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Six weeks before his departure, his letter from Hogwarts arrived. He found it one morning leaning against his teacup when he returned from the bathroom.

Mr D. Malfoy
The Nursery
Malfoy Manor
Wiltshire
England

Having turned eleven in March, he was not amused to have it addressed to 'The Nursery', but the joy of getting a letter outweighed his resentments (he had never got one before) and he tore it eagerly open. It read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr Malfoy,

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins of 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress

Putting the heavy yellowish parchment of the letter aside, he unfolded the second page. The enclosed list read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Uniform
First-year students will require:
1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)
Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags.

Set Books
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

Other Equipment:
1 wand
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
1 set glass or crystal phials
1 telescope
1 set brass scales

Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST-YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS.

It all sounded very exciting. He wasn't sure whether he preferred an owl or a cat, but instantly decided against the toad. Obviously it was true what Vincent and Gregory had said about first-years not being allowed to bring their own broomsticks; that was really a shame, as he had hoped to impress them with his flying skills. But perhaps it would be possible to smuggle the Comet in somehow? On the other hand it would probably not be recommendable to start his school career by breaking the rules. Of course, it would be his father who decided what he was to take and what to leave behind. Having long learned that he was not welcome to bother his parents outside his appointed times, he handed the letter and list to Paddy and instructed him to take them to his mother. Then, he continued with his breakfast. His lessons were about to start and he was late.

In the afternoon he was summoned to his mother.

'Draco, dear,' she said in greeting when he entered her parlour. She was sitting at her desk, writing.

'Mother.' He dutifully kissed her cheek and waited for her to talk to him.

'My, my! Time is flying!' she said, assessing him thoughtfully. 'To think that you are old enough for Hogwarts now! Your father and I have decided to take you shopping in a few days to buy your books and equipment. I trust you have started on the book we gave you for your birthday?'

He had got Hogwarts: A History - amongst other things - and had already read it twice.

'Yes, Mother. Can I really not take my broom?'

She took the letter from her desk. 'Let me see, what does it say here? - No, I'm afraid not. But don't worry, they'll have school brooms and you can take yours when you'll go back for second year.'

He pouted.

'Now, don't fret, dear. None of your fellow students will have a broom in first year. We will buy you an owl, so you can send letters home. I will let your tutors know when we'll go to London, so you'll have a day's break in your studies. And Father and I expect you to be on your best behaviour when we are in Diagon Alley.'

With that, he was dismissed.

--------------------

On the morning of his Diagon Alley adventure, he leapt out of bed as soon as Stubby had shaken him awake. He could hardly wait anymore to see all the wonders of London's wizarding quarter. He would also feel much safer as soon as his school equipment had been bought. He still had difficulties believing he would leave the Manor to go to school, and sometimes feared that the opportunity might be snatched away from him at the very last moment. The whole thing would seem much more real after he had been outfitted. The prospect of living among children his age made his heart flutter with anticipation.

He met his parents in the Hall after breakfast as instructed, and they used a Portkey to travel to London.

They arrived in front of Flourish & Blotts as the sign at the shop front declared. The cobblestone-street was crowded. There were more people around than he had seen in his entire life.

'Well,' his father said, looking up at the bookshop's front, 'as good a place as any to start with, I suppose. Narcissa, take the boy to Madam Malkin's. We can meet at Ollivanders later.'

Feeling slightly disappointed, as he would have loved to browse the bookshop, he kept looking around curiously as he followed his mother along the busy street. Next to Eeylops Owl Emporium - Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown and Snowy - there was a broom shop, and a couple of boys were flattening their noses against its window. He longed to join them, but knew it wouldn't do to run away. At the far corner he could see an imposing white building; Gringotts, read the sign in front. Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions was a two-windowed store. A bell chimed discreetly when they entered, and an elderly, short, and rather plump witch dressed in robes the colour of dead violets, welcomed them enthusiastically.

'Mrs Malfoy! What an honour!' she bowed deferentially to Narcissa, who greeted her with a curt nod. 'Please, do come in. And this is the little master? What a lovely child! You're coming for his school robes, of course. Oh, you must be so proud of him!'

'Would you measure him, Madam Malkin, and provide the necessary things? Robes, undergarments, hat, shoes, gloves, cloak - you know the lot. Only the very best quality, please. Send it to the Manor. And charge our account.

'Draco,' his mother turned to him, 'I'm leaving you here, and I'm going over to see to your cauldron and other things. As soon as you're finished join your father at Flourish & Blotts. We'll meet at Ollivanders later.'

'Well, dear,' Madam Malkin said, beaming at him, 'hop on this footstool, will you, and Primrose will take your measurements right away. I'll look in the back and personally see to it that you'll get the best we have available.'

He did as bidden and the assistant started to work on him while Madam Malkin was rumbling and cluttering in the back of the shop. After a while she returned with her arms full of garments. He had just worked his head through the folds of black cloth of a robe she had asked him to try on when the doorbell chimed again, and a boy entered. He looked funny, he thought, but nice. He was about the same size as him and rather skinny, with big knobbly knees that stuck out of his short trousers, which must have been a few sizes too large for him and were secured from falling down with a belt slung two times around his waist. He looked as if he might drown in his shirt, which was closed up to the collar and tucked into his trousers. The most remarkable thing about him was his shock of untamed black hair and his round glasses, that had been broken, and were fixed with something like Spellotape.

