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At eight years old, there were many daily reminders that Draco lived with. There was always someone making sure that his posture was straight and that his hair fell just so, and that was just the tip of the iceberg.
There was his father, who constantly reminded him that he was to represent the epitome of the Malfoy empire. He was told to make sure that his words stroke the ego of the right people to nudge them into making the decisions that were in the best interests of the company. Draco had been taught to make sure that the right people were shaking the right hands and that everyone was walking away happy, or at least thinking that they were.
Draco was never very good at that, but he tried. He struggled to keep his face in check and relied on his father’s mannerisms to try to guide the conversation the way his father would want. Draco often felt like he was walking in ill-fitting shoes.
Then there were his mother’s reminders. The secrets were whispered in his ears as she smoothed his lapels. That he was the last of one of the noblest lines, one more notorious than the Malfoys. That he was the sole Black family heir and that he would need to live up to that mantle. He would need to hold his head up high and move with grace as he strikes down his enemies with the strength of his magic.
If the Malfoys were kingmakers, the Blacks were Kings.
The expectations clashed, and Draco didn’t really know how to cater to both of his parents. But then, it was usually easier to just go along with his father's plan.
This day was different.
Mother was leading him down a street that was so very different from the ones that he was used to. The buildings and street itself were not what made it different though. It was the people. Where Draco had become familiar with different styles of robes, he was shocked to see muggle fashion in front of him. There were women walking in trousers. It baffled him.
His mother held his hand tightly as she maneuvered through the street. She deftly stepped over broken pieces of cobblestone beneath her feet even as Draco tripped over them, coming to a stop right in front of an older-looking house. It was the most familiar thing on the street, as it was brimming with magical energy. Draco looked around, slightly worried about drawing the muggle's attention, but there was no one looking their way. In fact, Draco wouldn’t be surprised if there were some charms to make the muggles steer clear of this place given the wide berth that they were giving it.
Draco’s mother pulled him forward, tugging him up the steps. She pulled a key out and opened the door, ushering Draco into a large foyer. The home was definitely magically expanded, Draco noted, looking around the room that reminded him of his godfather’s home. It was dark inside, and Draco crept closer to his mother, only his pride keeping him from gripping her robes. She dropped his hand and took a shuddering breath. The young boy watched as his mother looked around before turning her attention back to him as if just remembering that he was there. Her already pale face had turned ashen, and Draco felt a frown tug at his mouth as his mother crouched down in front of him and placed her hands on her shoulders.
“My little dragon, this is the ancient family home of the House of Black.” As she whispered, a strained smile marred her usually relaxed face. Her son just smiled back, subconsciously trying to comfort her. “I wanted to show you around while I retrieve some items. We will not be coming back here.” Narcissa brushed an invisible speck of dust off of his shoulder, rising and turning towards the stairs.
Draco looked around with curious eyes, having more reverence for the building than he had before. The Black name always felt far away, like an unattainable grace that eluded him. His mother seemed to possess it and try as he might imitate her, he could never quite manage it.
He trailed after his mother, sure to use the railing to help him up the stairs. The polished banister felt cool under his touch, and the coldness seeped into his bones even as he pulled his hand away. His mother led him to a room at the end of the hall, passing many others. Draco saw a name on the door that they were entering. The door read ‘Sirius’ in golden letters.
Sirius Black was a taboo subject in the Malfoy household. People would look over Draco’s head and give their condolences to his mother. His father would sometimes whisper about it too, laughing joyfully while muttering to himself, though only when he had a glass of the drink that his mother said he should never touch. No one had outright told Draco what had happened, but he was not a dim child. Clues gathered from years of overheard conversations and the occasional outright insult directed at his mother led him to be well informed on the subject. Sirius Black was a bad person. While he was a spy for Voldemort in the War that his father fought in, this was not his great crime. The wizard had killed a bunch of muggles and some great wizarding hero, though that part was confusing. His father and his colleagues seemed to think differently of the wizard that had been killed, but nothing was ever outright said. To Draco and to his mother, the largely public disgrace that he had brought to his family name was his true crime. The heir to the most Ancient and Nobel House of Black locked away, a prophet article detailing his crimes along with a portrait of the once proud man laughing maniacally, the famed Black insanity overriding any semblance of a legacy they has once boasted. It was one of the many adult things that Draco didn’t want to be privy to but knew he had to be due to his responsibility to his family. It meant that he wanted to steer clear of that room, somehow worried that he would be contaminated by mere association. His mother however pressed on, opening the door with ease.
