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I think the trend is cute but I hate the people trying to sexualize it, it should be wholesome. It's just meant to be young love between two kids that start off disliking each other, most people probably knew a couple like that growing up.
Japanese woman turns Malfoy into a chick in a way that makes trannies mad and gets dudes to advertise that they would make poor penis decisions; naturally the Jews did this.
Japanese woman turns Malfoy into a chick in a way that makes trannies mad and gets dudes to advertise that they would make poor penis decisions; naturally the Jews did this.
I view Malfoid as the anti-Petra.
Petra Parker was, explicitly, a Tranny and primarily pushed by Trannies. Malfoid, or whatever you call her, is just a standard gender/sex swap. "She" was never a male, Malfoid was always a female. Obviously the name Malfoid is also a major turn off for the Trannies, given the fact it's dirty incel chud slang while also being based on a character from Harry Potter, which is also evil Terf incel chud media.
Replacing Draco Malfoy with the "Malfoid", Draecina sends ripples through the whole edifice that Rowling built.
It's how stories grow.
Build one corner, and that corner makes you ask the questions that help you build another.
If you replace a cardstock bully with a prideful and complex debutante, who yearns for forbidden things, and must eventually choose between her family, her heritage, her entire world, and the boy she loves, then this fills out the next part of the story by making us ask "why?"
Why does she fall in love with Harry Potter?
That answer depends on what she wants. And what she wants depends on where she comes from.
And both these questions ultimately wind up at her father. Because a little girl learns about men, and about love, from her father.
Now, it would be easy to declare that Lucius Malfoy is to be a cold, vicious, domineering, hypocritical, selfish, and abusive man.
And therefore loving Harry Potter becomes an act of defiance. Becomes that tired old trope of kissing the motorcycle hoodlum to piss off daddy.
But that's not love. That's daddy issues. And daddy issues will not change a girl. They will not carry her though the fire. They will not make her a hero.
We can do better than that.
Try the opposite. Lucius Malfoy's creed and values, repugnant though they are to our original author, are deeply and sincerely held. He does not believe in elites merely because he wishes to be one of them.
He believes that the gifted, the talented, the blessed, are needed by the world, and their privileges come with a price of responsibility.
So he has raised both his children with love, holding back nothing that it was in his power to give. But he has raised them for a mission in life, and never made his expectations anything less than clear.
Draecina is to spend her childhood and teenage years preparing herself to lead. And she is to marry wisely, to preserve and improve a bloodline that is precious to the world.
Now we know both why she falls in love with Harry Potter, and why she is terrified to admit this, first to herself, then to others.
Harry Potter, you see, has all the traits of an attractive boy, courage, competence, athleticism, popularity, the respect of children and adults alike. He is always the main character, and a heroic one at that.
But he is also a rogue. A scamp. A mischief maker. He does not do as he is told. He acts of his own accord. And in so doing, he always seems to end up saving the day, to wild applause.
How could she not admire him? How could she not yearn to be part of his little band of troublemakers, sneaking about at night and breaking the rules?
And when she is just a bit older, with early puberty bringing on thoughts of boys, how can he not represent the one thing she has been told she must not have, as the price of all her privilege?
Passion.
She doesn't want to sit in a parlour, silent save for a loudly ticking clock, and make awkward conversation with a series of well-bred boys who have been ushered into her presence for the sake of their race-horse bloodlines.
She wants to feel. She wants to run barefoot in the rain. She wants the school's handsome and popular rogue to kiss her and tangle his fingers in her hair.
But she is terrified.
Too terrified to admit her feelings even to herself. And when she cannot avoid that, too terrified to act on them, hiding away from the boy she desperately yearns to follow after, pushing him away with words of scorn so that no one will suspect, then seeking him out only to fight with him, because if they are fighting, then at least he is looking at her, and anything is better than his absence.
Why is she terrified? Of what? Of who?
Of her father.
Not of his scorn. Not of punishment. Not of his hard hands, for he has never struck her and never would. He has never shown her anything but love.
And this is the cruelest trap of all.
She is terrified of disappointing him. Daddy's girl cannot bear the thought of losing his love. He can never know who she has chosen to love, because then his patient, quiet disappointment would force her to choose.
