Princes in Exile

This chapter was written by Keppiehed, whose journal with all her writings can be found here: http://keppiehed.livejournal.com

Chapter Two



Draco stared out the mullioned windows at the rain. It lashed down in great torrents, matching his mood. He clenched his jaw, the only outward sign of his agitation he would allow.

“Malfoys don't mope about, Draco. I had hoped that you would have outgrown such theatrics by now.”

Draco stiffened, but didn't break his stance. “I'm hardly moping, Father. Merely enjoying the view.”

Lucius approached his son. “Come, now. First brooding and now lying about it? Tsk, tsk. Your manners are deplorable. A mere seven years away from polite society, and look at you. What would your—” He broke off and fell silent.

Draco whirled about, his eyes as raging as the storm outside. “My mother? What would she say? Well, I don't imagine much, Father, as she's a little indisposed, what with being dead and all.”

The silence hung thick between them. Lucius' eyes glittered. “Don't speak to me in that tone, Draco,” he warned. “And don't be flippant. It doesn't suit you. You sound like a spoilt child.” Lucius sniffed and flicked nonexistent lint off his sleeve, the tension broken. “You are behaving in a most unbecoming manner. This has to stop. We came back to do our duty. It's time to let it go.”

“And how do you suggest I 'let it go'? You don't have to live with the fact that you could have saved her,” Draco said, the bitterness heavy in his voice.

Lucius looked at his son uneasily. Narcissa was the one who had been better equipped to deal with these sorts of things. He sighed. Needs must, it appeared. He put his hands on Draco's shoulders, hoping it didn't feel as awkward to his son as it did to him. They hadn't been big on touching when Draco was younger.

“Draco, look at me.”

He tried for stern and commanding, which was his specialty. “We have been over this before. Many times. You can't still believe that you carry the fault for your mother's death. She caught pneumonia. In her weakened state, this is the course that nature takes. Your wand wouldn't have made a bit of difference.”

“You can't know that!” Draco burst out. His eyes were suspiciously shiny.

Lucius released him and looked away, giving Draco time to compose himself. “I had my wand. Narcissa had hers. It was just time, son.”

Draco said nothing.

Lucius faced the window and gazed thoughtfully at the raging tempest. “We came for what we intended. Our deed has been fulfilled. Your mother's ashes are resting in the family vault. I, for one, realize that I am tired of running. When we came back here and I saw the state of this place, what I had allowed happen to our ancestral home... I'm not leaving again, Draco. This is your legacy. I may have to go to Azkaban, but this is your home. One day, Merlin willing, it will be your sons' home. The entire Malfoy ancestry isn't going to break with this little snag in the line. I'll pay that price. I'm going to go tomorrow and see what we can do to make this right. Perhaps I should have done that a long time ago.”

Draco gaped at his father's back. “What are you saying? After all these years? You made me live in America! In the fucking middle of nowhere! For what? So you can just go turn yourself in like a common criminal?”

Lucius frowned in disapproval. “Draco, language. You make it sound as if we were living in some kind of hovel. We were in New York, for Merlin's sake. It is one of the art and cultural centers of the Western World.”

“It was nothing short of hideous,” Draco stated stubbornly. “They didn't even have tea. Nothing proper, at any rate. Only that dreck they insisted on peddling every morning instead. I couldn't get a decent cup of Earl Grey until we got back to England!”

Lucius laughed and turned to face Draco. “You can have all the Earl Grey you can drink now. Crates of it.”

“Do you really have to turn yourself in, Father? Do I?” Draco asked seriously.

Lucius cocked his head. “Word's gotten out, my son. They know we're here. It's better to make the first move, choose your ground for the opening volley. That's how you beat them at their own game.”

“But are you going to win? Are we?” Draco felt like a child again, asking impossible questions. His father always did that to him.

“Of course. Malfoys only play games they can win.” Lucius said it with confidence.

Draco knew his father couldn't possibly know the outcome, but for some reason he believed him.

*

Breakfast the next morning was a somber affair. Both men had taken to dressing more casually in their time away, as it seemed the Americans didn't have the sort of style and panache that the Malfoys were accustomed to for everyday wear. While they still maintained their grooming, they had needed to learn to dress down a little to blend in. So it was something of a shock for Draco to see his father in dress robes at the breakfast table after so many years. Although Lucius looked impeccable, it cast a sense of foreboding over the meal that neither man was willing to acknowledge. They ate in silence, both absorbed in their respective thoughts.

