I stomped back toward the painting, slumping with frustration.

"Password?"

"Snake's got bad parents."

The Fat Lady- I should really ask her name at some point- frowned. "Is something wrong, Mr. Malfoy-"

"Don't call me that!" I snarled.

Her frown deepened. "That's quite a rude thing to say to the painting that decides whether or not to let you into your own house."

I sighed. "I know. I'm sorry. Password's Caput Draconis."

"Dragon. Like your name." She grinned before opening the passage. As I crawled through, I heard her mutter, "Dragons are very brave creatures, but they're so often used for bad things. There's a dragon chained up in Gringotts, did you know?"

I muttered to myself after her. "Yeah. Sounds like me. Chained up in royalty."

The fireplace was far too warm for September, but I curled up in front of it anyway, watching the logs spit ambers onto the iron grate. It mesmerized me. I wanted to touch the heat, to feel it curling my hand. I put my hand near the iron...

...and quickly realized there was a powerful barrier preventing me from burning my hand. I just had to sit back and wait for all the thoughts to fill my head.

I didn't deserve to get into Hogwarts. I didn't suffer for it, not like muggles do for their schools.

I should've been grateful for the opportunities being in Gryffindor would give me. After all, there was a Gryffindor who grew up to work for the Dark Lord himself. My Father knew him...I couldn't quite remember his name...

Anyway.

I should've been more insistent about being in Slytherin. I should've asked Dumbledore directly. I should've...I should've...

Tears started dripping down my cheeks. I couldn't. I didn't want to. I was a coward.

To go up to Dumbledore directly and tell him what his Sorting Hat did was wrong...To tell him he was wrong...

It was a horrible thing to do. He had been running this school for years. Who was I, as an eleven-year-old boy who hadn't been here a week, to tell him how to run his school?

I started sobbing, trying to hide it with my robes. Father always said that crying was despicable, and best left for those who were so weak they couldn't help but show their emotion. Father always said that Malfoys never cried, unless they wanted to garner pity, and no son of Malfoy should garner pity. And yet I sobbed on, gasping for air, curled up, hiding in the darkness of my robes. I cried for my mother, as she was the only other Malfoy who bothered to show any affection. I cried for Dobby, who would care for me even when I grew relentless and tired of Father's endless schooling. I even found myself crying for Dean, who had shown care when I was alone.

I sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed, until my tears had all dried up and the only thing I could do was gasp for breath before letting out the biggest sob I had made yet.