts on the sidewalks in Piccadilly Circus begging for soup to survive.

"Master is gracious," she steps backwards and I stick out my foot. Thump, she tumbles back and a scowl darkens Father's brow. "Master is too good for Zippy," she scampers to her feet. "Young Master, thank you for trying to keep clumsy, old Zippy from falling over. Zippy is so stupid and clumsy. Where would she be without her family?" Stupid house elf. She knows bloody well I tripped her. "Zippy will get Master's coffee now. Thank you, Master."

Mother actually cares about Zippy, and I sort of feel bad for tripping her because Mother ignored my doing it even though I saw a crease in her brow. She's always been sympathetic to the lesser creatures; that's what Father says anyway, "She's sympathetic toward the pathetic; why she'd probably throw herself in front of a moving train to save a dodgy werewolf . . ." she didn't talk to him for three days after he said that. I think that is just another one of the reasons that I adore her. She has her own agenda and could care less about anyone else's if it interferes with hers, even her own husband.

Father's complaining about Dobby again, who should rightfully be here in our service, but no small thanks to Harry Potter, Dobby's gone. Father also lost his lofty position among the School Board of Governors, no thanks to Potter. Funny how you can spend eleven years without a person in your life and never know what you're missing, but two hours in their presence can bring your whole world crashing down around you. That's what life with Potter is like. Everyone thinks he's some great hero, but he's a walking time bomb, and no one is safe from his destruction. Of course we all grew up to the tune of endless praise about the boy who lived, but who cares, really? He was a bloody baby. It wasn't like he actually stood up to the dark lord or something brilliant like that. He laid there in his little crib while his mommy and daddy died to save his worthless, half-blood arse and they celebrate him like a holiday. Then after eleven years without a single word confirming his whereabouts or even the fact that he was still alive, old Scarhead Potter crawls out of the sludge and he's an overnight sensation.

My first train ride to Hogwarts should have been my glory day. It should have been the day I, Draco Malfoy, broke all the molds and standards set by the great men before me. By all rights, I should have been the youngest Quidditch seeker in the last hundred years, not Potter. I'm just as good as he is, even better, I say. My father taught me to ride a broom before I could barely walk, but that cow McGonagall recommends Potter, and I have to wait a whole year before I can try out as Slytherin's seeker. Of course Father guaranteed my acceptance, but I could have gotten in on talent, just like Potter. Potter . . . I clench my fists, and do not notice that the food on my plate is getting cold. I'm not really hungry now that I've started another day thinking about that stupid boy that lived.

Mother's talking to me and I somehow manage to answer her without even knowing what she's saying, but the real kick is when father asks me something and I agree without even knowing what I've agreed to. ". . . Draco?"

"Of course, Father." He's smiling again. I should consider myself lucky, but I really have no idea what I've just made him so happy with. For all I know I've agreed to help him hang the house elf later, and though the prospect is actually tempting, I get the feeling Mother would never forgive me if we did it.

"It's settled then," he says. What? What is settled? Oh no! I haven't just agreed to something horrible, have I? Is he going to marry me off to Pinky Parkinson? Have I signed away my future with a daydream reply? So help me, if I have, Potter will pay for this too.

Mother folds her section of the paper and hands it over to him, "Don't tease him, Lucius."

"What? I was being serious," he insists. He winks at me, a sure sign that he's trying to change her mood for the better and that the person he's really teasing is her. Thankfully whatever I've agreed to wasn't even real. I'd never forgive myself if I'd actually agreed to help father do something boring, or even worse, something that would make mother unhappy. "We'll line them up in the back yard and. . ."

"Oh, Lucius, you're an absolute scream, really," only she's not laughing, even as her eyes assure him she's at least vaguely amused. She's like a black widow, deadly while at the same time alluring and beautiful. "Shall I have the papers come then? They could do a write up; you'll make the front page. Perhaps they'll put you in there next to Arthur Weasley. . ." she's gone too far; he's got that dangerous look about him now.

