written for tgs '12 days of christmas' and ilvermorny 'beaded bag: alphabet soup'

tgs:

prompt:

10. ten lords a leaping: write about Lucius Malfoy or Mr. Nott

school, house: hogwarts, slytherin

points: 5

word count: 571

ilvermorny:

prompts:

N:

(word) nuance

O:

(dialogue) "Obviously, you have a penchant for misunderstanding what I say."

P:

(color) plum

Q:

(color) quaffle red

R:

(color) robin egg blue

a/n: this is like, such trash; as you can see i have forgone all alphabetical obligations

. . .

Lucius rots. For a few years, that's all he does.

But then it's something else: for a few years after the visit, he hopes. And when that hope burns out, he does, too.

It's his fault, and he can only be sorry.

He isn't, not really, but aren't pretenses just so Lucius?

. . .

The visit in question is from his son, Draco. It's his last one — his only one. Azkaban is a dreary, gray place, with nothing but Dementors and cries; the sight of Draco's white-blond hair and is like a halo, an angel, has descended upon the place.

"Draco?" breathes Lucius. "Is that — is it you?"

"Yes," he replies simply.

"Why are you here?" Lucius peers at him, noting Draco's plum dress shirt and the Quaffle-red tie speckled with robin-egg-blue spots he's wearing. "You look marvelously dapper for a visit to Azkaban."

"I won't be coming anymore," explains Draco. "I want you to remember me like this."

Lucius's heart drops a little — but only a little. Draco was never a good son, anyway. Always just a little bit off the edge of perfect.

"I see," Lucius says. "So why are you here?"

There's a bit of fire in his eyes at that; Lucius can't quite decipher it. Draco swallows, but finally declares, "Because I'm done with you. I — I can't, not anymore. I'm done blaming myself for everything that's happened when you were the one who dragged me to — to him and said, 'Draco, you will take the Mark.' I'm done trying to forgive you for everything because I can't. I can't forgive the man who never, never gave a crap about me but for the things that didn't really matter — you gave a crap about me when I wasn't your perfect son and then you failed to see when I was. And I don't want to be your perfect son, because you are a despicable, inhuman thing, Lucius Malfoy. I'm not that person."

"Draco." It's all Lucius can say. He doesn't actually care about Draco, no — not really, but he needs the support he'll give him. Draco was always a little daddy's boy, and Lucius will try to play on that in hopes Draco will see a nuance in him. "Draco. I love you — you're my only son —"

"No," sneers Draco, "no, you don't. Love is not you. You can't love. You only want me on your side so I'll vouch for you and maybe get you out. But you don't understand — I want you in here, where you're going to rot and hopefully, hopefully, die. And when you do, I will say, 'Finally, finally.' At your funeral, I will tell everyone what kind of man you were and I will tell everyone that you're a terrible, terrible piece of crap."

"Obviously, you have a penchant for misunderstanding what I say." Lucius tries the old techniques — sarcasm, snide remarks. It's all he's got. Lucius has a chance, here, and he'll take it.

"Stop." Draco glares at him. "Maybe I don't mean it. Maybe you're better off alive. And maybe I will return so I can watch you suffer." He snorts with derision. "But that's not likely — so have your last good day, Father."

. . .

That's how Lucius Malfoy dies — remembering his worst memories and his last good day, with sorrow and bitterness lacing his heart, but unrepentant, still.