One of Draco's earliest memories is that of a rare smile gracing his mother's face, a reward for something he did right, though he can't remember exactly what it was.
He was a mere child, somehow escaped from his attendant house-elf to wander the halls of Malfoy manor. He rounded a corner and found himself under the gaze of three women taking tea.
One of them, with sharp, wicked eyes and a thousand wrinkles lining her face, asked him a question. He doesn't remember it, or his answer, but the women all laughed, and his questioner nodded with approval.
And Narcissa smiled.
What conscience Draco has now speaks to him in the voice of Lucius Malfoy.
Throughout his childhood, if Draco was in the presence of his father, he was either ignored or taught a lesson in pride. Pride in his name, in his family, and in his bloodlines.
Draco can recite the names of his ancestors, back unto the tenth generation.
When he was young, their names tasted like ash and honey on his tongue.
The Malfoys hosted a Yule ball when Draco was seven years old.
His house-elf dressed him in his finest dress robes; Narcissa even swept in for two minutes to inspect his appearance and comb his hair.
Then Draco was left to his own devices. His father's study was forbidden to him, though the cadence of voices inside intrigued him. His mother, and those familiar women, gathered in the parlor, but Draco didn't want to subject himself to their interrogations.
So, he wandered outside, onto the lawn, and stopped short when he was confronted with two boys his own age, larger and stockier than him, but shabbier as well.
They introduced themselves, as children did, with stammering as they tried to remember the ways they had heard their parents speak.
And then silence, until one of them, Crabbe, squinted at the manor. "You live here?"
Draco shrugged.
"It's really big," the other one, Goyle, observed.
"I suppose so," Draco responded.
When they were finally called inside, they faced the adults together, squirmed under the scrutiny until some sort of camaraderie was formed.
It never quite faded away.
When he was nine years old, Draco dared speak back to his father.
The look on his father's face was a hundred hexes compounded, and Draco felt his hands tremble, though he set his jaw, and began to repeat his statement.
"Goyle said — "
Lucius interrupted his defense with a quick motion of his hand. "Do not think of using that oaf's words as your own." He stalked up to Draco, stooped so their faces were on an even plane. "Neither should you think to repeat young Crabbe's words, if he's able to speak them."
"But — "
Lucius seized Draco's chin, forced him to meet his gaze. "You are a Malfoy." The words were underlined in blood, and Draco nodded under the weight of them.
Lucius smiled, and walked away.
One of Draco's earliest memories is of seeing his parents smile.
As he walked to breakfast, his attendant house-elf trotting behind him, he passed by the parlor, as usual. He glanced inside, and what he saw brought him to a halt.
His father, normally a stern figure, cups his mother's face in one gloved hand. She leaned into that touch for the length of a sigh, then straightened, raised her face as Lucius bent down to bestow a kiss on her forehead, then her lips.
The house-elf tugged on Draco's sleeve, but Draco resisted long enough to see them part, see them smile at each other.
Sometimes, when he thinks of his parents, he remembers that moment, and the strength of it. That, in his mind, is part of what it means to be a Malfoy.
He's determined to wear the name with pride.
The End