Draco cursed as he left Madame Malkins. After everything that had happened to him this summer he had let Hermione Granger get the better of him. His pale face broke into a grin at his meager attempt to convince himself that this was the reason he was upset. He was, after all, a Malfoy, and couldn't be fooled, not even by himself. No, it hadn't been Hermione's snide remark, or hateful face that had affected him the most, but rather, it had been his behavior towards her. Why, he questioned, had he felt the need to call her a mudblood? Sure, it would have been completely normal for him to behave in such a fashion towards the witch last year, or in fact, any of the previous six years, but now, after what he had seen this summer, things were different. He shuddered involuntarily at the memories of the past two months – he didn't like to think of his father standing before Voldemort, cowering, begging and pleading for his life, offering anything in exchange – including Draco.
It had happened right before the Ministry officials had come to take Lucius away. Voldemort, having heard of the ministry's discovery about the Malfoy Manor had come to see Draco's father. Enraged at Lucius' carelessness, the dark lord had come to make sure that nothing like this could ever happen again by punishing Lucius with the only punishment he saw fit – death. It was sometime during Voldemort's threats that Draco happened to walk by his father's study, and sometime during his father's bargaining that Draco's whole world had shattered. In return for his life, Lucius had offered the dark lord his son. Draco would never forget the words his father had uttered,
"Take him," he had spat, "He's only the son of some mudblood whore"
At first, like many truths, this had been hard for Draco to believe. He was, according to family history, a pureblood, the only son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Initially, this had been enough to put Draco's mind at ease. There was, he reasoned, no way that his whole life could have been a lie. He knew his father kept many mistresses, most of whom were not purebloods, but he had always known that his father's involvement with these witches went no further than sex.
Days passed until eventually the burning question gnawing at him had to be answered. If he was really Narcissa's son, why had his father so easily given him up to Voldemort, and why would his father make up such an accusation? His yearning for this knowledge had led him to the one place he had always been forbidden – his father's library. Grateful to be of age, Draco had cast a truth seeking spell in the room. Seconds later, he had been hit in the stomach with a flying journal.
Remembering how he had first felt when finding the journal, a crooked and almost maniacal smile crossed his face as he sat on the bench outside Flourish and Botts.
The journal had clearly been a muggle invention – age had taken it's toll on the once clean white pages, which were now yellowed and tattered. This was, however, of no significance to Draco, as he began to read one witch's most personal thoughts and feelings. The most personal to Draco, however, had been recorded on February 27th in the penultimate year of the dark lord's reign. He could still recall word for word what the witch had written:
I have been sick in the morning's lately. I have been to see a healer today. She told that I am pregnant – I will have a healthy boy she says. I have told Lucius. I thought he would be angry, but instead, he was happy. He says Narcissa cannot bear his children; she is too frail and too weak. I think it is because she is too unhappy, but I would never say such a thing to Lucius. He wants me to keep the baby. He says the boy will be raised as though he were a pureblood, as though he were Narcissa's, as though he were the true heir to the Malfoy fortune. He says Narcissa will not notice because she is too sick, but I know it is because he has her under the crucious curse.
It had been this entry that had caused his world to come to a screeching halt. He, Draco Malfoy, was truly the son of a muggle-born witch. He was, in his own words, a mudblood.