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Draco Malfoy's Unrightful Pain


StepUpTimneh
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Title: Draco Malfoy's Unrightful Pain

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations owned by JK Rowling and publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury. No copyright infringement is intended or to be infered.

Words: 426

 

“You are a selfish little boy then, if that’s all you care about!†my mother barked. “Out! Out!â€

 

I had accidentally got her robes dirty, and I said sorry, really, I did! I just wanted to know when I would be allowed to go out flying again. I know she likes me, though, so I don't take it too seriously when she yells at me. She always apologizes later, anyway.

 

Then my father's silky voice came in. “You destroyed your mother’s robes... And all you care about is Quidditch. Go to your bedroom now, Draco, for the rest of the day. You are not to touch anything but the books in your room. Perhaps then you will fill that stupid, no good head of yours...â€

 

My father kept going on and on about how terrible I am, in that smooth, piercing voice. I scowled. I had been planning to go out on my Nimbus 2001 that day, to brush up on my seeker skills. I hate to admit it, but Potter is actually quite good. I can’t have Harry Potter better than me at Quidditch! It’s not fair that he gets his way so easily, and I have to work so hard for it.

 

Father glared at me, and I could see hatred behind those cold eyes of his. I got very afraid right then, as that hatred usually comes out in the form of verbal abuse. I usually try to avoid fear, but when my father yells at me so harshly and uncaringly, it seems unavoidable. Sometimes I hope that he doesn’t realize how much he hurts me. If he did, I like to think that he wouldn’t say these things.

 

“You best be off,†my mother muttered to me worriedly. She may not be exceptionally kind to me sometimes, but at least I know she likes me. I actually think she might love me.

 

I felt hatred clogging up the atmosphere. It pushed me from all sides, hurting me all over. My head was being punched from the inside, my stomach inhabited by a nest of billywigs. I didn’t look at my father, for I was sure that fear flickered clearly in my grey eyes.

 

â€I wish you weren’t my father,†I snarled. I opened my eyes just a bit wider to see if my words had affected him. They didn’t. He still loathed me, his son. I could see it in those icy eyes and leering figure. My mother looked at me anxiously, but didn’t dare to comfort me in my father’s presence. She looked away.

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