Chapter Text
Harry sat at the long dining table, chin propped on one hand, pushing peas around his plate with the tip of his fork. Across from him, Draco chattered animatedly about the toy broomstick Narcissa had brought him from Diagon Alley earlier that day.
“It’s faster than my old one. Father says it’s only a practice broom, but when I’m older, I’ll have a Nimbus.” Draco’s pale face lit up with excitement, and Narcissa’s smile was soft, indulgent.
“That’s because you’re a Malfoy,” she said, smoothing back a strand of his hair. “Our family always excels.”
Harry forced a smile, though the words landed heavy in his chest. Our family.
He knew he was part of it. They told him he was, reminded him often enough — but still, sometimes when Narcissa’s hand lingered on Draco’s shoulder, or when Lucius’s eyes gleamed with pride at something Draco did, Harry felt a faint coldness creeping in around him.
He wasn’t really a Malfoy. Not in blood. And though no one ever said it aloud, Harry was beginning to wonder if it mattered.
---
Later that evening, the boys played in the garden. Draco zoomed circles around Harry on his broomstick, laughing. Harry clapped when Draco landed, but the sound was hollow.
“Want a turn?” Draco offered, hopping off.
Harry’s eyes brightened — until Draco quickly added, “Careful though, Mother doesn’t like it when you take it too high. She says it’s special.”
Harry’s grin faltered. He took the broom, his heart beating fast, and kicked off the ground. The broom rose shakily, but he managed a small lap. He landed with a triumphant grin — but Narcissa, watching from the terrace, frowned.
“Draco, don’t let Harry take it too high,” she called. “It’s not his broom.”
Harry’s smile withered. He handed the broom back without protest, but inside something sharp twisted.
---
That night, lying in bed, Harry stared at the ceiling. The manor was quiet, but his thoughts weren’t.
Why had Narcissa said his broom and not their broom? Why did Lucius always seem more patient with Draco’s mistakes, yet quicker to frown at Harry’s?
He told himself it was because Draco was younger by a few months, because Draco was their son. But the word — their — kept echoing.
Harry clenched his fists beneath the blanket.
He wanted to be a Malfoy in more than name. He wanted Lucius’s approval, Narcissa’s soft touch, Draco’s easy pride. But every so often, a voice deep inside whispered:
You’ll never be enough. Not really. Not for them.
Harry shoved the thought away, but it returned, sharper each time.
If love had a price, he thought, then he would pay it. He would work harder, train longer, learn faster. He would prove he was worthy — not just of their name, but of their pride.
He didn’t yet understand why it hurt so much. He only knew that the hurt was his alone. Draco didn’t feel it. Draco never would.
And so, even at eight years old, Harry began to build the mask he would one day wear: a mask of confidence, pride, and strength — one that would hide the cracks forming quietly underneath.