Lucius.
There's nothing hidden in your head the sorting hat can't see…
A quiet, calm voice inside a moth eaten old hat was not going to scare me. Not me; I was a Malfoy, a proud Malfoy. The whole lot of us had been coming to Hogwarts for years to sit on a rickety old stool under this filthy rag that professed to penetrate our wits. But I didn't have the wit to hide myself.
The window is crumbling and mouldy from rain and saltwater. I never thought that I, a Malfoy, would end up here, in this disgraceful place. The very shame of it is eating me. What has the Daily Prophet said about me? I wonder. Is my Lord still alive? He must be or there wouldn't be this sinking feeling in my gut: what will he do to me when I am free? If I am free. Perhaps I should stay here. I must be losing those few wits that I failed to conceal so many years ago, to want to remain here in this dank and soulless hole.
"Ah, another Malfoy." Annoyingly calm voice. Malfoys should be treated with deference, not addressed as 'oh here's another of those blond ambitious types' by a manky old hat.
"Yes," I thought, angrily, "Yes, I am a Malfoy. Now: put me in the house."
"Which house would you like?" I was so angry; I thought I might speak out loud. Though now I recognise the folly of a barely eleven year-old boy sounding off at an old heirloom, at the time I was offended, and monstrously so. What house did the bloody hat think I wanted to go in? Hufflepuff? The sheer nerve of it. It wouldn't dare.
It's cold here. So cold, and I spend most of my life mixing poisons in dungeons. I thought that I was immune to cold. My feet are bare, long and pale in the moonlight streaming into my cell. They took my expensive shoes; they took my jewels and my life away from me. I feel like a peasant. A muggle tramp huddled in a doorway in Soho. I can't describe what I feel, although I have made convincing accounts and analysis of events the study of my life. Amongst other things.
"No, I will not put you in Hufflepuff. You may think you are wise and powerful, young Malfoy, but I have seen everything in your head. I know what you are."
"If you know so much, then you know what house I want to go into. The house where I already belong." I was painfully conscious that I had been under the hat for a while now, and people would begin to whisper that perhaps the Malfoy line had bred a squib. "Just sort me, would you?"
"You are embarrassed by the situation."
I hated that hat.
"I could've gone to Durmstrang, you know. If you don't sort me then I'll just leave."
"No, you won't."
The hat was right: I was not going to leave, not when all my family expected me to continue the tradition of excellence at Hogwarts, leading the Slytherin house, and eventually becoming feared and revered: a worthy heir to claim the inheritance.
Where's my son? Where's my wife? Perhaps they were denied visiting rights. Death Eaters are generally let rot in this place. I do not interact with the others around me. It is shaming that I should yearn for my family so when I am one of the most powerful and important men in the wizarding world. Or, I was. I am everything I set out to be, and more. Look where it has got me. This sickening, festering ruin of a gaol.
I will dwell on my own misfortunes no longer.
That is for the weak.
And Malfoys are not weak: no, never.
"Now, where shall I put you?"
Cut the crap, stupid hat. It was making a mockery of me, a fool, a wastrel –why was that posh looking blond kid still sitting on the stool? Had there been a mistake. I sensed a movement towards me. I imagined it was Professor Dumbledore, head of Gryfindor house, who was overseeing the sorting. Did I hear or imagine the distinct clearing of Headmaster Dippet's throat? Oh, Circe, why am I still under here?
"I want to go in Slytherin."
"I know."
I felt the anger bubble up under my eleven year-old skin, staining my cheeks an incriminating puce. I waited.
"You are going to be great, Mr Malfoy. You are going to be powerful. Before I put you in your house, I need you to reflect on that. Abuse that power, Mr Malfoy, and you will fall. You will fall a long, long way."
Soft, dangerous little voice.
I've fallen further than a man can fall from the seat of his power. I should not wonder what my family think of me, brought so low. They must support me, and honour me, and not be weak. Weakness is a great sin. My father told me, and his father told him, and I told Draco: do not ever be weak. If they can see the fear at the back of your mind then you will have failed as my son.
And that is the way it will always be.
"SLYTHERIN!"
I breathed again.
well that was a little ficlet for you from lucius' POV as he sits in his cell in Azkaban, with all the time in the world to dwell on the past.
I'd love to know what you think.