Family Rules

Author's Notes: Thanks for beta-reading - to mikabird, graylor, sirenprincess and waterbird. I couldn't have written this story without those four.

Content Warning: This story contains graphic descriptions of physical, mental and sexual child abuse. There is nothing pretty about it; and if you have the slightest doubts whether you want to read it or not, please stay away! There are also graphic descriptions of dying and wanking.

Additional Warning: This story starts with something that might look like a well known fandom cliché. Some love it, while others hate it. However, please keep in mind that long before the end of chapter one, I'm going to be done with it. I simply used it as a jumping board for the rest of the fic. I'd be thrilled if you're willing to take the plunge.

Family Rules


(To the children and to everyone who cares.)


1. How to Raise a Child


Lucius Malfoy commanded the use of words like a snake its poison fangs. While this attitude was easy enough to deal with strangers, it proved less potent when applied to members of his family. So, apart from a brief greeting, he held his tongue when he met Draco on Platform 9 ¾ and they side-along Apparated home to Malfoy Manor. Silently, they walked the short distance from the gates to the manor. The garden with its high snow-covered hedges and the fountain running in spite of the severe cold looked taken from a turn-of-the-century painting. Draco carried his small suitcase up the manor’s stone steps by himself. Inside, one of the house-elves, Tinky, took care of it.

Lucius cleared his throat and turned to face his son. “Welcome back for the winter holidays, Draco. It is too late tonight for a father-to-son talk and I don’t want to spoil your mother’s preparations for dinner.”

“Or rather, you don’t want to spoil your evening,” Draco mumbled.

“Excuse me? You seem to forget whom you are talking to. You will come to my study tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. Not a word to your mother. We have some serious matters to discuss.”

Draco ducked his head and gave a short nod. What other options, thought Lucius, did he have?

Dinner was an awkward affair. Between idle chatter, Narcissa’s attentive gaze kept wandering towards Draco, who didn’t speak much and picked at his food, and occasionally towards Lucius, who tried his best to keep the conversation flowing.

“Is something wrong, Draco? You are awfully quiet tonight.” Narcissa finally seemed to have enough.

“Mother?” Draco straightened in his seat. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”

“Then you might want to go to bed early. The Christmas holidays are best enjoyed in a well-rested mood.” She smiled warmly at Draco. Addressing them both, she went on, “I wonder why Honeydukes is taking such a long time to deliver this year. Honestly, I cannot see why they would fail to satisfy one of their most loyal customers. I don’t like the idea of running out of everyone’s favourite sweets around Christmas.”

Draco showed her his unique combination of the most beaming and alarmed smile. “No nougat nips? No liquorice-fire drops for Father?”

Narcissa nodded. “If they don’t deliver tomorrow, I’ll owl a complaint.”

The next morning, Lucius awaited his son, everything but Draco’s school report cleared from his desk. At eight o’clock sharp a soft knock on the door announced Draco’s arrival. “Come in!”

“Good morning, Father.” Draco entered the study and slowly pulled the door shut.

“Draco.” Lucius glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “At least you are punctual.” He took in his son’s appearance. The boy stood in the middle of the room, shuffling his feet. He was still too soft. Which, given the circumstances, could not be tolerated any longer.

Lucius tapped his finger on the parchment in front of him. “Your Head of House … he mentioned some incident on the Quidditch pitch in your report. Do you have something to tell me?”

Draco’s mouth twitched. His silence hung heavy in the air between them.

“No? I thought differently. Surely you agree that provoking Potter as you did was rather unwise?”

“He was kicked off the Quidditch team by Umbridge, along with two of those Weasley blood-traitors.”

“Still … You: right in the middle of the turmoil. After all our lectures. Haven’t you heard me say ‘scheme in silence’ often enough? But again I have to berate you as if you were too young for Hogwarts. It’s wearying … and beyond my tolerance.”

Draco stilled. “You warned me more times than I deserve. I’m sorry.”

“So?”

A desperate flicker showed in the boy’s eyes, which quickly glazed over as he spoke the traditional words. “I realise that I’ve done wrong, Father. Please, give me the appropriate punishment.”

“You deserve it?”

“Yes, I deserve it. Please, punish me for my mistake, so that I may learn.” Draco’s face was a mask now, showing no sign of unease. Maybe finally, all those lessons had taken some effect. Maybe soon, there would be no need for more.

“Accepting your responsibility and asking for punishment? That’s the right thing to do. Tell me: how many do you think you deserve?”

Lucius knew the kinds of thoughts and calculations that were racing through his son’s mind. The failure had been severe and could not be taken lightly. And Draco had every intention to please his father, to show him that he wouldn’t back away from the consequences of his mistake. On the other hand, there was the natural fear of pain. Lucius felt his hands go wet.

“I am waiting.” What would Draco say?

“Twenty.”

Draco – always willing to push the limit. Even though the boy’s eyes were blank, Lucius could sense his fear that he’d gone too light on himself mixed with the feverish hope that what he’d offered would not lead to an increased punishment, that it would be enough to atone.

Lucius decided to spare him the need to explain the count. “Good. You understand the severity of your actions. I think that sixteen will do. Prepare yourself.” He pointed towards his desk.

