Princes in Exile

This chapter was written by keppiehed.

Chapter Sixteen




“Master Draco! Wake up! You is late!”

“Hhhmmpph?” Draco cracked an eye open. He could just make out Peachy standing over him, wringing her hands in apparent distress. She obviously couldn't bring herself to actually shake him, but her entreaties were getting more high-pitched by the minute. Draco winced as the meaning of her words finally trickled through his groggy brain. “What? Late for what? I don't have any appointments this morning.”

“Master Malfoy be waiting for you in the parlour. He is been there for five minutes already! He sends me to remind you about your breakfast tea?” Peachy's eyes couldn't get any wider.

Draco groaned into the pillow. “Salazar on a saddle! I forgot.” He sat up. “How does he seem to you? Is he … really upset?”

“It is not Peachy's place to say,” she began primly. Then she leaned in. “But he seem not as happy as he usually be. One eye be ticking.”

Uh-oh. That did not predict good news. Draco got out of bed and searched for the nearest pair of slacks. He would just have to forego his usual morning shower. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Draco had a sense of being watched. “A little help, if you would be so kind?” he prompted the house-elf. He held out an arm and allowed himself to be dressed. It was so hard to find decent help these days, he thought to himself as Peachy buttoned his cuffs.

Between the two of them, they managed to get Draco presentable in a relatively short time. Draco made his way to the smaller dining room that they had been employing since their return.

Peachy cleared her throat. “Master Malfoy be in the parlour,” she reminded him in a small voice.

“Yes, of course. Thank you.” Draco pursed his lips and changed course. The parlour. That was never a good sign.

“The second parlour,” she whispered when she saw him head in the wrong direction yet again.

Draco stopped dead in his tracks. The second parlour? That was really disconcerting. “Of course. I will see myself in. You may go,” he said, keeping his voice nonchalant. It didn't do to let the staff see one's distress. But Draco was distressed. Very.

The second parlour was an unmistakeable sign of his father's displeasure. He only used that room to dole out punishments, decrees, and to establish dominance. Draco felt a fine sheen of sweat break out on his forehead. The dungeon was preferable to the second parlour, as far as he was concerned.

Draco made his way to the room in question and knocked on the door, as etiquette demanded. He might as well follow all the dictates, not that it would save him now. He didn't want to take a chance and further enrage his father by brazenly flouting tradition. Draco waited in the hall. He felt about eight years old.

“You may enter,” came the response from behind the door.

As Draco went in, a wave of revulsion swept over him. The peach décor brought back a flood of memories, none of them pleasant. He schooled his features to betray none of his emotions, instead giving a terse nod. “I apologize for my tardiness, Father.”

Lucius was seated on the white loveseat, a cup of tea in hand. He returned the nod. “You are excused. I indulged in a cup of tea, due to the lengthy wait, but the rest of the refreshments await you. I trust you are rested?”

Draco took the seat opposite and poured himself a cup of tea. “Again, I find myself in the unenviable position of having to apologize twice. It seems that I had … misremembered the occasion of our meeting. I have restructured my summer schedule.”

“Indeed?” Lucius took a sip of tea. “And to what benefit, might I ask?”

Draco swallowed. “Oh, my hours are just different now. So, my mornings begin later than they have in the past.”

“I see.” Lucius sat forward.

“I find it invigorating,” Draco offered.

“Indubitably,” Lucius said. He let the silence stretch out.

Draco tried not to fidget. Even the damned little cherubs bedecking every surface seemed judgmental.

“Draco, there is a matter of some delicacy I wish to discuss with you.” Lucius began.

“Yes, what? Is it your trip? Do you want to go over the holdings in Italy, or perhaps some of the investments? You know you can trust me to take on more of those things,” Draco said. He was hoping that finances were what his father would consider a 'delicate' subject.

