The clock struck whatever hour it now was. Lucius had stopped paying attention, as it did no good to follow time so. At least, not when the wife had been in labor for twenty plus hours.

Yet, even with that much affirmed in his mind, it took another five minutes of determined staring at the wall before he cast a quick, guilty glance at the clock. Ah. Well, that was fruitless.

And he was missing some great things this night. This night, when a batches of Death Eaters were all causing havoc at one place or another. Voldemort, ah, his power source, the Lord—he had looked fixedly at him, demanded his service.

And yet? –Lucius- of all people, Lucius Malfoy declined. Opposed the orders of the Dark Lord. He said no, his wife was in labor. How ridiculous!

And how very unlike him. Perhaps it was Narcissa’s threat involving coat hangers, and if that failed, packed suitcases should he leave her during this time.

Yes, that must be it.

Because, truly, what was more important than a rise in power? Than the feel of control, of control, maintenance, and utter power as one was the source of a muggle’s shrieks of terror. Than ascending in Voldemort’s eye. Power was flowing into his hands, he was at the foot of a waterfall and the tumultuous crash of water was what came to him.

And now, an heir. Yes! For it –should- be viewed as a means of advancing. One to continue his name, his fortune, his reign. To uphold his standards, to mold. To control, as well. And if need be.. to use? Ah, but not to think of such things now.

He was to have an investment, soon. Soon.

…

Pacing, pacing. Tedious, this was. Why couldn’t Narcissa just hurry up and pop out the brat?

…

Shrieking, blood curling and horrific.

“About time, Narcissa.”

…

“Mr. Malfoy?”

Ah, the staff of a wizard hospital. He looked up, nodded. He rose elegantly to his feet, eyeing the nurse expectantly.

“You’ve a boy! He’s beautif—“

“I’m sure he is. I can see him?” He interrupted the nurse. Yes, he knew it would be a boy. Of course he would be beautiful, as if that mattered.

The nurse nodded, guiding him into the room where Narcissa had just spent hours upon hours in hideous agony. Now, she smiled wearily at him. In her arms, a bundle of blue blankets—fuzzy and soft.

He strode forward, to her bedside.

“..a boy..” her voice was low, hushed, worn. Tired. But enraptured.

He nodded, and as she lifted the bundle, he accepted it. There was a brief moment where he struggled to find the correct manner of holding the baby. That done, he could look securely down at –his- son.

His investment, surely… And yet.

And yet, when frozen eyes met the cherubic face of the wide-eyed baby—yes, wide-eyed. His eyes were not closed to the world, but open, very open (and some day, rare would they go beyond a narrowed state), open and their cheer matched his gurgle—they melted.

No, there were no tears. No fireworks, or explosions. But a warmth. A glow.

A fixed block of black ice within his ribcage shivered, and cracked. It bled as some of that ice withered in the heat.

The baby gurgled and grinned, and… No, it couldn’t be.

No.

Thin lips twitched. First the left corner, then the right—a smile.

And then, a grin. His teeth were showing, imagine that? White teeth, and there was joy delineating itself upon his face. Actual joy.

This was his son. His son. His own flesh and blood. His son. A swell of fatherly pride.

He looked at Narcissa, his beautiful Narcissa, grinning though so tired, and he beamed at her. When she mouthed ‘’I love you’, he actually responded in same.

He had a son. And maybe he would teach him to play quidditch, and how to count and read. And maybe, he would read him stories at night. And maybe, just maybe, he would give him the odd hug and tell him that he did love him. And that whether or not a muggle beat him in his studies, and whether or not he was the best at everything, it didn’t matter. Because he was his son. And he loved him.

And maybe all that power didn’t matter. Maybe, just maybe, all the power was in the love of a father for his son. Maybe, he could just live a happy life without all that, with his –terrific- wife and his son.

Maybe, just maybe, power wasn’t important. Or status, or money, or how high he was in Voldemort’s circle. Or the rush of power—what could compare to holding his son?—the flow of power.

He could forget all that, while holding his son. Glowing with his son. He could, he could.

Almost. He could almost forget the appeal of power.

The appeal of death.

The appeal of ice.

The appeal of red.

The appeal of power.

And maybe, just maybe, he could almost forget all those odd beliefs (How had he started with that prejudice mumbo jumbo?).

…He could almost forget it..

He could –almost- just live in peace and normality with his family…

Almost.



For, there was power. Ah, power.

And holding his son, in light of power, in the glow of this black power, he could...

Almost let himself love him. Let himself do all the fatherly things. Almost forget all of the other things to live with his family.

Almost embrace that silly, weakening, useless love.

He nodded, handed his son back to Narcissa.

“His name is Draco.”

And left the room.



Maybe, he could…

No, only almost.

Only ever almost.