Draco Malfoy was aware that what he and his father did wasn't what most fathers and sons did together. This didn't phase him. Draco was a Malfoy. So was Father. It's what made them so special.

Before he was fifteen years old, his father barely paid attention to him. Being a Malfoy meant he had important business to tend to and as long as that kept Draco in new toys or ways to show up his classmates, he didn't mind very much. His mother was around, of course. Narcissa loved her son and she'd whisper to him about the pure blood that flowed through his veins. "You come from two of the oldest houses in all of the Wizarding World, Draco! There are traditions to uphold. Never forget that!"

Then, Dull Diggory got himself offed, the Dark Lord rose again, and things changed between Father and he. One night, his father carefully appraised him at the dinner table, listening intently as Draco ranted about the Mudblood Granger, the Muggle-loving Weasleys, and the hateful, attention-seeking Potter. Usually, Lucius would simply tell him to quiet down after a few minutes of this, but this time his father rested his head casually upon his hand, raised his eyebrow and stared at Draco. Lucius's eyes never once left his son's face, but the look was warm, and Draco soon felt a pleasant heat spread over his face.

That same night, Lucius entered Draco's room, rousing him from sleep. As Lucius slipped off his robes, the moonlight reflecting off his pale skin, Draco sat up in bed and stared at his father. It wasn't from embarrassment. Draco felt no sense of impropriety and pushed down fleeting thoughts that suggested what he felt might be wrong. Instead, he stared because of the sheer beauty of the sight before him. His father crawled between Draco's sheets and whispered, "This is what a Malfoy looks like. This is what you shall look like - you're nearly there already."

The night was one of the best of Draco's life and he eagerly looked forward to each kiss and caress. Merely thinking of Lucius brought a hot flush to his face. Things between Lucius and Draco, as his father explained, were the same way between he and his father. It was what made their family special. Malfoys weren’t meant to do the same things as common people.

One warm July night, Draco lay on his side, his father's naked form curling against his. Lucius asked, "Would you do anything for me?"

"Of course, Father." Lucius nibbled on the patch of skin where Draco's shoulder blades met. Draco gasped and bit his lower lip.

"The Dark Lord is very interested in meeting you. He thinks you'll do anything to uphold pureblood values and I think you'd be a valuable asset to him."

Draco wrenched his neck so he could look into his father's face. "I'd do anything for you," he insisted and brought their lips crashing together.

When Draco returned to school, he didn't tell anyone about what had been happening between he and Lucius. He didn't need to be told that. Pulling the heavy curtains around his bed, he'd slip a hand down his pyjama bottoms and think of ice-grey eyes identical to his own. He counted the days to the Christmas holidays. It was a relief to be in his father's arms once again. When he returned to school, he started his countdown again.

He got to zero, but it didn't matter. Potter had interfered and Lucius was sent to Azkaban. When Potter took his father away, Draco meant what he said, no matter how Potter may have played it off. The filthy, Muggle-loving halfblood would pay for stealing away the only thing that ever mattered to Draco.

"You're dead, Potter."

And he would be.