Advice, Unwillingly Given Part 1 of 2
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and various publishers. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Pairing: Harry X Draco
Summary: Lucius Malfoy was a death eater, a member of Hogwarts’ board of governors and - to his chagrin - a relationship counselor.
Rating: Teen
Note: This is my entry for my 10_hurt_comfort’s table, prompt 10: fight. Thank you for Enslavement_Thesis who had kindly betaed this. You really do wonder with this one!=>
Advice, Unwillingly Given
Lucius Malfoy, much to his annoyance and chagrin, could honestly say he had seen and experienced most, if not all of everything.
When the war had finally ended and the Wizangemot had decided to put him in Azkaban for five more years, his main worry had been his only son.
Narcissa, bless her, was an expert player on manipulation and survival. Left to her own devices, she could make those who had scorned her to think of her as their closest friend in no time at all.
Their possessions had stayed in their own name; thanks to a long-dead bleeding heart minister, there was law against seizing property, even one of known criminals.
With many death-eaters on the run and the arduous, endless task of determining who had been supporting Voldemort, who had been neutral and who had been on the side of the Light - especially inside the Ministry itself, Shacklebolt had had too much on his plate to consider going through the complicated motions of changing the law.
His wife and all of his wordly possessions were safe.
But Draco -- cunning though he was -- was always an impulsive child. He tended to let his heart govern his head, especially in matters related with the Potter boy. He was afraid that his son would continue to antagonize the so-called-darling-of-the-wizarding-world.
So, before his incarceration, he had asked for a time to talk with Draco. He had hoped that his son, as he usually did, would follow his words to the letter.
“The world has changed,” He had said,” We must all act carefully. You must use your eight year in Hogwarts wisely and forge influential alliances. Although it pains me to say so, we can’t rely on our name anymore. They are mudbloods, half-bloods and blood traitors, but they were the one with power right now. Malfoys, above all, always know how to come up on top.”
Unfortunately, he had forgotten Draco’s other tendency; which was to take anything to the extreme. Draco was not only taking his advice to heart, but he had done far, far more than that.
When Narcissa told him in one of her visitations to Azkaban that Draco had befriended that Potter boy, his first thought was of relief. Draco had made him proud. Much as he loathed admitting it, being Potter’s friend would open a lot of doors at that moment.
When she delicately (And now, in retrospect, he could understand why) added that their son and Potter were not only friends, but very best friends, with strong emphasis on very and best, Lucius was ecstatic. He should not have underestimated his son. After all, Draco was a Slytherin through and through.
He did not understand why Narcissa seemed so nervous about telling him that development, and he said so to her. That was the best news he had received since his verdict. Yet, instead of answering, his wife had smiled, patted his hand and asked him to think about what she had said carefully.
Lucius’ brain decided it was because he had shown strong dislike, even murderous intention to Potter before. Silly Narcissa, befriending Potter and liking Potter were two mutually exclusive things.
So, it was perfectly understandable, that when Lucius saw the headline on Daily Prophet the day after (provided by a guard that thought it was amusing), he fainted.
Although there had been no formal engagement, it had already been agreed between the Malfoy's and Parkinson's that Draco and Pansy would wed. As a matter of fact, before the Dark Lord’s return, Narcissa and Phoebe Parkinson had often talked about the grand event that was their children’s wedding party over tea. Even Lucius, although he would not admit it, even under torture, had sometimes imagining the grandchildren he would get.
All of those dreams had crumbled. Unless there was a big leap in wizarding potions, there would be no little Malfoy running around the Manor. There would not be a graceful, pureblood Lady of the Manor after Narcissa.
Instead of a daughter-in-law, he would get a son-in-law, and a half-blood one on that.
When he was conscious, Lucius spent the entire day silently fuming. He was not stupid. He knew how high Potter was regarded at that moment. Cursing his name loudly would hardly endear him to the guards.
It was bad enough that his only heir was gay (And by the way, how could he have never known about it before? Or maybe this was only a phase, induced by that Potter’s boy?). Why couldn't Draco find another lover if he wanted a boyfriend? Potter was a half-blood and a pain in his neck, whose knowledge about wizarding culture and grace was in the negatives.
Four years later, even after meeting said boy more often than his taste, Lucius still held those opinions firmly.
Still, there was a nagging suspicion on his mind that his early release (Two years early, in fact) was not fully owed to the bribes Narcissa had diligently made. So, Lucius kept his opinions about his son's love life to himself. After all, despite the boy's incorrigible manner and his annoying holier-than-thou attitude, he had his uses. Draco, Lucius consoled himself, could definitely do worse.
Yet, in days like these, he was sorely tempted to retract that statement.
Pouring wine to his glass, Lucius spared a glance to his son, who had sat unmoved in front of the fireplace. Draco had carried a book with him, but Lucius did not see him turn any page in the four hours he was there.
This was not the first big lover's quarrel his son and that Potter boy engaged in. The first one happened just shy of one week after he was coming home. He was approaching the Floo room, prepared for his visit to the Diagon Alley, when suitcases flew out from said fireplace, nearly knocking the older man over.
Soon, amidst the ever efficient house elves who collecting said luggage, his son dishevelled head's was visible amongst the flames.
He had pretended not to notice that Draco was quite obviously fuming and his eyes were a little bit too red. He reminded himself that he just finished his sentence and curbed the overwhelming impulse to go to Potter’s house and give him a good dose of the Cruciatus curse. Instead, Lucius had nodded to his son, took some powder and flooed to Gringott's.
When he came back from Gringott's, thought, he found not only Draco but also Potter were sitting on the living room. Potter was holding Draco's waist with his arm, and his son was resting his head on Potter’s shoulder.
No, this was not the first one, but it was by far the longest one.
Usually, when Draco came home to sulk, Potter would follow soon after. The longest time before this was when Draco had already been at the manor for nearly two weeks before Potter came.
They would go to a spare room, ward the door and talk, then come out together, usually holding hands. Potter would grin and Draco would pretend he was unaffected, but his eyes would betray him. Draco would then collect his suitcases and they would be back to that run down old place (Although, being the Black’s family Manor, he had enough sense to call it ancient and historical in front of Narcissa) Potter called home.
Later, Lucius would inspect the room where they had ‘spoken’ and silently thanked the fact the Manor was insured.
‘Maybe’, He grimaced to himself, pouring a second glass of wine. ‘It is time for a father-son talk,’
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Draco could feel his father’s stare on the back of his head, but he had no inclination to acknowledge it. It had been three weeks, and Harry had not yet shown his bespectacled, mussed visage at the fireplace.
Draco sighed.
He could accept that he was not the easiest person to live with (Not out loud, of course). Although he would snarl at everyone dared say so, he also knew that he was more than a little bit spoiled. After all, he had had fearsome, cold Lucius Malfoy wrapped around his little finger since the day his father held Draco’s newborn self.
As for his mother, to say that he was the apple of her eyes was an understatement. Moreover, at least before the second war, most people were either too afraid to cross him or too eager to be on his good side to deny him anything.
He was also a neat freak. At the manor, where there were a large number of house elves to clean after him, it was not a big deal at all. Yet, Harry only owned one old and rather slow-moving house elf, and he had adamantly refused Draco’s suggestion of taking one of the manor’s house elves.
Draco was not messy by nature, but cleaning, cooking and washing were not included on his vast education; nor did he intend to stretch it to include them.
