Emerald Expectations

The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of Malfoy Manor, throwing long gold rectangles across the polished marble floor. Dust floated in the beams, lazy and undisturbed except when the curtains fluttered in the warm breeze. It was one of those afternoons where you just wanted to lie still and let the world forget about you—and Draco Malfoy was fully on board with that plan.

He was sprawled across the big ornate couch, one leg dangling off the armrest, the other bent at the knee. The pose was deliberately careless, the kind of studied nonchalance he’d perfected over years. The silk cushions were cool against his skin, which was good, because his outfit wasn’t exactly made for warmth.

A short pleated skirt in deep emerald green sat high on his thighs. A fitted white crop top left a sliver of his midriff bare. Bare feet, toenails painted the same green. A delicate ankle chain—Pansy’s gift, which he’d mocked at first but now secretly loved.

But the real work of art was his hands.

He held them up to the light, turning them, watching the polish catch the sun. Perfect green—not too dark, not too bright, with just a hint of shimmer. He’d spelled them dry in under a minute, a trick from a Witch Weekly article he’d never admit to reading.

His face had gotten careful attention too: a light dust of shimmer on his cheekbones, a touch of mascara to make his grey eyes pop, and a subtle green eyeliner to match his nails. He looked, he thought with a smirk, absolutely exquisite.

The drawing-room door swung open without warning.

Draco didn’t flinch. He’d been expecting this, more or less. His father’s schedule was painfully predictable: paperwork in the study until four, then a wander through the manor before dinner. That Lucius chose today to wander in here wasn’t a coincidence—Draco had made sure to park himself in the most visible spot, right in line with the door.

Lucius entered, a stack of parchment in one hand, wand tucked into his cane. He was frowning at the documents, brow furrowed the way it always was when dealing with Ministry correspondence. He didn’t look up.

“I did not realize you were in here, Draco,” he said, distracted. “I had thought to review these requisition forms in peace, but I suppose—” He finally raised his eyes.

He stopped mid-sentence.

Draco watched his father’s face cycle through expressions with barely contained glee. First confusion—a slight narrowing of the eyes. Then recognition—pupils widening as the details of Draco’s outfit came into focus. Then horror—a subtle but unmistakable tightening of the jaw.

Lucius’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“Draco,” he said, voice carefully level. “What are you wearing?”

“Clothes, Father,” Draco replied, arching an eyebrow. “I believe they’re quite fashionable. Pansy helped me pick them out.”

“I see.” Lucius set his parchment down on a nearby side table with excessive precision, like the papers might explode if handled too carelessly. He took a slow, deliberate breath.

Draco didn’t move. He stayed sprawled across the couch, one hand now resting delicately on his exposed knee, the other still raised as he examined his nails with theatrical disinterest.

Lucius walked to the armchair opposite the couch and sat down. He folded his hands in his lap. He stared at his son.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

“Your mother,” Lucius began carefully, “would have told me if she had taken you shopping.”

“She didn’t. I went with Pansy and Daphne. We had a lovely time.” Draco smiled, sweet and innocent. “Would you like to see the other pieces we picked out? I found a lovely skirt in silver that I think would pair wonderfully with your coloring.”

Lucius’s eye twitched.

“Draco, I am going to ask you a question, and I would like you to answer it honestly.” He paused, voice dropping to a low, serious register. “Is this some form of hex? Have you been cursed? Imperiused?”

Draco let out a genuine laugh, bright and sharp in the quiet room. “No, Father. I simply like how I look. Is that so difficult to believe?”

“It is when you are wearing a skirt.”

“And?” Draco sat up slightly, crossing his legs at the ankle. “It’s comfortable. It’s fashionable. And quite frankly, I think I look rather dashing. The green brings out my eyes.”

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your eyes are grey, Draco.”

“Exactly. Grey and green are complementary colors. It’s basic color theory.” He wiggled his fingers. “The nails are the finishing touch. I call this shade ‘Slytherin Sunrise.’”

“There is no such thing as Slytherin Sunrise.”

“There is now.”

Lucius stood up abruptly, pacing to the window. He stood with his back to Draco, one hand gripping his cane, the other pressed to his forehead. Silence stretched, heavy and a little absurd.

Draco watched his father’s shoulders rise and fall with slow, deliberate breaths. He knew the ritual: counting to ten—or maybe twenty, given the severity. He’d seen it many times, usually after an infuriating letter from the Ministry or a passive-aggressive note from Narcissa about his study hours.

“Father,” Draco said, softening his voice just slightly, “you’re going to give yourself a headache.”

“Too late,” Lucius muttered.

“Come sit down. I’ll pour you a drink.”

Lucius turned, his expression a mix of exasperation and reluctant affection. “You are far too clever for your own good, Draco.”

