"No, Draco." he answered my question before I could even ask it.
"But, Father, why?" I whined, giving him a pouty look. Exactly a three on my own scale. It was much more than the cute yet challenging, "bet-you-can't-resist-me" look, which I frequently shot at Pansy Parkinson (I don't like her, of course, but it's really hilarious how seriously she takes me! Do you know, she actually sends me letters? "Dear Draco, would you like to meet me in Diagon Alley sometime? We could go shopping for our school supplies together." or, "Dearest Draco, do you want to stay at my house for part of the summer? I know it's not as big and impressive as yours, but I'll bet you'd have more fun than you'd bargain for…" It's seriously the sickest thing. She's always hinting about…stuff.) Anyway, that's a one on my scale. My two-look is a bit more powerful. I use it for normal, everyday things like *ferreting my way out of detention and getting a raise in my allowance. My number three I reserved strictly for important things like this (Not to mention making sure I got exactly what I want for Christmas!).
"Oh, God…" he said, rolling his eyes, "Don't tell me…Pouty Look Number…four? Save it for Christmas, boy."
"How did you—?" I demanded, giving the sound of one who has been very unpleasantly surprised indeed.
"Perhaps," he cut me off with that falsely polite word, that favourite of his, "You should not leave that journal of yours lying about the house. Someone might read it. And another piece of advice: if you really insist upon attending those summer classes you would do well to get a job and earn the money yourself. If you would prefer to spend your summer (which I cannot see why you would.) at a school which you constantly complain about, and whose headmaster is slightly less than a sane man, fine with me, but I refuse to pay your way."
"You expect me to work? Like some common Mudblood?!" He sent my sneer straight back at me, and I knew that this conversation was over. Yet still, I had said the magic word: "Mudblood" what no Malfoy would ever be.
His face flickered for a moment, his expression wavering only slightly.
"You'll need this." he said, throwing me the page of the Daily Prophet market "Want Ads".
This was it. My last resort. If this didn't get it, nothing would. I threw the paper at my father's feet and screamed, "Fine! Don't let me go! You are a bloody failure of a father! What kind of childhood have I had?! None! Nothing! I might as well live with the Weasleys! I still wouldn't be able to go to the class, but at least they would have a good reason! I hardly ever see any of your money! Do you even have it?! Yeah, you probably do, you're just so bloody cheap that you won't spend it on something your only son really wants! I hate you!" I stormed out of the room but halfway up the stairs, I stopped, turned, and yelled back, "And the look was number three! If you had half a brain at all you'd know that. Idiot!" I ran to my room, tears streaming down my face. I hardly ever had to do that, but when I did, it always got me what I wanted. My father may have been strict, but he respected me, and loved me. He would let me go, simply because of what I had said. Game over. I win.
"But, Father, why?" I whined, giving him a pouty look. Exactly a three on my own scale. It was much more than the cute yet challenging, "bet-you-can't-resist-me" look, which I frequently shot at Pansy Parkinson (I don't like her, of course, but it's really hilarious how seriously she takes me! Do you know, she actually sends me letters? "Dear Draco, would you like to meet me in Diagon Alley sometime? We could go shopping for our school supplies together." or, "Dearest Draco, do you want to stay at my house for part of the summer? I know it's not as big and impressive as yours, but I'll bet you'd have more fun than you'd bargain for…" It's seriously the sickest thing. She's always hinting about…stuff.) Anyway, that's a one on my scale. My two-look is a bit more powerful. I use it for normal, everyday things like *ferreting my way out of detention and getting a raise in my allowance. My number three I reserved strictly for important things like this (Not to mention making sure I got exactly what I want for Christmas!).
"Oh, God…" he said, rolling his eyes, "Don't tell me…Pouty Look Number…four? Save it for Christmas, boy."
"How did you—?" I demanded, giving the sound of one who has been very unpleasantly surprised indeed.
"Perhaps," he cut me off with that falsely polite word, that favourite of his, "You should not leave that journal of yours lying about the house. Someone might read it. And another piece of advice: if you really insist upon attending those summer classes you would do well to get a job and earn the money yourself. If you would prefer to spend your summer (which I cannot see why you would.) at a school which you constantly complain about, and whose headmaster is slightly less than a sane man, fine with me, but I refuse to pay your way."
"You expect me to work? Like some common Mudblood?!" He sent my sneer straight back at me, and I knew that this conversation was over. Yet still, I had said the magic word: "Mudblood" what no Malfoy would ever be.
His face flickered for a moment, his expression wavering only slightly.
"You'll need this." he said, throwing me the page of the Daily Prophet market "Want Ads".
This was it. My last resort. If this didn't get it, nothing would. I threw the paper at my father's feet and screamed, "Fine! Don't let me go! You are a bloody failure of a father! What kind of childhood have I had?! None! Nothing! I might as well live with the Weasleys! I still wouldn't be able to go to the class, but at least they would have a good reason! I hardly ever see any of your money! Do you even have it?! Yeah, you probably do, you're just so bloody cheap that you won't spend it on something your only son really wants! I hate you!" I stormed out of the room but halfway up the stairs, I stopped, turned, and yelled back, "And the look was number three! If you had half a brain at all you'd know that. Idiot!" I ran to my room, tears streaming down my face. I hardly ever had to do that, but when I did, it always got me what I wanted. My father may have been strict, but he respected me, and loved me. He would let me go, simply because of what I had said. Game over. I win.