Pride
The Malfoy heir's earliest memory was his fathers cold hand gripping his face. He leaned in close, steel eyes narrowed and practically spat a sentence that has stuck with Draco for his entire life; “You are a Malfoy. Carry the name with pride, and bring it even more”.
Truth be told, Draco may have taken his fathers words too seriously. He pondered this, one Thursday evening as he sat at his desk, drinking stale coffee. After the war, and a year-long stint in Azkaban. Draco Lucius Malfoy took over any and all Malfoy businesses. He legitimised any investments, paid reparations, and opened his own law firm. The firm, simply entitled Malfoy inc., struggled for its first year. However, after Draco successfully argued a case against the head of the DMLE, everybody was convinced. That one case brought Draco Malfoy more business than he could handle, and so he expanded his firm.
When Draco saw the late night bar across the street open, he knew it was time to go home. His home brought a harsh sense of reality every time he entered the threshold. In the office he was suit clad, in charge, he was Mr. Malfoy. However, at home he was simply Draco. Left alone with thoughts that he’d rather bury. You see, that was the downside of having too much pride. It allowed for confidence bordering on narcissism so long as you never address your true emotions.
“Do you know why the Malfoys have grey eyes, my dragon?” his mother had cooed, wiping his tears as they prepared to apparate to Platform 9 ¾, “Because you are steel”. She wasn’t wrong, by any means. Not a single Malfoy tear was shed. Not as Lucius got the kiss, not as Narcissa was condemned to house arrest, not as Draco was sentenced. Those steel eyes maintained their strength. Draco hadn’t cried since his early youth. Sometimes he felt as though he were unable. Sometimes, he purposely allowed a glass to break in his hand, or a mug of steaming tea to spill onto his arm, just to see if he could possibly stir something inside of himself. It never happened.
It felt as though it were a birthright, to be able to suffer. Unfortunately the suffering seemed just as unavoidable. Draco kicked off his dragonhide shoes, and removed his suit. Replacing such expensive clothing for sweats and a shirt always felt humiliating to Draco. Image was power, he had always thought. To be humbled by grey cotton loungewear was practically a new level of narcissism, a Malfoy level. Draco had fulfilled his destiny, he was a pureblood bigot, for longer than he’d care to admit. He doubled the Malfoy fortune, and he started a successful business. He brought the Malfoy name pride. Arguably even more pride since he’d ‘reformed’, ditching his pureblood centred rearing and forgone all prejudices he may have previously held.
Being so prideful was almost like a coin. Two sided. In public, Draco held himself with such high esteem, he was nothing short of worshipped. And yet, whenever Draco was alone, he crumbled. Self loathing and mortification took over as the silence became too much to bear. Why did his brain have to fill the silence with such hideous memories? The coin was a challenge that would forever plague Draco. On one side, the measly human.On the other, the roaring dragon, Draco.
Draco had confessed these thoughts to Pansy once, a drunken gander attempting to heal inner wounds. “What you fail to see, Draco, is that no matter what side the galleon lands on, it is always gold” she had said, taking a sip of her wine. Pansy was never great with words, this may have been her linguistic peak. The thought made Draco chuckle. If he had been less prideful, he would have continued the conversation, perhaps even taken her advice. Perhaps that alone is evidence that his pride is, and will be, his demise.
Perhaps.