Age 7
Hermione Granger had just announced to her parents that she had been bumped up to eighth grade math when the American movie "Matilda" began in their bonus room. The room was a wonderful place, with thick and plush dark blue carpet, an abundance of cozy furniture and a very large screen for movie nights. They had even gotten a small popcorn machine like the ones on the Disney Cruise their family had taken the year before, along with an entire shelf of classic Disney VHS tapes as a result of how enthralled Hermione had been with the experience. During the trip, the little girl had fallen in love with popcorn. So now Mr. Granger had to make sure that she only had the right amount for her properly healthy diet. He liked when things were done properly.
He and his wife would forever remember that night that Matilda began playing on their bonus room screen. It was that night that all of the problems truly started.
Hermione Granger had always been very purposeful about doing things "the right way", to the letter. She copied her parents in everything they did, asking several thousands of questions about the "proper" way to do even the smallest of gestures. It had been very cute.
It had also ensured that Hermione had never tried to do something that she shouldn't have been able to do. Until that night.
As Mr. Granger tucked his daughter into bed and turned to get the story they were currently reading through together from the nearly full wall of books, Hermione Granger stopped him. "Wait, I'll do it!" She announced. Then she put out her hand and crooked her finger towards the bookshelf just the same way as Matilda had done at the end of the movie, beckoning over the title. Mr. Granger chuckled at the cuteness and the very focused expression on his daughter's face.
Then his face froze mid-chuckle. He felt his features settle instinctively into the practiced expression he used when he was with a patient and something was either going VERY wrong or he discovered that a problem was FAR worse than he thought it would be: a calm lake, an unreadable and grounded expression of control.
He turned from the room, strode out the door, and called out in a strangled voice for his wife.
Hermione Granger felt her face fall - she had been so proud, beaming at the fact that she had gotten it on the very first try. Usually her father was so happy when she was successful at things on the first try. Had she done something wrong?
Her hands worried her blankie. Her mother ran into the room. HER face was not a calm lake at all - it was a mad glee. Hermione grinned immediately at the sight, her chest puffing back out again.
Mrs. Granger got under the covers next to her daughter, her every movement conspiratorial and mischievous.
"Do we need to put the book back, or do you think you could do it with any book?"
"I... I think I can do any, I'm not sure, I'd have to try."
"My favourite," Her mother begged. "The old fairytale book." Her mother pointed, and then snuggled in towards the small witch.
Mrs. Granger didn't move from that position or make a sound until the book hit her daughter's outstretched hands.
Mr. Granger watched from the doorway as his wife screamed in delight, jumping out of bed and pulling their daughter up into the air, swirling her around several times before settling her daughter on her hip. The two female Grangers beamed at him and each put out one arm to welcome him into an excited hug.
Mr. Granger willed his face into a smile and moved his legs forward, his mind racing with all of the ways that this moment could lead to exhaustion, confusion, complications, and deep fatherly fear.
He was right about every single one of them.
Draco's right hand itched to touch his left, currently trickling with blood from the fangs of his father's cane. He knew that if he focused on it, he could make it heal, slowly, and at least stop the blood. But he knew from experience that his father would disapprove if he did anything to lessen the "bite" he had been given. So the young boy simply moved his hand so that the blood wouldn't drip noticeably onto his clothes.
It was the fourth time in his life that Draco had been allowed to accompany his father anywhere - any gala or event that was important enough for the great and terrifying Lucius Malfoy to attend was far too important for little Draco to be anywhere near, and anything of so little importance that Draco Malfoy would be appropriate to attend was too trifling to keep Lucius from his work. Draco's father was a being of such international significance as to only be home for a day or two in between work trips of between two and nine days on average, and when he was home he stayed mostly in the section of the manor Draco was not yet trusted in. His father was a legendary figure, to be respected and feared. He was the most intelligent father of all fathers, the most successful, the most cunning and wise, the most dangerous and the most influential. Draco idolized him, and was filled to overflowing with pride in being his son and heir. The way bearing his father's name made others straighten and treat him better than everyone else. Like he was better than everyone else.
He wasn't yet, not truly. He wasn't even allowed a wand of his own yet. But he wanted nothing more than to be worth his father's approval. It was something so great that only he was allowed a chance at it, his father's approval and trust. One never trusted anyone outside of immediate family - he had been taught that from his infancy.
