you killed my father. prepare to die!
My Name is Draco Malfoy
My name is Draco Malfoy, and I am here to tell you the story of my life. It is a story, yes, that I am sure you already know. But I will tell it to you despite that, and hope, at least sincerely, that you may acquire something from it.
I was born, and I died, in the same family. My father was Lucius Malfoy, a hard cold man whose cruelty was only surpassed by my own. I got my looks from him-silvery-blonde hair, pale gray eyes and pointed face. Many considered me handsome. Except the one I wanted the most. On the contrary, I repulsed her. I wonder if he ever had the same problem? I doubt it. I doubt many things about the man who had enough affront to call himself my father. I wish I could even doubt that he was my father. But too many factors are against it.
My mother wasn’t much different. She was a carbon copy of most of the females of my father’s set-always perfectly dressed, manicured, and put together-with the exception of those who were not her own. Thereby she would turn into a ferocious snob, surpassed only by her mother. So my choice of a wife was a bit of a disappointment to her.
I had no siblings. I was the Malfoy heir, and there would be no backup copy. I think I might have enjoyed a younger brother or sister, one who taught me to be less selfish. I don’t know. Maybe one would have caused my mother…to adore me less. I was all she had-my father had brief, discreet affairs that left him even colder than before, and even more heartless. Sometimes I wonder if she would have left him, had it not been for me. She never even visited his bed, no more than thrice during my childhood years. She did not want another child, was her excuse. Now I…know better. Any Oedipus tendencies I may have harbored died under such suffocation, for I was to be somebody, and not ruin my social palate with less-than-worthy playmates. So instead, I had nobody. And it damned me.
*
There is no one equal to a Malfoy. I was indoctrinated into that theory very young, and it sticks with me to this day, though in a decidedly different form. I was sent to school with this attitude-primary and secondary-and emerged no worse for wear from it. In most opinions. There, at school, I was to meet the people who would affect my entire life henceforth. Crabbe and Goyle. Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger. Severus Snape. And of course, my dearest nemesis. Harry Potter.
What can I say about my dealings with Harry Potter that will make me more loveable? Probably nothing. So I won’t bother. He was everything I was not, or could have been, or even perhaps wanted to be. He took the girl I worshipped out from under my nose and turned her back to the side of good. He came to my wife’s funeral, and said a few condolences that I know he meant. He only apologized for her sake, said ‘I’m sorry, old chap,’ in that frightfully icy way of his, and brought me as very strong drink to calm me down at the wake. That is one of the only times I can recall him actually being civil to me. I was certainly not as civil to him at the time of Hermione’s death. As I recall, I was raving. But that is so long ago that time can mend the ravages of the spirit…and even the ravages of the heart.
I could say that I have always known evil, that evil has been my friend. It is certainly true that evil is no stranger to me, and I have acquired a certain…acquaintance…with darkness. It is hereditary, as I have come to believe. An inherent Malfoy quality. So are my magical abilities, as paltry as they may seem. I was always treated as a paragon in the arts after my seventh year, and therefore did not realize how trivial my “abilities” really were. Until I met Consuela, but by that time I was so far gone in my own darkness that even her light could not save me, and therefore, her death completely humbled me to my own inadequacy.
*
Consuela. She was my wife, and no matter what they may tell you, I did love her. She had a daughter, Iniga-who I took in as my own, and gave my name, so that the stigma of being a Diablos could be replaced by the stigma of being a Malfoy. None of us emerged any more worse for wear from it. Except maybe Consuela. Consuela, whom I had begun to adore above all others. La Bruja Consuela. Mine.
I met Consuela at an odd time in my life. I was thirty-three, single, and the playboy of the Malfoy set, wasting my fortune and dulling my pain. Wizards and witches tend to marry fairly young, for unlike Muggles we have a higher death rate. Especially in the face of pure, unadulterated, evil. You call him Tom Riddle. Voldemort. You-Know-Who. I called him master, once. But that had been years before, and we had all lost someone we loved no thanks to him. I could name one off the top of my head. Her name was Hermione. Consuela was everything and yet nothing like that Hermione of youthful daydream and walking nightmare. She gave me a chance. And I loved her for it, with all of my black, pitiless soul. And in the same way I loved her I lost her. Lost her so utterly and completely, I cannot even begin to describe to you the despair of it. It was like losing one’s soul down a very deep well, and then when one goes to retrieve it, discovers that the water is not heaven at all, but hell! And after that, why, I had no soul left at all. And a heart of shattered stone.
