Lucius hadn't expected to see many out and about on this particular evening, but he had been surprised by several couples or solitary figures making their way through the town. He supposed he couldn't be the only person whose life had undergone enormous changes in the past few months; and who might therefore be feeling... out of sorts. Still, he did his best to pay them no mind as he walked.
He stayed in the light as much as he could, not caring who saw him, and not looking too carefully at the faces that he passed. He trusted his subconcious to alert him if Narcissa's familiar form were visible, and other than her he could think of no one who he was sure he would want to speak to.
Lucius paused under a streetlamp - a Muggle streetlamp, he noticed with distaste, but what was one to do? It went on his list of things to change at the earliest possible opportunity. Now then, Copper Towers was not far, but would it be more convenient to continue along this street or turn to the right? Frowning in thought, he didn't take a close look
( ... )
The farther Draco traveled from the centre of town, the more dank and dreary the surroundings became. The faint glow of the streetlamps did not help matters; the light simply washed everything in unflattering amber. Wiltshire had been nothing like this awful place, though he would not allow himself to think on Wiltshire then and there
( ... )
The hairs on the back of Lucius' neck lifted suddenly, and he glanced around briefly, still affecting utmost indifference. There was someone there, watching him if he wasn't mistaken, and Lucius felt his lip curl slightly.
No doubt it was some wide-eyed innocent, come to stare at the recently released Death Eater. Either that or someone who honestly wished him harm - in which case, they should get on with it already and stop wasting Lucius' time. He knew how the game was played: if he was to be involved in any altercations in this new society, he must, under all circumstances, be the victim and not the instigator. Still, his instinct was to find out who it was before deciding how to proceed.
"Well?" he said clearly, letting disdain show in his voice. "Are you afraid to show your face?"
The voice was unmistakable; it was the very one and the same he had so longed to hear praise him when he had been a schoolboy.
Though Draco now knew who he was looking at across the way, he still did not feel at ease.
After all this time, the one man he had sometimes feared he would never see again was standing before him. The unsettled sensation gave way to relief and confusion and bitterness, and Draco's fingers did indeed tighten their grip upon the leather wand hilt, though he did not withdraw it from his cloak. Yet.
"Not afraid, no," he said evenly, the confident tone disguising the rush of uncertainty within him. With his free hand, Draco casually flipped down the cowl of his cloak. "Hello, Father." Have you any idea what I've done for you? Because of you?
With a shock, Lucius recognized the boy - man - in front of him. He was forced to grit his teeth slightly to keep his face from registering the extent of his surprise. Had it really been so long since Lucius had seen him? A third of Draco's life, missed while staring at blank walls. It was a wonder the boy - man - was so calm. Lucius was suddenly proud of his son.
"Draco," he said, opening his hands slightly at his sides. "I..."
It occurred to him that he wasn't exactly sure of Draco's opinion of him at this moment, and the fact that the boy was standing rather tensely did nothing to reassure him. Better finish smoothly.
A part of Draco, the part that was holding onto fifteen and Father's phenomenal and perfect, began to tingle with pride and gratitude. All his young life, he strived to hear such words spill forth from his father's lips. Draco had idolised him, had emulated him as best he could. When Lucius had been sent to Azkaban the end of his fifth year, Draco had been completely devastated. When Voldemort had told Draco just before his sixth year he had to make up for his father's mistakes, Draco had been determined.
And now?
A large part of Draco was disgusted and disdainful.
How dare his father stand there and attempt to converse with him as though everything were the same? Nothing was the same. Nothing was as it had been all those years before.
"Perhaps you oughtn't," Draco suggested brusquely.
Lucius' demeanor changed instantly. "Perhaps you oughtn't take that tone of voice with me." His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked over the changes the last eight years had made in Draco.
It was unsettling to know only what the newspapers had reported about his own son, when Lucius knew better than most that the Daily Prophet's main purpose was to sell papers, not to report the truth.
In any case, the situation was obviously one that Lucius was not in control of. He considered his wand, tucked away in a sleeve, but his earlier reasons for avoiding aggression still held. The idea of standing vulnerable and allowing his own son to strike - well, perhaps Lucius would be better off changing the subject entirely. "Does your mother know you're here?"
His father's tone made Draco's lip curl. So authoritative. So presumptuous.
Inhaling deeply, his nostrils flaring slightly, Draco stood to his full height, his shoulders squared away, and stared at his father. Lucius was, for the most part, exactly as Draco had remembered him to be, although of course the years and the time in Azkaban had paid their toll. That was of no consequence, however. His father seemed as sure and proud as ever, which shouldn't have been a surprise.
