And the Women's Cries
I know what my father does. He thinks that I and my mother do not know. He is a fool.
My father is a cruel man. So am I, I think. My father takes pleasure in the pain of others; he is sadistic. The wizarding world would term him so, for the enjoyment he has in the torture of muggles. Muggle women especially. Are they right? Perhaps. Perhaps he is as sick a bastard as many believe; but he is my father. From his loins was I sprung, and the resemblances between us are more than just superficial. Though I do not always like to admit it, I have found excitement in my father's perversions, the ones he is at great pains to hide from my mother.
Well. She must have known when she married him – the Malfoys are famous in that aspect. She would have power, wealth, and children of the purest blood (how pleased her parents were), but she would also have those pesky little infidelities, those long nights knowing my father was satiating his lusts with some muggle filth.
My father is attracted to helplessness. He has power, and wealth, but it is hard to subjugate a woman who can turn your testes into yogurt with the flick of her wand. My father likes being obeyed. He enjoys fear. He is a Death Eater. My father likes his women to be subservient and crawling, but of course my mother was of the best families; he could not satisfy his … kinks with her.
When my father dons his mask he does so with pleasure. A little fear, of course – the Dark Lord's missions are never to be taken lightly – but he is allowed to gorge himself on helpless muggle women before they are tortured and killed; it is good for morale among the death eaters, if they can play with their victims before disposing of them.
I am my father's son. I, too, have been raised as a prince, waited on by servants, treated carefully by my peers, respected by the pureblood families for the generation of wizards I will one day help give rise to. It is hard, in this environment, not to get a taste for power. There is a little of the monster in me, too. I am not stupid. I know what I am – cruel, powerhungry, self-serving. I have my lusts, as do most adolescent males; it is, of course, only natural. However, the girls at Hogwarts are never quite so eager to spread their legs as a boy my age might wish. I could, of course, turn to rather unsophisticated methods of relief; Crabbe and Goyle will depend on it most of their adult lives. I, however, am not used to being denied anything. I want sex. Muggle women are somehow more appetizing than before. Mudblood scum too – none of them could resist the power of a pureblood slytherin if it came to it.
But, while at Hogwarts, opportunities are … limited. It is not as if I have the access my father has. I will remain a monster only in my private lusts for a few months longer, until I come of age and inherit the serpent's mark. Then I shall hear the muggles' screams and the women's cries.