Intro: I Am Draco Malfoy

I don't know why I do the things I do. There is certain satisfaction in watching as that wretched house-elf, who has been my caretaker since I was a baby, tumbles down the stairs, tripping over my foot, which I purposely put out for her to stumble on. I'm wicked; I know it, but every time I hear them arguing, I just want to hurt someone and I don't understand why. I know my parents love each other; they probably care more for each other than most other witch and wizard couples; you can see it in the way they dote on one another, the way mother finishes his sentences, and the way Father sometimes leaves a single rose on her plate those mornings he leaves for the Ministry before she even rises from bed.

I've never heard anyone stand up to him the way she does. I suppose that was the appeal when he married her; she's not afraid of him like so many others. Getting everything you want can become tiresome after a spell, and I guess after all he'd been given, Father needed a little opposition in his life. "He stays at Hogwarts, Lucius and that's my final word!"

"Your final . . ." they don't know I've been up here listening, and even from my vantage seat at the top of the first floor landing, I can still hear Father mumbling under his breath until he rages, "Your final word? How dare you defy me?" I roll my eyes in anticipation of another round, laying my head against the railing. "If it is my wish that boy goes to Durmstrang, the boy will go to Durmstrang and that's my final word!"

"Defy you?" Something shatters, and I hear him gasp. "I was never under your dictatorship, Lucius Malfoy. I am not some servant who caters to your every whim. Just because you say jump doesn't mean I will leap into the air begging to know how high I should go in order to please you." Now she's gone and said it, I think, but then all I hear is him muttering again like a whelp; Merlin she has power! It's one of the things I love best about her. "Because you can't send him that far away from me, Lucius, he's all I have." She sounds like she's crying now; he must have said something to her that softened her anger.

"But you have me," he reminds her.

"I can't coddle you," she sniffles. "Just because you act like a spoiled little boy. . ."

"I don't."

"Sometimes you're more spoiled than he is."

"Nonsense," they've returned to normal, and even though I can't see them I know he's standing in front of her, eye to eye, and yet he's looking down on her as though he towers over her. He's always looked at her this way, although I don't understand why. "Won't you at least consider it, My Pet? He'll be better off there," he's sweet talking her again, using his honey-tongued drawl to win her over to his side of the argument. Maybe this time it'll work, but I doubt it. When it comes to me, she doesn't budge. "Their Masters are top notch."

"There's nothing wrong with the masters at Hogwarts," Nice save, Mother.

"They're second rate," he does have a point.

"Not Severus." Uh-oh. Father can't stand it when she talks about Snape.

He doesn't say anything for a long time and I listen for the death curse, "Snape will not teach him the Dark Arts." He hisses.

"You've taught him plenty yourself," she reminds him. "I won't give in, Lucius. You can't send him away from me." His sigh is a like a steam release, and then I hear his footsteps. I scramble toward back of the stairwell so it won't look like I've been listening.

"Draco," he's at the bottom of the stairs now. "Draco, come."
I hate when he calls me like that, like I'm no better than one of the house elves he beckons in the same tone. I linger for a minute, and he calls me again, his steady voice rising to seek me out. I step forward, "Coming, Father."

"What took you so long?" He eyes me suspiciously, his cold eyes squinting as he narrows them over me.

"I was reading," I lie.

"Something useful, I hope." He has absolutely no faith in me.

"Draco, darling, come here, please," Mother calls from the parlor. "We've gotten your letter from Hogwarts this afternoon."

I descend the stairs slowly. My father still stands at the bottom, waiting for me to step onto the marble floor beside him. He escorts me out to meet her like she's some kind of Queen, his firm hand resting on my shoulder as he almost pushes me into the parlor. He's lost another battle with her, and I will pay the price, I fear. "Good afternoon, Mother," she pats the divan, and I sit beside her, looking up at my father with a smug arrogance that makes him simmer inside. There goes my new racing broom, but he won't dare degrade me in front of her; she'll give him holy hellfire for a month! "What's for tea?"