Draco wanted to hex him, to shake him, to punch him, to hurt Father as he had been hurt. He wanted to touch him, to feel Father solid and whole and real beneath his skin. Draco wanted too much, and it would not do him well to want. Wanting gave way to preoccupation, which gave way to mistakes and he could afford none here.
There was too much he didn't know about his father at this point and Draco would risk nothing.
When talk turned to his mother, Draco's mouth formed a thin line. "She's working a till," Draco said, mouth twisting contemptuously,
( ... )
This time Lucius didn't bother to hide his shock. "She's what?!"
Draco must be mistaken. Surely Narcissa wasn't - wouldn't - work? At a till? There had to be some other explanation. He frowned again as he tried to think - she was still his wife, wasn't she? Perhaps there was some way he could put his foot down...
Then again, he knew Narcissa, or at least how she used to be, and that kind of insistence would never go over well if she really had her mind set on something. Lucius was just going to have to find out the whole story.
"Is she..." He didn't know how Draco would take this question, but at the moment he didn't care. The need to hear some kind of assurance outweighed any consideration of saving face in front of his son. "Is she well?"
"Mother," Draco said slowly, taking care to enunciate every word so there was no mistaking his meaning, "is working a till. She runs some sort of...familiar...shoppe." His nose wrinkled with distaste. "Or so I've been told."
Though he had very much wanted to see after his mother, Draco had yet to bring himself to meander down to her storefront. The very idea of his mother working -- and doing what she reportedly was doing -- disturbed him a great deal. Draco realised full well the world was nothing like it had been. Sacrifices had been made and people would have to do whatever they could to survive. For Salazar's sake, he'd scavenged and mingled amongst the Muggles! Still...Narcissa was his mother and it was disorienting and difficult to picture her operating a business, particularly the sort she actually ran.
"I've not seen her, so I can't rightly assess her mental state." Quirking a brow, Draco looked pointedly at his father. "And what of you? Are you well, hmm?"
Lucius understood the words Draco was speaking, but no matter how he turned them in his mind, he could not reconcile the images of his wife with... a shopkeeper.
He put the thought away for another day. He would just have to see her. These sort of things were much better to sort out in person.
Draco's question made him smirk inwardly. It wasn't so long ago that Azkaban would drive prisoners insane in a matter of months, not years, and yet here he stood as sound in mind and body as he'd been before he was arrested. Perhaps even more sound, considering that the Dark Lord was no longer in the picture.
"I'm touched by your concern," he murmured, and though his voice carried a touch of amusement, it was also sincere. He wanted Draco to know that they didn't have to be enemies, even if they couldn't go back to how things were before. "I'm very well, thank you."
He nodded his head toward the path back to Copper Towers. "I was about to return to my home; you may walk with me if you like."
For a moment, Draco considered defiance and refusing to walk with his father. Lucius hadn't, thus far, asked after him and Draco knew full well without a need to inquire about it that Lucius was displeased and perhaps shocked that Narcissa was working -- and working a common, ordinary sort of job, no less. While Draco himself was not pleased with his mother's current state of affairs, for he had no doubt what Pansy and Lisa had told him was true, he would not look down on her (much) or judge her (much) until he set foot in her establishment. Father, on the other hand, was likely already scheming ways as to how he could either put an end to Mother's working class days or upend it to his own advantage
( ... )
Draco had gotten better at hiding what he was thinking. Lucius considered this as he began to walk. Still, it wasn't hard to guess: the boy had always been good at weighing options, carefully measuring the advantages and disadvantages of each possible outcome to see where the most benefit lay. For whatever reason, he'd decided tonight that the most benefit lay in going along with Lucius, at least for a little while.
And Lucius couldn't complain about that. The truth was, he had been expecting the boy to turn away.
"You know," he said conversationally, "Almost everything I know about the events of the past few years is directly out of the Daily Prophet." He glanced sidelong at Draco.
Mindful to keep his distance yet remain close enough to not alert his father to his wariness, Draco kept his gaze straight ahead as they began to walk. If he looked on his father for too long, he might be inclined to say or do things he should not at this juncture.
Ah, The Daily Prophet. Fat lot of rubbish it was. Draco snorted, remembering the 'underground' copies that made their way into society long after the offices had been destroyed during one of the attacks. Nosy sods desperate to get the word out to the masses, no matter if it was true or not.
