The deep bonging of the hall clock resonated in Lucius’ chest. He counted out the chimes: twelve. He shook back his sleeve to reference his watch: twenty-one seconds off. That would have to be remedied soon. But particulars aside, it was midnight. He sighed, eyes sore and seemingly frozen wide open, limbs tired and slightly jittery.

It had been an extended social affair, beginning promptly at noon, encompassing several hundred guests. He afforded himself an inward smile. A fine event. Hosted marvellously, if he did say so himself. Every detail pulled off seamlessly, polished to mirror-quality perfection. They all knew their routine well. He allowed a bit of credit to the servants: the cooks had produced their finest; the butlers had been unassuming yet accommodating, as was proper; and the maids had committed extra effort to making the house spotless—but then, that was what he paid them for. He expected no less.

He allotted himself the lion’s share of credit. After all, who else had overseen the entire production, had orchestrated so flawlessly, played his part so well?—but he acknowledged each humble letter as necessary to the most potent curse. Why, even the white peacocks had done well, strutting haughtily around the grounds, fluffing their plumage and preening, in perfect mimicry of their masters in the nearby mansion. All as it should be.

He had fondly bade goodbye to old Barian Birchram personally only a moment previously, but now the door was closed and the last guest gone and the silence complete. He reflected briefly on the ability of moments to shift so wholly and instantly from one to the next; seconds ago he had been Mr Malfoy, host to the season’s most talked-of party, lord of Malfoy Manor, but suddenly he was just Lucius. He permitted himself one long exhale.

The maids would be hard at work early in the morning to restore the house, but in the now all activity had ceased. He was utterly unaccompanied in his musings, Narcissa having retired much earlier due to a migraine. All that was left to do was to retire himself.

He treaded silently down the thick-carpeted hallway and then up the grand staircase, left hand trailing lightly on the mahogany banister. Two turns right down another hall, and then up a half-flight of stairs, until he found himself outside Draco’s room. Only there did he pause.

The door was shut, but he contemplated whether or not he should nudge it open a little to see if Draco was still awake. He resisted, at least for the moment.

Ah, Draco. He had sulked the entire time, especially moody, and Narcissa had whispered something about a girl. He had stomped up to bed as early as was polite.

Lucius knew his son’s feelings exactly, having once been the son of Mr Malfoy himself. He remembered all too well the parties stretching far into the night, sitting alone in a corner, unnoticed, eating little cucumber sandwiches or caviar, approached only when a partygoer grew bored and decided to ask just how school was going; or, more commonly, when someone needed to find his parents. He had suffered his lot stoically, and for the most part so had Draco in his turn.

It’s no fun but it must be borne, Lucius wanted to say. No one likes the role they were born to play, but they play it nonetheless, for the audience is waiting and the show must go on. He smiled a secret smile of satisfaction. Sage words, and they were true. Even he, Lucius—he didn’t enjoy these affairs any more than his son. But he never let the frown settle on his face, but kept a shallow smile plastered there, the mask they all wore. It was a form of protection, even, the only one they had.

Lucius imagined pushing open his son’s door and settling on his bed, as he hadn’t done in ten years or more, to tell him his own story, bedtime tale and warning both. But still he refrained, leaving the picture in his mind.

‘Once,’ he would say, ‘I loved a young woman named Adalia. This was at Hogwarts, she was a Ravenclaw, and her last name…was Piper? Phillips? Pewter? It escapes me. But specifics are not necessary.’ The Lucius in his mind settled himself better on the bed. ‘I loved her desperately, passionately, but entirely hopelessly, for both of us were betrothed to others. Gradually I set my feelings lower and deeper inside me, turning aside my face when I might pass her in the halls, until at last I could function daily without once picturing her in my mind, even began to forget certain details I had once treasured about her, such as the shape or her hands or the way she turned up her lips. No longer did I pine over her creamy skin and coy green eyes, but turned my thoughts to worthier subjects of contemplation.

‘Once, son, my father held a party just exactly like this one, and I held my smile high for the world to see. But let me tell you, Draco; when she walked through that door—’ The envisioned Lucius nodded at Draco’s bedroom door, ‘—my smile was the only thing that kept me anchored, stopped me from prostrating myself at her feet, buoyed me up from the salty waves of devotion threatening to drown me once and for all.

‘My smile said: you are no different to me than the rest of them. No more special, I hold no attachment to you. You are the same. You are nothing. And she had the same smile for me, empty and vapid and vain.

‘So you see, Draco, only by wearing our masks could we do our duties so well, save our families black shame. She died many years ago, but her passing has never meant anything to me, because she did not recognise me that night in her eyes. We were already dead to each other. It may at times be hard to bear, but bear it we must, because we were born to it.’

One last time Lucius considered sticking his head in the door—his hand even reached out—but then fell back limp again at his side. Some things were better left unsaid.