purityconquered | (no subject)

"What on earth are you doing?"

Your eyes shift towards the source of this disdainful query to see your father imposingly framed in the doorway behind you. You're mildly surprised that he even knew where the nursery was, let alone condescend to make an appearance, but apparently the baby's cries (or the rumour of them) have been piercing enough to penetrate even the remote recesses of Abraxas's study.

"I have no idea," you reply—a bit too honestly before you can check yourself—hoping after the fact it sounds sarcastic rather than helpless. You're exasperated and embarrassed to be caught awkwardly attempting to comfort your son. "He's been... rather fussy lately." An understatement, definitely. Why there's not a potion for this, you have no idea. "I offered to take a turn with him," you add, because the fact that you're minding the baby at all needs an explanation (at least as far as your father is concerned. Women's work... you can already hear the contempt. And right now, you are aggravated enough to agree).

Although you didn't offer, actually, but you certainly aren't going to admit that Narcissa had insisted, which would provoke a worse reaction (accusations of weakness). Unfortunately, you are between nannies at the moment.

"What you are doing, is mollycoddling him," your father corrects, his lip curling in disgust. "What he needs from you is a firm hand, Lucius, not this sort of fawning attention for bad behaviour. Put him in his cot and for pity's sake close the door behind you. He'll quiet down if he knows what's good for him. If he doesn't, you give him a spanking, not a cuddle."

A wry thought crosses your mind how bizarre it would be to ever see your father bestow the latter. You recall that he was fairly proficient at the former.

"Draco is just a baby," is all you can think to say. This statement of fact is about as close as you dare come to a protest, even as you do as you are ordered and then follow your father out of the nursery.

"All the more reason to begin immediately. The sooner you start holding him to a high, exacting set of standards, the better." And then, pointedly: "You wouldn't want to endure the same disappointments in your son that I've had to in mine." (Despite his best efforts is implied. Your failings are certainly no fault of your father's.)

"No, of course not." You tip your head to hide the angry flush that tinges your cheeks at the chastisement. "You're right, of course." (Your father is always right.)

And you harden your heart against the pitiful cries; firmly (spinelessly) pulling the door closed between you and your child with a resounding click.