Chapter Text
My Dearest Father, or, The Tragic Ordeals of Your Beleaguered Son
A Collection of Correspondences from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
(With Marginalia by Lucius Malfoy, Who Is Suffering)
September 12, 1991
Father,
I am writing to inform you of the grave injustice I have suffered. You will scarcely believe it, but I have been denied my rightful friendship with the celebrated Boy Who Lived—by no fault of my own, I assure you. In a moment of pure generosity, I extended my hand in fellowship, offering him the unparalleled privilege of my company. And do you know what he did?
He refused me, Father.
Refused me, Draco Malfoy, your only son, heir to the Malfoy name and fortune. Instead, he has chosen to fraternize with a Weasley. A Weasley, Father. The one with hair so red it offends the eyes and robes so threadbare I could see the floor through them. And a Mudblood—a sanctimonious little thing who quotes spellbooks as if she were reciting scripture.
I demand immediate intervention. Surely you can purchase a friendship if necessary. I refuse to stand idly by while Harry Potter—who, infuriatingly, has perfect green eyes, the exact shade of the finest emeralds—throws away the best offer he will ever receive.
Ever your devoted son,
Draco
(Marginalia: Lucius sighs deeply and pours himself a drink.)
October 4, 1992
Father,
Hogwarts has been infested with a monster. No, I do not mean Potter, though his unbearable hero complex remains an affliction upon us all. I mean a literal monster—one that appears to be petrifying students, including a certain Muggle-born who I was not at all disappointed to see temporarily out of commission.
However, my primary concern is that everyone seems to think I am the heir of Slytherin. Can you imagine? Me? A criminal?
(Marginalia: Lucius presses fingers to his temple. He has been having a great many headaches lately.)
The sheer audacity of these allegations is offensive. That being said, I am also deeply concerned that Potter, once again, will inevitably solve this mystery and be hailed as the savior of Hogwarts while I suffer through yet another year of unjust obscurity. I am considering demanding a recount of the Sorting Hat’s decision. Clearly, I was meant for a House where people appreciate sharp tailoring and an appreciation for fine breeding, rather than—Merlin help me—unwashed half-giants and Gryffindor sentimentality.
Yours in frustration,
Draco
(Marginalia: Lucius folds the letter, sets it aside, and drinks deeply from a glass of brandy. He does not handle this with discretion. Narcissa reads it and cackles.)
November 19, 1993
Father,
I write to you from the depths of a most unforgivable suffering. I have sustained a wound, a grievous injury at the hands (paws?) of that oaf Hagrid’s pet beast. A hippogriff, Father! A dangerous, lethal creature that has disfigured me forever.
(Marginalia: Lucius narrows his eyes. He has seen Draco’s letter and the official Hogwarts medical report. The words “minor scratch” appear with irritating frequency.)
It was Potter’s fault, of course. He was practically flirting with the creature, approaching it with all the blind confidence of a man who has never been pecked by a goose, let alone faced down a clawed menace. And now everyone is laughing at me, calling me dramatic, as if I am not on the verge of death. Even Professor Snape rolled his eyes at me, and he usually at least pretends to care.
I trust you will ensure that the beast is executed, that Hagrid is dismissed, and that I receive the appropriate monetary compensation for my suffering. At the very least, Potter should be expelled.
Your tragically injured son,
Draco
(Marginalia: Lucius briefly considers faking his own death to avoid further letters.)
April 15, 1994
Father,
The scandal. The horror. The outrage.
I regret to inform you that Potter has, once again, demonstrated his complete disregard for the rules of both magic and common decency. He has participated in an illegal excursion to Hogsmeade despite lacking the appropriate permissions, which is, of course, a crime against everything we hold sacred.
(Marginalia: Lucius considers that of all the ways Potter has annoyed him, this one is the most ridiculous. He does not dignify it with a response.)
More pressingly, Potter smirked at me today, Father. Smirked. And I was forced to endure it. His green eyes—the exact color of the emerald cufflinks you gifted me last Christmas—glinted with insufferable knowing. I cannot abide it. I am being haunted by his existence.
I am growing concerned that I may not survive another year at this school. I must insist on retaliation. Perhaps a legal case? Wrongful distress? I trust you to take appropriate action.
Ever the victim,
Draco
(Marginalia: Lucius rubs his temples. Then, after a long pause, he simply writes—)
"If you expect me to take the Wizengamot by storm because a thirteen -year-old smirked at you, you may officially consider yourself disinherited."
November 25, 1994
Father,
I have spent this entire year being utterly furious with Potter.
First, he gets into the Triwizard Tournament, despite being underage and an absolute moron. Then, he somehow doesn’t immediately die in the first task, even though he was facing an actual dragon.
And worst of all, he took Parvati Patil to the Yule Ball.
Do you know what that means? Potter went on a date before me. This is completely unacceptable.
Also, he looked obnoxiously good in dress robes, which is deeply offensive and a personal attack against me.
I do not know how much more of this I can take.
Draco
(Marginalia: Lucius pinches the bridge of his nose. He genuinely does not know how much more of this he can take.)
March 10, 1995
Father,
Potter has a fan club.
(Marginalia: Lucius pinches the bridge of his nose.)
An actual, honest-to-Merlin, unironic fan club of girls who sigh over him and doodle hearts around his name in their textbooks. Some of them are Slytherins, Father. Slytherins. The betrayal cuts deep.
You should see him strutting around, acting as if he has not become some kind of tragic romantic figure, bathed in an almost poetic level of brooding self-importance. His hair remains an abomination, but his eyes continue to be infuriatingly perfect, which is frankly unfair.
It’s all very distressing. Please advise.
Desperately,
Draco
(Marginalia: Lucius momentarily wonders if Draco has a crush on Potter before violently dismissing the thought.)
September 18, 1995
Father,
Potter has developed muscles over the summer.
This is a catastrophe.
Draco
(Marginalia: Lucius closes the letter. He drinks directly from the bottle.)
June 22, 1996
Father,
I have made a mistake.
(Marginalia: Lucius, in Azkaban, feels genuine terror for the first time.)
Potter is still unbearable, but he is also—how do I say this—concerned about me. Concerned, Father. With his hero complex and his ridiculous noble heart and his unwavering green eyes. He looks at me sometimes as if he wants to save me.
I have never been so uncomfortable in my life.
I do not know what to do.
Draco
(Marginalia: Lucius has many thoughts, none of which he wishes to articulate.)
December 1, 1996
Father,
I am doomed.
Potter found me in the corridor today. I was having a breakdown—which was his fault, obviously—but instead of gloating, he just… looked at me, all gentle and understanding and Gryffindor-y, and said, “You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”
And then—THEN, FATHER—he touched my face.
I think I forgot how to breathe.
This is an unforgivable betrayal. My own emotions have turned against me.
Draco
(Marginalia: Lucius exhales slowly. He knows. He just knows this is going to get worse.)
June 10, 1997
Father,
I do not think I hate him anymore.
I do not know if I ever truly did.
(Marginalia: Lucius closes his eyes. He thinks of war. Of choices. Of things that cannot be taken back.)
I do not know if he will survive this war. I do not know if I will survive this war.
But I do know that I would rather be standing next to him than against him.
I do not know what you will make of that.
Draco
(Marginalia: A long pause. Then, at last, Lucius writes back.)
"If you survive this war, retrieve the Malfoy heirloom ring from the vault. I expect you to make an honest man of him
Narcissa, fully aware that certain lines have already been crossed, merely smirks to herself and wisely refrains from commenting—for the sake of Lucius' remaining sanity. )