Fic: "In So Many Words" (3345 words, G)
Mar. 30th, 2016 11:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
serpentfangsIn So Many Words - 3345 words, rated G; Draco, Lucius, Scorpius & Astoria, mention of Narcissa and Lyra
List of Society Announcements, Daily Prophet edition November 17, 2005:
“The Malfoy family of Wiltshire is pleased to celebrate the arrival of a new family member. Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, born in the morning of November 14th, to father Draco Malfoy and mother Astoria (nee Greengrass). Mr. Malfoy has been for the past five years an employee at the Ministry of Magic, however he is taking a leave of absence to spend time with his wife and their newborn.
Scorpius Malfoy was delivered at the family's ancestral home, where in addition to his parents he is welcomed by grandparents Lucius and Narcissa (nee Black) and the older couple's other child, Lyra. Baby, mother and the rest are reportedly doing well.”
*
One hundred and ten words. One hundred and ten, summing up a new life's entry into the world. Astounding in such a roundabout, matter-of-fact way.
It could've been longer, of course. The Prophet charged by the word (two sickles per fifty-five, the present going rate) and obviously he had the money. Once years ago his mother had proudly shown him the clipped announcement from his own birth: it went on for near an entire page.
Truth was however it had been a struggle for Draco, usually not one for limiting himself, to fill up even those words he had paid for.
It was customary in such things to mention the family – parents' occupations, any still-living relatives of note, and so on. The copy-editing assistant he'd spoken to had pressed him for details, trying to balloon up the sentences (and the price) to shape something resembling a proper high-society birth announcement.
But Draco refused to let them mention the office he was employed for by name: workers at the Ministry's Liaison for Concerns Regarding Vampire-Human Interrelations had been long-dubbed “Leechers” by the Prophet's writers, a term they insisted was affectionate but the individuals in question felt was anything but.
And any extended description about the families of the new parents, he felt, would only lead someplace unfortunate. People recognized his name. They recognized his father's name, his mother's name, and it didn't take a genius to know where their minds went.
The war ended seven years ago, as of that summer. That was hardly long enough to fade away the memories of most.
In the end he was satisfied to have skimmed the details - the announcement was, after all, supposed to be about the birth of his son. The rest of them, especially his parents, had endured enough scrutiny.
Astoria read over the published result at breakfast, kissed her husband on the cheek and informed him he'd done well. She set the paper aside to cut apart later for the baby's scrapbook.
Their table was inundated with owls dropping off written congratulations, such that Draco had to guard his toast and coffee lest they become ruined or he ended up accidentally taking a bite of manila-colored stationary. Dozens were formal cards; maybe another half-dozen were less formal notes.
He read them all with detached satisfaction, and it was only afterward he finally was able to account for the pinprick of lingering anxiety he'd felt throughout in the pit of his stomach: he had been bracing for the Howlers that never came.
It had been at least two years since they received any, he thought. Maybe three. Still the apprehension hadn't fully gone. There had been a time even a passing mention by name in the papers, especially if heaven forbid it seemed they were doing well, was enough to invariability set off somebody.
Nothing that morning, though, but well-wishes and good-natured ribbing.
Where once Draco might have obsessed, on things that were said and possibly not between the lines, wondered over what was hidden behind messages that were not sent – that day he found he could not. The dark thoughts, the worries, the anxieties, they slipped away as cleanly and unremarked as a beam of sunlight through water. The euphoria he'd been buoyed on over the past three days still carried him. He felt light as a soap bubble, as if it were impossible not to be happy.
Was this it, then? Was this the promised, better life he had been waiting for, these past years; wondering where it was, when it finally started? The future seemed so clear, so bright.
He was giddy, really. Distantly he was aware, the Draco he had been only a few years ago would have stared askance in disbelief at how ridiculous he was acting.
How small his son was, for example: Draco couldn't seem to keep from remarking on it again and again in his mind. Like a pebble he kept turning over in his hand, surprised every time that it was still the same color, or that it remained so smooth.
His son was so small. Tiny in his ornate bassinet, seeming delicate in comparison to the world around him. His nose was small, and his feet were small, and his fingers were definitely small, the little fingernails adorning the ends of them even smaller still. The only part of him that didn't seem small were wide eyes that looked up at the world from beneath a ghostly wisp of pale fringe.
The Draco of the past determined this train of thought beyond absurd.
