Remembrance: Father's Day
It's the first anniversary he'd observed since moving out. His mother had asked him what the rush was, but his step-father had just nodded with approval. Sergei was done with school. He would begin training for work soon. It was only right that he have his own apartment. Besides, he couldn't imagine staying in his mother's house once Lika had gone back to school in the fall. (Her fourth year already. Hard to believe.)
It wasn't that Baldwin was a bad sort. Sergei would be the first to admit he'd taken good care of Darya, and Lika. They'd never been close, but that was Sergei's fault as much as anything. Still... that house had never been home.
He thought of a graveyard in England. Of a vault with generation of family in it. Monuments carved with the name he wasn't even aloud to say anymore. No flowers, of course - who would put them there? It was only the respectability of the cemetery that would keep it from being outright defaced, he had no doubt.
There was a great deal that Sergei never learned about his father. There was more he guessed, or pieced together later. His own memory was mainly of a tall, aristocratic man who standards were high, but who was capable of genuine affection. Whose praise was hard to earn, but sterling on the occasion it was. Perhaps he'd been who he was suspected of being. Perhaps he'd been a traitor, to someone once. But for all that, Sergei knew his father didn't deserve a deserted grave and an empty manor. Didn't deserve to be forgotten except by those who'd hated him.
He daydreamed, sometimes, about going back to England. Like the long lost prince who always turned up in fairy tales. "I am Lucius Malfoy's son," he would say. (Imaging to whom he would say it was where the fantasy fell apart.)
Besides. The largest part of his responsibility was to the living. To go home, he'd have to cut himself off from his mother and his sister forever, so the risk would be his alone. And he couldn't bring himself to do it.
He hoped his father forgave him that, wherever he was now.
It had been five years ago that day. Five years ago that a small, nervous man had turned up by Floo to tell his mother in a low voice that he hadn't been meant to hear. "Murdered," though, was clear enough. There'd been a mark in the sky, for all to see. Hadn't it shocked everyone, when the victim turned out to be Lucius Malfoy, the champion of blood purity.
Haha. Quite the laugh, that.
Graitian Malfoy had, in almost every sense, died five years ago too, a few months later. He and his mother and his sister. "Disappeared." Everyone thought they were dead. Both sides thought the other hand done it. All very neat. Very proper.
And Sergei Alkaev had walked away.
But Sergei had no father. Once a year, when he was totally alone, Graitian would rise from the dead, a bit solidly for your typical ghost. He could give his father nothing else. Not the name he'd so wanted his son to be worthy of. Not the respect owed to a pillar of wizarding society. Certainly not the admiration for a man who'd fought in two wars, who'd built a family worth noting and had it all taken from him in an instant.
Sergei - Graitian now, in the quiet of his room - lit a candle, and opened a bottle of vodka.
He was alone. But it suited him just fine. This was never a night he'd wanted any company. And Malfoy men had to be proud and strong, he'd once been told.
Too bad there weren't any Malfoy men left.
It wasn't that Baldwin was a bad sort. Sergei would be the first to admit he'd taken good care of Darya, and Lika. They'd never been close, but that was Sergei's fault as much as anything. Still... that house had never been home.
He thought of a graveyard in England. Of a vault with generation of family in it. Monuments carved with the name he wasn't even aloud to say anymore. No flowers, of course - who would put them there? It was only the respectability of the cemetery that would keep it from being outright defaced, he had no doubt.
There was a great deal that Sergei never learned about his father. There was more he guessed, or pieced together later. His own memory was mainly of a tall, aristocratic man who standards were high, but who was capable of genuine affection. Whose praise was hard to earn, but sterling on the occasion it was. Perhaps he'd been who he was suspected of being. Perhaps he'd been a traitor, to someone once. But for all that, Sergei knew his father didn't deserve a deserted grave and an empty manor. Didn't deserve to be forgotten except by those who'd hated him.
He daydreamed, sometimes, about going back to England. Like the long lost prince who always turned up in fairy tales. "I am Lucius Malfoy's son," he would say. (Imaging to whom he would say it was where the fantasy fell apart.)
Besides. The largest part of his responsibility was to the living. To go home, he'd have to cut himself off from his mother and his sister forever, so the risk would be his alone. And he couldn't bring himself to do it.
He hoped his father forgave him that, wherever he was now.
It had been five years ago that day. Five years ago that a small, nervous man had turned up by Floo to tell his mother in a low voice that he hadn't been meant to hear. "Murdered," though, was clear enough. There'd been a mark in the sky, for all to see. Hadn't it shocked everyone, when the victim turned out to be Lucius Malfoy, the champion of blood purity.
Haha. Quite the laugh, that.
Graitian Malfoy had, in almost every sense, died five years ago too, a few months later. He and his mother and his sister. "Disappeared." Everyone thought they were dead. Both sides thought the other hand done it. All very neat. Very proper.
And Sergei Alkaev had walked away.
But Sergei had no father. Once a year, when he was totally alone, Graitian would rise from the dead, a bit solidly for your typical ghost. He could give his father nothing else. Not the name he'd so wanted his son to be worthy of. Not the respect owed to a pillar of wizarding society. Certainly not the admiration for a man who'd fought in two wars, who'd built a family worth noting and had it all taken from him in an instant.
Sergei - Graitian now, in the quiet of his room - lit a candle, and opened a bottle of vodka.
He was alone. But it suited him just fine. This was never a night he'd wanted any company. And Malfoy men had to be proud and strong, he'd once been told.
Too bad there weren't any Malfoy men left.