9
Father, My Father—Chapter 4
June 1946
(A/N: Because you've been so good about reviewing, here is a chapter less than a week after the last one!)
There was a guest; the idiot elf had no idea who it was, couldn't pronounce the name, but insisted that Master Malfoy must see this guest who knew Master and called Master by name. When Horatio entered the parlor nearest the front door, he paused rigidly in the doorway, stunned. Inside, sitting in an armchair sipping a glass of white wine, was a rather short, thin man in his sixties, salt and pepper hair cut in a military style, peering over the top of his spectacles at the wizard who'd just entered. Regaining his composure, Horatio strode into the room, halted in front of the man, gave a short bow, and held out his hand. The other man shook it, giving a clipped smile.
In Bulgarian he said, "Professor Lazarov, forgive me. I didn't expect to see you here." The absolute shock still registering on his face backed up his statement. Why would one of Abraxas' teachers be here? Had that little shit been up to no good at school? A sudden flash of anger ran through him, but he shoved it down and said, "Has my son done something?"
"No, he hasn't done anything wrong," answered Lazarov in Bulgarian. "Why would you think he had?"
"Well, you're here," said Horatio lamely.
"Please, sit." The professor indicated with a wave of his hand, as if it were his own home and he were not the guest. "I apologize, my English is quite poor, and I fear your house elf did not properly introduce me. Nonetheless, you know me, so let's get right to business, shall we? I haven't time for slacking about."
"I remember that about you," Horatio mused aloud. He also recalled taking only one of this teacher's classes when he was in school himself, not working as hard as he ought to have done, fooling around in class, and earning himself three whippings from Lazarov in the space of one term—a record, if you could believe student gossip. He moved warily over to sit opposite Lazarov. "What is this business we need to discuss?"
"Abraxas studied with me last summer; I had anticipated mentoring him again this summer. He's acquiring quite a lot of expertise," started Lazarov. He thought he detected a note of hostility in the narrowed eyes of the other. "I sent a permission form home with Abraxas last week, but he hasn't returned it, nor have I heard a word of his reply." He looked over his glasses in that peculiar way that Horatio recognized as displeasure.
For the briefest of moments, Horatio was speechless. Here, in his own home, he felt like a student at the headmaster's office all over again—and this wasn't even the headmaster! He got up, went to the door, and snapped his fingers; his elf appeared at his elbow. "Bring my son to me."
The elf popped out, leaving Horatio to turn back apologetically to his guest. "We will find out what's going on, I assure you."
Within seconds, the elf popped back in front of Horatio, the boy's trouser leg clutched in its fist. "Here is Master's son, Master."
Before Horatio could say a word, Abraxas burst out, "I didn't do anything, Father, I swear! I was in my room studying like you—"
Horatio cleared his throat loudly and signaled with an incline of his head and the pointing of his eyes behind the boy. Abraxas spun around slowly, and his eyes widened even more, his jaw dropping. "Professor, what…?"
"Hello, Abraxas. I came to make sure you were alright."
"Why wouldn't I be?" asked Abraxas, desperation rising in his voice. If he had been before, he certainly wouldn't be when the teacher left.
"You didn't return to Durmstrang for training, nor did you reply to me," said the man. "I began to imagine you'd fallen ill. I am eminently qualified to handle that, you know."
"Yes, sir, but I'm fine," Abraxas murmured, dropping his head. "I'm sorry to worry you."
Horatio leaned in close to his son, grasping his shoulder and squeezing painfully as he drawled, "Son, I think what Professor Lazarov would like to know—as would I—is why you didn't tell me you'd been invited to study with him this summer?"
Because I figured you'd smack me and tell me to shut the hell up, I wasn't going anywhere! Abraxas shouted in his mind. He had far more sense than to say it out loud. "I…I just thought he'd made the offer to be kind," he said softly. His shoulder was beginning to throb. "I don't want to waste his time."
"Training a healer is not a waste of time, young man," said Lazarov forcefully. "You are one of the elite, one of only three I have ever taken under my wing. Surely your father sees the value in your continued instruction?"
He glanced expectantly at Horatio, who was busy scowling at his son. Horatio made an effort to smile as he turned to the teacher, letting go of the boy. "Yes, I feel Abraxas ought to return to Durmstrang to finish his lessons this summer. Where is the permission form, son?"
"In my room," murmured the boy. Horatio's then-get-your-arse-busy-and-fetch-it glare made him scuttle out. He ran to the stairway before stopping to think. "Accio form." A moment later the rolled parchment came sailing down the stairs into his hand, and he returned to the parlor to hand it to his father.
Horatio unfurled the paper, read it quickly, and strolling to the secretary desk in the corner of the room, he picked up a quill to sign his name with a flourish. He gave the paper over to the professor. "There you have it. Of course, this will be the last summer Abraxas will be at Durmstrang. I and my wife thank you for your attention to our son."
He nudged Abraxas, who agreed hurriedly, "Yes, sir. Thank you very much for your assistance and encouragement. I'll go pack my things."
