Meet The Malfoys

MEET THE MALFOYS

Neminem prope magnorum virorum optimum et utilem filium reliquisse satis claret.

SEPTIMIUS SEVERUS

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He gazed at the pretty girl in his arms, once more pleased. She was very pretty. A pretty sight to behold, yes. She was breathing gently, her chest was a perfect study. When she was asleep like this, he sometimes fancied himself in love with her. Sincerely. And why should he not be, as pretty as she was? That question, of course, was a total sham.

He closely regarded each single bit of her, top to bottom, starting with her hair. One could tell that she took great care of her appearance, that more than one spell was needed to make her hair so shiny, so smooth. Right now it was the tiniest bit greasy, and it only made her look even better. The glossy strands softly curled over her temples, half-hiding her ear, pouring down over her shoulders and tickling her trim stomach. Her face was even and symmetrical, and when she was asleep, irresistibly peaceful. One could see whatever one craved in these features when she was sleeping. She plucked her brows to perfect shape; there was nothing in this face that... Indeed, artful care had made her every feature perfect, yet, at the same time, meaningless.

Smooth skin with just the right measure of tan, a great figure, perfect hair right out of a commercial. Not a single hair astray, not even now, after spending the night with him. He gave a dry laugh, but stopped at once. He mustn't wake her up. He liked her better when she was asleep.

In love?! What a ridiculous phrase to use. Maybe she was in love, though he doubted it, but he most certainly wasn't. And neither was she. Either he was getting a little soft in the head for being so sentimental, or for some other reason unfathomable, he had lately formed the distinct notion that love requested a certain depth. Which this girl lacked entirely. As shallow as she was pretty, she surely had a mad crush on him – but she couldn't love him.

A small part of his mind was aware that she wasn't quite as stupid as he wanted her to be. Annoying, silly, mindless – sure. But acknowledging that she was more than a pretty, brainless doll would also mean that he would have to take responsibility for his actions, and the greater part of his consciousness strongly disapproved of so much consequence. Taking her seriously would mean... well, what, really? Breaking up with her because he was deceiving her about the depth of his emotions for her? This wasn't true for a start. He had never pretended to take much interest. And he'd break up with her anyway. It was astounding how long they had been together, if he thought about it.

He chewed on his bottom lip. She was pretty. Perhaps he should have a bit more fun with her before telling her that it was over? Waste not.

'Diaboli virtus in lumbis', his father always said, right? On the other hand – all the girls he went out with were uncommonly pretty. One could claim that he wouldn't do as much as sit down next to a plain girl at dinner. Why were these girls so silly, eh? He'd dump her, she'd cry and complain and tell all her friends what a bloody jerk he was – and still he'd have a new girlfriend before the end of the week. Appraising her, he went through his list of eligible objects. Who was going to be next? He could make his pick as he pleased; half of the girls in school fancied him like mad, and there was still a long row of candidates that he hadn't disappointed yet.

But could he? Could he really pick whomever he liked? His jaw tightened and he winced back – he had bit his own cheek. What would he say? He rehearsed the lines he had uttered so often – his cheek was still hurting – he must be bleeding, he was tasting the blood – and a sudden thought darted through his mind. Why not do it differently this time? He was easily bored, and dumping a girl needn't be boring, right?

He stirred and carelessly reached out for her shoulder. "Wake up."

She blinked, thoroughly confused. "What is it?"

"I thought it'd interest you to know that it's over."

She made no reply, looking even more confused. This was going to be fun. Most of the time he didn't bother, but he knew very well what girls liked, how they wanted to be touched. All a mere matter of practise. His right hand cupped her face, carefully teasing, his left hand caressed her back. She closed her eyes again and enjoyed his kisses.

She gave little hums of pleasure, snuggling up to him, and with his most sardonic smile he asked, "You like it?"

Her only reply was a moan of delight.

"Relish it. This is the last time."

Her eyes flew open. "What?"

"It's bye-bye time."

"What?"

He brushed a kiss on her temple, still smiling broadly. "You heard me, didn't you?"

"Heard you?"

She was trembling and he took her in his arms, lifting her up. "I just told you that it's over. I'm breaking up with you. I'm dumping you. Call it what you like."

He hadn't really stopped kissing her when carrying her out of his bed and over to the windows, a fact of which she was utterly oblivious. "Breaking up...?"

"Yes. You see, I've made it a rule not to go out with a girl for more than three weeks, and you have expired that date for almost an entire month already. You may feel flattered if you wish."

Rather unceremoniously, he fumbled with his wand and pointed it at the window, opening it with a little flick. Another flick, and her robes, shoes, and underwear rose from the floor and hovered over, and out of the window, where they fell on the snowy ground. Her cloak was the last to go; she watched with wide eyes but no quick retort, until all she had left was Lucius' old Tornado T-shirt, which she was wearing.

It had sufficed anyhow. He should have tried this ages ago – he had never enjoyed another break-up as much as this one. She was still speechless, and tears slowly welled up in her eyes. She stared at her wand, which he had pushed into her hand, and Lucius laughed.

"It's called dumping, dear," he drawled, brushing a kiss on her quivering lips. "Ever wondered why?"

So saying, he dropped her out of the window, too. He half expected that she wouldn't muster enough wits to use her wand, but before he had to soften her fall himself, she finally swished her wand and saved herself from further harm. He had to cast a Shield Charm to keep her from smashing the windows; standing scantily clad in the two foot high snow, she screamed all kinds of curses up to him, but seeing that this was not getting her anywhere, Chloe stamped her foot one last time, gathered her things and trudged away, down the swept way, lifting her arm for a rude gesture at his last remark – "You can keep the T-shirt!"

