This Is War

Parents and Appearances

He had been raised to hate it all, all which was considered to be beneath him and his blood status. Every flash of childhood memories was filled with at least one 'A Malfoy has never' or 'A Pureblood would never,' comment from his father. He was given guidelines of what was expected from him because he was a Malfoy and a Pureblood and, as such, the rules were unavoidable.

He had never questioned them, the rules or his parents. After all, parents know everything there is to know; they raise their children to know that questioning their decisions or choices or actions was unadvised. Draco just did what he was told to do, felt what he was given, and acted with what he saw. Questioning that tangible hatred for what was considered beneath him never fazed him because he very much enjoyed his status.

Things, of course, change and he once again found himself cursed by an undesired circumstance in life that challenged his ideals and his lessons learned from toddler years.

"Are you enjoying breakfast, love?"

Blinking away from thoughts that he very much would like to never scrutinize, Draco found a woman smiling at him with incredible warmth. In the slow second that his mind was somewhere else, he hadn't a clue who she was, but after he adjusted it and those big brown eyes matched the ones he knew belonged to an enemy, he settled himself instantly.

"I know it's nothing like that extravagant and confusing food you're used to from Hogwarts or Mrs. Weasley, but it's homemade and straight from your own mother," the woman continued. "And besides, it's French toast. Still your favorite, right?"

"What's her favorite?" Entering the kitchen that was decorated in earthy colors—shades of various browns, greens, yellows, and oranges, the same never-one-color plates and mug, and sunshine-yellow curtains parted in the main kitchen window—was a man with his bathrobe still on.

This man settled himself On an empty chair on the wooden, circular table with orange place-mats. The woman across from Draco rolled her eyes in annoyance. "For goodness sake, Richard, do you know what time it is? You've practically slept all through the morning."

"Woman, please," the man called back as he poured tea in a brown ceramic mug. "It's the weekend, do lower your voice."

Decreasing his peripheral vision of the man, like he hoped by doing so he couldn't be seen, Draco observed the man in a few silent seconds. He was the essence of something extreme, something that could easily put you off. There was a way his expression oozed seriousness, that radiated a sense of accuracy and knowledge that made you never want to challenge or cross him. He had sun-kissed skin; hair dark as night and eyes that matched it, and a beard that highlighted his strong presence.

"You would think I married a complete nuisance," the woman said firmly as she crossed her arms in displeasure. "You're nothing but appearances, aren't you?"

The man stood from the chair he'd taken and headed to the kitchen counter. "You married me for my money which is more accurate, Jean." He turned back to them with a plate of breakfast that was reserved for him. "I do always remember that fact."

The woman had been about to retaliate when her brown eyes narrowed and a flash of disapproval crossed her, which then faded into a light resignation. "Oh, Richard. You're wearing those pink, fluffy slippers again. You're such a lost cause, sweetheart."

"You leave my slippers out of this," the man warned with a rough voice. "Hermione likes them, anyway. So your say is invalid, thank you very much."

Draco knitted brows in confusion, he felt that intimidating man placed his lips on the monstrosity of hair he as currently borrowing from his daughter.