"Then I expect you know nothing of consequence. The Daily Prophet was not, is not, shall never be fit for anything other than liner for owl cages."
Exactly what he'd feared. Lucius frowned slightly.
"I wouldn't go that far," he said mildly. "There have been times when it proved useful for influencing public opinion, if one knew who to contact and how to tell the story."
Rita had always been so very accommodating, after all. But Lucius didn't even know if she'd survived the war, much less what the state of the Daily Prophet had been recently. Draco obviously knew more about the events of the war than was common knowledge. Time for a change of subject.
"Do you recall the jade statue your grandfather gave you for your sixth birthday?" Lucius kept his eyes ahead and his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "The dragon that breathed fire. I wonder if you might like to have it?"
Father did have a point. Once upon a time, if the right person knew the right reporter, he or she could mold public opinion to whatever their liking. Sadly, however, those times had long since passed.
"It isn't like that any longer," Draco said after a long silence. "Though perhaps there is hope for the future."
Not that Draco would seek out any of the reporters. He hadn't anything of consequence to report...yet. That could always change, certainly.
Upon mention of the statue, Draco forgot all pretense and stopped, staring at his father. The statue in question held significant importance to him, or at least it had once. Draco hadn't given it a thought in years; he had assumed it'd been lost amid the shufflings of war and nosy Ministry sods sullying the Manor's corridors. "I recall it, yes," he said carefully.
He stayed in the light as much as he could, not caring who saw him, and not looking too carefully at the faces that he passed. He trusted his subconcious to alert him if Narcissa's familiar form were visible, and other than her he could think of no one who he was sure he would want to speak to.
Lucius paused under a streetlamp - a Muggle streetlamp, he noticed with distaste, but what was one to do? It went on his list of things to change at the earliest possible opportunity. Now then, Copper Towers was not far, but would it be more convenient to continue along this street or turn to the right? Frowning in thought, he didn't take a close look ( ... )
Reply
Reply
No doubt it was some wide-eyed innocent, come to stare at the recently released Death Eater. Either that or someone who honestly wished him harm - in which case, they should get on with it already and stop wasting Lucius' time. He knew how the game was played: if he was to be involved in any altercations in this new society, he must, under all circumstances, be the victim and not the instigator. Still, his instinct was to find out who it was before deciding how to proceed.
"Well?" he said clearly, letting disdain show in his voice. "Are you afraid to show your face?"
Reply
Though Draco now knew who he was looking at across the way, he still did not feel at ease.
After all this time, the one man he had sometimes feared he would never see again was standing before him. The unsettled sensation gave way to relief and confusion and bitterness, and Draco's fingers did indeed tighten their grip upon the leather wand hilt, though he did not withdraw it from his cloak. Yet.
"Not afraid, no," he said evenly, the confident tone disguising the rush of uncertainty within him. With his free hand, Draco casually flipped down the cowl of his cloak. "Hello, Father." Have you any idea what I've done for you? Because of you?
Reply
"Draco," he said, opening his hands slightly at his sides. "I..."
It occurred to him that he wasn't exactly sure of Draco's opinion of him at this moment, and the fact that the boy was standing rather tensely did nothing to reassure him. Better finish smoothly.
"I can't tell you how pleased I am to see you."
Reply
His father was pleased to see him.
A part of Draco, the part that was holding onto fifteen and Father's phenomenal and perfect, began to tingle with pride and gratitude. All his young life, he strived to hear such words spill forth from his father's lips. Draco had idolised him, had emulated him as best he could. When Lucius had been sent to Azkaban the end of his fifth year, Draco had been completely devastated. When Voldemort had told Draco just before his sixth year he had to make up for his father's mistakes, Draco had been determined.
And now?
A large part of Draco was disgusted and disdainful.
How dare his father stand there and attempt to converse with him as though everything were the same? Nothing was the same. Nothing was as it had been all those years before.
"Perhaps you oughtn't," Draco suggested brusquely.
Reply
It was unsettling to know only what the newspapers had reported about his own son, when Lucius knew better than most that the Daily Prophet's main purpose was to sell papers, not to report the truth.
In any case, the situation was obviously one that Lucius was not in control of. He considered his wand, tucked away in a sleeve, but his earlier reasons for avoiding aggression still held. The idea of standing vulnerable and allowing his own son to strike - well, perhaps Lucius would be better off changing the subject entirely. "Does your mother know you're here?"
