"Your answer to question fifteen is wrong, Scorpius."
The anger hit him hard, hard enough that he had to focus all his energy on not throwing the Maths book across the room. He reminded himself, he was not five, and this was not kind, gentle Mother. No, he was eight, old enough to control himself. And Grandmother Cissa was not the type to hold back her displeasure. She would not be happy if the Maths book soared.
Still he wanted to hear the satisfying smack of hardcover against wall, the rustle of dry, evil pages as it fell. He balled his hands into fists as they jerked toward the textbook.
This would not do, not at all. As he was constantly reminded of, a Malfoy had to always watch how he behaved, for public opinion did not need to worsen. He couldn't be flying off the handle during lessons for no apparent reason.
No, there was a reason, he could feel it. But what was it? What had set this wave of anger off?
He searched deep, deep inside him and found the answer: Your answer to question fifteen is wrong, Scorpius. Wrong. Wrong, wrong. Even thinking the word caused a kick from his subconscious. Why? He poked around a bit more. Images, memories, surfaced: 'We fought on the wrong side, my son.' 'We made some wrong turns.' 'We listened to the wrong people.' And more voices came: Wrong path, wrong beliefs, wrong ideas, wrong choices. Last: 'I was wrong. They were right.'
He understood, now. Wrong was bad, he knew that. But more than he wanted to never be wrong, as his dad and grandparents had been, he needed to never be wrong. He needed to be right. His subconscious cheered as he put it together.
So now the question was: what to do with this understanding? He could refuse to accept that he was wrong. He could run screaming from the room, yelling at Grandmother Cissa that, no, she was wrong and he was right. He winced as he thought of Grandmother's reaction to that.
A part of him still rooted for that course of action. But that path felt tinged with wrongness.
It would be better, perhaps, in the long run, if he admitted wrongness now, so that he would be right in the future. Yes, that felt right. But his innermost feelings balked at accepting that he had done wrong; it went against everything he believed in. Yet he needed to be right, and as doing this felt right, he would do it.
He yanked out of his subconscious. The first thing he noticed was Grandmother's peculiar expression. How long had his voyage of self-exploration taken? Too long, if her face was any example.
With a deep sigh, he steeled himself. He forced the words out, one by one, though they left a bitter taste in his mouth. "Will…you…show…me…where…I…went…wr…wrong?" The last word was particularly hard to spit out, but he managed it, and he came finished his query with a triumphant grin.
Grandmother gaped, although only for a moment, before the Malfoy mask was whipped back into place. She smiled at him, and he was filled with a warm, steady glow, because he could tell, just tell, that she was proud of him.
And that felt right.