THE BOY WHO LIVED
It'd been years since I'd had any affection from my parents. Yet, the morning I went to Hogwarts, my mother was full of it.
"Oh, my boy — My sweet sweet boy! You're all grown up!" She kissed me, leaving a bright red lipstick print right on my cheek. I grimaced and rubbed at it with the back of my hand, only smudging it partially.
"Mother!" I protested. She handed me a handkerchief printed with our family crest, smiling through her tears like she was embarrassed by such a public display.
A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign overhead read "Hogwarts Express, 11 o'clock".
The people around us were very aware of our presence. Ever so often I'd catch someone staring, or hear a whisper between two parents as they moved past us in the bustling crowd.
"Is that the Malfoys?"
"Is that Lucius' son?"
There was a disadvantage to coming from such a well-known bloodline. You were known by anyone and everyone.
My father was distant as always. He seemed to find more interest in eavesdropping on the other families, muttering distastefully under his breath whenever he spotted someone who looked out of place.
"Record numbers of Muggles, it must be," I'd heard him say to himself, his voice lathered with venom.
Mother tried to ignore it. She was looking around, trying to spot people she knew, "It's that Zabini woman... I remember when she — Oh! Is that Celestia Rosier? Did she marry Tiberius Nott? Wow. It's been years!"
I gazed at the crowd. After a moment, I found who she was referring to.
She was a pale-looking woman with dark eyes and dark hair — both of which starkly contrasted her almost-translucent skin. She clutched a purse, eyeing the crowd with a similar look of lost curiosity. Stood next to her was her — I assumed — son, and her husband, who towered over her.
Since she had been a Rosier once upon a time, I assumed we were somewhat related.
But then again, none of that mattered much in the wizarding world. Everyone was. Especially the pure-bloods.
There wasn't a single family within the Sacred Twenty-Eight that hadn't married one another.
"Oh Draco, You must befriend her son!"
I swallowed hard and nodded.
Befriend anyone? I didn't really know how.
Not when my only playmates were two pure-blooded brutes that just so happened to be the sons of my parents' friends.
From the head of the train, a conductor stepped onto the platform and blew his whistle, beckoning the young students to start their boarding. I looked at my parents with large, startled eyes.
And then, just like I'd been crushed by a tonne of bricks, my mother threw herself at me, wrapping me so tightly in her arms it knocked the air out of my lungs.
Hugs were an awkward affair. Malfoys just didn't do them. So I could only describe it as quite clumsy, but for someone from such a cold household, it was warm and loving nonetheless.
"It'll be okay," I awkwardly patted her back. How I was the one comforting her, I didn't know. As she wept quietly, I was hyperaware of the fact everyone seemed to be staring once more.
"Narcissa," Father murmured, rather embarrassed. He looked at me for the first time since we'd stepped foot onto the platform. Mother pulled away and nodded, sniffing into the handkerchief still covered in that splotch of expensive lipstick.
"Make lots of great memories, Draco! — Oh and don't forget to owl!"
She nudged my father forward. I half expected some awkward farewell, but he didn't even attempt one. Instead, unexpectedly, his face was serious and foreboding. He leaned forwards until his mouth was inches away from my ear.
"Remember what I said, Draco." He murmured, so quietly it could've been passed off as a breath.
I did remember.
When I was younger, I would scare my mother to death with the things I'd blurt out to my private tutors: about the Wizarding War, the Dark Lord. Half of them would report my words to my parents, saying they were concerned I was going to turn to the Dark Arts.
After a few harsh tellings off, I understood speaking about the Dark Lord would only lead us to more trouble than it was worth.
This kind of thinking wasn't welcome out loud. So, at home, I learned how to put on a stoic indifference to the cause. I did my work quietly and diligently, speaking only of casual instances like my day-to-day activities: the books I read — bar the few controversial ones no child should have been provided.
Even whilst alone with my mother, I scarcely mentioned such dark topics. We'd read wizard literature in the library, and discussed potion-making, knitting, and gardening.
