He always had to be extra careful.
Malfoy, as his father would always tell him before tucking him in for bed, was a name to be proud of. An important name; a name with history and power. And it had to be worn and held with care.
Little Scorpius would always nod and smile, promising that yes, yes, he wouldn't let his father or the Malfoy name down. And Draco would press a soft kiss on his son's forehead and whisper him goodnight as Scorpius drifted into sweet, innocent dreams.
His father always happened to leave out the fact that it was also a name that held a great deal of resentment, and pain, and suffering. Scorpius didn't know then, but he knew now: the Malfoy name was most definitely a burden.
An avalanche of memories surged back.
The dirty looks from complete strangers.
The way smiles would always vanish as soon as he or his father came near.
The whispering, the glares, the insults.
The time when he was a first year, locked, crying, in a dark closet while fifth-year Ravenclaws stood outside and laughed.
Those times let him know who he was; who a Malfoy was. Because in Scorpius's world, all being a Malfoy meant was pain.
But it didn't hurt as much anymore. Scorpius knew that all this torture, because of how he looked or who his father and grandfather were, wasn't really meant towards him. Not really. These people who bullied him treated him this way because they wanted revenge— wanted someone to make them feel better— and he was the only one there.
Not that they were right to bully an innocent first year. Just that Scorpius understood.
And it made him a stronger person— it shaped who he was.
He just hated that it had to be that way.
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