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One of his earliest memories - or perhaps it was a dream, he was not quite sure about that himself - was of his parents. Their tall figures looming above him while he was lying in his little bed, staring at their shining hair, gold and platinum, and their bright, cold eyes. He was feeling hot and uncomfortable. They were talking to each other in low voices, and although he was yet too young to understand what they were saying, the sound held nothing comforting for him. He had started to cry as this was the way infants expressed their distress, and his father, making a disgusted noise, had left at once, closely followed by his mother.
Then there were house-elves. He had been raised by house-elves. House-elves looking after him, feeding him, bathing and dressing him, undressing him and putting him to bed, taking care of his every need. In the morning, the first thing he would see was Dobby or Snotty or Pitty or whichever little bug-eyed creature was on duty that day. They would wake him and take him to the bathroom and after he had relieved himself - first on his little chamber pot, later they would train him to use the toilet - they would help him into the bathtub (which grew as he himself was growing) and would clean him thoroughly, washing his hair, sponging his body with the scented foam drifting on the surface of the steaming water. Then they would help him out and towel him off. Clean his nails or cut them if necessary. Make him brush his teeth - two minutes at least! - massage him with oil or lotion and help him dress. After they had combed his hair, he was ready for the day. He never felt uncomfortable or embarrassed, he did not know different.
It were house-elves too, who taught him how to speak, and his very first word was "Dobb?" - although it was in fact Dobby's brother Bobby who had nursery duty that day, but as they were twins the error was understandable. None of them felt brave enough to confront their master with this news, instead they waited for two days, until the toddler was able to manage "Dada", before they let him know. Master was pleased.
When he came back to his room, his bed would be made and his breakfast ready on a table in front of the fire. There was always a fire in his room, as the old Manor was a cold place even in the heat of summer. Porridge, fruits and a glass of milk first, toast, scrambled eggs with bacon and tea or anything else he liked as he grew up. The routine never changed.
After breakfast he was allowed to play. When the weather allowed it he went out into the grounds where he had a swing and a see-saw to work off his energy or he explored the maze. Sometimes he chased the garden gnomes, his breathless laughter as high-pitched as their giggles as they ran away from him, hiding behind tree roots or statues, waiting for him to catch up, before they ran off again. One day his father had watched them from his study window and gave him a lecture about it afterwards. Apparently, high-born Wizards were not supposed to lower themselves to play with gnomes. He was confined to his room for four weeks. After that there were no gnomes in the garden anymore.
If it was too cold or rainy he stayed indoors. He had plenty of toys (wizarding ones), beautiful, well-functioning and expensive. Not that he knew about prices and money, they were just a given. His little steam-locomotive had a working furnace that produced billows of real smoke and drove the well-oiled rods and wheels, the small engineer in his chamber every once in a while making the engine whistle. The wooden animals in his zoo were charmed to move and make noises like their real live brothers. The one foot high elephant flapping his ears and trumpeting when he stomped over the oriental carpets, challenged by the black and yellow striped tiger that crouched behind the leg of a rosewood table. He also had an assortment of illustrated fairy-tale books, moving pictures on the left page, text on the right page, that he could look through lying on the rug in front of the fire place or one of the elves accompanying him for the day would read to him.
When it was time for lunch his little table would be decked with soup and a roll or two and pudding. After that he had a nap.
The afternoon was filled with more play and games - if he wanted to he could commandeer Dobby (or Paddy or Tubby) to get some of his relatives, and they would play hide and seek or tag in the garden, or in the echoing long corridors surrounding his room. There was no need to be quiet, as his room was far away from his parents' quarters, so he wouldn't disturb them.
Twice a week he would be dressed and groomed with special attention after his mid-day nap, for every Tuesday he was to take tea with his mother in her sitting room and every Thursday he would go and see his father in his study.