“So I’ve been told.”

He didn’t pour his father a drink, but he did shift into a slightly more respectable sitting position, pulling his legs up and crossing them at the knee. The skirt rode up another inch, and Lucius’s face cycled through another round of pained expressions.

“Sit properly,” Lucius said, strained.

“I am sitting properly.”

“You are sitting like—like a—” He gestured vaguely, at a loss.

“Like a person who is comfortable?” Draco offered.

“Like a harlot.”

Draco gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Father! Such language. Mother would be appalled.”

“Your mother would faint.”

“Don’t be dramatic. She has excellent taste. In fact, I’m fairly certain she owns several skirts shorter than this one.”

Lucius opened his mouth, closed it, and sat down heavily in the armchair. He looked defeated, and Draco had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“I am not being dramatic,” Lucius said, regaining some composure. “You are a Malfoy. You have a reputation to uphold. And while I am not entirely opposed to modern fashion trends, there is a time and a place for such—” He searched for the right word. “—experimentation.”

“And the drawing-room of Malfoy Manor at three in the afternoon is not the time or place?”

“It most certainly is not.”

Draco tilted his head, studying his father with amusement and genuine curiosity. “What exactly are you afraid of, Father? That I’ll scandalize the portraits? That a house-elf will see my knees and perish from shock?”

“The house-elves have more decency than you do at present.”

“Bold words from a man who once attended a Ministry gala in a velvet smoking jacket that could only be described as ‘peacock chic.’”

Lucius’s face flushed. “That was a different era entirely. And it was burgundy.”

“It was maroon with gold embroidery, and you looked like a walking curtain.”

“I will have you know that your mother picked that jacket.”

“Exactly my point.” Draco grinned. “Mother has excellent taste, and she has never steered you wrong. So perhaps you should trust her son’s taste as well.”

Lucius stared at him for a long moment, his grey eyes—so similar to Draco’s—searching. What he found, apparently, was sincerity, because his expression softened, just a fraction.

“Is this truly about fashion,” Lucius asked quietly, “or is there something else you are trying to tell me?”

The question hung in the air, unexpected and surprisingly tender. Draco felt a flicker of vulnerability, a warmth spreading through his chest that made him look away.

“It’s just clothes, Father,” he said, lighter than he felt. “I like them. They make me feel good. Isn’t that enough?”

Lucius was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed, a sound from the very depths of his soul.

“It is,” he said slowly, “in theory. But I am your father, Draco. It is my job to worry about such things.”

“You worry too much.”

“Someone has to. Your mother certainly does not.”

“She worries about more important things. Like whether the peonies in the garden have received enough moonlight.”

Lucius let out a huff of laughter, unexpected and genuine. “She is obsessed with those peonies.”

“She tried to name them last week. She has a list.”

“Narcissa Malfoy, plant mother. Who would have thought?”

They shared a quiet moment of amusement, the tension easing like a knot slowly unraveling. Draco stretched his legs out, crossing his ankles, and Lucius didn’t comment that the skirt had ridden up further.

But the peace wasn’t destined to last.

“I still want you to change,” Lucius said, firmer now.

“No.”

“I am not asking, Draco.”

“And I am not a child, Father. I can dress myself.”

“You are dressing like a—” He stopped, clearly trying to find a word that wouldn’t start another argument. “—like a rebel.”

“A rebel?” Draco laughed. “I’m wearing a skirt, not a Dark Mark.”

The words came out sharper than he intended, and he saw his father flinch. The reminder of the war, of the choices they’d made and the consequences they still lived with, settled over the room like a cold shadow.

Draco looked down at his hands, at the perfect green nails that had brought him so much joy just minutes ago. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” Lucius’s voice was soft. “I know you didn’t.”

They sat in silence, the weight of the past pressing in. Draco thought about all the things he’d never said, all the ways he’d tried to carve out an identity in the shadow of his family’s name. The skirt, the makeup, the nails—small things, insignificant in the grand scheme. But they were his.

“Father,” he said, “do you remember when I was eleven, and you told me that a Malfoy does not cry?”

Lucius frowned. “I remember.”

“I took that very seriously. I spent six years at Hogwarts pretending nothing bothered me, that I was above it all. And it worked, mostly. But it also meant I never really figured out who I was underneath all that armor.”

He looked up, meeting his father’s eyes. “This—” He gestured to himself, to the skirt and the makeup and the painted nails. “This is me figuring it out. And I know it’s strange, and I know it’s not what you expected. But it’s who I am right now. And I would like it if you could at least try to accept it.”

Lucius was quiet for a long, long moment. His face was unreadable, a mask of aristocratic composure that Draco knew all too well.

Then, slowly, Lucius spoke.

“Your grandmother,” he said, “would have had an absolute fit.”

