Deflection
Disclaimer: I still haven't managed to find an aging potion with which to bring myself up to seventeen and then take my driver's test. Thus, I haven't yet kidnapped JK Rowling. And, as such, they still aren't mine. Blast...
Notice that my chapter titles are now forming a little rhyme? And I'll point out that that wasn't completely intentional either...heh...weird me. Also, I'll point out that the feed-back I've received on this has been...well...astounding! Kay Warren – thank you for assuring me that my writing wasn't as bad as I feared [blushes]. (I'm just generally afraid of messing up, since I'm rather on the young side, inexperienced etc.)
Now, onto the next chapter. Lucius has fled his son's chambers, terrified by his outburst. Draco is sniffling away in bed, stemming a cold that's bound to appear. Lucius is now running through the corridors...shirtless (does anyone else notice that I enjoy Lucius when he has less than the standard amount of clothes on?) What will occur? Uh...well, if you read the notes at the end of the last chapter, I think you'll have a pretty big clue. Warning – substance abuse. No, I don't condone it. However, my muses decided it would be fun to make me write it.
Lucius Malfoy was not one to usually run. Running was not a dignified past time. Also, wandering around less than fully clothed wasn't very dignified either. As such, running around without a shirt (albeit within his own manor) was a very embarrassing and trying experience. And not at all dignified.
Where Draco had clasped onto his wrist felt as though it was burning – every so often, the panic-ridden blue irises would take a glance at the skin there, so sure that it would be bubbling and burning. Yet, every time, it looked just as it always did – thin, pale, and leading towards spidery- fingered hands. He shuddered at the sight of them – so much like his mother's – his dear, dear mother... So much like his Draco's...
He clenched both his fists, and used them as battering rams to barge open the doors to his own chambers. He decided to go into the study, just to see whether Severus might be in there (after checking and ascertaining that he wasn't in the bedroom). Anything to take my mind off... Yet again, he neglected to check the whereabouts of the foot-stool, and tumbled over it in his blind rush to enter the study.
Lying full length on the floor, he banged his fists futilely against the thick carpet, wishing that this madness wasn't happening. For the first time in years, he could feel tears pushing at the back of his eyes, begging to be released. And, for the first time in years, he had to swallow his pride as he allowed them their freedom. Stupid, useless... Get a hold on yourself...
Suddenly, a darker voice that he had not heard before entered his mind, as silver-tongued and serpent like as the Dark Lord himself. Why not take what you want? Would that be so wrong... He is your son after all...he's your property. Just take what you want...you have the power to do it...
I...
Go ahead. It's only a simple curse away. Say it with me – Imperio – try it...you'll like it.
But I...
You what? Don't want to be like your father? Oh, and what exactly have you done that was so different to your father's doings? You're the same silly little rich-boy you've always been – stop acting so petulantly and take charge of something for once in your miserable little life-
Shut up! I won't...I can't...I mustn't. He clenched his eyes tightly shut, forcing his spiralling train of thought to a grinding halt. It was just beginning to get too much – it was throwing up so many memories that he would rather not think of...
Wearily, he picked himself off of the floor, noting that he had managed to acquire some bruises from the first time he'd collapsed over the foot- stool...which meant he'd have a good few more in a couple of hours. He also noted that he was still completely soaked, and was probably ruining the carpet by dripping so much rainwater all over it. He couldn't, however, even bring himself to worry about it.
Shakily, he made his way to his desk, picking up the decanter of vintage port he had extracted from his glass cabinet earlier, and decided that he may as well entertain himself, now that Severus was no longer in the manor. Kicking off his shoes (casual soft leather loafers), he sank down into his Georgian-era office chair – his wet skin clung to the padded leather back, and he had to peel himself slowly away from it in order to reach for one of the two glasses he had laid out.
Then, he sank back against the cool material, his hair an uncomfortable wet mass that tickled his shoulder blades, and fell in front of his pale face when he looked down to wrestle with the lid of the fine crystal carafe. With movements that were not quite as controlled and precise as he would normally prefer, he managed to transfer some of the fiery amber liquid into the tiny glass that lay on the desktop.
