Matilda | Draco Malfoy

The world is not made for girls like me.

Daddy says I am special, that I have a beautiful mind that sees the world in ways others can’t. He says I am like a little butterfly, delicate and unique. I believe him because he is my daddy, and daddies never lie.

But no one else sees me the way Daddy does.

My primary school is a big, noisy place with lots of people. It is like being lost in a maze, with no one to guide me through the twists and turns. The other children avoid me like I am an alien from another planet. Sometimes they laugh at me, and it feels like their laughter is echoing in my head, getting louder and louder until it’s all I can hear.

My Year 6 classroom is like a prison, with bright lights and loud voices bouncing off the walls. The desks are too hard and the chairs too uncomfortable. As soon as I step inside, my tummy hurts like there is this big knot twisting and turning inside me. I try to focus on my teacher’s words, but her voice is like thunder, booming in my ears as she talks about things that make no sense to me.

The words on the whiteboard dance around, refusing to sit still long enough for me to understand them. It’s like they are playing a game of hide-and-seek, but I am the one who’s always losing. I want to run away, to hide in a quiet corner where no one can find me, but there is nowhere to go.

Sometimes, the kids at my school are nice to me. They giggle and say hi, but their words feel like stones, heavy and cold. They speak slowly to me, like I am a baby or their pet, and it makes me feel all twisty and small inside. And when they do talk to me, it’s like they are speaking a different language. They use big words and complicated sentences that swirl around in my head.

Once, they asked me to play a game with them. Something called tag. I didn’t know how to play, but I wanted to be included, so I said yes. They told me to run and hide, so I did. But when they found me, they got mad. They said I wasn’t playing right, that I was supposed to run away from them, not hide behind a tree. But they didn’t tell me that, so how was I supposed to know? I did what they said, exactly as they said it, but they still were angry at me.

Then, one of them called me a name that I didn’t understand. Ree-tart, it sounded like. I looked around, trying to see if anyone was laughing or if I had done something else wrong, but everything seemed normal. I asked Daddy about it later, but he just looked angry and upset and said it wasn’t a nice word. I wish people would use nice words about me, like kind or friend, instead of ones that make me feel all sad.

I don’t like to tell Daddy about the mean people at school, because I don’t want him to worry. He already has enough on his mind with work and taking care of me and lots of other grown-up stuff.

When I’m feeling really, really, really sad, I look up at the sky and pretend that Mummy is looking down at me. Daddy says she is in a better place now, watching over us from up above. I miss her so much, even though I don’t remember much about her. But I like to think that she is proud of me, even when I mess up or do something wrong.

Then, other times when I’m feeling really, really, really brave, I try to tell Daddy about the things that happen at school. But the words get stuck in my throat, and I can’t seem to make them come out right. Daddy’s eyes get all sad and worried, like he knows something is wrong but doesn’t know how to fix it. So, I just hug him and pretend that everything is okay.

Most grown-ups I know are different, not like Daddy. They look at me funny and say I’m not normal, that there is something wrong with me. They say I should be in a special place, with other kids like me, where I can’t bother anyone. Sometimes, I hear them say the word asylum.

I don’t know what it is. It sounds scary, like a place where monsters live, but they say it like it’s where I belong. They talk about locking me away. But I don’t want to be locked away. Why would I be locked away? I’m not naughty. Daddy tells me not to listen to them, that they are just ignorant and scared of things they don’t understand.

He takes me to see doctors and specialists, but they all say the same thing. They use big and weird words too, but I can tell what they mean. They say I’m different, that I need special help. But I don’t want special help. I just want to be like everyone else.

I hear Daddy talking on the phone with Grandma about me a lot. He sounds sad, like he’s trying to explain something that he doesn’t quite understand himself. Grandma never sounds happy when she’s speaking about me. One time she told Daddy that I needed to be fixed, whatever that meant. Daddy’s face turned pale, and his eyes grew distant, like he was remembering something he wished he could forget.

I don’t understand why everyone thinks I am so strange. I try my best to be like everyone else, to fit in and be normal. But no matter how hard I try, I always seem to stand out. Daddy does say that I am special, but sometimes I wonder if that’s just something he tells me to make me feel better. Because everywhere I go, I feel like I don’t belong. Like I’m an outsider looking in on a world that doesn’t want me.

One day, I want to show everyone that being different doesn’t mean being less.