When I received my letter, my father grabbed me by my collar and yanked me into his office, where he spent about five minutes pacing, muttering nonsense under his breath.
And when he was finally coherent. He wrapped one hand around my lapel and brought me close.
"Outside these walls, there are people who would kill to see fit to putting every pure-blood in Azkaban. You mustn't utter a word of our allegiances to the Dark outside these walls, Draco. From this moment, doing so will put a risk to us all."
. . .
"Nott, my parents call me Theodore, but I prefer just Theo. You?"
I'd managed to find myself in a compartment with Crabbe, Goyle, the son of the Notts, and a girl I didn't recognise.
Theo extended his hand to me. He was a similar height to I, and similarly as pale — perhaps a little more tanned. He seemed to have a permanent smirk on his face. His mouth folded into a dimpled smile as he introduced himself.
I stared at his outstretched hand for a fraction of a second before shaking it cordially.
"Malfoy, Draco. And well— I don't think you can shorten Draco. It's nice to meet you, just Theo."
"Oh, right," He blinked in acknowledgement. We'd all done it. Once you hear a surname you recognise you can't help but relax a little, let down a wall that you didn't even know you'd been holding up, "Thank god I found someone worth my time already..." He spoke snootily, turning his nose up at the idea as if he was above it all.
I didn't doubt he had any less of the upbringing I had.
My stomach bubbled with all the learned pride I'd gotten from my father. I shrugged, thinking of myself very smooth as I leaned against the train seat. Rolling hills passed, showing off a place that felt very reminiscent of home.
"This is Vincent Crabbe, and that is Gregory Goyle," I introduced my friends, who were too busy stuffing their faces with a ridiculous amount of sweet treats. I wanted to roll my eyes at their uselessness.
"Hullo," said Goyle, his voice muffled by the massive pumpkin pasty he'd managed to devour whole.
Theo looked to be fighting back a laugh. I smiled at him apologetically.
And then he turned to the girl, who had backed herself into the corner like she didn't want to be noticed.
"Blood status?" He challenged.
"Pure," She sniffed, her dark brown fringe falling over her eyes, "You all stink of expensive perfume. What do you take me for?"
Despite her timid first impression, she had a bite to her. Her snappiness took me off guard.
"Oh— right, a pleasure to meet you." He deflated like a balloon. We were awfully bad at this little act of ours.
In some ways, we were like toddlers trying on our parents' clothing.
"Draco," I extended my hand to her. I wanted friends, and as many of them as I could possibly make without having to put the effort in.
The only other time I'd attempted to befriend anyone was a disaster.
Even now, after all this time, the memory of it still haunts me.
If I only did something different, be less snobby or deluded — everything could've been different. I wouldn't have had to fall at the first hurdle, and then the second and the third.
It all went wrong in Diagon Alley.
Right before the start of the school year.
Mother had left me alone as she tried to figure out which wand shop was more expensive and prestigious.
I, like a fish out of water, stood on the stool, staring at myself in the mirror with a small grimace on my face. The room smelled like dust, and I was certain the witch had prodded me with bobby pins more times than I could've counted.
A boy with untidy black hair was ushered in, looking as out of place as I felt internally. He looked nervous beyond my wildest dreams, his green eyes flickering around the room.
If I had the wickedness of my father I would've assumed he was a muggle-born. Yet somehow, I couldn't find the words to be unkind right now. Not when he looked around, so innocently naive, seeming to furrow his eyebrows at every minor detail in this room.
From the moment he looked at me, he paid me the respect of an equal. He blinked a few times, before smiling awkwardly.
"Hello," I didn't really know what to say. I hadn't really spoken to someone I hadn't been formally introduced to before, "Hogwarts too?"
"Yes," He replied. His voice was soft and small.
I stared at him in the mirror. His feet were shuffling nervously upon his stool.
"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," I tried to sound bored, entitled, like I was supposed to."Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first-years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."
That was half true. I probably could fly as well as I could walk. But if I'd raised my voice at my father, I'd have only been rewarded with a dull whack with his cane.
