A Good Boy

"Watch carefully, son," said Lucius Malfoy. "This is the way to treat a house-elf!"

Little Draco, four years old, felt his mother's arms tighten around him in excitement as his grandfather's cane came down on Limby the house-elf. Draco watched the funny-looking little creature scramble and fall and roll on the ground, whimpering and howling as Lucius beat her.

The torchlight threw the man's shadow on the walls, flickering, snapping. Draco looked up at his father, away from the house-elf, who was starting to grow quiet. Lucius' face was contorted, the shadows on it bringing out the greases and lines, the eyes white flaring pinpoints of reflected light.

"Daddy!" Draco cried out, and started howling. His father looked like a stranger. That wasn't Daddy.

"Stop that! Stop that at once!" Narcissa shouted at him in outrage, and shook Draco. "Don't cry! Malfoys do not cry!"

Lucius had stopped beating Limby and stood straight, breathing a little hard. His face bore a severe expression, but it was no longer unrecognizable. Draco took a breath, and hiccoughed his way into stillness.

"Come here, Draco," Lucius said. Narcissa set the boy on the floor, and he tottered obediently to his father. Lucius set a hand on his shoulder and pushed him around and towards Limby. Draco tried to turn away, but his father gripped him harder and turned him around again. "This house-elf failed in her duties," Lucius said. "Look at her."

Draco looked. The elf was conscious, but just barely. Blood was pooling on the stone floor, most of it from the open wound on Limby's potato-like head, where white bone was showing. Her breathing was laboured, and she occasionally let out a whimper. Draco thought he could make out words, but he wasn't sure. The thing was so ugly, especially now, and it frightened him. The dying thing frightened him. He turned his head away.

"Look at her! This creature is a worm, lower than a worm. We do not dismiss house-elves who do us wrong, Draco. Malfoys have more pride than that." Lucius offered the cane to his son. Puzzled, Draco took it in his small hands. He could barely hold it up, it was so heavy.

"Finish her, Draco," Lucius said. "Hit her until she's dead."

Draco turned again to the pile of rags and brown twitching flesh. It frightened him. Stop moving, he begged it silently. I don't want to watch you move!

Draco lifted the cane as high up as he could. He didn't notice his father balancing it behind him, or giving it a little extra push when he brought it down on the elf with the full weight of his small body. The blow hit the elf on the head, she let out a squeak, and then lay still.

"That's a good boy," Lucius said as Draco lifted the cane for another blow.

***

"Now see there," said Narcissa, pointing. "Those are mudbloods."

Draco looked out across the small Quidditch field to one of the nearby stands, where a family of four was just making their way to a patch of seats. The parents were dressed in fine robes and pointed hats, and the daughters, who weren't much older than Draco - perhaps just entering Hogwarts this fall - were wearing expensive-looking muggle clothes, much like many of the other girls in the audience. It seemed to be a fad. Draco stared at the blonde, slim mother in surprise. She looked a lot like Narcissa.

"I thought they would look... y'know... different," he blurted out. He glanced at the family right next to them, made up of a raggedy-bearded, dark-skinned father, a plump curly-haired mother so full of freckles she looked tanned, and five noisy children in worn clothing. "I thought they'd look like..."

"Hush!" Narcissa gave the back of his head a small slap. "Not a word! The Rafleys are a fine pure-blooded family. What you must understand, my little dragon, is that you can't tell a mud-blood from the way they look. Both of the Krafts have a muggle parent!" Narcissa's nostrils flared as she looked over to the blonde family. "But you can smell it on them. And don't ever forget, those people are nothing but trash compared to pure-blooded wizards like you and I, no matter how well they dress."

Draco looked from his mother's smile back over at the Krafts, and quietly imagined brown, cloggy mud flowing in the veins beneath their pale, smooth skins.

***

"Hey Carson!" Draco called out.

"Oh, come on, Draco..."

He hated that whiny, fearful voice. The water balloon hit the boy's face. The screaming started slowly, incredulously, as if Carson couldn't quite believe what was happening. It looked hilarious, and Draco found himself bent over with hysterical laughter. He had no idea what had been in that bottle he'd emptied into the balloon, but the effect was just as funny as he'd imagined.

His mother asked him later that day if he'd had fun with Carson Luther. He said he had.

