Notes/Warnings: Oneshot. Slightly AU. Some things won't line up with canon. Therefore, this is OOC for Draco. Also, it's pre HBP Hogwarts battle. This came to mind while listening to Skillet's "Open Wounds". I recommend listening to it before reading.
Kudos: So much thanks to my fellow BlackLupin friend Ashleigh for the awesome beta. Amazing you are.
Disclaimer: All of the characters belong to JK Rowling. No money was made from this. I only own the plot.
No Matter the Cost
"Human potential is the same for all. Your feeling, "I am of no value", is wrong. Absolutely wrong. You are deceiving yourself. We all have the power of thought - so what are you lacking? If you have willpower, then you can change anything. It is usually said that you are your own master."
-Dalai Lama
Pristine. Well-mannered. Respected. Aristocracy.
All these things are what a Malfoy is. What, at the heart of all outsiders' thoughts, makes up the mirage that is The Pureblood family. They married right and had their one required heir; they went on with their lives of Ministry functions, dedications and galas. To be seen in the good company of the ever-blonde dynasty was to consider oneself to be officially among the who's who of Proper Wizard Society.
But as they say, it's all a house of cards. One mistake-one misplacement of the wrong word, action, emotional slip of the masque, and it all comes crashing down, all the Kings, Queens and Jacks scattered among the lowly Jokers.
Draco wished he could be that slip of the fingers.
He hated all that he was, what people thought of him. He was just tired of everything. The perpetual obligation to fit into the mould that was his pedigree was exhausting-and if he were to admit it, just plain absurd.
But he would never say that aloud. Such emotional declarations were plebian, according to his father-a man well-bred, the epitome of all things Pure. Finely-tuned; the idol of all those he kept in his Shadow. People who thought he cared for them. The pitiful crowd that looked up to him; complete in their ignorance as he looked back down his nose, sneer perfectly in place.
Draco hated him.
Everything he stood for, everything he tried to train Draco to be.
Oh, did he itch to slightly tap a Ten or Ace, effectively shattering the man's usually stoic facade. He wanted to undo each well-oiled action and watch the puzzle fall to pieces.
Everyday, Draco attended Hogwarts as the 'Slytherin Prince', future member of the Death Eater inner circle, foe to all good and loyal.
He had no real desire to bow his head to a being as souless as Voldemort.
His father was such a hypocrite.
Never let anyone cause you to become inferior to them, Draco. Malfoys do not yield themselves to anyone's demands. We rise above them and leave them scrambling to catch up.
What a joke. "Yes, my Lord...It will be done, my Lord."
And this should displease Draco. Disgust him even. But, he finds it poetic. After perpetually feeding 'superiority rites', the teacher is being shoved to his knees and kissing his way to irony. And when Lucius Malfoy thinks his son is trembling with fear of the Dark Lord, all Draco can think is he's glad this mask covers his bitter smile.
But the sickening thing in all this is that Draco had truly wanted to be his father. As a young boy, he watched Lucius' every move-he stood, walked and tried to speak the same strong words. He even had his personal tailor mimic his father's robes.
The secretaries in Lucius' office thought him the most adorable thing. Patting his meticulously parted hair and sneaking him sweets. For chocolate was too good for little boys. They had to earn such treats. Lucius never spotted any chocolate on his thin, little fingers. The slight reprimands of his father's cane kept his hands clean of all evidence. Though he was never beaten by any means, the tiny stings kept him in constant check.
But all childhood naivete was completely removed by the age of fourteen when Lucius came home, happier than Draco had ever remembered. That scared him to death, because pure joy was never good in a person of Lucius' caliber. Through the keyhole of his father's study that night, he heard Lucius regale plans of a resurrection . What resurrection Draco had no clue, but as he watched his father practically shiver in excitement and his mother in almost unnoticeable fear, Draco realized that his father had an evilness in him. Because between the manic gleam in Lucius' eye and the barely-hidden terror in Narcissa's, Draco finally knew of whose rebirth he spoke. And Draco barely made it back to his bedroom before he let the violent convulsions of a twisted cross of revulsion and panic sweep through his manicured frame.
That seed of detest he had for Lucius grew into full-on hatred after his fourth year. A year of having the one true figure of Light look at him with such well-earned disdain. Watching a boy who hadn't yet lived appear lifeless, clutched in the arms of a wide-eyed, crying Potter. Life was cruel and just loved kicking its inhabitants into the murky shite of despair.
Going home that summer was like entering a prison. While the outside world constantly refused to believe the return of the Dark Lord, Draco had to face their object of denial almost daily. It caused his hatred for all things Lucius Malfoy to bloom hot and powerful in the place that once held this man on such a pedestal. His only concern at this point was holding onto his sanity and his mother, praying to whatever-listening deity that both made it out of this intact.
As a metaphorical fiendfyre played out in a place he once felt as safe, Lucius started his descent from proud aristocrat to lowly servant. As Draco went through the motions of his fifth year, hebegan to wonder why he ever respected this poor, excuse of a man, and simultaneously swore to himself that he would never stoop to such asininity. It wasn't a pride or superiority issue any longer, it was pure survival of oneself-of his ability to remember his identity and not assimilate to the idiocy that was the Death Eaters.
By sixth year, he had his mind made up. He would do what this insane creature wanted, but not for Lucius Malfoy. It was the frailty of his mother's grip onto reality and all she'd ever known that kept him straight-minded.
It was a suicide mission, he knew full well. No one expected him to succeed. Not his crazy bitch of an aunt and certainly not Voldemort. Even the even-minded, blessing of Professor Snape had looked at him with pitying and hopeless eyes. Draco knew that this would probably be the last time he was welcomed in these halls, but the image of his mother being alone back at the Manor fueled his efforts. While the other students looked at him with contempt and disgust, he kept his head held high.
But for all his father's ramblings of superior, pureblood nonsense Draco would hold onto this one little pearl of wisdom, no matter how misplaced it was taught:
Malfoys persevere, no matter the cost. Do you understand me? No matter the cost.
Yes, daddy-dearest, Draco understood perfectly. No matter what, his mother would one day live in a peaceful world free of genocidal Dark Lords.
Free of fear.
No matter the cost.