What it Means to be a Malfoy

by ikhor

I was five when my father first caught me experimenting. I was at the time, like all five year olds, worshiping my father. He often spoke of the times he wore a mask and carried out his master's bidding. These were my bedtime stories.

What it Means to be a Malfoy.

Disclaimer: I don't own it.

AN: Okay, to tell you the truth, I don't really know what this is. Malfoy has always been one of my favorite characters, mostly because I feel that Rowling didn't really do him justice. That he was created just to fill the role of the needed bully. She does explain him better in the later books, and I appreciate that, but I still think she could have done a better job. This is just a series of drabbles, I suppose. I don't consider this an AU, as it follows her timeline. I guess I'm trying to justify Malfoy, in a way that doesn't make him OOC. I'm not sure how I did, but I had a lot of fun writing this. I've been working on it off and on for about half a year now. I didn't want to rush or force anything.

Experimenting.

I was five when my father first caught me experimenting. It was, admittedly, my first time, and it was a mouse. I was at the time, like all five year olds, worshiping my father. He often spoke of the times he wore a mask and carried out his master's bidding. These were my bedtime stories.

Some I found to be tiresome, and I think my mother did as well. But I always enjoyed it because of the passion he showed. As a Malfoy, he kept his emotions in check at all times. It was rare anything made it past his stoic expression, but when he told his stories his face shone.

I loved watching, and listening to him during these times more than anything else. His excitement was contagious. He often spoke of things I didn't understand. Things like purging the world of those who were unworthy. When I finally mustered up enough courage to ask my father who was unworthy, I was four. He and my mother had been in his study, and the moment I asked him his back went all stiff. As did my mother.

Immediately I was afraid, and thought he was going to hit me when he began to walk towards me slowly. When he picked me up I thought he might throw me out the window. When he set me down on his chair, I opened my eyes. He was kneeling before me, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes locked onto mine. He had the most interesting of eyes, and I was transfixed. But then, as he said something, his eyes changed. They became angry and hate-filled. It was scaring me, and as an excuse to look away, I repeated the word, he had almost lovingly said.

"Mudblood." I spoke it experimentally, wondering at the way it felt on my tongue. I could tell just by the way it felt that it was a dirty word. A bad word. I said it again, feeling almost giddy with some unexplained excitement. When I raised my eyes to his again, they were shining.

"Good boy" He whispered. His mouth curved into a small smile, and his hands lightly squeezed my shoulders.

My mother looked away.

Ronald Weasley.

As a Malfoy, I hated all Weasely's. It's what I was taught. Mudbloods and Blood traitors are the lowest of the low. Scum. Our world needed to be purged of them. It was encoded in my brain, and the basis of all my beliefs. Despite this, I had never actually seen a weasely, let alone met one. I caught my first glimpse when I was seven. My father had to meet with the Minister, and he brought my mother and I along as a treat. We were waiting by the front desk, getting their wands checked, when I heard a loud group come up behind us chattering and laughing.

Curious I turned my head and got an eyeful of red hair and hand-me-down-robes. But, that wasn't the first thing I noticed. What I saw first, was the smiles. Every single one of them was smiling. There were too many to count, they moved around to much, but they were smiling.

I had grown up around three types of smiles. My mother smiled politely. I could tell she never meant it because it never reached her eyes. My mother, was the wife of a Malfoy. And as such, she had only two main uses. To be a trophy wife, of sorts, and to create a suitable Malfoy heir. She had completed one of them, and now she lived for the other.

And that was to hang on my fathers arm, and smile politely.

My father had two smiles. One was a lie, and one was cruel. Usually, my father only smiled when he wanted to cover something up. But sometimes, he smiled when he told his stories. I didn't like either of them, but it was when he smiled at me when he told his stories that I got nervous.

I had always loved to watch him when he told stories, to see the different emotions fly free across his face. But it was when his distant, fiery eyes sought mine, and his cruel, slippery smile aimed itself at me that I felt nervous. I imagined that's how he smiled when he followed his masters orders, and each time he looked at me like that, I felt a small twang of compassion for others that had been on the receiving end as well.

Like my father, all of my father's friends smiled the same. Only to cover something up. And their children only smirked or sneered. This was the first time I had ever been to the ministry, and the first time I had been around so many people that were not aquatinted with my father exclusively.

I felt, rather then saw my father sneer at them, and heard my mothers disapproving 'tsk.' But, try as I might, I couldn't bring myself to hate them. To hate people who could smile so happily. People who could be so carefree.