Reply
Inhaling deeply, his nostrils flaring slightly, Draco stood to his full height, his shoulders squared away, and stared at his father. Lucius was, for the most part, exactly as Draco had remembered him to be, although of course the years and the time in Azkaban had paid their toll. That was of no consequence, however. His father seemed as sure and proud as ever, which shouldn't have been a surprise.
Draco wanted to hex him, to shake him, to punch him, to hurt Father as he had been hurt. He wanted to touch him, to feel Father solid and whole and real beneath his skin. Draco wanted too much, and it would not do him well to want. Wanting gave way to preoccupation, which gave way to mistakes and he could afford none here.
There was too much he didn't know about his father at this point and Draco would risk nothing.
When talk turned to his mother, Draco's mouth formed a thin line. "She's working a till," Draco said, mouth twisting contemptuously, ( ... )
Reply
Draco must be mistaken. Surely Narcissa wasn't - wouldn't - work? At a till? There had to be some other explanation. He frowned again as he tried to think - she was still his wife, wasn't she? Perhaps there was some way he could put his foot down...
Then again, he knew Narcissa, or at least how she used to be, and that kind of insistence would never go over well if she really had her mind set on something. Lucius was just going to have to find out the whole story.
"Is she..." He didn't know how Draco would take this question, but at the moment he didn't care. The need to hear some kind of assurance outweighed any consideration of saving face in front of his son. "Is she well?"
Reply
Though he had very much wanted to see after his mother, Draco had yet to bring himself to meander down to her storefront. The very idea of his mother working -- and doing what she reportedly was doing -- disturbed him a great deal. Draco realised full well the world was nothing like it had been. Sacrifices had been made and people would have to do whatever they could to survive. For Salazar's sake, he'd scavenged and mingled amongst the Muggles! Still...Narcissa was his mother and it was disorienting and difficult to picture her operating a business, particularly the sort she actually ran.
"I've not seen her, so I can't rightly assess her mental state." Quirking a brow, Draco looked pointedly at his father. "And what of you? Are you well, hmm?"
Reply
He put the thought away for another day. He would just have to see her. These sort of things were much better to sort out in person.
Draco's question made him smirk inwardly. It wasn't so long ago that Azkaban would drive prisoners insane in a matter of months, not years, and yet here he stood as sound in mind and body as he'd been before he was arrested. Perhaps even more sound, considering that the Dark Lord was no longer in the picture.
"I'm touched by your concern," he murmured, and though his voice carried a touch of amusement, it was also sincere. He wanted Draco to know that they didn't have to be enemies, even if they couldn't go back to how things were before. "I'm very well, thank you."
He nodded his head toward the path back to Copper Towers. "I was about to return to my home; you may walk with me if you like."
Reply
Reply
And Lucius couldn't complain about that. The truth was, he had been expecting the boy to turn away.
"You know," he said conversationally, "Almost everything I know about the events of the past few years is directly out of the Daily Prophet." He glanced sidelong at Draco.
Reply
Ah, The Daily Prophet. Fat lot of rubbish it was. Draco snorted, remembering the 'underground' copies that made their way into society long after the offices had been destroyed during one of the attacks. Nosy sods desperate to get the word out to the masses, no matter if it was true or not.
"Then I expect you know nothing of consequence. The Daily Prophet was not, is not, shall never be fit for anything other than liner for owl cages."
Reply
"I wouldn't go that far," he said mildly. "There have been times when it proved useful for influencing public opinion, if one knew who to contact and how to tell the story."
Rita had always been so very accommodating, after all. But Lucius didn't even know if she'd survived the war, much less what the state of the Daily Prophet had been recently. Draco obviously knew more about the events of the war than was common knowledge. Time for a change of subject.
"Do you recall the jade statue your grandfather gave you for your sixth birthday?" Lucius kept his eyes ahead and his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "The dragon that breathed fire. I wonder if you might like to have it?"
Reply
"It isn't like that any longer," Draco said after a long silence. "Though perhaps there is hope for the future."
Not that Draco would seek out any of the reporters. He hadn't anything of consequence to report...yet. That could always change, certainly.
Upon mention of the statue, Draco forgot all pretense and stopped, staring at his father. The statue in question held significant importance to him, or at least it had once. Draco hadn't given it a thought in years; he had assumed it'd been lost amid the shufflings of war and nosy Ministry sods sullying the Manor's corridors. "I recall it, yes," he said carefully.
Reply
Leave a comment