“Bloody hell!”
The words echo through the stone halls of Malfoy Manor. Already at
the age of four, Draco Malfoy has picked up certain colorful phrases from his
father’s friends, all of whom are very scary and very tall. They all wear dark
clothes and hoods. Draco admires them fervently, but at the same time, hates
them for taking his father away so often. His hatred does not extend far
enough, however, to keep him from picking up mannerisms, such as strutting and
holding his head up high, and swearwords. This is not a particularly choice or
creative phrase, but he is quite proud of its ‘ring,’ and even Lucius admits
that it is impressive for a four-year-old, though he is quick to stress that he
could do better. There is always a better.
At the moment, Draco has said the words out of pain and
exasperation at his rapidly swelling bump on his head. He has tripped on a
rug—he decides to berate Dobby about rugs lying where people can trip over
them—and bumped his head. Hard. He reaches up to pat it, and his hand comes
away—sticky! He panics. Tugging a strand of sleek platinum hair down, he sees
that it has matted together with…blood. His eyes widen at the sight, and he
opens his mouth, prepares to cry. To cry or not to cry…that is the question.
Crying will bring Narcissa running to him. Crying will bring him chocolates,
new robes, maybe even that broom he has been lusting after in Diagon Alley. Not
crying will earn him a pat on the shoulder from Lucius, a slight nod, and a,
“Well done, son. Malfoys never cry.”
He stops when he realizes that he would rather have Lucius’s
approval than chocolates, or even a new broom. He wants that look on Lucius’s
face, the look that says he is glad that it is Draco who is heir to the Malfoy
name and fortune, rather than Crabbe or Goyle. Even if Crabbe and Goyle are
taller and stronger than he is. He smiles then, proud of himself for not
crying. After all, there is much blood, but more fear and shock at the pure
blood of Malfoy being shed than pain.
Then his smile crumples as he realizes that it doesn’t really
matter whether or not he cries, whether or not he upholds his family name or
gives in to the fear nagging at his stomach. His proud head droops, and his
hair falls from his limp grasp as he realizes that it doesn’t matter—he doesn’t
matter. For there is no one at home to hear him cry…