"Now, now," he sneers. "There's not need to be feisty, 'Cissa."

Another day at Malfoy Manor has officially begun. I swear they all start this way. One insult is all it takes for him to grasp at revenge and call her that one nickname she's hated since before I was born. I wonder how they manage without an audience. Do they fight like this when I'm not here, or is it just for my amusement? I tuck into my plate, shoveling in mouthfuls of syrup soaked hotcakes and washing them down with sweet tea and extra cream. Soon they leave the table and take their argument with them. Father follows her up the stairs and she slams the door in his face crying, "It doesn't matter, Lucius. What matters is that you know I hate it when you call me that!" It's been fifteen minutes and she's still hung up on the name. Meanwhile, Father has found at least four other things to complain about, and I can hear his faded shouts as he works his way into the room and slams the door behind him.

So much for riding. . . I finish my tea.

Even though it's Saturday, businessmen begin to arrive in search of Father's golden guidance. Men like my father are born rich, yes, but the real gift comes in maintaining a family fortune that has passed down through several generations. Obviously he's a financial genius; it's one of the few things I respect about him. By afternoon tea, he's done with kissing Mother's arse, even is she hasn't forgiven him, and he slips away into his study with three well-dressed blokes I've never even seen before.

I've been sitting in the parlor reading comics since breakfast, waiting for them to stop arguing. God only knows where mother's gone after he and his callers disappear into his study. No more than twenty minutes after they're bickering ends the doorbell sounds and I rise to answer it. I'm not the least bit surprised to see my Potions Master, the head of Slytherin House at Hogwarts, standing on the other side. Snape and Father do business often and he's always bringing mother unusual potions components for her P.U.N. gatherings. I greet him with a pleasant enough smile, and step aside, inviting him in. "Father's in a meeting," I explain. "Would you like to come into the parlor and have tea while you wait?"

Sometimes Snape looks at me in ways that make me uncomfortable. It's not like he's giving me the evil eye, or anything less than savory, but he looks at me as if he knows me from somewhere else, admiring some memory in me that I don't understand. His soulless eyes scan my face, and just as I'm about to ask him what potions he'll be teaching us this year, Mother makes her grand entrance, "Who was it at the door now, Draco. . . oh," she stops in her tracks. "Good afternoon Severus."

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Malfoy," he smiles, a rare vision so few are ever given the pleasure of witnessing, but I also notice he's nervous. His naturally concise demeanor falters in her presence, it almost always does and he stumbles over himself, obviously flustered as he actually stutters, "M-my apologies for not attending to speak at your last P-pU.N. seminar, my summer schedule has been far busier than usual this year, I'm afraid."

"No apology necessary, Severus. P.U.N. will be glad to have such and established Potions Brewer speak for us whenever he sees fit. Won't you come in and have tea with us?"

"I probably shouldn't," he shakes his head. "I've only stopped by to drop this off for Lucius," he holds out a sealed roll of parchment. "Could you see that he gets it at once?"

"But of course," they hold the parchment between them longer than necessary, and then he finally yields it to her. It's weird how they interact and for a minute, I can see why Father gets so jealous whenever she talks about Snape. I'm almost jealous myself on Father's behalf as I realize how obviously she's flirting with him. "Are you sure you won't have tea," she offers again. She tosses her hair and that strange face appears again, the one that sometimes makes me wonder who my mother really is underneath it all.

"I couldn't possibly," he insists. "I've much to take care of before a new batch of less than potential students arrives for fall term tomorrow evening. Thank you, but perhaps another time."