The room itself was strange. Upon walking in, one was immediately assaulted by the colors red and gold. There was no place untouched by either of those two colors. Father would say that the room was obnoxiously Gryffindor, but Draco supposed that may be wrong, given the fact that he was working for the Dark Lord. He was the leader of Slytherin. The thought of his father’s reaction jolted Draco, and he curled his lip in what he hoped was a satisfactory manner. He looked at his mother, but she was focused on something across the room. Draco dropped his father’s sneer, instead taking up his mother’s critical eye. There was a larger bed than he expected, but Draco supposed that while Sirius Black was younger than his mother, he was still old when he was sentenced to Azkaban. Draco was also surprised by the pictures on the walls. It seemed there were a bunch of unframed paintings that were not moving at all. They all were advertising some groups that he had never heard of before. Draco was well informed of Wizarding Culture, as it was something that his tutors had been instructing him on in the past year, so he should recognize these paintings.
Unless… Sirius Black would never have muggle paintings in his room, right? Draco knew that muggles were not to be fraternized with and should never grace the walls of such a noble and ancient house as the Blacks.
Draco stayed silent though, not wanting to cause a scene. He glanced at his mother yet again, taking in the way she drifted towards the desk in the corner of the room. There were multiple stacks of papers, all worn. He drifted closer, not sure what he was doing, but his mother’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Draco dear, your mother needs a moment. I’ll just step out for fresh air, don’t leave this room. There are dark artifacts all throughout this house.” His mother shot him a stern look before stepping out of the room. Draco looked around, flexing his hands as he realized that he now wanted to touch everything. So he did.
He slid out of his shoes, putting them neatly beside the door before carefully climbing onto the large bed. Draco found his balance and then immediately set out to touch the paintings on the wall, holding out a single finger to touch them. It was glossy and immobile. It felt nothing like a painting, and more like a photograph, but it was still. It was definitely muggle-made. He let his hand drop to his side as he turned around, taking in the room from his new view.
Everything in the room looked so different from what Draco was used to. It was haphazard, disorganized…
Well, everything except the small box in the corner. It was dark wood, and as Draco climbed down from the bed and approached it, he found he could no longer see it. Confused, he climbed back on the bed, and there it was, tucked neatly into the corner. Draco memorized the spot and made his way towards it, despite his eyes telling him that there was nothing there once his feet were on the floor.
He reached out and his hands met something solid. It was the box. He tried to pick it up by its sides, but as soon as his hand met the bottom of the box, he sharply pulled back. There was a prick on his finger, and it welled with blood. He sucked on his finger, angrily glaring at the box.
Wait.
His eyes widened as he realized that he could now see the box. This was magic, but was this one of the dark artifacts that his mother warned him against? Why could Draco see it now? Why couldn’t he see it before? What had changed? His finger began throbbing, and Draco realized that it was his blood. It took his blood and recognized his place in the Black bloodline.
Draco ignored the pain in his finger, reaching out with his other hand to open the box. The latch was easily maneuvered, opening with a quiet clink. The box didn’t creak as it was opened surprisingly, but there was a sheen layer of dust that puffed around it, making Draco cough on reflex.
He swatted the dust away as he zeroed in on the box’s contents. It was stacks of journals. There had to be dozens of them. He picked up the one on top of the stack, noticing that it was different from the rest. It was pristine, unlike the others that were noticeably more tattered. There was also no lock. Draco looked through the box and found that every other journal had a lock on it. He ignored that though, and moved to the first journal again, this time opening the cover to see the first page. It was an entry from someone with the initials R.A.B. Draco squinted, standing and going over by the candlelight so he could make out the words on the page. The writing was neat and reminiscent of his father’s, meaning that it was likely a pureblood who wrote this.
I am keeping a record of events from now on. Too much is happening now not to.
Today, mother received multiple letters informing her about Sirius’s sorting, although not a single one was from Sirius himself. I would imagine that he was overcome with shame from going against tradition and the family name the way he did if I was being charitable to my brother, but I know him too well for that. He is no doubt celebrating his act of defiance of our family’s legacy. Mother says that this is a disgraceful act. I know that our circle has always made it a point to identify the differences between my brother and I, but I can’t help but ponder the similarities. If Sirius was sorted wrongly, what are the chances that I too would disgrace the family?
I will take steps to ensure that I am the perfect heir to the Black family if Sirius continues to rebel, as it is my duty. Though I wonder what he would think of me now when I know-
Draco finished reading the first page. This was Sirius Black’s brother. Draco had never even heard of a R.A.B.
