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The library is quiet except for the occasional rustle as a page is turned. Father had insisted that I start reading my school books before school actually started in order to be ahead of all the other students. I think he wants me to be at the top of the class and, secretly, I want it, too.

He's been working me tirelessly. I really don't know where he gets the time. I suspect he might not sleep at all. He heaps books on me and asks about their content the next day. Recently he has been drilling me in French and expects me to recite it perfectly; I get a rap on my knuckles with his wand when I stumble. He's worse than any tutor.

He states that he will make me a proper Malfoy and I will know all that I need to know in order to take his place once I am of age. If it takes so much work and reproaches, I don't think I want to be a proper Malfoy.

Sometimes he takes me to the ballroom and cuing the music, teaches me the waltz. I try my best but he scowls at my missteps. He's made me take up the piano and my knuckles are abused every time I miss a beat or hit the wrong key. On rare occasions he soothes the red and burning skin with his fingers, cooling the pain.

He's almost tender sometimes.

Today, Father is supervising as always, glancing at me occasionally; otherwise he is very preoccupied with "official business" as he called it. The book I'm reading, something about alchemy, I'm convinced is not on the 1st year curriculum but Father insisted and when he insists, I have to obey. The subject would have been interesting if most of the book was not spent on describing the failures of this particular art.

I sigh loudly and make sure that it is heard, watching Father from under lowered eyelashes. An eyebrow rises as he takes notice and he puts the papers down, to give me his full attention.

"Yes, Draco? Is there something troubling you?" he speaks softly but does not seem genuinely interested in my well-being.

"Nothing, Father. It's just that all this preparation reminds me constantly that I shall have to leave for school soon and will not be able to see either you or mother." I compose my face into a wistful look and my eyes rove over the shelves full of books, finally resting on Father, who looks pleasantly surprised.

Father casts his papers completely aside and folds his arms, gazing at me closely. I almost squirmed from its intensity. "I would have thought that you would be quite eager to start your 1st year of Hogwarts. After all, you'll get to make new friends."

"Yes, of course but I'll still feel...too close to this house and you and Mother. I want to remember it all while I'm away and not this musty book that is an insult to your library."

I think I've overstepped my bounds because Father's lips tighten at those words. He does not take such insults lightly, though he knows the insult was not aimed at him but the school and its choice of books. I would never dare insult him, the punishment would be severe.

He says nothing but seems to think awhile, then with a swirl of his cloak he is up and beckoning me after him. I snap my book shut and lay it down on a low table. I have to run to catch up to him; my small legs are no match for his large stride.

We walk down corridors, all familiar but I cannot tell where exactly he is taking me and I am not about to ask. I've already invited trouble, bringing down punishment on myself would prove unpleasant. Unless he still had all intentions to punish me once we arrived at our destination.

Father stops abruptly in front of a closed door in a row of many other such doors. He turns the knob and the door easily swings open. He steps aside to let me through and I carefully step into the room.

I recognize it instantly, this was my old room and everything looks just as I left it a few summers ago. My first broomstick still lies, broken, on a pillow; my reminder that failure is real. I run a hand over the green coverlet; the bed is small, compared to my current one.

I look back at Father and smile. He steps in and softly closes the door. He watches me quietly while I look through old keepsakes and photographs. When the surprise of seeing my old things lessens, I turn to look questioningly at Father who stands still and says nothing.

"Why have we come here, Father?"

Father strides further into the room and sweeps it with his hand, "You asked to remember so we've come here precisely for that reason. Look upon your old things and you'll realize that these are old memories. At school you will make new ones."

"Thank you, Father." Father acknowledges this with a curt nod. I scour the room and marvel at the things that used to keep me company. I look at it all and realize that I no longer feel any need for these things; they are worthless to me now.

My old but faithful rocking horse stands in shadow and I drag it out in order to better see it. I run a hand over the worn sides and through the white tail hanging down luxuriously. Father's eyes follow my pale hand and self-consciously I snatch it away, holding it near, blushing.