His mother was always waiting for him, already seated at the tea table laid for two, impeccably dressed (her dress colours always matching the wall-hangings and cushions) and groomed. He was allowed to kiss her soft, powdered cheek that she held out to him with an indulgent smile. When he was younger he had tried to climb into her lap or hug her, but was discouraged from it with an admonition to not wrinkle her silken robes. So he learned to just take his seat opposite her - at first using a footstool to climb onto the brocade chair - and behave like the civilised young wizard she expected him to be. They would eat delicate petite-fours and sip amberlight-coloured tea (his with a fair amount of milk in it) out of porcelain cups so thin-walled one could see right through them. She then would ask him how he was, and what he had done since she had last seen him the week before, listening absentmindedly to his accounts of games lost and won, and books he had read. After half an hour she would kiss him good-bye, her lips leaving a cool imprint on his forehead that he would touch reverently and with shy joy as soon as the door closed behind him.
His father never touched him. He would sit behind the huge mahogany desk in his study, walled with bookshelves, occupied with important things that demanded his attention, and that he would leave only hesitantly to lecture his son. He had to wait patiently and without a noise, standing in front of the desk until his father dropped his quill, and was prepared to take his presence into consideration. His father never bothered with questions about his well-being. Instead he had set himself the task of teaching his son about their family, their history and their place in the world.
So he learned - much to his surprise at first - that there were two sets of humans: Wizards and Muggles. Muggles were dumb, ugly and without any magical powers. Sadly there were many of them. Wizards on the other hand were - although fewer in numbers - the ultimately better race and the one that counted. In fact Muggles were hardly better than animals, although they had held the power that came with large numbers, and had made life for the wizarding community difficult, and even dangerous, for many centuries. He heard about The Burning Times and was terrified. It was of life-preserving importance to reduce any contacts with Muggles to an absolute minimum.
However, although it was hard to understand, there was a fraction of Wizards who thought that there could be a peaceful coexistence between Muggles and Wizards, and who had opposed heroes like Slytherin, Grindelwald and Voldemort, who had tried to break Muggle dominance and had fought for the rights of Wizards. There even was such a thing as inter-marriage, which increasingly produced wizarding offspring. Such bastards were called 'Mudbloods' and were even lower than Muggles, as they didn't truly belong to either of both worlds. It was very important to be of untainted heritage. Thankfully his family could look back on a pure-blooded lineage (the occasional inter-marriage with Veelas did not count as they were magical creatures, and did indeed enhance the magical abilities) for nearly a thousand years. Being the heir he had to know the names of all his ancestors as well as their history - a subject his father never got tired of lecturing him about.
Then there were beings of mixed magical lineage, such as bastards between Giants or Goblins and Wizards. Although slightly better than Muggles, these were not on the same level as pure-blooded Wizards, and were supposed to be their servants, as in fact were Goblins, House-elves, Gnomes or whatever. He did not dare to ask about his family's own Veela ancestry, although he was not sure he understood the difference, having learned before that his father was not fond of stupid questions, when he had cast a silencing spell on him once, only releasing it the next week when they saw each other again. Obviously the rules his father had set out did not apply to his own family tree.
After he had celebrated his fifth birthday, his life changed as his morning playtime was replaced by lessons. He was schooled at home, of course, and his first instructor was an elderly goblin educating him in the basic arts of reading, writing and calculating, as well as fundamental magic. The first spell he learned, using his father's and grandfather's old practising wand, was "Accio!", which he managed without difficulty within the first few days. His father was pleased.
As he grew up, his timetable increased, and even his afternoons were more and more occupied by homework. His steam-train, zoo and picture books were stowed away to make room for a desk with a self-supplying stack of parchments, quills and inks and a variety of text books. New teachers arrived, all of them goblins, staying for a year or two before they were replaced by others, as his subjects became ever more sophisticated.
In the summer of his seventh year, a new instructor came to the Manor. Not a goblin this time, but a real young wizard, chaser for the Appleby Arrows Quidditch team. He got his first broom, a child-sized Clean Sweep, that became his most cherished possession. The two months he spent with Toby McDougal, who showed him how to fly, were the happiest he had ever known. Flying came natural to him, and he loved it. Soaring through the air, carried on the breeze, seeing the Manor and its park looking as small as toys on the ground, he felt as free as the larks and swallows that surrounded him. But of course he always had to get back to the ground and his duties.
