the weight of a name
excerpt from itmotm [ao3]
It should be ironic, Draco thought.
How he had once worn the name Malfoy like armour—something that could shield him from consequence, could open any door. How proud he’d been to carry that weight.
How strange it was now, to feel it dragging him down like an anchor. What had once kept him afloat—now the very thing sinking him. It was like drowning in air.
How the weight of pride could be just as heavy as the weight of a name, but nothing was heavier than the weight of shame.
Perhaps shame was just another kind of inheritance, passed down quietly like an heirloom—one that could never be spent, only carried.
And what made the difference, he wondered, between being crushed by a name or being carried by it? Was it the history of the name, or how it passed through people’s lips? Or was it how you chose to live inside that name, how you shaped it, how it shaped you in return?
Maybe it wasn’t the name at all that held the power. Maybe it was the person who carried it, the choices they made, how they carved their identity into the world. Maybe Draco had never been strong enough. Maybe the name was always going to drown him.
He ran a hand through his hair, frowning as he moved across the room, catching a glimpse of his reflection in one of the mirrored cabinets. The face staring back felt unfamiliar—both aged and yet somehow made younger by the war, as if it had stolen his youth and stripped him bare, left him exposed.
Each time he saw himself, it was Potter looking back, always Potter. The Manor loomed, heavy with echoes—too expansive, too empty—too much space to think now that he had been granted freedom, but his thoughts were endlessly invaded by the man who had set him free.
He thought of Potter—always, Potter—how Draco had once imagined them equals, both bound by their names. But maybe Potter understood something Draco never had—that names didn’t hold power unless you gave it to them. Potter had always rejected the weight of a name; the Dark Lord became Voldemort, and then Voldemort faded into Tom Riddle—made mortal, stripped of his power, and the war was won.
And in the courtroom that day, Draco had seen it—Potter, almost unrecognisable but somehow more himself than ever before, stepping into the role he had always been meant to play, like shedding a skin, like he had grown into it—not by name, but by choice. Potter had carved out a place for himself, a place Draco could never reach, could never fully comprehend.
How Harry Potter had become more than just a name, something bigger, a story people held onto, like it carried the weight of hope. The whole room had turned their faces, not to the Minister, not to the Chief Warlock, but to Potter—once a clumsy, awkward boy who could never even get his uniform right, who had been lucky more than anything else.
But it wasn’t luck now. It was power, radiating from him in ways Draco had never felt before, not born of riches or ancient bloodlines, but of something earned, fought for, bled for. It was the way he commanded the room without even trying, like he was the centre of gravity itself—you couldn’t help but be pulled in by it.
How humiliating it was to look at Potter and feel that strange pull of admiration. To look at him, seven years later, and to have to admit that Potter had become what Draco could only dream of—untouchable, not because of his name, but because of his choices, because of who he was. How his name wasn’t just a name anymore, but something people believed in.
And what had Draco become? He could barely admit it to the silence of the room, a coward still clinging to a name that now felt as hollow as his face, the reflection staring back at him, crumbling under the burden of it, waiting—always waiting—for someone else to reach out, to save him from himself.
He exhaled sharply, stepping away from the mirror, unable to face his own shame any longer. Why had he survived? Why had he survived, when so many others hadn’t? Why had Potter even bothered to save him, even as Draco tried to send him to his death?
It stung more than he wanted to admit, how Potter had barely looked at him during the trial. He had spoken for Draco’s family—the very people who would have handed him over to the Dark Lord without a second thought, if the Dark Lord hadn’t been utterly insane. Draco knew why Potter had done it. Not because he believed they were deserving, but because Potter wanted to be fair. His words had not been praise, but facts, somehow spoken in a way that made Draco’s cowardice look more like courage. As if not a murderer were the same as being good. As if failing to kill were not still a failure.
But Draco wasn’t brave. He’d plotted and schemed, had let those monsters into Hogwarts, watched innocent people fall. Potter didn’t see this—or maybe he did, and he had chosen not to hate Draco for it. It was the absence of hatred—that pity—that hurt the most.
And perhaps that was the worst part—that Draco had always wanted to be his equal. But now, all he could feel was the distance between them, a chasm so wide, no wealth or family legacy could ever bridge it. Potter had been willing to die for what he believed in, while Draco had only ever fought for his own survival.
Draco had always feared death, while Potter had faced it, even embraced it. Maybe that was the difference between them, he thought bitterly. Maybe that was what made Potter worthy of his name. That he could walk into battle, ready to die, and earn his survival.
Why, then, had Draco survived?
He stood abruptly, shaking off the shadows. No more sitting in darkness. Not today. He needed to stop letting Potter invade his thoughts, to stop asking questions that led him further down spiral staircases to nowhere. The world had moved on, even if his nightmares still clutched stubbornly onto the past. Draco should just be grateful that he had survived.
But as he paced the corridors, that familiar bitterness curled around his heart again, an insistent, unwelcome murmur.
