Birthright

Since his return from Azkaban, Lucius had grown increasingly volatile. Once there had been a distinct line between Lord Malfoy and the man Draco lovingly referred to as Father. Lord Malfoy had married for political reasons; Lucius had fallen in love with the loveliest of the Black sisters. But after coming back from prison—which he never spoke of—he was unpredictable. In public he would sometimes become wistful and affectionate, embarrassing Draco and Narcissa. And sometimes when they were at home alone he would be cruel and aloof, bewildering his wife and son. Something had happened to Lucius that no one quite understood. It had created a fissure in him that Narcissa’s departure split wide open.

Draco went to bed that night and lay awake for some time. There had been tears in Lucius’ eyes. Only once had Draco seen tears in Lucius’ eyes, and even then he had not cried. It had been some years, but Draco recalled the moment easily. Lucius had been thrown from his horse; his leg was broken rather messily and a sliver of bone had sliced through his leg and jodhpurs. The elder Malfoy had bitten his lip until it threatened to bleed, but the tears had not come. What was happening to his family? They were the Malfoys, damn it. A stable house, made so by wealth, power, and loyalty to the bloodline. Lucius was supposed to be an immovable rock, and Narcissa was his trophy wife to parade at society dinners. Draco was the perfect heir: handsome, ruthless, and imposing.

He wanted badly for things to return to normal. He missed the days when Narcissa was too busy preening for fancy dinners to pay attention to him; he loathed her obnoxious do and and false affection. Most of all he missed Lucius’ former self, who he loved and respected and feared. That man was coming dangerously unhinged.

The next morning Lucius gripped his reins experimentally, toying with the position of his hands. The mount beneath him was pawing at the ground, ready to run. It was a young animal, new to the hunt, and Lucius had been asked to ride it because he was the most experienced among the riders that morning. He exhaled strongly, watching the rising steam, and looked at Draco.

Like his father, Draco had pulled his hair back into a tight, neat braid. Lucius’ trailed down his back, while Draco’s brushed just to his shoulders. They wore Malfoy colors; red, black, and silver. Draco’s vest bore a vividly embroidered dragon, snarling and rampant. The Malfoys could almost have been brothers—both tall in their saddles, broad of build, with the same strikingly handsome features. Lucius quieted his mount with a few murmured words. The animal Draco had chosen was an old favorite, well seasoned but still possessing vigor and spirit. He patted its neck firmly, encouraging it in a soft tone.

“I want to see you at the front of the line today, understood?” Lucius’ voice was a dangerous purr. “I know you are out of practice. That is no excuse.”

“Of course not, Father.” Draco flexed his gloved hands on the reins. Lucius could hear the rub of leather from where he sat.

“It is a shame they don’t have an equestrian team at Hogwarts,” Lucius said softly. “Had you gone to Durmstrang, you might have been a champion.” The elder Malfoy looked at his son discerningly. “All that training wasted.”

“Respectfully, sir, I don’t want to talk about it,” Draco said, looking at his father.

Narcissa had stopped Draco from going to Durmstrang. His father had been in favor of it, despite the distance. Eventually Narcissa had won by pure stubbornness and the promise that Draco should receive some new thing he’d been lusting after—he didn’t even remember what it was at this point. Which meant it was probably trivial. Soon he would be free of that particular mistake and could choose his own future as an adult. Narcissa had thankfully bowed herself out of the scene and could no longer sway him.

“Here we go,” Lucius said, gathering himself. Draco’s muscles tensed in readiness, and the bugle sounded. Draco’s boots dug sharply into his mount and the old gelding sprang forward, hooves thundering against the frozen mud. Lucius kicked at his horse and it leapt into motion as well.

Later, they walked their mounts into the paddock. A groom held the animals’ heads as the Malfoys dismounted gracefully. “I saw your animal trip on that log,” Lucius said, stripping off his gloves.

“Did you?” Draco’s voice was nervous; Lucius always scrutinized his performances on the hunt very carefully.

“Beautiful recovery. You are a masterful horseman, especially for one so young.”

Draco’s cheeks burned. He looked away from his father; Lucius would never have voiced such a compliment out loud in the past—at least, not in front of the help.