Words float in from somewhere else, traveling sluggishly to the child's ears. He's trying to listen, he really is, but the outside has captured his attention. A sparrow, brown and beady-eyed, perches upon a magnolia branch. The child wonders what it's like to be a bird, to fly wherever he pleases, bound only by the base rules of survival. To soar to the highest heavens, snatching insects from branches, dive-bombing grown-ups for his amusement. He wonders if insects would taste nearly as good as sweets if he was a bird.

"Draco!"

The tutor, patient but disappointed, raises his voice and raps the point of a quill on the table. Startled, Draco glances back, blinking rapidly. The star chart before him remains empty.

"I don't understand the point of this exercise," Draco sighs dramatically; even at eight years old, his personality overflows with his father's petulance and his mother's wit. His speech, clipped and enunciated, impresses most adults - until they get to know him better.

The tutor wears a strained, polite smile that, to the trained eye, betrays how much he wants to bang his head against the manor's marble walls. "The point," He says firmly, "Is for you to get ahead of your peers so you can be at the top of your class. You want to make your father proud, don't you?"

You don't want to make your father angry, do you? That's the question Draco hears, and he shudders at the possibility, already knowing his answer: no. "Yes," He replies dully.

"If you fill this out correctly and we finish early, I'll ask your mother if we can go out for ice cream. Would you like that?" The tutor coaxes.

"Ooh. Yes, I would." Draco nods vigorously and grabs his quill.

A glance at the page tells him that the chances of getting all the answers correct are slim to none. He grips the plume decisively and plows ahead anyway. The only constellation he's sure of is his namesake. The great dragon coils around the North Pole, its serpentine body ending in a vicious, toothed head. Draco even adds extra stars for wings; perhaps creativity will score him some points.

Once he's done, Draco beams proudly and slides the parchment to his tutor, who looks over the labels. He sighs, pinches his nose. "Okay. Let's go over this again, shall we?"

Draco's lip trembles, but he forces himself not to cry. Crying means weakness, and he will not be seen as weak. He faces away from the window, scolding himself for daydreaming.

You want to make your father proud, don't you?

When he was only a toddler, Draco used to squeal and wriggle his way from the bath as best he could every night. But in his more sophisticated years, he asks himself how he could have ever been so foolish. Cleanliness is close to godliness, Draco remembers, just as his Auntie Dromeda used to tell him.

He wonders why she's stopped coming to visit.

The bathroom, like most rooms in Malfoy Manor, is too exquisitely enormous for its own good. But after a near-decade of taking perfumed, extravagant baths in the pool-sized tub every night, the room feels homey to Draco. Blue and yellow light from the enchanted chandelier above dances and reflects off the marble surfaces and mirrors. The Malfoys' house-elf has already run the bath, so the water sits at the right temperature, and Draco slips in without hesitation. Reaching for a bar of chamomile and lavender soap, he begins to wash, albeit clumsily. But he leaves his hair untouched, sinking into the bubbles and waiting.

Soft footsteps padding on the tile make Draco smile; his mother is here. "Hello, darling." Narcissa's kind voice echoes slightly as she settles down behind him. As is routine, she pumps foaming, gardenia-scented shampoo into her hands and washes her son's hair, fingers massaging his scalp and working out the tangles. "Tell me about your day."

"Well…I had French lessons today. And I played in the garden after."

"What did you learn?"

"I can say…je - je suis heureux," Draco stutters, his pronunciation unpracticed.

"Very good." Narcissa spills warm water onto his head, rinsing the suds. "And are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Est-ce que tu es heureux, mon petit dragon ?"

Draco sinks into the bubbles. He lives in a five-story house, lavishly decorated, complete with a room that's all his own to play in. He has two parents who only want the best for him: the best education, the best adulthood they can prepare for. "Oui, Maman. Of course, I am."

Idly, he wonders. Will the other kids in Slytherin house make fun of him if he takes bubble baths? Draco can't allow anyone to dislike him. He'll make as many friends as possible, connections for the future. "Mum?"

"Yes, darling?" Narcissa starts on a conditioner, the same dewy gardenia scent as the shampoo.

"I think…I think I should wash my own hair from now on. Since you won't be at school to do it for me."

Narcissa falls silent for a moment. This must be how it begins, the separation of mother and son. She's seen it coming. It only stings a bit. "Of course, Draco. It's nice to see you're taking some responsibility."

Her hands thread through his hair, and it feels like the last time.

Are you happy, my little dragon?

Dinner is usually a quiet, solemn affair, the silence broken only by the scraping of silver against porcelain and the occasional reprimand for Draco to fix his table manners. But tonight, with the promise of Hogwarts castle a scarce few nights away, Lucius decides that a few minutes of discussion can't hurt.

Draco Malfoy sits as a near-perfect replicant of his parents. Slicked platinum blonde hair, sharp chin tilted up, and hands clasped neatly as the house-elf clears away the plates and begins serving dessert. The only thing wrong is his eyes - silver, and filled with contempt and hints of power, as they should be. But there's something else, too - a shine that signifies the dreams of a child. Draco's life is planned; Lucius knows because he did it himself. There should be no room for fantasy.

"Draco."

"Yes, father?"

"Before you go off to Hogwarts, your mother and I would like to illuminate you about your future."

Though she's included in that statement, Narcissa keeps her head bowed and her mouth shut. Demure and submissive. The only kind of woman Lucius can respect.