Why am I still here?
It should be ironic, Draco thought.
How he had once worn the name Malfoy like armour—something that could shield him from consequence, could open any door. How proud he’d been to carry that weight.
How strange it was now, to feel it dragging him down like an anchor. What had once kept him afloat—now the very thing sinking him. It was like drowning in air.
How the weight of pride could be just as heavy as the weight of a name, but nothing was heavier than the weight of shame.
Perhaps shame was just another kind of inheritance, passed down quietly like an heirloom—one that could never be spent, only carried.
And what made the difference, he wondered, between being crushed by a name or being carried by it? Was it the history of the name, or how it passed through people’s lips? Or was it how you chose to live inside that name, how you shaped it, how it shaped you in return?
Maybe it wasn’t the name at all that held the power. Maybe it was the person who carried it, the choices they made, how they carved their identity into the world. Maybe Draco had never been strong enough. Maybe the name was always going to drown him.
He ran a hand through his hair, frowning as he moved across the room, catching a glimpse of his reflection in one of the mirrored cabinets. The face staring back felt unfamiliar—both aged and yet somehow made younger by the war, as if it had stolen his youth and stripped him bare, left him exposed.
Each time he saw himself, it was Potter looking back, always Potter. The Manor loomed, heavy with echoes—too expansive, too empty—too much space to think now that he had been granted freedom, but his thoughts were endlessly invaded by the man who had set him free.
He thought of Potter—always, Potter—how Draco had once imagined them equals, both bound by their names. But maybe Potter understood something Draco never had—that names didn’t hold power unless you gave it to them. Potter had always rejected the weight of a name; the Dark Lord became Voldemort, and then Voldemort faded into Tom Riddle—made mortal, stripped of his power, and the war was won.
And in the courtroom that day, Draco had seen it—Potter, almost unrecognisable but somehow more himself than ever before, stepping into the role he had always been meant to play, like shedding a skin, like he had grown into it—not by name, but by choice. Potter had carved out a place for himself, a place Draco could never reach, could never fully comprehend.
How Harry Potter had become more than just a name, something bigger, a story people held onto, like it carried the weight of hope. The whole room had turned their faces, not to the Minister, not to the Chief Warlock, but to Potter—once a clumsy, awkward boy who could never even get his uniform right, who had been lucky more than anything else.
But it wasn’t luck now. It was power, radiating from him in ways Draco had never felt before, not born of riches or ancient bloodlines, but of something earned, fought for, bled for. It was the way he commanded the room without even trying, like he was the centre of gravity itself—you couldn’t help but be pulled in by it.
How humiliating it was to look at Potter and feel that strange pull of admiration. To look at him, seven years later, and to have to admit that Potter had become what Draco could only dream of—untouchable, not because of his name, but because of his choices, because of who he was. How his name wasn’t just a name anymore, but something people believed in.
And what had Draco become? He could barely admit it to the silence of the room, a coward still clinging to a name that now felt as hollow as his face, the reflection staring back at him, crumbling under the burden of it, waiting—always waiting—for someone else to reach out, to save him from himself.
He exhaled sharply, stepping away from the mirror, unable to face his own shame any longer. Why had he survived? Why had he survived, when so many others hadn’t? Why had Potter even bothered to save him, even as Draco tried to send him to his death?
It stung more than he wanted to admit, how Potter had barely looked at him during the trial. He had spoken for Draco’s family—the very people who would have handed him over to the Dark Lord without a second thought, if the Dark Lord hadn’t been utterly insane. Draco knew why Potter had done it. Not because he believed they were deserving, but because Potter wanted to be fair. His words had not been praise, but facts, somehow spoken in a way that made Draco’s cowardice look more like courage. As if not a murderer were the same as being good. As if failing to kill were not still a failure.
But Draco wasn’t brave. He’d plotted and schemed, had let those monsters into Hogwarts, watched innocent people fall. Potter didn’t see this—or maybe he did, and he had chosen not to hate Draco for it. It was the absence of hatred—that pity—that hurt the most.
And perhaps that was the worst part—that Draco had always wanted to be his equal. But now, all he could feel was the distance between them, a chasm so wide, no wealth or family legacy could ever bridge it. Potter had been willing to die for what he believed in, while Draco had only ever fought for his own survival.
Draco had always feared death, while Potter had faced it, even embraced it. Maybe that was the difference between them, he thought bitterly. Maybe that was what made Potter worthy of his name. That he could walk into battle, ready to die, and earn his survival.
Why, then, had Draco survived?
He stood abruptly, shaking off the shadows. No more sitting in darkness. Not today. He needed to stop letting Potter invade his thoughts, to stop asking questions that led him further down spiral staircases to nowhere. The world had moved on, even if his nightmares still clutched stubbornly onto the past. Draco should just be grateful that he had survived.
But as he paced the corridors, that familiar bitterness curled around his heart again, an insistent, unwelcome murmur.
Why am I still here?