stomp it out I watch the ink run, trailing down the paper like black blood. I hadn’t even read it, just a quick
glance down towards the bottom at the signature had told me all I needed to know and I didn’t want to
waste my time. The envelope was stamped the Ministry of Magic, but it wasn’t from the Minister. It was
beneath me.
For I do want to be Minister, you see. There is no better position in the world from which I can serve my
master, the dark and terrible Lord Voldemort. Yes, I say the name without fear, for I have looked him in the
face, and born the searing kiss of his brand upon my arm. Right now I’m just a follower, not even in his inner
circle of Death Eaters, but that will all change when Cornelius finally lets his age and his stress catch up to
him and has a heart attack. Or allows himself to be captured, of course. I will have a special Dementor ready
for him if that ever comes to pass, and he will suffer dearly for the rambling about my age and experience
that he passes on to subordinate’s subordinates to pass on to me.
That will all change soon enough, once I’m in a seat of power. It won’t be long either, for no one can resist
a Malfoy for long. That seat of power will be mine... Cornelius, Harry Potter, and the world be damned.
Harry Potter... I’d call him a rival if he even came close to being my equal; but he isn’t either. He is at the
very most an obstacle, a road block that I can’t get past by swerving my broom but instead have to barrel
over and level into the dust. People, and by people I mean the ignorant masses that populate this planet have
a million speculations on why I act how I act towards the Boy-Who-Lived. Jealousy is the dumbest of
which, ranking even below the unrequited Love category in general intelligence, because I HAVE
NOTHING to be jealous about, to be jealous of. Some working class half breed with a bundle of dead flesh
on his face and his only friends are Mudbloods and pathetic destitues who put themselves below the poverty
line by breeding like rabbits.
By lashing out against Potter with a poison laced tongue and sharpened claws I have ensured that the last
thing he ever wants to do now that we’re out of school is spend time near or with me- and that includes on
opposing side of an election. The weaklings, the fools, love him, for a feat that happened decades ago
through no power of his own and turned out to be a futile gesture in the end... or at least it will. He would
be a walk on if he ever wanted the position, and god knows he does for some pathetic attempt to make the
world a better place, but not bad enough to spend a half of a year butting heads with a Malfoy.
My inner monologue could scare you... and would, if you ever heard it. Even as I write this on the wall of
one of the mansions rooms, with red ink and a knife for a quill, my mind dwells on you reading it. Who are
you? What are your weak spots? What would be the easiest way to take you down, to make you scream, to
make you beg for mercy? Is your mind dwelling on me? If it is, mind your own fucking business you dumb
son of a bitch. And its on Cornelius, on Potter, on the rubble of the Barrow I had bulldozed over to lay the
foundation for a building I haven’t finished and never intended to. It makes me smile to recall how cheap I’d
been able to buy the Weasley pride for. A family filled with Prefects and Head Boys and Quidditch captains
bought off by a sum I didn’t even need to go to Gringotts to scrape together. I’ve ensured that the name of
Weasley won’t appear in the book of history.
I will own that book. Potter may be a footnote, on a single page, listing Voldemort’s achievements over the
years. But it will be impossible to look anywhere, in our entire century, in any given chapter- fuck it, any
given page- without seeing the name of Malfoy. Because I am a Malfoy, you see. And I won’t be denied.