My eyes landed on a boy who looked about my age. Gangly and with freckles, he was teasing a girl who looked only one or two years younger than him. Soon, his mother came over and fondly patted him on the head smiling, before gesturing around the room, specifically at the large golden statues.

As I watched, jealousy began to course through my veins as I saw how his mother looked at him. Smiling, and eyes twinkling as she gave him a bone-crushing hug. The boy squeaked in protest as two identical boys laughed.

I suddenly became aware of my own mother, standing stick straight beside me, and wondered why she never hugged or looked at me like that. My contemplation was ruined as a loud voice made itself heard over that happy mess of people.

"Hello, Weasley's!" A tall, balding man had made his way through the crowd and was standing smiling at the group of red-heads. His own red hair gave no doubt to who he was. A fact only solidified when shouts of "Dad!" and "Hello, dear." drifted over in my direction.

I stood watching, transfixed, as the man was hugged all around, and tried in vain to capture a few sentences of what was being said. My concentration earned me nothing, and I felt my father move past me and towards them. My mother silently followed, and curious, I followed as well.

The reaction was immediate as soon as they noticed our presence. The young girl latched onto her mothers hand, while the boy that had been teasing her stood in front of her protectively. The smiles had all but disappeared, and their once laughing eyes had become solemn. For some reason it disturbed me. That our presence could smother the laughter and stop the smiles. That just by being there, we had killed the happiness.

"Hello, Arthur." Said my father smoothly. "Just leaving work?" I kept my gaze on the Weasley mother, whose eyes gleamed with a fierce protectiveness that I could only assume was for her husband, her daughter, her family. My heart ached as I looked up and saw my own mothers eyes carefully blank, and distant.

"Yes, actually." Said Arthur tensely. His eyes too, gleamed with protectiveness, and I didn't have to look at my father to know that his eyes gleamed with something else entirely.

My father smiled then, and my heart thudded painfully when I saw it was his stories one. His cruel one. "I have an appointment with the Minister. Very important, and I'm afraid I don't have time to chat." If possible, Arthur had tensed up even more at my fathers words.

My father didn't give him enough time to give a response, and was already walking away. Again, my mother followed, and again, so did I. As my feet took me further and further away, I toyed with the idea of looking back at them. To see if they got their happiness back. Such happiness had been so far unknown to me, and It fascinated me to no end. Even though watching them had made me uncomfortably aware of my own families lack of warmth. It was something I had never noticed before, and I wanted to see it again.

I did look back, but was disappointed to see that they hadn't gotten their happiness back. They were still standing there, huddled together, watching us leave, their solemn gazes boring holes into my back.

Later that night, I couldn't sleep. Feeling slightly foolish, I crept into my bathroom and stared into my mirror. Studying my own pale, slightly pointed features, I closed my eyes and tried to recreate the happiness I had seen before. Concentrating I pulled my lips back into what I hoped was a smile like the ones I had seen that day. Heart fluttering, I opened my eyes, and immediately jumped back from the mirror. Trembling, I raced back to my room, and pulled my covers around me, effectively cocooning myself from the world.

It was then I decided to forget all about smiles, and laughter. Because I was a Malfoy. Not a Weasley. I desperately tried to ignore the small longing in my heart, the small part of me that longed for warmth. What I had seen in the mirror was not happiness. What I had seen was my father, smiling as he told his stories. And what I saw in my dreams was me taking his place, smiling as I told his stories.

Harry Potter.

I first saw Harry Potter when I was about to board the Hogwarts Express for my first year of Hogwarts. Seeing him, struggling with his large trunk, I was shocked. He was so different from how I had imagined. In typical child-like fashion, I had imagined a hero. What I saw was a sickly, pale looking wisp of a little boy. Vaguely, I had remembered seeing a boy that looked like him while I was robe shopping.

Pity, was something a Malfoy felt often. I had felt it more times than I could count, when I looked upon things I believed to be lesser then myself. That I had been taught were lesser than myself. A slightly disgusted sense of 'oh you poor thing.' But when I saw Harry Potter, I felt truly for the first time, sympathy.

I then made it my resolve to be his friend. To show him that the world wasn't as bad as it seemed. Because, when you were a Malfoy, it wasn't. It wasn't that hard to seek him out, and already I was thinking of how I could break it to my father that Harry and I were friends. Maybe even best friends. In my enthusiasm, I had forgotten just why Harry was a hero. Just who he had beaten. I didn't remember again until after Harry rejected me. It seemed Ronald Weasley had gotten to him first.

