"You all know why we are gathered here today. I’m not going to pretend that the past never happened. I make no excuses.
Like all other boys, he was born and for a little while he lived. He had his faults and his failures. Everyone knew he was cruel, selfish, and cold. The words that lashed from his tongue were venomous. He never hesitated to use a jinx or a hex, picking on the small and the weak.
His father shaped him and molded him; brought him up to despise weakness in any form, to strive for perfection. In others, would we see this goal as perverse? To better ourselves? But no, you say. He warped those ideas with selfishness; they were wrong they didn’t agree with ours. No one took the time to understand, to explain. What was the use? He was born bad.
We called him Ferret behind his back, and sometimes to his face. We never let him forget his shame. After all, he was an animal, a twisted, evil creature who should be shunned or he would bite. We forgot that any animal backed into a corner will fight.
No one was close to him. Who could he speak to? The only ones who didn’t despise him were taught to need no one, the same as he. And so instead of friends he took followers. To late did he discover what being a leader means. He was surrounded, yet more isolated than before.
He lost his father to prison, his idol desecrated before his eyes. No one bore him sympathy. Who’d waste compassion on scum like that? All the while we despised him, and told him he was worthless. So he became what we made him- a servant of Voldemort.
He was given the impossible task of killing Dumbledore. His efforts were clumsy, a cursed necklace, a poisoned drink. Innocent people were hurt. People he shouldn’t give a damn about. And he cried. Even his grief held no sanctity, provoking a certain scar-faced boy who wouldn’t drop his grudge.
His use of the vanishing wardrobe was clever, a trait often overlooked. It was easy to forget his intelligence, he was eclipsed by a muggleborn at every turn, a girl he had been taught was beneath the dust on his feet. It must have chafed him to be second best.
He didn’t kill Dumbledore. He chose not to be what we had tried to make him, chose not to kill. There was never murder in his soul. He died by Voldemort’s own hand. Died for trying to make his life his own.
I don’t give you the guilt of his death, but the responsibility of our actions. I do not ask that you honor him, for some of you that would be asking too much. I only ask that you try to understand, that you do not judge him too hastily; for, at the end, all Draco Malfoy wanted was to be was himself."