"Indeed, you know you're always welcome to tea," she sees him to the door and I follow, lingering in the entranceway of the parlor like a shadow. He mutters something to her before stepping through the door, and I don't hear him, but whatever it was it makes her laugh. "Of course, Severus. I know you will." She's leaning on the doorframe, and now I can't hear anything they say because she's muttering too. It's always like this when he visits and Father's not in the room to steal the conversation away from her; whispering backed by her lovely and innocent laughter. I think Snape fancies her; in fact, I'm sure he does, and just thinking about it makes me burn inside with rage. It's no small wonder Father gets so jealous because for a minute, I almost believe Mother sort of fancies Snape back as she tosses the billowy, gold cloud of hair over her shoulder. All the men fancy her; she's beautiful so why shouldn't they, but with Snape it's completely different.

Ew! What a disgusting thought, my mother and the potions master. The house elf walks by and instead of tripping her, I grab hold of the sack she wears as clothing and throw her to the ground. It only barely softens my anger so I kick her, and walk back into the parlor, satisfied with the sound of her whimpering. I sit on the edge of the sofa and take my tea. I have every intention of being angry with Mother when she comes back into the parlor, but then she does and I can't hold onto it because she smiles at me and that makes everything okay. "Shall we ride then this afternoon?" she looks in the direction of Father's office, then whispers back to me, "It'll be just the two of us, then?"

This makes me happy. "All right." How could I ever distrust her, think that she is anything less than perfect? She is Mother, after all, and when I look over at Zippy, who has picked herself up off the floor and wiped away her pathetic tears, I feel guilty for a fleeting second and then it passes.

Mother rides in front of me like a dream come to life. Everything she does is full of grace and beauty, and I imagine some vagrant passerby straying into our shadowy copse believing he has passed into the next world as my mother the goddess rides out to meet him. She wears white often, which is a strange contrast to my father always wearing black. They are night and day, but I have a hard time figuring out which is which. She is certainly no innocent, which is why I think she looks so fair in white. Both she and father were Death Eaters, loyal to the Dark Lord in his day. I've seen the faded scar of the Dark Lord's mark on her back. She said it was because she was a spy, but whenever I ask her for details, like father, she changes the subject.

They were of the few to escape persecution during the Dark Days by claiming that they worked against their will under the Imperius Curse, but I've seen the things Father keeps under the floorboards- strange devices of torture and lethal poisons, old relics he claims once belonged to He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. I can see Father taking great pleasure in the suffering of others, especially muggles, but for some reason it's a little harder for me to see my Mother in this role. "Mother?"

She looks over her shoulder at me, slowing Autum's Vengeance so I can ride beside her and talk. "Did you see the Fennylops, Draco?" She gestures to our right, but I don't see the birds. "They'll be leaving soon, flying off to warmer weather, I suppose." It's a vague reference to my own departure, I know because she's sullen again.

"It is almost that time," I agree. "Mother, did you know Snape before you knew father?"

"Professor Snape," she minds my manners so I don't have to. "Why do you ask?"

Nothing like avoiding the question, "Because you and he seem awful friendly sometimes. I wondered if you knew him before you knew father."

She's contemplative now, her steady, hazel eyes, which remind me of violets today, peering into the woods before her. She avoids my face, "Severus and I worked together once."

"With potions and the like?"

"Not exactly," she's far away now, the way she gets sometimes when I ask her about her past. It's like she has to think carefully before she tells me about herself. I want to ask her with what then, how she worked with Snape and why she's never told me, but she's so fragile to me. I worry pressing her will break her and she'll close herself off from me forever. "We were both spies, if you must know," she says nearly five minutes later. "Spies for Lord Voldemort." She says his name without the hinge of fear that bends so many others to his faded will.

It's actually the first time she's been cut and dry with me. I know if Father were with us she would not have said as much as she has, and I also know I can never repeat to him what she's told me. "Is that why his mark is on your back?"

"Yes."

"So no one would know you were a spy?"

"Something like that," she pulls the horse to a halt and turns her slowly around so we are face to face. "I think we should head back now." It doesn't seem like we've been out long, but the position of the sun suggests that it's been hours and that dinner is drawing near. I don't want to end the day with her. She's given me one little morsel and I'm greedy for more. I follow her, thinking if I can keep up with her pace, I can get her to divulge more of her secrets to me. It's always fascinated me how secretive she is, like a mystery unto herself, a mystery that maybe even Father has yet to unravel. "Please don't tell your father what I've told you," she looks sideways at me as we approach the stable. "He doesn't like me to talk about the past, and I feel he would be especially angry if he knew we were talking about Severus."