'Hogwarts, dear?' Madam Malkin addressed the boy and, before he could answer, went on, 'got the lot here - another young man being fitted up just now, in fact.'

The boy looked at him without any expression and followed Madam Malkin as she led him to a footstool next to his. When Madam Malkin slipped a robe over his head, he turned towards the newcomer.

'Hullo,' he said, 'Hogwarts too?'

He was still excited to have two friends now - Greg and Vince - and was resolved to try his friend-making skills on this odd-looking chance acquaintance.

'Yes,' said the boy.

'My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands,' he said in his best imitation of his father's drawling voice. '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.'

He had no idea why he told this stranger such nonsense, because there was no way he would ever 'drag' his parents anywhere, and 'bullying' his father was totally out of the question. But he was eager to coax the boy into some sort of dialogue, and supposed these rather brazen statements would impress him, as they had impressed himself when Greg and Vince had made them.

But the boy didn't seem inclined to talk to him. He just looked at him with an unreadable expression, and he noticed that his eyes were the most remarkable shade of green.

'Have you got your own broom?' he asked.

'No,' said the monosyllabic boy.

'Play Quidditch at all?' He wasn't giving up that fast, thank you very much.

'No,' the boy said again, now looking slightly insecure.

'I do,' he stated proudly, '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?'

His father had said no such thing, but the strange boy couldn't know that, and he wished very much his father would have talked to him like that.

'No,' the boy said for the third time, and started to look positively befuddled.

'Well, no one really knows until they're there, do they?' he pointed out in order to make the other one comfortable again. '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 he was making up things as he went along. He didn't really know anything about Hufflepuff, except what Greg and Vince had told him, and it surely was not in his power to decide whether he would leave Hogwarts or stay there. But it felt good talking like that. It almost felt real.

'Mmmm,' said the dark haired boy now, and his attention was diverted by something in front of the shop window.

'I say, look at that man!' He exclaimed.

This surely must be a giant. The man was nearly twice as tall as his father and about four or five times broader. His head looked huge, crowned by a mane of coarse black hair, and a wild scraggly beard veiled half his face. He grinned madly, showing two rows of yellowish horse-like teeth, and he held up two large ice-cream cones.

'That's Hagrid,' said the boy, 'he works at Hogwarts.'

Obviously he could speak if he wanted to. One just had to find the right subject, it seemed.

'Oh,' he said, feeling relieved the wild man wasn't really dangerous after all, 'I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?'

'He's the gamekeeper,' the other boy answered, somewhat stiffly.

'Yes, exactly,' he agreed, glad he had got the other boy to talk to him at last. 'I heard he's a sort of 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.'

He was glad he could share this funny story with his new acquaintance. It was a good thing after all that he had met Vince and Greg before, and so had some stuff to talk about.

'I think he's brilliant,' the boy said, and his voice now sounded positively cold.

'Do you?' he asked confused. He wasn't quite sure what had gone wrong, but something had. 'Why is he with you? Where are your parents?'

'They're dead,' the boy said bluntly.

'Oh, sorry,' he said, not letting on that he was quite desperate about the mess he had made of this conversation. 'But they were our kind, weren't they?'

This giant could not possibly be related to that small boy, could he? Or was that the reason the boy wore clothes three sizes too big for him? Would he grow to be as big as that Hagrid fellow?

'They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean,' answered the boy.

'I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you?' he asked, worrying about strange classmates once more. After all he had heard from his father, he was not fond of the idea of sharing a bench at school with giant offspring. '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 the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What's your surname, anyway?'

But before the boy could answer, Madam Malkin said, 'That's you done, my dear,' and he hopped from the footstool and left the shop without saying goodbye.

'Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose!' he called after him, but the boy didn't look back, and the last he saw of him was the boy joining the giant and being presented with an ice-cream cone.

Sighing, he turned his attention back to the hundreds of robes and cloaks and shoes and hats he seemingly had to try on, as Madam Malkin was anxious to satisfy his mother on all levels. But, finally, he was done and allowed to leave. Madam Malkin herself saw him out, and sent her greetings to 'his esteemed parents'.

--------------------

He slowly wandered back, enjoying the lively traffic in the street, until he reached Flourish & Blotts. Upon entering he met his father, who was just leaving, with a pile of books stacked under his arm. His father made an impatient gesture toward him, and he longingly eyed the tall bookshelves, inwardly cursing the time wasted at Madam Malkin's, but followed his father obediently into the street again.

He had trouble keeping up with his father's longer strides, and was nearly running beside him as they approached a small, and rather shabby-looking shop. Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC. It surely was dusty enough for that, he thought. The single wand on display in the window was hardly visible through the layers of age-old dirt on the windowpane. A tinkling sound announced them as they entered. Inside was nothing but uncountable numbers of narrow boxes piled high from floor to ceiling along the walls, and a single spindly chair in the middle.

The tinkle of the bell had hardly stopped when a strange old man with pale eyes and sparse grey hair, clad in robes the colour and texture of dust and spider webs, greeted them in a soft whispering voice, 'Lucius! I trust you're well.'

To his surprise his father inclined his head - if only a fraction - and answered solemnly, 'Mr Ollivander. As well as times allow, I should think. And yourself?'

'Oh, same old, same old...' the old man murmured vaguely, gazing at him with his luminous eyes. 'I remember quite well the day that your father brought you here to buy your wand, and now you're here with your heir. Ah, let's see then! Which is your wand arm, young Master Malfoy?'