“Yes, of course, he's small,” that Draco sneered. “He is a baby, after all. Were you expecting something else? What else could he possibly be? Honestly. Do you even hear how brainless you sound, going on and on about it that way?”
Draco was aware he sounded foolish. That he was saying the same things first-time parents always said. His observations were nothing new; as banal and tedious to listen to for anyone else, as he had felt trapped times before listening to other new-minted parents prattle on about their precious spawn.
He didn't care. He was a father now, an actual father, he had a son. He had a son, and his son was so, so small.
Another day passed with he and his wife lavishing attention on the new arrival. Early that evening Astoria fed the baby then went to lie down for a well-earned rest. Draco remained in the nursery however, crouched on his knees with arms folded on the edge of the bassinet.
Silently he and Scorpius watched one another with rapt gazes of mutual bemused fascination.
He wasn't sure how long it'd been before he heard the door creak behind him.
“Evening, Father.” He didn't look up. He'd a strong feeling the sound had been on purpose, to avoid startling him.
“Good evening, Draco. I hope that I'm not interrupting.” There was distant humor in his father's murmur, directed no doubt at the intense concentration he'd witnessed. “I have come to see my grandson.”
“Help yourself,” Draco told him with the cheery humor usually reserved for a man who'd had several shots of firewhisky. “As you can see, he's positively gregarious. Tori thinks he'd do well on stage someday as a famous performer but I think he should hold out for nothing less than Minister for Magic.”
“Perhaps wait until he can sit up on his own, to be deciding such things.”
The suggestion however was unconcerned at best. He crept closer until he was within arm's reach.
Draco found himself watching his father as he bent forward slightly, the better to peer down. He spent a long moment drinking the contents of the cradle in.
“Well now. Look at that.”
His remark was mild, but Draco thought he heard contained a note of emotion in there not unlike his own. His father was, after all, a first-time grandparent now, just as he was a first-time parent.
“I have a son, Father,” Draco heard himself say. Maybe if he said it enough times it would finally sink in and stop surprising him so. He didn't know, however, if he ever wanted this marvelous feeling it provided to go away.
“You do have a son,” his father agreed. “It's very well done.” His pride was unmistakable. “Such a handsome boy. A true Malfoy, through and through. You see it at a glance.”
“Mother said something very similar.”
She was oddly fervent for the dominance of the genes she had married into, rather than the ones she'd inherited. Perhaps something about the Blacks had scared her more than she would ever admit.
“I think Tori's a bit disappointed,” he confessed. “That he looks so much like me, and only me, really. I reminded her she knew what she was getting into, when she agreed to have children.”
She had only spent the last three years or so surrounded by the near-identical portraits of ancestors on the walls.
“She will get over it, I'm sure.” Father did not seem to take the possibility his daughter-in-law was actually upset very seriously.
From the pocket of his robes he produced a folded page from the Prophet, holding it up between his fingertips.
“Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy.” An arched brow, an implied question.
“You've already known what we were planning on calling him.”
“Yes, but it is in print now, which makes it official. Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy?”
“Scorpius Draco sounds rotten.” He got to his feet, careful not to lean too hard on the bassinet.
He was completely unapologetic in his desire to carry on his mother's family tradition. Both he and Astoria had liked the sound of 'Scorpius', and it seemed perfect once they figured out when the baby was due.
But when he saw the way his father's face had been schooled to perfect blank, a little voice in his head reminded him he was certainly heir to more than one family.
“I'm sorry, Father,” he said softly, feeling a sudden unwelcome prick of guilt. Naming a firstborn son after its father was hardly unique, but the Malfoys had been rigidly consistent in it going back at least half a dozen generations.
He knew how his father felt slighted by even the smallest tradition abandoned. As if part of their identity was slowly leeching away: the foundations of his prized, treasured family name eroding further and further.
Even voicing it however appeared enough to make him change his mind. He shook his head abruptly. “Why apologize? As if you haven't the right to name your own child without any input.” He pocketed the newspaper again. Despite the careless mien, his expression remained a frown.
A subject change was in order. “Mother said you got back last night.”
“Far too late for anything but straight to bed, to my annoyance. It was a long journey and the sun was about to rise. And I'm sorry I missed the delivery.”
“I'm not. The fewer witnesses to my pacing the floor and waving my arms, the better. Tori was calmer than I was, and she certainly had more things to worry about, I'd say.”
That at least got a gentle snort of amusement. “I was the same way. Both times. I wonder if it means something.”