Worse, Harry and neatness were barely an acquaintance. Harry tended to leave magazines and books everywhere. His clothes were not ordered by function, color, or anything at all, actually, and were more often than not littered all over the floor. And despite his cooking skills: indeed Harry could cook quite well, and sometimes agreed to allow Kreacher to cook for them, his favorite was the greasy food muggle called take-away.
Draco, who had always had house elves to cater for his every whim, found this appalling.
...The other sore point of Harry and his relationship was their respective families and friends.
Harry merely tolerated Draco’s mother, and outright disliked his father. It took a lot of pouting, whining and cunning from Draco’s part to make Harry agreed on the monthly dinner at the Manor and to act civilly towards his family.
Whenever Pansy or Blaise came, Harry would miraculously find that he was needed somewhere else, or that he had some emergency to take care of.
On other hand, Draco could not stand the Weasleys (Yes, Granger was now included in the Weasley brood), who stood as replacement for Harry’s relatives.
They were, in his opinion, uncouth, rude and much too loud. The Burrow was too small and too noisy, and although Harry insisted that it made the Burrow homey and comforting, Draco tightly held on his opinion that it simply made it suffocating.
He also could not stand Longbottom, who had taken to treat Draco as if he was Snape’s incarnate, and as for Lovegood; the less said about that loony, the better. When Harry wanted Draco to join him for lunch at the Burrow, or a night out with his friends at pub, he had to bribe Draco with multiple favors and many gifts.
Yet this time, he thought, the crux of their argument was solely Harry’s fault.
“What is it this time?” His father’s voice, coming from behind him, jolted Draco out of his sulk. He did not realize his father had come that close to him.
Draco turned around, accepting the glass of wine that Lucius offered.
“What is what?” He asked, feigning ignorance.
Lucius didn’t deign to answer.
He knew Draco understood his question clearly. Instead, he settled on the chair opposite of his son and quirked his eyebrow.
Draco sighed. He should have known that his father wouldn’t buy it. Well, he couldn't resist trying though.
“He didn’t love me,” the answer came out more bitter than he intended.
For a moment, Lucius saw red.
How dare Potter not love his son? After all, he could hardly find anyone better than Draco. Granted, Draco could be selfish, manipulative, whiny, and he was a little pointy…Well, okay, maybe Potter could, but Draco was his son; therefore he was perfect and Lucius would hex whoever dare to say different.
But then, he remembered Draco’s tendency to be too dramatic - a trait he blamed Narcissa for, although she often argued that Draco got it from him.
“What did he do?” He asked, determined to get the complete picture first before walking in a very dignified manner - he didn’t do running - to the fireplace, gracing that flea-invested place Potter called house with his presence and hexing that Potter brat into oblivion.
“He didn’t want to quit that damn job of his!” Draco exploded.
“How does Potter wanting to continue to be an Auror translate into that?”
Even then, Lucius could not bring himself to say the L word. He was - reluctantly - accepting Draco’s relationship with Potter, but saying the word out loud would make it too much of a reality for him.
He kept up his morale with the wonderful thing called denial, and had convinced himself that Draco only wanted Potter like he had wanted a real broom at five or an owl at eight.
“I asked him to quit and he refused,” Draco stated, petulantly. His tone plainly said that it supposed to explain everything.
Lucius could see a long, difficult conversation ahead. Draco usually employed charm, before whining, and then relying on full blown tantrums to secure what he wanted. This usually resulted in his victim receiving more information than was necessary or that they even wanted. However, rarely he could be very closemouthed; waiting for the other to drag and fight for an explanation from him. Unfortunately this was one of those moments.
Lucius Malfoy decided to start at the beginning.
“You asked him to quit. Why? And why now? Granted, being an Auror is not so glamorous, but the political prospect is satisfactory; especially given that he is the Boy-Who-Lived,”
Draco refused to look at his father. Instead, he became occupied with his wine glass.
What would his father say if he knew that when he decided that Potter had to quit his auror’s career, the political prospect is not his main consideration? In fact, he had conveniently forgotten about it until Harry’s accusations.
“There was a raid last month; illegal potions trade,” He finally said.
“Ah, the one in Muggle London?”
Lucius tried to remember all he had read about the raid. As far as he knew, it was a clear cut operation. Some wizards had thought that they could earn a profit from making and trading illegal potions - and privately, Lucius had agreed with them. It would bring a nice sum of galleons.
The MLE heard about them and sent the Boy-Who-Had-Too-Much-Luck and his team to arrest these wizards. The successful operation was merely routine.
It was an operation that would not have warranted a place in the prophet at all, if not for the fact that Potter was the chief of said operation - and five years after Voldemort didn’t abate the media’s attention.
Draco nodded. “There were some things that were kept secret from the paper,” He said, knowing too well his father had recalled the Prophet’s report about the raid, “The informant told the Auror's that it would be a clear shot. Unfortunately, he turned out a distant relative of one of the offenders. They were pretty close, though, and the entire mission was supposed to be a trap.”
Draco stopped and gulped his wine. It was not that he was thirsty, but even the thought of the disaster made his hand shake. He didn’t want his father to see it. He was perfectly aware of his father's opinion on Harry, in general and specifically in their relationship.
“The Auror's were greatly outnumbered. The backdoor that was to be their emergency way out if something unexpected happened turned out to be nonexistent. Worse, they had hostages: a little girl and two little boys.
I was just coming home from Pansy’s house when the Ministry’s owl came, informing me that Harry,” He gulped, “Harry was in St. Mungo.
That self centered, poor excuse for a boyfriend didn’t know how it felt for me, waiting outside his room with a bunch of Weasley's and the mediwizard telling us that there’s more than a fifty percent possibility of him never waking up again.”
Against his will, Draco could feel his eyes started to well with tears. This was so embarrassing. Malfoy's never cried, especially in front of one’s father. Another thing he blamed Harry for.
Yet, once he voiced it, the memories sprang vividly back to the surface of his mind.
There was a huge, round white clock in the St. Mungo’s waiting room. Draco remembered looking at it, both with hope that soon Harry would wake up, and trepidation because despite not being a mediwizard he knew that the more time passing, the smaller chance Harry had for returning to the realm of consciousness.
He remembered Granger (It was easier to think of her as Granger, what with the number of family members the Weasley's have) crying softly in Weasley’s arms and how much he hated Weasley at that time, thousands upon thousands more than what he felt in school, because he only got some scratches, while his Harry was lying in a room, in a coma.
There was one half of what used to be the Weasley twins, walking back and forth, for once devoid of mirth and jokes. Draco was tempted to follow his steps; anything but sitting and waiting, only he hadn’t the energy to even stand up. Then there was the youngest Weasley, the only girl, embraced by Mrs. Weasley, which made Draco missed his own mother awfully because he could have really done with a hug at that time.
He remembered Harry, looking paler than the white spread where he lay. At his bedside table there were a collection of potion vials and Draco had to force his eyes to stop trying to identify them, since each revelation would only multiply his worries.
Most of all, Draco remembered the feeling of hopelessness that roamed in him and the resurrection of the fear he hadn't felt since Voldemort’s defeat. His mind was playing a thousand 'maybes' that he could not stop. His eyes were wet and red and he didn’t care, even if that woman in front of him did seem a lot like a reporter.
“It is, I recall, not the first time he was hospitalized, though,” Lucius’ voice called Draco out of his reveries.