"Of course I won't," I promise.

"I trust you," she reaches across the space between our horses and pats the Belgium on the neck. It is a gesture meant for me, but she's far away again, riding like a dream beside me.

I'm lost in my own thoughts. My mother a spy for the Dark Lord, how? Surely being married to my father, regardless of his pretense of good virtue, would have made anyone in the opposition wary to speak to her about the inner workings of their revolt. I don't understand it, but she's talking again, lamenting about my leaving for school in the morning. She wishes I didn't ever have to go to school, that I could stay home and learn everything I need to know from her, but Father would never allow it. "I suppose you'll be happy to get back to your friends anyway, and your Quidditch."

"You'll come to all of my games, right?"

"Of course I will," she promises. "Father and I both."

I do miss Quidditch, but not my friends. Crabbe and Goyle haven't exactly been absent from my life this summer holiday. Just last week they were both here riding with me. Of course I have other friends, people like Pansy, who follow me around and do what I tell them, but are they even really my friends. The one person I do not miss is Potter. If I could spend the rest of my life without ever laying eyes on his ugly face again "Mother, Father says it isn't prudent for me to voice my feelings about Harry Potter."

She sighs, corralling the horse. "Your father's right," she's brushing Autumn's mane, the fiery red flare glistening in the fading sun, and for a moment it catches like a flame in the reflection of her eyes. "There's no sense in your dislike for Harry Potter, Draco. You have so much more than he does, and I don't just mean money, either. You're smarter than he is, more handsome than he is, and you're cunning. You're special. Harry Potter is just a boy."

"A stupid boy," I add.

"Stupid boy or no, it isn't wise to flaunt your dislike for him. It could get you into trouble with your masters at school, and as your father says, we've already seen that the school headmaster favors Harry Potter."

But why? I want to know why they all favor him so much. What is so special about Potter that makes everyone love him. He doesn't even do anything and they all fall down at his feet. So what if he saved some stupid stone from He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Anyone could have done it had they known it was in danger, but Potter does it and they practically name a holiday after him. And as far as the Chamber of Secrets is concerned, I was happy when people actually believed Scarhead was the Heir of Slytherin. It was justice, but then he defeats Voldemort again and they all but build statues in his likeness in the courtyard.

"Wouldn't it be in my best interest as my Father's son to oppose Harry Potter, Mother?" This makes the most sense. My father and mother were Death Eaters, supporters of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, shouldn't I follow in their footsteps?

She turns her eyes quickly on me and for a moment I almost wince, worried that she is going to lash out and strike me. "Draco, never say that out loud again," she hisses. "Imagine what it would do to your father's reputation if you were heard claiming that he opposes Harry Potter!" I look around the stable, are we being watched? "It is in your best interest to stay away from that boy." Her tone is biting, it stings and I realize that my eyes are actually a little damp. She's never yelled at me before, and even though her tone barely scaled above a whisper, she might as well have used a Sonorus Charm because she reached me loud and clear. Then her face softens, "Do you understand?"

"Yes," my voice is a weak rasp, and when she reaches out to touch the side of my face, I can feel she's trembling.

"Promise me," she looks into my face, and her eyes, which were violets only moments ago, have caught fire with the spark and burn like amber into my own. "Promise me, Draco, please."

"Of course, Mother," I've never seen her like this. I've heard it; she goes a little crazy sometimes, but usually it's only when she's alone with father. She sees things, I guess, but that's just another one of her little mysteries I know nothing of. "I promise."

"Good," she cups my face in her hand, a slow smile smoothing out the last edges of fear and anger in her expression, "Thank you," and then she hugs me.