A small boy sat huddled in the corner of a huge drafty room. His hair was tousled and he looked to be about seven years old. He had tear-streaks on his grief-ridden face. This was a scene often to be seen in that old mansion. A green, floppy-eared being, a house-elf, stumbled his way up to the boy and said, in a kindly voice, "Master mustn't cry. You are the luckiest boy in the world, to live in such a fine house and have such wonderful things. Why, that new racing broom you just got must have cost master a fortune!"
The boy looked down. His platinum blond hair fell into his eyes. The house-elf helped him up. "There now. Let's go outside then, and have a go on that broom. Come, Draco." Draco, however, had other things in mind. He turned away from the elf and walked up the broad staircase that led to his room. The elf looked sad, and then snapped his long fingers and disappeared. Draco sat on his bed and resumed his crying.
Draco was a spoiled young man, it is true, but he was only spoiled in inanimate objects. He would have given them all up in a second for true love and affection from his mother or father. However, he knew that it was not to be. Draco's father, Lucius, was an unctuous man who thought the most amusing thing in the world was to torture innocent beings. They were not innocent bystanders in his way of thinking. Instead, they were inferior and less than a trifle. The only bit of usefulness to be had from them was for his own pleasure.
Draco's thoughts turned toward his mother. Narcissa was a vain and petty woman who couldn't be bothered to pay any attention to her only son. Draco was as alone in the world as if he were an orphan.