Title – Moonlight
Authoress – Phoenix Tears
Summary – Lucius Malfoy, out of hiding, returns to England and attends a masquerade. Little does he know that he will experience quite a few shocking revelations while there… This is in Lucius' point of view.
Rating – PG
Warning – Slash, incest. Don't like – don't read.
Disclaimer – I own nothing, except for this plot. All the characters are property of the wonderful goddess J.K. Rowling.
Authoress' Note – I am a citizen of America, so pardon the spellings if they are not strictly United Kingdom type English… you know, 'colour' or 'color'…
Feedback – Of course, as for every writer, questions, thoughts, and constructive criticism are all greatly appreciated. Thank you, and enjoy.
~*~
The whooshing sound of a falcon reaches my ears as I sit in a moderately sized flat – too small for a Malfoy – at a large writing desk. Its golden eyes study me sharply before delivering the letter.
To: Mr. Lucius Malfoy From: Albus DumbledoreAh. So this letter is from Dumbledore. Surprising that he didn't use one of the Hogwarts post owls.
The contents inform me of how the wizarding population's hatred has slowly been worn off and forgotten.
It is safe for me to return.
~*~
I straighten out my green and black robes, making sure that they are immaculately placed. Adjusting my mask so that it covers all of my face, I enter the du Parc mansion – though it is nowhere as large as Malfoy Manor – and scan the room for anyone I might know. I glimpse a sight of silken chestnut hair bound in a single ponytail by velvet ribbons – that must be the young Mr. Rhayne du Parc.
Next to him I see another young man, dressed in cobalt blue, black, and grey. His silver hair flashes under the light of the candelabra, and I muse how much the hue of the young man's hair was like mine, when I was younger.
A young witch dressed in gold – Miss Nott, if I am not mistaken – goes over to the silver haired youth and asks him to dance. I participate in the dance as well, the steps coming naturally to me. I see that the silver youth dances elegantly as well, and before I know it, he is my partner.
He is beautiful, I can tell, even with his mask on.
Maybe Draco would like him, if I ever find Draco.
I dance with him, holding him in my arms as the one leading the dance, and I can see that his lithe frame trembles when I hold him. I hold him closer, and he wraps willing arms around my shoulders. We dance another waltz, and it is over too soon for my liking.
Hoards of people come to congratulate our superb dancing.
The silver youth nods and accepts the compliments as graciously as I do, and I wonder under which crest and house was he brought up.
He would make a wonderful companion for Draco, I muse, if I did not want him myself.
~*~
Draco. Oh, my precious, beautiful, perfect silver dragon.
I love him so much that it hurts to acknowledge my love.
From the day he was born, and I held his small body in my arms, I knew that I would gladly die for him.
As he grew up, I lavished him with gifts and possessions, not knowing how else to express my love. Severus told me I should be more emotional with him, rather than give Draco materialistic things.
I was afraid I was not good enough of a father.
But every night, I would put Draco to sleep, and he would look up at me from under sinfully long dark silver lashes, with those sapphire silver eyes of his, and whisper adoringly, "I love you, Daddy."
I love him.
When he grew up and went into Hogwarts, I missed him even more. Narcissa was there, of course, but she was often out at social gatherings. Not like I cared; we shared no love, only an understanding friendship.
Under the pretense of Narcissa, I would send him gifts and sweets. Every Yule, when he came home, we would hold huge celebrations at the Manor for him.
Every year, he worked hard to please me.
In fifth year, he graduated with thirteen O.W.L.s, which was one more than the Muggle girl Granger. Draco told me gleefully how she threw a fit in the Great Hall when the owls delivered the results. He had scored the highest in the school, even higher than the book-smart Ravenclaws, who had all gotten elevens and twelves.
In seventh year, Draco was nominated Head Boy. He graduated with the maximum amount of N.E.W.T.s, same as the Granger girl, who had been the Head Girl. I was proud of him. Slytherin House took home the House Cup that year, though Gryffindor was the winner of the Quidditch Cup. They celebrated happily for a whole week, Severus had told me.
But then Voldemort was defeated, and our worlds changed forever.
Narcissa was killed because of her reluctance to gather Veela forces for the Dark Lord. In the end, Harry Potter killed Voldemort, predictably.
Harry Potter lived, Voldemort died, and the world kept on spinning.
Death Eaters were rounded up and sent to Azkaban, Muggles were oblivious to the largest wizarding war ever just being finished, and the magical community was now thankful for the defeat of the Dark Lord.
The world kept on spinning.
Dumbledore advised that Draco and I go into separate hiding, and so we did.
I never heard from my son since.
~*~
I told the boy that he was beautiful, pressing him up against a hidden section of the veranda, letting my hot breath waft over his pale figure. He shuddered.
"How would you know if I wear a mask?" the boy asks coyly, unconsciously running a wet tongue over his rose hued lips.
"I have a penchant for lovely things, dear," I say, amused, and pull the boy in for a kiss. Oh, but he is heavenly.
The boy tastes of red wine and vanilla and mint and purity. I am gentle with him – it would not do to scare the poor boy off – and wait until he lets me into his sweet darkness. I smirk against his delicious lips and dart quickly into his mouth, licking and sucking and caressing gently with my tongue.
It's the most heavenly feeling I've ever felt – even better than the stolen kisses with Severus Snape, dark Sev, in the Potions storage room, better than the fiery kisses with James Potter, popular Jamie, in the Quidditch broom shed.
Better than all those kisses I've ever had before.
"Delicious," I murmur gently against his lips, feeling the tremors of my words enter his mouth and vibrate gently.
Soon, we are out of breath, and pull apart. The clock soon strikes ten.
"You or I first?" he asks.
I toss my head; Malfoys must always go first. "I shall," I say, flashing an unseen smile at the boy. In my mind, there is one worry.
Will he be repulsed at the sight of such an older man?
Perhaps not, I comfort myself. I unlace my mask and take it off, revealing my face. The boy's face does not reveal anything, but then again, he is wearing a mask.
He does not move.
I am afraid he is repulsed at the sight of me.
Impatient, I stride over to him and unlace his mask gently, taking care not to muss the perfect, silken strands of platinum blonde hair.
It is my son, Draco Malfoy.
~*~
Authoress Note: Well, if you've read the previous chapter, this shouldn't come as much of a surprise to you…Please review!
