𝐔𝚴𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝚨𝚩𝐋𝐄 ⇥ draco malfoy

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 25

𝗗𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗢

𝗔𝗨𝗚𝗨𝗦𝗧 𝟭𝟬𝗧𝗛, 𝟭𝟵𝟵𝟱

𝐈𝐅 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐎 heard the word prefect come out of his father's mouth one more time, he was going to take his own wand out of his pocket and avada kedavra himself.

Constant. It was a constant array of compliments and never-ending enthusiasm coming from Lucius, all because Draco was made prefect— a title he was sure he had been granted only due to his Malfoy heritage. It was like their argument from earlier that summer holiday about the Dark Lord moving into their house had never even happened.

Draco hated it. Hated the pats on the backs from his father's friends. Hated the feigned pride and love exuding from his father. If Lucius were to have initially congratulated him behind closed doors, would he be this joyful? Or is this contentment only a facade, a way to publicly prove to their friends that Lucius is indeed actually a good father figure to his shining son?

It was all bullshit. But nevertheless, Draco still had to plaster that fake, wide smile on his face and smugly thank everyone for the kind words. Everything was a bloody show when it came to his parents' friends, and that show was one he's grown to know very well.

This was what Draco has been accustomed to throughout the years— and he'll admit, he's pretty good at acting the part of a congenial, yet confident and respected son of a Malfoy.

Smile at the right times, but don't let it be genuine. Laugh when everyone else laughs. Speak with credence and intellectuality. Never stutter. Don't slouch when seated. Never fumble over your words. Father may decide to take it out on you once the crowd leaves if you don't hold yourself to his criterion.

Draco still has memories of his previous wrongdoings— times where Lucius felt that he didn't meet those standards he'd placed upon him the moment he came out of the bloody womb. Memories of himself at six years old in his father's study. Lucius using his strong fist to crush Draco's small fingers down on the polished table, his personal method of teaching his son not to "run his fingers through his hair", an act of inelegance he had accidentally carried out during their soirée earlier that evening. Two of his fingers broke that wretched night, and his old house-elf Dobby had to splint them.

Or at ten years old, when Lucius relentlessly hit Draco with that walking snake stick of his over and over again in every place on his son's body, merely because he refused to shake Fenrir Greyback's hand upon meeting him. Not hand— claws. Sharp claws that Fenrir has used in such malicious, violent ways in the past, preying upon innocent young children like the psychopath he was and still is. Draco couldn't stomach even touching him at the time— but after getting hit repeatedly, he found it in himself to greet the filthy werewolf like Greyback was the bloody prime minister the next time he saw him.

And it never stopped. It still hasn't stopped.

Which is why his father hit him right before leaving to do whatever the Dark Lord tasked upon him. Slapped Draco right across the face just because he spoke out about how dangerous it was to have the Dark Lord setting up headquarters in his own house.

"— and before summer started, I told Whitley that it was going to be 6 hours before my owl could get him the parchment he so desperately wanted, but you know how he is. Bloody impatient son of a—"

Draco tuned Benjamin Nott's complaints out, growing annoyed at their loud, corporate voices reverberating off the walls of this place. He caught sight of Theo and Blaise casually chatting near the corridor that led to the kitchen, and he didn't hesitate to take the opportunity to stray away from the adults, using the need to talk to his friends as an excuse to leave politely. Lucius merely waved him off, thank Merlin above.