With no hesitation, he then picked the glass up, and in one, smooth motion, threw it and his head back in perfect synchronisation. The velocity at which the glass moved meant that the liquid was forced at a high speed into his mouth, and then down his throat with a grimacing swallow. A good year... He thought, as the burning sensation caused by the liquor spread through his otherwise frozen body.
These actions were continued twice more, leaving the decanter little more than half full. Finding this method of relaxation wholly too polite for the situation, Lucius discarded the glass altogether. Indeed, in his rage at the futile nature of his cause for inebriation, he managed to sweep his arm in such a way that the glass transposed itself into tiny glittering shards on the carpet. Outside, a fork of lightning connected with one of the great old oaks of the estate, and lit up the dangerous minefield of glass shards, peeking out from amongst the temptingly soft fronds of pure wool.
With only the drink left to worry about, the Malfoy patriarch was able to force his chair to tip backwards, so that it leant on only two legs against the wall. This allowed him a much more leisurely position from which to drink. So, without further ado, he rose the fine piece of Russian Imperialistic crystal to his lips, and sipped the fine vintage brew. His pale throat moved painfully slowly, Adam's apple causing a slight, tantalizing rise upon the sinewy curve as he tipped his head backwards to drain the last of his concoction.
All of this had taken him perhaps ten minutes, and it was only when he tipped his chair back onto it's standard four legs, that he felt the true effects of such punishment to his body. Everything – absolutely everything – felt numb. In some ways, this was perfect...in others, it was not. The desk now seemed too far away for him to even consider an attempt to place the fine container on it. He clasped it in the hand that led to the wrist that Draco had grasped not so long ago. His other hand he took to his mouth, where a small droplet of port had managed to escape. He took the finger on which his wedding ring would normally lie (which he had removed that morning so that Narcissa could take it to be cleaned and polished for the next year), and wiped the droplet away.
Then, seeing as the port was so fine and expensive, he decided that it would not do to waste it. So, he transferred the droplet, via his finger, back to his mouth, licking the last of the burning drink away. His throat felt raw, his chest was still chilled, his hair clung to his back, the skin of which was painfully stuck to the leather of the chair. His hands were uncoordinated, and the only thing that reminded him that he had legs, was when he placed one foot down upon the floor, and managed to tread upon the scattered glass shards there.
"Fuck!" he said, slurring the curse ever so slightly as he abruptly lifted his foot from the floor to examine it. Leaning forwards, he forgot about the vessel that had contained his pleasure altogether, allowing it too to drop to the floor. Luckily, Russian products seem to be more sturdy than their British counterparts, and it did not break, instead rolling over a couple of times before coming to rest with a slight clunk against the foot- stool. His foot, illuminated by the half-light being let in by the blinds over the windows, had managed to connect with more than one shard it seemed.
Little rivulets of blood were welling up all over the sole of his foot, which was dusted with a light covering of the shattered glass. He was fascinated to find that it didn't hurt quite as much as it should have done. Evidently, that port was even more excellent than I thought... His thoughts were still surprisingly coherent, considering how much of the twenty percent alcohol beverage he had just imbibed. He rubbed the flat of his shaking palm along the surface, dusting off the sparkling mess.
In doing so, he also succeeded in cutting his palm. Disheartened by this turn of events, he pulled his damaged foot so that his legs were crossed, the sole of the foot still facing upwards. Reaching into one of his less important (and thus, unlocked) drawers, he removed a flask of 'rubbing alcohol'. It was evident that this had seen much use, as there was only about a quarter of the colourless liquid left. He used his teeth and the un- damaged hand to open it, spitting the metal cap out onto the floor.
Then, after a large gulp (mainly for courage, but also to further the numbness in his limbs), he tipped the remaining eighth of the bottle over his foot and hand. With a sharp hiss, he watched all the blood run away, turning the liquid a rose pink. But, in a few seconds, all the blood had just started to come forth again, and he leant heavily back in his chair, trying to decide if it was even worth calling his staff. Of course, they wouldn't ask questions...but there would be rumours and discussions to try and figure out just what was wrong with the 'master.' It would be best to leave it...