'Left,' he whispered, feeling strangely intimidated and wishing to get out as soon as possible.

Mr Ollivander produced a tape measure and started measuring him up.

'Hmm, hmm,' he mumbled, 'hmm, let's see, yes, yes, definitely...'

Apparently satisfied, he glided to the next wall and took down some boxes.

'Let's try this one. Twelve and a quarter inches, ash and dragon heartstring...'

He took the offered wand and gave it a swish. Nothing happened.

'Ah, well, apparently not. What about ...'

He tried a few more wands. Mostly nothing at all happened. Some gave a few weak sparks in different colours, and one set Mr Ollivander's robes on fire. He cried out and dropped the wand, but the incident was dealt with by his father and Mr Ollivander efficiently and without fussing around.

Finally he felt it: cool and calm, a sensation like smooth balm running through his fingers. When he gave it a flick, a flitter of silvery stars shot out of the tip and sank slowly to the ground, tingling on a sweet note almost too high to be audible.

'That's it, then,' said Mr Ollivander, satisfied. 'Rosewood, eleven inches, Antipodean Opaleye heartstring - quite an unusual combination! A beautiful wand for charms and potions, yes indeed. Should work very well for a healer or an artist, yes.'

His father looked startled. 'Healer?' he asked. 'Artist? That's not what I expected. That's not what I need. That's weak. Let's try another one.'

Mr Ollivander shook his head. 'The wand chooses the wizard, Lucius. The wand chooses the wizard. This one it will be.'

His father snorted and crossed his arms above his chest. He, although he had done nothing wrong - at least that he knew of - had the vague feeling that he had disappointed his father... again.

'Griselda Malfoy was a Healer, Father,' he piped up, glad he remembered the family history. Griselda had been one of the first Malfoys mentioned on records, about nine hundred years ago.

'Griselda Malfoy was tortured and burned,' his father answered through gritted teeth, 'because she couldn't heal Mab Willowmere's son. I wouldn't think it wise for any Malfoy to follow in her footsteps.'

Thankfully, at this moment the bell tinkled, the door opened, and his mother entered the shop, putting her bags and parcels down on the chair in the middle of the room. With greetings and polite requests after her well-being, the subject his wand was, for the moment, forgotten.

--------------------

Over the next few days following their return his equipment was delivered and stowed away by the house-elves into a large trunk he would take with him to Hogwarts. He hardly slept anymore due to excitement.

Finally the day arrived. His parents were taking him to the station in London themselves to see him off. He glowed with pride and anticipation.

They portkeyed directly to platform nine and three-quarters, accompanied by Dobby, who carried his trunk (with the help of a Levitate spell) and was responsible for loading it onto the train. The platform was packed with people, and next to it stood a bright red steam engine - just like the toy he'd once had! - contentedly puffing little billows of smoke into the air. Bemused, he stared at the engineer in his cabin, wondering whether he too would look like the one he had once played with.

Something rubbed against his leg, and looking down his eyes met those of a grey tabby cat. He saw now that it was not alone, as cats of every breed, size and colour were wending their ways between people's legs. He sighed with resignation. He would have loved to have a cat. Chancing a quick look at his eagle owl in its cage, he found the proud bird had its eyes half closed and was haughtily ignoring its surroundings.

His parents aimed straight for the second carriage behind the engine where Dobby already could be seen manoeuvring the huge iron-bound trunk through a compartment door.

Next to it he now recognised Mr and Mrs Crabbe with Vincent, who tried to wriggle out of his mother's embrace, and not far away the Goyles were hurrying in their direction. He stole a look at his mother while Mrs Crabbe recaptured Vince.

All over the platform he now saw parents bidding their offspring farewell. Mothers threw their arms around their sons and daughters, hugging them close and kissing their cheeks, foreheads, noses - some weeping, some discreetly dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs. Fathers hugged their sons and gave them manly claps on the back or cuddled and kissed their daughters.

His mother smiled at him and, lifting his chin with one finger, kissed his forehead like every week, saying, 'Now, my dear, you have a good time and don't forget to write every week, will you?'

'Yes, Mother,' he whispered, fighting tears. Now that it had come to it he wasn't so sure that he wanted to leave. What if she forgot about him? What if he didn't like it at Hogwarts? He wanted to hug her, clutch his fists into her robes and bury his face into the cool folds of the silk, but restrained himself. Public shows of affection were not becoming of a Malfoy, as he knew very well.

His father laid a hand on his shoulder and said sternly, 'I trust you will do well and not shame the name of our House, Draco.'

He straightened up and squared his shoulders. 'I will, Father.'

Then he was inside the compartment with Greg and Vince, looking out to his parents on the platform: Tall they stood, proud and cool. Before he could open the window and wave good-bye a last time, they turned around and left. The train started moving - the Crabbes and the Goyles were waving and calling 'Good-bye, good-bye!'; 'Have a good journey!'; 'Don't forget about the underwear, Greg!' - then it gathered speed and left the station. It was over. There was no turning back now until Christmas break.

--------------------

'Your parents are cool,' said Vince, slumping into a seat next to the window.

He eyed him questioningly.

'Yeah, they don't hug and kiss you all the time, like my mother. Ung! Always slobbering right over me.' He drew his sleeve across his face.

He stiffened. 'Oh? My father says it does not become a Malfoy to display emotions in public,' he said.