“Yes, “Draco answered, blinking his eyes. He hoped he was successful on getting rid of the tears, “But it was the worst. Usually it was only some cuts and bruises, a concussion or in a particular bad case or two, broken bones.”
“But he healed and you asked him to quit,” Lucius concluded. He knew Draco didn’t want him to notice, but he could not help see the watery quality of Draco’s eyes and the tremor on his son’s hands. The urge to hex Potter became stronger. How could that brat put his Draco through that? Besides, by refusing to quit, he planned to do it again! Still, outwardly, he was the picture of calm.
“I could not stand another experience like that, I don’t want to,” Draco replied quietly.
“And he refused,”
Lucius’ words, stated in a matter-of-fact tone rekindled the anger Draco felt to Harry the night of their quarrel.
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Harry hadn’t been home for two days when he brought the matter up. Draco had decided it since Harry became conscious for the first time, but he had never found an opportunity to talk about it. Despite only Harry’s close friends and co-workers knowing, both Harry’s room in St. Mungo's and their house had been flood by visitors.
When Draco entered their living room, he found Harry was reclining on their sofa, reading a muggle novel Granger had given him the day before. He had taken his time sitting on the armchair opposite Harry and fixed his tea, trying to calm his nerve.
“Harry, I think you should just quit being an Auror, and search for employment elsewhere,” Finally, he had decided that direct course was the best course.
Harry lifted his eyes from his book and gave Draco a disbelieving look.
“That isn't funny, Draco,” He said, before returning his attention to his book.
“I am serious, Harry. I had thought about it since you were still in hospital,” Draco held his hands tightly to stop the impulse to fidget. He had known that this conversation would not be an easy one.
Now he had Harry’s full attention.
Harry put the book in the table and straightened his posture. Wordlessly, he lifted up the tea cup Draco had pushed towards his direction from the table.
“This is because I got hexed, isn’t it?” Harry sighed.
“We both knew it was the risk of being an Auror. Besides, that's not the first time I've been hurt in line of duty. I'm fine now, aren’t I?”
“But this time it was a close call,” Draco had replied. Even then, remembering that giving him chills and Harry’s flippant answer kindled his anger.
“Draco, you are being a drama queen. I had wanted this job since I was in Hogwarts, I can’t throw it away just like that.”
Harry was frustrated. Draco was worried, he understood, but at that moment Draco was simply being difficult. Draco had a tendency to blow everything out of proportion, and although normally Harry tried to simply accept it as one of Draco’s quirks - which actually, were too many for his liking, asking him to quit his job because a stray hex was way too much.
After all, he had been hurt worse before; fighting Voldemort’s horcrux in the Chamber of Secrets. Hell, he had even died before that final battle with Voldemort.
The mediwizard had told them that he had healed nicely, with no lasting damage.
He had wanted to be an auror since his fourth year. Yes, the one who advised it to him turned out to be a death eater in disguise, but somehow the dream had stuck. It was, after all, the first plan for the future he had ever had.
When he was camping around, hunting horcruxes, and everything seemed bleak, it had become something to keep his hope up, a promise of a future to pursue. For a while, he had resigned himself to die. When he ended up alive once again (the prophet inaugurated him as The-Boy-Who-Is-Impervious-To-Avada-Kedavra), the dream had kept him from just being adrift, given him a sense of purpose.
“No, you are not. Before this, broken ribs were the worst you had!”
Draco didn’t understand; did Harry think he was so gullible?
He could recall all the injuries Harry had gotten since he had become an Auror. Every time there was a call from St. Mungo's, he felt his chest tighten with fear. This had been the first time, however that it was life threatening.
“Just because you hated me at that time doesn’t mean I didn’t get hurt," Harry spat. "Remember all those stays in the Hogwarts’ infirmary? The stays that you said were merely for attention?!"
Somehow, it hurt that Draco discounted his life before they were together. It was another less endearing tendency of Draco, his desire to turn a blind eye to things that were not to his liking and only seeing what he wanted to see. It was this quality that meant that he couldn't see how wrong his father’s ideology was; because he loved him, or how he could not past Ron’s poverty to realize how wonderful a friend Ron could be.
Harry’s words hurt. By unspoken but nonetheless mutual agreement, they rarely talked about their Hogwarts days, at least the first six (Seven, in Draco’s case) years. There were too many mine fields there.
Besides, Voldemort was dead. The only problem that kept landing Harry in hospital right then was the damn job he was clinging to.
He simply could not take it anymore.
It was rich of Harry to accuse him of not caring when Harry was the one who didn’t care. Did he never think how it felt for Draco, seeing him lying on the hospital bed, unable to do anything but hope?
“Do you love it more than you love me?” Draco asked quietly, trying to rein the anger and hurt that were vying for dominance in his heart.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Those are two entirely separate things, how can you compare it like that?”
Now, it was too silly even for his dramatic lover.
Couldn’t Draco, just this once, understand? The job was important to him! Aren't relationships about give and take? Why should he be the only one who made compromises again and again?
“It is not ridiculous! It is a perfectly normal comparison! That stupid job has landed you in hospital once too often,” Shouted Draco furiously, throwing his empty tea cup at Harry.
Harry hadn’t answered his question. Instead of convincing him that he was of course, more important, Harry had just accused him of being silly.
Harry ducked the flying cup.
Draco had really, really exhausted his patience. Why couldn’t he, for once in his selfish life, be reasonable?
“Being Harry Potter will land me in hospital again and again. There are still people out there, people who were Death Eater's and still support Voldemort’s ideals, who will like very much to see me dead. Do you want me to stop being Harry Potter as well?”
“You don’t need to court danger!”
Was Harry’s head really that thick? He knew who he was dating and of course he knew who Harry Potter was! It only strengthened his previous point: Harry Potter didn’t need any more ways to help him get hurt!
“You know I can’t stand to keep still and wait when there is something I can do. I thought you loved me, Malfoy. I should have known that I am not enough for you! First it was my friends: they are not meeting the perfect Malfoy’s standard. Then you complain about my wardrobe, my habits, my tastes, even my principle about Kreacher. Now, you want me to quit my job. To do what? Push some paper? Or running for Minister, so I can bring greater glory to the Malfoy’s name? And you said I am the one who doesn’t love you enough!”
Draco wished that had another tea cup at his hand.
Better yet, the teapot that wasn't the plastic one that Harry - no Potter - had bought in a flea market and insisted on keeping.
Admittedly, he was more vocal on his opinions than Potter, but Potter had no ground to pretend that the complaints were all one sided.
Besides, he had stayed, hadn’t he? Despite all the complaints - that Potter had ignored, he never left the other man. Moreover, implying that he was using Potter for his own ends, when in reality, even releasing his father from Azkaban earlier had been Potter’s own initiative…granted, Potter had done it for him, but still…
So what if he had once or twice suggested that Potter should be more ambitious, should use his name and popularity more? After all, he was a Slytherin. He also was - at least he had thought he was, now he wasn’t so sure - Potter’s lover. Why couldn’t one wish one’s boyfriend to reach the top of their career?
It was the name that did it.
It had been years since Harry - no, Potter - Potter called him by his last name. They had fought and made up, and fought again, and they were still Harry and Draco to each other. Calling him Malfoy somehow had created a chasm between them that hexing each other couldn’t.
At that moment, he was really, really angry with Potter. He didn’t understand why he had fought to make that ingrate quit his job in the first place: because never mind stray Death Eater's and criminals, he would gladly hex Potter to St. Mungo himself.
