Draco Sinister

Chapter Six - Fortunate Sons

"Hello, Father," Draco said.

Lucius Malfoy slowly lowered the book he was holding, although he did not stand up to greet his son. He looked much the same, Draco thought. Even in prison, Lucius retained most of his sharp dignity -

he looked neat and trim in starched-looking, plain gray robes.

"Draco," said his father, inclining his head.

"I didn't think they'd let me in," said Draco, in a rather constricted voice.

"I left instructions that they were to allow you in when you came,"

said his father. "The Malfoy name still counts for something, despite all you and your mother have done to destroy it."

"So you bribed them," said Draco. "Typical."

"I ask myself sometimes," Lucius said, "did I raise a child who is ungrateful, or merely stupid?" He tilted his head to the side, his eyes still fixed on his son. Draco saw that his thin, long-fingered hands were locked tightly together across his lap. "What do you think, Draco?"

"What were the choices again?"

Lucius narrowed his eyes. "I had forgotten," he said, "how amusing you find yourself. Is that why you came here? To impress me with your wit?"

"No," said Draco, in the same flat tone, "I was just hoping we could continue our great familial tradition of gut-wrenching misery and verbal abuse. Tell me: would it kill you, just this once, to say 'Hello, son, what did you want to talk to me about?"

Lucius leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. He kicked out sharply with his left foot, catching the chair opposite him with one booted toe and sending it spinning across the room towards Draco, who had to jump back to avoid being hit by it. It fell to the floor at his feet.

"Sit," said Lucius.

Slowly, Draco reached down and yanked the chair upright. He sat down, keeping a wary eye on his father.

Anyone looking at the two of them would have been startled, first by the resemblance between them - the same sharp, refined features and pale coloring, although Lucius' eyes were black - and secondly, by the hostility that crackled between them like an electrical charge.

"So, son," said Lucius Malfoy. "What did you want to talk to me about? Did you want to ask me how I'm enjoying myself here? The congenial company, the excellent food, the kindly treatment?"

"No," said Draco. "I wanted to ask you something about our family."

Lucius raised an eyebrow.

"You told Harry there was madness in our family," said Draco. "I wanted to know - what kind of madness? How far back does it go?"

Lucius' eyes betrayed a flicker of surprise that quickly smoothed itself out into indifference. "You think you're going mad?"

"I'm not sure."

Lucius looked at his son, and for a moment saw the pale, familiar face stripped of its defenses, saw the pain and the panic behind the eyes. He thought of his wife, who had given their son her slanting silver eyes and her propensity to feel things strongly. And yet. Since his son was four years old, he hadn't cried. Not that Lucius could recall. Unnatural, his wife had said, a child that doesn't cry.

Draco stood up suddenly, and leaned his hands on the back of the chair. He looked very young. He said, "I've been having ... dreams.

Not my own dreams. Somebody else's. There are battles, a lot of blood and killing. A woman. Sometimes she's Hermione, sometimes she isn't. A banner with a dragon on it-"