Draco flashed him a thankful glance. Then, he approached the desk without hesitation and started to fumble with the buttons on his trousers.

Lucius stepped over to a small sideboard and scanned the implements he kept for these occasions. There was the cane. He shook his head. The boy had had a growth spurt in the summer and was still all skin and bones. He would bruise more easily than ever. The switch, however, was too light and too quickly forgotten for the incident at hand. A paddle, then. Lucius kept two: a long one made out of leather and one of wood. The leather provided a touch more flexibility. Draco would not bruise too much, but the blows would still sting memorably.

He would never use his belt, like MacNair bragged about, or a whip, as the Lestranges had done for generations. No. The traditional implements were enough. He loved Draco. This was about teaching him self-control and forethought, not about abuse and torture.

He picked up the paddle and turned towards the desk. Draco stood bent over, holding on to the edge of the table top for support. His trousers pooled around his ankles on the floor. Lucius gently guided his son’s hands a bit further on the desk. Draco stretched to refasten his hold.

“That’s better. Keep them there and don’t loosen your grip.”

The boy nodded. “Yes, Father.”

“You know the rules, Draco. Sixteen strikes. Keep your hands on the table and do not miss a count or I shall start anew.”

“Yes, Father.”

“You may proceed.”

“I’m sorry that I did wrong,” repeated Draco, his voice flat from suppressed emotion. “Please, Father, punish me for my misgivings so that I might learn.”

Lucius hated the next part more than anything else. “As your father, I will do as you have asked of me.” He lifted the paddle and, measuring his movement carefully, brought it down on Draco’s pale bottom. The boy gasped, but didn’t budge.

“One.”

Lucius repeated the motion.

“Two.”

Again.

“Three.”

And again.

“Four.”

And again and again.

“S-six- -teen.”

The boy’s voice was thick with tears. Lucius laid down the paddle. The handle was moist from the touch of his hand and he quickly wiped it clean. He shouldn’t sweat like that when punishing Draco. Abraxas’ hands had always been as dry as wood waiting for the fire.

“I think you’ve had enough. You have learned your lesson, have you not?” Even though his question was merely rhetorical, Lucius paused to listen. But other than his harsh breathing, no sound or movement came from Draco. The lesson had indeed been learned.

Although he would have liked to look anywhere other than at Draco hanging over his desk like a door torn from its hinges, Lucius took in the details of his work: his son’s trembling legs; the heated red skin on his bottom, covered with welts as well as a few darker bruises –thankfully, not too many and thankfully, no blood. The paddle had been the right choice.

“You may speak.”

Draco lifted his face, eyes watering, cheeks flushed with pain and embarrassment. “Thank you, Father, for not giving up on me--” he swallowed hard “--and for teaching me how to live up to the name of the Malfoy family.”

“I sincerely hope that you will remember this, so that I will not have to teach you again. I expect better of you than being a troublemaker, Draco.” His son’s heavy breathing filled the room. Lucius quelled the impulse to steady Draco’s shoulder with a reassuring touch. He didn’t want to add the humiliation of weakness to the shame of having been punished. But he waited until Draco had steadied his breathing before he went on. “Now, get yourself dressed and go do your homework. Your godfather will be joining us for tea and will stay until tomorrow. I want you in your place, engaging in a social conversation.”

Lucius paused again, watching his son closely. In the effort to keep a stoic face Draco gritted his teeth so hard that the line of his jaw stood out. It made him look years older. Lucius stepped away from him and studied the picture of his father that dominated the wall above the mantelpiece. The picture could not be removed, but at least it could be silenced most of the time. “You’re lucky. Luckier than you’ll ever know.”

Draco nodded mechanically while he pulled up his pants and trousers. Other than a brief grimace when the fabric touched his skin, his face showed no expression. “Yes, I will. Thank you. I’ll see you at tea, Father.” After several shaky attempts to button up his robes, he left the study.

Lucius Malfoy, despite his arrogant bearing, could be glad for the small favours of life, too. Such as being able to fight his memories until no one was left to witness his collapse.

Red welts on a boy’s bottom, trembling legs covered with streaks of blood. He shook his head to chase away the images that kept haunting him. He wasn’t like him, he wasn’t. He remembered the pain, the stinging, the sizzling sound of the cane. His fear. The endless agony of counting, never knowing when the beating would be stopped. Not being allowed to scream or beg. He drew a harsh breath, unaware of the sweat that was back on his palms, as he was falling through time, like drowning in a Pensieve – with the only difference that, in a Pensieve, you would not feel the pain as in the nightmare that was called remembrance.

***

His father put down the cane and stepped away from the panting boy who clutched the edge of the desk like it were his only salvation.

“You are such a disgrace. Get dressed, boy.”

Lucius did as he was told, grimacing as the rough fabric scraped over his bleeding skin. A snarl from Abraxas made him freeze in the middle of his movement.

“What was that? Didn’t I tell you not to show any weakness? You are a Malfoy and a Malfoy keeps his emotions at bay, whether they are happy or painful or sad.”

Lucius stood and tightened the grip on his trousers to prevent his hands from shaking.

