He remembered his father only too well. And he wished, sometimes,
that he didn't.
He remembered his father's death. He had been there. It had all seemed a grim adventure until then - and until then, he had thought he would become a Death Eater. That it was inevitable. But then as he watched Voldemort curse his father again and again - until his father lay limp on the ground in a pool of his own blood - then he knew that no longer would he follow the Dark Lord's, or even his own mother's orders.
He remembered the funeral. Remembered Narcissa's white, but not tear- stained face. Either she had done a good job of hiding the pain, or she didn't feel any. More than anything, he recalled the tears. Malfoys never cried; he had been told that in his youth, so many times. But Draco Malfoy did. When his father died. And he knew that it was true, that his mother didn't care, when she stalked up to him, collapsed on the floor, and pulled him and whispered harshly in his ear.
"A Malfoy doesn't cry. Shut up. Shut up. The Dark Lord wouldn't like it. Too much devotion will be the ruin of you, boy."
And he remembered how he had run to his room. Locked himself in, too, so his crying wouldn't bother anyone any longer. Or maybe just so no one would know. Because it would have been his ruin. He knew it was true.
Draco Malfoy blinked back sudden tears.
His father wouldn't have liked him to cry.
He remembered his father's death. He had been there. It had all seemed a grim adventure until then - and until then, he had thought he would become a Death Eater. That it was inevitable. But then as he watched Voldemort curse his father again and again - until his father lay limp on the ground in a pool of his own blood - then he knew that no longer would he follow the Dark Lord's, or even his own mother's orders.
He remembered the funeral. Remembered Narcissa's white, but not tear- stained face. Either she had done a good job of hiding the pain, or she didn't feel any. More than anything, he recalled the tears. Malfoys never cried; he had been told that in his youth, so many times. But Draco Malfoy did. When his father died. And he knew that it was true, that his mother didn't care, when she stalked up to him, collapsed on the floor, and pulled him and whispered harshly in his ear.
"A Malfoy doesn't cry. Shut up. Shut up. The Dark Lord wouldn't like it. Too much devotion will be the ruin of you, boy."
And he remembered how he had run to his room. Locked himself in, too, so his crying wouldn't bother anyone any longer. Or maybe just so no one would know. Because it would have been his ruin. He knew it was true.
Draco Malfoy blinked back sudden tears.
His father wouldn't have liked him to cry.