At home and at school, he went along with whatever his father said, but he couldn’t shut off his mind, and even as he called Hermione Granger a filthy Mudblood, he knew it was a lie. He knew it, but he couldn’t find the courage to defy his father. If he couldn’t count on the security of being Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, who would he be? He struggled with it constantly, and on the night he was supposed to kill Albus Dumbledore, he finally hit the wall of his own making – this far, but no farther. He couldn’t do it. He didn’t do it, and he ran away. Here at Twelve Grimmauld, his family status and his blood purity count for nothing, and that’s as it should be. Hermione Granger is still the brightest witch of her age, and Nymphadora Tonks is as brilliant a leader as anyone could find. That doesn’t mean Draco doesn’t feel his loss of connection and status. He’s reminded every day how little he matters.