Once he had turned eight, he was allowed to dine with his parents each Sunday evening, dressed in his best robes. At first the three of them would be alone: his father at the head of the long dining table, his mother at the opposite end, and he in the middle of the long side, on a stiff, high-backed chair. The table was set with crisp white linen, porcelain showing the family crest, sparkling crystal goblets and glasses and a veritably confusing array of silverware. When his parents felt sure he was able to manage his set of cutlery - not confusing salad- and cake fork or using his soup spoon to eat his pudding - there would sometimes be guests, as his parents entertained on weekends. He was expected to 'behave' himself, meaning he had to be sitting upright and alert, but silent, unless he was spoken to, in which case he had to give short, polite answers, addressing the grown-ups as 'sir' or 'madam'.
On rare occasions, such as his birthday or Easter or Halloween, he would have guests himself, as his parents would invite some of their friends' children to spend the day with him. But it was never the same set from one occasion to the next, and the times in between were so long that he hardly remembered whom he had met already, and who was a new playmate.
When he was ten his father started teaching him the Dark Arts. One Thursday afternoon when he came to the study for his weekly audit, an angular object covered with a piece of dark cloth sat on his father's desk. He waited patiently for his father to end the task at hand and notice him: standing straight, shoulders squared, hands on his back, feet side by side as he had been taught. When his father put a marker into the tome he was studying and lifted his cool grey gaze to his son's face, a thin smile crept onto his lips, and he lifted the cloth from the cage that held two small white mice. He then started his lecture by telling his son about the age-old art of Dark Magic - cursed and forbidden in today's uneducated society, but respected and even sacred once - that sadly had to be practised in secrecy nowadays, but was powerful and filled with deadly beauty nonetheless.
His father had then produced his wand and demonstrated the three unforgivable curses: "Imperio!" - the mice rose on their hind feet, grasped each others small pink forehands and started to waltz around the cage. He had giggled and stepped closer to the desk, forgetting his countenance about the cute performance.
"Crucio!" - the mice had let go of each other and writhed in pain on the floor of the cage, their shrill little voices screeching in agony. He had frowned and shifted uncomfortably, his heart aching for the helpless creatures, but bound to his father's orders.
"Avada Kedavra!" - green light singed out of the tip of his father's wand and enveloped the suffering animals. When it faded, two small cadavers lay twitching in the cage. He had winced involuntarily and stuck a finger through the bars, caressing the soft fur of one of the little victims. And that had drawn his father's anger, and he had hissed at him to stop being such a sissy and behave himself as was appropriate for his family's heir. At once he had snapped back into position. He did not understand what good it could do to torture and kill small animals, but Father could do no wrong.
He was still too young to try and cast the Unforgivables himself (a fact he was secretly relieved about), not being able yet to muster the necessary strength of hatred for them. But his father insisted on him having to learn to withstand Imperius, and he spent hours only half conscious, balancing in the open study window, torn apart between the order to jump, and the fear of shattering himself on the flagstones thirty foot below. His father allowed him to fail three times, after that he would not stop his fall with a spell again, he said. The first time he jumped, he broke his ankle. The second time, several ribs. Each time he was cushioned by his father's Levitate spell just enough to not crack his skull, but not enough to give him a soft landing, as his father thought a little pain was educational. It didn't happen a third time.
When he first learned about Hogwarts he could not sleep for nights on end. He was to leave the Manor and live abroad! And there would be other children, every day, boys like him - and girls! - with whom he would make friends and learn and play. His father informed him that he would rather send him to Durmstrang, as this was a school tolerant of the Dark Arts, although all generations of his family through the centuries had been in Slytherin House at Hogwarts. Unfortunately Hogwarts was now headed by one of the misguided Muggle-lovers, the leader, in fact, of those traitors to true wizadry, Albus Dumbledore. But he had to go there and brave this dangerous influence as best he could, because Harry Potter would be at Hogwarts, too.
