Disclaimer – I do not own young Draco, nor do I possess the rights to any other of J.K. Rowling's characters. No money made, no harm done.
Truth and Consequence – An Incident
Draco Malfoy had been a pale, sullen baby, who had in turn become a pale, sullen little boy. Smaller than his years dictated, with a delicate, pointed face and alabaster skin, he had drawn admiring stares and provoked enthused compliments at his parents austere social gatherings.
….such a darling little boy….
….he has his mothers beauty….
….but definitely a Malfoy, no doubt about that….
Under the watchful glare of his father, Draco had been cultivated to endure this tiresome scrutiny. Adrift amongst the swells of cigar smoke, the clinks of fine crystal, and the incessant patter of clipped, terse voices, the small boy stoically withstood the tedium of his childhood, always noticed, but just as inevitably forgotten. Which was probably a good thing.
For, although his features were as delicate and pale as his mothers, Draco's eyes were an undeniable gift from the paternal purity of the Malfoy genes. In fact, had anyone paused for long enough between unwelcome hair rufflings and cheek tweakings to contemplate those calm, grey eyes, they might not have found the little boy as charming as they first thought.
But even that could provide only a mere inkling of the Malfoy heir's true nature. The simple fact of the matter was that Draco was a very nasty little boy indeed. But his vicious streak was not akin to that of the common, unsophisticated youth. His deviousness was not of the type to be content with plucking the wings from a struggling fly, pouring scalding water into a frenzied ant's den, or taking advantage of an amphibian's potential inflatability. If Draco had learned one thing in his formative years, it was to be discreet, understated. Refined.
And this he learned from his father. Lucius Malfoy was the very model of taste, a study of urbanity, and one of the most vicious predators known to the wizarding world. It was almost natural to draw comparisons between Lucius and the more salient hunters of the fauna kingdom. The man had the gaze of a raptor, the cunning of a fox, and the bite of a khayman, metaphorically speaking of course. It was this cool demeanour of barely contained ruthlessness that so inspired Draco, for there were no other guardians to instil any sense of virtue in the boy.
In truth, the only elders Draco encountered with any regularity were those who frequented his austere home on 'business' matters, smiling dinner guests whom his father greeted with polite welcome, but who he really considered to be 'fawning sycophants'. This tangle of curious syllables formed an accusation that Draco overheard with his ear pressed to the study door during one of his midnight excursions through the dimly-lit mansion.
It was on this very same cold, November night, whilst melded with curiousity to the smooth, redolent mahogany door, that the young Draco made a startling realisation. Whilst he may not have known what those two, exotic words truly meant, he deciphered the nuances of his father voice amply enough to comprehend the venom that fuelled them. Couched undetected in the midnight chill of a chill, bleak mansion, the pale-haired little boy made a very important discovery indeed. It seemed that his father was not what he first appeared to be. His father, with his taut, civil smile, and welcoming arm, a man he had known all his life (which was something which struck him as awe-inspiring, even at the tender age of seven), was not always the smiling host of geniality.
His father was underhanded. His father welcomed visitors to their home, and seethed accusations at them behind their backs. His father was a liar.
To some children, this might have come as something of a blow. To Draco Malfoy, however, it was a defining moment, a moment which firmly strengthened the sap of the puny weed of deceit coiled within him. It was acceptable to lie. In fact, it was more than acceptable. The beautiful Malfoy mansion, the enviable wealth, the constant stream of obsequious visitors. All these things his father possessed, even though he was lying and deceitful. Perhaps even because he was lying and deceitful.
Draco crept to his palatial bed that night with a snug bud of warmth within him that not even the icy chill could extinguish. He had just discovered something that suited him very well indeed.
The next morning, a small, silvery haired boy bounded down the carved staircase, much to the annoyance of the ancient crones who snoozed in the comfort of gold-gilded picture frames, and sped into the small, odorous hallway that led to the kitchens.
Draco did not like the kitchens. For one, they were crawling with gormless, wide-eyed house-elves, creatures that he despised even at his young age. The other, more salient, reason for his trepidation, however, was the presence of the house cook. Bryn was a huge, hulking man with a talent for cooking, and an even greater propensity for insolence. Draco hated him. He had heard Bryn curse and spit snide comments about his parents and, although he could concede that most of the accusations about his mother were apt enough, he could not bear the taunts that sullied his father name. Whenever Draco was within earshot, the hulking cook's small eyes would slide towards him, and a stream of bitter-laced comments would issue from those smirking, liverish lips.