'That's cool,' agreed Greg, 'I mean, at least it's not in public. It's embarrassing when they do that. Although it's nice sometimes. At birthdays and so on. And at home. My mother says it comes with the job.'

'The job?'

'Yeah, the hugging and kissing. Comes with the job of being a mother. They somehow think they have to do that, you know.'

'Oh! They do hug me, you know. At home. A lot,' he said.

Having left the city, they were occupied for a while watching the landscape fly by beyond the windows, and then a nice elderly witch came by with a big trolley carrying every sweet known to wizard kind. They stocked up on pumpkin pasties, chocolate frogs and Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans as well as a few jugs of pumpkin juice and the next hour or so was spent happily munching away.

Then: 'Have you heard it?' asked Greg. 'He's on board this train! He's going to Hogwarts with us!'

'Who is?' asked Vince.

'Harry Potter! My father saw him and showed him to my mother. I couldn't see him; there were too many people between us. But he's here.'

'Harry Potter's on this train?' he chimed in. 'That's splendid! Let's go and meet him, I say.'

'Sure thing,' said Vince as Greg got up again, sighing (he had eaten far too many chocolate frogs).

They left their compartment and turned to the end of the train, as theirs was the second carriage after the engine right after the prefects' one. It seemed most of the compartments they came across were occupied by older students, but many of them were out on the walkway, chatting and sharing news and sweets. They heard Potter's name mentioned at least half a dozen times while they walked. It seemed to be the sensation of the day. Half way down the train they ran into a girl with wild brown locks and rather large teeth, who stepped on his foot and brushed by him without an apology.

'Ouch!' he hissed and looked after her slightly disgruntled.

But at that moment Greg said, 'Look at these two! They could be our year, I guess.'

Peering into the compartment, he recognised the boy from the robes shop sitting there with a gangly redhead. Could it be? He opened the door.

'Is it true?' he said enthusiastically. 'They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?'

The dark-haired boy looked at them with a slight frown.

'Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,' he said by way of introduction, 'and my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.'

The redhead gave a slight cough which seemed to hide a snigger and he, feeling insulted, looked at him more closely.

'Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles and more children than they can afford.'

This was true. His father had warned him explicitly to avoid any members of this clan, as they were minions of Dumbledore and therefore not to be trusted. Their father was some foolish Ministry of Magic official, who toyed around with Muggle artefacts he was supposed to destroy, but instead kept for himself. Although they were purebloods and of old lineage the family had deteriorated terribly, as they insisted on bringing up more children than they could feed generation after generation, unlike the Malfoys, whose carefully accumulated wealth was left only to a single heir. What a pity that Potter had attached himself to such unsuitable company! But surely it was not too late to make the boy see his error. He would save Harry Potter from being an outcast and take him under his wing.

He turned back to Harry. 'You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter,' he said seriously. 'You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.' His offer was honest and without guile.

And he held out his hand to shake Potter's - but Potter didn't take it.

'I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,' he said coolly.

Never in his life had he been slighted so rudely. He felt as if he had been publicly slapped. His blood rushed to his head and he felt his face grow warm.

'I'd be careful if I were you, Potter,' he said slowly, hiding his hurt. '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 jumped up, Weasley's face now the same shade as his hair.

'Say that again,' he threatened.

'Oh, you're going to fight us, are you?' he braved him, not feeling as sure as he pretended to be.

'Unless you get out now,' Potter said, opening for them a way out he was glad to take.

Unfortunately, Goyle was feeling rather strong. 'But we don't feel like leaving, do we, boys? We've eaten all our food and you still seem to have some.' And with that he reached towards the chocolate frogs on the seat next to Weasley - only to tuck his hand back with a squeal as a scrofulous looking rat had sunk its teeth into his finger and wouldn't let go.

He backed away and ran into Crabbe, who blocked the open door, as Goyle was trying to shake the thing off. Finally he succeeded, the rat flew off and hit the window, and he followed Vince and him outside, only to be nearly run over again by the rude girl they had met before.

Trudging back to their compartment, he felt crushed. Once there he fell into a window seat and stared outside without seeing anything, shutting out Greg whining about his bitten finger, and Vince bragging how he would have stomped the pest had it been him, who was attacked. Not yet arrived at Hogwarts, he had already failed his father and made a terrible mess of the Potter-affair. How could that have happened? It had been so easy making friends with Greg and Vince - why was the Potter-boy so difficult about it? And what should he tell his father now?

His father had told him everything about James Potter and Lily Evans. She had been only a Mudblood, but Potter came from a pure-blooded wizarding family of old standing. Sadly, he had cast his lot with Dumbledore, married that Mudblood Lily, and fought Lord Voldemort, which had ended in his being killed together with his wife in Voldemort's war. Was the same to happen to his son only because he had not been in time to prevent him from making friends with the wrong sort of people? But it had not been his fault, he thought rebelliously. Potter had behaved very rudely even when he had met him for the first time in that robes shop. He had done nothing to deserve such a treatment. Surely his father must see that?

--------------------

The rest of the journey passed in uncomfortable silence as the three of them were moping, and so they were all relieved when a voice declared: 'We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train; it will be taken to the school separately.'

After the train came to a halt they dismounted onto a dark platform and were immediately greeted by a booming voice: 'Firs'-years! Firs'-years over here!'

