Written for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (Challenges and Assignments) Assignment #2.

Class: Psychology

Task: Write about a child demonstrating learned behavior from an adult or role model

1. (Character) Draco Malfoy

2. (Word) Model

Also written for Hogwarts Birthday: Jenga

Prompt: (Word) Expectation

Word Count: 1,024

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, not me.

"Mudblood."

The chaos that followed my words - no, word - was immediate. Of course I knew it was an insult, but I hadn't even swore. They didn't need to be so uptight about it. It wasn't that bad. The girl was a Mudblood, and so why not call her one? Father would be proud. Father loved the word "Mudblood." He treated it like a word that's so perfect for the situation and you want everyone to hear you say it so they know you're not just some stupid second year.

I don't even remember the first time I'd heard someone say it. It was just as much a part of my vocabulary as my name. It's always been a part of me. When I was little, I would misuse it in a sentence and have to be corrected. Mum always frowned when this happened, like maybe she'd have liked me to learn it when I was older. But Father made sure I knew what it was, and how when people take such offense to it it's just because they want to be a pureblood like us.

Father also says I need to teach the blood traitors our ways. I need to model for them how to be a pureblood, and how to use your superiority. But the Weasleys just don't seem to budge. Some of them even attacked me when I called Granger a Mudblood. Like they should care about the poor stuck-up. The second year one tried to cast a spell at me, and the idiot shot it back at himself, and started barfing slugs. Serves him right for standing up for the Mudblood.

Mudblood. I decided that I like the word. It rolled off my tongue, the first syllable contained near my lips, rolling back to meet the "L" and forward again to finish. It wasn't the kind of word you said quickly, to get over with having to say it, like the ugly-sounding "Gryffindor," crunching the "r's," and growling out the middle. No, Mudblood was a word to say slowly, a little treasure at the tip of my tongue. If painted, it would be a globbly sort of green, like how I imagined the bottom of the lake. Nasty, slimy, but all the same, beautiful.

Now, sitting in a chair in the Slytherin common room, basking in the green light cast through the shadows of murky water, I said it aloud.

"Mudblood." Such a beautiful word. I'm sure I'll never tire of saying it.

I hold the wand tight in my hand, trying to stop it from shaking. Just two words. Just two simple words. This is the reason I am here. Now, it's more than a game of coaxing others to say the word "Mudblood," let it roll off their tongues like it does mine. Now, I have to speak the harsh, jagged, phrase that could kill me. But at the same time, it will keep me alive. I know I'm supposed to savor these words, like I do "Mudblood," that Father will be so proud, more proud than the first time I called someone a Mudblood, even more proud than when I helped bring down Dumbledore's Army.

But still. The words don't feel right to say, and I'm afraid if I let them tumble from my mouth, I'll find my wand to have shaken, moved toward the wrong person. These words are red and green, but far from being like Christmas. The sharp consonants threaten to pound on my teeth, but the "A" has barely formed before it is spoken by another.

"Avada Kedavra." And then the one I was meant to kill is falling, falling, toward the ground, and the chaos is unbelievable. But all I can think is that my job was taken. I feel a hand grab at my neck, guiding me down the tower, but my legs feel numb, my wand and arm limp at my side. My job was taken. How dare he. After all I did to plan, to ready myself for success, I have failed. Because of him. He puts up a Shield Charm, and the dueling partners around us move, letting us through.

I try to break through the charm, but it's too strong. I don't even bother trying to curse it out of my way, anything I cast at it would bounce back at me, I'm sure. Snape fires a jinx at Longbottom, who doubles over in pain, clutching his stomach. I can hear shouting behind us, a voice that may be Potter's in the distance, but he won't catch up to us. We make into the grounds, and now Potter is closing in on us. Snape finally lowers the Shield. Potter aims a spell at Snape, but misses, nearly blasting me instead.

"Run, Draco!" Snape shouts at me, now thrusting me away from him. And I do. Past the flaming hut, through the dark trees, not sure of where I am going. Eventually, I make it back to the castle, though I don't know how. I streak past the doors, through the entrances hall, and turn up the marble staircase.

Wait. Why am I going up here? I make a sharp turn back down, and again out of Hogwarts. I find a place to hide among the rubble, to process the last ten minutes of my life. I wasn't able to do what Father is able to do. Snape had to do it for me. But I could have, I tell myself. He didn't give me enough time. No, I realise sadly. I couldn't have. I'm almost grateful that Mum made the Vow. Now, at least, Snape will have to make sure the Dark Lord doesn't kill me. But I've still been such a disappointment to Father. I haven't lived up to his expectation.

Suddenly, a jet of green light streaks by, dangerously close to me. I hurry to stand. It looks like I might have to join the fight, which is the last thing I want to do. I run back towards the Forbidden Forest, where no duelers have gone, casting a few jinxes at a Death Eater's opponent.