Further rummaging through his drawers turned up something that he'd almost forgotten he had. With a sense of demonic glee, he extracted a shining needle, still in it's sterilised container, and a small bottle of vibrant green liquid, whose foil seal, though dented, was not actually broken. The label on the front, which was faded (and also seemed to have what appeared to be a blood stain on it), merely read 'Enjoy!' The rest of the writing had been rubbed off, though the shadow of a warning symbol could still be seen.
How long has it been since I...? He looked down at his left arm, eyes taking a short while to focus on the crook of his arm – folded, he couldn't see the entire extent of the skin, so he stretched his arm out straight. In his peripheral vision, he saw the red skull and snake of the Dark Lord, waiting to burn deepest black when he was next called... He ignored it completely, and focused upon the crook of his elbow. There, he could just make out a cluster of tiny pock-marks, all above the prominent blue vein that could be seen even now, pulsing slightly with the accelerated heartbeat that only liquor provides. Anyone who didn't know...his past actions, shall we say...wouldn't have recognised the telltale signs of multiple injections.
However, he had been playing this game ever since the sixth year, and it hadn't killed him yet. Though I've never taken it with this much alcohol before...
Not that it matters, even if you do die. You're too cowardly to even take what you want, so what would it matter anyway-?
Shut up. The voice did as it was told, seemingly weakened by his less than sober state. With fingers that were now disturbingly sure, he ripped open the sterile sealing on the needle, and plunged it through the foil lid of the tiny bottle of lime-green liquid. Slowly, he drew up the plunger, taking in all five millilitres of his favourite vice. Letting the bottle settle on the seat underneath his folded legs, he raised the needle up to the light, and checked the plastic chamber below for air bubbles.
He tapped the side of the tube twice to dislodge the bubbles he couldn't see, but knew were there, and then leant forward to put it on the desk. Again reaching into the same drawer that he had taken his drug from, he took out a contraption that looked very similar to those used by muggle doctors to check blood pressure. This, Lucius put around his arm, having it rest just above the injection site. Then, he pumped a total of twelve times, until the band was tight around his arm.
Next, he grabbed onto the edge of the desk, and tensed his arm, popping the pulsing vein into prominent view. It was then a quite simple matter to take the full needle, and using the old scars as a guide, to take the metal point right into his waiting vein. The pain was minimal, both because of the drink, and because of his practiced hand, which meant he was used to it, and knew which places would, and wouldn't be painful. Once it was firmly in place, he thrust the plunger down violently – the very way that was the most dangerous.
Then, still in this new, and reckless state of mind, he withdrew the needle and dropped it onto the desk. Then, he put his finger over the open wound, which was weeping blood, and tasted some of it. Next, he deflated the armband, and put that on the desktop as well. Already, he could feel the effects of the wizard's drug, and he carefully turned his chair around, so that he was facing the side of the desk that didn't have glass shards littering the floor around it. Gingerly, he made his way over to the large comfy chair, whose back tipped back to make an almost horizontal resting place.
Before he could pull himself onto the padded seat fully, the drug kicked in. And it felt as though someone had kicked his legs in as well, because he collapsed onto the floor, both hands outstretched and grazing the velveteen tassels that edged the bottom of the chair. The carpet was soft and deep, and he allowed the combination of drink and drugs to carry him off into sleep. Just before he fully lost consciousness, a small sneeze escaped him, and it echoed in the otherwise empty study, soon covered up by a rumble of replying thunder.
It was Christmas time in the Malfoy manor, and the sixteen-year-old Lucius Malfoy eagerly surveyed the snow-laden grounds from the window of the carriage that was taking him up the main driveway and to the main entrance. Even from this distance, he could see his mother waiting at the door, her blonde hair in an elegant plait that trailed over her shoulder and down to her tiny waist. The golden light from within the manor was a sight he had sorely missed, and he impatiently tugged upon the cape of his driver, and urged him to go faster.
