Title: Finding Malf- er, Snarkiness
Rating: T, for now.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: n/a, just please review.
Summary: She's a princess of the highest order… and he was the Lord that'd give her everything, and nothing. post-HBP, spoilers.

28 June 2002

Dear Muggle,

The only reason I am writing to you is because we're in the middle of a war and I need to get some of this off of my chest. By now, you, and your entire world, will have discovered my, and my fellow witches and wizards', world. You'll understand the terms I will use and I'm hoping you won't turn away despite what I say and who I am. Tracey had said that you didn't judge, but it's Tracey so I really don't know if it's true or not. Seems to me, that one has gone 'round the bend one too many times. I blame it on the fact that she's one of the Dark Lord's Own – one of the girls chosen to serve him and acquiesce to his every demand. If it were I, I would've gone batty long before and probably gone and did myself when I found out the news. Actually, I would never be in that position because father would have did me himself if I was born a girl and we all know the Dark Lord does not bat for both teams.

Tracey had said you'd understand also, and I guess that's mainly because people tell you their life stories and their problems and look up to you to fix them. Since you are a Muggle, it really doesn't matter if I use the real names of the people, does it? You wouldn't really know them personally anyway – and if there ever was a threat of you spilling the beans and selling this to some British or American tabloid, there's always an Obliviate to cure it – or even an Avada Kedavra if it's bad enough. It's been a year since my class graduated, or was supposed to graduate, from Hogwarts. I haven't been there in just over two years. I've seen enough deaths, even performed enough, since then. It wouldn't matter to me if there were another Muggle death. I mean, there are Muggle deaths daily – no one would miss you. You're not really of any importance. It's not like you're the bloody Queen.

I realize that that paragraph alone might turn you away from reading this letter, but I know you won't. You're like that bloody bint Granger. Once something interesting has happened, you won't let it go and you'll finish it 'til the end. I've done my research. So, because I know that I've interested you, I'm going to do something that I've just about never done before. I'm going to talk to you.

I had mentioned before that my father would have done me if I were born a girl. I wasn't lying. My father was thirty-seven or so before I was born – a rather late age for a pureblood male to have a child. Most purebloods had their first child at the age of twenty-seven or so. Ten years before Father had me. This is because before me, all of my father's children were either stillborn or females, and any of the surviving children all died before the age of six months. The moment my father found out my mother was pregnant with me an ultimatum was given. If I was yet another stillborn or a female, my mother would find herself the next day in a rather precarious situation. Father didn't go into any further detail. Just one look from him to Mother was enough to send her into a faint on a typical day. Being given an ultimatum, my mother did everything she could in her power to ensure I was a male. How, now that I understand the workings of anatomy and human reproduction, I do not know – nor do I wish to know. It is, of course, my mother and father we're talking about here.

The moment I was born, I was expected to grow up. I remember when I was five years old and I stumbled into the catacombs underneath the Manor. I had been looking for Father, trying to show up a trick I had learned to do with my new toy wand, so when I saw him in the catacombs, I ran straight to him to tell him. I don't really know what I expected, Father was never exactly warm towards me, you know. But I do know that I did not expect to hear the screams of a pregnant woman. Father had told me that it didn't matter – she was only a Muggle slut anyway. And that was the beginning of my education. From then on, because I had witnessed that act of brutality, my father performing a Cruciatus on a Muggle, I was conditioned to become the left hand man to the Dark Lord. After all, my father was the right hand man. It was a dream of Father's that the men that the Dark Lord held in the highest regards would be Malfoys. And you know what? It did happen, to an extent, but now, with the war going on for near five years, it's different.

I know what people say about me, you know. I know that they whisper about me with scathing tones and shaking heads. I know they know of what I did in the Tower no matter how much Snape tried to cover it up.

I suppose even you Muggles will have heard, somehow, of the death of Albus Dumbledore. And even if you lot don't fully comprehend why he was what he was to the Wizarding world, I know you feel the loss with every single Muggle death. I do commend you all on the fact that you Muggles try to survive. I mean, whenever we do go and get rid of one, usually more, of you Muggles, nine times out of ten, we're met with a metal barrel in our faces. Although you lot aren't exactly the smartest bunch, are you? I would've thought that by now, you would have realized that those contraptions you call guns aren't exactly effective against us, although those bullet things do leave quite a scar when removed. No matter, it only takes a swish of the wand to correct.

Oh hell, this isn't getting us anywhere. You're just a stupid Muggle bint and I'm superior to you. Let's just leave it there. I'm going to send this letter to you, but keep in mind what I said earlier. I'm not afraid of the Avada Kedavra.

Draco Malfoy