His mother had done it - had earned his father's love and trust and approval. So he listened to everything that woman said.
Most of the time.
He hadn't listened this time. His mother's words concerning touching doorknobs had been amidst three dozen other instructions for the night. And in a moment where he hadn't realized his father was near, he had misbehaved. Now his hand dripped small trails of blood that he well deserved down the pale backdrop of his skin, and mortification at having upset his father filled his eyes and threatened tears he refused to shed.
It was hard, being a child and a Malfoy at once.
But it was worth it. Anything to be like Lucius, to be his son, was worth it.
Neville hated going to these parties. He knew it would be seen as "hiding" for his grandmother to let them or even just him stay home, and so she'd never stand for it. But he knew exactly how today was going to go far before he ended up stuck at the top of a tree.
It was the same way it always went.
The children would gather and play some sort of a game that involved magic that at least show itself on demand. Neville would stand there and attempt to play, which he would fail at constantly. The other children would "politely" say nothing, waiting for the moment the adults moved away from the children's games.
Then everyone would suddenly stop the game, and turn with gleefully expectant faces to Draco Malfoy. And the small devil would pull from his creative mind some "new game" that would delight the audience around him in its cruelty, with Neville as the center of the game. If Neville was very, very lucky, someone would have done something to displease the blonde boy recently, and there would be two people at the center, possibly pulling some of the attention from himself during the "game".
If any adult saw the events after that point, they would sigh and simply assume that whatever the rules of the game were, Neville was always seemingly running from people because he was bad at every game he tried, and a coward.
He was not a coward. There was simply nothing he could do except run. It's not like they stopped when he tried to not give the other children responses - the game just got crueler.
There were a few children, all girls, who refused to play when everyone turned to Draco Malfoy for entertainment, and simply went and joined the adults instead. Miss Abbott, Miss Lovegood, Miss Chang, and the older of the two Greengrass sisters, and a handful of others that were less often at parties... he always liked them the best. Miss Weasley, on the other hand, was the worst.
She'd try to defend him. And he'd be the one punished for it. No matter how many times the same thing happened, she never stopped. At least her family didn't come to parties and gatherings as often - he always limped home from those covered in mysterious hexes and rainbow bruises.
There were two sets of twins about his age. The Weasley boys were a year older, and often hung out with the group twin girls about his age - he started thinking of them as The Good One and The Evil One pretty quickly. They looked exactly the same, held themselves the same, and were always dressed in matching outfits by their parents. Until The Malfoy Games, Neville could never manage to tell them apart. Then it would begin, and it would be obvious.
One of them always was ready to go, ready to compete, ready to prove herself.
The other was so hesitant about the whole thing, if she ever found where Neville was hiding, she would re-direct others away from his hiding place under the guise of coordinating the search.
He was slightly in love with her.
Unfortunately, it wasn't her looking up through the branches after chasing him up into this tree after his own pants.
It was a boy his age with hair so blonde it was almost white, a predatory smirk on his lips and the glint of victory in his eyes, with admirers crowing at him from every side.
Hell must be empty. The Devil had clearly taken a vacation to earth.
And his name was Draco Malfoy.
The door of Harry's cupboard slammed shut in front of him, and the tell-tale click of the outside lock could be heard through the door.
Harry's life was often odd or inexplainable, from how fast his hair grew to how often things broke when he was around. But today had been the most inexplainable yet.
The boy had gotten into terrible trouble for being found on the roof of the school kitchens.
Dudley's gang had been chasing him as usual when, as much to Harry's surprise as anyone else's, there he was sitting on the chimney. The Dursley's had received a very angry letter from Harry's headmistress telling them Harry had been climbing school buildings. But all he'd tried to do (as he shouted at Uncle Vernon through the locked door of his cupboard) was jump behind the big trash cans outside the kitchen doors. Harry supposed that the wind must have caught him in mid-jump.
Harry realized that no one was listening - his uncle Vernon had walked away, leaving the thin boy with permanently shaggy hair trapped under the stairs. Angrily, Harry slammed his palm against the door of the cupboard. No one ever listened to him. No one ever believed him. Least of all his aunt and uncle.
And Harry was starting to get old enough to realize that it wasn't the least bit fair.