The world is not made for girls like me, but that does not mean I don’t belong in it.

— Matilda, age 10

A-girl-with-a-weird-brain. That is the way Matilda Kaspbrak will always see herself. In her ten years of life, she had learnt this label not through the words she read in books or the lessons taught in school, but through the stares and whispers that followed her wherever she went. Her movements, her responses, her way of being in the world—they all seemed to elicit a sort of bewilderment or frustration from those around her.

Matilda often seeks comfort in the smallest, quietest spaces she can find. She has a knack for discovering hidden corners and secret nooks where she can hide and escape the chaos. Under the stairs, in the garden, even in the storage cupboard at school filled with cleaning supplies. In these confined spaces, she feels safe, surrounded by a comforting cocoon that blocks out the world.

Her teachers do not understand her need for these escapes. They see her disappearances as a sign of defiance or laziness; they find her, crouched in a corner, and drag her back to the classroom, their voices filled with frustration. “You can’t just run off, Matilda! You need to participate like everyone else,” they say. But Matilda can’t find the words to explain why she needs to run away.

At home, things are different but not always easier. Oliver Kaspbrak does his best to create a stable and loving environment for his daughter. He works long hours at the Ministry of Magic, but when he’s home, he’s always attentive and caring. He never scolds her for hiding when she gets overwhelmed. Instead, he sits outside her chosen hiding spot and talks to her gently, coaxing her out with promises of her favourite stories or a warm hug.

But even Oliver can’t shield Matilda from the world outside. The other parents in their town often look at her with pity or suspicion. They whisper behind their hands about the strange little girl who doesn’t play like the other children, who doesn’t talk much, and who always seems to be lost in her own world. Matilda feels their stares and hears their whispers, and each one is like a tiny dagger to her heart.

There are a few fleeting moments of connection with the other children. Sometimes, one of them sits next to her at lunch and shares their snacks, or maybe invites her to join a game. But these moments are rare, and they never last long. The other children grow frustrated with her when she doesn't understand the rules of their games, or when she takes too long to respond. They eventually drift away, leaving her more isolated than before.

Matilda’s days at school are a blur of confusion and frustration. The lessons are hard to follow, the teachers’ voices merging into an incomprehensible drone. She struggles with reading, the letters on the page often blurring and dancing before her eyes. Her handwriting is messy, the letters and numbers jumbled. No matter how hard she tries, she always seems to fall behind.

Her school reports are a constant source of stress for Oliver. The teachers’ comments are always the same: “Matilda is a bright and quiet girl, but she needs to try harder. She is easily distracted and does not engage with her classmates. We recommend further assessment for her needs.” They see her as a problem to be solved rather than a child to be understood.

They speak in clipped, frustrated tones, their patience wearing thin as Matilda struggles to follow their instructions. She was tested, prodded, and observed by countless specialists, each offering their diagnoses: autism, language delay, intellectual disability. Words that meant nothing to Matilda but seemed to weigh heavily on the adults around her.

Oliver fought tirelessly to get Matilda the support she needed, but the system is not built for children like her. She required medium support, her needs falling in a grey area that was often overlooked. She wasn't low-functioning enough to warrant intensive intervention, but she wasn't high-functioning enough to be left to navigate the world on her own. It was a constant battle, one that left Oliver drained and Matilda feeling like a burden.

“You have a beautiful mind, Tillie,” he says. But Matilda can’t see it. All she sees is a brain that can’t keep up, a brain that is always a step behind, always wrong.

An autism diagnosis comes with a list of deficits: trouble communicating, difficulty understanding social norms, challenges with sensory processing. Matilda's world is defined by these struggles. Simple conversations became battles as she searched for words that refused to come, her tongue tied by the invisible threads of her… condition? She wants to tell people how she feels, but the words get stuck, tangled in her thoughts.

Children at school mock her, their taunts and jeers like sharp knives thrown at her fragile heart. They do not understand why her hands flutter when she is excited or why she sometimes speaks in fragmented sentences. They do not see the brilliance in her eyes or the beauty in her unique perspective. They only see her differences, and they use them as weapons to isolate her.

Then, there is Draco Malfoy. He is a boy from a very different world, a Slytherin with a sharp tongue and a reputation for cruelty. But there is just… something about Matilda Kaspbrak that makes him want to look beyond the surface of her. He wants to understand her, to see the world through her eyes.

But that is a story for another time.