“Maybe that we care.” The words were out before he could think twice. His father stilled, eyes widening a fraction, and then he looked back at the cradle again. The better to avoid his own son's gaze.
Draco swallowed, torn between unease and exasperation. All these years and still an out-and-out acknowledgment of the fact that he, and his father, had feelings could provoke a response as if he'd spoke a dirty word.
Another subject change, then. “Where were you, anyway? All I heard was Eastern Europe.”
“You need to know more?”
“Well you must admit, that doesn't precisely narrow it down,” he drawled. What his father did for – 'work', or whatever one preferred to call it, truthfully he did not need to know overmuch. Some might even find it a conflict of interest, considering his own job at the Ministry. But now and then Draco's curiosity was piqued.
It would be nice to know which region of the world he was in when he was gone, at the least. It didn't seem too much to ask.
“Turkmenistan. Merv, if you wish to be precise. They're asking representatives from other regions to weigh in on a dispute.”
“What sort of 'dispute'?”
“As you could probably guess persecution in that part of the world is rather high, especially toward certain populations – which unfortunately tend to contain a high concentration of wizards.” As he described the situation in a detached way his father drifted towards the bassinet, intent entirely on the tiny figure within. “It's very hard to be permitted to leave the country under most circumstances. Some younger people have chosen to become part of the kin as a way out.”
An ingenious if desperate gamble. The Covenant of Shadows would do whatever it took to get their own out of a country they didn't want to be in, especially if their lives were in danger. “Is there a particular problem with that?”
“The age of consent in Turkmenistan is only sixteen.”
Draco winced, understanding. Wizards technically underage by most of the magical world's standards were being turned into vampires – which would be against Covenant law. But their own nation said they were old enough. What a mess.
“It's a tricky issue, as you can imagine,” he continued. “Nothing was resolved by the time I left. I highly doubt it will be anytime soon. If at all.”
“Politics,” Draco said dismally. He was glad he'd bowed out of that life, opting instead to become a man with a 'profession', in other words a regularly-paying and by comparison positively unremarkable job.
He was a disappointment to the entire legacy he'd inherited, in that regard. He found he positively could not care less.
In response to this gloomy statement his father gave a short sound, seeming to agree, or perhaps only dismiss Draco's indifference. He was eyeing the baby now, awake and looking up at his grandfather with softly blinking eyelashes. He managed to raise one arm and wave his chubby fist.
“My grandson.” Lucius echoed his earlier words in quiet, almost hollow tone. He didn't seem to entirely know what he wanted to do.
At last he looked to Draco again. “May I?”
There it was – unmistakable anxiety in his face and voice, though he tried to keep it down. Sad and longing, as if bracing for possibility of rejection. Anyone else would have probably missed it. Draco saw it too well.
Possibly because he had experienced it, in himself.
Draco cleared his throat, a touch discomfited - mournful - he had felt the need to even ask. “Of course, Father.”
His father nodded, once. Draco couldn't keep from noticing how his adam's apple bobbed.
Leaning again over where the newborn lay he reached in, carefully, with both hands. He lifted Scorpius up, holding him by the middle, at first, and out so he could get a good look at him.
Scorpius looked back, unable yet to properly lift his head and so just staring at his grandfather with the innocent gaze of the very new.
Draco watched as Lucius absorbed the existence of his first grandchild – the first child of his only son. As he bounced him gingerly in his hands, taking in his warmth, his weight.
And at last those pale eyes misted over, and his face broke into a slow smile of pure joy. Wide enough that Draco could just see the very points of his fangs.
“Well.” His father's voice was quiet, very quiet, but intensely happy. It was almost a croon. “Hello there, you.”
Draco thought he couldn't be feel any better, be filled with more lightness and cheer, than he'd felt since the moment his son was brought into the world. Couldn't be any happier than he had these past three days since Scorpius was born.
Now standing there, seeing his father move with care as he balanced the infant's head, cradling him in his arm, and all the while looking at Draco's child as if he was perhaps something unfathomable and miraculous...well he knew now that wasn't so.
He could be happier. He could be. He had just become so, right then and there.
Draco took one step, then another. Eventually closing the gap between him so that he stood beside his father, at his arm.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, equal in height, their heads bent at identical angles as both looked down and gave Scorpius their attentions.