The driver complied, whipping the horses into action, so that they bumped up the slight incline, and then drew to a perfect standstill before the great doors. Entrusting his trunk and other school things to the house- elves scurrying waist deep in the heavy snow, he threw open his carriage door, and careered up the many steps to his mother's awaiting arms. "It's good to have you back love!" she exclaimed, laughing slightly into his shoulder.
"Good to be back, mother," he answered back, smiling as he looked over her head and into the hall beyond, which was decorated beautifully. Just as it always was...good enough to rival Hogwarts in his opinion! There was a twenty- foot fir tree, which was already clad in fairies, candles, baubles and even some singing tinsel, which at that moment was giving a soft rendition of 'In the Bleak Midwinter'.
"But, please, could you stop growing?" she let go, and took a step back, looking him up and down critically. "Why aren't you wearing your scarf?" she asked, attempting a stern look that modulated into a broad smile. "Oh, come on inside, it's freezing out here!" His mother grabbed him by the arm, and tugged him inside, leaving the door open for the straggling house- elves. He heard the carriage drawing away, and then looked up when the tinsel suddenly stopped mid-song.
There's only one person I know who has that effect... Lucius thought, rolling his eyes, and then putting a sickly smile upon his face. He looked up to the main landing, to see his father leaning over the railings, a tight smile drawing his lips back in what seemed to Lucius more like a snarl. His hair was, as usual, down, and the ringlets in it made him look much like a love child of a Georgian monarch. This, naturally, embarrassed Lucius, but he did his best to act warmly towards his father...no matter how abhorrent the man's company was to him. Usually, he did his best to avoid him, preferring to spend time with his mother.
"Lucius, my boy – back from school already?" his father asked, his voice devoid of humour, strutting down the stairs in his normal black dress- robes.
"Yes father – the snow meant that the train had to leave early, or not at all," Lucius explained stiffly, watching his mother directing the house- elves with his luggage. Apparently, the East wing had been refurbished during the term, and his mother had decided he was now old enough to have his own set of proper chambers, as opposed to just a bedroom. He hoped she'd stay around to show him which ones were his...there were a lot of rooms in the East wing that he had not explored.
"I see...well, I won't be stopping long – I have business to attend to," he declared, almost as though he expected them to be surprised. "Adriana, I won't be back for supper, so have the elves serve it in my chambers when I return."
"Yes dear," she agreed, accepting the obligatory kiss before the man left through the still open doors, and stepped into the carriage that had in fact been turning around. When the hoof-beats had fallen from hearing, and the tinsel had started up again, Lucius' mother looked at him with a quirked eyebrow and a slight smirk. "Well...I suppose without your father around...we could always go into the cellar...and listen to the stereo for a while..."
Lucius laughed, and followed his mother towards the only cellar in the house that his father didn't stock wine in. Instead, it was one that only he and his mother used, containing muggle paraphernalia that his father would never, ever have allowed them to keep if he had known about it. As such, it was his joy and delightful pleasure to join his mother in the taboo of enjoying muggle culture.
Walking along, he noticed flashes of the house-elves as they hurried about, finishing the Christmas preparations. Each of them was wearing some form of tinsel crown or, in one case, a wreath of mistletoe. That was Dobby, their newest acquisition – Lucius shook his head as he saw the little fellow scampering after one of the female elves, mistletoe hopefully held aloft in his podgy paw.
They finally came to a stop at the end of a corridor that would not have looked out of place in the Hogwarts dungeons. The walls were of roughly hewn stone, and the cool air made it obvious that this passageway was underground. There was even a light coating of vibrant green moss on the damp walls, and the heavy wooden door that his mother unlocked with a wrought iron key that had been hung on a hook set into the stone, was riddled with old woodworm scars. Adriana Malfoy (maiden name Xavier), leant upon the old door, and attempted to nudge it open with her shoulder.
After this one useless attempt, she stepped back, and motioned that Lucius perform his usual duty. "You're useless, you are," he said, the common language of Hogwarts teenagers tripping off his tongue and echoing strangely from the walls. His mother looked a little stunned by the note of a Liverpudlian accent, but ignored it, instead watching as he effortlessly opened the entranceway to their den. "Would you like to go first, milady?" he queried, suddenly reverting to his usual, well-enunciated tone. Glad to see that all those lessons in eloquence were not wasted after all, she nodded her head, and entered.