“I need you to choose, Potter. Me, or your job.”
Potter didn’t say anything. He looked at Draco as if he didn’t recognize the man who had just the night before slept beside him, before he turned around and quietly left the room.
And Draco had felt all of his anger suddenly leave his body. That was the end, then. Faced with a chance of losing Draco, Potter, oh hell, who was he kidding, Harry didn’t try to keep him, didn’t apologize...didn't do anything.
His silence was answer enough.
He choked back a stubborn sob that tried to break free. Instead, he took a pinch of Floo powder, took a breath and threw it into the fireplace.
For the first time since he was moving to Grimmauld Place, Draco arrived at Malfoy Manor without any luggage.
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“He basically told me that I didn’t love him, and he loves his job more than he does me,” Draco said quietly.
Lucius really, really wanted to hex Potter.
Maybe if he looked harder, he could find an unobtrusive dark curse that was never banned by the Ministry. He always knew Potter was a selfcentered idiot; quick to judge from his pedestal, but how could that blasted boy not know that Draco really liked him?
Even Lucius, with his master title in the art of denial, could.
Unfortunately, it also meant that Draco would never talk to him again if he hurt, or killed Potter.
He could also take advantage of this situation and introduce Draco to some young women, or if he insisted, some young men.
The Malfoy name may not be as influential and prestigious as before, but the family fortune was still intact and Draco was a handsome boy (Narcissa said he was beautiful, but Lucius begged to differ; Men, especially Malfoy men, did not do beautiful).
Yet, judging by the fact that his son had been brooding and sulking for weeks, Draco, stubborn, stubborn child that he was, still held hope for reconciliation with the Boy-Who-Lived-Too-Long.
And when Draco wanted something, there was no way to divert his attention from his goal.
Lucius fought the urge to massage his temples. He knew it would not alleviate his headache.
Lucius Malfoy was not a generous man.
When he gave something to someone, he expected a return or a benefit. He also never wanted to do something he disliked, unless he had an ulterior motive. Unfortunately, whenever Draco was added into this equation, his action would become an aberration.
His son had bullied him into many things through the years. There was the broom, and not a kid’s broom, when he was five. Then there was the complete potion lab he had built when Draco was nine and demanded to also have one after he went to visit Severus and saw one at Severus’ house. No, Draco didn’t want to share his daddy’s, he simply had to have one of his own, never mind there were scarcely ten potions he could brew and all of them were basic. Then there was the owl, and the cat, and the mountain of clothes that had cost a fortune (It simply had to be made in Paris, because Draco heard somewhere that all the best ones were from Paris). There were the brooms for the entire Slytherin’s team and the liquor chocolates Draco loved so much.
In short, Lucius could be angry and could scold him as much as he pleased, but in the end he couldn’t say no.
So, although he was absolutely unwilling, Lucius took a depth breath and prepared to do something that he was sure would scar him for life. He would, not only console his son, but also help repair his relationship with the blasted Potter brat.
Wordlessly, he extended his hand for Draco’s wine glass. Then, he stood up, went to the table where he had put the wine bottle and refilled the glasses slowly and carefully. He returned a glass to his son, sat back on his chair, arranged his robe just so, and took a long sip of wine. He sighed deeply and pretended to consider the matter carefully. And finally, when he had run out of excuses to procrastinate, Lucius opened his mouth.
“Your mother and I, our marriage was arranged by our parents. In fact, although we were both from Slytherin, we hardly spoke to each other at school. She was five years my junior,” He added the last sentence as the only explanation.
“That’s not to say that I didn’t love your mother. I did, after I knew her better. But, contrary to the popular opinion, I didn’t fall in love with her at first sight.”
“Only Hufflepuffs fall in love at first sight,” Draco scoffed, bringing an amused smile to Lucius' lips. That’s his son, all right. He could be down, but he couldn’t shut up.
“I have heard people talk about how perfect we were for each other and how happily married we are.”
“Quite the opposite of what they said about Harry and me,” Draco added quietly.
“Maybe, but anyway, they were wrong. We have our fights, just like any other couple. Not, of course, in the manner as spectacular as yours,” Lucius added wryly, “but still as big and damaging.”
“But…” Draco trailed off, uncertain.
He never imagined his parents ever fighting with each other. In all the times he saw them, they were always an epitome of ideal couple, even if they were not the most passionate. They never even had any disagreements.
His beautiful mother, despite her resourcefulness and creativity, always trusted his father unwaveringly. She always supported his father’s wishes and was quick to fulfil his whims. In turn, his father doted on his mother. He lavished gifts and praises on her unsparingly.
“Oh, we did, believe me we did,” Lucius chuckled, “She disagreed with me going back to the Dark Lord’s service, you know. We fought bitterly pver it, although I am sure you missed most of it, being at school and all,”
Draco’s mind was reeling. Talk about a shocking revelation!
“Of course, most of these disagreements happened in the early years of our marriage. We are two stubborn people, who have no qualms using any tactic to get what we desire, including manipulating our own spouse,”
“I am not trying to manipulate Harry,” Draco interrupted. Why did everyone think he only wanted to use Harry? Even Harry thought so, apparently, he thought bitterly.
“You missed my point,” said Lucius dismissingly. “Regardless of your motives, what I wanted to tell you is that every couple fights. I remember your grandparents. Do you know that when my parents fought, they really fought? Oh, not in front of outsiders, of course, since we do have reputation to protect,” added Lucius when he saw Draco open his mouth again, wanting to protest.
“I remembered to stay away from their wing, whenever they started shouting at each other. Mother was very good with dark curses, and father had a repertoire of hexes like no one else.
But back to your mother and me, you see, most of our fights in those days were cause by slight misunderstandings."
"There was no miscommunication between us. I thought it was quite clear, that I wanted him to quit his dangerous job and he decided that I am not worth losing the damn job,” Draco spoke bitterly.
“Ah, but sometimes, it is only a matter of phrasing the words, of using the right nuances and implications. Relationships can be more dangerous than any political stage, after all.”
“Since he is a damn Griffindor, I don’t think there was any fear of hidden meaning. He isn't able to see anything unless it's spelled out to him in giant, red letters.”
Lucius smiled inwardly. As much as an annoyed, sarcastic Draco could be troublesome, he preferred that incarnation of his son to the forlorn one. It was also the more Slytherin one. Draco, when he decided to be forlorn and pining (And Lucius wanted to scrub his brain just thinking about it) could make a Hufflepuff seemed smart and cunning.
“But he is not you.” Lucius pointed out.
“Of course he isn’t!”
“Which means that he couldn’t know exactly what you felt, or what you were really thinking.”
For a moment, Draco said nothing. He simply sat there, playing with his wine glass.
Lucius drank his wine.
Well, it wasn't so bad. Maybe. He had done something nice, not only for his son but also for the Boy-Who-Would-Make-The-World-Better-If-He-Was-To-Hurry-Up-And-Just-Die and amazingly, he was still alive.
“So, I should speak to him again?" Draco asked suddenly, "Explain it again? Even if the first try was a total disaster?”
“Nobody asked you to do anything, and you know I don’t think he is a great loss. But, more than half of fights can usually be solved with communication.”
And the half could be taken care of with bribes, gifts, or hexes.
Still, Lucius didn’t say that.
Instead, he stood and went to his private library. He needed something stronger, something that hopefully would make him forget that he ever had this conversation with his son, especially if Draco decided to take his advice and somehow succeeded on mending his relationship with Potter.
