Cat Whiskers- Draco Malfoy Fanfiction

4.

  Somewhere in my short eleven years I had been living, I realized that the world was a bitch.

  One huge, giant bitch.

  And it was being a bitch on purpose.

  My dad walked out on my mom one day because he found another woman that would make him happy—a woman who didn't have an annoying mouth to feed who would just drain his money. My mom was a drunk who didn't give a shit about me when she wasn't beating me, screaming that I was a useless good for nothing. She dumped me at the orphanage because she didn't want me.

But I still somehow remained optimistic. At nine years old, I was eagerly awaiting for a chance to get a new family, to have a mother who would brush my hair and read to me at night and a father who would teach me how to pay catch.

  Years passed, and I realized one singular truth.

  Nobody wanted me.

  Certainly not my dad who probably had another family, certainly not my mother who thought that her liquor was far more precious than me, and not even the imaginary family that I had made up for myself in my mind.

I was reinforced of this belief when facing the fact that I was quite simply a Mudblood in Slytherin.

  It was fucking depressing.

  Tom and Noir would do their best to comfort me, and I would try to pretend to be cheered up, but it was really hard to do that when it seemed that everyone hated you just for existing.

Yup. It was official. The world was a giant bitch.

For a while, Draco Malfoy had paid no attention to me. He was too busy goading Harry Potter after his humiliating defeat with Neville's Rememberall and the fact that Harry was allowed a broomstick and became the youngest Seeker in Hogwarts History.

  Meanwhile, Wisteria had been avoiding me for awhile, avoiding my gaze as she sat with Pansy Parkinson and her cronies. Pansy shot me a triumphant look.

  I let it be.

  I never made friends in the orphanage, why should I start now?

  Additionally, Hermione seemed put out to be my rival—shooting her hand in the air like a star. I didn't really think much of her. She was smart, she was bossy, and she had quite a bit of arrogance. It wasn't her fault, exactly. No matter how bright Hermione was, Tom Riddle had been the strongest Dark Lord to have existed since Grindelwald, as well as possessing a genius intellect in magic. And he was tutoring me nonstop.

  I swear, it was more painful than the Cruciatus Curse.

  Tom drilled the principles of magic in my head—making sure that I annunciated everything correctly and that I memorized whatever shit Professor Bin dished out to us. Although strict, he was a good teacher, and he made it easier for me to understand the concepts taught in class. I sort of felt that Dumbledore was wrong when he didn't appoint Tom to the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts. I was certainly learning more from him than Professor Twitch a lot.

  But even Tom Riddle decided that I needed a break, and he permitted me to attend the Quidditch game. He, himself, admitted that he didn't enjoy Quidditch because he had no talent for it and because of his inability with a broomstick, he devised a way to fly without it. I rolled my eyes. This was the problem with geniuses.

"Who was the Seeker for Slytherin in your age?" I asked as I walked through the noisy corridor.

"Travers," he answered, but he smirked, "he was horrible at it though. He always lost to the Hufflepuff seeker."