Fic: The Silence of the Peacocks NC-17 Title: The Silence of the Peacocks Author/Artist:fbowden Pairing: Draco/Scorpius Rating: NC-17 Warnings: Incest, angst Prompt: (if applicable) Scorpius is shocked when he spies on his father and finds him crying. Turns out it's the anniversary of Lucius' death and Draco misses him terribly.
Summary: Draco has spent his life caring for Scorpius under the most testing of circumstances. Now it's time for Scorpius to return the favour.
Notes: I have to heap tons of praise on my betas iulia_linneaand softly_sweetlywithout whom I might have gone a bit mad.
‘Darling, the grass is always greener on the other side,’ Scorpius remembers his mother saying. Ironic, really, given that not long afterwards she had packed her bags, air kissed the bewildered boy on each cheek and departed for pastures new.
Draco Malfoy, as he was often wont to do, had worked late the day his wife Apparated out of his life forever. Scorpius can still recall, with painful clarity, the exact moment his father arrived home that particular evening, an overwrought house-elf accosting him before he’d so much as cleared the Floo.
Interrupted by frequent episodes of ear-pulling, the elf managed to apprise his Master of the shocking news. Mistress Astoria had gone, the creature wailed, leaving not with their son, but a veritable banquet of items, encompassing everything from priceless jewels to antique wardrobes, and all the sophisticated finery contained therein.
Scorpius watched from his hiding place; an antediluvian chaise lounge, whilst his father, paling visibly by the second, leant the sudden weariness of his frame against a stone pillar. The elf continued to babble hysterically, but Draco’s wounded gaze focused only on the spindly piece of furniture failing to fully conceal the ten-year-old boy behind it.
Eventually dismissing the elf with a tired wave, Draco advanced respectfully, crooning his son’s name with such tenderness that fresh tears sprung forth, and Scorpius was disgusted by the ease with which they fell when the strong, comforting arms closed around him.
Oh, he had struggled when his father pulled him into his lap, of course he had, but it was a feeble and rather pointless objection. He was ten and a half, for Merlin’s sake, no boy his age should be coddled in such a manner, yet the soothing strokes that mapped the ridges of his spine had obliterated the last of his fragile resolve, so he turned his damp face into the warm, silken robes and tried to hold back the worst of the sobs that were choking him. Even now, Scorpius remembers how oddly satisfying it had been to experience his father’s tears mingle with his; tears that identified the situation as one of those rare times when a Malfoy was justified in exhibiting a chink in their emotional armour.
The memory is unique, because until today, it had remained the single occasion on which Scorpius witnessed Draco Malfoy, strong, proud, and impossibly arrogant in his public demeanour, to crumble under the weight of sheer melancholy.
Today is another such day, only now Scorpius has no idea why his father has chosen to huddle beneath the boughs of the Weeping Willow adorning the lake. His face is partially obscured by the long branches that sway in the summers’ breeze, limp and downturned as he supposes the corners of his father’s mouth to be in muted anguish. From his bedroom window, Scorpius cannot hear each ragged gulp of air Draco takes to fuel the quiet sobs, but he can see how they cause his body to convulse in gentle shudders.
Setting his patrician jaw firmly, a recognisable characteristic borne of generations of superior breeding, Scorpius vows to find out why his beloved father is distressed, and then employ whatever means are necessary to coax an equally rare smile from him.
The fierce summer sun has long since evaporated the dew from each blade of grass that weaves the blanket of lawn at Malfoy Manor. Despite this, the well-tended garden is still springy underfoot, and it enables Scorpius to circumnavigate the pond and reach the picturesque tree before startling his father into looking up.
Just as quickly, Draco glances away again, but not before Scorpius registers the red-rimmed eyes and tiny diamonds of moisture that cling to his pale lashes. Scorpius wonders how someone whose physicality appears deceptively fragile can demonstrate such strength of character and bravery beyond heroism. He has a deep, unwavering love for his father, a man who rode out the scandal of his wife leaving him for a penniless Muggle with a congenital dignity that Scorpius hopes he himself will one day demonstrate, should it prove necessary.