And she cannot.
Every day she is tortured by guilt. She is a Bad Girl. She has been given everything, had every advantage, and still she cannot put her heart into the small measure of responsibility that the world asks in return.
But while she cannot bear to choose Harry Potter over her family, or her family over Harry Potter, her choice is already made, and it is inevitable, because she has chosen him over any suitor that their quiet, thoughtful calculations of bloodline and political advantage could ever bring to her door.
This is why she taunts him for his "low-class" behavior, and seeks to part him from "the wrong kind of friends". Because she harbors the fantasy, impossible though it is, that he, Harry Potter, the boy who holds her heart, can somehow become, be accepted as, one of the elites, as defined in the rules of her world.
It's impossible, of course. He's a half-blood. Sure, he has power and skill in his own right, even fame, but for a child of the Malfoys? Never.
So she yearns for him, succumbing sometimes to temptation and pulling him near, only to drive him away again as she is wracked by guilt and shame.
She cannot choose him, cannot commit to her love for him, until she begins to see that her father, following his beliefs, has made reckless choices with dire consequences.
Until she begins to think the unthinkable... that her father, the lordly, infalible Lucius Malfoy, might be wrong.
Oh, not wrong that some people are better than others. She believes she is one of the elite, deserving of privilege, and she will believe this to her dying day.
No, her father is not wrong about the order of the world. He is merely wrong about how those elites are to be discovered and known.
Harry Potter, in the final dark days before the war, has shown his nobility. He is one of the elite, whether her father can see it or not.
That is the moment she can say, in the privacy of her own head, I love him. I love him, and the question is not, was never, whether he is worthy of me.
But whether I was worthy of him.
She does not know. But she must try. She must run to his side, to stand with him, fight beside him, to add her strength to his in the hour of greatest need.
To declare to the world that she chooses him, to declare it even without knowing, in that moment, if he will choose her in return.
A leap of faith.
Because she has loved him, but up to this moment, she has loved him selfishly, making her feelings of love, of being in love, more important than him.
So now she must declare what she hid, without protecting herself, heedless of risk.
It is not sacrifice itself, but choice to sacrifice, willingness to sacrifice, that calls the power down.
Oh hell fine! My hat's going in the ring.
It starts long before school. It starts with Lucius becoming a girldad...
From the Private Diary of Lucius Malfoy
Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire — the 5th of June, 1988
Dracina is eight years old today; and since I cannot sleep, and since it has been my habit for some years to set down in this book whatever I should be unwilling to say aloud and equally unwilling to forget, I shall attempt some account of her. A man who writes of his child at midnight runs a considerable risk of writing nonsense; but I judge that risk the smaller of two, the other being that I should write nothing, and find in ten years’ time that I could no longer recall what she was at eight.
I could not be prouder of her. I have written that sentence three times this evening, and twice struck it out in favour of some more measured form of words (such as a father might employ who did not wish to be thought foolish even by himself); but each of the measured forms, read back, was untrue, and the plain sentence is all that is left standing.
At dinner today, when Dobby brought in the cake, he set it down a little crooked, so that one of the sugared peacocks which Narcissa had ordered for the top slid down the side and came to rest upon its back in the icing, with its feet in the air. He began at once upon that performance with which every member of this household is acquainted, and had got so far as to seize a candlestick for the purpose, when Dracina said to him, before her mother or I could speak, “Stop that. It’s a peacock, Dobby. Nobody has died. Thank you for the cake.” Then she turned to me, with an air of the most perfect composure, and asked whether that had been correct. I told her that it had; and I believe I told her the truth, though I arrived at the belief slowly, for I could not recollect having said anything of the kind to an elf in the whole course of my life. Her governess is a Rosier, and thinks elves a species of furniture; her mother is kind to them in a general way, and would no more thank one for a cake than she would thank the table for holding it up.
She must have had it from somewhere, and I am driven to suppose she had it from me: from some remark of mine, made upon an occasion I have entirely forgotten, about the courtesy a great House owes to those who serve it, which I intended as an ornament and she received as a rule. It is a disconcerting thing, to find that one’s maxims have been believed. It is more disconcerting to find that one’s manner has been believed along with them. A fortnight since, the Parkinsons dined here, and Dracina said something to their girl about her nose so cold, so exactly made, and so entirely unanswerable, that the child was taken home in tears. I reproved her, and she bore it well. I did not tell her that I heard my own voice in every syllable; still less that I understood perfectly the pleasure she had taken in the composition. She has had both from me, the courtesy and the cruelty, and I cannot flatter myself that I chose which she should take.