“Lower your trousers, boy.”

No, this could not be. He had made it through the punishment without breaking down. He had thought it finished. And now, his father was telling him to get ready for more. All because of his stupid, stupid weakness!

The back of his father’s hand connected with Lucius’ ear and cheek. “Are you deaf? I told you to lower your trousers!”

Lucius did so, tasting blood, sickly sweet, on his tongue. He felt nauseous and was almost glad to put his hands back on the table.

“Oh no, boy. Not this time. Stand straight. Tell me: where does it hurt the most? Do not attempt to lie to me.”

“Where … where the buttocks meet the legs.” Lucius hated his own voice, the muffled sound, constricted with fear.

Abraxas for once didn’t chastise him for stuttering and simply placed a high chair in front of him. “You will bend over … Yes, like that … deeper … still deeper … stop!”

Lucius stood bent over the seat of the chair, his body almost doubled up. His dizziness and the throbbing in his stomach increased as blood rushed down into his head.

“Now grip the legs of the chair and hold onto them. Don’t move. I’m going to give you another six with the cane on the spot you mentioned. If you show so much as a hint of a reaction, you will find yourself in the dungeon tonight, and I’ll repeat your treatment every hour until you’ve learned your lesson. It’s up to you to spare us both the nuisance, boy. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” was Lucius’ only answer. He forced all the agony inside him to stay put. A swish of air; then the cane connected with his screaming flesh and he almost forgot his intention. The pain spread in two white-hot streams. One rushed down his legs, made them weak and shaky. The other travelled up his spine and caused every hair on his back to stand up, until it reached the base of his skull and tried to attack his sanity. He had to use all his control to fight the shivers.

The second blow landed slightly above the first and increased the feeling. The third was even worse. Somewhere inside his mind a small voice spoke up, daring to ask how he would make it through the rest of them. Lucius silently screamed it down, threatening everything upon it, the prospect of a night in the dungeons included. While he fought the cowardly little voice, his father struck again.

His body was in flames; a cold fire burned along his nerves with a pain so forceful that it almost numbed him. But Abraxas clearly knew all about adjusting to pain and so he angled the next blow differently. Lucius felt its effect fresh and new, and never, never in his whole life would he be able to come to terms with, adjust to, or at least grow accustomed to it. The angle changed again and activated the last of his nerves that had lain dormant so far, if such a thing were possible.

He heard the hard clunk, as his father put the cane away. “Get up, boy.”

His face was studied and again he was told to dress. This time, he shoved his pants and trousers up in one swift movement, not able to care for his skin any longer when it was ripped open and bleeding in new places. He bit down on the insides of his cheeks. His teeth were not enough to distract him from the excruciating task, but in spite of his hollowed cheeks he must have succeeded in masking his emotions, for Abraxas indicated for him to proceed with the protocol.

“Thank you, sir, for not giving up on me and for teaching me how to live up to the name of the Malfoy family.” His voice scratched along the words; he was condemned to choke on what seemed like a string of syllables without meaning.

The harsh lines in his father’s face lessened a little. “See, you can do it, if you are willing to try. You have to become a strong wizard. I’ve told you this repeatedly, have I not? This is all about the power of your blood, boy.” Abraxas paced up and down in front of Lucius, who stood motionless, aware of the blood seeping from his wounds and how it must slowly be darkening the back of his trousers. “It is our blood which makes us superior to the other wizards. Inheritance is passed from every head of the family to his offspring. That is why we need to form strong males, as they will carry on our ancestors’ Wizarding powers. Men who will fight and stand their ground, no matter the cost. And those men will have to breed with healthy wives. If we fail to take care of our family, nature and society’s degeneration will single us out.”

Abraxas stopped and lifted Lucius’ chin with his wand, until they stood eye to eye. “We are pure-bloods, boy. We need to take extra care of our lineage. So if I have to draw your blood to make you live up to it, I will do just that. You are fourteen years old – old enough to fully live up to your family’s expectations. Or not to live at all.” He swept away the wand. “Now return to your homework.”

Lucius walked from his father’s study, hiding his pain behind the practised movement of his elegant steps.

***

Lucius, the father, ran one hand over his face and the other through his hair to shake off the image of his father’s punishment. His mouth tasted sour from the acid that his stomach had churned up. Lucius poured himself a glass of water and drained it in a few gulps, then pulled a small box from one of his cloak pockets and picked a liquorice-fire drop from it. Draco would never know about this side of his grandfather. To Draco, he was only an old man in a picture in Lucius’ study, who occasionally told him to honour the Malfoy name, but who couldn’t cause him harm; who would never be able to inflict pain on him or disturb his sleep.

Every time Lucius had to punish Draco, the picture would glare down on him triumphantly. I am not like you, Father. The thought trembled in his mind.

Lucius sighed. He had to teach Draco about discipline and tradition. This was all in the boy’s best interests, even though Narcissa openly disapproved of the punishments. There was no way for Lucius to make her see the difference, not without telling her about what would better stay hidden. Lucius would never in his life resort to the means his father had used on him. Through gentle guidance and discipline, Draco would learn what it meant to keep up the family name.