It was then that I realized why Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy could never be friends. He was Gryffindor, I was Slytherin. But still, while I was pouting in my compartment with Crabbe and Goyle stuffing their faces, I thought that maybe if Weasley hadn't gotten to him first, it would have worked out. That maybe if Weasley hadn't been filling his head with nonsense I could have gotten him. I began to truly hate Ronald Weasley for filling Harry's head with useless prejudiced lies. I began to hate Harry Potter, too. For believing them.

Hermione Granger.

Hermione Granger had always been curious of the wizarding world, and how it worked. I knew this before I ever knew who she was. I was in Flourish and Blotts with my father getting my school supplies when I saw her for the first time. At first I didn't see her parents, and perhaps that's why I created such a favorable first impression of her. She was looking at a book of Quidditch, and as the colored pictures zoomed back and forth across the page, her murmured 'fascinating' made me smirk a bit. I was thinking maybe I should go over and say something, because really, if she tamed her hair and got rid of those buckteeth, she wouldn't be that bad to look at. But, before I could a women's voice floated over the bookshelves.

"Hermione?" Three people soon came into view. A women with the same brown hair as the girl beckoned slightly impatiently. "Come along now dear. We've been here for almost two hours, and we still need to get you a wand."

The man nodded and reached over to ruffle her bushy hair. "I don't see what's so good about all these books anyway." He spoke teasingly, and his brown eyes twinkled from behind thin wire framed glasses.

"Oh come on, dad." Hermione's voice was airy, and held a slightly bossy tone in it. "You were looking around just as much as I was."

The man shrugged his shoulders before looking helplessly over at the women beside him. "I can't help it. It's just so fascinating." When he spoke the last word, Hermione broke out into a smile and opened her mouth as if to say something. But, the third person beat her to it.

"Miss Granger, I know how much you want to stay, but I really must be done showing you around before five o'clock. After that, if your parents agree to it, you may come back." This women had a tight bun, and a tight smile.

"Alright" Hermione sighed before putting the Quidditch book back and following the three adults dejectedly. As she passed me she looked surprised and a bit embarrassed. Perhaps because I had seen the entire exchange. But, in spite of that, her expression cleared and she smiled brightly at me.

As she left the store I thought to myself that even if her teeth were a bit overlarge, she still had a nice smile. I was broken out of my random thoughts when I felt a large cold hand envelop my shoulder. I knew it was my father. Only he exuded such a cold aura.

"Do you know what she was?" His voice was cold. Cold in a way that only came from talking about what he hated most. I felt my stomach drop slightly. I hadn't felt such disappointment in a long time. I sighed. Hermione had been such a pretty name.

The Yule Ball.

The first time I questioned my fathers infinite knowledge of Mudbloods was at the Yule ball. My father had always told me that Mudbloods were ugly, stupid, and worthless. He'd obviously never met Hermione Granger.

I didn't realize it was her until after I was openly gaping for over a minute. She had finally tamed her hair, and from the way her smiled had changed I guessed she shrunk her teeth as well. Even then I only realized because I saw her talking to Potter and Weasley.

Weasley was jealous. And for a few seconds, so was I. Jealousy soon made way for shock, as I really understood just who Hermione Granger was. A Mudblood. But, it didn't make sense. She was a walking contradiction of everything my father had ever told me about her kind. And it took me four years to realize it.

She wasn't stupid. She was the smartest witch of her age. She wasn't ugly. Quirky, maybe. Nerdy, yes. But ugly? No. Last of all, my entire life I'd been taught that Mudbloods were worthless. That the wizarding world needed to be purged of their presence. That they belong in Hufflepuff. The weakest of all houses. I was already having doubts about that since our own ORIGINAL Hogwarts champion was from Hufflepuff. But Hermione Granger wasn't weak. I unfortunately knew that from experience. The fact was only strengthened by her placement of house. She was a Gryffindor.

It was then that the seeds of doubt had been planted in the form that maybe she wasn't out of my league. Maybe I was out of hers. But, of course that thought was immediately pushed to the deepest darkest corner of my mind. And as I returned to reality, I was consumed with a desire to overcome Granger. To prove that I was better than her in every way possible. Because know I knew that the differences in our blood weren't enough. I kept my secret desire to myself until I was sixteen when it was forcibly brought to light. My father had never before laid a hand on me before that. After, his hands had been everywhere.

