Chapter 4: A Farewell
Draco curled his lip disdainfully at the sight of Muggles around him. He had rarely been this near so many. "Why couldn't we have gone by Floo?" he asked. His father glanced up from his copy of The Daily Prophet. "You may have gotten the first shot at Harry Potter, but he's not yours yet." Draco nodded at this.
"Everyone will expect him to go to Gryffindor. They'll warn him away from Slytherin for sure. You'll meet him here and be courteous, helpful, the best friend he could ask to have going into a strange new place."
Draco almost rolled his eyes at this. He knew that much. His father was not done, however.
"The half-giant, Hagrid, that you said was with him is a tad —ah, how shall we put it— dull. I wouldn't be surprised if he forgot to tell the boy about underage magic laws. It's like leaving an infant with a broomstick, giving a Muggleborn a wand a month before they're put under proper supervision." Lucius Malfoy did not snort as he said this. Malfoys do not snort. Malfoys laced every word with the disgust of finding something unpleasant on your shoe. "You will be an important guide to the boy. Make yourself invaluable."
It still amazed Draco that The Boy Who Lived had been left to live with Muggles, even if it was his family. No one was quite sure how an infant had survived the Killing Curse and destroyed the most powerful Dark Wizard in history. Some said it was an ancient spell on the family, or part of some prophecy, or that The Boy Who Lived must be even more powerful as a baby than the Dark Lord himself. None of them were very good explanations in Draco's opinion, especially the last. It doesn't take a strong wizard to kill a strong wizard, only a clever one. Plenty of powerful wizards, Dark or otherwise, had died from betrayal or ambushes, dead before they could raise their wands.
Draco was pulled from his line of thought as his father reached out and put his hand on his shoulder. In that moment, his father showed a rare amount of warmth and love.
"Draco."
Draco looked up into his father's grey eyes, which–no. It was impossible. Malfoys did not cry. Still, Draco could not deny that there were telltale signs of moisture in his father's eyes.
Lucius Malfoy's voice was soft, almost wavering, biting deep into Draco's core in a way his normal cold hardness never could.
"I know you'll make me proud, son," he said, and pulled him into a hug.
It wasn't that the members of the Malfoy family didn't love each other; they just showed it in more reserved ways, and almost never so publicly. But no one–Muggle or Wizard–looking on at the black and white monolith of propriety bending down and embracing the boy that resembled him so much could doubt that he loved his son. And that was okay.
"Goodbye, Draco. I love you."
