"Do you even remember that night? When we were thirteen? When I told you that if I could spend the rest of my life with anybody, it'd be you?"
***
Aquila Malfoy knew, through and through, that she was a Malfoy. She had the pale skin, shiny blonde...
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Aquila Malfoy knew, through and through, that she was a Malfoy.
She had the pale, porcelain skin, the pristine, shiny blonde hair, and the ambition to be someone important— someone powerful. That made her as Malfoy as you could get.
Right?
I mean, of course, there were a few things her family valued that she never would, but that was normal. Just because she didn't see the big deal in blood status, or the dire importance of flaunting money, or the ever-present imperious attitude towards those of a lower class (or just other people in general), this didn't mean she was any less Malfoy.
Right?
Though Aquila hated to admit it, her uncertainty plagued her. It gnawed at her— infecting her brain with a curse so strong that the deterioration held her at the slowest passing captivity possible. The piercing desire to rebel was so tantalizingly delicious that it scared her. As she grew, the things she'd been told were wrong seemed more and more right. She hated not being able to wear muggle clothes, she hated treating poor Dobby (the family's house elf) like the scum of the earth, and, more than anything, she hated following her father blindly.
As the years went on, and the desire to revolt against everything she knew burned hotter, Aquila began to feel less and less Malfoy. The question was, though, was she okay with that? That was the true ambivalence of her situation. There was this knife in her side that twisted with each new defying thought, drawing a dangerous amount of blood— and that blood was everything to a Malfoy. A Malfoy never— ever— betrays their blood. But was blood worth the sacrifice of denying who she truly wanted to be? Was her family name worth the pain of wearing a crown of thorns?
Was Aquila Malfoy even a Malfoy at all?
♈︎ ♉︎ ♊︎ ♋︎ ♌︎ ♍︎ ♎︎ ♏︎ ♐︎ ♑︎ ♒︎ ♓︎ ⛎︎
MALFOY MANOR, 1984
♈︎ ♉︎ ♊︎ ♋︎ ♌︎ ♍︎ ♎︎ ♏︎ ♐︎ ♑︎ ♒︎ ♓︎ ⛎︎
The cool, grand halls of Malfoy Manor echoed softly as Lucius Malfoy appeared with a small pop. The dull after-shock of apparition buzzed lightly through his skull, and he promptly ran his hands through his long, blonde hair to numb the pain. Lucius was an attractive man— he was tall and pale, with dangerous grey eyes and a sharp bone structure. He nearly always looked serious and crude, yet behind the closed doors of his family home, the crease between his brows was able to loosen.
He straightened his coat, brushed off the non-existent dust that layered the surface of the fabric, then snapped his fingers impatiently. Another popping sound bounced off the walls of the home as Dobby The House Elf appeared in the foyer, already positioned in a deep bow.
"Dobby," Lucius drawled, his lip curling into the infamous Malfoy sneer, "alert Narcissa and the children that I have returned."
"Of course, Master," Dobby peeped, bowing even lower, making his nose brush the floor.
