Beyond The Looking Glass | DMHG

Chapter 2

— Summer, 1993 —

D.M.

One does not simply go about forgetting Hermione Granger.

Draco Malfoy could attest to that. As much as he tried to mimic the ease with which she ignored him in forgetting her; he simply could not. She haunted him. Not just her eyes but her sheer brilliance as well. Making him question if Mudbloods truly were what he was told and forcing him to reevaluate the doctrine he's known all his life.

Perhaps she was just an anomaly. The thought was as comforting as it was taunting. It upheld his beliefs hence the comfort from familiarity but it taunted him with the knowledge that despite her exceptionality, he could never associate himself with her. And it was all because of her blood.

Wait.

Not blood, rather, the mud that ran through her veins.

The whole Granger conundrum was messing with his head and Draco did not like it one bit. It was summer; he was supposed to be free— free from expectations, free from his every little move being scrutinized, free from her stupid golden eyes.

He tried distracting himself— preoccupying himself with tutors and practising Quidditch manoeuvres just so he wouldn't have time to think of her. It failed spectacularly. There was always something in his activities that reminded him of her, be it the parchment he wrote on or the sun scorching his skin as he flew.

She was tormenting him.

And torment him she did when her brilliance came to light and gained him his father's displeasure.

Draco hadn't known ice could burn just as much as fire but the way his father's delight had dropped into disappointment almost immediately would forever be branded in his memory.

He didn't know what was worse: the patheticness of him mourning the short-lived pride that shone in his father's eyes or the pain that came with reliving the biting cold disappointment and blatant disgust his father wore once he learned that his only heir was bested by a Mudblood.

"Do better, Draco," his father had said, eerily calm as he sliced into his serving of Beef Wellington. Draco gulped, eyeing the way his father's grip on his knife tightened ever so slightly. Feeling a hard stare on him, Draco looked up from his plate to meet his father's eyes. "You are an extension of myself, of the Malfoy name. Now tell me, what does being second-best to a Mudblood say?"

Draco tried to respond but failed, paralyzed by his father's disappointment.

His father tsked, setting down his cutlery in a fashion that indicated he was done with his meal. "It's a disgrace, Draco. That's what it is. And let it be known that no son of mine is a disgrace."

The words hung in the air long after his father had left. His mother smiled sadly at him. "Don't mind your father, darling. He hasn't had the best day," she said in what Draco knew was an effort to comfort him. It didn't feel like comfort. Not when all he could hear were the echoes of his father's words.

Do better. It's a disgrace. No son of mine is a disgrace.

Disgrace meant disappointment. Disappointment meant failure.

Let it be known that no son of mine is a failure.

His mother sighed at his despondence. He hadn't noticed she had stood up and made her way to his side until he felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he was met with his mother's kind blue eyes. "For what it's worth, I'm so incredibly proud of you, my dragon."