He heard footsteps coming from the stairs, and Draco scrambled to put the journal back in the box and close it. He picked it up, thankful that it didn’t prick him again, and quickly looked around for a place to hide it. Before he could, his mother walked into the room.
“Draco, darling, I think that it was a mistake coming here, but there is something that I still need to show you.”
Draco, feeling like a niffler caught with their hand in a pocket, carefully made to follow his mother, who continued not to comment on the box in his hands. She didn’t even look at it silently with her eyebrow raised like she would when she was appraising something. She completely ignored it.
She led him past a kitchen and into another hallway. A couple of closed doors later, his mother entered a room with a familiar sight. This must be the room housing the Family Tree of the Black family. The Malfoy’s had something similar in their East wing, but it paled in the face of the sight in front of them, sprawling and glimmering and ancient. His mother walked up to the branches that were the most recent. Draco saw that she seemed to run her hands along the wall, lightly grazing the paper, even where there were scorch marks. Draco observed his mother a little while longer but then turned his attention to the wall itself. He saw his own name and his mother’s. Curiously, his father was not named. It seems that there were only direct blood relatives on this tree.
He saw his mother’s portrait, animated but graceful. He looked and saw his aunt, Bella. There was another portrait next to them, but it was burned beyond recognition at first glance, Draco could make out a name at the bottom. It read Andromeda Vinda Black.
His eyes slid over to the nearest scorch mark, seeing the name Sirius Orion Black stand out. Connected to him were his parents and his younger brother, Regulus Arcturus Black. He was not burned on the wall, but his portrait stood with a poise that Draco envied. Still, Draco thought that he saw something familiar in the way that this Regulus Black held himself.
Draco saw it in the mirror quite often.
Regulus Arcturus Black. R.A.B.
oooooooo
By the time Draco had safely made it back into his room, he let out a relieved breath. He had even passed his father in the foyer and he hadn’t commented on the box. It was truly invisible, but he felt the need to test it though to be sure.
“Dobby!” Draco called out expectantly. The house elf popped into his room, head bowed low.
“Young master Malfoy, how may I serve you?”
“Can you see this?” Draco held out the box. Dobby raised his head, looking at the space between Draco’s hands. His expression was unchanged.
“No, young master. Is there something Dobby should be seeing?” Dobby asked carefully, obviously used to his father’s temper, but Draco didn’t have the energy nor the patience to imitate his father. He just dismissed the house elf.
Draco took off his shoes and settled at his desk, placing the box on top. He reached in and pulled out another one of the journals, curiosity growing as he got past the first page.
It seems that this R.A.B. was the Black family name. From what Draco was able to gather from the first entry, Regulus took being the Black heir seriously following his brother’s sorting. It seemed like he was unaware that Sirius was imbedded into Gryffindor as a spy for the Dark Lord, and took it at face value, seeking to rehabilitate their generation’s image.
Regulus wrote reminders for himself, titling the section Mother’s Rules. From placing a pinky near the rim of the cup to soften the noise made when placing it down to the best way to style one’s hair to imitate their most proud family members, the journal was a gold mine of information.
Draco found solace in Regulus’s writings, if only because it was clear that Regulus was similar to Draco. Although the two were technically born into this life and its role, they had to work to blend it. There were tutors, guidelines, and expectations, but no one could change them completely to meet their families’ expectations of perfection. It was that realization of kinship, of constant performance, that made something click.
When he was lying down and attempting to sleep, Draco found himself wishing that he had lived like Regulus, that he had the annoying brother, the attentive father, and the strict mother. These feelings usually showed up when his father would go days without speaking to Draco only to break this silence to reprimand him. It would arise in him again when he would exhaust his Mother and she would ask the house elves for her potion. Draco knew that whenever she took it, she wouldn’t be sitting with him for dinner, meaning that his father wouldn’t be attending either.
(Of course, Draco had noticed that his mother was more easily exhausted after their trip to the Black family home. No matter what Regulus taught him, Mother was always exhausted, and always needed her potions.)
Even as he sat at the large, ornate dining table alone, he found himself grateful that he was an only child. Regulus endlessly wrote of the difficulties of having an older brother, and so Draco knew that he was lucky to live alone.
There seemed to be a trend among the Black family.
Uncle Alphard once told Sirius that he was everything that this family needed. Not in front of Mother or Father of course, but I always made sure to observe whenever Siruis and Uncle Alphard would have asides. Usually, this means that Sirius is going to cause trouble and is ensuring that Uncle Alphard would act as a distracting factor while he does so.