He retrieves his wand and waves it over the tabletop. Draco blinks in surprise; his father has always had a strict no-magic-at-the-dinner-table rule. This must be serious. As a long sheet of crisp, white parchment unfurls onto the dark wood, the family house-elf places a slice of tiramisu by Draco's elbow. He forces himself to ignore it.

"September first, nineteen ninety-one," Lucius says smoothly, tapping an entry near the parchment's top. "Attends Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," a disapproving glance at Narcissa, "not Durmstrang. Sorted into Slytherin house."

Draco nods; he knows this already.

But as Lucius continues, Draco discovers just how much he's meant to achieve. "Prefect." "Outstanding O.W.L.s." "Quidditch captain." "Head Boy." "You may," Lucius continues, "Select a subject in your sixth year in which to excel and lessen your effort for the others. But if it's Muggle Studies, we'll have to disown you." He smiles coldly, but Draco knows he's not joking.

"I wouldn't be interested in how animals live, anyway," Draco remarks, and Lucius smirks; he's trained his son well.

"I should hope not. In addition," Lucius indicates a much shorter list separate from the entries, "The names of those in which you may place your trust. Old families, respectable ones. I do not care if you garner a following; in fact, I encourage it. But you keep your true intentions within an inner circle. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Father."

"Lastly," Lucius slides one pale finger to the end of the parchment. "Marriage."

A woman stands at the end of an aisle. She smiles. Perhaps Draco sheds a tear. He's set the scene up in his mind often, not as a daydream, but as practice. To prepare himself. And each time, his wife has no face.

"When the time comes, your mother and I will handpick a proper, pureblood woman for you to wed. You will marry her. You will learn to tolerate her if not love her."

"Yes, Father." A twist of uncertainty in Draco's stomach. "But…"

He regards his son with frosty menace. "But?"

"What if I don't want to marry? I'll do everything else," Draco says hurriedly, "But I think I can be successful without a wife, right? Don't I…get a choice?"

A beat of silence.

As fast as a viper, Lucius's black-clad arm lurches across the table, grabbing Draco's face. Draco squeaks in alarm as his father forces him to stand, fingers painfully clawed about his chin.

"Choice?" Lucius roars, eyes blazing. "You think I chose to have only one son to pass on the family name? You think I chose for our kind to be interbreeding with Muggles, mixing our blood with filth? You listen to me, boy," He squeezes, and Draco whimpers in pain, "I won't tolerate any idiotic talk about 'choice'! Your duty is to keep our bloodline pure. Do you wish to fail your duties?"

Draco can hardly form a reply. Tears begin to inch, unbidden, onto his cheeks.

Narcissa can't take it anymore, standing, shouting, "Lucius, stop it! You're hurting him!"

Lucius lets him go. He turns toward his wife and slaps her face with the back of his hand.

The blow echoes off the cold marble of the dining room. Narcissa bows her head, cradling her cheek. The look of a caged animal shines in her blue eyes, which remain resolutely fixed to the floor. She doesn't cry. She doesn't allow herself to cry.

Draco, on the floor, breathes in gasping gulps, his heartbeat fierce with fear and betrayal. Lucius holds not an ounce of pity for either of them.

Do you wish to fail your duties?

As scarlet flames flicker in the wrought iron grate, Draco thinks about what has transpired that day. He'd almost bought green robes only a few shades darker than Potter's eyes, but when Potter's group entered Madam Malkin's, he realized the similarity and decided against them. Given Narcissa the slip, which she became livid about later. Made sure to walk by the storefront window precisely when Potter stood near it, to make sure he spotted him. Draco can't fathom why he did it, but he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that whatever he's getting himself into, he'll feel safer if Potter's aware of it - no matter how insufferable the Golden Boy is.

He can't help but wonder what the Gryffindor would think if he knew of the task assigned to him now.

"Draco."

He shudders involuntarily at the sound of his godfather's oily voice but turns around slowly.

Severus Snape's black eyes show no sympathy, only cold calculation.

"I still don't understand," Draco says quietly, his voice trembling, "Why I have to do it."

Snape doesn't answer. Nearby, Narcissa sobs silently into a handkerchief. It's Bellatrix who answers, her high voice mocking, "Because your daddy can't do his job properly!"

"Quiet, Bellatrix." Snape inclines his head. "Think of it as a test, Draco. Complete it, and you will earn your place."

Draco's wand hand twitches towards his left forearm. "But why now? I've… I've only just begun."

"You will succeed." Snape sounds utterly sure. "The task will be completed, and the Dark Lord will be satisfied. Trust me on this."

Draco looks to his mother, who won't meet his eyes. "Do I have to do it properly? With magic?"

"As long as he ends up dead, the Dark Lord will be satisfied," Snape repeats.

Draco rests his hands on the mantle to stop them from shaking. Ten months. Within ten months, he will become a murderer. He always thought he knew where his life was going. Perhaps not where he'd want it to go, but it would satisfy him. And now…

Snape retrieves a sheet of parchment from inside his robes. Once white and crisp, it's yellowed and curled on the edges with age. Draco watches as he walks forward and tosses it into the fire.

For a moment, the flames turn as red as Voldemort's eyes, and Draco feels a wrench of loss as he watches his future go up in smoke.

[Translation from French:

"I - I'm happy."

"Are you happy, my little dragon?"

"Yes, Mother."]