Daddy - A Draco Songfic
Posted: Mon Apr 07, 2003 4:34 pm
Daddy
A Draco Songfic
Disclaimer: I have no ownership of the Harry Potter characters. They belong to the marvelous JKR, Warner Brothers, Scholastic and Bloomsbury. The song Daddy belongs to Jewel. I did, however, tweak a couple of the lyrics to fit into the Malfoy scenario. Don’t sue me. It’s not worth it.Rating: PG-13 for strong thematic elements
Author’s Note: This is a departure from my normal works of fan fiction. It’s my first songfic, as well as my first work where Draco is the central character. My fingers are crossed that it isn’t a total disappointment!
***
My bones are tired, Daddy
I don’t get enough sleep
I don’t eat as good as I could, Daddy
What’s that say about me?
Five-year-old Draco Malfoy tumbled out of his wrought iron bed, his eyes still clamped shut – the muscles in his lids fighting his body’s decision to awaken at such an ungodly hour. The sun wasn’t even up yet – why should he be? His layers of finely tailored bedding beckoned him to lie back down, if only for just a few more minutes. But it wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth whatever Father would do to him if he were caught. He snatched a glimpse of his reflection in the stately looking mirror that hung above his bureau – an old bruise that was half-healed was still apparent under his right eye. No, five minutes more of sleep wasn’t worth whatever Father would do.
Draco grabbed the metal footboard and balanced himself along the criss-crossed iron curves of the railing as he put a pair of slippers on his shivering feet.
“DRACO!” boomed a voice that shook the rafters of the manor house.
A little creature ran into the bedroom, holding his hands over his bat-like ears.
“Dobby has come to tell young master … his father awaits.” The house-elf cringed as the voice boomed out again.
“I can hear that he’s waiting,” growled the little boy. “Let him wait,” he said under his breath as he pulled a bathrobe on. “What’s for breakfast?” he asked aloud.
“Dobby regrets to tell young sir,” said the timid creature, shaking. “Master has cancelled breakfast for young sir.”
“What?” said Draco, his jaw gaping.
“As punishment for not being in the parlor at 5 A.M. sharp, sir,” said Dobby, backing away from the boy nervously.
“I’M NOT PAYING THIS WIZARD A VAULTFUL OF GOLD FOR YOU TO SLEEP THROUGH YOUR LESSONS!” Lucius Malfoy’s voice thundered. “GET DOWN HERE NOW, BOY!”
***
Sometimes I sleep past noon, Daddy
Drink lots of fire whiskey and I smoke like a chimney
Yes, I left the front door half open, Daddy
What’s that say about me?
Eleven-year-old Draco Malfoy had just gotten what should have been the most important news of his life, to that point. His acceptance letter to school had arrived by owl fifteen minutes earlier. He ran to his father’s study, clutching the parchment in his hands. Normally, he’d have knocked and waited for an invitation to come in, but surely his father would forgive him this one time – for this. After all, it was Hogwarts.
“Father … guess what!” Draco shouted excitedly, shedding all the usual pretence of formality he normally put on around his father.
Lucius Malfoy was facing the immense fireplace in the study, speaking in low tones to a boorish-looking face floating amid the crackling flames.
“One moment, Goyle,” Lucius spat to the head in the grate. “Amazed to see you out of bed before noon,” he said scornfully to his son. “And the one time you are, you have to barge in on my private affairs … this better be good, boy.”
“My Hogwarts letter!” Draco said, waving the parchment in the air with more enthusiasm than he’d ever shown for anything else in his entire life.
“Is that all?” scoffed Lucius. “Hardly worth interrupting me over … and it’s about time you got it, at any rate … can you imagine the embarrassment if you didn’t get one?”
“I’ll drown Gregory if he doesn’t get his soon,” chuckled the brutish face in the fireplace dimly.
Lucius gave a cold laugh. “Good idea.” He didn’t bother looking back at Draco. “Get out of here, boy. I have business.”
Draco slouched back out of the study. He sulked all the way to the parlor.
“Mother?” he called out half-heartedly as he entered the room. He held the school letter in his hand limply.
Instead of his mother’s voice, he heard a squeaky voice answer.
“Dobby’s sorry to tell young sir … the mistress is gone.”
“Gone?” echoed Draco. He narrowed his eyes, swore under his breath and kicked the house-elf to the ground.
“Dobby is sorry!” moaned the house-elf miserably. He scrambled to his feet.
Draco dragged the pitiful creature to the entrance hall by the scruff of his moldy pillowcase and tossed him out the front door. He shouted after him,
“Go and find her … tell her that her only child has finally been accepted to Hogwarts … and tell her I’m … celebrating.”
Dobby nodded nervously and with a CRACK! he disappeared.
Draco didn’t bother shutting the door. If Lucius came out of the study and saw it swinging on its hinges in the breeze, he’d be in for it, but he didn’t even care.
He stumbled back to the parlor and collapsed into an ostentatious wingback chair upholstered in pompous green velvet. He eyed his father’s liquor cabinet and a small wooden box that lay upon it. He suddenly had a brilliant plan. Some fire whiskey and a few cigars, he thought. A perfect way to celebrate.
***
Sometimes I want to rip out your throat, Daddy
For all those things you said that were mean
Gonna make you just as vulnerable as I was, Daddy
What’s that say about me?
Twelve-year-old Draco Malfoy sat at the dining room table, the summer before his second year at Hogwarts.
“I’ll get you on the team, boy,” said Lucius Malfoy after he’d taken a large swig of his brandy. “You’d just better make sure you beat Potter or I’ll beat you so hard with that new broomstick I bought you, your grandchildren will wonder why ‘Nimbus 2001’ is imprinted on your forehead … you want to be just like that scar-headed brat? I’ll give you a scar …” He swallowed the rest of his brandy with one great swill, then poured himself another. “You just make sure you beat him …”
***
Sometimes I want to bash in your teeth, Daddy
Gonna rip your heart out the way you did mine, Daddy
Go ahead and psycho-analyze that
‘Cause I’m your creation, I’m your love, Daddy
Grew up to be and do all those sick things you said I’d do
Well last night I saw you sneak out your window
With your black hood, Daddy
What’s that say about you?
Fourteen-year-old Draco Malfoy laid awake in his tent at the Quidditch World Cup. The vision of Potter, Granger and Weasley in the top-box burned in his memory – they were so abysmally happy sitting there with that bumbling, Muggle-loving excuse of a man – Weasley’s idiotic father.
Where was his own father? He’d heard him whispering with his friends – if you could call them friends – they were more like what he, Draco, had to pass for friends. They were, essentially, lackeys. In any case, he’d heard murmurs earlier – about having some fun after the Quidditch match. Then, only moments ago, he’d seen his father slip out – garbed in black robes, his face concealed by a hood.
He’d never have admitted it. Not now. Not after so many years. But all he’d ever wanted from his father … his daddy… was a little bit of what Weasley’s father gave him. A little bit of recognition. A little bit of warmth. A little bit of love.
***
My bones are tired, Daddy.
