Can't Deny His Charm
Title: The Sun at noon to higher air: Can't deny his charm
Edited by my ever-reliable tree_and_leaf, noeon, and femmequixotic, whose advice, where taken, was indispensable, and who will be justly entitled to say, where I stubbornly failed to take that sound advice, 'I told you so': I admit to a certain pigheadedness and bloody-mindedness in spots.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
The Sun at noon to higher air: Can't deny his charm
The boys are up the woods with day
To fetch the daffodils away,
And home at noonday from the hills
They bring no dearth of daffodils.
Father, you've been a fool.
I'm sorry, I don't wish to be any ruder than I can help, but, really, you have been.
You never believed I was attending to those interminable lessons, did you: all that balls about our superiority and how to keep it. You did prose on. Well, Father. I've bad news. I did listen. I can even now repeat that rubbish, verbatim, privatim et seriatim. Shall I?
Malfoys bend the knee to no one, Draco. Sod that for a game of Aurors. It wasn't folly to beg the Blacks for Mummy's hand in marriage, it was quite the cleverest thing you ever did, Father, but it was a bending of that stiff pride. It wasn't folly to bend the knee to Mummy, either -- that was survival: at the end of the day, Father, you knew perfectly well which of you had the core of steel, and it wasn't you .
But to grovel to Riddle, then to the Ministry, then to Riddle again, then to Harry.... You backed the wrong horse with the Dark Lord, and the damned gee wasn't even a thoroughbred.
A Malfoy always leads, Draco: the foremost position is ours as of right . Balls. You'd everything, Father: plausibility, power, riches, powerful appeal. And you branded yourself like a slave, like cattle. Oh, yes, I know. Our loyalty would be rewarded, we'd sit at the right hand of power. Balls. I don't know about you, Father, but I cannot say that having our house turned into a barracks for a gang of terrorists -- and incompetent ones at that -- was precisely a reward. And I can't say I'm fond of having had to dress for dinner only to have found myself at feeding time at the reptile house at the Zoo. And that was only the guest list, beginning with your -- oh, yes, your master, wasn't he? And what a fine sense he had of the obligations placed on him by your loyal service as his creature, upper servant, and toady. Bellatrix -- no, Mummy, I cannot call that woman my aunt -- swanning about as if she owned the place, werewolves in the drawing room.... That was simply brill, Father: however did you manage such a coup? The success of the social season, although the part of the house party housed in the dungeons may have had a different view to that of Auntie Maim. Bloody Bella.
Frankly, we'd have been better off at the Burrow. And in better company. No, I still don't like them, Mummy, but that's hardly the point, is it. No, Mummy, you are a Black by birth: if we Blacks can survive an alliance with the bloody berks of Borgin & Burke's, we can stand being cousins to the Weasleys. Besides, I'd not wish to cross Molly Weasley: Bella did, you know, and -- no, Mummy, I'm not at all sorry. No, I didn't really think you were, either. If I were you, I'd write to Aunt Andromeda at once. Besides, Harry's little Teddy's godfather, had you heard? Oh, most amusing, Father. 'Godmother' indeed. Fairy g- -- oh , all right. But, really Father, wasn't it from you I learnt that we are above such petty considerations? I remember you said -- what was it? Ah. Yes.... Nature's nobility.
We are Malfoys, Draco: Nature's nobility, of pure blood and magic. What utter ballocks. The Potters -- as such -- were the first and foremost amongst us: when Sirius ran off, not even the Blacks dared say anything to the Potters, did they, Mummy. They were first amongst us because they'd earnt it. It wasn't the blood in their veins that gave them the front rank in the estimation of decent Witches and Wizards, it was the blood they'd paid out defending our world that told. And Severus wasn't a pureblood, was he? Or Tom Riddle. Or Dumbledore, if half one hears is true. And then there's Harry. Raised by semi-detached Muggles near Staines , never told of the Potter heritage, son of a Muggle-born, or perhaps Squib-born, Witch. Look at him. That untameable hair, that ridiculous stubble he's so proud of managing to have raised. Biscuit-coloured from sun and wind. Those clothes -- good God, the man wants a tailor, desperately. And here am I, blue-blooded and poised, if far too rumpled for Father's temper not to flare; swan-necked elegance, finely bred. A sodding hothouse flower next Harry and his woodland wildness, like a daffodil in a wood. And who is it, without nurture or gentle upbringing, without purity of blood and long immersion in Wizarding ways, who's one of Nature's noblemen? Which of us again was it who won the bloody -- all too bloody -- War? Quite.
Cultivation is an essential quality, Draco . Oh, rubbish. Harry's not precisely what Father'd call cultivated, is he. He doesn't sweat servants or abuse elves -- or wish death on his classmates. You did an excellent job, Father, moulding me into an intolerable little shit, although I'm beginning to recover, thanks to Harry. Harry doesn't creep and crawl and black a madman's boots, and toady and grovel upwards whilst taking it out in change on anyone beneath him. He doesn't possess the cultivated vices -- unless you consider buggering me senseless every hour to be a vice, or a particularly cultivated one. Or is it more cultivated in me, to be gagging for him to shag me rather than the other way 'round, Father? Oh, do get off the floor, Father, you're dramatising on the Axminster. After all, it was you who taught me to follow power, wasn't it?
You will find, Draco, when you are older, that power is what matters: power, employed with finesse. Outwit what and whom you may, but always remember, when it comes to the last, a good, sound hex will always win the day -- and the darker, the better . Sorry, I'll try not to laugh. I won't bother labouring the point that a simple Expelliarmus seems to have beaten an Avada .... All right. The point stands. Jinxes and hexes, curses and Unforgiveables, I've managed to survive or avoid. But I find I can't withstand a Charm. Or, rather, his undeniable charms. You will forgive me, Father, if I am no longer wholly persuaded by your tuition.
You might consider an Anapneo for Father, Mummy, he seems to have choked on something. Probably his own words. Must run: Harry's waiting. I'll send an owl later -- I don't suppose you'd care to join us for dinner on -- no, I thought not, you'll want to keep Father from cocking up something yet again, I do understand. Just see to it, please, that whatever he's planning, it's not on. All right, Harry, I'm coming -- soon, I hope.
And now, Mummy, with your leave, I'll take my leave. There's no point in straightening my tie -- why ought it to be the only thing straight about me? -- or my clothes. Harry's waiting, and if my undeserved fortune holds, he'll have me out of 'em in short order. Or he can have me, in them, if that pleases him, I'm not fussed. So long as he has me. I can never deny his charms.