Pairing: Harry X Draco
Summary: Lucius Malfoy was a death eater, a member of Hogwarts’ board of governors and - to his chagrin - a relationship counselor.
Rating: Teen
Note: This is my entry for my 10_hurt_comfort’s table, prompt 10: fight. Thank you for Enslavement_Thesis who had kindly betaed this. You really do wonder with this one!=>
Advice, Unwillingly Given
Lucius Malfoy, much to his annoyance and chagrin, could honestly say he had seen and experienced most, if not all of everything.
When the war had finally ended and the Wizangemot had decided to put him in Azkaban for five more years, his main worry had been his only son.
Narcissa, bless her, was an expert player on manipulation and survival. Left to her own devices, she could make those who had scorned her to think of her as their closest friend in no time at all.
Their possessions had stayed in their own name; thanks to a long-dead bleeding heart minister, there was law against seizing property, even one of known criminals.
With many death-eaters on the run and the arduous, endless task of determining who had been supporting Voldemort, who had been neutral and who had been on the side of the Light - especially inside the Ministry itself, Shacklebolt had had too much on his plate to consider going through the complicated motions of changing the law.
His wife and all of his wordly possessions were safe.
But Draco -- cunning though he was -- was always an impulsive child. He tended to let his heart govern his head, especially in matters related with the Potter boy. He was afraid that his son would continue to antagonize the so-called-darling-of-the-wizarding-world.
So, before his incarceration, he had asked for a time to talk with Draco. He had hoped that his son, as he usually did, would follow his words to the letter.
“The world has changed,” He had said,” We must all act carefully. You must use your eight year in Hogwarts wisely and forge influential alliances. Although it pains me to say so, we can’t rely on our name anymore. They are mudbloods, half-bloods and blood traitors, but they were the one with power right now. Malfoys, above all, always know how to come up on top.”
Unfortunately, he had forgotten Draco’s other tendency; which was to take anything to the extreme. Draco was not only taking his advice to heart, but he had done far, far more than that.
When Narcissa told him in one of her visitations to Azkaban that Draco had befriended that Potter boy, his first thought was of relief. Draco had made him proud. Much as he loathed admitting it, being Potter’s friend would open a lot of doors at that moment.
When she delicately (And now, in retrospect, he could understand why) added that their son and Potter were not only friends, but very best friends, with strong emphasis on very and best, Lucius was ecstatic. He should not have underestimated his son. After all, Draco was a Slytherin through and through.
He did not understand why Narcissa seemed so nervous about telling him that development, and he said so to her. That was the best news he had received since his verdict. Yet, instead of answering, his wife had smiled, patted his hand and asked him to think about what she had said carefully.
Lucius’ brain decided it was because he had shown strong dislike, even murderous intention to Potter before. Silly Narcissa, befriending Potter and liking Potter were two mutually exclusive things.
So, it was perfectly understandable, that when Lucius saw the headline on Daily Prophet the day after (provided by a guard that thought it was amusing), he fainted.
Although there had been no formal engagement, it had already been agreed between the Malfoy's and Parkinson's that Draco and Pansy would wed. As a matter of fact, before the Dark Lord’s return, Narcissa and Phoebe Parkinson had often talked about the grand event that was their children’s wedding party over tea. Even Lucius, although he would not admit it, even under torture, had sometimes imagining the grandchildren he would get.
All of those dreams had crumbled. Unless there was a big leap in wizarding potions, there would be no little Malfoy running around the Manor. There would not be a graceful, pureblood Lady of the Manor after Narcissa.
Instead of a daughter-in-law, he would get a son-in-law, and a half-blood one on that.
When he was conscious, Lucius spent the entire day silently fuming. He was not stupid. He knew how high Potter was regarded at that moment. Cursing his name loudly would hardly endear him to the guards.
It was bad enough that his only heir was gay (And by the way, how could he have never known about it before? Or maybe this was only a phase, induced by that Potter’s boy?). Why couldn't Draco find another lover if he wanted a boyfriend? Potter was a half-blood and a pain in his neck, whose knowledge about wizarding culture and grace was in the negatives.
Four years later, even after meeting said boy more often than his taste, Lucius still held those opinions firmly.
Still, there was a nagging suspicion on his mind that his early release (Two years early, in fact) was not fully owed to the bribes Narcissa had diligently made. So, Lucius kept his opinions about his son's love life to himself. After all, despite the boy's incorrigible manner and his annoying holier-than-thou attitude, he had his uses. Draco, Lucius consoled himself, could definitely do worse.
Yet, in days like these, he was sorely tempted to retract that statement.
Pouring wine to his glass, Lucius spared a glance to his son, who had sat unmoved in front of the fireplace. Draco had carried a book with him, but Lucius did not see him turn any page in the four hours he was there.
This was not the first big lover's quarrel his son and that Potter boy engaged in. The first one happened just shy of one week after he was coming home. He was approaching the Floo room, prepared for his visit to the Diagon Alley, when suitcases flew out from said fireplace, nearly knocking the older man over.
Soon, amidst the ever efficient house elves who collecting said luggage, his son dishevelled head's was visible amongst the flames.
He had pretended not to notice that Draco was quite obviously fuming and his eyes were a little bit too red. He reminded himself that he just finished his sentence and curbed the overwhelming impulse to go to Potter’s house and give him a good dose of the Cruciatus curse. Instead, Lucius had nodded to his son, took some powder and flooed to Gringott's.
When he came back from Gringott's, thought, he found not only Draco but also Potter were sitting on the living room. Potter was holding Draco's waist with his arm, and his son was resting his head on Potter’s shoulder.
No, this was not the first one, but it was by far the longest one.
Usually, when Draco came home to sulk, Potter would follow soon after. The longest time before this was when Draco had already been at the manor for nearly two weeks before Potter came.
They would go to a spare room, ward the door and talk, then come out together, usually holding hands. Potter would grin and Draco would pretend he was unaffected, but his eyes would betray him. Draco would then collect his suitcases and they would be back to that run down old place (Although, being the Black’s family Manor, he had enough sense to call it ancient and historical in front of Narcissa) Potter called home.
Later, Lucius would inspect the room where they had ‘spoken’ and silently thanked the fact the Manor was insured.
‘Maybe’, He grimaced to himself, pouring a second glass of wine. ‘It is time for a father-son talk,’
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Draco could feel his father’s stare on the back of his head, but he had no inclination to acknowledge it. It had been three weeks, and Harry had not yet shown his bespectacled, mussed visage at the fireplace.
Draco sighed.
He could accept that he was not the easiest person to live with (Not out loud, of course). Although he would snarl at everyone dared say so, he also knew that he was more than a little bit spoiled. After all, he had had fearsome, cold Lucius Malfoy wrapped around his little finger since the day his father held Draco’s newborn self.
As for his mother, to say that he was the apple of her eyes was an understatement. Moreover, at least before the second war, most people were either too afraid to cross him or too eager to be on his good side to deny him anything.
He was also a neat freak. At the manor, where there were a large number of house elves to clean after him, it was not a big deal at all. Yet, Harry only owned one old and rather slow-moving house elf, and he had adamantly refused Draco’s suggestion of taking one of the manor’s house elves.
Draco was not messy by nature, but cleaning, cooking and washing were not included on his vast education; nor did he intend to stretch it to include them.