All was quiet. Scorpius made an occasional gurgling sound, no louder than a whisper. A newborn baby Draco had discovered had a particular kind of smell, fresh and as indescribable as it was distinct, and undeniably pleasant. He thought he could probably breathe in the scent off his son's hair forever.
“He's so small, Father,” he burst out. “I mean, look at him. Can you believe it? I didn't realize he was going to be so small.”
“He is. He really is,” his father replied, not missing a beat. “I advise you to enjoy it, while it lasts.”
*
Draco found, as the weeks then months passed and his period of leave was supposed to close, that he did not want to go back to work.
His position at the Ministry had been significant enough, respectable even, that a more ambitious man could have stayed on and worked hard and in short order progressed upward to some kind of senior office, perhaps even in a more powerful department.
But Draco did not care about being a man that made waves at the Ministry of Magic, that had his name in the papers every other week, that went about with an air of seriousness as he spoke knowingly of matters concerning the workplace.
He wanted to stay home, in Wiltshire, and read his son stories and give him baths and tuck him into his crib at night, and take him outside to the garden to watch him try to crawl around on the grass and stop him when he tried to put everything he could reach with eager hands into his tiny mouth. He wanted to be there for everything that was to come, for every step, for every word.
He wanted to have breakfast with his wife every morning and tea with his mother every afternoon. He wanted to have fond arguments with his bratty, much younger sister. He wanted to chat offhandedly with his father as they stood around watching their respective offspring, both pretending they had not been thoroughly softened and domesticated.
He wanted to be something very different than what he'd been bred to be, than what his raising had prepared him for. Something different than the life he once imagined, so long ago, when he was young and knew nothing of the way the world worked or who he could be if he applied to it with his mind and heart.
So he went in and gave notice. They were truly sad to see him leave, to somewhat his surprise. His coworkers threw a party, with sandwiches and cakes.
One day perhaps he'd go back. When Scorpius was older, and not so captivating. Maybe he'd grow bored of the Manor, its painted halls and manicured gardens, of working his way at leisure through the ancient leather-bound texts in his family's collection.
Maybe he would find another job, even. He had enough training to branch out if he desired. He'd actually turned out to have a knack for the healing arts, and Saint Mungo's was always hiring.
But for now Draco didn't care about any of that. He had his family and a peaceful, happy life – and a son that was worth so much to him, so very much.
So much so, that he might as well be summed up in one hundred and ten words - because honestly, it was pointless to even try.
List of Society Announcements, Daily Prophet edition November 17, 2005:
“The Malfoy family of Wiltshire is pleased to celebrate the arrival of a new family member. Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, born in the morning of November 14th, to father Draco Malfoy and mother Astoria (nee Greengrass). Mr. Malfoy has been for the past five years an employee at the Ministry of Magic, however he is taking a leave of absence to spend time with his wife and their newborn.
Scorpius Malfoy was delivered at the family's ancestral home, where in addition to his parents he is welcomed by grandparents Lucius and Narcissa (nee Black) and the older couple's other child, Lyra. Baby, mother and the rest are reportedly doing well.”
*
One hundred and ten words. One hundred and ten, summing up a new life's entry into the world. Astounding in such a roundabout, matter-of-fact way.
It could've been longer, of course. The Prophet charged by the word (two sickles per fifty-five, the present going rate) and obviously he had the money. Once years ago his mother had proudly shown him the clipped announcement from his own birth: it went on for near an entire page.
Truth was however it had been a struggle for Draco, usually not one for limiting himself, to fill up even those words he had paid for.
It was customary in such things to mention the family – parents' occupations, any still-living relatives of note, and so on. The copy-editing assistant he'd spoken to had pressed him for details, trying to balloon up the sentences (and the price) to shape something resembling a proper high-society birth announcement.
But Draco refused to let them mention the office he was employed for by name: workers at the Ministry's Liaison for Concerns Regarding Vampire-Human Interrelations had been long-dubbed “Leechers” by the Prophet's writers, a term they insisted was affectionate but the individuals in question felt was anything but.
And any extended description about the families of the new parents, he felt, would only lead someplace unfortunate. People recognized his name. They recognized his father's name, his mother's name, and it didn't take a genius to know where their minds went.
The war ended seven years ago, as of that summer. That was hardly long enough to fade away the memories of most.
In the end he was satisfied to have skimmed the details - the announcement was, after all, supposed to be about the birth of his son. The rest of them, especially his parents, had endured enough scrutiny.
