The Malfoy Project

𝙳𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚘 #𝟸 - 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 (*TW)

*TW: child abuse, violence

✼¹

     I was eight when I first heard my parents arguing.

     There had always been fights — the house would be bursting with the sounds: screaming, glass shattering, missed curses splintering the bookshelves, the angry thumping of Father's cane on carpeted floor.

     On those days, if I approached them, they would lash out, hit me, or scream for me to leave them alone. So eventually, that's what I took to doing. I stayed as far away as possible. I pretended it was a game, like hide-and-seek. Except we were all hiding, and no one was seeking.

     Sometimes this lasted weeks, days on end with the three of us not saying a word to each other. Mother still put me to bed at night, but I'd be lucky if she said more than one sentence to me. It was like she was playing her own game of who could show the least affection, and was trying her best to win.

     In the daytime, it was Dobby who took care of me. He cooked, cleaned, and played with me as much as he could. The moment the shouting started up, he would quickly usher me out of the house and into the secret garden.

     On good days — and I use the word sparingly — Father would try to make conversation with me, though I could see it pained him greatly to do so. It wasn't ever about my games, or the books I had been reading, or even the Charms theory classes he had been making me take despite the fact I had not yet begun to show magical abilities.

     Instead, they were always about what Hogwarts was going to be like, and how I was to prepare myself for it. He told me all about Defence Against The Dark Arts, which Professors to look out for, and which family's children to make friends with.

     All of this was interspersed with constant reminders that I am a Malfoy, and that I had to take every opportunity to remind people of that lest they tried to take advantage of my status and wealth.

     And above all, it was of the utmost importance that no one knew about the men in black cloaks who came to our house every Friday night, or the strange drawings they bore on their left forearm.

     I was too young to understand any of it, and was too afraid to ask, anyway, so I left it at that.

     Two days before my eighth birthday, I was playing a real game of hide-and-seek with Dobby, tearing through the third floor hallway, when I heard them behind the doors of a study. Really heard them.

     My father, very clearly: "When are we getting rid of him?"

     My mother, hoarse through tears. "He is your son!"

     "He is no son of mine. I never asked for that rat to be born."

     "Eleven," was my mother's response. "Three more years and we'll send him to Hogwarts. Then you'll no longer have to suffer looking at him every day."

     All at once, it struck me with undeniable clarity. All of their arguments had been about one thing, and one thing only: Me.

     It was why my Mother barely spoke to me and why all Father ever talked about was Hogwarts.

     When are we getting rid of him?

     There came a strange sensation. It was sharp and heavy; lumped in the base of my throat like a ball of knives that couldn't be swallowed. I had never thought of myself as someone who'd been in the way. In fact, I had made it my sole mission to do anything but get in their way.