No One At Home

This one is pretty short, but I still thinks it's kinda cute.

“Bloody hell!”

The words echo through the stone halls of Malfoy Manor. Already at the age of four, Draco Malfoy has picked up certain colorful phrases from his father’s friends, all of whom are very scary and very tall. They all wear dark clothes and hoods. Draco admires them fervently, but at the same time, hates them for taking his father away so often. His hatred does not extend far enough, however, to keep him from picking up mannerisms, such as strutting and holding his head up high, and swearwords. This is not a particularly choice or creative phrase, but he is quite proud of its ‘ring,’ and even Lucius admits that it is impressive for a four-year-old, though he is quick to stress that he could do better. There is always a better.

At the moment, Draco has said the words out of pain and exasperation at his rapidly swelling bump on his head. He has tripped on a rug—he decides to berate Dobby about rugs lying where people can trip over them—and bumped his head. Hard. He reaches up to pat it, and his hand comes away—sticky! He panics. Tugging a strand of sleek platinum hair down, he sees that it has matted together with…blood. His eyes widen at the sight, and he opens his mouth, prepares to cry. To cry or not to cry…that is the question. Crying will bring Narcissa running to him. Crying will bring him chocolates, new robes, maybe even that broom he has been lusting after in Diagon Alley. Not crying will earn him a pat on the shoulder from Lucius, a slight nod, and a, “Well done, son. Malfoys never cry.”

He stops when he realizes that he would rather have Lucius’s approval than chocolates, or even a new broom. He wants that look on Lucius’s face, the look that says he is glad that it is Draco who is heir to the Malfoy name and fortune, rather than Crabbe or Goyle. Even if Crabbe and Goyle are taller and stronger than he is. He smiles then, proud of himself for not crying. After all, there is much blood, but more fear and shock at the pure blood of Malfoy being shed than pain.

Then his smile crumples as he realizes that it doesn’t really matter whether or not he cries, whether or not he upholds his family name or gives in to the fear nagging at his stomach. His proud head droops, and his hair falls from his limp grasp as he realizes that it doesn’t matter—he doesn’t matter. For there is no one at home to hear him cry…