Scorpius is unnerved by his father’s unusually cool reaction, but he will not be turned away. He is determined to prove he is a Malfoy through and through, though not in the way those crass Potter children never fail to miss an opportunity to claim. They flaunt their "Hero Spawn" entitlement with a sickening resplendence, wielding superiority against all those whom they consider beneath them, and oh, how far Scorpius Malfoy is beneath them, the son of a coward, a hypocrite, a Death Eater, they taunt.
Scorpius never rises to the bait; he doesn’t need to because he knows their bitter words are pure fallacy. He takes amused consolation in the fact that, whilst Potter waged war against pure-blood supremacy and Muggle persecution, the retired Dark Lord vanquisher is content to turn a paternal blind eye to his own offspring’s self-proclaimed eminence. They share an entirely mutual loathing, he and the Potter kin, a passionate hatred that has cooled not a single degree in the passing of a generation.
Steadying himself against the rough bark, he drops into a crouch and follows his father’s line of sight.
“Bloody peacocks,” Scorpius mutters.
He craves the simple gesture of a hand on his knee, reassuring in its touch, perhaps grateful for his token effort at raising a tight smile from the sombre man. Instead, Draco points at the muster of peacocks, showy animals that Scorpius dislikes and knows his father has no genuine fondness for either; it baffles him as to why Father insists on maintaining a healthy stock of the pretentious creatures.
“Do you recall that day...” Draco’s voice, uneven with the strain of suppressed emotion, dwindles to naught.
Scorpius doesn’t need the end of the sentence to distinguish which day his father is referring to.
He hadn’t meant to hurt the albino peahen. When Draco found him that day, the limp bird sprawled inelegantly across his lap as he stroked down its feathers, he had tried to explain that the brainless thing should have kept still; it should have let him touch the crest that crowned its head. But it ran from him, just like his mother, just like his so-called friends and anyone else he’d ever cared about, with the exception of father, who, in ten-year-old Scorpius’ mind, was just as conspicuous by his mental absence as by any physical one. Anger had risen quickly, his mouth imbued with a tangible zest of resentment, and young Scorpius had surrendered wholeheartedly to the blinding rage, wringing every last vestige of it from the doomed animal’s scrawny neck.
“I didn’t plan to kill it, father,” Scorpius protests weakly, “I merely wished to feel its plumage, and I was cross when it fled from me.”
“Of course you meant it no harm, and I was at fault, not you,” Draco says to the wind, “I neglected to acknowledge how distressed you were then, too preoccupied with my own feelings as I was,I suppose. You were confused and angry, as you had every right to be, faced with such dire circumstance.”
The elegant hand that offers clemency and represents the only love that Scorpius has ever truly coveted, wavers uncertainly in the air before settling on his thigh. He breathes a sigh, grateful to feel it’s reassuring weight, and curls his fingers around the slender wrist.
“I'm surprised you’re up so early, given that it's the holidays. Ah, but then again,” Draco teases gently, “perhaps the importance of the day warrants an early departure from that pit you call a bedroom?”
Scorpius smiles and shifts his weight from the tree trunk to lean against his father.
“I have no plans to celebrate,” he says quietly, picking up one of scattered catkins between thumb and forefinger and examining it. “Is that why you’ve been crying? My birthday reminds you of mother, doesn’t it?”
Scorpius feels Draco stiffen at this outright mention; he has broken their unspoken agreement to pretend that she never existed, and he wishes he could take back the words but he can’t. Securing his grip more tightly, he refuses to let his father snatch his hand away.
“I’m sorry!” he cries, curling into the warmth and throwing his free arm around Draco’s neck, “but I saw you out here and I thought you should know that I don’t miss her, I don’t need her when I have you. If you’re sad because you think I care at all, then you’re wrong.”
