Draco Malfoy could never remember being so angry in his life. That wasn't even the worst part about it; the worst part was feeling so afraid, so confused, and so generally upset about being angry, afraid, and confused.
The fear and confusion had come early on, starting from the day his father had been imprisoned in Azkaban. As invulnerable as he had been before, he had felt wide open and exposed from the moment he heard the news. Oh, he knew it was a matter of time before the Dementors came over to Voldemort's side, and from then on it would be an easy matter to get his father out of the wizard prison. But there was still that nagging doubt. There was still the fact that his father, who had always been unassailable either due to skill or money, had been imprisoned in Azkaban.
The next two years had done nothing to still those doubts. Potter and his cronies, Dumbledore and his fawning men had continued to win in both big and small. He couldn't even beat Potter in a simple game of Quidditch, for crying out loud! The damn Weasley lorded it over everyone else with his newfound skills at being Keeper, and while his father had escaped Azkaban he still hadn't come home. Oh, his mother was nice enough, cosseting and comforting with all the love the Malfoy riches could buy, but it wasn't the same. She didn't have his father's cold sense of cruelty for one thing, didn't have that smiling, sneering arrogance Draco had come to look up to. It was all the worse because he wasn't supposed to show any weakness, he wasn't even supposed to miss his father. The fact that he did confused him. Wasn't he supposed to be more cold and calculating than that? Lucius certainly didn't miss his only son. He didn't have regrets, twinges or pangs when he thought of home. Was Draco weak to miss his father? He didn't know, and he didn't know who he could ask for an answer.
By the beginning of his seventh year Draco had given up all dreams of becoming a Death Eater like his father. Apart from the fact that it was increasingly likely that the Dark Lord would lose (no matter what his mother and his father's friends said) he was starting to be put off the whole idea altogether. There was a rabid quality to his father's Death Eater friends, a mindless sense of loyalty that Draco didn't like. The Malfoys certainly believed in what the Dark Lord stood for, that was certain. But Draco was smarter than half the Death Eaters put together, and even he had the rat sense to abandon the sinking ship before he went down with it. Then, too, there was the nagging worry that he wasn't worthy of being a Death Eater. The sense of weakness in him for missing his father, for missing the security of how things used to be, made him question his own ability. He became more sullen, less openly violent and antagonistic towards the Gryffindors. He began to spend more and more time in the library, in the Slytherin Common Room, anywhere he wouldn't be disturbed. Anywhere he wouldn't have to look at Harry bloody Potter and his pack of damned Weasleys.
The Dark Lord's fall, when it came, hadn't even been a surprise. The surprise had come when Professor Snape wasn't rounded up with the rest of the Death Eaters but reappeared some days after, injured yet very much alive. His father, shortly before the Dark Lord's downfall, had spoken of a traitor amongst the Death Eaters. Draco had been sure it was that twitchy little rat, Pettigrew; after all he'd betrayed his own side once, and who was to say it wouldn't happen again? But when Professor Snape turned up alive, well, and treated as a brave hero rather than a disgraced Death Eater…
And then his father had come to the school. Somehow he'd managed to get free of his guards a second time, and Draco had been elated, thinking that his father had come to take him out of the school (he didn't even care about NEWTs anymore, he just wanted to get away) and off to someplace nicer. Instead his father had swept completely by him, a look in his eyes that had terrified even Draco, and he'd turned his wand on any and all Mudbloods he could find, dragging them to the ground and torturing them into unconsciousness. His father had then exchanged a few words with Professor Snape, still nothing for Draco. And then he'd swept on by and rampaged about the school, to be taken down by Hermione bloody Granger, yet another of Potter's cronies. Professor Snape had later said that if she hadn't done it he might have killed Lucius Malfoy. And Lucius still had had no word for his son.
He'd gone up to his room and hadn't emerged for the rest of the day. His crying had to be stifled under a pillow, lest the other Slytherins hear. He pounded on the pillow covering his head till he gave himself a headache, trying to stop the tears. It hadn't worked. He bit the blankets to stop himself from screaming. He felt as though his world was being ripped apart, and his body with it. He wanted to die, and hated himself for it.
The absolute last straw had come when the youngest Weasley brat had seen him in one of those fits. He'd found a hiding place across from a tapestry of Barnabas, possibly where Snape's assistant slept; either way, it was a small stone room with nothing in it but a bed. He'd dragged some of the blankets down while everyone was at dinner in the Great Hall, curled up and gone to sleep. He still didn't know how she found him, but when he'd woken up to a pillow full of damp and salt, as usual, there she'd been. Sitting there watching him with those big brown cow eyes full of pity.
Draco despised being the object of pity.
He still couldn't remember what he'd done. There had been shouting, and wand waving, and he was only dimly aware of trying the Cruciatus on her, to little effect. But eventually she had gone away, and he was all alone again. And he was discovering that, far worse than the pity of the Weasley girl or the predatory gazes of his Slytherin housemates, was the solitude. Far worse than being picked on or pitied was being alone.