Draco had never borne the courage to confront Bryn. He had been far too fearful of the ham-fisted brute to attempt any sort of reprimand, and the sly cook knew this only too well. It had recently occurred to Draco, however, that his father didn't seem to like Bryn very much either. In his role as the dismissible child at his fathers gatherings, he had overheard conversations with the fat cooks name peppered throughout, dull discussions concerning such horribly boring matters as 'changing allegiances' with words like 'untrustworthy' and 'turncoat' frequently muttered in hushed tones. Draco usually paid the adults half-whispered talks little heed, but something about this conversation had snagged his attention. Draco didn't like Bryn, and now father and his fathers friends didn't seem to like Bryn either. And yet he still lived with them, still muttered sour asides when only Draco was listening. Matters had to be taken into hand.
The small boy all but skipped into the kitchen, barging several squeaking house-elves into ungainly sprawls along the way, and stopped abruptly before the white-clad brute that was the family cook.
Bryn stared at the boy for a moment, blinking in an almost bovine fashion as Draco gave him a sweet smile….and dropped a small handful of Boggart dung into a perfectly domed soufflé. A nearby house elf gave a tiny gasp at this horrifying event, before quickly burying its pug-nosed face into a handy dishcloth. Draco's smile widened as the cooks face turned an alarming shade of puce, and a meaty hand shot out to grab the nearest cudgel to hand.
Draco stared up at the egg-encrusted spatula quivering in the cook's huge fist, and gave a small shake of his head. 'I shouldn't use that, if I were you.'
'What?' hissed Bryn. 'Are you trying to tell me what to do, you snot-nosed little….?'
He paused in furious wonder at Draco's regretful tutting. 'Now now, Bryn. No need get panicky. I won't tell father.'
'What?' The cook exclaimed again, this time in a dense, glottal roar. 'What are you talking about?'
'Why, your allegiance, of course.' The boy chanted in sing-song voice, only barely managing to stifle a giggle at the pallor that suddenly leeched the anger from Bryn's face. 'Can we trust you, Bryn?'
The arm holding the spatula began to quiver. Bryn looked as though he had just swallowed a vomit seasoned every flavour bean. 'What….what have you heard?
'Enough to stop you hitting me with that thing.' Draco nodded at the spatula, and found himself pleasantly amused by the way the meeting was unfolding. 'Now, give me a gillyweed roll, and we'll forget all about it, all right?'
A stupefied Bryn grabbled for the plate of pastries with a shaking hand, his eyes wide with what looked suspiciously like horror.
'Thank you. Goodbye, Bryn.' And, with that, Draco skipped away.
Once he had reached the great hall, Draco could contain himself no longer. He dropped to his knees before the cold hearth, laughing until his small body throbbed with mirth, and his mothers voice drifted from the bedroom with a scolding for making her head ache. It had been so easy. He had defied Bryn with a few, meaningless words, and had escaped completely unscathed. Not only unscathed, but with a reward for his efforts.
When his breathless heaving had finally faded to spurts of giggles, the boy regarded the fresh roll in his hand. With a sly smile on his now rosy face, Draco drew back his arm as though to throw the delicacy into the waiting jowls of a hopeful looking Satyr, one of his father's game hounds, and grinned as the beast immediately bounded in the direction of the feint.
'Stupid dog.' The boy snorted, cramming the pastry into his mouth with a spray of crumbs. 'Stupid cook.' And the sole scion of the Malfoy family collapsed into fits once more, roaring with laughter until his mother limped down the stairs and gently pleaded with him to stop.
~~~~*~~~~
Two weeks later, Bryn left. No note, no explanation, leaving all his worldly belongings and a host of weeping house-elves in his wake. Lucius offered no comment, but Narcissa greatly mourned the prospect of a life without rum-apple soufflé.
'Never mind, my little darling.' She whispered in tender tones, her long, delicate fingers stroking Draco's white cheek. 'We shall find you another friend to visit in the kitchen soon.'
And poor Narcissa'a neglected heart was warmed by her son's sudden smile.