Drowning

by miss skinny love

Malfoy never knew who Santa Clause was when he was younger. But now he's older, and has some idea how mudblood brats must have felt when they grew up. He'd had his own Santa. Once. (Warning: Don't read if you're a child. Seriously.) One-shot. Drabble.

Drowning

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It had been a wave. A wave that swept him up and all he could do to survive was smile through thinned lips, hold his breath, and let the wave take him where it would. As a Malfoy, he was expected to follow a certain set of steps; he could not deviate. These steps were expected by the Dark side - that he should automatically follow their ideals - but also the Light side, which trapped him, in a way, with its expectations: that he, the sole Heir of the Malfoy line, would bathe in the idea of Pureblood society.

And so what if he had? It was all he'd known for so long, that he was better in some fundamental way than some foreign outsider who knew nothing of the Wizarding world, who would enter with their precious "notions of freedom" - that Goblins were more than a legacy of thieves - that House Elves were pitiful slaves who deserved to be set free from their masters - that Muggles were not the shortsighted creatures he'd always seen them to be - that magical creatures were to be treated like equals - that perhaps magic itself should be shared with Muggles - !

How could he possibly agree, or be sympathetic, when he'd been raised with the sure knowledge that the Wizarding world belonged only to Wizardkind? How could he have objected, besides, with his father looming over him, sharp eyes assessing and analysing each muttered comment from Draco, each twitch or moment of doubt?

The Dark Lord had been a role model in the Malfoy household - at least, he had seemed as such; his name spoken with reverence. And like a child, he'd believed in him, in the same way Muggle children believe in that overweight jolly man in red - what's it? - Santa Clause. Instead of growing up slowly like other children, he'd grown up painfully fast, but nevertheless, like all children do in regards to their Santa, he'd likewise questioned the Dark Lord. The difference was, no-one punished or sneered or hurled curses at children who once believed in fucking Santa Clause, did they, but they had no problem doing so to the likes of Malfoy. And in the end he'd had to survive, hadn't he, and that's what no-one understood.

No-one except his mother, who had adamantly dragged his head above the waves.

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