The End of Everything.

With the war finished, and Harry Potter victor over all, life became mundane. I married, and had a son. But, all that's to be expected of the Malfoy heir. And that's what I was. The Malfoy heir. Nothing more, nothing less. In their haste to forget about the war and all the pain it had caused, the general public forgot about me. Not totally, as there were still looks of suspicion whenever I left my mansion, but enough so that it was just a passing thought.

My father was dead, and with him died his deeds. And his legacy. Now, instead of the Malfoys being labeled as Evil, we were labeled as Dark. Suspicious. It was too soon after the war. Evil had caused so much pain, and with the ultimate evil gone, people made it their goal to forget all things associated with it. Thus the rejection of my father's existence. Thus the almost rejection of mine. Now, people just referred to us as Snobby. Rude. Slytherin. Because that's as close as they would allow themselves to go.

We were left alone as a general rule. Even with the war done, and all rouge death eaters caught, we were still Slytherin. And Slytherin was, according to mostly everyone, suspicious. Not evil. Not quite. Just suspicious. And although some of the most influential people in the world realized what was happening, myself included, nobody did anything to stop it.

Harry Potter was too busy being a top Auror. Hermione Granger was too busy being a top healer. I was too busy letting the world lead itself to ruin. I knew, and they knew, that nothing would ever change. That Slytherin would always be the dark, and Gryffindor would always be the light. That blind prejudice had caused everything, and would continue to cause everything. And that next time their might not be a Harry Potter to swoop in and save the day.

There was nothing I could do. Because I was Slytherin. I was suspicious. I was dark. But, I was also selfish. A small part of me did want to go and find Harry Potter and declare a truce between us. To try and lead others to follow our example. But the bigger, selfish part that always won out in the end felt that whatever would happen was deserved. That because I understood, and realized what nobody else would, or even could, it was their own fault when the next preventable war came upon them. I allowed them to consume me, so that at night I wouldn't feel so guilty.

All these thoughts, I shared with my wife. She was a calm, mild-tempered woman. She didn't really try to grasp the concepts I tried to explain to explain to her. She could, she was capable of understanding, she just didn't try. I knew why she did it. She didn't want to be burdened with the same knowledge I was. And I understood. I didn't like it, but I understood. She didn't deserve it either, after willingly becoming a Malfoy. She too, was a Slytherin, but from a more mild family. Not as engrossed in Voldemort as the Malfoys had been. It's for that reason that I grew to love her. Our relationship was a bit on the cool side. Our love a bit aloof. But, it worked for us. It fit our needs, and that's all we really wanted.

Our son, on the other hand, was wild. Untamed, and passionate. His love of live made him all the more precious, and his understanding of his position in society was mature beyond his years. He was never lonely, as he had friends from other Slytherin families. He was also quite spoiled. Not in an obnoxious way, but in a way that he knew that he could get almost anything he wanted but almost never took advantage of it. He was just as content to go out exploring on the Malfoy grounds then to beg for new toys.

He was unlike any Malfoy before him, and it was for that reason that I was so proud of him. So proud that he managed to shake off the Malfoy stigma and be himself. And that was why I was so dismayed when I found him experimenting. It was a mouse, just like it had been for me. He was five, just like me. He was a Malfoy. Just like me.

What it Means to be a Malfoy.

After I had sent my son to his room, I locked myself in my study. I, not for the first time, was confused. My father had been so proud of me when he first caught me. I knew by the way he had gently patted my head. My father was also sick. I knew that from the way he smiled.

It was then that I started remembering. Every small insignificant detail rose sharp and unbidden to my mind. I thought about my home, Hogwarts, and every person I had ever bullied, ever hurt. I thought about Harry Potter, and how I really wanted him to be my friend. I remembered how I was always a little jealous of Ronald Weasley when his mother hugged him so hard he had to push her off, when my mother just stood next to me silent and unmoving.

My mind sprung me back to the Yule ball, and how pretty Hermione Granger looked dressed in blue. My heart ached for Severus Snape, and all he had ever done for me, and that in turn reminded me of my father and all he hadn't.

Last, when I almost hurt to much to bear, I thought about Malfoys in general. All that my son would have to endure. The reputation he could choose to live up to or down to. And all of these memories and musings collected together and created just one emotion. Cruel in its simplicity. Sadness. The kind of sad that's heavy and cold. The kind of sad where the only thing left to do is cry. But all I can do is laugh. I guess that's what it means to be a Malfoy.