As soon as Lucius closed the door and shut out the gusts of cold air from the passageway, he was able to feel the comforting heat of the fire that had lit upon their entrance. The bright violet flames (his mother's choice, not his) clashed violently with the deep red carpet (his choice, not his mother's). The leather chairs (brown) that sat before the fire were bathed in the violet light, and after his mother flipped a switch by the door, two lights burned furiously above the pool table to the left. A small black and white television was to the right of the grand fireplace, and the stereo lay to the right, with stacks of cassette tapes and records (seven, nine and eleven inch) next to it.
Lucius let out a contented sigh, and immediately took up his place as the music provider. "What do you want today?" he asked, rummaging through their quite impressive collection.
"Well, I was working through them alphabetically," his mother said, lowering herself into one of the two chairs, and using her wand to magic up some warming hot chocolate and pink wafer biscuits (which Lucius hated). After a look at his face, she seemed to remember this fact, and added some chocolate biscuits to the plate – he nodded his thanks.
"Well, what did you get up to?"
"Well...I didn't manage to get any further than 'B', to be perfectly honest," she said, picking up her mug of cocoa and sipping it, little finger stuck out daintily from the handle. "I've been so busy with the East wing, I haven't had much time to come down here...and your father has been so dreadfully busy of late as well." A darker tone had entered her usually bright and lilting voice, making the French accent more pronounced than usual.
"Indeed?" Lucius left his music search, and collapsed into his own chair, preferring the violet flames and his mother's voice to any music at that precise moment. "How so? Is Voldermort really that desperate for father's services?"
"Don't use that name," Adriana snapped, before adding gently, "It just doesn't sit right with me... I still remember him as Tom, you see..." She sighed heavily, and put down her mug upon the tiny Victorian side table. "I...I'm not sure it's services Tom wants – rather, it seems to be funding." Lucius, who had been in the process of putting his own mug down again, let it fall with a loud clunk onto the wood.
"Sorry!" he gasped, as some of the steaming russet liquid spilt over the old furniture.
"Don't worry about it, this old thing's probably fake anyway," she said, waving her hand carelessly. "I just – I wish your father wouldn't get himself so mixed in with these people. I get the feeling that they'll start causing real trouble soon enough." A few strands of hair fell before her pale face, and she pushed them back with her left hand – the sleeve of her fine mint robes fell down slightly, and revealed a vicious looking bruise – she didn't seem to notice Lucius' intense gaze, and carried on. "He's been out of the house so often recently – often into the early hours...I...I worry about him, my love. He's getting too involved with Tom." She leant forwards, as though to tell a great secret, and in a low, despairing voice, she said, "I fear he's trying to emulate Grindlewald's campaign...and he certainly has the talent to do so..."
"You mean...kill muggles?" Lucius asked, his eyebrows knitting in horror at the idea. "I know that they've not exactly been kind to us over the centuries, but isn't that a bit over the top?"
A booming voice that neither of them would have wished to hear cut into the conversation. "Over the top? And, then, what would you call this elaborate use of my manor then? This little hideaway, full of God awful muggle things!" Both of them turned with guilty horror etched on their faces, to see Lance Malfoy, currently the richest wizard in Europe, outlined in the doorway. From the corner of his eye, Lucius could see his mother's hand unconsciously encircle around her bruised forearm, and felt a snarl of hatred rise up in his throat. He wisely, however, kept his mouth shut.
"No defence? Have neither of you anything to say?" he hissed dangerously, fingering the wand that was stuffed through his belt. "I would suggest that the both of you go upstairs immediately, and await an address in the winter drawing room," he said, one vein pulsing on his temple, and his face flushing angrily. Hurriedly, Lucius vacated his chair, and then helped his mother from hers – the hot chocolate and biscuits were carelessly left as they edged past the fuming man, and then rushed along the cold passageway to the main manor house.
"I thought he said he was off for the evening," Lucius huffed, finding it difficult to keep up with his mother as she stormed up the stairs. "What's he doing back so early?"
