What It's Like To Be Perfect
Draco picked at the nubs he called fingernails with great distaste written on his cold face. He was lounging in two of the straight backed Slytherin common room chairs which were made of the hardest wood you could imagine. It was anything but cozy.
The fire crackled eerily in the fireplace, emitting a yellowish glow around the room and casting shadows in every darkened corner. The stone walls gave no warmth and the fire didn't either; Draco snuggled deeper into his cloak. He had taken to wearing it even inside. It was as if he'd been chilled suddenly, by something, and he was freezing all of the time.
For no reason in particular, he'd shiver as an icy coldness waved over his body. He was permanently cold, not that he didn't expect this to happen.
When one's insides are like ice, it is only suiting that one's permanent temperature would be below freezing.
Buried deep as you can dig inside yourself
And covered with a perfect shell
Such a charming, beautiful exterior
Laced with brilliant smiles and shining eyes
Perfect posture but you're barely scraping by
But you're barely scraping by
Draco did not have friends, he had followers. He was a leader by nature and by birthright, and by family curse, he was lonely. People looked up to him, but most people were scared of him. They did as he wanted, as he told them to do. Everyone was alone in this world, and would kill their best friends to further their 'careers.' Draco despised them all.
Sure, he liked them around for sporadic company, but none of them were particularly brainy when it came to things not pertaining to marauding, raping or pillaging. While they discussed tactics to torture the next Mudblood, Draco barely paid attention. He did not care to just randomly kill innocent people. Well, okay, maybe not innocent…but certainly they were not deserving of death. No one, in Draco's mind, was deserving of death. Nor of the punishment the Death Eaters put forward on all of those opposite their side.
Draco, at a young age, had been promised to the Dark Lord for his services. Lucius Malfoy had sold his only son to further himself. Draco hated his father, he loathed him with every ounce of his being. And this killed him, slowly. To hate the one who had created you…is not a pleasant experience. It made him ache inside his heart, and it made his stomach pain. Draco grew steadily thinner, for he could not eat.
Mirrors used to hold such magic for Draco, it was one of the things in life that he loved. He could no longer look at himself in the mirror. He saw himself as tainted, evil, and corrupting. Deep down inside, Draco even despised himself.
There was nothing in his life to suggest happiness. Lucius had always told him that happiness is overrated, but if you must have it, it can be found in the simple act of berating someone else. Draco had taken this to heart, he had berated Harry Potter for defeating his master, had berated Ron Weasley for being the son of a Muggle lover, had berated Hermione Granger for being a Muggleborn. Hermione Granger had dirty blood, and therefore Draco was taught to scorn her. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were both pure bloods, and yet Draco was taught to deride them as well. There was a flaw in this plan, Draco knew, but there wasn't much he could do about it. He did as he was told, and he lived to see another sunrise.
This is one time, this is one time
That you can't fake it hard enough to please
Everyone or anyone at all, or anyone at all
At this point, he scarcely cared to live to see another day. He wanted to die. He was depressed, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. If he chose not to lead the life his father had laid out for him, he'd be killed.
So his choices were: follow in his father's footsteps or die. Neither was very appealing to Draco.
Through his entire life, he sought love and companionship from his small family. He received nothing but turmoil and harsh words. He did all he could to make his father proud, but all that did was raise the bar so Draco would have to work even harder next time around. He got on the Quidditch team, to beat Harry Potter. His father had told him that he'd better, one of these days, prove himself to be Potter's superior. It never happened.
Draco worked hard to become top of his class. He knew that if he got good grades, wonderful grades, and beat that Mudblood that things would be better at home. Hermione Granger was tough to beat. The two of them had very similar study habits. For simple homework assignments, they both learned much more about the subject than needed. Hermione, because she wanted to get high grades; Draco, because he was interested.
It was all too much for him. The constant chiding by his father, the snide comments from his peers. Yes, he was looked up to, but some saw right through him. He was not how he appeared on the outside.
Immaculate clothing, clean and expensive; perfect posture, good bone structure, hair never out of place; cruel remarks on the tip of the tongue; witty, wry humor; sneer, never a nice word. To some, that was the perfect son of a Death Eater and Death Eater in training. To others, it was a pathetic attempt to be something he was not.
Draco didn't know how long he could withstand the pressure of being a Malfoy. Most of the time, he longed to denounce his father, and the Dark Lord, and run away. Run to someplace nice, somewhere he could be himself. Somewhere where the shampoo wasn't fifty galleons an ounce, somewhere that he could wear ugly, Muggle shorts and a tattered t-shirt. He wanted to know everything, but at the same time he was scared.
He hated going home, for he knew what awaited him. His father would disapprove of everything he'd gained that year. Lucius would comment on his appearance (there was always something wrong, even if it was a speck of dust on his collar) which naturally included his weight loss, and it got worse with his inability to strike back with acceptable jabbing taunts.
Draco was supposed to fight his father, but he was also supposed to succumb to his wishes as well. It was hard to know which to do at any given moment. Either way, Draco Malfoy would never be able to please his father; nor, it seemed, himself.
And the grave that you refuse to leave
The refuge that you've built to flee
The places that you've come to fear the most
Is the place that you have come to fear the most