He feels all the fight leave Draco then; he becomes a boneless mass moulded along his side, warm and human. A weary arm encircles his waist, and it’s all the invitation Scorpius needs to slide himself onto his father’s lap and pull him closer.
“I have less regret of her leaving than you,” Draco says with conviction, allowing Scorpius to turn his hand over and draw tight circles on his palm, the way he did when Scorpius was a small child and Draco would croon a song about teddy bears and gardens.
“Then why have you been crying, father? I can’t bear to see you this way! Whatever it is, we'll face it together, the two of us, just as it’s always been.” Scorpius is proud that his voice doesn't break, doesn't betray the fear he feels at what terrible miseries his father might be concealing from him. He has heard the story of many years earlier when the Ministry tried to repossess the Manor in lieu of crimes committed against society, and how hard the battle was fought to keep the wolves from the door, as well as Father’s determination to restore pride to the Malfoy name.
“If I confess, you must promise not to be angry,” Draco murmurs against his cheek, “for I simply did what any father would do, and tried to shield you from an uncomfortable truth.”
Scorpius leans into the light brush of lips, filled with a giddy pleasure descending from the knowledge that his father’s love is so profound.
“I could never be angry with you, Father,” Scorpius whispers, fingers moving over the soft skin of Draco’s nape and up into the luxuriously long hair. The texture is like his own, fine strands that slip through his fingers in a cascade of flaxen silk. Draco sighs in pleasure and begins to rub small circles on Scorpius’ back. Scorpius wonders how long it has been since his father has been touched in any manner that could be construed as affectionate; certainly he has never seen anyone in his father's bedchamber since Mother left.
“Your birthday is not the only anniversary to be remembered today,” Draco says sadly. “It is also the day on which your grandfather died. I did not tell you before, because I didn’t want it to cause you upset.”
Scorpius sits back and stares. His father hardly ever talks about Lucius Malfoy, and what Scorpius does know of the man, he has mostly heard from the mouths of his tormentors.
“Do you miss him?” As soon as the words are out, Scorpius berates himself for asking such a ridiculous question and huddles back into the embrace with a muttered apology.
Draco simply smiles indulgently.“At one point when I was younger, I got so angry with him that for a while, I didn’t care if he was alive or not. He made terrible mistakes that endangered all of us, and I found that sort of recklessness very hard to forgive. But as a child, I idolised him, and that kind of love can never truly be extinguished. I regret not spending more time with him before he died, but your mother was pregnant with you and at such a precarious stage...”
It takes a heartbeat or three to sink in. “But that means...”
Draco nods slowly, “It’s why you weren’t told. I didn’t want you to know that he died the day you were born.”
Scorpius’ head feels cottony and the palms of his hands itch. “Did – did he see me?”
Draco’s eyes shutter as he catches his lip, the soft tissue blanching under the assault of his teeth. A lump materialises in Scorpius’ throat as he watches the act of self-abuse.
“It’s okay,” he says, burying his face in the soft, clean shirt, pressing little kisses to Draco’s neck. He breaths in the sophisticated aftershave, a fragrance he has associated with the man for as long as he can remember. It is both familiar and soothing, and he holds on tightly throughout the silent shaking.
For awhile,Scorpius massages Draco’s scalp, doing the best he can to raise his father’s downcast spirit. In the blanket blue of the sky, the sun climbs higher and makes subtle changes to the shadows cast by the boughs. Draco eventually lets out a long sigh and scrubs his face before cupping Scorpius’ head to cradle him against his shoulder.
“No, he didn’t see you. It was the strangest day, the best and worst of my life. I’d been at St Mungo’s visiting him, the first time in a long time, when your mother’s Patronus arrived, demanding I return to the Manor if I wished to see my heir born. He took my hand and wouldn’t let go. I tried to explain that I was needed, that a new generation of Malfoy was about to be born, but he only gripped harder. The pain in his eyes as I pulled my hand away...but I had to leave, I wouldn’t have missed your arrival for anything, and I’ve never regretted it; you were so beautiful. I held you in my arms and fell instantly in love, then promised myself that I would rather die than let you suffer because of my mistakes. I’ve tried so hard to give you a heritage to be proud of, Scorpius.”