I'd had enough of those already.
I even had a small collection of purple bruises all over my shoulders and around the nape of my neck, some yellowing with age. It made wearing a tie uncomfortable. The tenderness of the seams of my shirt against my skin was somewhat palpable.
The boy wasn't responding. He was looking out of the window as if wishing to be anywhere but here.
"Have you got your own broom?"
"No," He replied.
"Play any Quidditch at all?" I tried.
"No."
I was beginning to wonder if this boy really was a muggle-born. It was either that or I'd been living in a metaphorical shoebox. What else would a young wizard do with his life?
Without school, or permission to go really anywhere other than the occasional trip, we really had all the time in the world for flying games.
"I do — Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"
He blinked a few times, his expression almost completely blank, and then he said it again. "No."
That little voice in the back of my head was screaming,"Muggle-born! Father will be so mad if he finds out I'm standing here chattering away to one of that kind! It's just my luck— isn't it? The first one I ever meet."
On the outside, I had maintained my composure, smirking with the ambition of a fatally naive child.
"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they?" I replied swiftly, "But I know I'll be in Slytherin. All our family have been — imagine being in Hufflepuff. I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"
Again I was grappling at straws, attempting to incite some form of reaction from the boy.
I'd had my fair share of simple-minded people. He reminded me of Crabbe and Goyle. Uselessly incompetent.
"Mmmh."
Mmmh? Was that all? I wanted to give up. I hoped perhaps not everyone at Hogwarts would be like this. It was infuriating not having someone to bounce real ideas off of.
Mother was always so open to philosophy, or debate over topics like novels or Herbology.
I looked back out the window, at the crowd that still hurried past. The bustling of life here was so different to what I was used to. I wasn't sure how people could live like this — constantly busy.
And then suddenly I jolted.
"I say, look at that man!"
Staring straight through the window was a man, perhaps nine foot tall. He looked untidy and a little bit filthy, a few dustings of soil within the bush of his thick, black beard.
I'd never seen one of those before, but from my readings, I could easily recognise he was at least some sort of part-giant. The kind my father would seethe about wanting similar rights to pure-blood wizards.
"That's Hagrid," The boy piped up, "He works at Hogwarts."
"Oh," I said, "I've heard of him. He's some sort of servant, isn't he?"
That seemed to gauge a reaction. Perhaps not the kind I wanted, however. The boy replied, a slight level of petulance to his tone:
"He's the gamekeeper," He sniffed.
"Yes, exactly," I nodded. Father had told me all about those people. How they'd invaded the Ministry spouting nonsense about unfair treatment. They were like neanderthals. Similar to muggle-borns, but stocky and abnormally tall.
Nowhere near as powerful as us.
Proudly, I recounted that same discussion, "I heard he's sort of a savage — lives in a hut in the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic and ends up setting fire to his bed."
"I think he's brilliant," He said staunchly.
I furrowed my eyebrows at him. Didn't everyone have a copy of The Abominable Half-Beast?
"Do you?" I retorted, "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"
"They're dead." He said shortly. He didn't seem to want to talk about it.
"Oh, sorry," I replied. I didn't really know what to say to that, "But they were our kind, weren't they?"
"They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean."
"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same. They've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get their letter... Can you imagine? I think they should keep it to the old Wizarding families."
The boy's jaw tensed. In the corner of my eye I saw his fist clench. I didn't really understand what I'd said wrong.
Maybe it was my brazenness. Although father had begged me to keep quiet about his affinities, I was never one to hold my tongue about blood purity. He'd never said people would have a problem with it.
"What's your surname, anyway?"
Before he could answer, Madam Malkin stood up, "That's you done, my boy." He stepped off the footstall with all of the eagerness of a boy who wanted nothing but to vanish from this shop.
I exhaled, "Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose."
I'd like to say I could excuse my younger self's behaviour. It'd be audacious to even suggest perhaps I simply didn't know any better.