“I was thinking of something more in the personal sphere. As I have resumed residence, I really see no reason to have Potter here. I commend you for a job well done, but the necessity of his presence here is clearly at an end.” Lucius set his teacup down in his saucer, his eyes penetrating. “It is now your duty to ask him to vacate the premises. If he requires compensation, you may negotiate it.”

All of the air in the room seemed to leave with those words. Draco had been about to take a sip of his tea; with that proclamation, his hand paused midway to his mouth. He froze, his lips puckered in readiness for the rim of the china. He knew he must look silly, but he couldn't seem to make himself do anything other than sit there in shock. Why had this never occurred to him? That Potter would have to leave, that his father would ask Draco to make him go—To pay him off, even? Why did it make him feel so sick? That was the Malfoy way, after all. It was what they did for everything, and this was no different. Payment for a service rendered. Simple.

Not so simple.

Draco didn't want that. He didn't—couldn't—stop to consider the dread rising in his gut. He pushed it down, as frantically as he now set down his cup of tea. It sloshed over the rim, spilling out onto the saucer. Draco didn't care. He felt a wildness rising, and he clung to it, clung to anything that allowed him not to think, not to consider what he might be feeling …

“Draco! Mind the china.” Lucius was frowning at the harsh treatment of the cup.

“I can't! He can't go!” He blurted the words before he had a thought about what he was saying.

“Ah.” Lucius took a breath. “I thought as much.”

“I … what?” Draco frowned. “You knew all along?”

Lucius gazed at him. “I had my suspicions. I was waiting for you to tell me yourself.”

“Oh, Father! I didn't want to let you down. I didn't want to tell you until I knew for sure.” Draco suddenly felt such relief. “I wanted to be able to show you, and not have to hide anymore. I just want you to be proud of me. I am so tired of messing it up!” Suddenly Draco realized how much he had said, and fell silent.

Lucius couldn't meet his eye. “Draco, you know I am not as good at these kind of things as your mother was. But I hope you never doubt for a moment how much I love you, or that I am always proud of you. No matter what you choose to do, or whom you choose to be with. If you and Potter are … friends, then I am just happy that you're happy.”

Draco looked up. “Thank you, Father. I appreciate that. But I wouldn't say that Potter and I are friends, exactly.”

“Well, whatever you call it.” For the first time in—well, possibly ever—Lucius looked like he might be blushing. “I can respect that.”

“I 'd say it more like student and teacher, but don't tell him that. He has a big enough head about it as it is. He thinks he knows everything! He won't give me credit for being a quick study,” Draco said.

If Lucius wasn't flushing before, he certainly had a bright red cast now. “Er, yes. I don't believe I need to know the particulars. In fact, I'm sure I don't. I'll thank you to keep those sorts of details between the two of you. It's enough to know that you have my support.”

Draco was puzzled. “You don't want to know about the lessons, then? Now that things are progressing, I thought you might even want to sit in on one.”

Lucius nearly choked. “No! Gods, no, Draco! I don't know what gave you that idea, but absolutely not.”

Draco hadn't ever seen his father so flustered. He looked like he might have an apoplexy.

Lucius took a moment to compose himself and then continued as if nothing awkward had transpired. “Another matter that has not escaped my attention is your employment. Or lack thereof.”

“Yes, well, you haven't seen how much effort I have put into finding a job. There's nothing out there, Father. I've tried, I really have!” Draco regretted the whine in his voice, but he was really at his wit's end about this whole ridiculous situation.

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I suppose your Mr. Potter is just fine with you being without a vocation?”

“I don't give a good Galleon about what he thinks about anything. Honestly, Father, why would you even mention him?” Draco huffed. He felt his temper slipping out of control.

“Language, Draco. How many times have I told you that swearing is for the lesser man? It is the opiate of the vocabulary. Honestly, you are going to pot, straight to pot these days.” Lucius sighed. “I suppose this is his influence.”

“Why do we keep talking about Potter?” Draco glowered. “We were talking about my job.”