Life was good at times like that. He was distinctly aware of it, thinking back at his day in bed after the lights had been turned off, all except one green light ball in the end of the room, which Draco preferred to keep lit. He lay under the covers in the big four-poster, looking at the darkness above where the ceiling hid. He felt strong and vital, as if the green fire was in his veins, thinking back to every delicious second of his power over Carson. Carson had been so much fun. He had to do that again, he thought, before he drifted off to sleep.

***

It was the night before Draco was to be sent to Hogwarts, and the long dining room table was set with the finest silver and gold to be found in the castle. The table cloth was sparklingly white, except for the part where great-uncle Damon had already spilled wine and sauce. Candles were floating above the table, captured in gold and silver snuffers, and disks engraved with snake emblems and the Malfoy crest were floating below them, catching the dripping wax. The seats were filled, unlike most other evenings, by the closest and most trusted of the family's friends and relatives. Lucius sat at one end of the table, Narcissa on the other, and Draco was seated on his father's right hand. The turkey was vanishing quickly from the plates, but there was enough to replace it, the house-elves had seen to that.

Draco listened with half an ear to his father's conversation with Mr Macnair, who was seated on his left, while Aunt Imelda leaned closer to him. "Do you look forward to tomorrow, young man?" she was saying. "Going to do well?"

Draco swallowed his mouthful and answered, "I'll make sure they all respect me," he answered. "I'm going to be the unofficial head of Slytherin House, Auntie."

"And..." She narrowed her beady eyes, and smiled.

"And I won't let the mud-bloods anywhere near me. Everyone'll know they're ridiculous, coming to a wizarding school. They should've stayed with the muggles."

"That's my nephew," Imelda said, and pinched his cheek hard.

"I just wish I could've gone to Durmstrang. They won't let any mud-bloods there. Father says they even teach the Dark Arts."

"Yes, that's a real wizarding school, I've always said! I sent my Peter there and haven't regretted it once! If You-Know-Who was still here..."

"Yes." That was what Father always said, too. "They'd kick Dumbledore out of Hogwarts, right?"

"Draco."

Draco turned to see his father looking at him. His heart made a leap. Lucius didn't often adress his son, at least not as often as Draco wanted him to. Draco's father was a great man. Narcissa's stories had told him more about Lucius than the man himself ever had; how he had been a great Death Eater, a loyal servant of the powerful wizard leader who was banished by a freak accident years ago. Lucius Malfoy had fought to get the mud-bloods thrown permanently out of the magical community, to reinstate power to those who truly deserved it, who had the blood and the power to TAKE what they wanted... "Never speak the truth in front of the muggle-loving fools," Narcissa had advised him. "But know what your father used to be, in the good old days!"

"Yes, Father?"

"I will want to have a word with you, later this evening."

"Yes, Father." Draco swallowed. This might be good, might be bad. Draco wished fervently it was good, and feared desperately it would be bad. Father never said anything really bad at him, never hit him or punished him more severely than he deserved. In fact, most of the time, Draco could act anyway he liked and ask for anything he liked and he would get it, too. It was only sometimes when he'd say something stupid... Anyway, he wasn't afraid of punishment. To please Father was everything. To displease him was...

After dinner, they moved to the library, with the greenish fire blazing in the great fireplace, the rows and rows of books lining the walls mostly hidden in the shadows. Drinks were served. Usually when a dinner had gotten to this point, Draco was ushered out, to be seen to his room by Milton, the ghost butler. Not this night. The dinner party had been called specifically to celebrate his going away to Hogwarts, so he was, in a way, a guest of honour in his father's library. Soon the curiousity and pride faded, though, faced by the exceeding dullness of the conversation. Draco realized that they discussed adult matters, probably important matters, but they didn't _seem_ so important... Who was this Rosmerta, anyway, and what did Aunt Imelda have against her? Draco stared at the fire, part hypnotized by the dancing flames, when he heard a name that pricked his ears up.

"Did you hear that Harry Potter is joining Hogwarts this year, too?"

Most of the people present stiffened at the mention of that name. Draco sat up straight. "I met him," he blurted out. Suddenly all eyes were on him. He lifted his chin proudly, pleased by the attention. "At Madame Malkin's."