“You have, Father,” he says, pressing his soft cheek to Draco’s. “Oh, you have.”
Draco smiles lightly and traces the shell of Scorpius’ ear.
“I took you to visit him, less than an hour old and against the Healer’s advice, but I wanted him to meet you, to be proud of what I had given him – not just a grandson but a chance at redemption. But the sickening looks of artificial sympathy when I arrived, I knew instantly that he had passed away during my absence. I stood there, clutching the most precious thing in the world, thinking how, once again, he had failed to acknowledge my achievement. It hurt so very much, but worse was knowing that I had abandoned him when he needed me most. I still regret not being with him, but you were more important, and he would have understood that, I think. He valued family above all else, even when his methods of showing it were sometimes flawed. He would have cherished you, Scorpius, that much I am certain of.”
Scorpius doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s only had one person truly cherish him, and to think that there may have been another who has also been taken from him is distressing.
Draco shushes him and thumbs away his tears, smiling despite his own. “Such a sensitive boy,” he murmurs, kissing the damp skin at the corner of one eye. “What would I do without you?”
Heat rises in Scorpius belly, a flutter of fierce protectiveness and the oddest hint of arousal, but he chooses not to question it, simply turns his face and presses his lips to Draco’s, needing to make sure his father knows it will never be an issue; Scorpius will never leave him, for his father is the single most important person in his life.
Perhaps his mouth lingers too long, or maybe it’s the subtle parting of his lips as he experimentally lets his tongue wriggle between them, desperate to lick away all traces of the salty residue between them. Whatever the reason, Draco’s breath catches and he pulls back, staring at Scorpius in disbelief. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth as though he’s tasted filth. It's one rejection too many, and Scorpius clings wildly.
“Scorpius!” Draco exclaims, grey eyes wide with evidence of his shock.
Scorpius touches a wondrous finger to his own tingling lips and refuses to be pushed out of his father’s lap. “Why not?” he demands. “You love me, Father, you said so!”
“Of course I do!”
“Am I not enough then?” Scorpius whispers miserably. Why does he always get it wrong? He only wanted to make his father happy, and now he’s ruined it.
“You are everything, you know that!” Draco insists.
Scorpius doesn’t feel like he’s everything; he feels helpless, childish, and there is a dull throbbing in his chest at the way his father’s hands are held up, warding him off. Scorpius grasps them in his own and places one over his heart.
“Please, Father,” he implores, sucking in a winded sob and blinking furiously against hot tears. “I need this.”
“Oh Gods,” Draco moans, tentatively stroking the velvet soft cheek.
Scorpius firmly guides Draco’s hands apart, moving into the embrace he has created to nuzzle a patch of creamy skin above Draco’s collar. Draco makes a guttural sound, and although it sounds very much like dissent, Scorpius decides it must be encouragement, for how can Father think this is wrong? It doesn’t feel wrong, it feels wonderful, and Scorpius is determined to hear more of those noises.
So beautiful, Scorpius thinks, pouting his lips out over and over again, wetting them with the tip of his tongue to leave shiny trails across the pale column of flesh. The rub of morning stubble as he caresses it with his cheek excites him further.
“I never thought you might attempt to follow in my footsteps,” Draco murmurs, as Scorpius attends the alluring challenge of shirt buttons. “Your Grandfather and I – shared a similar attachment; I had not planned on repeating such an intimate relationship with you.”
Scorpius wants to argue, but that would mean taking his mouth away from the warm skin under his lips, and he doesn’t want to do that. Instead, he grunts his displeasure at the statement and runs his tongue over the defined chin, capturing the thin bottom lip with his teeth.