"Why anything you like, my darling boy," she puts her arm around me and squeezes me close to her. I lay my face against her and relax. As long as Mother's with me, I'm always safe. I don't believe that Father would ever really hurt me, but he's said enough to me in my lifetime to leave me feeling worthless. I feel like I fall short of all his expectations, as if I should have been born a mastermind, skilled without having to be taught. I should do magic without a wand, or some other near impossible miracle. I always let him down. Not mother though. I am her little prince, and everything I do brings a smile to her lips. That's why I love her best.

"I'll have biscuits," I reach for the letter in her hand and look over the words in it. Dear Master Malfoy, blah blah blah, third year students will require. . . I hand the letter back to her because whatever it is I need, Father will see to it. "And chocolates."

"Of course, Draco," she agrees. "Anything you like. Which biscuits do you prefer this afternoon?"

"The sugared ones." Father has taken his usual seat by the fireplace as though surely any moment someone will appear with urgent matter to discuss. They very well might, they usually do, and Mother will scold him like she usually does for entertaining drop in guests during tea. "Father, might I get a new broom?"

"I've just bought you a new broom, Draco," he sighs. "I bought the whole Quidditch team new brooms last fall."

"But there's a new broom, and I am the seeker. I was reading about it in. . ." I don't really care about the stupid broom. This is the only thing he seems to hear, talk about money, about satisfying my material wants. Important matters seem to go over his head, like yesterday when I asked him about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, if it was true that he was really out there somewhere looking for a way to return to power. Father looked at me and said, 'Not now, Draco," the way he always does, but I know he talks about it to Mother, I've overheard those conversations too. "Never mind," it's my turn to sigh.

Mother looks sideways at me, determined to make me happy no matter what it takes. "Buy him a new racing broom, Lucius," she isn't stern or commanding when she says this, but I know now I will get whatever I want from him when we go into Diagon Alley later to buy my school books because everything he does, he does for her. She hugs me tight again, "However will he fare on the Quidditch pitch with less than average equipment."

"I suppose your right," he smiles over at her.

Between them I am Father's showpiece and Mother's little gentleman, apart from them, I don't know who I am. All my life I've been a Malfoy. Draco Malfoy, to be precise, but who am I, really? I am the heir to the Malfoy fortune, and yes, I am my father's son, but does that really say anything about what's inside of me. I'm still my mother's little boy, because even though I'm almost thirteen, I still feel safe when I am with her, like nothing in the world could touch me. She would do anything to protect me, and even though this house is almost always cold in ways that aren't natural, Mother makes it warm.

By all means, I should consider myself lucky. I could have been born into that godforsaken Weasley family. Father always mocks that poor bastard Arthur Weasley, "haven't they ever heard of a protection charm?" Even worse, I could have been a mudblood like Granger. Ugh, just thinking about it gives me the willies, and I wonder how she can live with herself, knowing she'll never be a worthwhile or upstanding witch no matter how good her bloody grades are. As though it could get any worse than being a mudblood, I thank Merlin every day that I'm not Harry Potter. Stupid Harry Potter, the boy who lived, because he may have lived, but it's been no kind of life. Half-blood, famous Harry Potter with his stupid, famous scar. . .

"I want the best broom. I want a Firebolt!" I don't even notice but my jaw is clenched when I say this. "Gryffindor cannot win the Quidditch cup this year!"

"Well, we'll have to take a look then," and that settles it. Father is closed to discussion, and though I know I could talk to Mother about anything, I won't in front of him.

She's smiling over at me again, and then she kisses me on the cheek, and I feel warm inside. Stupid Potter, I smirk. At least I've got a mother.

A/N: This is the follow up story to Shadows of Truth, the what happened 14 years later story. You do not have to read SoTruth to understand this story, but it would probably make more sense to you if you have read the prior shadows stories on an overall level.