Written for Diving at Hogwarts. Prompt: Write about greed.
Wc: 197
Draco Malfoy is seven years old when someone says no to him for the first time. He, with his platinum blond hair as slick as water, and his suit and shoes worth more than his own skin, is denied. It's a surprise, but he doesn't cry.
He's jumping up and down, pointing one chubby finger at the rack of candies, his screeching marked as a crescendo in the part he has practiced and played for so long.
Narcissa stares down at him coldly. That is definitely not part of the script.
"Draco." A warning.
He does not heed.
"Draco."
If anything, he jumps higher, fancying a kangaroo.
"It's not like we can't afford it," he whines. "Why don't you care about me?"
Narcissa smiles thinly at the shop owner, drags her kicking son outside, and Disapparates, not at all minding if he splinches.
When he topples onto the grass, sick, she bends down and turns him on his back. She stares him in the face with blue eyes so like his, and Draco stares back at the wrinkles in their corners and the tiredness in their pupils. He stops.
"Malfoys don't negotiate like that."
Draco doesn't learn.