The Almost Legend Of Draco Malfoy
by zahra

Draco Malfoy never wanted to do great things: they required too much effort.

Great things took time and dedication, and inevitably were extraordinarily messy. Voldemort had been required to kill several hundreds of people before anyone noticed him, and Draco wasn't interested in doing that much work. Blood was impossible to get out any sort of quality robes, and Muggles simply weren't that important to him. Draco didn't have any great cause that fired his blood or called for him to use the Forbidden Curses. He certainly never wanted to be anybody's hero -- the word alone had so many negative connotations that Draco would have been appalled if anyone had even used it in the same sentence as his name. All Draco really wanted was to do what he wanted, when he wanted, with the minimal amount of fuss on his part and the maximum amount of pain to everybody else.

Draco was never 'good.' He was never 'confused' or 'concerned.' He never had a crisis of conscience or faith.

Draco never had faith to begin with.

At the end of the day, he didn't give a toss.

Draco looked out for himself, and everyone else was irrelevant.


When Draco was in school he did what was required, when it was required, and left it at that. Harry Potter was a boogie on his sleeve that he simply couldn't wash off, but Draco didn't stay up late at night wondering how to best him or how to bring about his downfall. Potter annoyed him, and Draco took great pleasure in mucking up his daily life, but that was what children were expected to do at that age, so that's what Draco did. No more or less.

Potter was an insufferable git who simply got lucky more often then he should have. If he lived past his twenty-first birthday it would have been a miracle from Merlin, nothing more. Potter wasn't that smart, but Draco really didn't care one way or the other. The issue known as Harry Potter was his father's business, and Snape's livelihood, and Draco just wanted to get through the entire schooling business with as little effort as possible while accumulating as many minions as he could.

All schooling was a popularity contest, and Draco never went out of his way for anyone. He never gave consideration when it wasn't -- or was, due.

Draco did what was best for Draco. Full stop.


He was born on the 12th of April at 4:20 in the afternoon. It was a Tuesday of no particular importance or accord. It rained slightly in the morning, but there was nothing memorable about the day. The day of his birth was almost as unremarkable as the day of his death, and perhaps if his mother had known how things were to turn out in the end she wouldn't have gone to all the trouble of giving birth. As it was, however, Draco very much did not want to come out into the world, so perhaps Narcissa should have had a clue.

Draco's mother was in labour for almost 37 hours, and despite the remarkable staying power of the Practically Painless Pregnancy Potion (TM) up until that point, when it came time for Draco to be born, he was virtually immovable. Lucius smote several house elves in his rage, but Draco refused to budge. In the end, amongst several threats and curses and hexes, Draco finally appeared. His mother was relieved, but his father was more than a bit beside himself. It might have had to do with Draco's complete lack of hair. For all intents and purposes, Draco still looked like a half-cooked foetus; and the first time Lucius held his firstborn, Draco urinated on his robe.


Draco's life for the first eleven years was relatively incident-free and easy. He was spoiled and cosseted and raised to be an insufferable brat. The idea of friends was foreign, as all non-Malfoys were acquaintances or minions-in-training. Draco was the sole interest of his mother, and she took great interest in his looks and his deportment.

Manners were for others; Malfoys had pride.

Draco was always a Malfoy.


When the war finally came, Draco did the minimum amount required to keep himself in the graces of those in power. In fact, he would have been an excellent politician, but Draco never wanted to work for the Ministry -- they were so common, and even less inspiring than his father, which sadly wasn't saying much. Not that Draco didn't respect his father, but whereas Lucius had belief in the cause, Draco was much more pragmatic. He was just doing what needed to be done, and the first Muggle that he killed was a young girl with mousy brown pigtails and a battered-down doll.

The first wizard Draco killed was Terry Boot, and it was simply chance that Draco happened to know his name. If they hadn't been in the same year, Draco never would have known. That night when he went home, he didn't fall to his knees in disgust and fear, or ecstasy and delight. He simply went home and slept a dreamless sleep as he had always done.

However, later on in the war, he did take great satisfaction in killing one of the Weasley boys.

Draco wasn't there at the last battle, and he certainly didn't wind up in Azkaban. By the time all that mess came to a head, he was long gone. Firmly ensconced in a villa just outside Positano with a garden and a pet niffler. In the light of day, and in the dark of night, Draco stood by his father because that was what he was expected to do. He took no pleasure in it, but he wasn't entirely disgusted either. Draco never had any incentive to side with the Forces of That Git Who Wouldn't Die, but he cared about Voldemort and his lot even less.

It really was a matter of choosing between two evils, and all that 'better the dark lord you know' business.

Draco knew how to be practical.


Love was always something for other people. It was a trap and a word: a vague concept to be used to make other people bend to Draco's will.

Much like a Forbidden Curse.

Draco never loved anyone.

For sex there were boys and girls and more boys. Companionship was of no importance when Draco had minions, and he never missed or needed what he didn't have.

To Draco, sex was power, and love was for the poor.


There were no mourners when Draco Malfoy died. No one exalted, but no one cried. He would not have been surprised. In death, as in life, he was alone - a choice he made back when he was young and fell for the wrong sort of partner. And as such, in the end, if anyone had shed a tear - honest or not -- no one would have been more shocked than Draco, even if he was dead. As it happened there was no one even there to care either way. Draco's mother had long gone, and his father was locked away, not that he had been in touch with them in ages regardless. In his mind, Draco had always been on his own, and perhaps that's why things were the way they were. He died alone in his old age, and was buried with only ravens as witnesses and a Muggle caretaker in charge of his bones.

And as such there was never any legend to speak of.


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