Lucius Chapter 22 outtake
Lucius
He knew what it was.
Even before Draco's parting shot, he'd recognised what the gift he'd unwrapped was.
After they had left, Narcissa had thrown him a disparaging look, saying in a voice heavy with disappointment, "Really, Lucius."
He'd followed her back into the library, where she pointedly ignored him while she picked up the portrait of their son, running her fingers gently over the frame.
"Where will you put me, Mother?" Portrait Draco asked her.
"Where I can always see you, my darling son," she told it.
Lucius watched her for a moment as she moved about the room, placing the portrait on the mantle, on the table next to her favourite chair, on the small writing desk she kept, trying to decide the best place. He returned to his chair, picking up the box containing his son's gift, leaving his wife to her musings as he slipped away to his private study.
The damage the aurors had wrought during the raid had been repaired, and his belongings set to right by the elves. He moved to his desk, sinking into the comfort of the deep leather chair with a sigh. He carefully removed his son's gift from it's box, setting it on the desk in front of him.
He was not a man to show his emotions, particularly in front of those he didn't know, such as Ted, and most certainly not in front of those who could take advantage of any display of vulnerability. Not that he thought his son would, but as Draco's father, he felt he had an image to uphold, an example to set. This had already been tainted by his arrest, however he would not let his son see how it affected him.
As he had been taught by his own father, emotion was a weakness, a chink in the armour, as it were, of manhood. Of being a Malfoy, and all that stood for. And yet, Lucius thought, gazing at his son's gift, he'd hated his father. Abraxas had been a cold, harsh, unforgiving man whom Lucius had feared, who'd held him in an iron grip, quashing any thoughts of rebellion or independence Lucius had dared entertain, until the very notion had been sufficiently beaten out of him, and he towed line without question.
He didn't want it to be that way with his son. Abraxas aside, the name Malfoy was still one to be proud of. Ancient and noble and full of history and accomplishment, and Lucius believed in upholding that image. He did believe in the ideals Abraxas had taught him, just not in the method of his teachings. Lucius didn't want his son to fear him, not in the way Lucius had feared his own father. He had been afraid of Abraxas. He didn't think Draco was afraid of him. Lucius would never have dared give his father a handmade gift. That his son had given him one touched Lucius deeply.
Draco had mistaken Lucius' lack of words for disdain, he knew, and it wounded him to the core. Truth was, Lucius had found himself overcome with a flood of emotion he was petrified would be revealed should he speak, and so had managed only the barest utterance of thanks. He was aware he'd hurt his beloved son, and that also wounded him, but he had felt powerless to say what he truly felt.
He ran a finger over the rich, dark wood of his son's gift. He opened the drawer he kept quills and ink in, selecting his best quills, his favourite ink, and carefully set them into the stand. He slid the stand across his desk, arranging it between the magical photographs of his son and wife, adjusting the photo of Draco so that it was in his line of sight along with his gift.
He knew what it was.
It was proof his son wasn't afraid of him. Wasn't afraid to show him he loved him.
Lucius was once again overcome with emotion, and he swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, wondering if he'd ever be as brave as his son was.
He knew what it was.
Something to treasure.