[Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling and her publishers. Please don't sue me.]
My Birthday
Draco is giddy with excitement. Today is his seventh birthday. He hopes his father will give him a real racing broom. He has wanted one ever since he has known what flying was. Flying.
He has seen people flying at the Quidditch games they go to. He imagines himself flying. It is easy. He feels the wind on his face. He is happy. He is at peace. He is free. His broom turns at his lightest touch. He can go fast, and he can go slow. He is free to do whatever he wishes. His father is watching, and his father is proud of him.
Draco lies in bed, imagining, and there is an unguarded smile on his face. He feigns sleep, hoping his father will come in and surprise him. He waits for a very long time. Still, his father does not come.
Draco decides to go find his father. His father will be in his study. Draco walks around the Manor, wishing he had socks or shoes. The floor is ice cold beneath his bare feet.
He finds his father's study. He knocks.
"Come in." His father is sitting in his chair, looking at a book open on his desk. There is a slight frown on his face, a small crease between his eyes.
"Today is my birthday," Draco tells his father, breathlessly, hopefully.
His father only looks at him, annoyed.
Draco looks down at his feet. He is disappointed. Of course his father would not give him a gift for his seventh birthday. He had not given him a birthday present last year, or the year before that... Draco is angry at himself for expecting otherwise.
His father has forgotten him already. He is looking down at the book again, studying it.
Draco lets himself out of the room quietly, not bothering to ask for permission.
My Birthday
Draco is giddy with excitement. Today is his seventh birthday. He hopes his father will give him a real racing broom. He has wanted one ever since he has known what flying was. Flying.
He has seen people flying at the Quidditch games they go to. He imagines himself flying. It is easy. He feels the wind on his face. He is happy. He is at peace. He is free. His broom turns at his lightest touch. He can go fast, and he can go slow. He is free to do whatever he wishes. His father is watching, and his father is proud of him.
Draco lies in bed, imagining, and there is an unguarded smile on his face. He feigns sleep, hoping his father will come in and surprise him. He waits for a very long time. Still, his father does not come.
Draco decides to go find his father. His father will be in his study. Draco walks around the Manor, wishing he had socks or shoes. The floor is ice cold beneath his bare feet.
He finds his father's study. He knocks.
"Come in." His father is sitting in his chair, looking at a book open on his desk. There is a slight frown on his face, a small crease between his eyes.
"Today is my birthday," Draco tells his father, breathlessly, hopefully.
His father only looks at him, annoyed.
Draco looks down at his feet. He is disappointed. Of course his father would not give him a gift for his seventh birthday. He had not given him a birthday present last year, or the year before that... Draco is angry at himself for expecting otherwise.
His father has forgotten him already. He is looking down at the book again, studying it.
Draco lets himself out of the room quietly, not bothering to ask for permission.