"He must have just drawn away in the carriage...I should have known we couldn't have hidden that for long," she said, more to herself than to her son. With a mad fear in her eyes that Lucius had never seen before, she grabbed him by the shoulders. "Whatever happens in the drawing room, make sure that you do not answer him back. When I said he hadn't been himself recently, I meant it darling." Again, her hand encircled her wounded arm.
"Did he hit you?" Lucius asked quietly as they entered the pastel-blue drawing room. The dying light from outside poured through the un-shuttered windows, giving the whole room a detached feeling. As though it wasn't quite real...more a scene from a fairy-tale than a real-life manor in Berkshire.
When he received no answer, he voiced the question again. "Mother, did he hit you?" he enunciated each word separately, so that there could be no confusion. He was startled by a shuddering sob from his mother, and rushed over to where she was leaning heavily on the ornately carved marble mantelpiece, one arm clutched around herself, the other lending support. He had not noticed when it had happened, but sometime between leaving the cellar and entering the drawing room, her hair had come undone, and was hiding her face.
Gently, Lucius removed her hand from the marble surface, and pushed the hair back from her face – tears brimmed in her blue eyes, and he embraced her, knowing that a tide of anger was about to make itself known from his father. The sounds of crashing furniture and the tinkling of glass from far off, told him that Lance Malfoy was making doubly sure that no muggle things would ever be used within his home again. Briefly, Lucius wondered whether it would be better if the two of them should flee to his mother's parents' house...but, they would probably not be all too pleased to see them. They had not been pleased with their daughter's match...
There was the sound of stomping footsteps, coming down the hall. Quickly, Adriana withdrew from her son, and used the palms of her hands to wipe away any trace of tears. "Promise me," she whispered, "Promise me that you won't say a word."
"But-"
"Promise, Lucius!" she only ever used his full name (rather than the endearing terms of darling, love, and on some occasions, Luc) when she was being serious. He nodded once, and then stood next to his mother, hands behind his back, military style. He had to repress the urge to insubordinately parody a salute, as his father slammed open the doors, so hard that he left dents in the panels, and entered the room.
He stood there, cheeks sustaining a slight flush, and hands balled into fists, one of which contained his wand. Sparks were dancing up and down the length of wood, cracking and sizzling in the otherwise still air. "Adriana," he began, focusing his stony gaze upon the Malfoy heiress. "I believe I told you many times that it was expressly forbidden to keep muggle artefacts in my house." She nodded, casting her gaze to the floor. "And I believe I have also informed you that this rule is doubly important if I am to gain a good position in Lord Voldermort's office." He advanced just two steps into the room, but it was enough for Lucius to feel uncomfortably enclosed.
"I will not tolerate such disobedience – it is not prudent for a woman to disobey her husband. As such, I cannot allow your insubordinations to continue without due punishment." The detached coldness in his father's voice was...terrifying. Lucius shuffled closer to his mother to try and glean some comfort, but, on feeling her shivering, he found himself even more afraid. What's happened to father over the last three months? He wondered. He's always been a stony cold bastard, but he's never been quite this...insane...before.
"Lucius," he started at his own name. "Leave the room." He would have waited for a 'please', as that was proper, but the look in his father's eyes told him to move it. He stepped around his father, feeling his skin crawl as the man stopped him just before he could make his escape. "Close the doors behind you." Then, his shoulder was released, and he left the room, and, as he had been instructed, closed the doors behind him.
Draco had given up contemplating his own stupidity, and had turned his attention to the slices of toast that had been prepared for him. Lethargically, he reached out his arm, the muscles protesting their tiredness, and grabbed the plate on which the delightfully warm morsels lay. He took up one slice of the lightly browned bread, and took a small bite, chewing it a few times before gulping it down.
This first bite had allowed him to discover an important fact – he was ravenous. The rest of the slice was soon devoured, and within a few minutes, the plate was devoid of anything but crumbs. Disappointed that the food hadn't managed to completely sate his appetite, he sullenly collapsed back onto his pillows, and looked at his clock. It was only one o'clock, but it felt like the middle of the night. This wasn't helped by the dark storm clouds over-head, which had only just begun to ebb away. The flashes of lightning were more infrequent, and the thunder was now only a soft purr.