My name is Draco Malfoy, and I am here to tell you the story of my life. It is a story, yes, that I am sure you already know. But I will tell it to you despite that, and hope, at least sincerely, that you may acquire something from it.
I was born, and I died, in the same family. My father was Lucius Malfoy, a hard cold man whose cruelty was only surpassed by my own. I got my looks from him-silvery-blonde hair, pale gray eyes and pointed face. Many considered me handsome. Except the one I wanted the most. On the contrary, I repulsed her. I wonder if he ever had the same problem? I doubt it. I doubt many things about the man who had enough affront to call himself my father. I wish I could even doubt that he was my father. But too many factors are against it.
My mother wasn’t much different. She was a carbon copy of most of the females of my father’s set-always perfectly dressed, manicured, and put together-with the exception of those who were not her own. Thereby she would turn into a ferocious snob, surpassed only by her mother. So my choice of a wife was a bit of a disappointment to her.
I had no siblings. I was the Malfoy heir, and there would be no backup copy. I think I might have enjoyed a younger brother or sister, one who taught me to be less selfish. I don’t know. Maybe one would have caused my mother…to adore me less. I was all she had-my father had brief, discreet affairs that left him even colder than before, and even more heartless. Sometimes I wonder if she would have left him, had it not been for me. She never even visited his bed, no more than thrice during my childhood years. She did not want another child, was her excuse. Now I…know better. Any Oedipus tendencies I may have harbored died under such suffocation, for I was to be somebody, and not ruin my social palate with less-than-worthy playmates. So instead, I had nobody. And it damned me.
*
There is no one equal to a Malfoy. I was indoctrinated into that theory very young, and it sticks with me to this day, though in a decidedly different form. I was sent to school with this attitude-primary and secondary-and emerged no worse for wear from it. In most opinions. There, at school, I was to meet the people who would affect my entire life henceforth. Crabbe and Goyle. Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger. Severus Snape. And of course, my dearest nemesis. Harry Potter.
What can I say about my dealings with Harry Potter that will make me more loveable? Probably nothing. So I won’t bother. He was everything I was not, or could have been, or even perhaps wanted to be. He took the girl I worshipped out from under my nose and turned her back to the side of good. He came to my wife’s funeral, and said a few condolences that I know he meant. He only apologized for her sake, said ‘I’m sorry, old chap,’ in that frightfully icy way of his, and brought me as very strong drink to calm me down at the wake. That is one of the only times I can recall him actually being civil to me. I was certainly not as civil to him at the time of Hermione’s death. As I recall, I was raving. But that is so long ago that time can mend the ravages of the spirit…and even the ravages of the heart.
I could say that I have always known evil, that evil has been my friend. It is certainly true that evil is no stranger to me, and I have acquired a certain…acquaintance…with darkness. It is hereditary, as I have come to believe. An inherent Malfoy quality. So are my magical abilities, as paltry as they may seem. I was always treated as a paragon in the arts after my seventh year, and therefore did not realize how trivial my “abilities” really were. Until I met Consuela, but by that time I was so far gone in my own darkness that even her light could not save me, and therefore, her death completely humbled me to my own inadequacy.
*
Consuela. She was my wife, and no matter what they may tell you, I did love her. She had a daughter, Iniga-who I took in as my own, and gave my name, so that the stigma of being a Diablos could be replaced by the stigma of being a Malfoy. None of us emerged any more worse for wear from it. Except maybe Consuela. Consuela, whom I had begun to adore above all others. La Bruja Consuela. Mine.
I met Consuela at an odd time in my life. I was thirty-three, single, and the playboy of the Malfoy set, wasting my fortune and dulling my pain. Wizards and witches tend to marry fairly young, for unlike Muggles we have a higher death rate. Especially in the face of pure, unadulterated, evil. You call him Tom Riddle. Voldemort. You-Know-Who. I called him master, once. But that had been years before, and we had all lost someone we loved no thanks to him. I could name one off the top of my head. Her name was Hermione. Consuela was everything and yet nothing like that Hermione of youthful daydream and walking nightmare. She gave me a chance. And I loved her for it, with all of my black, pitiless soul. And in the same way I loved her I lost her. Lost her so utterly and completely, I cannot even begin to describe to you the despair of it. It was like losing one’s soul down a very deep well, and then when one goes to retrieve it, discovers that the water is not heaven at all, but hell! And after that, why, I had no soul left at all. And a heart of shattered stone.