But there's a reason why the second-floor hallway was full of holes in the brickwork. People have a choice.
And I made mine.
Because, despite everything, I truly was my parents' child.
. . .
"Pansy Parkinson," She smiled politely. Her hand was cold in mine.
"I recognise your surname from the Sacred Twenty-Eight," I recalled, "Perseus Parkinson was the Minister of Magic if I'm correct?"
"I didn't realise we were getting a history lesson," Theo quipped.
"You're right," She nodded, "That would be my... great great great—"
The rest of our discussion wasn't very interesting. None of us had anything interesting or abnormal to say.
Quidditch? We had all played it.
Our childhoods? They were dull and lifeless.
Ironically, we were all incredibly lonely at the same time, and none of us had a clue.
"Theo I was looking everywhere for you!" The door had been pulled open with vigour. A boy stepped through, dusting off his new robes, "The entire train is in absolute chaos! Harry Potter, Harry Potter! — Like come on! He was born around the same time as us anyway—"
He was tall, thin, had very smooth brown skin — and was very handsome, although the last thought made my throat tighten very suddenly.
"Blaise Zabini, everyone," Theo quickly introduced, "This is... Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, Malfoy." He flopped his hand towards each one of us as he went.
It was easier to start with surnames. That usually got the point across.
"Right, nice to meet you all," He flashed a dashing smile. I averted my gaze. Out of all things, I didn't need that smile haunting my thoughts for the rest of the week. He shuffled through the room and took his place right next to Theo, who gave him a gentle elbow in the side.
"Wait, did you say Harry Potter?" Pansy piped up, looking at Blaise expectantly. I turned my head, looking right at him. I knew that name more than any celebrity. He was the one everyone raved about. The Boy Who Lived — or some other folk tale about his greatness.
"Apparently he's on the train somewhere," Blaise answered, sounding bored.
"Perhaps we should go find him," I remarked.
Pansy raised an eyebrow at me, "Why would you want that?"
"Insider information, Parkinson dear," I smirked, playing up my charm, "As soon as he's off this train, they'll kiss the ground he walks on. We need to gauge what kind of wizard he really is."
Good or bad. In other words.
The entire Wizarding world had been torn between calling him a hero and fearing he was the next Dark Lord.
My father had scoffed at the suggestion, "There is no next Dark Lord. Those who question his return are those who question his power — and I will not!"
"Go on then," Theo seemed to catch my vibe, "Give him a left hook for me."
"Will do," I agreed, before turning to Crabbe and Goyle, "You coming with?"
They both exchanged looks, and I knew the answer before they could even nod their heads.
. . .
The corridor was full of bustling students and unkept whispers.
"He's in there—"
"Really? THE Harry Potter?"
They couldn't contain themselves. They were like toddlers. I scoffed as we forced ourselves past. Crabbe and Goyle would laugh whenever they elbowed someone hard enough that they made an audible grunt of pain.
The three of us made our way through the crowd, briefly wondering how so many people managed to fit in a less-than-meter-wide slot of floor space.
"He's in that one, down there!" a blonde girl was pointing down the aisle. My eyes barely grazed her. She seemed to shut up as soon as she saw Crabbe and Goyle.
No one had gathered near the actual compartment, as if they were afraid to even take a peak at the infamous one.
And then my eyes saw him. The boy from Diagon Alley. Every inch of the room was littered with trolley sweet wrappers.
"Is that him?" I tried — and failed miserably — to mask my bewilderment. If I'd have known that back then...
"Looks like it," replied Crabbe. Oh fantastic.
There was no going back now. Not when the only other option was returning to my own train seat, defeated by my own cowardice. I had to make an impression. Not only on Potter, but on my new friends.
One hand hooked in my robe pocket, I slid the compartment open and entered with an attempted swagger in my stride.
Two heads turned my way, but I only set eyes on one of them.
The first time we met, his gaze had been a lot kinder. But now, his eyebrows had furrowed. His eyes bore into me like I was the last person he'd wanted to step through that door.
