My eyes do not speak of my namesake like they should. For fifteen generations, black eyes had become one of the many trademarks of my powerful family. Black, they said, was pure and undiluted, just like their blood, and, as such, those opaque eyes became a point of pride in my family. The Malfoys can have their blues and greens, my mother once said, but the Blacks shall always have their enviable black eyes. But I had grey eyes. And those grey stormy eyes of mine marked me as different from the day I was born. They were a watered-down black, just like I was.
And those grey stormy eyes protected me from the things of this world. Through them, I projected a barrier of sorts that forever separated me from the others. When I was younger, my mother, in an attempt to win over her eldest son, often told me that my grey eyes held great power. Often, she would spin tales of the ancient Slytherin figurehead, whose grey eyes bewitched and inspired the world, and, at that age, I drank in her stories and believed them. As such, I believed that I, too, would one day be great. I believed that my grey eyes truly marked me as something utterly magnificent and spectacular, someone who ought be feared and someone who had a predestined role in history.
As a child, I lorded my grey eyes over my younger brother, who had the normal black ones. I was the King of Kings in my house, and I knew it. My every word was a command, and my every action was a decree. I believed my mother and father and soaked up every word that came from their twisted mouths, relishing in the attentions they bestowed upon me, for, as their obedient and principled eldest son, I was devastatingly spoiled.
At the age of eleven, I arrived at Hogwarts, having already been warned by my family about the sort of people that went there. Mudbloods, my parents had called them, and, having been forewarned, I had already decided that I would not associate with a disdained and fallen line. Like the proper King I was, I sauntered, haughty and proud, onto the Hogwarts Express, arrogant in the blood that flowed through my veins.
I swaggered down the aisle confidently despite my first-year status as I pulled my luggage carefully behind me. I noticed a tall, blonde girl walk down across from me. Slyly, I stuck my foot out and tripped her. Not even trying to hide my sense of accomplishment, I turned to look down at her and grinned. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, and I smirked at her fury-struck face. I strolled away, one hand in my left pocket, enflamed with excitement. I felt like I was on top of the world. Glancing at one of the windows lining the hallway, I noted my brilliant grey eyes staring back at me. With those eyes and that smile, I just knew I could succeed.
Cockily, I entered a random cabin, pulled my luggage in behind me, and seated myself comfortably by the door, before I realized that a brown-haired boy, who was firmly clutching a book in his trembling hands, was also in the cabin. I went over and tapped him on the shoulders, hoping to scare him out of his wits, but the calculated turn of his head told me that he knew that I was already there. Scornfully, I wondered what sort of boy took to hiding behind books to escape other students, but when I saw his haunting grey eyes that reflected my own, my world, that was so carefully crafted and built up by my parents, came crashing down around me.
It had been a while since my mother had told me stories about my grey eyes. Innately, I knew that they weren’t true, but like the spoiled infant I was, I couldn’t help but uphold this image of eternal greatness in my limp mind. I couldn’t help but believe their tales of majestic grey eyes, for my parents’ indulgent behaviour had upheld this perverse belief.
Yet, that boy dared to sit there with my grey, special eyes. He dared to sit there so indifferently, so selfishly, so unfeelingly. Those fragile grey eyes that stared back at me shattered that painstakingly constructed wall that years of indulgence and propaganda had built up in me. Slowly, I sat back down, my aura of power and greatness disappearing in an instant. Cowed, I still managed to inquire about the boy; perhaps, he too was one who would also become great like myself. For, despite my shattered pride, I still had enough resilience to remember to doubt my instincts. I was still determined to prove to myself that this boy was like me and that he too was a King of sorts.
Twenty minutes later, I couldn’t help but be disgusted at the weak and uncertain boy, who sat in the cabin with me. His complete lack of self-importance and dignity mortified me, and his thin arms and legs reminded me more of an invalid than of a King.
Disillusioned, I had no heart to complain when the Sorting Hat pronounced me a Gryffindor. Already, I was being sacrilegious to my throne; already, I was no longer the King that I once had been. The rest of my family sat at Slytherin, my preordained house, staring at me mutely in obvious disbelief. Yet, for some reason, I had been placed with the blood traitors and Mudbloods in Gryffindor. For some reason, I couldn’t help but think that this was my destiny.
The rest of the year passed fitfully. I befriended blood traitors and half bloods and learned to tolerate Mudbloods. I threw away the past thirteen years of my life in one year, and the transition drained me. I tried too hard and didn’t try hard enough all at once. Hastily, I avoided the eyes of my relatives in Slytherin and desperately tried to shut out their accusing glances and scathing remarks. James Potter taught me how to fight back with pranks and hexes, and those tricks built the new mask that I hid behind. James, Peter, me, and Remus, the boy on the train, joined together and became the vaunted Marauders, partners in crime and brothers in all but blood. I rode on that new emotional high during school, but those Howlers from home still cut deep, and sometimes I had to wonder if what I believed in was worth the loss of my family.
The end of my first year brought me crashing back down to reality. The minute I arrived back home, my parents made it awfully clear that my younger brother had abdicated my throne. No longer was I the King; at that point, I became nothing more than a bother and a worthless disgrace. But no matter how much I wanted to be accepted, my pride sustained me through the summer and brought me back to Hogwarts, for another year. Each and every year was the same. A summer of pain and despair, ended in the start of the school year. At school, I was accepted. I told myself that this denial of my family was for the best and that muggle-borns really were as good as everyone else. And the thing was, I really believed it.
But then, third year, added another layer to my mask. That was the year that I realized that a simple flick of my hair caused girls to giggle and that most of the girls I talked to blushed a deep shade of red whenever I was around. Like the adapter I was, I played up the role, revelling in an attention that I relished and loved. Eventually, I was deemed a lady’s man, and, I willingly honoured my image, being the stereotypical hormone-driven teenager that I was.
Throughout the years, I learned to turn from the Pureblood King into a full-fledged Marauder. Yet, although the outside face I showed to the world changed, my inside remained a near constant. Relentlessly, I was battered by indecision and reluctance, as I grappled with the question of loyalty. To me, blood and water were one and same. The esteemed blood that flowed through my body couldn’t tie me anymore to my family than the water that separated my friends and I from each other. To my family, I was already dead, but to myself, I had finally found life. I knew that what I was doing was right and knew that the creed on which my family built itself was utterly wrong, yet I still couldn’t completely bring myself to break off all ties with my family. Even when I ran away and moved in with James and his family, I still maintained a foolish hope that one day, my family would see the light.
They never did.
I guess, in some ways, those grey eyes of mine really did speak of a new history, for, whether I wanted to or not, I paved the way for betrayal. A good kind of betrayal. A betrayal of the family in order to preserve what was good and right. In one single instant, I threw away two timeless morals, of family loyalty and the evilness of betrayal. In my life, I combined the two and twisted them, in my own way, to make them into the right choice, because my situation and what I wanted to do were distinctly unique. The path I chose to take was never easy nor short, but inside, despite all of my inner turmoil, I knew that the path I had chosen was the one that was truly good and right.