A/N: Takes place between books six and seven.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, and no money is made.

"Mum! Look what I made!" I said excitedly, running as fast as my little toddler legs would allow. In my hands was a clay sculpture of a hippogriff. It was crude, yes, and blocky, but I was very proud. To me, it was the spitting image of a hippogriff.

Mum looked down from her issue of Witch Weekly.

"Very pretty." she said, a rather lack-luster compliment. "Why don't you show it to your father? I'm sure he'll love it."

I rushed to father's study.

"Father! Look!"

He glanced at it with his customary sneer.

"What the devil is that supposed to be?" he asked. I drooped a little before replying.

"It's a hippogriff." Father raised one pale eyebrow.

"Well, go put it somewhere. Not in here." he added when I tried to set it on the end of his huge mahogany desk. Hanging my head, I returned to my room.

That is one of my earliest memories.

For the first few years of my life, nothing I did was adequate. My uselessness angered my father, and he was more than willing to beat that fact into me with his walking stick. Mother turned a blind eye to this, afraid of retribution.

Soon, I began to act like him: every sneer, every slimy proclamation of superiority. He loved it. Said I was a chip off the old block, a true Malfoy. I hated every minute of it. Still do. But I seem to be just like every other person on the planet: willing to pay ridiculous prices for approval, even if I beat myself over the head with self-loathing. Of course, this conformity made the punishments for slipping even worse. In reality, however, I think I preferred a beating to this pathetic masquerade.

I never stopped sculpting. I would never admit this to anyone, but I rather enjoy getting my hands dirty. There's something wonderful about staining my fingers, these long graceful hands that are just like mother's, and covering them in reddish-brown clay. I love the cool, smooth feel of it. Sculpting helps me forget everything: father, Potter, Hogwarts. But of course, Draco Malfoy doesn't sculpt. Draco Malfoy is perfect. Draco Malfoy is a happy little snot.

So who is the pale boy in the corner, wearing clay up to his wrists and the smallest of smiles?

It figures that a Weasley would be the one who discovered my hobby. Ginny bloody-Weasley. And of course, I though, she's going to laugh. Draco Malfoy? Sculpting? Ridiculous! IN silent embarrassment, I waited for her to say something, already formulating a snappy Malfoy comeback.

"I like it!" That made me blink.

"You what?"

"I like it." she repeated, sounding as surprised as I felt. "You're really good, you know." I had no idea what to say. Because, really: how could I get myself to express gratitude to a Weasley? Not now, when my training had been pounded (quite literally, at times) into me for years. "May I have it?"

"Do whatever you want." I said dismissively. Couldn't make it look like I was too fond of it.

Of course, the little wench took my invitation literally, and smacked me hard across the face.

"Acting like your father isn't going to make people like you." And with that, she picked up the sculpture and walked away.

I stared after her. How had a Weasley brat torn apart the mask I'd so carefully developed for so long?

Immediately, I began my next sculpture. When I started, I had no idea what it would be. But as it took shape, I saw a face that was still vaguely young, though you could see the sharper lines of womanhood starting to emerge. It was her.

That summer, the summer after fifth year, I received the Dark Mark. Along with it, I was given an impossible task: kill Dumbledore. Afraid of death, afraid of being a disappointment, I took them on with false pride.

It killed my mother. Absolutely destroyed her.

When I returned home, I went immediately to my room and reached for the sculpture of Ginny Weasley I'd made just under a year ago. I stared at it for a long time: tracing the tops of sharp cheekbones with my thumb, across the delicate jawline and down the slender neck. My grip tightened. With a scream of frustration, I slammed the clay bust into the floor, where it shattered into tiny, lethal fragments.

A house-elf appeared, and squeaked at the mess.

"Clean it up!" I snapped.

Oh, very childish, Draco. Her voice rang through my head.

"SHUT UP!" The house-elf looked at me, clearly frightened. "What are you staring at?! I told you to clean it the fuck up!!"

"Yes sir!" Was the hurried reply.

I never wanted this. Any of this. It's almost funny how shame can drive you to make a fool of yourself for the sake of others. I hate my weakness, and I hate every hidden thread of strength. I can't move forwards, but I can't move back either. I can't be myself, nor can I be what people want me to be. I can't change. But I can't remain the same for much longer.

That is what it means to be a failure.