Draco Disinherited

"A History of the War Years" (ed. Marcus Text, copyright 2006, Prophet Books, inc.) is a collection of stories about the Second Dark Lord War, written by the people involved in the Order of the Phoenix. This excerpt is from the account of Draco Odhran Rayne’s involvement in the war, written by Rayne himself.

Let me begin by stating a few things about myself. I have been arrogant, foolish and spoiled. I have been cowardly, I have been a bully. I am not smart or good or brave. I have not been a hero, although that has been said of me. But I have also never done anything evil. Mean, yes. Stupid, certainly. But evil? Never.

Few people, I think, are in a position to know what evil looks like and I believe I am one of them. I was raised to be a Death Eater by a Death Eater. Many people have suggested that my father abused me. This is superbly incorrect. My father abused me only by spoiling me, by raising me to think that I was better than anyone else, and by raising me to think that it was okay to hurt others. At eleven, when I was sent to Hogwarts, I was a spoiled brat who no one had ever said ‘No’ to. I was the prince of Slytherin, the boy who knew that it was okay to flaunt the rules because his father would never let him be expelled, the boy who didn’t care about his grades because his mother would always make excuses, citing the prejudice of the teachers against the Slytherins. That prejudice did exist, certainly, and allowing it to continue is one of the things I hold against the Headmaster of Hogwarts, but in my case it was perfectly justified. I deserved everything that was said against Slytherins; that they were cruel, stuck up, rich purebloods, who were destined to become Death Eaters. I was no innocent who was just doing what he was told; I wasnÂ’t hiding who I really was out of fear of my father. I truly believed that I was better than anyone else in the school; better than the muggle-born and half-bloods because my blood was purer, better than the Weasleys and other hard-up families because mine had more money, and better than the other well-off purebloods because I was a Malfoy. The only person I couldn't better than was the hero of the wizarding world, Harry Potter.

Harry Potter. How much I hated him. It began, of course with a childhood of curses against him. My father would rail against how the Dark Lord- he never said his name- was almost in power before Harry Potter somehow destroyed him. If the Dark Lord had been in power, my father would have been in power. I am not sure what exactly it was that my father wanted. He was already rich and powerful (he had bought his way out of Azkaban many times and could wrap Fudge around his little finger) but he wanted more. Harry Potter had wronged my father by stealing away his due; and therefore had wronged me. Not only that but he was my age- I who should have been well known as the best wizard of my age was overshadowed in every way by him. Even my father’s friends talked more about Harry Potter, who had disappeared from the wizarding world on the night he had defeated Voldemort, than they did about me.

IÂ’m not sure what I expected when I met him. Harry Potter had been a larger than life figure all of my childhood. I thought of him as a great dark wizard, capable of defeating Voldemort, capable of defeating my father (surely the second best wizard who ever lived) by extension more than capable of defeating me. But I, remember, held myself in high esteem. I had plans. I would become best friends with Harry Potter. I would become great in power the way my father had; the lieutenant, the right hand man to a great wizard. I certainly never expected him to be eleven years old. I was, mind you, eleven, but I never expected him to be. Harry was scrawny and small, not at all the great wizard I had imagined. Moreover, he couldn’t do any magic, he didn’t know anything, he wasn’t even that smart. I’m not saying he wasn’t smarter than I was, but he certainly wasn’t the smartest in our class.

The greatest of indignities was that he refused my friendship. One second after I met him, before he even knew me for the spoiled little twit I was, he denied me. After that I was his sworn enemy. I decided to make his life as miserable as possible.

As I said, I was stuck up and spoiled.

The problem was that Harry had worse problems than me. Compared to Voldemort, who to everyoneÂ’s surprise (and I was alarmed to see that my father wasn’t as happy about it he always claimed he would be) began to make reappearances, I was, well, annoying. I mean, no matter how much of a cruel bully I was (and I wasnÂ’t intelligent enough to be really cruel) I couldnÂ’t really hurt him. I was an annoying mosquito, although I would have attacked anyone who said so. I was significantly more a source of pain to Potter’s best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, but other than the pain I caused his friends I don’t think I really affected Potter at all. I wish I had realized it much sooner. I could have turned all that attention to my homework instead.

My life was really great until Voldemort came back. I mean, really came back, at the end of my fourth year. Before then serving the Dark Lord was fantastic. People were scared of my family, I could do cruel things without retribution, all the Slytherins in my year and below did what I said- it was wonderful. But then he rose from the dead and things went all pear-shaped. Really pear-shaped. One day I could do whatever I wanted and face no serious consequences, the next day there was this evil thing which I had to be subservient to- completely and utterly subservient, which is a lot to expect from a kid who had never been punished for anything. Voldemort was, well, a nightmare. First of all, he looked insane. It was hard being in the same room with him without throwing up. It was hard being in the same room with him without screaming and running away. I’m not into things which are hard. I’m actually, well, lazy.

Well, you can imagine how well went it went when, about one year after he made his return (and right after he made his return public) my father decided I was ready to be introduced to him. If I hadn’t been so scared I, literally, pissed my robes, I might have done something leading immediately to my termination, or, at least, severe torture. Something similar to running away screaming. Thankfully, I was so scared I don’t think I even breathed from the moment Voldemort entered the graveyard until the moment when he left. All I had to do was bow. Since I wanted to do anything possible to avoid looking at him, that was easy. Forget my little stuck-up ‘Draco Malfoy doesn’t bow to anyone’ line. You bow to the Dark Lord. Then you do everything possible to never have to see him again.

My father didn’t like that. I was his heir, remember? I was Lucius Malfoy in-training. I was going to be a Death Eater, dammit.

