Please Be There If I Remember

Chapter Fifty-Three: Remembering

Draco was six. His hands were growing small and lean already, and he was reaching out blindly for something—a wand, a stone, anything to throw at the unnaturally white peacock that was rearing its head at him like he was its next meal. His mind froze, and he couldn't move. Try as he might, his feet were stuck on the soft grass in front of Malfoy manor, and any scream he could have yelled had caught in his throat like a rock.

The peacock came closer, its large neck reaching out—

Draco could only lift his little arms in an 'x' shape in front of his face as the peacock scratched. The injury, he would find out later, wasn't fatal—in fact, it wasn't even much of a deep cut. His voice finally came free as he fell backward onto the lush green, and he cried out for help in his pain. His mother came out in a rush, pulling him away from the enraged animal, immediately shielding him from the vicious bite of the bird.

He shivered deeper in his mother's arms, scared.

"Draco! Draco, dear, are you alright?"

He finally glanced up, eyes burning with unshed tears.

"I'm fine, Mother," he whispered.

"Oh hush, child. It's alright. Come one, let's go get you some food and healing potions."

Draco wobbled back inside in a daze, not noticing his father watching from the window with a frown.

~*"*~

He ran into the room, holding the wand he had stolen from the attic, pretending that he was a wizard that was saving the world.

I'll be like Harry Potter, his younger self thought giddily as he waltzed into the room nearest to him, being mindful of the chairs and fireplace. Reaching out the wand in front of him, he began flicking it around in imaginary directions, as if defeating muggles and muggle-borns, bringing them down to the ground. He neared the fireplace and stepped up to it. twirling his body around. He walked backwards toward the mantelpiece above the roaring fire, and he didn't notice how close he was to it until heat began licking up the side of his neck. He whirled to it in shock, wondering how he had gotten so close to the fireplace.

Facing the bright light, it burned in front of his eyes, and the way he had turned made his arm, holding what he would later learn was his late grandfather's wand, strike out before him. The flame licked his fingers, and the heat was unbearable. In his fear, he dropped the wand into the fire in time to watch it burn.

Crackling like a small firework, the wood burst into flames. Lucius Malfoy watched from the doorway on his way to his office as his old family heirloom turned into scorching ashes.

Draco was dragged to the dungeons then, and a cane was lashed on his back in fierce strokes. It was the first time his father's fury had ever reached the point of a beating, and he cried loudly on the dusty floor. It wouldn't be the last, though.

He was only eight.

~*"*~

I had met Harry Potter, was his first thought as he stared at the fragile boy in the seats, Weasley by his side. He hadn't noticed it was him when he had met the owlish, small boy in Madam Malkins, and he urgently thought back to what he had said. Something about the Hogwarts houses or other and that big oaf Hagrid who had no right teaching at the school. Even so, he wondered at the glare he was getting. They were supposed to be friends—Draco and Harry, the infamous Boy-Who-Lived and the prestigious Malfoy heir, the perfect son.

He was perfect, right? His mother said so, his father not so much. Yet he helped him become better—become stronger. When he did something wrong, his father made sure he knew it, and he knew never to do it again. He knew he was perfect.