Worse, Harry and neatness were barely an acquaintance. Harry tended to leave magazines and books everywhere. His clothes were not ordered by function, color, or anything at all, actually, and were more often than not littered all over the floor. And despite his cooking skills: indeed Harry could cook quite well, and sometimes agreed to allow Kreacher to cook for them, his favorite was the greasy food muggle called take-away.
Draco, who had always had house elves to cater for his every whim, found this appalling.
...The other sore point of Harry and his relationship was their respective families and friends.
Harry merely tolerated Draco’s mother, and outright disliked his father. It took a lot of pouting, whining and cunning from Draco’s part to make Harry agreed on the monthly dinner at the Manor and to act civilly towards his family.
Whenever Pansy or Blaise came, Harry would miraculously find that he was needed somewhere else, or that he had some emergency to take care of.
On other hand, Draco could not stand the Weasleys (Yes, Granger was now included in the Weasley brood), who stood as replacement for Harry’s relatives.
They were, in his opinion, uncouth, rude and much too loud. The Burrow was too small and too noisy, and although Harry insisted that it made the Burrow homey and comforting, Draco tightly held on his opinion that it simply made it suffocating.
He also could not stand Longbottom, who had taken to treat Draco as if he was Snape’s incarnate, and as for Lovegood; the less said about that loony, the better. When Harry wanted Draco to join him for lunch at the Burrow, or a night out with his friends at pub, he had to bribe Draco with multiple favors and many gifts.
Yet this time, he thought, the crux of their argument was solely Harry’s fault.
“What is it this time?” His father’s voice, coming from behind him, jolted Draco out of his sulk. He did not realize his father had come that close to him.
Draco turned around, accepting the glass of wine that Lucius offered.
“What is what?” He asked, feigning ignorance.
Lucius didn’t deign to answer.
He knew Draco understood his question clearly. Instead, he settled on the chair opposite of his son and quirked his eyebrow.
Draco sighed. He should have known that his father wouldn’t buy it. Well, he couldn't resist trying though.
“He didn’t love me,” the answer came out more bitter than he intended.
For a moment, Lucius saw red.
How dare Potter not love his son? After all, he could hardly find anyone better than Draco. Granted, Draco could be selfish, manipulative, whiny, and he was a little pointy…Well, okay, maybe Potter could, but Draco was his son; therefore he was perfect and Lucius would hex whoever dare to say different.
But then, he remembered Draco’s tendency to be too dramatic - a trait he blamed Narcissa for, although she often argued that Draco got it from him.
“What did he do?” He asked, determined to get the complete picture first before walking in a very dignified manner - he didn’t do running - to the fireplace, gracing that flea-invested place Potter called house with his presence and hexing that Potter brat into oblivion.
“He didn’t want to quit that damn job of his!” Draco exploded.
“How does Potter wanting to continue to be an Auror translate into that?”
Even then, Lucius could not bring himself to say the L word. He was - reluctantly - accepting Draco’s relationship with Potter, but saying the word out loud would make it too much of a reality for him.
He kept up his morale with the wonderful thing called denial, and had convinced himself that Draco only wanted Potter like he had wanted a real broom at five or an owl at eight.
“I asked him to quit and he refused,” Draco stated, petulantly. His tone plainly said that it supposed to explain everything.
Lucius could see a long, difficult conversation ahead. Draco usually employed charm, before whining, and then relying on full blown tantrums to secure what he wanted. This usually resulted in his victim receiving more information than was necessary or that they even wanted. However, rarely he could be very closemouthed; waiting for the other to drag and fight for an explanation from him. Unfortunately this was one of those moments.
Lucius Malfoy decided to start at the beginning.
“You asked him to quit. Why? And why now? Granted, being an Auror is not so glamorous, but the political prospect is satisfactory; especially given that he is the Boy-Who-Lived,”
Draco refused to look at his father. Instead, he became occupied with his wine glass.
What would his father say if he knew that when he decided that Potter had to quit his auror’s career, the political prospect is not his main consideration? In fact, he had conveniently forgotten about it until Harry’s accusations.
“There was a raid last month; illegal potions trade,” He finally said.
“Ah, the one in Muggle London?”
Lucius tried to remember all he had read about the raid. As far as he knew, it was a clear cut operation. Some wizards had thought that they could earn a profit from making and trading illegal potions - and privately, Lucius had agreed with them. It would bring a nice sum of galleons.
The MLE heard about them and sent the Boy-Who-Had-Too-Much-Luck and his team to arrest these wizards. The successful operation was merely routine.
It was an operation that would not have warranted a place in the prophet at all, if not for the fact that Potter was the chief of said operation - and five years after Voldemort didn’t abate the media’s attention.
Draco nodded. “There were some things that were kept secret from the paper,” He said, knowing too well his father had recalled the Prophet’s report about the raid, “The informant told the Auror's that it would be a clear shot. Unfortunately, he turned out a distant relative of one of the offenders. They were pretty close, though, and the entire mission was supposed to be a trap.”
Draco stopped and gulped his wine. It was not that he was thirsty, but even the thought of the disaster made his hand shake. He didn’t want his father to see it. He was perfectly aware of his father's opinion on Harry, in general and specifically in their relationship.
“The Auror's were greatly outnumbered. The backdoor that was to be their emergency way out if something unexpected happened turned out to be nonexistent. Worse, they had hostages: a little girl and two little boys.
I was just coming home from Pansy’s house when the Ministry’s owl came, informing me that Harry,” He gulped, “Harry was in St. Mungo.
That self centered, poor excuse for a boyfriend didn’t know how it felt for me, waiting outside his room with a bunch of Weasley's and the mediwizard telling us that there’s more than a fifty percent possibility of him never waking up again.”
Against his will, Draco could feel his eyes started to well with tears. This was so embarrassing. Malfoy's never cried, especially in front of one’s father. Another thing he blamed Harry for.
Yet, once he voiced it, the memories sprang vividly back to the surface of his mind.
There was a huge, round white clock in the St. Mungo’s waiting room. Draco remembered looking at it, both with hope that soon Harry would wake up, and trepidation because despite not being a mediwizard he knew that the more time passing, the smaller chance Harry had for returning to the realm of consciousness.
He remembered Granger (It was easier to think of her as Granger, what with the number of family members the Weasley's have) crying softly in Weasley’s arms and how much he hated Weasley at that time, thousands upon thousands more than what he felt in school, because he only got some scratches, while his Harry was lying in a room, in a coma.
There was one half of what used to be the Weasley twins, walking back and forth, for once devoid of mirth and jokes. Draco was tempted to follow his steps; anything but sitting and waiting, only he hadn’t the energy to even stand up. Then there was the youngest Weasley, the only girl, embraced by Mrs. Weasley, which made Draco missed his own mother awfully because he could have really done with a hug at that time.
He remembered Harry, looking paler than the white spread where he lay. At his bedside table there were a collection of potion vials and Draco had to force his eyes to stop trying to identify them, since each revelation would only multiply his worries.
Most of all, Draco remembered the feeling of hopelessness that roamed in him and the resurrection of the fear he hadn't felt since Voldemort’s defeat. His mind was playing a thousand 'maybes' that he could not stop. His eyes were wet and red and he didn’t care, even if that woman in front of him did seem a lot like a reporter.
“It is, I recall, not the first time he was hospitalized, though,” Lucius’ voice called Draco out of his reveries.
“Yes, “Draco answered, blinking his eyes. He hoped he was successful on getting rid of the tears, “But it was the worst. Usually it was only some cuts and bruises, a concussion or in a particular bad case or two, broken bones.”