He saw with disdain that the school had sent the giant man Hagrid to pick them up. Well, it couldn't be helped. Following the bear-like figure through the darkness down a slippery path (at a safe distance and at the end of the group), he heard them exclaim in awe before he himself had reached the end of the path. It widened and opened to an expanse of dark still water across which Hogwarts castle was perched upon its mountain top. Its lighted windows were glowing yellow in the chilly night, promising warmth and comfort.

'No more'n four to a boat!' Hagrid called, and he and his companions clambered into one of the little boats sitting at the lakeshore like a fleet of ducklings. When they were all seated Hagrid shouted, 'Forward!' and the boats moved off, crossing the lake towards the cliff on the opposite side.

Entering a tunnel in the cliff face, they finally reached an underground harbour, where they left the boats behind, not a minute too early for him, who felt slightly sick. From here, they followed Hagrid up a damp dark passageway that led them onto a smooth lawn directly under the castle. After they had walked up a flight of mighty stone steps they were halted in front of a huge oaken door. Hagrid knocked three times and the door swung open, revealing a stern-looking black haired witch, who turned out to be Professor McGonagall, the Deputy Headmistress.

The entrance hall with its stone flagged floor and wide marble staircase, brightly lit by torches in wall sconces, was huge even by Manor standards. Professor McGonagall led them into a small chamber off the hall and welcomed them, explaining the ceremony ahead. His father had told him how the sorting was done, and he had felt fine about it at home. But now he started to worry. What if the hat sorted him into the wrong house? What if he ended up in Hufflepuff, or even worse, in Gryffindor? After the mess he had already made with the Potter-boy he could hardly afford to fail again. How could he ever explain his father that the Malfoy heir had not been sorted into Slytherin house? He gazed at Greg and Vince, who looked slightly bewildered themselves, and sighed. No comfort to be found there.

Suddenly several people screamed, some jumping and backing away towards the walls, as a number of silvery-transparent forms glided through the wall and crossed their little chamber. Ghosts! From behind Crabbe and Goyle he watched wide-eyed as a fat little monk addressed some people in front of their group. Thankfully Professor McGonagall returned just then and led them into the Great Hall in single file. They walked between a row of four tables - two on their left and two on their right side - all occupied by students of all ages, towards a dais at the top of the hall, where the teachers were seated. Thousands of lit candles were floating in mid-air above the tables, and still above them stars blinked down from a velvet-black night sky. The famous bewitched ceiling of the Great Hall at Hogwarts! He had read all about it in Hogwarts: A History.

Now Professor McGonagall placed a four-legged stool in front of them, and upon that she sat an old and shabby-looking pointy wizard's hat. Although He knew what to expect, he couldn't help twitching as the hat suddenly came to life and a rip near the brim opened like a mouth, singing:

'Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge on what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.
You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.
There's nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can't see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.'

After the applause for the hat's performance had faded, the Deputy Headmistress stepped forward and, enrolling a parchment, started to call them up in alphabetical order, starting with 'Abbot, Hannah!'

The girl stumbled forward, put on the hat and had hardly sat down when the hat already cried: 'Hufflepuff!'

The table at their right burst into applause and cheers and Hannah Abbot ran over to join her new housemates.

'Bones, Susan!' cried Professor McGonagall, and another little girl was sorted into Hufflepuff house without further ado.

Oh, no, he thought, doesn't it know there are four houses?

But his worries were in vain as the very next candidate - 'Boot, Terry' - was sorted into Ravenclaw. Another Ravenclaw followed. Then 'Brown, Lavender' became the first new Gryffindor. 'Bulstrode, Millicent', a big, strong girl with a rather plain face was sorted into Slytherin, and he sighed with relief. Apparently the hat was not fixated on Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw after all. When Vince was the first of them to be sorted into Slytherin, he was halfway convinced that the hat knew what it was doing. Then Greg left him as well to join the students at the Slytherin table. The rude girl from the train turned out to be 'Granger, Hermione' and was promptly sorted into Gryffindor.

He trembled and felt slightly sick, but pulled himself together and advanced toward the hat displaying more confidence than he really felt, when his name was called. But he shouldn't have worried, as the hat had hardly touched his head when it already called out, 'Slytherin!'

Feeling as if a load had been taken from him, he went over to the Slytherin table to sit down next to Greg and Vince. Only later did he wonder whether he had really heard a voice in his head, sighing, 'This one is for you, Salazar, old friend...'

Two identical looking redheads, older, but rather similar to the one from the train, who had accompanied Potter, hissed at him and made ugly faces when he looked over to their table.

Then Harry Potter was called. And only when the hat, after a rather prolonged silence, triumphantly shouted, 'Gryffindor!' did he notice that he had crossed his fingers. He had hoped against hope that he would get another chance, if perhaps Potter would be sorted into Slytherin house. But it was not to be. It seemed that all the rude and unfriendly people he had met so far were assembled in Gryffindor house. His father had been right again.

The redheaded twins jumped up and shouted, 'We got Potter! We got Potter!' when a fourth redhead, older and with a prefect's badge, stood up and shook the boy's hand. Just how many of those dratted Weasleys were there? When finally 'Weasley, Ron' was dispatched into Gryffindor house as well, he lost his last hope for any interhouse relationship.

The last First-year to be sorted was 'Zabini, Blaise', a dark-skinned boy, who was made a Slytherin.

Then the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, stood up to say 'a few suitable words' which turned out to be: 'Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!'