Still sniggering, he took a shower, got dressed and went down for breakfast.

"Tell that chick to eat in your own room," Abraxas growled without looking up. "I don't fancy strangers at my table."

"I know, Father."

"If you know, why is it that I always have to endure your petty affairs?"

"Be glad you won't have to endure this particular one again."

This did the job. Abraxas lowered the Daily Prophet and threw his son a long glance, partly quizzical, partly amused. "Well, I must say I'm not sorry to hear this. I'd be even more delighted if I could deceive myself sufficiently to believe that no other replica is already waiting in line."

Lucius sat down and grinned. "Envious, are we?"

Abraxas laughed heartily – a sight that did not occur too often. "I pity you sincerely, boy. No such annoyance known as women. I wonder when you get enough of 'em."

"You're an old man, Sir. I reckon you've long forgotten the easy pleasures of youth."

The smile vanished as quickly as it had come. "You're one useless cad, boy. Fooling around with these mindless cows, as mindless as you are yourself. When will you finally start to make some sense of your life?"

"Soon enough, Sir. When you're dead, at the latest."

He knew that this was too much the moment he had said it. Abraxas could put up with some cheek when he was in good humour, but this was not one of those rare occasions. Old he might be, but still bloody fast when it came to retribution and Lucius had no chance left to react. In the blink of an eye, his father had produced his wand and thrown a curse at him, making his cup of coffee explode right before his face.

The humiliation was far worse than the actual pain. Hot liquid in his lap, splinters in his face and hands, he hurled a sequence of fierce insults at the old wizard, fumbling for his own wand to clear up that mess. He siphoned up the coffee, mumbled another spell to remove the splinters from his hands and reached out for one of the silver plates instead of a proper mirror to take care of his face.

"What's wrong with you?!"

"What is wrong with you, Lucius? Seriously, boy! You have no respect."

"Respect?! Are you crazy? Why the hell should I have respect for a fool such like yourself?! Iratus filio ipse te obiurga, Pater!"

"Careful, sonny." Abraxas' voice had sunk to a menacing gnarl. "I may be old, but I haven't lost any of my power. You don't want to mess with me."

"Stop calling me sonny, Father!"

"If you started behaving like a grown-up, I might give it a thought."

He found the – hopefully – last piece of porcelain and removed it, turning his head this way and that and checking his reflection in the plate. He mumbled a healing spell to prevent scarring and the bloody spots vanished one by one, leaving no visible trace. He was pretty good with healing charms; they were inevitable with a father like his.

"A couple of scars would do you good, sonny," Abraxas cackled spitefully. "And spare a dozen broken hearts, possibly!"

"Why do you worry for them if all girls are so bloody useless?"

"True. Yes, indeed, I have to admit you've got a point there." He sipped his coffee. "Why should I worry for other men's daughters when I've got enough worries for my own flesh and blood?"

It was always the same old story. His marks, his Quidditch results, his lack of interest in the proper things. No matter what he did, Abraxas could never be content with him, and he made no secret of his disapproval. Lucius didn't listen; he had heard that speech too often. Study harder, practise more – blahblahblah. In his first year on the House Team, they had won the cup. Abraxas hadn't cracked as much as a smile. In his second year, he had broken the old school record and scored twenty-seven goals in the first forty minutes of a single match. Abraxas hadn't even mentioned it. In his third year, he had been made Captain, they had won the cup the third time in a row and not lost one match. Abraxas had merely sneered and muttered, "If you trained more, you might be a good player one day."

He had felt so damn good when getting up, and one breakfast with his father was enough to spoil his mood for the rest of the day. Merlin, he couldn't wait to get back to school. He was so displeased, he truly felt like going out, finding a new girl to drag home, only to spoil the old trout's day in turn. This was no struggle of adolescence – Mr Malfoy senior and his son had never felt anything but mutual dislike for one another. The only reason why Abraxas had got himself a wife and produced a son was the need for a continuation of the ancient dynasty. A misanthrope by nature, he despised anyone and could hardly endure the sheer presence of others, let alone a child tormenting his nerves and ears. Or a wife.

Lucius could hardly remember his own mother. Shortly after his birth, she had been equipped with ample of money and sent on a journey, from which she had never really returned. When he was younger, she had sometimes shown up at Christmas or his birthday (but never both in the same year), and since he was eleven, he hadn't seen her again. She had gone back to her family in Southern Germany – Lucius had visited her and his grandparents two or three times, but in all honesty he felt as little urge to see them as vice versa. Elisabeth had got married to her husband for the motivation of unimaginable riches; he had married her because her family was ancient and her blood untainted. That was all. And one day Lucius would do the same. Two thousand years of pureblood ancestry must be continued. He'd propose to one of those cows, and he'd have a son. This was no fantasy or wishful thinking but genuine fact – a handy curse of old had taken care of the business. There could only ever be one Malfoy in each generation, always a boy, thus preventing the division of the family fortune, and consequently, these riches had accumulated beyond imagination. He was only sixteen and already a made man, knowing for a fact what his future had in store for him. And if there was one thing for sure it was this – he would be a better father than old Abraxas!

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Neminem... It is a well-known fact that only few of the great have fathered a good, competent son.

Diaboli... The devil is in the loins.

Iratus... If you're angry with your son, blame yourself, father!

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