Harry Potter was The Boy Who Lived, and his story was the most surprising thing he had ever heard. Potter had somehow withstood the killing-curse of Lord Voldemort, and in the process even diminished him to a form of disembodied half live, although he had been just a year old at the time. This could not be a good thing, as Voldemort was one of the heroes fighting for wizarding supremacy. But perhaps it was not Potter's fault, as he had been just a baby, and therefore didn't know better. Why the Dark Lord had found it necessary to kill an infant was confusing - anyhow, his father said it was important that he made friends with Potter.
Two months before he was to leave, he was called to his father's study - although it was not a Thursday. Upon entering, he found his father was not alone, but accompanied by two gentlemen, whom he had already seen a few times at Sunday-dinners. The three men were seated in stuffed chairs before the ornate fire place, and behind Mr Crabbe there was his son, Vincent, and behind Mr Goyle was his son Gregory, each looking like a younger issue of his father. He knew both boys from the occasional children's party, and Mr Crabbe and Mr Goyle as his father's friends and followers, although their families were not as noble and important as his. Vincent and Gregory were both of his age, but both taller and bigger than he. Politely they shook hands. They were then informed by his father that they would be friends, attending Hogwarts and being in Slytherin House together. And then they were sent off to his room to play.
His mind was spinning while he was leading them through the hallways to his room, his palms wet with nervousness. But his father had said they would be his friends as their fathers were his - and Crabbe and Goyle senior were forever bowing and grinning in Father's presence, always addressing him with utmost politeness and never contradicting him. This restored his confidence.
In his room they found hot chocolate and biscuits on the table before the fire, and after an awkward moment standing around with no idea what to do or say next, he remembered his duties as host and asked them to sit and help themselves. Crabbe at once took two of the chocolate chip biscuits and stuffed them both into his mouth, chewing frantically. Goyle grabbed the mug of cocoa in front of him.
"So," he said, in an attempt at polite conversation, "you're both going to Hogwarts with me, aren't you?" It was perhaps not the most original opening line, on the other hand he couldn't think of anything better to say at the moment.
"Yeah," said Crabbe, breathing crumbs over the table cloth and reaching for more biscuits.
"Hmph," mumbled Goyle, slurping his cocoa.
They fell silent again.
"And we will all be in Slytherin House?"
"Only choice, mate," answered Crabbe. "Who would want to be a Hufflepuff?" He shuddered.
"We could be Ravenclaws, you know," mused Goyle. "They're not quite as bad, although I'm not a friend of books myself."
"Yuck, no!" said Crabbe. "And we truly cannot be Gryffindors, that's for sure!"
They laughed.
"Muggle-lovers," said Goyle.
"Lots of Mudbloods, too," stated Crabbe.
"Yeah, I've heard they're evil," he agreed, silently delighting in the use of the new word (Yeah!).
"Also, Slytherin has the best Quidditch team," Goyle explained, "and they've been holding the house cup for six years straight!"
"I bet you'll make a fine seeker one day. You've got the build for it," said Crabbe, assessing him more closely.
Goyle grinned. "And we'll be your beaters and keep those nasty bludgers off your back, mate, don't you worry!"
"Can you fly yet?" he asked.
It turned out their fathers had shown them (their fathers weren't as important as his and therefore had time to actually play with their sons). He then produced his broom - a Comet Two Sixty by now - and they were clearly impressed, having no brooms of their own yet.
"But I'm bullying dad to buy me one," said Crabbe, fondling the fine birch wood of the Comet, "and then smuggle it in somehow."
"Yeah," Goyle agreed, "I really don't see why First-years can't have their own."
"You do that," he said. "I bet we'll have a great time together, mates!"
Not yet having started school, he had two friends already. He felt that he was very well equipped for the task set to him: making friends with Harry Potter. How difficult could it be? Potter would be delighted to be acknowledged by the heir of one of the oldest and most famous wizarding families. After all, he was Draco Malfoy.