Nor, I think, did I choose for myself what I took from my own father. He was a man of strong opinions and few reasons; or, to speak more fairly of him, he possessed his reasons so completely that it never occurred to him they might require to be stated. From him I learned which tone is proper to a Minister and which to a shopkeeper, how an enemy is to be received at one’s own table, and how a Weasley is to be looked at across a room; and I learned these things as a boy learns the shape of his own hands, so early and so thoroughly that I could not afterwards have told you I had learned them at all. By the time I came of age I wore my station as I wore my name, and with as little reflection.
It is commonly said that a daughter softens her father. I grant that I am fonder, which requires no explanation, and gentler, which is less to my credit than it sounds, since a child of five cannot be governed by the methods which suffice for the Wizengamot. But the change of real consequence is that I have grown more serious about my station, and of this the proverb says nothing at all. A child does not permit a man to wear his station without reflection. She asks why of every form he has never examined, and she asks it with the dreadful patience of a person who has nowhere else to be.
At Easter she rode out with me to the western edge of the estate, and upon our return she asked, with no appearance of malice and a very great appearance of interest, why the Malfoys, who were the oldest family in Wiltshire, should have tenants whose roofs let in the rain. I answered that the matter was the steward’s concern. She considered this for the length of the avenue, and then asked whose steward he was. I rode out again the next morning, alone, and found that she was right, and more right than she knew; for the western cottages had been neglected through three winters, and the repairs charged to the estate regardless. When I told her afterwards the old rule of our House, which my father gave to me and his father to him, that a Malfoy answers for whatever is done in his name, she said, “Then you have to answer for the roof.” I have answered for it. It cost me forty Galleons and a steward, and I count the price a low one. I found, in short, that I could not answer her as my father had answered me; and a father who will not lie to his daughter must either confess that he does not know, or go and find out.
I went down into the old muniment room one afternoon in the winter of 1985, intending to spend an hour there, and I spent the better part of the season. There were wills and letters, and the accounts of old patronage: apprentices paid for, widows pensioned, wands bought for children whose fathers could not afford them. Above all there were the household books of my great-great-grandmother Héloïse, who kept this estate through two bad harvests and a goblin rising. One of them lies open before me now, in a hand so small that I read it with a magnifying charm. At the head of every year’s accounts she has written the same line, non nobis solum nati sumus. She wrote that a great house is a granary, filled in the good years in order that it may be emptied in the bad; and in another place, more shortly, and I think more wisely, that before one gives oneself away one had better have something worth the giving. I copied these out for Dracina, and she has them pinned above her bed.
It was in this book that I read her account of the goblin rising, in which she stood at the gates of this house in her nightgown with her wand in her hand and kept them shut three days together, and fed every tenant on the estate out of her own stores while she did it. When I had read it I tried to call to mind a single man of the Dark Lord’s company who would have done the same, and I could not. I believed then, and I believe still, that the cause of the old families was a just cause: that our world is better governed by those who have governed it for centuries than by the newcomers who pour into it every September knowing nothing of its history and caring less; and that our blood, which has carried our gifts down a thousand years, is thinned by every marriage made outside it. I believe also that the cause was served by vulgar men and disgraced by vulgar means, and that I did not keep myself as clear of either as I ought. I have made such arrangements with the Ministry as have kept my family safe. I seldom propose to examine those arrangements, which is itself, I suppose, a fact worth recording. What I meant by the thought about Héloïse I have never been able quite to make out.
Narcissa will not read this, and would be displeased by most of it. I may say with entire truth that I love her more now than on the day we married; and I set this down first because what follows might otherwise sound ungracious — namely that we have disagreed over Dracina more often, and more warmly, than over anything else in our lives together. She has lost both her sisters, each in her own manner; and I believe the loss has made her hold the more tightly to what remains.