He wasn't sure what he should make of it. This man was dangerous! Were those words disguised spells? But he clapped politely (though rather hesitantly) when everyone else did. No use to draw attention to himself and let on how insecure and, to tell the truth, frightened he really felt.

Then suddenly the dishes in front of them were filled; roast beef, roast chicken, pork and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, potatoes of all varieties, boiled, roasted, mashed, and every vegetable one could think of filled the golden plates and bowls. Sadly, he could not really enjoy his meal, as right then he felt an ice cold draft, and the Slytherin house ghost, the Bloody Baron, took a seat at his side. He was tall and gaunt with a skull-like face, and his rotten-looking robes were stained with silvery blood. He shivered. When he looked up he caught Potter's gaze, who smiled unpleasantly at him. Hurt, he looked away and fiddled with his fork and knife, pushing the food around on his plate. So, this was how it was going to be? Well, two could play at this game, he thought.

After the pudding had been cleared away, Dumbledore got up again and made a little speech, letting them know that the forest on Hogwarts grounds was forbidden for all pupils, that no magic was to be performed between classes in the corridors and Quidditch trials would be held in the second week. Also, he stated, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side was out of bounds to everyone who didn't wish to die a very painful death. He could but wonder: A lake with a dangerous giant squid, a Forbidden Forest with all sorts of magical creatures in it - werewolves not the least of them - and a potentially deadly corridor, all at one school. Who was in charge of students' safety, for Merlin's sake? But his musings were interrupted when Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, and the long golden ribbon flowing out of its tip rose high into the air and twisted itself into the words of the Hogwarts school song:

'Hogwarts, Hogwarts, hoggy, warty Hogwarts...'

As everybody just picked their favourite tune, and there weren't many students, who happened to choose the same, the ensuing noise was almost unbearable. He clapped his hands over his ears; never had he been exposed to such a cacophony! He was heartily glad when it was over and the prefects led their First-years away to escort them to their dormitories. In parting, he chanced a last glance at Potter being led away by his house-prefect.

Through the entrance hall, down a corridor, descending several staircases and through long dark corridors again, they finally reached an unobtrusive looking rock wall, which the prefect boy touched with his wand and said, 'And this week's password is Salazar - be sure to memorise that or you'll have to wait outside until someone happens to let you in.'

Upon his word the rock melted away and they were led into the Slytherin common room, a long low room, whose walls and ceiling were made from rough-hewn stone with a large fireplace under a carved mantelpiece. Round green lamps were giving off a dim light. The stone-flagged floor was covered with plush carpets upon which a number of sofas and stuffed armchairs in green leather and velvet were arranged. Two corridors were leading away from the common room, one to the girls', the other to the boys' dormitories. The First-years' dorm which he shared with Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini and a boy named Theodore Nott, whose father he knew from Sunday dinners, turned out to be quite cozy with four-poster beds, hung with deep green velvet curtains.

He was dead tired. He went to the bathroom, washed and brushed his teeth, the routine too deeply ingrained to be neglected even without any house-elves attending him, dressed into his pyjamas and fell into his bed. The last thing he heard before sleep took him was Greg's - or Vincent's? - snoring.

--------------------

When he awoke in the pale grey light of dawn he felt confused and lost. Where was Dobby? Or Nobby? Who ever it was on duty that day, why hadn't they woken him up? He stared at the unfamiliar green draping around his bed and then, suddenly, remembered: Hogwarts! He wasn't at home. There were no house-elves to wake him and look after him. He was on his own now. He found he quite liked the thought and got up, swinging his legs over the bedside and looking around him. His dorm mates were all still deep asleep, it seemed. He was not really a morning person, but as he had been awoken early to be in time for his studies these last years, he had become quite accustomed to being up at sunrise. Quietly, so as not to disturb the others, he got up and rummaged in his trunk for new underwear and robes, then got his wash things and a towel and made for the bathroom.

The Slytherin boys' bathroom was a big, sea-green tiled affair with several shower stalls, two crocodile-footed bath tubs and lots of mirrors above the wash stands. Apparently he was the only one up at this ungodly hour, so he had the bathroom to himself, which was fine by him. He brushed his teeth, took a long, hot shower, noticing that all the spouts were bronze serpents' heads, inlaid with green glass eyes that blinked mischievously at him. Somehow, he felt watched in there. Towelling off, he found that indeed he was observed by a great blue-green sea-serpent that inhabited a mosaic above the bath tubs. He slung the towel around his hips and made a face at it. It hissed at him and curled its tail. Shrugging, he turned his back at it and combed his hair in front of a mirror, then cleaned his nails. When he looked up he found he was not really looking any different from yesterday when he had performed the same routine at home, although it felt like ages since then. The same great grey eyes that looked somehow too big for his narrow, slightly-pointed face, with still-wet blond hair slicked back from his forehead, exposing small, delicate ears that sat close to the skull. His mirror image looked exactly as timid as he felt.

'Malfoy,' he said tentatively, 'Draco Malfoy.'

'Pleased to meet you,' the mirror answered politely.

He ignored it and sighed. Somehow he had to get through this day - and all the following - whether he felt like the Malfoy heir or not.

Returning to his dormitory, he found the others were stirring, as groans and yawns were to be heard from behind the bed hangings, and dressed quickly so that he was ready when Nott pushed back the curtains and emerged from under his duvet, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

'Hey, you're an early bird, aren't you?' he mumbled around another face-splitting yawn, and trolled off to the bathroom. Zabini followed him without a word, blinking owlishly in the early morning light.

