Neminem
prope magnorum virorum optimum et utilem filium reliquisse satis claret.*
SEPTIMIUS
SEVERUS – Historiae
Augustae Scriptores
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. And why should he not be, as pretty as she was?
That
question, of course, was a total joke.
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. 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, there was nothing
at all. Artful care 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 so much 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, on a
second thought. 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. If one bothered to deal with these cows, they could at least
look good. Why were all 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. Damn it!
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, trying to wake up. This was going to be
fun, he could tell. 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, his left hand caressed her back, carefully
teasing; 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 got 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 wench 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 dummy 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,
sonny. 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 in the moment when he 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 tea 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
tea, 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 tea. “Why
should I worry for other men’s daughters when I’ve got enough worries for my
own flesh and blood?”
Lucius’
only reply was a resigned groan. 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 – blah blah blah. 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, one of the youngest
Captains in the history of the school, they had won the cup the third time in a
row and not lost a single match on the way. 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 dampen his spirits 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, to find a
new girl and drag her home, only to spoil the old trout’s day in turn. This was
no ordinary 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 still, 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 von
Wolfenstein had got married to her husband for the motivation of unimaginable
riches, he had married her because her family was ancient and 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.
But if
there was one thing for sure it was this – he would be a better father
than old Abraxas!
* 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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