“You don't have a job,” Lucius pointed out. “You are, apparently, content to remain a spoilt playboy for the rest of your days. Have you nothing to show for your efforts, Draco?”

Draco crossed his arms. “I got one response, but that's it. And I'm not doing it.”

Lucius sat up. “What is it?”

“I'd sooner die.”

“That can be arranged,” Lucius said with a touch of asperity. “From whom? What is the position?”

Draco didn't meet his father's eye. “It is for a freelance writing position, one that could become a staff position after a time. At The Quibbler.”

Silence.

Draco looked at his father. He had a blank face. “Why did you apply there?” he finally asked.

Draco nudged the rococo table with his shoe. “I didn't. Luna heard that I had been applying. Stupid bleeding-heart sent me an owl with the offer.”

“You'll take it. Immediately.”

“What?” Draco looked at his father in disbelief.

“Mark my words, Draco. If you've looked as hard as you say you've looked, then this is the last offer you'll be receiving. You shall respond in the affirmative, or I will on your behalf. It is your choice how this happens, but you shall take that position post haste. Now,” Lucius stood up. “I have another appointment. I bid you good day.”

Draco watched as Lucius left him sitting there, mouth hanging open.

He had to take a job at The Quibbler? The multitude of cherubs all over this cursed room seemed to be laughing at him now. He'd be damned if he was going to sit here in this hellhole that masqueraded as a parlour a minute longer! Draco stormed out of the peach torture chamber and down the hall. He wasn't watching where he was going, and he nearly knocked Potter down somewhere near the indoor fountain.

“Draco! I'm glad to see you.” Potter pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Last night your father invited me to tea, and I can't seem to find the room.” He grinned apologetically. “Just how many parlours do you have around here, anyway?”

Draco was not in the mood to be polite. “Tea's done. You missed it,” he said shortly. “Let's just get on with the lesson, shall we?” He strode out the front door, not watching to see if Potter was following.

“Whoa, Draco!” He could hear Potter calling from behind him. “Slow down, would you?” Potter ran to catch up. “You're a little worked up. You need to calm down before we begin any lessons, or you won't be able to harness your magic reliably. You know that.”

Draco rounded on him. “Great Merlin's Ghost! I don't need another person telling me what I can and can't do! In fact, Potter, I'm getting awfully tired of you trying to always be in charge. I think it's high time we had a duel, don't you?”

“A … what? A duel?” Potter was flabbergasted. “Draco, what's your problem? I showed you very clearly last night that you aren't ready to beat me. You're making fine progress, but there's still a lot left for you to learn.”

“Then teach me. And stop with these games!” Draco shouted. He was aware that he was breathing heavily, and that he was standing too close to Potter.

His words rang out in stillness of the yard, the echoes carrying and finally dying out.

Potter looked at him and held his hands out in a placating gesture. “Okay, Draco. I will. I am. What do you want to learn?”

Draco paused. “What do I need to learn? Something more than buttoning up my shirt and starting fires, surely?”

Potter thought a moment. “I suppose we can move on to offensive and defensive spells.”

“Yes, fine. That sounds good. I'll take the offense,” Draco stated.

“You usually do,” Potter remarked with a suspicious smile.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Draco was instantly rankled. He wasn't in the mood for joking.

“Nothing. Just … calm down, will you? Okay, you're going to be trying to break past my defences. Which are many and tight.” Potter cocked his head.

Draco nodded. “Got it. What do I have to do?”

Potter spent a few moments giving directions, and just as they were about to get down to the business of practice, Draco caught sight of movement behind Potter's left shoulder. Someone was approaching over the lawn. Someone wearing a red skirt.

“Hold on,” he said, stopping the lesson.

Potter turned when he saw the direction of Draco's glance. “Who …?”

They both waited until the figure got closer. It was Pansy.

“Hey, Draco,” Pansy started. She ignored Potter. “I tried the house, but Peachy said you were out here on the South lawn. I thought maybe we could have a picnic lunch?” She held up a basket with one finger.