For all Father regaled us with the importance of family, it was always made clear that he held disdain for his brother. Uncle Alphard, despite not having a spouse nor any children, is Grandfather’s favorite, and this infuriates Father to no end. When I was young, the pinched look on my father’s face whenever speaking to my uncle meant that Regulus would be in for particularly tough etiquette lessons wherein his uncle would be an example of failure.
It seems Black Brothers would never get along, in any generation.
oooooooo
Over the course of the next few months, Draco read the journal. Despite his advanced tutoring, he had trouble making sense of all that Regulus wrote. There were instances where he would be stuck on a single page for days at a time until he eventually asked his tutor for definitions.
For the first time, maintaining his posture at Ministry mixers was no issue. He simply took Regulus’ pointer and instructed the house elves to prepare him a corset to keep his back straight. It worked in helping him stand proudly and kept him still, as the garment left little room for movement. It also meant that Draco could not over-indulge at the dessert table, unlike the other children in attendance. Of course, it was more difficult to keep a disgruntled look off of his face as it had been his first time wearing a corset, but his cousin had also given him advice on that front. Thinking only of his arithmancy problems unless actively engaged in conversation, Draco ensured that he looked thoughtful and poised. His mother commented on his behavior as his Father was saying his goodbyes to some associates, praising him for his success.
“Look at my little dragon, all grown up.” There was a small smile, and Draco thought that his mother looked exhausted again. He didn’t want to bring up her potions though, selfishly basking in her presence even if she was tired. It didn’t matter whether he brought it up or not in the end, as she asked for her potions as soon as they arrived home. Father didn’t acknowledge this beyond curling his lip, and Draco cataloged the reaction to use later. Father went to his wing of the Manor and mother went to hers.
Draco began walking the familiar path to his own wing. When he reached his room, he found himself doing some revising, making sure to fully exhaust the knowledge contained in the journal. By the time he was finished, he was as polished as his mother’s favorite china.
His tutors had been singing his praises as he excelled in his studies, and he went out of his way to take on more subjects like history. He even managed to revive his latent skills for playing piano, as Regulus had stressed the necessity for a well-rounded skill set beyond academia. The sentiment also extended to his recent interest in wizarding chess and Rhetoric.
Of course, to account for all of his new activities and studies, he did have to rise earlier. He wouldn’t have minded it if he wasn’t also staying up later. Hours after his mother sent him to bed, he was scouring books that he had smuggled from their manor library. Occasionally, he slept at his writing desk, but after being woken up by a concerned house elf, he tried to avoid that. He found that house elves crying made his stomach squirm.
(Regulus wrote often about Kreacher. The manner in which he did so meant that Draco hadn’t realized that the old caretaker was a house elf until the seventh mention wherein Regulus expressed his conflicted feelings about Kreacher’s wish to have his head mounted on the wall as a final act of service to his masters. He admitted that while his childhood and his livelihood would have been untenable without house elves, he would flinch away from the cruelty that his peers would treat them with. Even Sirius, as virtuous and noble and Regulus believed him to be, looked down his nose at them. The former heir took great pleasure in causing issues with Kreacher only to use his position as a master to them punish Kreacher for moving against him.
Regulus wrote that their mother, the indomitable Walburga Black would listen to Kreachers report with a rare smile. It was the only time that her disgust would fade, pride overtaking her for a moment as she thought of how cruel Sirius could be when he believed he was justified. It was a quality that Regulus lacked, a quality of a true heir.)
Draco, while always knowing that he was vain, never took much time studying himself in the mirror. This new schedule changed things. Regulus wrote that he would watch himself for hours in front of the mirror, learning to control his expressions and reactions. Draco found it tedious at first, but upon noticing just how much his expression changed from moment to moment, he realized the necessity of the task. Eventually, he was able to control his face quite well, something that helped him whenever he was having a conversation with his father. No longer was he berated for being childish and disinterested.he told himself that the silence was preferred, even if the pain in his chest didn’t fade.
After months of this, he also took Regulus’ advice about allowing the house elves to place glamorous on his face to hide the dark circles that were developing under his eyes. Apparently, Regulus Black had been as pale as him, so his tips about appearance were all the more important to Draco. Of course, his methods of styling were not always applicable, considering Regulus Black had the notorious curls that their family was known for. His mother had similar curls, but from what Draco could tell, she started placing straightening charms on her hair once she married his father. While it had once been a point of pride to have his father’s hair color and texture, Draco found that he came to dislike it, if only due to not fitting the ideal heir that Regulus described.