Astoria read over the published result at breakfast, kissed her husband on the cheek and informed him he'd done well. She set the paper aside to cut apart later for the baby's scrapbook.
Their table was inundated with owls dropping off written congratulations, such that Draco had to guard his toast and coffee lest they become ruined or he ended up accidentally taking a bite of manila-colored stationary. Dozens were formal cards; maybe another half-dozen were less formal notes.
He read them all with detached satisfaction, and it was only afterward he finally was able to account for the pinprick of lingering anxiety he'd felt throughout in the pit of his stomach: he had been bracing for the Howlers that never came.
It had been at least two years since they received any, he thought. Maybe three. Still the apprehension hadn't fully gone. There had been a time even a passing mention by name in the papers, especially if heaven forbid it seemed they were doing well, was enough to invariability set off somebody.
Nothing that morning, though, but well-wishes and good-natured ribbing.
Where once Draco might have obsessed, on things that were said and possibly not between the lines, wondered over what was hidden behind messages that were not sent – that day he found he could not. The dark thoughts, the worries, the anxieties, they slipped away as cleanly and unremarked as a beam of sunlight through water. The euphoria he'd been buoyed on over the past three days still carried him. He felt light as a soap bubble, as if it were impossible not to be happy.
Was this it, then? Was this the promised, better life he had been waiting for, these past years; wondering where it was, when it finally started? The future seemed so clear, so bright.
He was giddy, really. Distantly he was aware, the Draco he had been only a few years ago would have stared askance in disbelief at how ridiculous he was acting.
How small his son was, for example: Draco couldn't seem to keep from remarking on it again and again in his mind. Like a pebble he kept turning over in his hand, surprised every time that it was still the same color, or that it remained so smooth.
His son was so small. Tiny in his ornate bassinet, seeming delicate in comparison to the world around him. His nose was small, and his feet were small, and his fingers were definitely small, the little fingernails adorning the ends of them even smaller still. The only part of him that didn't seem small were wide eyes that looked up at the world from beneath a ghostly wisp of pale fringe.
The Draco of the past determined this train of thought beyond absurd.
“Yes, of course, he's small,” that Draco sneered. “He is a baby, after all. Were you expecting something else? What else could he possibly be? Honestly. Do you even hear how brainless you sound, going on and on about it that way?”
Draco was aware he sounded foolish. That he was saying the same things first-time parents always said. His observations were nothing new; as banal and tedious to listen to for anyone else, as he had felt trapped times before listening to other new-minted parents prattle on about their precious spawn.
He didn't care. He was a father now, an actual father, he had a son. He had a son, and his son was so, so small.
Another day passed with he and his wife lavishing attention on the new arrival. Early that evening Astoria fed the baby then went to lie down for a well-earned rest. Draco remained in the nursery however, crouched on his knees with arms folded on the edge of the bassinet.
Silently he and Scorpius watched one another with rapt gazes of mutual bemused fascination.
He wasn't sure how long it'd been before he heard the door creak behind him.
“Evening, Father.” He didn't look up. He'd a strong feeling the sound had been on purpose, to avoid startling him.
“Good evening, Draco. I hope that I'm not interrupting.” There was distant humor in his father's murmur, directed no doubt at the intense concentration he'd witnessed. “I have come to see my grandson.”
“Help yourself,” Draco told him with the cheery humor usually reserved for a man who'd had several shots of firewhisky. “As you can see, he's positively gregarious. Tori thinks he'd do well on stage someday as a famous performer but I think he should hold out for nothing less than Minister for Magic.”
“Perhaps wait until he can sit up on his own, to be deciding such things.”
The suggestion however was unconcerned at best. He crept closer until he was within arm's reach.
Draco found himself watching his father as he bent forward slightly, the better to peer down. He spent a long moment drinking the contents of the cradle in.
“Well now. Look at that.”
His remark was mild, but Draco thought he heard contained a note of emotion in there not unlike his own. His father was, after all, a first-time grandparent now, just as he was a first-time parent.
“I have a son, Father,” Draco heard himself say. Maybe if he said it enough times it would finally sink in and stop surprising him so. He didn't know, however, if he ever wanted this marvelous feeling it provided to go away.
“You do have a son,” his father agreed. “It's very well done.” His pride was unmistakable. “Such a handsome boy. A true Malfoy, through and through. You see it at a glance.”
“Mother said something very similar.”
She was oddly fervent for the dominance of the genes she had married into, rather than the ones she'd inherited. Perhaps something about the Blacks had scared her more than she would ever admit.
