Malfoy.
What do you think when you see this name?
Power? Money? Influence?
Or is it dark arts? Evil? Death eater?
Malfoy
I wrote it again on a scrap of old notepaper in my typical scrawl. It looked no different to my eyes; putting it down on paper couldn't change what I thought.
What everyone else thought…
I knew. I knew what they thought when they heard my father's name. My name.
When I was a kid, I thought it was the greatest. That was when I looked up to my father, wanted to be just like him. I thought he was the greatest man alive.
But even now, I still do. I want him to look at me and smile. I want to see in his eyes that he's proud of me; I want him to ruffle my hair and say 'Good work, son,' or 'I've always been proud of you.'
But nothing I do is ever good enough. When Granger beat me in all of our exams, (You let that mudblood beat you!), or when he found me on the Hogwarts express after fourth year, all hexed an unable to move, (I can't believe you're my son, letting those muggle loving fools… I can't even look at you! You're a disgrace to our family!)
But I love him, because he's my father, and I know he loves me, because I am his son. I would do anything to make him proud of me.
And I know, just how much I resemble him. I know, because people tell me. And they tell him too.
Once I overheard a man speaking with him. I didn't know the man, but he was friendly. He smiled at me, and I grinned happily back. I was only four.
My father glanced over at me, and I saw his eyes roam disapprovingly over my rumpled sweater, and my soiled pants. He grabbed me roughly by the shoulder, and bade me to stand up. I did as he told me.
The other man ruffled my hair and looked back at my father. "Your son is so much like you," he said, and I smiled, proud that this man had thought me like my father.
But my father frowned. He wasn't pleased with this statement. "My son," he said coldly, "is nothing like me."
I didn't think about his words much then. I was young, and I didn't understand fully what they meant. But I saw that my father didn't like what the man had said. He didn't think I was like him. I wasn't good enough to be like him.
And so it began. A never ending trail of attempts to try and please him, to make him say, that yes, Draco Malfoy is my son, and yes, I am proud of him. I never got what I wanted.
The look in his eyes never softened when he looked at me, there was no warm smile on his lips.
But now I'm seventeen. 'So much older, wiser, and so much more knowledgeable.' That's the sort of motivational crap the teachers pour out as soon as you reach seventh year.
Thirteen long years of trying, and I finally figured it out. My father is proud of me. He is proud of me because I am his son, his blood. I don't need to prove it.
But I want to. I want him to be proud of me for me, for what I've achieved. Not because of the part of my name that follows Draco.
But now, I sit here staring at the scrap of paper on my table, I wonder why. I wonder why he is so proud of our name, when all it provokes in others is fear.
I suppose I always knew this, even though I'm siting here now trying to figure out why I only fully realised last year.
I remember that day, like it was yesterday. I was strutting along down the hallways of my beloved school, feeling as cheery as I usually was when the hallways reminded me of a Lockhart book sale, the pompous little git…
Students were crammed to my left and right, mainly first years. God, it had been six months already, didn't they know where they were going? But no, they had to cram up every hallway and corridor, bothering me with the stupidest questions.
I heard a group huddled to my left, discussing whether they should go left or right, or forward, or backwards, or diagonally…
Hufflepuffs…
They looked fearfully in my direction, and I knew immediately that they had met me before. I even heard one comment "Don't ask him, he's mean, he doesn't help. He told me to go…"
The conversation faded from my hearing and I chuckled to myself. I remembered that girl well. Luckily they no longer tried to bother me anymore. At least they learned from experience.
"Excuse me?"
I turned around to see who had spoken. Hopefully not to me… But alas, just in front of me I saw a lousy little first year, round faced, with an annoying pair of spectacles perched on the tip of her puggy nose.
I wondered briefly if Longbottom had a little sister I hadn't known about. Actually this kid was a cross between Longbottom and Granger. Longbottom and Granger… I'd never found an idea more hilarious.
"Could you show me the way to the dungeons?"
I looked at the girl with irritation. She wanted me to show her the way to the dungeons? Like I would help a first year!
I pushed past her, intending to continue on my way to my next class, which happened to be in the dungeons, but the little podgy kid didn't know that.
But before I could get away, I felt a tug on my robes. The little girl was persisting to annoy me, sort of like one of those pestering mosquitoes that just never go away. Sort of like Potter.
"Please, can you show me?"
I scowled fiercely down at her and she visibly quailed. Now I was going to have to wash my robes, now that she had touched them with her grimy hands.
"No," I snapped. "Get your filthy hands of my robe! It's new. I don't like first years," I leaned over, levelling my face to hers threateningly. "I don't like you. If you don't get your ugly face out of my sight, I swear I will do something that I won't regret." I dropped my voice ominously. "But you will."
She let go off my robes as if they burned her hands. I straightened, satisfied that my job was done. She looked at me, and then her face crumpled in to tears. She turned her back and ran, covering her face with her hands.
I felt a tinge of remorse. I hadn't meant to make her cry. I just wanted to scare her enough so she'd stop bothering me. I noticed in her haste she had dropped her book bag. It was one of those ones so typical of first years. Large and bulky, those sorts of bags made the first years remind me of snails.
As I was staring at the bag, I didn't notice someone come up behind me until they were really close. I did however notice them quite a bit when they started yelling at me.