"Did he have the scar?" Cousin Jerry's nose hair quivered in excitement.

"And did he seem special?"

"Was he mean to you?" That last one was from Narcissa. She was all for being mean, except when the meanness was directed against herself or her darling son.

"Yes--" Draco started to say to Cousin Jerry, but then his eyes involuntarily crept to his father. "He had the scar. Ugly thing. But he didn't seem special at all. Just a very skinny, shabby, ordinary boy. I don't think he's at all as great as they say." Feeling confident, he continued boldly, "I bet he just had a lucky streak when Lord Volde--"

"HUSH!" came suddenly from a number of mouths, and Cousin Jerry added the exclamation "Hopping napstiches, boy..."

"You-Know-Who!" Narcissa hissed.

Draco felt like he was shrinking to a thread under the disapproving looks. He'd known he was supposed to say You-Know-Who, as he always had before. It had just slipped out. But at the same time, he was confused - all the people in the room supported and admired Lord Voldemort, even if they couldn't say so under the current administration. Why should they avoid his name like a plague? Voldemort wouldn't hurt his followers, would he? But Draco banished those thoughts soon enough. The fact remained, he'd incurred wrath.

"I'm sorry, Father," he murmured.

"All right, boy," Lucius said sternly. "And what did you say, when you met him? How did he take to you?"

"I was friendly," Draco said. A murmur went up among the adults, and he hurried to add, "I thought it would be good to get him to our side! I thought, maybe he was as powerful as they say, even if he didn't look it! It would have been good to get him to see things our way, wouldn't it have? That way, if You-Know-Who ever DID return, he'd have nothing to worry about, right?"

Cousin Jerry looked aside suddenly, as if ashamed, and Aunt Imelda gave Draco a piercing look. Narcissa was looking at him with an infuriatingly adoring, pitying look, about to open her mouth, but she was interrupted by Lucius, who nodded slowly and said, "Yes, you are right, son." Draco's heart soared. It didn't matter what the others thought... "What happened?"

Draco swallowed, but then pulled himself up. "Like I said, I offered to be friends, to show him around, teach him things - he was raised by Muggles, right?" He'd heard this, just as he'd heart all the other stories of Potter, from adults and kids both, circulated almost everywhere. "But he said no!"

Draco remembered the disgusted look on Potter's face, almost hatred, when he'd made his offer. The disgust was much worse than the hatred. It had made him angry. What right did Potter have to look at him like that? Maybe he defeated You-Know-Who, maybe he didn't. He was a mudblood, and mudbloods should not despise pure-bloods, they should look up to them! And to think Draco had offered his friendship...

The first realization of the skinny, messy-haired boy's identity had instilled a kind of delightful dread in Draco, a shiver of excitement. Through his childhood, the thought of a boy living somewhere, a boy his age, who had defeated the great Vold... You-Know-Who in his crib, had been both frightening and enthralling. Potter was anti-You-Know-Who, so he was naturally anti-Malfoy... wasn't he? But would he know that himself? And one thing Draco knew he wanted, was to be as powerful as the person who had defeated the most powerful wizard in the world. Power was the sweetest thing in the world, there was nothing better than dealing hurt... He'd learned that from Carson, and a many others. And to be undefeatable... That would mean that no-one could ever hurt him the that way in return. He wanted Potter's secret. So he'd offered friendship.

Potter had made it obvious he was anti-Malfoy. And that made Draco furious.

***
Lucius picked up a silver-plated paperweight in the form of a dragon, than set it back down again. "Well, boy, I shan't talk long. Just a few words of advice." He turned to his son.

"I'm sure I don't have to remind you, but I will say this: Never speak your mind in front of the muggle-lovers and the spineless conformists. Never reveal your family's business to outsiders. Never trust someone unless you know how to control them. And how do we recognize our enemies?"

"Anyone who opposes us is our enemy, Father."

"That's right. And who are our friends?"

"Whoever we can use to our advantage is a friend."

Lucius smiled, and he walked out, pausing to ruffle his son's hair on the way out. Draco's chest felt like it would burst with light.

'Don't worry about me, Father,' he thought as he followed his father out of the study, and started up the stairs to pack for tomorrow and Hogwarts. 'I'll make you proud.

'And make that Potter brat sorry."

-the end-