“I think Tori's a bit disappointed,” he confessed. “That he looks so much like me, and only me, really. I reminded her she knew what she was getting into, when she agreed to have children.”
She had only spent the last three years or so surrounded by the near-identical portraits of ancestors on the walls.
“She will get over it, I'm sure.” Father did not seem to take the possibility his daughter-in-law was actually upset very seriously.
From the pocket of his robes he produced a folded page from the Prophet, holding it up between his fingertips.
“Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy.” An arched brow, an implied question.
“You've already known what we were planning on calling him.”
“Yes, but it is in print now, which makes it official. Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy?”
“Scorpius Draco sounds rotten.” He got to his feet, careful not to lean too hard on the bassinet.
He was completely unapologetic in his desire to carry on his mother's family tradition. Both he and Astoria had liked the sound of 'Scorpius', and it seemed perfect once they figured out when the baby was due.
But when he saw the way his father's face had been schooled to perfect blank, a little voice in his head reminded him he was certainly heir to more than one family.
“I'm sorry, Father,” he said softly, feeling a sudden unwelcome prick of guilt. Naming a firstborn son after its father was hardly unique, but the Malfoys had been rigidly consistent in it going back at least half a dozen generations.
He knew how his father felt slighted by even the smallest tradition abandoned. As if part of their identity was slowly leeching away: the foundations of his prized, treasured family name eroding further and further.
Even voicing it however appeared enough to make him change his mind. He shook his head abruptly. “Why apologize? As if you haven't the right to name your own child without any input.” He pocketed the newspaper again. Despite the careless mien, his expression remained a frown.
A subject change was in order. “Mother said you got back last night.”
“Far too late for anything but straight to bed, to my annoyance. It was a long journey and the sun was about to rise. And I'm sorry I missed the delivery.”
“I'm not. The fewer witnesses to my pacing the floor and waving my arms, the better. Tori was calmer than I was, and she certainly had more things to worry about, I'd say.”
That at least got a gentle snort of amusement. “I was the same way. Both times. I wonder if it means something.”
“Maybe that we care.” The words were out before he could think twice. His father stilled, eyes widening a fraction, and then he looked back at the cradle again. The better to avoid his own son's gaze.
Draco swallowed, torn between unease and exasperation. All these years and still an out-and-out acknowledgment of the fact that he, and his father, had feelings could provoke a response as if he'd spoke a dirty word.
Another subject change, then. “Where were you, anyway? All I heard was Eastern Europe.”
“You need to know more?”
“Well you must admit, that doesn't precisely narrow it down,” he drawled. What his father did for – 'work', or whatever one preferred to call it, truthfully he did not need to know overmuch. Some might even find it a conflict of interest, considering his own job at the Ministry. But now and then Draco's curiosity was piqued.
It would be nice to know which region of the world he was in when he was gone, at the least. It didn't seem too much to ask.
“Turkmenistan. Merv, if you wish to be precise. They're asking representatives from other regions to weigh in on a dispute.”
“What sort of 'dispute'?”
“As you could probably guess persecution in that part of the world is rather high, especially toward certain populations – which unfortunately tend to contain a high concentration of wizards.” As he described the situation in a detached way his father drifted towards the bassinet, intent entirely on the tiny figure within. “It's very hard to be permitted to leave the country under most circumstances. Some younger people have chosen to become part of the kin as a way out.”
An ingenious if desperate gamble. The Covenant of Shadows would do whatever it took to get their own out of a country they didn't want to be in, especially if their lives were in danger. “Is there a particular problem with that?”
“The age of consent in Turkmenistan is only sixteen.”
Draco winced, understanding. Wizards technically underage by most of the magical world's standards were being turned into vampires – which would be against Covenant law. But their own nation said they were old enough. What a mess.
“It's a tricky issue, as you can imagine,” he continued. “Nothing was resolved by the time I left. I highly doubt it will be anytime soon. If at all.”
“Politics,” Draco said dismally. He was glad he'd bowed out of that life, opting instead to become a man with a 'profession', in other words a regularly-paying and by comparison positively unremarkable job.
He was a disappointment to the entire legacy he'd inherited, in that regard. He found he positively could not care less.
In response to this gloomy statement his father gave a short sound, seeming to agree, or perhaps only dismiss Draco's indifference. He was eyeing the baby now, awake and looking up at his grandfather with softly blinking eyelashes. He managed to raise one arm and wave his chubby fist.