"And he'll join you next week," finished Horatio, smiling with his lips only. "His coming of age party had to be delayed until he got home from school, and it's set for Saturday. You are invited, of course, Professor Lazarov."
"No, I think not," said the teacher slowly. "I don't wish to make myself a nuisance, or force my way in. Abraxas, enjoy your party, and I'll see you Monday, then." He got up, shook hands with the two, and followed Horatio to the door.
The second he was gone, Horatio stomped back into the parlor to confront his son, fury shooting from every part of him. "You little piss-ant, you deliberately didn't tell me your teacher wanted you there! Were you trying to make me look bad, is that it?"
"No, sir!" Abraxas edged across the room till he struck the coffee table and could go no further. "I thought you didn't want me to go, so I didn't mention it….and Mother misses me, so…" He chewed his lip nervously, waiting. He didn't have long to wait.
Horatio slapped him on general principles, leaving a red mark on his cheek and slicing open his lip. "You'll have your party, you'll do your summer internship at Durmstrang, then you're going to Hogwarts for your final year."
Abraxas lowered his hand from where he'd been wiping at the blood seeping from his lip. "W-what? Why?"
"Because I said so."
Because I have people who care about me at Durmstrang, you mean. "That's not fair," Abraxas said in a low, even voice. A backhand jerked his head to the side, leaving a red weal on the opposite cheek, but he refused to give up so easily. "You made me quit Hogwarts, now you're making me quit Durmstrang. I deserve a real reason."
"You deserve whatever the bloody hell I give you, you smartmouth bastard!" shrieked his father, whacking him upside the head. It knocked him onto the table, where he sat heavily, face down, struggling not to scream or fight back. "But here's a good reason: you've now got contacts and friends at Durmstrang, but your life is here in England. You need to make political and social connections here, and school is an ideal location to make that happen. In fact, your mother is the one who suggested it, and I agree with her."
Only because you know it will make me unhappy, you despicable, heartless git. "Mother didn't say anything to me."
"It was a surprise. We were going to announce it at your coming of age party." Horatio laughed at the expression on his son's face. "She thought you'd be delighted. I honestly couldn't care less. Now get out of my sight."
So that's the way it was going to be. Arguing would not only prove fruitless, it could be downright dangerous. Abraxas stood up and moved past his father on his way out the door, his jaw clamped so tightly it ached.
"What have you got to say, son?"
The young man halted in place, not turning. "You're my father and I obey you." Then, in a fit of pique he added, "I don't have to like it." He left, hands balled into fists, and stormed out the front door. Perhaps a long walk would help him calm down.
Xxxoooxxxoooxxxoooxxxooo
Abraxas stood nervously on the balcony of the ballroom, looking down at the hundreds of guests that he'd only an hour ago greeted as they arrived. He knew many of them from years of his mother's soirees, though there were a few he suspected were old acquaintances of his father, as well as Ministry employees, including the Minister of Magic himself. It shouldn't come as a shock, should it, that the big guns would turn out for such an important function of one the members of a very wealthy, influential family? The guests appeared to be having a good time, mingling, drinking, conversing; the house elf, along with a few borrowed elves, scampered about in their crisp, cobalt blue tea towels, cleaning up spills, refilling bowls of food, refreshing drinks.
He glanced surreptitiously across the balcony to the skinny young girl with black hair swept up onto her head in a futile attempt to make her look older than her twelve years. She stood in front of her parents, the white gown hugging her non-existent hips very symbolic of the event about to occur. He mindlessly smoothed down his dark green robes and adjusted the high collar that seemed to be choking him about now. He found himself fiddling with the filigree pattern around the sleeves.
Nicolette leaned in to her son and whispered, which he barely heard over the sound of the orchestra below, "It's time, Abraxas. Are you ready?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said robotically. It didn't much matter if he was ready, did it? He'd been informed last week when he got home from school that this was to be his lot, and he accepted it for what it was. Throughout Malfoy history this was the way it had traditionally been done, with a few notable exceptions; it wasn't as if he expected anything different.
Horatio and Nicolette moved to the middle of the balcony, then came forward together, both dressed in opulent finery. Horatio motioned to the orchestra, who silenced their instruments, and the crowd below grew quiet as well, turning their faces to the pair above.
Holding his wand to his throat, Horatio smiled at the throng and said, "We thank you all for celebrating with us the coming of age of our son. I suppose by now you're wondering why he hasn't danced the traditional waltz yet."
There was a smattering of laughter and nodding of heads. It was typical to hold the waltz after the guests had all arrived, then let the party progress from there.
"We have some good news we'd like to share with you," Horatio went on, putting his arm around his wife as though they were a close couple, making Abraxas clench his teeth in irritation. He waved the tips of his fingers at Abraxas, beckoning him forward; at the same time the other family walked over to stand next to them, leaving the skinny girl directly beside Abraxas, the two of them center stage. "Nicolette and I, along with Mr. and Mrs. Prince, would like to announce the betrothal of our children, Eileen and Abraxas."
