Proud
A young wizard sauntered through the halls of his ancestral home. His dark robe hung heavy on his shoulders, the fine emerald embroidery by the seams catching the light streaming in through the French windows. The teenager stopped in front of one of the windows and studied the view before him, resting his fingertips on the windowsill.
It was late afternoon – his favorite time. The harsh sunlight of midday had tempered out into a soft glow on the Manor's remote grounds. Leaves fluttered in a mild breeze, cotton-like clouds littered the sky, and birds chirped quietly. The southern section of the Manor's grounds was filled with life. Beyond the meadows close to the house, an expansive forest rose above the horizon.
He enjoyed these times of peace, where he could lose himself in observation for a few minutes. In the end, however, he could not remain still for long; a sense of urgency, of disquiet, moved him to action. Any action. Any movement. Anything. There were too many things he had to do – to work towards, to achieve, to live up to – for him to muddle along doing nothing.
The young wizard closed his eyes and turned away. Focus. His fingers lingered for a breath longer on the windowsill, but then he continued his path down the hall. To steady himself, he recalled the words his father drilled into him at a young age. Words to steel himself to the task at hand, no matter the consequences or implications. Chin up. Eyes forward. Focus.
Chin up. Eyes forward. "Goodness, Potter. I know moving two legs is a lot of coordination for you, but surely you can figure out how to walk for yourself? Or are you too busy mooning over the person closest to the Dark Lord?" At those words, a scarlet-haired witch flushed and a dark-haired wizard glared. Green eyes met pale eyes in a challenge.
"Jealous, Malfoy? I didn't expect you to embrace your Slytherin green that much." Potter took the witch by the hand and left, shoving past Malfoy and his two gruff followers.
"In your dreams, Potter!" His sputtered reply sounded weak, even to his own ears. No matter – the goal of an antagonizing exchange was met. Next time, his reply would be faster, wittier, and sharper. After all he was a Malfoy. No matter how it came up, his lineage was a point of great pride. Even when the reminder came from the lips of Harry Potter, enemy of purebloods, the Dark Lord, and hairstylists around the world. Draco Lucius Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy family, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and descendent of Armand Malfoy, would surely prevail against the half-blood Golden Boy. For now though, he had some homework to do in the Slytherin common room. One needed to be practical with schoolwork, especially if one wanted to become a powerful, influential wizard. Focus.
Jittery. A Malfoy, jittery. To be fair, this Malfoy was in the presence of the Dark Lord himself. Betraying too much weakness so obviously would not bode well for him, so he did his best to keep a cool façade. This was an honor – he could finally follow in his father's footsteps, make his family proud, and exert pureblood dominance over feeble muggles (and worse, mudbloods). What a chance! This is what his father had been preparing him for. It was time to start to make a name for himself, to live up to the prestige of the Malfoys before him.
"I'm ready." Eyes forward. Chin— He screamed. The searing sensation on his forearm was the last thing he felt before his vision blurred and faded.
Malfoy sighed contentedly. A few pieces of his platinum blonde hair fell into his face as he shifted.
"God, Draco! You're like a cat. A little sun and a nice lap and you're the happiest Slytherin I've seen in years." A brunette witch cackled. Even the smugness in her voice could not rouse his temper.
"Shut it, Pansy. I'm a man on a mission, and I can get a few minutes of peace and quiet if I want." Malfoy did not try to keep the pride out of his voice. Why should he? He was among those who would understand, most of them being Slytherins. As for the one who was not a Slytherin, this piece of information was a delicious boast that would drive him in circles. The corner of Malfoy's mouth turned up. Even the small amount of trepidation he felt at his momentous task could not stamp out his excitement to prove himself. He could figure this out. He was Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy family, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, descendent of Armand Malfoy, up-and-coming Death Eater of the Dark Lord. Focus.
A/N: Thanks for reading. I'm trying to work on my writing, so please leave any and all constructive criticism for me. I appreciate it!