“But he healed and you asked him to quit,” Lucius concluded. He knew Draco didn’t want him to notice, but he could not help see the watery quality of Draco’s eyes and the tremor on his son’s hands. The urge to hex Potter became stronger. How could that brat put his Draco through that? Besides, by refusing to quit, he planned to do it again! Still, outwardly, he was the picture of calm.
“I could not stand another experience like that, I don’t want to,” Draco replied quietly.
“And he refused,”
Lucius’ words, stated in a matter-of-fact tone rekindled the anger Draco felt to Harry the night of their quarrel.
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Harry hadn’t been home for two days when he brought the matter up. Draco had decided it since Harry became conscious for the first time, but he had never found an opportunity to talk about it. Despite only Harry’s close friends and co-workers knowing, both Harry’s room in St. Mungo's and their house had been flood by visitors.
When Draco entered their living room, he found Harry was reclining on their sofa, reading a muggle novel Granger had given him the day before. He had taken his time sitting on the armchair opposite Harry and fixed his tea, trying to calm his nerve.
“Harry, I think you should just quit being an Auror, and search for employment elsewhere,” Finally, he had decided that direct course was the best course.
Harry lifted his eyes from his book and gave Draco a disbelieving look.
“That isn't funny, Draco,” He said, before returning his attention to his book.
“I am serious, Harry. I had thought about it since you were still in hospital,” Draco held his hands tightly to stop the impulse to fidget. He had known that this conversation would not be an easy one.
Now he had Harry’s full attention.
Harry put the book in the table and straightened his posture. Wordlessly, he lifted up the tea cup Draco had pushed towards his direction from the table.
“This is because I got hexed, isn’t it?” Harry sighed.
“We both knew it was the risk of being an Auror. Besides, that's not the first time I've been hurt in line of duty. I'm fine now, aren’t I?”
“But this time it was a close call,” Draco had replied. Even then, remembering that giving him chills and Harry’s flippant answer kindled his anger.
“Draco, you are being a drama queen. I had wanted this job since I was in Hogwarts, I can’t throw it away just like that.”
Harry was frustrated. Draco was worried, he understood, but at that moment Draco was simply being difficult. Draco had a tendency to blow everything out of proportion, and although normally Harry tried to simply accept it as one of Draco’s quirks - which actually, were too many for his liking, asking him to quit his job because a stray hex was way too much.
After all, he had been hurt worse before; fighting Voldemort’s horcrux in the Chamber of Secrets. Hell, he had even died before that final battle with Voldemort.
The mediwizard had told them that he had healed nicely, with no lasting damage.
He had wanted to be an auror since his fourth year. Yes, the one who advised it to him turned out to be a death eater in disguise, but somehow the dream had stuck. It was, after all, the first plan for the future he had ever had.
When he was camping around, hunting horcruxes, and everything seemed bleak, it had become something to keep his hope up, a promise of a future to pursue. For a while, he had resigned himself to die. When he ended up alive once again (the prophet inaugurated him as The-Boy-Who-Is-Impervious-To-Avada-Kedavra), the dream had kept him from just being adrift, given him a sense of purpose.
“No, you are not. Before this, broken ribs were the worst you had!”
Draco didn’t understand; did Harry think he was so gullible?
He could recall all the injuries Harry had gotten since he had become an Auror. Every time there was a call from St. Mungo's, he felt his chest tighten with fear. This had been the first time, however that it was life threatening.
“Just because you hated me at that time doesn’t mean I didn’t get hurt," Harry spat. "Remember all those stays in the Hogwarts’ infirmary? The stays that you said were merely for attention?!"
Somehow, it hurt that Draco discounted his life before they were together. It was another less endearing tendency of Draco, his desire to turn a blind eye to things that were not to his liking and only seeing what he wanted to see. It was this quality that meant that he couldn't see how wrong his father’s ideology was; because he loved him, or how he could not past Ron’s poverty to realize how wonderful a friend Ron could be.
Harry’s words hurt. By unspoken but nonetheless mutual agreement, they rarely talked about their Hogwarts days, at least the first six (Seven, in Draco’s case) years. There were too many mine fields there.
Besides, Voldemort was dead. The only problem that kept landing Harry in hospital right then was the damn job he was clinging to.
He simply could not take it anymore.
It was rich of Harry to accuse him of not caring when Harry was the one who didn’t care. Did he never think how it felt for Draco, seeing him lying on the hospital bed, unable to do anything but hope?
“Do you love it more than you love me?” Draco asked quietly, trying to rein the anger and hurt that were vying for dominance in his heart.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Those are two entirely separate things, how can you compare it like that?”
Now, it was too silly even for his dramatic lover.
Couldn’t Draco, just this once, understand? The job was important to him! Aren't relationships about give and take? Why should he be the only one who made compromises again and again?
“It is not ridiculous! It is a perfectly normal comparison! That stupid job has landed you in hospital once too often,” Shouted Draco furiously, throwing his empty tea cup at Harry.
Harry hadn’t answered his question. Instead of convincing him that he was of course, more important, Harry had just accused him of being silly.
Harry ducked the flying cup.
Draco had really, really exhausted his patience. Why couldn’t he, for once in his selfish life, be reasonable?
“Being Harry Potter will land me in hospital again and again. There are still people out there, people who were Death Eater's and still support Voldemort’s ideals, who will like very much to see me dead. Do you want me to stop being Harry Potter as well?”
“You don’t need to court danger!”
Was Harry’s head really that thick? He knew who he was dating and of course he knew who Harry Potter was! It only strengthened his previous point: Harry Potter didn’t need any more ways to help him get hurt!
“You know I can’t stand to keep still and wait when there is something I can do. I thought you loved me, Malfoy. I should have known that I am not enough for you! First it was my friends: they are not meeting the perfect Malfoy’s standard. Then you complain about my wardrobe, my habits, my tastes, even my principle about Kreacher. Now, you want me to quit my job. To do what? Push some paper? Or running for Minister, so I can bring greater glory to the Malfoy’s name? And you said I am the one who doesn’t love you enough!”
Draco wished that had another tea cup at his hand.
Better yet, the teapot that wasn't the plastic one that Harry - no Potter - had bought in a flea market and insisted on keeping.
Admittedly, he was more vocal on his opinions than Potter, but Potter had no ground to pretend that the complaints were all one sided.
Besides, he had stayed, hadn’t he? Despite all the complaints - that Potter had ignored, he never left the other man. Moreover, implying that he was using Potter for his own ends, when in reality, even releasing his father from Azkaban earlier had been Potter’s own initiative…granted, Potter had done it for him, but still…
So what if he had once or twice suggested that Potter should be more ambitious, should use his name and popularity more? After all, he was a Slytherin. He also was - at least he had thought he was, now he wasn’t so sure - Potter’s lover. Why couldn’t one wish one’s boyfriend to reach the top of their career?
It was the name that did it.
It had been years since Harry - no, Potter - Potter called him by his last name. They had fought and made up, and fought again, and they were still Harry and Draco to each other. Calling him Malfoy somehow had created a chasm between them that hexing each other couldn’t.
At that moment, he was really, really angry with Potter. He didn’t understand why he had fought to make that ingrate quit his job in the first place: because never mind stray Death Eater's and criminals, he would gladly hex Potter to St. Mungo himself.
“I need you to choose, Potter. Me, or your job.”