“My grandson.” Lucius echoed his earlier words in quiet, almost hollow tone. He didn't seem to entirely know what he wanted to do.
At last he looked to Draco again. “May I?”
There it was – unmistakable anxiety in his face and voice, though he tried to keep it down. Sad and longing, as if bracing for possibility of rejection. Anyone else would have probably missed it. Draco saw it too well.
Possibly because he had experienced it, in himself.
Draco cleared his throat, a touch discomfited - mournful - he had felt the need to even ask. “Of course, Father.”
His father nodded, once. Draco couldn't keep from noticing how his adam's apple bobbed.
Leaning again over where the newborn lay he reached in, carefully, with both hands. He lifted Scorpius up, holding him by the middle, at first, and out so he could get a good look at him.
Scorpius looked back, unable yet to properly lift his head and so just staring at his grandfather with the innocent gaze of the very new.
Draco watched as Lucius absorbed the existence of his first grandchild – the first child of his only son. As he bounced him gingerly in his hands, taking in his warmth, his weight.
And at last those pale eyes misted over, and his face broke into a slow smile of pure joy. Wide enough that Draco could just see the very points of his fangs.
“Well.” His father's voice was quiet, very quiet, but intensely happy. It was almost a croon. “Hello there, you.”
Draco thought he couldn't be feel any better, be filled with more lightness and cheer, than he'd felt since the moment his son was brought into the world. Couldn't be any happier than he had these past three days since Scorpius was born.
Now standing there, seeing his father move with care as he balanced the infant's head, cradling him in his arm, and all the while looking at Draco's child as if he was perhaps something unfathomable and miraculous...well he knew now that wasn't so.
He could be happier. He could be. He had just become so, right then and there.
Draco took one step, then another. Eventually closing the gap between him so that he stood beside his father, at his arm.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, equal in height, their heads bent at identical angles as both looked down and gave Scorpius their attentions.
All was quiet. Scorpius made an occasional gurgling sound, no louder than a whisper. A newborn baby Draco had discovered had a particular kind of smell, fresh and as indescribable as it was distinct, and undeniably pleasant. He thought he could probably breathe in the scent off his son's hair forever.
“He's so small, Father,” he burst out. “I mean, look at him. Can you believe it? I didn't realize he was going to be so small.”
“He is. He really is,” his father replied, not missing a beat. “I advise you to enjoy it, while it lasts.”
*
Draco found, as the weeks then months passed and his period of leave was supposed to close, that he did not want to go back to work.
His position at the Ministry had been significant enough, respectable even, that a more ambitious man could have stayed on and worked hard and in short order progressed upward to some kind of senior office, perhaps even in a more powerful department.
But Draco did not care about being a man that made waves at the Ministry of Magic, that had his name in the papers every other week, that went about with an air of seriousness as he spoke knowingly of matters concerning the workplace.
He wanted to stay home, in Wiltshire, and read his son stories and give him baths and tuck him into his crib at night, and take him outside to the garden to watch him try to crawl around on the grass and stop him when he tried to put everything he could reach with eager hands into his tiny mouth. He wanted to be there for everything that was to come, for every step, for every word.
He wanted to have breakfast with his wife every morning and tea with his mother every afternoon. He wanted to have fond arguments with his bratty, much younger sister. He wanted to chat offhandedly with his father as they stood around watching their respective offspring, both pretending they had not been thoroughly softened and domesticated.
He wanted to be something very different than what he'd been bred to be, than what his raising had prepared him for. Something different than the life he once imagined, so long ago, when he was young and knew nothing of the way the world worked or who he could be if he applied to it with his mind and heart.
So he went in and gave notice. They were truly sad to see him leave, to somewhat his surprise. His coworkers threw a party, with sandwiches and cakes.
One day perhaps he'd go back. When Scorpius was older, and not so captivating. Maybe he'd grow bored of the Manor, its painted halls and manicured gardens, of working his way at leisure through the ancient leather-bound texts in his family's collection.
Maybe he would find another job, even. He had enough training to branch out if he desired. He'd actually turned out to have a knack for the healing arts, and Saint Mungo's was always hiring.
But for now Draco didn't care about any of that. He had his family and a peaceful, happy life – and a son that was worth so much to him, so very much.
So much so, that he might as well be summed up in one hundred and ten words - because honestly, it was pointless to even try.