"They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?" I asked cooly.
"Yes," His eyes flickered between the boys behind me.
I wondered if they intimidated him. He was only small, around the same height as myself. If you didn't know them, their tall, burly frames were enough to evoke trepidation in even the older kids.
"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," I added as if it was an afterthought, "And my name is Draco Malfoy."
From the other side of the compartment came a weak cough, failing miserably to hide a snicker. My head snapped in its direction, insulted. That's when my eyes landed on a boy with flaming red hair.
He was tall, thin and gangling, with freckles and a long nose. For some reason he was laughing, shaking in amusement. He brought a large hand to his face, eyes watering as he tried to contain himself.
"Think my name's funny do you?" I sneered, "No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair..." My narrowed eyes looked him up and down scathingly. His robes were scattered with faint scuff marks, and a few odd dirt stains, "Freckles and more children than they can afford, clearly."
The Weasley boy's expression shrivelled like a rotten grape. His cheeks had turned as vibrant as his hair. I heard a snort from behind me.
"You'll soon find out some Wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort," I shot a glare at the Weasley, who was all but steaming from the ears, "I can help you there."
Potter glared out my outstretched hand, "I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks."
And then it dawned on me... I'd just plucked every string of politeness that connected us — if they hadn't been tarnished in Diagon Alley already.
A thought flickered through my mind. A distant memory of father in his office, as had been most of his notable statements: "They see us as the bad ones, Draco. Whilst we hold the power, there will forever be people who make us the evil ones. It brings them comfort to believe what they're doing is right."
My cheeks felt hot as my hand slowly balled into a fist and dropped to my side. I'd never felt my blood boil before, but standing before Potter, I suddenly wanted nothing more than to see my words hurt.
Fine. Make me your villain.
"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," I remarked, "Unless you're a bit politer, you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riff-raff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid and it'll rub off on you."
Potter and Weasley both stood up simultaneously, nostrils flaring. Weasley's face was now even redder than his hair — if that was even possible.
"Say that again!" He snapped.
"Oh, you're going to fight us, are you?" I said, almost amused, yet somehow bored by his empty threats.
"Unless you get out now," Potter replied with a sneer of his own. He was not very intimidating. His eyes flickered back to Crabbe and Goyle, and suddenly I was a lot more grateful I'd let them tag along.
"But we don't feel like leaving, do we boys?" I smirked, "We've eaten all our food, and you still seem to have one..."
Goyle reached towards the pile of Chocolate Frogs. He was about to grab one when there was a deafening CRUNCH! and a howl of pain ripped through the room.
From beneath the boxes, a rat the size of a small cat sprung. Its teeth bared as it landed squarely on top of Goyle's outstretched hand. Seconds later, the creature was hanging off his finger, sharp little teeth sunk deep into Goyle's knuckle.
I stepped back quietly. Goyle was flailing his arm, screaming every profanity known to the English Language — and perhaps a few in Spanish.
It took only a few violent shakes to dislodge the creature. It flew across the room, hitting the window with a loud clunk before sliding down into Weasley's lap.
I grabbed onto Goyle's arm and attempted to haul him out of the door. He was still cursing. Being half his size I barely managed to draw his attention. It wasn't until Crabbe also began to pull him that he finally snapped out of his tantrum and practically sprinted into the hall.
Well, if there were any chances of friendship there, it'd dissipated like smoke for the wind to carry across the hills.
We returned to our seats embarrassed, and Goyle, a little dazed. The compartment door slid open, and with it, three annoyed, yet silent, boys slumped back into their seats.
"How did it go?" Theo and Blaise looked at me expectantly.
"He's not one of us," I said plainly, "And a little weak - I figured."
I didn't need a convincing story. They didn't ask. They only looked at each other for a fleeting moment, and then, once again sounding rather bored, Blaise replied,
"Oh... Pity..."
That was simple.
Harry Potter wasn't on our side. But he didn't sound like a threat either.
Easy enough, I thought.
If I'd only known how wrong I was.