“Merlin,” Draco groans, laying a palm flat on the ground to steady himself.
Scorpius tests the resistance of his father’s mouth, working his tongue between the seam of Draco’s lips, coaxing them to yield.
When they do, he thinks his heart might explode with sheer joy. Draco’s hand cups his cheek, roughly pulling him into wet heat, deepening the kiss. Scorpius moans as blood rushes to pool in his groin, fleshing out his erection. He makes needy little whimpers and presses himself against Draco’s stomach, elated to feel the hard outline of his father’s arousal growing beneath him. Jerking his hips forward, Scorpius thrusts his cock until he finds some friction, but the scratch of cloth alone is not enough to satisfy.
No one has ever touched him down there before, where the maddening rush of blood collects to induce dizziness, and Scorpius pleads pitifully, a litany of "Please, Father, please,",employing the good little boy act that Draco has never been able to refuse before.
“Scorpius,” Draco chokes out, slipping his fingers inside the waistband of Scorpius’ trousers and toying with the elastic of his underpants, “this is – “
“It’s love,” Scorpius interrupts, exhaling sharply when Draco’s cool fingers close around his heated flesh. “I love you, father.”
“And I you.”
Draco’s hips jerk, and Scorpius feels hardness rubbing against the cleft of his arse. Even through his clothes it feels wonderful, but he wants more, needs more. Shuffling backwards onto Draco’s outstretched legs, he finds hisfather's zip with trembling hands and lowers it until he can reach inside. Scorpius is pleased bythe throaty noise his father makes as he pulls his cock out. He has seen his father naked many times before, of course, but never aroused like this. Afat vein woven beneath the stretched pink skin pulsates under his touch, and he runs the pad of his thumb along it, tracing its path. He follows it until he comes to the drawn-back foreskin, exposing the shiny wet head in all its glory.
Scorpius glances up and watches Draco’s head fall back against the tree trunk, emitting a long, anguished moan. Grey eyes the mirror image of his own flit from Scorpius'face to his hand, observing intently. Scorpius smiles and swipes his thumb over the leaking slit, catching up a drop of the fluid and quickly sucking it into his mouth.
“Oh fuck,” Draco cries, the hand still wedged in Scorpius’ underpants working faster. Scorpius doesn’t know if he can stop himself from spilling his seed over Draco’s wrist; the firm grip of his father’s palm sliding along his incredibly sensitive shaft is too much, too perfect and too wonderful.
“I – I can’t – I’m sorry!” Scorpius gasps, even as he feels the thick ropey fluid leave his testicles, searing through his cock to splash the light, even skin of Draco’s arm, more ejaculate landing on his own hand, still curled around Draco. Desperate to give his father similar pleasure, Scorpius lowers his head and runs the tip of his tongue over the swollen head, savouring the unusual taste. Draco grasps his shoulders firmly and pushes him away, crying out in broken syllables that he is coming.
Scorpius wants to feel it in his mouth, sliding against his tongue. He wants to suck the warm, sweaty flesh and swallow every last drop of salty fluid, but Draco’s grip is insistent, so he can only watch in dismay as Draco’s prick jerks violently and sprays their clothes instead, the slick substance soaking into fabric.
Falling forward, Scorpius rests his forehead against Draco’s shoulder. Strong arms wrap him in a tight embrace, and he smiles contentedly. This is the only love he needs to keep him strong, that which has been constant his entire life. They stay sheltered together beneath the protective branches while the day moves on, observing the progress of the sun and two of the peacocks who have broken away from the main flock and seem happy to navigate the lawn as one.
“My special boy,” Draco repeats intermittently, placing a gentle kiss to the hairline identical in colour to his own.
Everything Scorpius needs is here, absently stroking his arm and holding him in a reassuring embrace. Being a Malfoy, he realises, is not a curse, it’s an honour. The grass may be greener on the other side, but he is willing to wager none is as lush as the foliage nurtured in the sunlight at Malfoy Manor.