shattered

A/N: This is DH compatible, but written EWE style—epilogue? What epilogue?

Disclaimer: Hint hint—I’m writing on fanfiction. Net. Does that give you a clue?

And Then It Breaks

Abraxas had been a vicious man. Despite the fact that he had been getting on in years when the Dark Lord first began gathering followers, he had joined immediately.

He had expected his son to do the same. His son, who so dutifully believed his credo, that Mudbloods and Half-bloods were by far inferior to Purebloods. His son, who was so charming and handsome and got along so well with that lovely Narcissa Black. His son, who of course would do everything his father commanded him to. His son, who had once been kind to a house-elf and been beaten severely for it. It had been a one-time mistake.

Lucius had learned his lesson well. And so, of course he joined his father in the group called the Death Eaters. He had been ambitious, eager to prove himself, and anxious to show his father that he, too, could succeed. Rarely had he been beaten, but the constant mental and emotional torture he had been subjected to had marked him for life, and he had been all too eager to join the Dark Lord.

He had married the eligible Narcissa Black, though he had known very well that she loved another. At first it was a blow to his heart, but then his heart broke and was replaced by ice when he caught her kissing Severus, and afterwards it was a blow to his pride.

And then he had his son Draco. When he had been young, he had promised himself he would never be like his father, never constantly berate his son to do better and to uphold the Malfoy name, but Abraxas Malfoy had done his work well, and it was too late for Lucius to break the cycle then.

And so it had continued. The yelling. The cold disapproval emanating from the stern, glacial figure at the head of the table when he was beaten yet again by the Mudblood Granger, by the stupid Potter. The constant pressure to do better, because his best was never enough.

Narcissa had tried, at first, but his anger had swamped her and carried over, and after that first session she had resorted to sneaky underhand plotting and bottles of Firewhiskey. He had known about the Unbreakable Vow she had performed contrary to the Dark Lord’s will, but some last vestiges of his heart had prevented him from turning his own wife in.

And then he had turned on his Lord all together, yelling and screaming, all last shreds of his dignity gone, calling for his son, his son of whom he was so proud, his son whom he loved, his son who would never know unless he found him, unless he was alive…

And then he had been alive, he had been well. Their son was alive.

He had tried, then. He had tried so hard. It had been a long journey, step by painful steps. Two steps forward, and then a step back. Some days it was as though the Battle had never taken place, and there he was, Draco Abraxas Malfoy, trembling and huddling in a corner because he hadn’t done well enough. But the effort had been there. Slowly but surely, the cycle was being broken.

It had been too late to change all together. He would never be able to brush away all the tears caused by his harsh words. He would never be able to casually tell his son and wife, “I love you.” He would never be able to walk up and give his son a hug. But he could try.

And it had been that last day, the day he knew he was dying, when he opened his eyes and for the first and last time, told his son, “I love you.” And for that he was grateful.

And then the cycle passed to Draco. He, too, had sworn he would never be like his father and grandfather. But he had been afraid—so afraid—that he would turn out just like them. A cold-hearted monster who wished to feel but had forgotten how. He had seen how his father had suffered, how he had longed to be able to be like other men who joked and laughed and told their children they loved them. And he had promised he would never be like that; that he would learn.

And then he had met Hermione and he had known that she would help. That she would be his angel of light. He had summoned up his courage and told her that he loved her. She had smiled and known how hard it had been for him to say that, and had said yes to the question he asked two days later.

It had been a year later when they had had Scorpius. Draco had stared at those grey eyes, so like his own, and his heart had given a great shuddering leap, and he had known that he would not be like his father.

And he had tried—really he had. Every night he would share with his beautiful wife the task of telling his son a bedtime story. Haltingly, painstakingly, he had chosen a book from the shelf and read every line, endeavoring to make it sound believable, to banish his cold drawl for just fifteen minutes a day and to sound like a real father for once. He had smiled at the breakfast table and attempted to make conversation. He had never passed up an opportunity to pat his son on the shoulder and say, “Well done.”

It had been his son’s first Quidditch game when he had first snapped. It had been Slytherin against Gryffindor, and it had almost been like his first game against Potter. Potter’s son, James, had been Seeker against his own son, and he had remembered and tasted the devastating sense of loss against his worst enemy.

Scorpius had lost, and it had almost been like he was losing to Potter all over again. The old feeling of rage and contempt had swelled up in him, and he had spent the ride home berating his son. Yelling at him for not doing better. Telling him he was a disgrace to the Malfoy name. Saying he was unworthy to call himself his son. Doing all the things he had promised himself he would never do.

During the flight home, Hermione had kept silent, saying nothing. It was only when they had landed, the broomsticks put away by their house elf, that she had turned and enveloped the silently crying Scorpius into a hug and escorted him to the house. At the door, she had turned and said something. Just one word, but it had shocked him to the very core. “Lucius!”

Draco had stood there, unable to move. The very word had brought back, so many memories, so many that the torrent overwhelmed him, an onslaught of sounds and voices and tears flooding him.

“Worthless…disgrace to the Malfoy name…not fit to be Pureblood…bested by a Mudblood…” the phrases rang in his head.

He had done it. He had become his father, become everything he had promised he would never be. He had betrayed his trust, and Lucius—all his efforts to raise Draco at the end, all his efforts to rectify his earlier mistakes.

Draco stood there in the pouring rain, and knew what he had to do.

“Son?” he knocked at his son’s door.

“Go away.” Scorpius’s voice was muffled, and Draco knew he had been crying but was too proud to admit it.

“I know and admit you have every right to say that to me, but please, let me in.”

There was a long pause. Then, the door opened, and Scorpius’s pale face, so like Draco’s own at eleven, peered out. “What?” his voice was sullen.

Draco took a deep breath. This was it. This would be the point of no return. Instinctively he knew that if he messed up now, his son would never quite forgive him. And he said the words he had never said before.

“I’m sorry.”

His son stared at his father in amazement. “What?”

“I’m sorry, and—and, I love you.”

Scorpius looked at his father for a long minute, then he opened the door, and Draco took him in his arms. The cycle had been broken.