Draco Malfoy is controlled and icy, and never gives up anything more of himself than he absolutely must. His spells are cast, potions brewed, essays scribed onto fresh sheets of parchment – no crossed-out word, no blot of ink, no imperfect phrase –
precisely. Everything must be
just so. Malfoy is a work of art, a porcelain boy with poseable limbs, and he loves to pose. Girls watch him wherever he goes. Boys as well, but he doesn’t think about them or what their eyes mean.
Malfoy watches his classmates from his self-imposed isolations, and finds each of them wanting. His standards are, after all, the highest. As a Malfoy, he can allow no flaw, no stain, to touch him.
Malfoy does not examine himself; his motives are as precise as he is. Never mind that he cannot define them, they are subliminal, and do not involve desire, or loneliness, or fear.
Malfoy’s father is his model, the framework upon which he stretches his skin, hoping to be big enough one day to hold all of the grace and rage a pureblooded wizard is made of, despite the fact that the reasons for this are as nebulous and impossible to demonstrate logically as his own motives – though they must be as real. They
must.
Precision is rewarded with correct results, he thinks, dazed, as Potter strides away with the purest of blood on his knuckles and a grim smile on his lips.
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iulia_linnea!