Potter didn’t say anything. He looked at Draco as if he didn’t recognize the man who had just the night before slept beside him, before he turned around and quietly left the room.
And Draco had felt all of his anger suddenly leave his body. That was the end, then. Faced with a chance of losing Draco, Potter, oh hell, who was he kidding, Harry didn’t try to keep him, didn’t apologize...didn't do anything.
His silence was answer enough.
He choked back a stubborn sob that tried to break free. Instead, he took a pinch of Floo powder, took a breath and threw it into the fireplace.
For the first time since he was moving to Grimmauld Place, Draco arrived at Malfoy Manor without any luggage.
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“He basically told me that I didn’t love him, and he loves his job more than he does me,” Draco said quietly.
Lucius really, really wanted to hex Potter.
Maybe if he looked harder, he could find an unobtrusive dark curse that was never banned by the Ministry. He always knew Potter was a selfcentered idiot; quick to judge from his pedestal, but how could that blasted boy not know that Draco really liked him?
Even Lucius, with his master title in the art of denial, could.
Unfortunately, it also meant that Draco would never talk to him again if he hurt, or killed Potter.
He could also take advantage of this situation and introduce Draco to some young women, or if he insisted, some young men.
The Malfoy name may not be as influential and prestigious as before, but the family fortune was still intact and Draco was a handsome boy (Narcissa said he was beautiful, but Lucius begged to differ; Men, especially Malfoy men, did not do beautiful).
Yet, judging by the fact that his son had been brooding and sulking for weeks, Draco, stubborn, stubborn child that he was, still held hope for reconciliation with the Boy-Who-Lived-Too-Long.
And when Draco wanted something, there was no way to divert his attention from his goal.
Lucius fought the urge to massage his temples. He knew it would not alleviate his headache.
Lucius Malfoy was not a generous man.
When he gave something to someone, he expected a return or a benefit. He also never wanted to do something he disliked, unless he had an ulterior motive. Unfortunately, whenever Draco was added into this equation, his action would become an aberration.
His son had bullied him into many things through the years. There was the broom, and not a kid’s broom, when he was five. Then there was the complete potion lab he had built when Draco was nine and demanded to also have one after he went to visit Severus and saw one at Severus’ house. No, Draco didn’t want to share his daddy’s, he simply had to have one of his own, never mind there were scarcely ten potions he could brew and all of them were basic. Then there was the owl, and the cat, and the mountain of clothes that had cost a fortune (It simply had to be made in Paris, because Draco heard somewhere that all the best ones were from Paris). There were the brooms for the entire Slytherin’s team and the liquor chocolates Draco loved so much.
In short, Lucius could be angry and could scold him as much as he pleased, but in the end he couldn’t say no.
So, although he was absolutely unwilling, Lucius took a depth breath and prepared to do something that he was sure would scar him for life. He would, not only console his son, but also help repair his relationship with the blasted Potter brat.
Wordlessly, he extended his hand for Draco’s wine glass. Then, he stood up, went to the table where he had put the wine bottle and refilled the glasses slowly and carefully. He returned a glass to his son, sat back on his chair, arranged his robe just so, and took a long sip of wine. He sighed deeply and pretended to consider the matter carefully. And finally, when he had run out of excuses to procrastinate, Lucius opened his mouth.
“Your mother and I, our marriage was arranged by our parents. In fact, although we were both from Slytherin, we hardly spoke to each other at school. She was five years my junior,” He added the last sentence as the only explanation.
“That’s not to say that I didn’t love your mother. I did, after I knew her better. But, contrary to the popular opinion, I didn’t fall in love with her at first sight.”
“Only Hufflepuffs fall in love at first sight,” Draco scoffed, bringing an amused smile to Lucius' lips. That’s his son, all right. He could be down, but he couldn’t shut up.
“I have heard people talk about how perfect we were for each other and how happily married we are.”
“Quite the opposite of what they said about Harry and me,” Draco added quietly.
“Maybe, but anyway, they were wrong. We have our fights, just like any other couple. Not, of course, in the manner as spectacular as yours,” Lucius added wryly, “but still as big and damaging.”
“But…” Draco trailed off, uncertain.
He never imagined his parents ever fighting with each other. In all the times he saw them, they were always an epitome of ideal couple, even if they were not the most passionate. They never even had any disagreements.
His beautiful mother, despite her resourcefulness and creativity, always trusted his father unwaveringly. She always supported his father’s wishes and was quick to fulfil his whims. In turn, his father doted on his mother. He lavished gifts and praises on her unsparingly.
“Oh, we did, believe me we did,” Lucius chuckled, “She disagreed with me going back to the Dark Lord’s service, you know. We fought bitterly pver it, although I am sure you missed most of it, being at school and all,”
Draco’s mind was reeling. Talk about a shocking revelation!
“Of course, most of these disagreements happened in the early years of our marriage. We are two stubborn people, who have no qualms using any tactic to get what we desire, including manipulating our own spouse,”
“I am not trying to manipulate Harry,” Draco interrupted. Why did everyone think he only wanted to use Harry? Even Harry thought so, apparently, he thought bitterly.
“You missed my point,” said Lucius dismissingly. “Regardless of your motives, what I wanted to tell you is that every couple fights. I remember your grandparents. Do you know that when my parents fought, they really fought? Oh, not in front of outsiders, of course, since we do have reputation to protect,” added Lucius when he saw Draco open his mouth again, wanting to protest.
“I remembered to stay away from their wing, whenever they started shouting at each other. Mother was very good with dark curses, and father had a repertoire of hexes like no one else.
But back to your mother and me, you see, most of our fights in those days were cause by slight misunderstandings."
"There was no miscommunication between us. I thought it was quite clear, that I wanted him to quit his dangerous job and he decided that I am not worth losing the damn job,” Draco spoke bitterly.
“Ah, but sometimes, it is only a matter of phrasing the words, of using the right nuances and implications. Relationships can be more dangerous than any political stage, after all.”
“Since he is a damn Griffindor, I don’t think there was any fear of hidden meaning. He isn't able to see anything unless it's spelled out to him in giant, red letters.”
Lucius smiled inwardly. As much as an annoyed, sarcastic Draco could be troublesome, he preferred that incarnation of his son to the forlorn one. It was also the more Slytherin one. Draco, when he decided to be forlorn and pining (And Lucius wanted to scrub his brain just thinking about it) could make a Hufflepuff seemed smart and cunning.
“But he is not you.” Lucius pointed out.
“Of course he isn’t!”
“Which means that he couldn’t know exactly what you felt, or what you were really thinking.”
For a moment, Draco said nothing. He simply sat there, playing with his wine glass.
Lucius drank his wine.
Well, it wasn't so bad. Maybe. He had done something nice, not only for his son but also for the Boy-Who-Would-Make-The-World-Better-If-He-Was-To-Hurry-Up-And-Just-Die and amazingly, he was still alive.
“So, I should speak to him again?" Draco asked suddenly, "Explain it again? Even if the first try was a total disaster?”
“Nobody asked you to do anything, and you know I don’t think he is a great loss. But, more than half of fights can usually be solved with communication.”
And the half could be taken care of with bribes, gifts, or hexes.
Still, Lucius didn’t say that.
Instead, he stood and went to his private library. He needed something stronger, something that hopefully would make him forget that he ever had this conversation with his son, especially if Draco decided to take his advice and somehow succeeded on mending his relationship with Potter.