RP: Father and Son
Date: August 9th, 1998
Characters: Lucius Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, possibly Narcissa?
Status: Public
Summary: Lucius is home again, grieving in his own way when his son drops in for a visit.
Completion: Complete
Malfoys do not drink to excess for no reason. Not that they have never had one too many, or made some mistakes in their youth. However, it's just accepted that when a Malfoy reaches a mature age, he does display the proper amount of self-control, and does not partake of the spirits until he is slovenly drunk.
Nor does he mix alcohols. "Never mix the grape and the grain," Lucius mumbled, glaring at the bottle of brandy in his hand. At the moment he sat there in his favorite wing-back chair near the fireplace, he regretted not picking up the bottle of firewhiskey.
He'd spent the better part of the evening sitting there drinking, enjoying the searing heat of the fire mixed with the warmth of the summer day in the manor. Something about these evenings in the large old houses made him feel cold even on the warmest of days.
Lucius just stared at the fire crackling for a short time, enjoying the peace and quiet, enjoying the sweet burn of the brandy in his mouth. He looked over at a photograph of himself and Severus taken just after Draco was born. It seemed like so long ago, and yet at the same time, so recently that they were all together. Together outside of the influence of the Dark Lord, that is. The appearance of Voldemort was the undoing of everything.
If only he had managed to kill Potter in Draco's second year at Hogwarts. If only the boy had been killed in one of the trials at that Triwizard Tournament. The Dark Lord would not have risen, and they would have all been safe.
Severus wouldn't have let it happen.
Lucius sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was a habit he had picked up from wearing those wretched spectacles, and now it seemed he was always trying to soothe the skin there. "Fortis," he called out. A juvenile house elf came running up to him, clasping his hands behind his back. "Take this bottle away and bring me some tea and..." he wasn't supposed to have sweets. His diabetes was too erratic and out of control as it was, and he'd been warned against chocolates and cakes. They had suggested vegetables and non-sugary fruits instead.
"Just some tea - and be quick about it," he said firmly.
Fortis was new and still needed more experience in servitude. He was apparently an unclaimed cousin of one of their other elves; and since they were only left with two after the Dark Lord had finished with the manor, he tossed an old dish towel at the creature and set it to work without much hesitation.
Ugly and pathetic as they were, he had to admit they were useful.
Characters: Lucius Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, possibly Narcissa?
Status: Public
Summary: Lucius is home again, grieving in his own way when his son drops in for a visit.
Completion: Complete
Malfoys do not drink to excess for no reason. Not that they have never had one too many, or made some mistakes in their youth. However, it's just accepted that when a Malfoy reaches a mature age, he does display the proper amount of self-control, and does not partake of the spirits until he is slovenly drunk.
Nor does he mix alcohols. "Never mix the grape and the grain," Lucius mumbled, glaring at the bottle of brandy in his hand. At the moment he sat there in his favorite wing-back chair near the fireplace, he regretted not picking up the bottle of firewhiskey.
He'd spent the better part of the evening sitting there drinking, enjoying the searing heat of the fire mixed with the warmth of the summer day in the manor. Something about these evenings in the large old houses made him feel cold even on the warmest of days.
Lucius just stared at the fire crackling for a short time, enjoying the peace and quiet, enjoying the sweet burn of the brandy in his mouth. He looked over at a photograph of himself and Severus taken just after Draco was born. It seemed like so long ago, and yet at the same time, so recently that they were all together. Together outside of the influence of the Dark Lord, that is. The appearance of Voldemort was the undoing of everything.
If only he had managed to kill Potter in Draco's second year at Hogwarts. If only the boy had been killed in one of the trials at that Triwizard Tournament. The Dark Lord would not have risen, and they would have all been safe.
Severus wouldn't have let it happen.
Lucius sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was a habit he had picked up from wearing those wretched spectacles, and now it seemed he was always trying to soothe the skin there. "Fortis," he called out. A juvenile house elf came running up to him, clasping his hands behind his back. "Take this bottle away and bring me some tea and..." he wasn't supposed to have sweets. His diabetes was too erratic and out of control as it was, and he'd been warned against chocolates and cakes. They had suggested vegetables and non-sugary fruits instead.
"Just some tea - and be quick about it," he said firmly.
Fortis was new and still needed more experience in servitude. He was apparently an unclaimed cousin of one of their other elves; and since they were only left with two after the Dark Lord had finished with the manor, he tossed an old dish towel at the creature and set it to work without much hesitation.
Ugly and pathetic as they were, he had to admit they were useful.