He had already collected his books for the day, a quill, a roll of parchment and his wand, when Greg and Vincent finally lolled out of their beds and were about to start dressing.

'Don't you take a shower first?' He asked unbelievingly.

'Well, you know,' said Greg, stretching, 'now that my mother isn't behind me all the time, I think it can wait 'till the weekend.'

'Your mother?' he asked.

'Oh, yes, it was always 'Greg, your bath is ready!'; 'Greg, have you brushed your teeth?'; 'Comb your hair, dear!' and 'Don't forget to change your underwear!' - most annoying, let me tell you!'

'Yeah,' agreed Vince, 'they're always going on like that. One could think that there's nothing more important than being 'cleanly and orderly'!' He uttered the last words in a high and simpering voice, mocking his mother's tone. 'I intend to see things a bit more relaxed while I'm here, you know.' He scratched his armpit.

'Do you mean to tell me,' he asked, 'that your mothers looked after you? Don't you have any house-elves?'

Vince and Greg stared at him.

'Of course our mothers look after us,' said Vincent slowly, as if explaining something obvious to a dimwit, 'that's what mothers are for, mate.'

Greg nodded. 'Naturally we have a house-elf, but Mum won't let her do anything really important without supervision, you know.'

He swallowed nervously. 'That means you see them every day... your mothers?'

Greg and Vince exchanged a quick glance.

'Don't you?' asked Vince.

'Well, no, actually I don't,' he said. His voice came out too high and a bit quivery, and he quickly cleared his throat, pretending to have swallowed something the wrong way. 'But I visit her once a week. We have tea together in her parlour.'

'Sounds nice,' said Vincent agreeably.

'And the rest of the time your house-elf looks after you?' asked Gregory and stared at him wide-eyed.

'Elves,' he corrected him. 'There are two or three on, er, nursery duty every week.'

Vince gave a low whistle. 'How many of the little buggers do you have, then?'

He shrugged. 'I don't know. Quite a few, I think. They work in shifts.'

'That explains it, then,' said Greg slowly. 'Your parents are awfully rich of course, it's different in those families.'

Vince looked at him, then agreed, 'Yes, your mother must have an awful lot to do supervising them in that big house and all.' He hesitated, then added: 'We have a pair, you know. We hope they'll breed. But so far they haven't.'

He faked a laugh. 'Yes, she's very... occupied. With important things. Very important things.' He turned to go. 'I'll see you at breakfast, then.'

When he reached for the doorknob, he noticed that his hand was trembling. As he walked down the dark corridor, he could hear the echo of his footsteps and shivered. It was so very cold in the dungeons.

--------------------

He had no difficulties finding the Great Hall, and once there, the Slytherin table. The Slytherin prefect was already sitting there, accompanied by some of his yearmates. As soon as he sat down, he came over.

'You're Malfoy, aren't you?'

He looked up. 'Yes?'

'Hey, sorry, it didn't click yesterday, but with all the newcomers and so on... Anyway, I'm MacNair, the prefect. Welcome to Slytherin house! My father said to look out for you. So, if you need anything or have trouble with someone, you can count on me, all right?'

'Right,' he said. 'Thank you. Erm, why do you think I should have trouble with anyone? I mean, I've just arrived. I don't know anyone yet - except for Crabbe and Goyle, of course, but they're friends.'

The boy looked strangely at him.

'Oh, don't expect any trouble inside our house. We all know who your father is, of course. But the other houses? Can be pretty nasty - especially the Gryffindors.' He threw a quick glance over at their table. 'Troublemakers, all of them. So, if you have difficulties, you know where to go, all right?'

'Yes, thank you,' he murmured, not feeling reassured.

MacNair gave him a nod and left to sit with his buddies again. He turned to his plate.

'Hi, there!' said a voice right next to him and when he looked up, he found that a girl had taken the seat beside him. She had a dark, olive complexion with black hair and eyes and a serious little pixie-face that made her look a little like a Persian cat. She looked cute.

'Hi, I'm Pansy Parkinson and my parents know your parents. They met you when they were at a dinner party at your house, and my mum says you've the nicest manners,' she said quickly not drawing breath once.

He beamed at her.

'Well, thank you. I remember your parents. Your mother's nice.'

She beamed back.

'Friends?' she asked.

He nodded enthusiastically. 'Friends,' he said.

--------------------

The first week went by in a blur and before they knew it, it was Friday. By now he had come to understand what MacNair had meant by 'getting into trouble'. His father had him prepared for envy. After all, the Malfoys were one of the oldest and wealthiest pure-blood families in Britain. It was understandable that those who were not so lucky would feel reproachful at times. What he had not expected was the sheer amount of dislike that people displayed toward the Slytherins in general and toward him in particular. Apart from the Weasley twins hissing at him at the First Night Banquet, he was shoved from behind when walking from class to class between lessons. People tripped him and went on without an apology. And it would have been worse, were it not for Crabbe and Goyle watching his back, he felt sure.

Even the teachers seemed biased. Although he was the only one in his class in Transfigurations (which Slytherin shared with the Ravenclaws) able to change his matchstick into a needle, Professor McGonagall didn't find it worth mentioning. And Professor Flitwick just gave a surprised grunt and mumbled, 'Well, well,' when he could produce the correct swish and flick that was supposed to make objects fly (when uttered with the matching spell) right away in Charms (shared with Hufflepuff), although he praised Susan Bones to the skies when she succeeded as well.

