Silk and reinforced hard cotton, emerald scarf and heavy, ink-black robes; they burden his shoulders; they weigh down his steps; they constrict his ribs, his lungs, his voice. Draco's breath is short, painful, yearning–he longs for what he cannot have and scorns those who do–spite guides his step. He will follow the path drawn for him by his father, shown to him by the delicate hands of his mother, beaten from lumps of dirt into a clear route by his forefathers; and he will hate every second of it.