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Family Pride by Roots in Water
Chapter 1 : Family Pride
 
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Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter-- J. K. Rowling does.

Sometimes, we are proudest of our children when they prove us wrong.

 
 

Draco Malfoy idolized his father. He was proud that when people looked at him, they saw evidence of the Malfoys. He was proud that his blond hair, pale skin and grey eyes were evidence of his familial history. He was proud that he was the son of Lucius Malfoy.


 

Lucius Malfoy was more than just his father. He was Draco’s everything.


 

It was he who sat by his bed each evening just before Draco would fall asleep and tell him stories of the Salem Witch trials.


 

It was he who informed Draco of his glorious heritage, both as a Malfoy and as a wizard, showing him the Malfoy family crest and dictum, sanctimonia vincet semper, and the many, many Malfoy witches and wizards who had upheld this truth throughout the centuries.


 

It was he who shaped Draco’s opinion of the politics in the Wizarding World, whispering tales of Lord Voldemort’s fantastical, visionary revolution and expressing disgust at the hero worship shown for Harry Potter. “They are fools,” he’d mutter, just loud enough so that Draco was able to hear, but no one else, “Do they not see the ruin of the Wizarding World? Do they not see the reasoning behind my Lord’s plan? Do they see they worship a toddler? Are they such imbeciles, such idiots? Useless…”


 

It was he who impressed upon Draco the importance of choosing the correct friends, the importance of limiting the sharing of secrets, the importance of appearance. “I’m loyal only to my Lord, but I appear loyal to Fudge. I appear to regret and find shame in my activities during my Lord’s reign. But I appear only.”


 

It was he who taught Draco to know that a Malfoy was subservient to no one, unless the wizard in question was many times more powerful than he. “Survival,” he’d say, “is key to triumph. One cannot win if one is dead.”


 

It was he who Draco modeled himself after.


 

Draco picked his friends using his father’s standards, gathering a group of acquaintances of quiet observers, romantic interests and dumb followers. As he collected Theodore Nott, he thought of the involvement of the Notts in the Death Eater raids. As he asked Blaise Zabini to join his study groups, he thought of his loyalty and ability to pass unseen. As he allowed Pansy Parkinson to grope his arms and chest, he sighed and thought of his heritage and the continuation of his pureblood line. As he was shadowed by Crabbe and Goyle, he thought of unquestioning, unwavering loyalty and secrecy for his plans and thoughts. As he did this, he thought like his father.


 

Draco insulted Hermione Granger as proof of his belief in his father’s belief. He insulted Harry Potter in remembrance of his father’s disgust. He insulted Ronald Weasley because of his family’s traitorous behavior towards pureblood history. He insulted them because his father would.


 

When Lord Voldemort returned, Draco was drawn into the world of not only thinking, dreaming, hoping of pureblood supremacy, but acting on those thoughts, dreams, hopes. He was drawn into a world where the slow, un-dramatic, secret takeover of the Ministry and the small political battles were just as, if not more, important than the raids and attacks screamed by the headlines of the Daily Prophet.


 

He had to prove his loyalties, just like his father. And though he was scared, terrified of a single wrong move, petrified by Lord Voldemort, he was prouder that he was following in his father’s footsteps.


 

And though his father never told him so in words, Draco knew, could sense that he was proud with the touches on the arm and the small, quick, warm smiles.


 

Then, in the switch of a moment, the tick of a clock, Lucius Malfoy was in prison. Lord Voldemort lost, killed by Harry Potter. Draco could no longer openly express his opinions, what with society particularly opposed to them. And then his father died, alone in a cell at Azkaban.


 

Draco had lost his north, his stable ground. Somehow, Draco wasn’t quite aware of the hows, whos, wheres and whens, he ended up married to Astoria Greengrass.


 

He followed his father’s footsteps into politics and often heard people whisper, as he passed by, “… just like his father…” and he would, for a moment, stand a fraction taller, walk a fraction smoother. And then the moment would pass.


 

He wallowed for months, until his wife cried out in labour pains and was rushed to the hospital. There, he was dazed, wincing each time his wife clenched his hand, until his son came into the world. Then, he came alive again.


 

He imitated his childhood as best he could, installing the same morals, values and ancestral pride. 


 

Draco could see his father in his son. He could see him in the blond of Scorpius’ hair, in the grey twinkle of Scorpius’ eyes, in Scorpius’ pale skin. And he was proud.


 

But as Scorpius grew, Draco noticed Scorpius straying from his ideals. When Scorpius asked to cut his hair short, Draco outright refused, even though tears came to Scorpius’ eyes. Scorpius was only six then.


 

At nine, Scorpius asked to learn about muggle technology—he thought it would be interesting. Draco’s mind blanked and he refused to answer, in his terms, such an idiotic question.


 

But still Draco was proud. He was willing to put a blind eye to these minor transgressions, so few and far between as they were.


 

Draco clung to the traits, the hints of his father that he could see in his son, the glory of the Malfoy family expressed in the newest generation.


 

Then Scorpius went to Hogwarts.


 

There, Scorpius made friends with Rose and, later on, Hugo Weasley.


 

There, Scorpius enjoyed quidditch with James and Albus Potter and one year spent the Easter holidays under the same roof as Harry Potter, with nary a bad word directed his way.


 

There, he took Muggle Studies and learned to operate muggle computers.


 

There, Scorpius made friends from all walks of life and all types of backgrounds. He cared not for developing potential future political allies. He cared not for secrecy.


 

When yelled, screamed, hollered at by Draco, he’d reply, “Why? Why has it always been so? The times have changed. Social opinion has changed. Life has changed, and you’re still stuck in the past. I’m not damaging the Malfoy name—I’m adapting in to modern society.”


 

The last time Scorpius said that to Draco—the day Scorpius informed him of his choice not to follow Draco and Lucius into politics, but to instead research and combine Muggle and Magical medicines—it stuck. Draco paused before speaking, looking at the glint in his son’s eyes, so like his father’s, and sighed.


 

He nodded.

 

In the years that followed, Draco would declare that at that moment, he was the proudest he had ever been of Scorpius Malfoy. 

A/N: Please tell me your thoughts!
 
 




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