A/N: Another angsty idea that popped into my head about ten minutes ago, demanding to be written. I am just on an angst-roll tonight.

I find Draco Malfoy to be a fascinating character, and definitely one of my favourites. I think he was redeemable, perfectly capable of change, and far more humane and broken than he ever let on. I could go on, but it'd be boring. So here are two one-shots from Draco's POV.

Marionette

It's been a few months, but I still can't adjust. The Mark still burns on my forearm and I don't know why; it didn't hurt so long after for anyone else. It sears like fire against my skin, stinging and burning, then sending tingles of sharp pins and needles shooting up and down my arm.

Slowly but surely, I'm falling to pieces, along with everything in my world. My beliefs, my motives, my task, all compacted into a mess of anguished thoughts swirling relentlessly in my head, adamantly refusing to leave me be. My stomach is a mass of undoable knots; I'm torn between fears- of the Dark Lord, of my father, of the nightmarish horrors that will surely befall me and my family should I fail to do what's been asked-no, demanded- of me. I don't want to kill anybody. I don't even think I have it in me.

The tears start to slide down my face as I realise that my whole life has been nothing but lies and fabrication, but I didn't notice until now, now that it's too late. Dirty blood. Dirty blood, honestly. What makes me so much better, so much purer than Granger? I'm weak and malleable, cowardly, spineless, and pathetic. All of my ideology has been passed from my father, my father who might as well have been sculpted from ice for all the affection he shows, my father who treats me as a trophy, as something to be seen but not heard, as nothing more but an over-eager ear for his twisted beliefs.

And yet I tried so hard to be a good son, to make him proud, follow in the noble Malfoy footsteps. I should've seen earlier, nothing I could ever do would make him love me, only further put me on display. 'Look what I did right; look how well my Draco turned out.' He never cared about me, he only wanted a plaything, something to mould and manipulate.

I've been nothing more than a marionette, with my corrupted father controlling the strings. When I was a child, I would simply do as he said, never wondering why, never questioning the repercussions. As I got older, I began to ponder why we believed as we did, but he was able to quell any dissonance with the promise of pride, of possible reward, of any sort of approval or affection. He used my childish, naïve hope as strings. Shame on him for ruining me.

Shame on me for letting him.

The baby stares up at me, already my pride and joy, no matter what he becomes. My son, my precious, newborn son that I am determined not to ruin.

"Scorpius," Astoria smiles, cradling the gurgling infant in her arms.

"It's perfect," I tell her truthfully. "He's perfect."

"Scorpius Draco Malfoy," she says. "How does that sound for a full name?"

"Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy," I correct.

Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, son of Astoria Greengrass and Draco Lucius Malfoy.

Draco Lucius Malfoy, son of Narcissa Black and Lucius Malfoy. Of course my father would give his son his own name for a middle name, hoping he'd rub off on me, that I'd be like him and carry on his elitist ways.

But I would move heaven and earth to make sure my son doesn't turn out anything like me.