HP: "The Horse Whisperer," Gen, Lucius, Snape, PG13
Summary: From A Brief History of the Malfoy Family. There are things we do out of duty, and things we do for love.
pushdragon tempted me to write this. It's always someone else's fault.
They took the first set out at dawn. It was cold, damp and foggy, and Snape, riding at Lucius's side, was hungover and bitter with it. "They don't pay us enough for this," he complained for the thousandth time. "Getting up in the dark in January, it's fucking insane." Lucius smiled a little, didn't answer. It made him think of Quidditch training, back at Hogwarts, getting up before the sun rose to run. Snape had never had the discipline for Quidditch. He despised physical activity of any kind.
But Lucius had missed this: the quiet, the sunrise, the feeling of being the only one alive. He shortened his reins a little as they started up the hill, and Rosy snorted in protest, arching his neck and piaffing like a dressage horse. "He's full of himself this morning," Snape said with a grin. "Think you can hold him?"
"Oh, he wouldn't dare run off with me," Lucius answered. "Would you, you bastard?" Rosy snatched at the bit, annoyed or amused, and Lucius laughed and rubbed a hand affectionately up the big chesnut's neck.
"Stop for minute," Snape said suddenly, reining in his bad-tempered bay gelding. "Before Donovan catches up to us. I want to talk to you."
Lucius drew Rosy up, letting him grab at grass like a greedy pony. Donovan hated when he did it, which was incentive enough. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"All of this," Snape said. "Don't you think? Lord Voldemort sent us here to accomplish something. Half the time you and Rosier both seem to have forgotten he isn't a horse. You're more interested in being leading jockey than you ever were in Death Eater meetings. What happens if the two of you forget to throw the damned race?"
Rosy lifted his lip, sneering at Snape the way only a thoroughbred horse could. Snape's bay pinned its ears and Snape touched it on the neck with his crop. He was a natural in the saddle, Lucius thought, though he didn't seem to enjoy it. He forgot sometimes that Snape was only eighteen, barely a year out of school, and that he still took everything unbelievably seriously.
"Look," he said, as reasonably as he could. "Rosy and I both know our jobs. We've been in His service a lot longer than you have. There's no rule that we can't enjoy ourselves doing them."
Snape scowled at him, and Lucius smiled as sweetly as he could. They could both hear the Range Rover's rattling engine. If Donovan caught them dawdling on the way to the gallops, it would be more than their jobs were worth, and never mind that "Mr. Riddle" didn't want anyone but Lucius on his horse. Reluctantly Snape sent his horse off at a brisk canter, and Lucius followed more sedately.
Everything Snape had said was true, of course. He would rather be on the back of a horse than in a robe and mask. He'd never planned to do anything with his life but play Quidditch; he'd been drifting since the day the ban had been lifted. But riding for a Muggle trainer was every bit as demeaning as playing Quidditch with Muggles, and he knew there was no future in it. While he wasn't sure this particular plan of the Dark Lord's was going to work out as expected--he rather thought that the Death Eaters had overestimated the importance of racing in the life of the average Englishman--he didn't disagree with the cause.
Snape was a dozen lengths ahead of them, and Rosy was leaning on the bit now, really pulling. Lucius let him go, feeling him eat up the distance with his long, steady strides. Didn't think about Evan Rosier, chubby and goodnatured and clumsy, whose Animagus form had happened to be the right one. Didn't think about the future, about Aintree, about anything but getting there first. That was enough for today.
pushdragon tempted me to write this. It's always someone else's fault.
They took the first set out at dawn. It was cold, damp and foggy, and Snape, riding at Lucius's side, was hungover and bitter with it. "They don't pay us enough for this," he complained for the thousandth time. "Getting up in the dark in January, it's fucking insane." Lucius smiled a little, didn't answer. It made him think of Quidditch training, back at Hogwarts, getting up before the sun rose to run. Snape had never had the discipline for Quidditch. He despised physical activity of any kind.
But Lucius had missed this: the quiet, the sunrise, the feeling of being the only one alive. He shortened his reins a little as they started up the hill, and Rosy snorted in protest, arching his neck and piaffing like a dressage horse. "He's full of himself this morning," Snape said with a grin. "Think you can hold him?"
"Oh, he wouldn't dare run off with me," Lucius answered. "Would you, you bastard?" Rosy snatched at the bit, annoyed or amused, and Lucius laughed and rubbed a hand affectionately up the big chesnut's neck.
"Stop for minute," Snape said suddenly, reining in his bad-tempered bay gelding. "Before Donovan catches up to us. I want to talk to you."
Lucius drew Rosy up, letting him grab at grass like a greedy pony. Donovan hated when he did it, which was incentive enough. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"All of this," Snape said. "Don't you think? Lord Voldemort sent us here to accomplish something. Half the time you and Rosier both seem to have forgotten he isn't a horse. You're more interested in being leading jockey than you ever were in Death Eater meetings. What happens if the two of you forget to throw the damned race?"
Rosy lifted his lip, sneering at Snape the way only a thoroughbred horse could. Snape's bay pinned its ears and Snape touched it on the neck with his crop. He was a natural in the saddle, Lucius thought, though he didn't seem to enjoy it. He forgot sometimes that Snape was only eighteen, barely a year out of school, and that he still took everything unbelievably seriously.
"Look," he said, as reasonably as he could. "Rosy and I both know our jobs. We've been in His service a lot longer than you have. There's no rule that we can't enjoy ourselves doing them."
Snape scowled at him, and Lucius smiled as sweetly as he could. They could both hear the Range Rover's rattling engine. If Donovan caught them dawdling on the way to the gallops, it would be more than their jobs were worth, and never mind that "Mr. Riddle" didn't want anyone but Lucius on his horse. Reluctantly Snape sent his horse off at a brisk canter, and Lucius followed more sedately.
Everything Snape had said was true, of course. He would rather be on the back of a horse than in a robe and mask. He'd never planned to do anything with his life but play Quidditch; he'd been drifting since the day the ban had been lifted. But riding for a Muggle trainer was every bit as demeaning as playing Quidditch with Muggles, and he knew there was no future in it. While he wasn't sure this particular plan of the Dark Lord's was going to work out as expected--he rather thought that the Death Eaters had overestimated the importance of racing in the life of the average Englishman--he didn't disagree with the cause.
Snape was a dozen lengths ahead of them, and Rosy was leaning on the bit now, really pulling. Lucius let him go, feeling him eat up the distance with his long, steady strides. Didn't think about Evan Rosier, chubby and goodnatured and clumsy, whose Animagus form had happened to be the right one. Didn't think about the future, about Aintree, about anything but getting there first. That was enough for today.