Chapter 1 : Unrightful Pain
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“You are a selfish little boy then, if that’s all you care about!” my mother barked. “Out! Out!”
I had accidentally got her robes dirty, and I said sorry, really, I did! I just wanted to know when I would be allowed to go out flying again.
I know she likes me, though, so I don't take it too seriously when she yells at me. She always apologizes, anyway.
Then my father's silky voice came in. “You hurt your mother... And all you care about is Quidditch...Go to your bedroom now, Draco, for the rest of the day. You are not to touch anything but the books in your room. Perhaps then you will fill that stupid, no good head of yours...”
My father kept going on and on about how terrible I am, in that smooth, piercing voice. I wanted to hurt myself really bad, so the pain would be physical instead. That, I could deal with.
I scowled. I had been planning to go out on my Nimbus 2001 that day, and brush up on my seeker skills. I hate to admit it, but Potter is actually quite good. I can’t have a Gryffindor, let alone Harry Potter better than me at Quidditch. It’s not fair that he gets his way so easily, and I have to work so hard for it. It’s not fair that his parents don’t torture him. Better to have them dead than hating you.
Father glared at me, and I could see hatred behind those cold eyes of his. I got very afraid right then, as that hatred usually comes out in the form of piercing verbal abuse. I usually try to avoid fear, but when my father yells at me so harshly and uncaringly, it seems unavoidable. Sometimes I hope that he doesn’t realize how much he hurts me. If he did, I like to think that he wouldn’t say these things.
“On the count of three, you better be out,” he growled. I looked at him. No one could get rid of Draco Malfoy that easily, not even my domineering father. “One…” he snarled.
“You best be off,” my mother muttered to me worriedly. She may not be exceptionally kind to me sometimes, but at least I know she likes me. I actually think she might love me.
Father sounded almost ferocious now, and when I looked at him, I saw a big, frightening monster threatening to overpower his body. My dad.
“Two…” he sneered. Again, I stayed put, but I averted my eyes from his terrifying form. I would not let such a silly emotion as fear get to me. Not me, Draco Malfoy.
I felt hatred clogging up the atmosphere. It pushed me from all sides, hurting me all over. My head was being punched from the inside, my stomach inhabited by a nest of billywigs. I didn’t look at my father, for I was sure that fear flickered clearly in my grey eyes.
He opened his mouth to say “three” but before he could, I broke into a run. I stopped at the door, and hastily spun around.
“You make me want to kill myself,” I growled, my eyes narrowed. Maybe there would be some sign of remorse in his eyes; maybe he would feel some sort of sadness.
I opened my eyes just a bit wider to see if my words had affected him. They didn’t. He still loathed me, his son. I could see it in those icy eyes and leering figure. My mother looked at me anxiously, but didn’t dare to comfort me in my father’s presence. She looked away.
I yanked out a handful of my platinum hair and threw it on the tiled floor. I spat. I knew I would get in trouble for that later, but maybe, just maybe if my father saw me tear out my own hair, he would stop. For once.
He looked at me with utter disgust. He detested me even more. I turned around and ran to my bedroom. I felt hideous. I was a monster myself. I didn’t deserve to live.
The moment I reached my bedroom, I slammed the door. A painful lump in my throat grew, despite my strong will for it to go away. Finally, I broke. Tears warmed my pale cheeks. This was not good. Draco Malfoy doesn't cry.
I felt terrible. I didn’t deserve pain… Potter did. I kindly offered to guide him in the wizarding world, but he was too good for me. Too good for Draco Malfoy.
I dried away my tears, and tried to concentrate on other things. Potter. That was always a fun subject, thinking about how to torture him next.
With a smirk plastered on my face, I sat down in my stiff wooden chair. I lifted my favorite quill and dipped it in some ink, and I began to plot.