"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."

That's how the saying went.

But to Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, nothing could be further from the truth. As a wizard, he knew better than most that words had power. And no more powerful words were there than names.

Potter. Weasley. Granger. Longbottom. All of those names held their own magic, their own special power. These were the names of heroes, of legends; words of power that brought joy, hope and confidence to all who heard them. They were far greater than any spell or weapon.

But there were other names, ones that incited fear, hatred, revulsion, disdain, and so, so much more. Voldemort. Black. Lestrange.

Malfoy.

And no one ever let him forget it.

It was all in the name, in the legacy. A legacy of evil and pain that, no matter how hard Scorpius tried to escape it, would follow him every day of his life.

Such was his life.

Such was his curse.

Deeds may have caused more outward problems than words, but by far the latter contained more raw, destructive power than the former. Words created deeds. Words could tear apart friendships, deceive people into evil acts, create riots and rebellions and wars. They drove people to villainy, to murder, to death.

Words could kill.

And they were killing him now.

His name brought words with it from others. Traitor. Monster. Death Eater. Liar. Coward.

All were names granted to him because of his family, of a past that he had taken no part in and had no control over. The names were given to him by others, who had still not forgiven his family for their mistakes during the war. Everywhere he went, Scorpius faced the hatred head-on. The insults, the glares, the small gestures of contempt that might go unnoticed by the general populace, stuck into the young boy like barbs in his heart.

At the age of seven, he was beaten up by a group of twelve-year-olds from Griffindor households because he tried to ask them to move so that he could get to some product or other (he couldn't even remember what it was now, that particular detail had become so unimportant). Their taunts as they ground their heels into his back still rang in his ears.

That was the first of many.

The outer scars were nothing. Bruises fade. Cuts heal. Sprains correct themselves.

But scars on the heart don't fade.

And those words, those cruel, spiteful, hate-filled words, directed at a boy who had done nothing to deserve them, who couldn't help his heritage and knew better than anyone that his parents really were trying to be better – they cut through the soft tissue of his heart like a knife through butter. His soul bled, the blood pooling on the bottom of his spirit and staining, the scars constantly being ripped open, day by agonizing day, over and over and over again until the boy wondered what the point was of even continuing on.

Why should he? The world hated him anyway. There was nothing that he could ever do that would make them forgive the imagined slights that he committed against them.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."

Whoever came up with that was either naïve, stupid, or extremely arrogant. Words had power.

Words killed more than any killing curse, any sword or gun or any other type of weapon.

He knew that better than most.

It is in our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light. – Aristotle Onassis