All too soon it was time for Lucius to depart. There was too much to say, but true to form, Draco couldn't seem to find the words to voice his fears. And Lucius wouldn't. They faced each other in the foyer.

“I shall return shortly,” Lucius said. He raised his hand, as if he wanted to touch Draco's cheek, but then he dropped it to his side and turned on his heel. He was gone before Draco could think to say goodbye.

Draco had never realized how empty the Manor was until he was left abandoned in it. He couldn't remember a time when he had ever been so utterly alone. He had never had a lot of friends over as a child, but there had been bodies—unseen and unappreciated, but there nonetheless. House-elves were always present and lurking, around to lend a hand, to be called upon to do his bidding. The Manor had been alive in its own way; even if he couldn't see it, he could sense it. Of course his parents had been there if he had need of them. He had wanted for nothing.

Now he was in a shell of his former existence. The Manor had been ransacked. While the damage had been less significant than he had imagined, it had left a mark. Of course, there were no more servants. The rooms were deserted. Magic was gone from this place. His mother was dead. His father had just left. And Draco was completely without his magic. He couldn't even clean the dishes from breakfast like a wizard. He was no better than a... he didn't even think the word mudblood. Muggle. He was no better than a Muggle. He scowled at the thought. It had never bothered him so much as it did right at that very moment. The indignity of being magicless in his own home bit deeply.

He supposed he could have have gotten another wand, but at what cost? It wouldn't have been him, wouldn't have had his essence. It would have felt like an imposter. After all, as much as Draco didn't want to give credit to the old windbag Ollivander, it seemed he knew his craft. The wand did choose the wizard. Draco had held others in the years since he'd gotten his own, and none felt right. They were too blunt, too weak... nothing fit him just so. They were not an extension of his reach, as natural as his own hawthorn beauty. If he couldn't have his own wand, he didn't want one at all, he thought petulantly. It hadn’t seemed as bad when all three of them were living the mundane life together in America, where they were forced to keep up the pretence of being Muggle. Never had it grated so much on his nerves, the loss of his own property, as it did right now. Now he felt it keenly, as if it had just happened. It was if he had lost an appendage. How had he gotten by so long without it?

He rolled up his shirtsleeves and got to work in the kitchen. He had learned a lot in his time living in New York. He didn't like living like a commoner, but he could do it. He had learned to survive. In fact, most days he didn't even think of it anymore, he just got by. It must be something about this place, something about being home that made it rub raw. It was like a scar had reopened and was trickling blood. It irked him to wash dishes in the kitchen of Malfoy Manor, although he'd been doing it for the last seven years without complaint. Well, without much complaint.

A loud thud on the window made him jump. He looked up to see an owl on the sill, waiting to be let in. Draco dried his hands and reached over to let it in. Who could be owling him? He untied the note.

Draco,
I heard rumours that you were back in the country and living at the Manor again. I can only hope that this is true. I have searched everywhere for you and haven't found a trace. I suppose that's a good thing—if I can't find you, no one else can, either. Anyway, if you are reading this, know that I am still your friend, that you can always count on me. You need only let me know what I can do to help you. I had hoped you would return after your sentence of exile had finished. It has been a long seven years, but now that you are back I know it will be like no time has passed. I just want you to know that I miss you, and I hope that this finally finds you—that, and this rumour is true. Please let me know that you are safe.

Yours always,
Pansy

Draco stared at the note with unseeing eyes. He could hardly believe what he was reading. He had to go over it, line by line, before the message finally sank in. They were free? Their sentence had been exile for seven years? Then... his father would be safe! They were free!

“Accio paper—” Draco broke off in irritation. Old habits. It was something about being back at home. He hadn't even attempted magic in all his time away. He had things to do now, and he didn't even know where they kept the quills and parchment!

It took him some time to locate the supplies to compose a response to Pansy, but he hadn't felt this excited in a long time. It was time to get his life back! There was so much he had to do, but he couldn't do it without help. Pansy would be a good place to start. She had always been loyal to him, had always hung on his every word. It sounded like she still felt the same way. He could use that.

Draco clenched his fists. The first thing he had to do was avenge his mother. It was true that it was his fault that she had died, but it was his fault because he didn't have his wand. And the reason for that was because of a certain Harry bloody Potter. No doubt Potter had spent these years since the war being toasted as the crème of society, soaking up the hero and saviour bit for all it was worth. Draco's eyes blazed at the very thought. It was time to bring Harry down a notch or two.