There was a momentary pause below, then the place erupted in spontaneous, sustained applause. A few shouts rang out, though Abraxas couldn't make out what they said. He assumed them to be some sort of well-wishes.
When the noise had subsided, Horatio made one last remark, "Obviously the wedding won't be for a few years, but we'll expect you all back for it. For now, allow my son his coming of age dance with his fiancée."
The music started up again. Feeling every eye upon him, Abraxas turned to his right and walked to the wide, curving staircase; at the same time, Eileen turned to her left and walked to the opposite staircase. As one they began their descent the way they'd practiced yesterday, at the same time they'd met for the first time.
As he made his way slowly down the staircase, casting furtive glimpses at Eileen to make sure they kept pace, he thought about her and her family. Eileen's mother was a friend of his mother, he knew that, but he'd never been to their manor that he could recall. From what Father said, they were far less wealthy than the Malfoys, had been losing their fortune over the centuries to bad luck—or mismanagement, which Horatio likely hoped to remedy himself. Despite the money issue, they were well-respected purebloods from a long line of near-nobility. The Malfoy matriarch and patriarch had decided that this was a good match for him, and who was he to argue? It wasn't as if he had anyone else lined up.
The youngsters reached the bottom of the stairs and approached each other. Abraxas took her hand, bowed, and she curtsied. Then he led her to the middle of the ballroom floor, where he swirled her in a circle, placed his hand on the small of her back, and began the intricate dance he'd learned from years of lessons as a boy. To his relief, Eileen had benefitted from such lessons as well, and she easily skimmed over the floor, following his every move, swaying and spinning with him as if born to it. At the end of the waltz, at the final dip, the crowd once more broke into hearty applause, and the couple left the dance floor to the congratulations and cheers of hundreds of people.
And so the party went on, with Abraxas dancing first with his own mother, then with Mrs. Prince, then mingling and thanking the guests for their sincere wishes. He sipped at champagne, shunning the firewhiskey offered, not daring to become even slightly tipsy on such an important day. Across the crowd he saw a hand waving at him; squinting against the darkened corner, he made out Frank Cullin, the doctor's son, and enthusiastically waved him over. In the past few years they'd met several more times—regrettably due to Horatio's savagery—and had become friends of a sort Abraxas had in no one else. Friends who could talk about the deepest issues they faced because he'd seen Abraxas at his weakest, most vulnerable periods, but saw in him the strength of a man. Friends who shared a love of healing and obscure spells.
Frank fought his way through the people until at last he reached Abraxas, and punched him lightly in the chest in a display of camaraderie. "Why didn't you tell me you were getting married?"
"I didn't know till last week," Abraxas admitted, grinning. He gestured with a tilt of his head that they should leave the room for some privacy, so Frank followed him into the back garden where the air was much cooler and fresher, the noise level manageable.
"You didn't know you were going to propose, you mean? Or that she was going to accept?"
"I mean, I didn't know Eileen till yesterday. My parents arranged the whole thing while I was at Durmstrang." Noting the odd expression, he snapped, "Don't look at me like that. You're pureblood, surely you're familiar with arranged marriages. My parents had one."
"Yeah," said Frank softly, "And look how that turned out."
"Most Malfoys have had them, and most had fairly happy lives, thank you very much."
Frank shook his head. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to denigrate the practice. I just…" He leaned in close, although there was no one in the vicinity. "I have a girlfriend…my parents don't know yet, but I plan to ask her to marry me."
"Can you do that?" asked Abraxas.
"I don't see why not. I'm not betrothed—and I'd better hurry up, since this night might be giving my parents ideas." Frank laughed, then grew serious again. "Are you alright?"
"Yes, why?"
"You're an adult now, and poised to be wed…seems like you ought to be happier. Then again, can't say I'd have wanted to be betrothed at seventeen." Frank grimaced into his champagne.
"You're only nineteen, and plan to become engaged. What's the difference?" said Abraxas with a quick look at the glass doors to make sure his father wasn't searching for him. He'd really prefer not to end the night with a quarrel…or worse. He'd gladly take a quarrel over what he invariably ended up with.
"A lot can happen in two years," Frank argued amiably, not missing Abraxas' tenseness. "Come on, I can't keep the man of the hour away from his own party. Let's go in." He opened the door, waving in Abraxas, as he went on, "Oh, and did I tell you about this new program I learned about? You go for a year to another country, acting as village healers…"
(A/N to yay: Horatio cursed his wife to make her suffer, most likely because she'd pissed him off in the past. He doesn't want her dead, at least not quickly, and if he did kill her he'd probably be arrested. He locks and wards his room every night so no one can come in to harm him while he sleeps, because he knows what a shit he is. As to the question of the generations getting better…not really. Most of the Malfoys through the ages have been like either Abraxas or Lucius (or a combination of the two) in temperament and disciplinarian attitude; a select few have been nutcases like Horatio. None have been lenient or soft on their children. I think Draco will turn out more like Lucius because he's been spoiled more than most Malfoys, but in a few generations we may have it back to the Abraxas type.)
