((This should be posted by Lucius, as it is his pov, but I forget to get him added to the community. >.<))
Lucius Malfoy had never dreamed things would go quite this badly. He knew his only son wouldn't like what his father had to say to him. That was a given. But to react this strongly ... he was reminded, not for the first time tonight, of the stories his father used to tell him about his great uncles. Twins, Evander and Aeneus, who had fought bitterly for succession, often physically and magically. Their battles were quite vicious and spectacular, his father had recalled with a certain nostalgia. Lucius had no brothers, only one younger sister.
The conversation had started well enough. He had waited until Narcissa was some several hours gone before approaching the boy, going to his chambers to speak with him. Draco had seemed open enough, and listened attentively as Lucius spoke, much as he had when he was a child. He had that faint half smile that Lucius recognized as his own mother's; a strange, almost fey look that seemed to imply some sort of secret ... and yet the boy had listened.
"I want you to stop bringing up this nonsense about succession, Draco. Of course you're my heir, and one day you will be the head of the Malfoy family. But you're far too young. I didn't inherit until I was well into my thirties. It takes a man of maturity, stability to head our house. One day, that will be you, but you're young, and still too prone to error and rashness."
"Yes, Father." Draco ducked his head slightly, and Lucius thought he detected a touch of sulleness. Well, that was to be expected, the boy hated to be lectured.
"Just because you are my only child, does not give you the right to question me as you have been. I'm tired of it, and I will have it no more. Your priority should be to finding an appropriate pureblooded girl. Once you're married, and have a few children, we will discuss things again."
"And promotion ... how can you expect to head the entire Malfoy family," What little scraps there are left of it, he thought darkly, "Working as an editor at some book printer's? You should be looking to the future. I'm glad you have some thoughts to what you might be doing ten, twenty years from now, but you must learn patience, boy! It cannot be all instant gratification. It is our greatest strength, patience. Cultivate it as a virtue. We have waited out one generation of wizards, until they have forgotten our more distasteful ties, and we shall do it again. But this will not be so with you lunging for the reins now. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
Draco looked up, meeting his father's eyes with a pair of identical cool grey. "Yes, I understand, Father."
"Good," Lucius nodded with some relief. He did not want to renew the struggle that he had so recently vanquished with an ancient Dark spell. "I knew you had some sense in you, Draco."
"I understand," the boy continued, rising, "But I do not agree."
Lucius narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean by that?" he said, voice sharp with suspicion.
"I think you know exactly what I mean, Father. Yes, patience is a virtue, yes, I should find a pureblood girl to breed with," his voice dripped with distaste. "And yes, it takes a man of maturity to run this little family. But you are not that man. You're old, Father, or hadn't you noticed? Old and foolish yourself, frittering away our money on your little wagers, on buying your freedom .... wasting it."
Lucius frowned at Draco. "Don't take that tone with me, boy! How dare you speak to me so! I have given you everything-!"
"And taken it all back," Draco said nastily. "No, I think this family's done with you. Maybe when you prove yourself, when you became stable enough," his tongue mocked the words he spoke, "Then you will be allowed back." He lifted his chin haughtily, contriving to stare down at his father though Lucius had almost a foot on him.
"You impertinent, bastardly-!" Lucius roared, and was cut short only by the hex flying through the air. His own wand was instantly in his hand as the curse scorched the wall not but an inch to the right of his ear. And then the air was thick with the greasy feel of too much magic as father and son threw spells at each other, one in a towering rage, the other with sneering contempt.
The room was too small to hold them. Painful hits scored on both side forced a retreat into the greater part of the house, where the war began in earnest. Lucius knew every inch of this house like the back of his hand; he had spent his first eleven years here. But then, so had Draco, and Lucius had taught him every secret, every hidden passage.
He'd taught him a full complement of curses, as well. Secret sessions during the summers, hidden in a room sealed against the prying charms of the Ministry. His son had not gone to school knowing as many hexes as Snape was reputed to have, but he'd been well able to take care of himself. And learned more and more with each passing year.
Of course, Lucius would be able to best the boy in any out and out duel. His knowledge had decades on Draco's. His had been tested, too, against other wizards, in formal duels that had been the fashion in his youth, and in more dire circumstances. But this was not two men facing each other and bowing, following a set of guidelines, carefully watched by others. This was something else entirely. And while he was not old as Draco would like to think, he was also not young. Not 19 years old and brimming with fire and life and carelessness that could make a hex so deadly. Lucius considered each spell, if only for a moment, before throwing it; Draco had no such handicap.
And so they pursued each other throughout the house. Or rather, Lucius pursued Draco; the boy seemed to content to rabbit and hide, finding new nooks to attack his father from. Lucius knew he had scored a few good hits. The boy had been limping when he saw him last, and his shoulder (not the wand arm, damn it all) had been spasming in the aftermath of a velicus hex, his eyes darting forward and back with the distracting precognition that came with the precipio charm.
But Lucius was not unscathed himself. His left hand and arm were withered, prematurely aged by a curse aimed at his head. His clothes were scorched and burned to ash in some places; Draco did like to throw fire around, as foolish as it was to do in his own house. His skin had not escaped the charms in some places. His chest throbbed with pain, his breathing constricted by an iron hand charm that would not fade ...
"You should hope I'll choose to be merciful and murder you on the spot when I find you! Stupid, traitorous boy ... "