Draco blinked. “What?”

“Abraxas Malfoy. My father. He would have looked at you, taken a deep breath, and written you out of the will.” Lucius’s lips twitched. “Then he would have gone to his study and drunk an entire bottle of firewhisky.”

“Does that mean you approve?”

“It means I am trying.” Lucius leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I do not understand this, Draco. I will not pretend that I do. But I also do not understand half of the things your generation does, and I have learned that this is likely my problem, not yours.”

Draco felt a lump form in his throat. He swallowed it down.

“So you’re not going to force me to change?”

“I am going to very strongly suggest that you wear a cloak when we have guests.”

“I can live with that.”

“But I am also going to ask—” Lucius paused, his expression shifting to something almost sheepish. “—what exactly is the appeal? Of the skirt, I mean. Is it simply comfort, or is there something else?”

Draco considered the question seriously. “It’s hard to explain. It’s like... robes are fine, but they’re so heavy. And trousers are practical, but they feel restrictive. A skirt is light. It moves with you. And there’s something about wearing something society says you shouldn’t wear that feels—” He searched for the right word. “—liberating.”

“Liberating,” Lucius repeated, as though tasting the word.

“Yes. Like I’m refusing to be put in a box. Like I’m choosing who I want to be, rather than letting the world decide for me.”

Lucius nodded slowly. “I think I understand.”

“Do you?”

“No. But I am trying.” He smiled, a rare and genuine expression that transformed his sharp features. “And I suppose that is what matters.”

Draco smiled back, and for a moment, everything felt right.

Then Lucius ruined it by standing up and waving his wand, summoning a heavy traveling cloak from the coat rack by the door.

“Put this on,” he said, holding it out.

“Father—”

“Just for now. Until I have had time to acclimate.”

“You’ve had ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes is not nearly enough.” He shook the cloak insistently. “Come now. Humor your old father.”

Draco sighed, but he was smiling. He stood up slowly, deliberately, making sure to adjust his skirt and stretch his arms above his head in a way that made Lucius wince.

“You really think this is inappropriate?” Draco asked, voice dripping with faux innocence. “At least I’m not wearing a House-elf tea cosy like Uncle Rodolphus.”

Lucius froze. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“Where did you—” He stopped, sputtering. “Rodolphus Lestrange wore a what?”

“You didn’t hear? It was at the Ministry Gala last spring. He showed up in what can only be described as a knitted atrocity. Mother sent me a photograph. I still have it somewhere.”

“He wore a tea cosy.”

“A very large, very beige tea cosy. With tassels.”

Lucius stared at him for a moment, his expression cycling through confusion, disbelief, and then—finally—laughter. It started as a choked chuckle, then grew into a full, unrestrained laugh that echoed through the drawing-room.

“Tea cosy,” he repeated, wiping his eyes. “Rodolphus Lestrange, champion of the Dark Lord, wearing a tea cosy.”

“With tassels,” Draco emphasized.

“With tassels.” Lucius shook his head, still laughing. “Merlin’s beard. And I was worried about a skirt.”

“Tradition is relative, Father. At least my outfit is intentional.”

Lucius laughed again, and Draco felt a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with the summer heat. He reached out and took the cloak from his father’s hands, draping it over his arm.

“I’ll wear it when the house-elves come in,” he said. “And when we have visitors. But in private, I’m dressing how I like.”

“That seems reasonable.” Lucius paused. “But if your mother asks, I put my foot down.”

“You put your foot down and I immediately overruled you.”

“Deal.”

They shook on it, and Draco felt a lightness in his heart he hadn’t felt in years. The afternoon sun continued to stream through the windows, warming the room and the two Malfoys within it.

As Lucius returned to his armchair and picked up his paperwork, Draco settled back onto the couch, the cloak forgotten beside him. He held up his hands again, admiring the green nails in the golden light.

“That is a nice color,” Lucius said, not looking up from his parchment.

Draco’s head snapped toward his father. “What?”

“The nail polish. It suits you.” Lucius still didn’t look up, but there was a hint of a smile in his voice. “Though I would recommend a darker shade for winter. Something with more depth.”

“Father, are you giving me fashion advice?”

“I am making an observation. Take it as you will.”

Draco stared at him for a moment, then broke into a grin. “I’ll add it to my list. ‘Lucius Malfoy’s Guide to Seasonal Nail Colors.’”

“I expect to be credited.”

“You’ll have a whole chapter.”

The afternoon stretched on, comfortable and warm. Draco didn’t put on the cloak. Lucius didn’t mention it again.

And somewhere in the garden, Narcissa Malfoy was naming her peonies, completely unaware that her husband and son had just taken the first tentative step toward understanding each other—one emerald-green nail at a time.