The fear and confusion had come early on, starting from the day his father had been imprisoned in Azkaban. As invulnerable as he had been before, he had felt wide open and exposed from the moment he heard the news. Oh, he knew it was a matter of time before the Dementors came over to Voldemort's side, and from then on it would be an easy matter to get his father out of the wizard prison. But there was still that nagging doubt. There was still the fact that his father, who had always been unassailable either due to skill or money, had been imprisoned in Azkaban.
The next two years had done nothing to still those doubts. Potter and his cronies, Dumbledore and his fawning men had continued to win in both big and small. He couldn't even beat Potter in a simple game of Quidditch, for crying out loud! The damn Weasley lorded it over everyone else with his newfound skills at being Keeper, and while his father had escaped Azkaban he still hadn't come home. Oh, his mother was nice enough, cosseting and comforting with all the love the Malfoy riches could buy, but it wasn't the same. She didn't have his father's cold sense of cruelty for one thing, didn't have that smiling, sneering arrogance Draco had come to look up to. It was all the worse because he wasn't supposed to show any weakness, he wasn't even supposed to miss his father. The fact that he did confused him. Wasn't he supposed to be more cold and calculating than that? Lucius certainly didn't miss his only son. He didn't have regrets, twinges or pangs when he thought of home. Was Draco weak to miss his father? He didn't know, and he didn't know who he could ask for an answer.
By the beginning of his seventh year Draco had given up all dreams of becoming a Death Eater like his father. Apart from the fact that it was increasingly likely that the Dark Lord would lose (no matter what his mother and his father's friends said) he was starting to be put off the whole idea altogether. There was a rabid quality to his father's Death Eater friends, a mindless sense of loyalty that Draco didn't like. The Malfoys certainly believed in what the Dark Lord stood for, that was certain. But Draco was smarter than half the Death Eaters put together, and even he had the rat sense to abandon the sinking ship before he went down with it. Then, too, there was the nagging worry that he wasn't worthy of being a Death Eater. The sense of weakness in him for missing his father, for missing the security of how things used to be, made him question his own ability. He became more sullen, less openly violent and antagonistic towards the Gryffindors. He began to spend more and more time in the library, in the Slytherin Common Room, anywhere he wouldn't be disturbed. Anywhere he wouldn't have to look at Harry bloody Potter and his pack of damned Weasleys.
The Dark Lord's fall, when it came, hadn't even been a surprise. The surprise had come when Professor Snape wasn't rounded up with the rest of the Death Eaters but reappeared some days after, injured yet very much alive. His father, shortly before the Dark Lord's downfall, had spoken of a traitor amongst the Death Eaters. Draco had been sure it was that twitchy little rat, Pettigrew; after all he'd betrayed his own side once, and who was to say it wouldn't happen again? But when Professor Snape turned up alive, well, and treated as a brave hero rather than a disgraced Death Eater…
And then his father had come to the school. Somehow he'd managed to get free of his guards a second time, and Draco had been elated, thinking that his father had come to take him out of the school (he didn't even care about NEWTs anymore, he just wanted to get away) and off to someplace nicer. Instead his father had swept completely by him, a look in his eyes that had terrified even Draco, and he'd turned his wand on any and all Mudbloods he could find, dragging them to the ground and torturing them into unconsciousness. His father had then exchanged a few words with Professor Snape, still nothing for Draco. And then he'd swept on by and rampaged about the school, to be taken down by Hermione bloody Granger, yet another of Potter's cronies. Professor Snape had later said that if she hadn't done it he might have killed Lucius Malfoy. And Lucius still had had no word for his son.
He'd gone up to his room and hadn't emerged for the rest of the day. His crying had to be stifled under a pillow, lest the other Slytherins hear. He pounded on the pillow covering his head till he gave himself a headache, trying to stop the tears. It hadn't worked. He bit the blankets to stop himself from screaming. He felt as though his world was being ripped apart, and his body with it. He wanted to die, and hated himself for it.
The absolute last straw had come when the youngest Weasley brat had seen him in one of those fits. He'd found a hiding place across from a tapestry of Barnabas, possibly where Snape's assistant slept; either way, it was a small stone room with nothing in it but a bed. He'd dragged some of the blankets down while everyone was at dinner in the Great Hall, curled up and gone to sleep. He still didn't know how she found him, but when he'd woken up to a pillow full of damp and salt, as usual, there she'd been. Sitting there watching him with those big brown cow eyes full of pity.
Draco despised being the object of pity.
He still couldn't remember what he'd done. There had been shouting, and wand waving, and he was only dimly aware of trying the Cruciatus on her, to little effect. But eventually she had gone away, and he was all alone again. And he was discovering that, far worse than the pity of the Weasley girl or the predatory gazes of his Slytherin housemates, was the solitude. Far worse than being picked on or pitied was being alone.