“We're in the middle of something here,” Potter growled. “If you hadn't noticed.”

“I'm sure it'll keep,” Pansy said sweetly. “This, however, won't. Draco?”

Draco shrugged. “Sure, why not?” At Pansy's simpering smile and Potter's sharp intake of breath, he added “But Potter's right. We are in the middle of something here. So I'll have to join you later.” There. Let Potter try and act like he was boss. Draco would make his own schedule at his own discretion.

“Fine, I'll just watch you, then.” Pansy picked her way over to an unobtrusive knoll. “I didn't think to bring a blanket, though.” She pulled out her wand. “Scourgify!”

The patch of grass she had been aiming at curled back and left a patch of dirt where once had been flawlessly seeded sod. Pansy stared in puzzlement.

Potter snickered, the bastard.

Draco just sighed. “Sit on the grass, will you, Pansy? It will be fine.”

“That's rich coming from you,” Potter remarked.

“What?” she gasped. “You want me to sit on the ground?”

“You can bugger off.” Draco sneered. “It's my grass, after all. I'll invite whomever I want to sit on it.”

“Right.” Potter seemed to sober up. “If that's how you want to play it. Parkinson can't be here during the lessons, anyway. You won't concentrate. It could be dangerous.”

Draco felt the noose of authority tightening around his neck. Everywhere he looked, someone was trying to tell him what to do, and he wasn't going to have it. He put on his most imperious stare, squared his shoulders and said, “You have no authority in this matter. She's my guest, and if I invite her to stay, she will.”

Potter seemed to grow an inch as well, Draco noted. He had a brief notion that that may have been the wrong tack to take, as the other man stepped forward. “Don't play Lord of the Manor with me. It won't work. Not now. You know it. So get off your damned high hippogriff and see reason, Draco. Pansy can't stay. And that's that.”

At the mention of her name, Pansy piped up, “You can't boss him around, Potter! Who do you think you are, anyway? You're no better than some … employee!”

At that, all of Draco's anger evaporated. He felt a certain cringing embarrassment, in fact, to even be associated with her. When had that changed? In the past, Pansy's support had only proved that he'd had enough of a loyal following to be popular. Now, the very sound of her voice was grating on his last nerve. He found he didn't agree with a single thing she said. When he said it, it was one thing. But coming out of her mouth … well, that changed things. What was more, when he looked into Potter's eyes and saw the hurt there, hurt that he recognized as such, he wanted to punch Pansy in her pug little face.

“Oh, really?” Potter said. His voice had lost all its heat. His shoulders had a curious sort of slump to them, as if he had given up.

There was a prick of surprise that Draco wanted Potter to fight back, to find the flash in his eyes, to make a bitter retort. Why was he disappointed when Potter was turning away?

“Wait!” Draco called.

Potter didn't wait.

“Draco!” Pansy called. “Just leave him. There's only enough for two, anyway.”

Draco ignored her. He ran after Potter, who was already a few steps away.

“Wait, Potter,” he said. “Listen, that was out of line. I don't think of you like that. I just … wanted you to know that.”

Potter didn't break his stride. “You know what, Draco? I don't really care. Go back and have your lunch. Your girlfriend is waiting for you.” He picked up his pace, the meaning clear that he wanted to be left alone.

Draco stood on the lawn, an alien feeling in his gut. It was a mixture of unease and … sorrow? Was he sorry? He was halfway between Potter and Pansy, when he couldn't ignore her calls anymore.

Draco swallowed hard and turned to face Pansy. It was going to be a miserable afternoon. He was going to have to choke down a lot more than finger sandwiches and polite conversation. This feeling in his gut was threatening to overwhelm him, and he didn't know what to do about it. Draco sat on the grass, ignoring Pansy's surprised expression, but his gaze was fixed far away, on the figure of a man retreating.

How could he make this right? Why did he want to? Draco had a sinking feeling that it wasn't going to be anything in the Malfoy coffers this time that would make a bit of difference.