Draco sat in his desk chair, staring at his reflections in the dark window. He idly toyed with a quill, rolling it between his fingers over and over above the blank piece of parchment, leaving little flecks of ink on both the paper and his fingers. He hadn't been able to write in over a month. Longer, even. He supposed it was writer's block. Perhaps he'd wasted all his creativity on those stupid love poems he'd written for Peter. It would be just his luck that his ridiculous phase of infatuation with the other man would drain him of inspiration.
Still, he found it soothing, the act of sitting at his desk, and taking up a quill. As if he were going to write. As if he had ideas just niggling at his fingertips, trying to escape onto the paper. The truth was, he did have a thousand thoughts flying through his head these days, but none would make good poetry.
He'd quite welcomed his return to form. The spell his father had cast to return him to who he truly was had been a relief. The doubts that had plagued him, the vague, troubling feelings of guilt, and the strange sense of shame, the feeling that he wasn't quite right, good enough, all had disappeared. Blown away so easily, a handful of fragile petals in the storm of Lucius's power. It was so comforting to remember again that he was pure, he was right, and most of all, he was loved. He had made some mistakes. But his mother still held out hope for him. His father still cared for him. That feeling of certainty, belongingness, was priceless.
If he had to tell off Granger, what did it matter? That jumped up mudblood had always held him at arm's length, anyway, hadn't she? Always acted as if she were just a bit better than he was, as if she were indulging him. Pitying him. He was done with that. Glad to be rid of her. And Peter ... wasn't it the same with him? Always that condescension when he talked to Draco. That smile that said he was humoring the younger man. That he was world's past such a boy ... Draco played every smile, every look, over and over in his head, searching for it. He always found it, but he'd have to start over, afraid he'd missed it elsewhere. Every look in those eyes, so damn hard to read. So unsure of how Peter felt.
... no. He was better off without.
Of course, he never really talked to anyone anymore. He'd burned those bridges some time ago. But he didn't mind being alone. Not really. He'd been raised an only child, hadn't he? He didn't need other people. He only really felt it on the days when he wasn't working, and he found himself with nothing to do. Well, sometimes in the evenings, if no one was about. Or during his lunch hours, when he was sitting at his desk, stuck inside because of the weather. And of course it was the weather, not the lingering fear that he might run into someone he knew.
But his strange dissatisfaction with his family, this was something new entirely. And it was starting to trouble him. It's not that he wasn't grateful to Father, that he didn't love him, it just seemed ... well, Lucius was getting older. Old, almost. Past the time when he should be head of the Malfoy family perhaps. Shouldn't Draco start being groomed to take over? He'd asked Lucius about it several times, but always he was put off.
"Plenty of time for that. We'll see in a few years, perhaps after you've married. Had a son of your own."
A few years? He was expected to wait years? It was all ridiculous, and the resentment that had festered in him previous to his coming to his senses started anew. Father hadn't the faintest idea how to run things. he'd squandered the resources they had left, sat about doing nothing while their family rotted. The thoughts kept him up at night at times, and it was these dark early mornings that the other thoughts surfaced. The ones that bothered him even more than his anger towards his father.
He began to think he should go to Mother's room.
At first it was nothing more than a vague, undefined urge, that Draco made nothing of. He was still attracted to men; he was made painfully aware of it by his body whenever he walked past a handsome one, or had to talk to Halifax in printing. Moreso when he was turning over the memories of Peter in his head. He chalked it up to inexperience; after all, he'd never actually had proper sex with a man or woman. Once he was situated with a nice pureblood girl, he was sure the thoughts would go away. Sometimes, when they were particularly bad, he would consider seeing a prostitute of some stripe, just to get the whole thing out of the way. But a Malfoy could scarcely risk being seen with a woman of ill repute. He put the thought out of his mind.
But when thinking on what sort of woman he should take to wife he could not help but think that none of them would be able to measure up to Narcissa. How was he supposed to find a suitable mate-to-be when he had been raised by the very pinnacle of womanly perfection? Narcissa was everything a man could want - who could possibly compare?
From those thoughts grew the disturbing ones. The ones he knew were sick and wrong, but were so, so tempting. After all, his parents didn't even sleep in the same bed every night. Maybe not even most nights; Narcissa had had her own chambers for as long as he could remember, and he knew she spent at least some of her nights there. They probably weren't evern sleeping together. Would it hurt to go into her just one night, and share his concerns? Perhaps beg of her a motherly kiss on the brow ... explain how well matched they were. Many royal families and wizarding ones had kept their genes jealously from the more common families ... would this be so different? And he was young, he knew he could please her far better than that old man ...
He was starting to lose sleep over it. The inner debate keeping him up and pacing longer and longer each night. Mother would be shocked, horrified to hear such suggestions from her son ... but mightn't she also be secretly pleased? Flattered? He didn't know.
But he wanted very much to find out.