"You're such a bastard, did you know that Malfoy?"
It was Weasley, in particular, the youngest Weasley, the girl.
"Yes," I sneered.
"Arrogant little prick!"
"Well," I said haughtily, "as much as I would love to stay and listen to you hurl insults, I have a potions lessons to go to."
She stopped suddenly, and stared at me, cocking her head to the left a little. Suddenly, she laughed.
I was confused. Why was she laughing? My confusion didn't last long.
"Oh, that is so like you, isn't it? You just couldn't be nice to her and show her, even if she was going to the same place."
I felt guilty. I did. I knew I shouldn't have done it, I should've helped her, I shouldn't have made her cry. So I didn't answer, I just stood there, looking stonily back at Weasley.
She came closer, so close I could smell her perfume. She was shorter than me, but suddenly she seemed to tower over me.
"Why is it that you have to be so horrible? Is it just you, or is it because you're a Malfoy…?"
I didn't like the way she said my name, drawing it out, as if there was something wrong with it. As if Malfoy indicated something bad.
"At least I'm not the one who wears robes patched in a thousand different places."
That was a bad comeback. I admit it. I was feeling so strange. I almost felt ashamed. Ashamed of myself, ashamed of my name.
"Look, Malfoy," She accentuated my name again, "If wearing expensive robes means I have to make little girls cry, I'd rather stick to my own."
I felt really uncomfortable, and I was tired of her implying there was something wrong with my last name, the way she said it like it was something so foul underneath her shoe. She was a Weasley! She had no right to act better than me!
"Stop drawing out my last name when you speak! You're a Weasley! You have no right to speak to me like that!"
"So you think you're better than me?" She scoffed. Again she leaned in close to my face, so that our noses were inches apart. "You think people respect your name? You're right, they do. Because they know how close your father is with You Know Who! And you, Malfoy, everyone knows what you're going to become. Just like all Malfoy's, being a death-eater runs in the family, doesn't it?"
I couldn't deny what she was saying. Yes, I knew my father was a death-eater, and I knew that after my seventh year, I would be one too. So what could I say? I wasn't ashamed of my becoming a death-eater. I wanted to be a death-eater. My father would be proud of me, and I could be proud of myself, for being like my father, for living up to his name.
But what was that name? From the look in Weasley's eyes, she didn't think much of it. Wasn't it supposed to command respect?
People weren't supposed to think death-eater. They weren't supposed to think badly of our name.
I don't know why it hit me then, the event was so insignificant, it was just a replay of so many others. I always thought that when people hated me, they hated me because I was me, not because my name was Malfoy.
They did, I suppose, hate me for me, but partly because my name was Malfoy. 'First impressions count,' my father once told me, before we went to meet his circle of friends, namely, the Death-eaters.
But no matter how charming, or polite I was, it wouldn't have mattered. I had already made my first impression, as soon as they heard my name, Draco Malfoy; they knew they had to treat me with respect.
But when other people heard it, they immediately thought of connections to the Dark Lord, dark arts, and death-eater.
I had never thought that before, and I realised, all the courtesy they paid me, was either out of fear of my father, or just because they were too polite to say what they were really thinking.
So what was it that they were really thinking? Draco Malfoy, no good son of a death-eater? Who know? I sure didn't.
So feeling a bit like an idiot, I slowly picked up the first years bag and handed it over to Weasley. She had embarrassed me enough, and really, I just wanted to get away and be alone for a while. She would get her own back later in double.
She looked at me strangely, but accepted the bag, glared at me, then walked off.
So, I tried being a bit nicer. No, I didn't become a do-gooder like Potty-Head and his friends, but I definitely didn't want a repeat of that day. I didn't want some goody-goody Gryffindor raging at me for making some kid cry, and really, I didn't want to make another kid cry.
It really was funny watching the shock on people's faces when they realised I wasn't going to bother to go out of my way to insult them. Especially Longbottom, the poor blithering git was standing in front of me, when he really gave a great set-up. Something about him being a squib or something. What could I have said? Yes, Longbottom, you really are a squib'?
That comment would've been plain pitiable, not to mention embarrassing.
So I didn't say anything, and he sort of turned around and stared at me fearfully, like I was going to pull out my wand, and 'Avada Kedavra' him or something.
The shock on his face when nothing came out of my mouth was so pathetic it was almost funny. Eventually though, I got tired of him staring at me, and patiently, though rather sneeringly, I said, "I know I'm beautiful Longbottom, but I'd rather if you stop gawking."
He immediately flushed and his head snapped back around, but he did seem sort of appeased by my comment. Maybe his little world hadn't stopped spinning after all…
So I could lay off everyone, except of course, Wonder-boy and his little friends. They were just too irritating to stop picking on, not to mention, Granger and Weasley finally hooked up, and that was too good of material to ignore.
There was one other person I didn't stop picking on. Ginny Weasley. I had my own personal vendetta against her. I still hadn't forgiven her, and I still hadn't had my perfect revenge…
Ok, I just started that one straightaway… If you don't know what this is going end up, take a guess, and for those of you who can't bother, its D/G. If you don't review, I don't mind… just remember it when everyone you know starts dying in terrible and mysterious ways…
~ Lyra ~
And I welcome any constructive criticism…
And tell me if you think Draco's becoming too nice… cause we wouldn't want that now, would we?