DISCLAIMER: applicable for all chapters.
This is a work of fiction based on JKRowling's stories and characters. I own nothing and am making no money from this project. Readers should be warned that the fic deserves its R rating, and that future chapters will include profanity, slash (m/m relations), drug use, potentially non-consensual sexual contact, and occasional graphic violence. There is also camp, preposterous humour, and wigs. Something for everyone, you might say. ;)
Faster, Mudblood! Kill! Kill!
Malfoy Manor: September 1st, 2000
Here comes my son, Lucius thinks, a breath of undeniable pride tingling in the cockles of his chest. Here comes my son.
He folds the Sunday edition of the Daily Prophet and sets the paper aside, having taken his tea into the sunroom, which faces east and has the expected tear-jerking view of rugged moors and lush forest. In like, the Malfoys have a proud English garden, though with a few decidedly exotic touches; with the help of magic they are able to keep palm trees clear into winter, and fruit trees of all variety bloom year-round, offering up their succulent flesh and pleasant perfumes. And the pool…ah, the pool! Hardly a cement hole in the ground, aforementioned son Draco has spent the morning sunning on a sandbar that bellies up from its lagoon-like depths, lazily sipping on a pellegrino—his latest fancy, garnered on his summer holiday in the French Riviera.
And now he pads across the terrace in bare feet, leaving a careless trail of sand and water in his wake. Continuing on to the sunroom, he drips all along the Tuscan marble floors, fully aware that the house elves will clean up after him, as they always do, and knowing that in his suite of rooms he will find a fabulously tailored set of robes, freshly pressed and laid out on the duvet, his shoes smartly polished and set off to the side.
"Father," Draco grunts amiably, pushing on into the foyer, tugging his swim trucks out of his arse crack as he goes.
My son, now a man.
Lucius follows Draco into the foyer, a grand, high-ceiled affair that's frilled and bedecked with the usual tokens of pureblood grandeur: hand-carved crown molding, fairy-lit chandeliers ("Most flattering to the complexion," Narcissa insists), and medieval torture devices aplenty, all of them tastefully set on high daises, where they will be less of a potential hazard for drunken houseguests. Tacky, Lucius thinks, but his friends have their own notions regarding what proclivities and tastes should reside within the soul of a Death Eater.
He must admit he finds the thumbscrews quite amusing.
Draco plods up the main staircase, pausing at the landing to examine his own reflection, beamed out for the world in the gold-leaf embossed frame of a mirror nearly four-metres high. He scrubs a hand through his pale hair as if hoping to shake loose stray grains of sand, then yawns and stretches, scratching at his chest.
Though they regard each other with the detached ease of long-time flat mates, Lucius loves his only son….in his own way. There's envy there, too—co-mingled with a pride so fierce that Lucius feels very nearly sick from its hardening grasp. Draco lives the life that Lucius himself always dreamed about, spending all his days as a playboy layabout; a money-burning, beach-bronzed decadent. As of late his new goal in life is building his very own yacht, following straight off a set of blueprints that Lucius himself drew up while just a Hogwarts' schoolboy; when the beast is finished, Draco plans to marry the lovely Somae DeSilver and float down to the coast of Italy, where they can toast their glasses of pellegrino together night after night, then lie back and bob under the stars.
It's an easy life for Draco, and Lucius wants to keep it this way—everything cushy and moving along in wee, predictable doses. He's pushed Draco before. Has even shouted and smacked the boy in moments of outrage, because even with his soft little existence, Draco must be taught when a line has been crossed, when he's broken a rule irreparably. He wants the boy to be comfortable, but not completely naïve, after all. And let's face it: if he could help it he'd even stop pimply spots from breaking out on the boy's delicate backside.
But now Lucius must choose: should he go on protecting the luxurious life he's made for his son, his wife, and himself? And does he honor his own son, or uphold the long history of powerful Malfoys who came before him, all of them pale and whispy from years of inbreeding, long-suffered by gout and consumption--bless their little hearts that once pumped such pure blood.
When he took the Dark Mark, it was in part for Draco's own sake, and thusly functioned as insurance for the entire generation of Malfoys who would come after him. Lucius had to admit that being a Death Eater wasn't a bad job, exactly. Just tiresome, at times. All those dark revels and bloody balls to attend did tend to put a damper on his free time; not to mention keeping up the gruelly façade of being a normal, up-standing citizen. He had talked his way out of standing trail and spending time in Azkaban more times than he cared to remember, and it was usually his money that had done the most persuasive bit of finagling. More than anything, he wondered just how long he must continue to pay for the mistakes of those Malfoys who were already dead and buried—long forgotten by almost everyone, save Voldemort himself.
Elephants never forget, and neither does Dumbledore. Add vengeful Slytherin orphans to that list.
Draco flips his hair from his eyes, and in the mirror sees that his father has climbed the stairs and now stands directly behind him, silently watchful. He smiles at his father's face—regally handsome—seeming almost shy as he does so.
I'm sorry Draco. There is no other way.
"Crucio," Lucius croaks, and though his voice would suggest that he feels non-committal towards this curse, his intentions are in fact very real.
Just as the incantation leaves his father's mouth, Draco chooses to turn around, to face his father head on.
"Fath--?" Draco chokes the word out, alarm filling his eyes as the curse jettisons toward him, skidded just past his shoulder and slamming into the mirror—the very spot where his own reflection had been only a split-second ago.
If wizards were in the practice of aiming painful, unforgivable curses at mirrors, then they might have learned years ago that curses can bounce on occasion. Particularly if said mirror is located in Malfoy Manor, cost thousands of galleons, and possesses a most persnickety temper.
"Yowch! See how you like it, Foxy!" The mirror gripes, eliciting a stream of light that momentarily hypnotizes Draco, holding his eyes to that glow up until the very moment that his father cries out in pain.
The curse hits Lucius in one hard burst; not potent enough for the pain to linger, but strong enough to knock the wind clean out of him so that he stumbles backwards, teetering on the heels of his Italian loafers, feeling the sharp drop-off of the top step looming behind him. He sees his son look on in confusion, his expression clear of anger (and for this Lucius is grateful), a thin trail of sweat snaking down his neck as he bolts his arm out, trying to catch Lucius by the cuff of his robes.
Too late. . .
Draco memorizes each stair that his father hits, his body bouncing down the incline like a toy until he finally lands on the polished parquet with a sickening thud, bones breaking like a dozen or so matchsticks.
"Father?" he calls from the top of the stairs, disbelief wavering in his voice.
Gingerly, he climbs down the stairs, clinging to the banister like a child. He sees his father's hand twitch once, his wand rolling from his fingertips. His eyes are still open, shining like coins as he stares up into the crystal chandeliers.
"Father?" Draco implores, leaning over to fetch up his father's wand and finding that it's still warm to the touch.
And then, finally, a last, forlorn effort.