He had never denied me anything before, but I had never denied him anything either. He didn’t give a damn how I did in school. He didn’t care how I treated my so-called friends. I acted like a Malfoy through and through and that had been good enough for him. Neither of us had exerted ourselves in trying to please, or even understand, each other. I guess there comes a time in every kid’s life where he separates from his parents. I’ve heard a lot of things from my classmates about screaming matches over belly-button piercings and listening to muggle music, but until I told my father point blank that there was no bloody way I was going to face that horrible death-demon (my exact words) we had never had cause for disagreement. I guess it was a shock to both of us.

Some background on my father; Lucius Malfoy had been raised pretty much as I had, except for the fact that corporal punishment was approved of back then (as you might remember) and his father (my grandfather) had been a bit more demanding of him. That was back before the government had been so strict about black magic. They used to turn their heads a lot, and the aurors didn’t really do much. My family were pretty ostentatious about their involvement in the dark arts back then, and that’s how they made their fortunes. Lucius came into adulthood around the time when everyone was turning a kinder face towards the less fortunate (my great-grandfather used to tell me about a time when squibs were openly killed) and hardening their views on dark magic. He swept the more illegal side of our operations underneath the rug, so to speak, and spent his early adulthood covering up for my grandfather, who couldn’t quite accept the need for greater secrecy in his more illicit operations.

It was the disgruntlement of dark wizards which drove Voldemort to power. While the muggle world has been speeding towards greater and greater technology levels, the wizarding world has been severely stratified for the last few millennia. The only thing around forcing us to change are the muggles and it is only in the last few centuries that they have really become a threat. Now, with electricity and computers, they are almost at a level where they can compete with us. This has caused us to change as well, not only to adapt spells to deal with, or even to mimic, the muggles, but has given them much greater influence on our ways of life. Lucius and his peers were really unhappy about having to practice their dark arts in secret, they wanted to change the way things were run, and they also wanted to something about the muggle influence; something along the lines of killing them all. Voldemort was the answer to their problems- he was a strong and convincing leader and he egged people like my father on.

When my father first met him, Voldemort was handsome and charismatic, vibrantly full of power. They say that power corrupts and that absolute power corrupts absolutely- Voldemort was seriously corrupted by the time I met him. Instead of the admiration and devotion he sparked in his earliest followers, by the time I met him he only used fear and loathing (fear of him and loathing of Dumbledore) to control his minions- a sure sign that things were falling apart. For Lucius it was confusing, I’m sure; he remembered the admiration and adoration he used to have for Voldemort (he was one of the early followers, after all) but he also acted out of the fear and loathing. If Voldemort had always been as hideous and twisted as he was after he came back, I’m sure my father would never have joined his side. But, as it was, he was a firm believer. My rejection of his Lord, and if this sounds religious, well, it is, was heresy.

It was betrayal. I was the one who he trusted the most. I was, up until then, a part of him. His flesh and blood. His thoughts and actions. I was him. And then I rejected the thing he believed in the most; his twisted little religion. The religion where Voldemort was the god, the prophet sent to created a new world order, one where the wizard was king and everyone else were the servants. The one where Lucius was right. Right to hurt those he wanted to hurt and kill those he wanted to kill. They say that wizards don’t have a religion but this is wrong, dead wrong. The difference is that they believe in themselves. Not any self-affirming, you are worth it crap way, but in the belief that the wizard way is the right way. Where anything not human is sub-human. Where anything not magic is sub-magic. Mud-blood, squib, my father didnÂ’t create these words and neither did Voldemort. He would never have become as entrenched in power as he did if people didn’t, in some small way, believe him. Wizards are horrible bigoted people, just like everyone else. My father just carried it to the next level and Voldemort incarnated it. I’m not trying to excuse them, I’m just trying to explain how they happened. And why my rejection of Voldemort freaked my father out so much.

Let me clarify, also, that I rejected Voldemort not because I thought he was wrong. I actually thought that he was right. Well, almost right. I believed that mud-bloods were sub-par, I believed that muggles were sub-human, I believed that we had every right to abuse our house elves. What I did not believe was right was the power Voldemort had over me. I was a coward, remember? I was also a stuck up little snob and no one, not even Voldemort was going to tell me what to do. And no way in hell was I going to tell that to his face. I rejected Voldemort because I was afraid of him and I hated that fear. There was nothing heroic or self-sacrificing. I didn’t suddenly realizing that torturing people was bad, or that we should be nice to everyone. I was just looking out for me.

My father went ballistic. I mean, wigged out. Here he was, just barely escaped being sent to Azkaban for the umpteenth time, had just introduced his pride and joy to his lord and I came home and the first thing I did, even before changing my sodden robes, was tell him I was never, ever, ever, going to go visit the Dark Lord again. Ever. Ever. He screamed bloody murder.

Remember how I said that my father and I had never disagreed on anything before? It’s true. I was never sent to bed when I didn't want to go. I was never forced to eat green beans. I was never ordered to do my homework. I got all the chocolate frogs I wanted. My father had never even raised his voice to me before. He screamed, I screamed, my mother screamed because we were screaming. It was horrible.

I loved my father. I had believed he was right for my entire life. But suddenly he was contradicting himself. Malfoys were better than everyone, weren’t they? They who were we to bow down to anyone, even the Dark Lord? I snapped. My father snapped. He cursed me. Not one of those calm, cool dueling curses you end up learning in school because everyone else uses them. Not one of the unforgivables. He didn’t crucio me as people like to think. He didnÂ’t attempt (and, obviously, fail) an avada. My father, you might remember, was a dark wizard. He knew a hell of a lot more curses than most people. And he hadnÂ’t lost his temper in years. Well, at anyone other than Harry Potter.

He used the most horrible curse he could think of.