Though perhaps that would mean that he would be compared to his Aunt Bella, as she was notorious for her wild hair. Draco considered the situation and concluded that that would upset his mother, so it wasn’t a huge loss.
He supposed that he could never be perfect.
oooooooo
By the time he was ten and presented at the annual Yule celebration, Draco Lucius Malfoy was the ideal pureblood heir.
He stood proudly, careful not to puff out his chest. The corset also helped in that regard. He didn’t wear it as often nowadays, his posture trained but he could take no chances with events such as these. He was introduced to old family friends who had been tutoring their children abroad. Draco found that the children from these families were better suited to what would be expected of a pureblood heir.
Although his father was heavy-handed in his encouragement to befriend Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe, he found himself gravitating towards Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini. Of course, Crabbe and Goyle followed him, but they could not contribute to the conversation regarding the curriculum at Hogwarts. There was a lot to be desired, and they all expected to keep up independent studies to ensure that they were properly prepared for their responsibilities.
The conversation, while stimulating, was not especially exciting. Draco found that the presence of these boys made his practiced grace slip. He fought to keep his composure, knowing that their group was being watched. While Zabini and Nott seemed to speak without hesitation, Draco found himself carefully evaluating his thoughts, crafting the perfect responses.
He saw that there were other small groups scattered around the room. Pansy Parkinson was speaking with Millicent Bullstrode and Daphne Greengrass, carefully surveying the guests as they spoke quietly to each other. Near the far doors, Aisha and Fatima Shafiq stood with their mother, who was introducing them to Grayson Yaxley and his younger brother Jefferson.
It brought to mind one of Regulus’ entries towards the end of the journal.
Mother has always told us that we are above even those in the Sacred Twenty-Eight, hailing from a power that would make those like Nott and Parkinson seem common. Of course, despite our family being such, Father would interject with tales of the usefulness of those families, specifically in ensuring that recognition of their superiority was still present in every wizard’s mind.
Blood may be the source of our power, Father would say, but it is only our connections that have kept our family in our rightful position.
oooooooo
Draco received his Hogwarts letter in the morning post a month before his eleventh birthday. His mother, strangely energetic, began ordering the house elves to cook his favorites.
It didn’t stop her from taking her potions after dinner though. It didn’t mean that Father ate with them. All in all, it meant very little.
Honestly, Sirius was never a friend to the right crowd, but he always had their respect, which is more than anyone could say for me. I am the spare, and until recently, that was all that I was. For all that the birth order was random, Sirius had the look of a Black Heir. He had the charm, the wit, the eloquence. He only had to read something a couple of times before he was able to recite it to their tutors. He stood tall, never letting his chin fall, even in the face of imposing figures like their grandfather. Like Mother.
Meanwhile, I am the opposite. The tutors look at me with frustration as I stumble on my recitations of the feats of Gellert Grindelwald. My face is pale and sallow, and according to my Father, my eyes are too expressive. Sirius would take advantage of this, always sure to look into my eyes to tell if I was being dishonest, and I tried to return the favor, but once again, I fell short. Sirius was and always will be a mystery to me. His eyes tell nothing and his mouth is either set in an exuberant grin or pressed into a flat line as he is reprimanded by our mother.
I have no defense. I have to study. I have to train my spine straight. I have to choose my words carefully. After seeing the disappointment that Sirus turned out to be, perhaps this marks the true spirit of a Black Heir.
So no, charm does not come easily to me the way it seems to for Sirius, but I refuse to let that hinder me. I will find other ways to ensure that the family connections do not falter, even if I have to painstakingly build them back up after my brother’s blunder. I received my acceptance letter to Hogwarts today, and I find it fitting that this entry marks the last in this journal. In fact, I think that I will wait until I am settling into my dorm to write in my new journal.
Draco closed the journal, packing it away into the box that only he could see. Tomorrow, he would be setting off to Hogwarts castle, and if his textbooks were any indication, he would finally learn a charm that would unlock the other journals.
(Of course, he would have already tried it, but his mother took his wand as soon as they arrived home from Diagon Alley. Draco had no idea why she suddenly cared, but then it would look unseemly if a person of Draco’s stature was caught using magic when he was not supposed to. It was like Regulus had written: Every action can be tied back to our family’s reputation.)
He carefully placed the box into his brand-new school trunk, making sure to keep it hidden in one of the many compartments. Hogwarts would allow him to fully realize his place as a Black heir, and he was not going to let some snooping house-elf get in the way of that.
He settled into bed with an excited smile, taking deep breaths to attempt to sleep. After a half hour of this not yielding the desired results though, Draco resigned himself to having a very long night ahead of him.