"It brings back memories, does it not?" Father moves closer and rocks the wooden horse with the toe of his boot, the head bops and the mane comes alive. He bends down and pats the seat fitted with a child's saddle – an invitation. I hesitate, it seems strange that he would want me to go back to being childish; he has been working very hard to refine me. But those are his wishes so I move closer, steadying it with my hand; I throw a leg over the flank. The horse is too small and my legs don't fit as comfortably as they did before, my knees pushing up against the handles.

Father resumes the rhythmic rocking and I slide back and forth on the worn seat. My hands grasp the handles tightly and I try to keep from sliding. The sensation is not unpleasant but slightly embarrassing.

He gazes thoughtfully at me. Without turning his eyes away, he reaches for the nearest chair and pulls it closer. Father sits down but his foot never stops its motion.

The constant sliding movement makes my bottom heat up and I want to get off but Father just keeps rocking. I want to squirm and adjust my position or at least find a way to stop my sliding but he just rocks the wooden horse harder.

I'm afraid that this is my punishment but he's never used this as punishment. Cruel of him to change my memories of happily spent moments, pretending to be on a real horse. Now I'll just think of this humiliation. Father's eyes are studying me intently. One hand holds up his chin and the other, lies on his lap, the fingers slightly curled.

My face feels hot and I'm sure my cheeks are pink. My hair flops into my eyes as the motion gets faster. I wince and cry out in pain when I slide all the way up to the wooden spine and thump against it. I look pleadingly at Father, I want this to stop.

"Shush, Draco. You are learning and you'll attribute these new memories to your old ones and to the new ones you'll make afterwards." His lips curl into a small smile and the hand in his lap clenches.

I hit the wood again but this time I feel pleasure shoot up and my body tingles. My eyes go wide and I remember the book that I "borrowed" from Father's library. The words were hard to understand but I got the general idea and this, what I am feeling, is it. I feel those butterflies in my stomach and the shortness of breath.

I glance at Father and he looks as collected as ever, except for his hand, which had crept under his robes and is now moving at the same pace as the rocking horse.

I clutch at the horse, my palms sweaty, and I don't think this is a punishment after all. My muscles are tensed and now I help my body to slide across the saddle. Every time I rub up against the horse there is a jolt of pleasure and I never want it to stop.

I feel exhausted and my legs are going numb but I can't stop, won't stop. I touch my forehead to the top of the horse's head and the mane sticks to my skin but I don't care. I feel overheated and I think I'm panting. I look at Father and his cheeks look a little pink, I think he feels just what I'm feeling.

I ache but that hardness between my legs does not go away. The horse creaks and I'm afraid it'll fall apart. Father abruptly stops the rocking and his hand stills but I don't want to stop and try to rub up against the wooden neck.

"Do you want me to continue, Draco?" he speaks quietly and knowingly.

"Yes, please," I'm out of breath and my ears ring and my hardness mocks me.

Smiling, he resumes with vigor and I clutch at the horse's sides with my thighs. I close my eyes and just feel.

My skin feels unbearably hot and the pleasure almost hurts. I feel it catch suddenly and my eyes fly open as I feel a clenching in my stomach. I moan helplessly and feel a small wet stain grow on the front of my trousers. My energy drains away and I relax, slumping forward, content. But the rocking motion does not stop.

Father still looks intense but when I meet his eyes, his hand stills and his foot stops the rocking motion. His lips part and he sighs, closing his eyes in satisfaction.

I get up awkwardly off the horse and he says nothing. I look down at the wet front of my trousers and then up at Father but he does not look upset with me. I thought he would reprimand me for the ruined trousers but he just takes out his wand and with a flick, the stain is gone.

I don't know what to say so I wait and look guiltily at my feet. I'm afraid I've displeased Father.

He rises majestically and wraps his robes around him. "Come, Draco. You will understand all…soon. I have much that I wish to teach you yet."

My throat tightens and I say nothing but my mind is protesting. Why did I ever open my mouth? I set things in motion that I have no way of stopping from hurtling forward; just awaiting a wreck.

Father looks at me expectantly and walks out, leaving me weak-kneed in the middles of my childhood.

He killed my innocence and, judging by that look, he will revive it as often as possible just to destroy it again.

What a chore – to be a Malfoy.

The End