Still, it's a bloody miserable day...typical English summer I suppose... He briefly lamented again the loss of his broomstick, and hoped that his father would deign it necessary to purchase him another. I wonder if I can convince him to get me a Firebolt... These selfish thoughts of quidditch accessories didn't manage to keep his wandering attention for long, and he found himself returning to the recent events.
When he had grabbed onto his father's wrist, he had noted that the dark mark seemed to be slightly blurred. He had seen it before of course, and knew what his father was...but he hadn't seen the mark so up close... He'd been sure that it had, however, been much sharper – and never before had there been bruises on the skin around it. He pondered the sight, wondering what it meant. Was the dark mark hurting him in some way? Had he done something to make Vol- I can't even think the name, let alone say it! Had he done something to make You-Know-Who angry?
Draco couldn't imagine his father doing anything rebellious, so ruled that option out. So, why the bruises? He briefly entertained the idea that the house-elves had been secretly kicking his father as he slept, and snorted quietly at the image this provided him. But, the image soon metamorphosed in his mind to just his father, leaning over him with a look of worry that quickly turned into the usual mask of indifference. I know he must give a damn... So why can't he just show that he does?
He thought about his journey back from school that year – neither his mother or father had been able to make it to the station, so they had instead sent a chauffeur to drive him home. On platform 9 and ¾, he had seen parents literally run to greet their children, engulfing them in hugs and immediately demanding to know how their year had been, what they'd learnt, and so on and so forth. He doubted whether he'd ever receive such attention. At least, not until I marry some high class bint...
He wished briefly to be someone else. Someone with a family that cared for them – and not necessarily a rich family either. Someone like...someone like...Ron Weasley. He blinked, and shook his head. Where in the hell did that come from? Weasel boy? You want to be like Weasel? I think all that lake water's muddled your head up! He shook his head again, clearing the maddeningly prudent and narcissistic posh voice of his rich-boy conscience. Well, at least then I'd have parents who actually wanted to know how my year had been...
Draco was drawn from his thoughts with the revelation that the sounds of the storm had stopped completely. He sighed, and the sudden intake of air spurred another coughing fit. Without his father here to help him out, they took a long time to subside, and when they did, he felt quite weak. With the strength he had left to him, he reached out and flicked on his wireless (which lay in the open drawer of his side-table). Some sort of popular music filtered out through the speakers, a ballad that was soft and soothing.
He wriggled down beneath the covers, turned over onto his side, and closed his eyes. Within moments, he was asleep.
Bah, stupid useless Malfoy family past over-ran. I promise the excitement will be in the next chapter. Can anyone tell me if the little study-scene with the needle made sense? I've seen it done in films like Train spotting, and have read about drug administration (of the legal kind), and was trying to emulate that. Not sure if I managed it though...
Nest chapter is going to be fun. [Evil manic laughter] I'm going to enjoy myself a heck of a lot. Just so you know, it will be a continuation of Lucius' dream (that was what all the past stuff was...a lovely drug and alcohol fuelled dream!) Again, I just want to point out that I don't condone any sort of drugs or substance abuse, and I don't really like drinking either... I just like to watch Lucius walk on the wild side (and be completely out of character to boot!)
That's enough of me rambling – now to spell check, laugh at my poor grasp of the English language, and update.
Gabo0, I apologise for lack of sexiness. [Looks sweetly up from her spinny office chair.] You will like the next chapter, I promise you! Heck, I'll even dedicate it to you m'dear! As for everybody else (especially Kay Warren, if you've decided to come back for more), I hope you liked it.
Soda
PS: I had quite a difficult time finding names for his parents. I just ended up using a generic French and generic German name (why German? I have no idea). The French names were 'Adriana Xavier', and the German name was 'Lance'. I truly couldn't think of anything better. And, if his parents seemed a little wooden (especially horrible, boring Lance) tell me, and I'll attempt to improve them.
PPS: Yay for Lucius centric chapters. [Fangirlish sigh]
PPPS: OK, I'm really going now. Bye!