She thinks I make the child too grave. She would have her dance, and sit for her portrait, and be admired, and she says, with justice, that a girl taught nothing but duty will grow up without those graces which make duty tolerable to others. I say that a girl taught nothing but grace will grow up the property of whoever flatters her first. We have compromised, as people do who love one another and the same child: Dracina has a dancing master on Tuesdays, and on Thursdays she sits with me for an hour over the estate books. She likes the Thursdays better. Narcissa says that this is my fault, and it is, and I am proud of it.
Dracina will be handsome, rich, and of rank; three things which together have ruined more women than poverty ever did, since each of them invites flattery, and the three together invite it from every quarter at once. I would have her difficult to deceive and difficult to frighten; perfectly civil to an enemy while yielding him nothing; able to command herself before she is permitted to command anyone else. When she meets with a fact which will not fit, I would have her set it upon the mantelpiece and look at it until she understands why it is there, since the facts which will not fit are the only ones that can teach her anything she does not already know. I mean, in a word, to give her so much substance that no one will ever be able to make her merely ornamental.
She will be equal to it. She will receive this House from me when I am done with it, and hand it on larger than she received it; and there will not be a family in Britain that does not know her name, nor one that does not wish it had made a better match for its sons.
She is asleep now, with Héloïse’s maxims above her head and the sugared peacock, rescued from the icing, upon the table beside her bed. Narcissa tells me that I am a fool about her. Narcissa is entirely correct, and I am going to bed.
I view Malfoid as the anti-Petra.
Petra Parker was, explicitly, a Tranny and primarily pushed by Trannies. Malfoid, or whatever you call her, is just a standard gender/sex swap. "She" was never a male, Malfoid was always a female. Obviously the name Malfoid is also a major turn off for the Trannies, given the fact it's dirty incel chud slang while also being based on a character from Harry Potter, which is also evil Terf incel chud media.
Petra actually started out as an official gender-swap that was not a tranny. She was also really sexist towards peter. Trannies could literally co-opt malfoid as easy as they did petra, but they seem to rather be eating themselves over this instead of universally pushing it because the OG artist that just drew anime fan art of r63 malfoy.
Also I'm pretty sure the troon petra version that's not the weird gross large transwoman thing they did is a co-opting of another art trend that was called "spiderfoid" where the joke was she was a fucking degenerate BPDemon r63 spiderman. I could be wrong but they both seem to have the same haircut while the actual non-tranny petra looks nothing like spiderfoid.
Petra actually started out as an official gender-swap that was not a tranny. She was also really sexist towards peter. Trannies could literally co-opt malfoid as easy as they did petra, but they seem to rather be eating themselves over this instead of universally pushing it because the OG artist that just drew anime fan art of r63 malfoy.
Also I'm pretty sure the petra version that's not the weird gross large transwoman thing they did is a co-opting of another art trend that was called "spiderfoid" where the joke was she was a fucking degenerate BPDemon r63 spiderman. I could be wrong but they both seem to have the same haircut while the actual non-tranny petra looks nothing like spiderfoid.
Petra Parker is used by trannies into grooming children on Reddit into reaffirming their mental illnesses. The penis bulges, the dead names, those trans flags, the dysphoria and the yuri is apparent with any Petra Parker Spider-man faggot artwork. There is not a lot of Petra Parker art but most of it is straight up porn and the ones that are sfw has something to do with being trans and attempting to make the viewer think that they're trans.
It is not as popular as Malfoid because there is no tranny propaganda that grooms the viewer into being trans. There is a lot of Malfoid art because it is an approachable concept that asains find appealing, this is why a lot of Malfoid art is anime. The concept of Malfoid is a fanfic that ships Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy (as a women) in a wholesome matter. Trannies detest it because it funds J.K. Rowling in some way. They have attempted to appropriate Malfoid as a trans icon but failed because other trannies reject it.
Trannies could literally co-opt malfoid as easy as they did petra, but they seem to rather be eating themselves over this instead of universally pushing it because the OG artist that just drew anime fan art of r63 malfoy.
Theres been attempts, but most people are aware of it and have their number on it. Rowling really is the crucifix to the trannie's vampirism, which as you say, is confounding them further.
Now chuds just need to reclaim moomin and they'll really be cooking.