The first class on Friday morning was double Potions, which they had to attend together with the Gryffindors. The Potions classroom was down in the dungeons and was filled with strange creatures drifting in clear liquid in glass jars on shelves along the walls. He thought they were rather creepy, but was looking forward to Potions nonetheless. Professor Snape, their Head of House, started by taking the register and as soon as he came to the Potter-boy, he paused.

'Ah, yes,' he said softly, 'Harry Potter. Our new - celebrity.'

He quickly put his hand over his mouth to suppress a giggle. He had not seen much of Potter, but from what he had heard (from Greg, who had it from a Hufflepuff, who attended Transfigurations with the Gryffindors), he had not done exceedingly well so far.

'You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making,' Professor Snape began, after he had finished calling the names.

His voice was very soft, but the class was dead silent and He got every word.

'As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic,' he continued. 'I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses....'

He thought his words were pure poetry.

'I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death,' He hung breathless onto the Professor's every word, '- if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.'

Then suddenly he turned and: 'Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of Asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?'

Hmm, he thought, Asphodel and wormwood? Draught of Living Death?

A hand shot up into the air. It belonged to the rude girl from the train, Hermione Granger.

'I don't know, sir,' answered Potter.

'Tut, tut - fame clearly isn't everything,' the Professor sneered.

He felt delighted that for once it was Potter and not him at the receiving end.

'Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?'

Now, that's easy, he thought, in a goat's stomach. Come on, Potter, tell him!

Granger stretched her hand as high as possible, sitting on the edge of her seat.

'I don't know, sir.'

He chortled disbelievingly.

'Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?' said the Professor. 'What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?'

Granger stood, waving excitedly.

'I don't know,' said Potter, 'I think Hermione does, though, why don't you try her?'

At this he could not stop himself any longer and laughed out loud. Even if Potter had been brought up by Muggles he surely must know something as easy as that? Every child knew that those were the same! And to have the cheek to tell the Professor off like that! He just couldn't believe it.

Professor Snape wasn't amused either. He told Granger to sit down, and took a point from Gryffindor for Potter's impunity.

Serves him right, he thought. He had the distinct feeling that Professor Snape was going to be his favourite teacher.

This feeling deepened when they were shown how to brew a simple potion to cure boils, and Professor Snape told the whole class how perfectly he was boiling his horned slugs. A deep well of gratitude and affection opened in him, and he looked at the Professor with something close to adoration. However, his moment of glory was cut short by Neville Longbottom melting away Seamus Finnegan's cauldron, but things took a turn for the positive again when Professor Snape took another point from Gryffindor for that.

That afternoon they found a notice pinned to the blackboard in the Slytherin common room: flying lessons were to start next Thursday afternoon - and Slytherin and Gryffindor would be learning together.

He groaned. Here was a class he had really been looking forward to, and now he had to put up with those intolerable Gryffindors again!

--------------------

On Sunday afternoon he sat down to write home for the first time.

Dear Mother, he wrote, Crabbe and Goyle do see their mothers every day...

He erased that and started anew: I have safely arrived at Hogwarts and I really like it here. I am in a dormitory with Crabbe and Goyle, Theodore Nott and a boy called Blaise Zabini. I have met Harry Potter and he does not like me.

Again he erased the last sentence and wrote instead: Please tell Father that unfortunately Potter has been sorted into Gryffindor and we only have Potions and Flying Instructions together with them.

I like Potions very much and Professor Snape is my favourite teacher. My horned slugs were boiled perfectly!

Your son, Draco Malfoy.

P.S. I have changed a matchstick into a needle!

--------------------

The First-years - all of them - didn't talk about anything but flying and Quidditch for the next few days. One evening in the Great Hall he was telling Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy how he once had narrowly escaped a Muggle helicopter when practising loops over the Manor grounds, when he noticed that his whole table was quiet and listening to him. Pleased, he made his flight higher and more daring, the Muggles chasing him pretty fierce and let himself escape just by a hair. In truth it hadn't been very dramatic, as the manor was unplottable, warded and equipped with Muggle repellent spells, so the Muggles had perhaps not even seen him properly, but it made for a good story, and his listeners were enjoying the yarn. Again his story felt real to himself, almost as if he had actually lived this experience. He noticed that Potter was watching him and raised an eyebrow at him, but the boy only snorted and turned away.

On Thursday morning his eagle owl brought him another package from home. He received letters twice a week: Tuesdays from his mother, mostly just a few lines on scented parchment, asking after his well-being and telling him small things from home, like how the garden looked right now or who had been to dinner last weekend. On Thursdays he got his weekly admonishing from his father, telling him not to idle around, but concentrate on his studies etc. There were always some sweets in the little packages, which he was sure the house-elves had packed for him without his parents knowing it. Purdy, the kitchen-elf, who knew about his penchant for her baking, even managed to send him some homemade snow balls, shrunk to diminutive size and frozen, which thawed and unfolded with a 'plop' when he touched them with his wand, and were as fresh and lovely as if just out of the stove. He always shared with Greg, Vince and Pansy and everyone else who wanted to be his friend.

As he was leaving the Hall after breakfast, Greg and Vince in tow, he came by the Gryffindor table and saw Longbottom staring at a red, glowing marble in his hand. He quickly snatched it away from him and was about to say something teasing, when Potter and Weasley jumped to their feet and McGonagall swooped down on him like a hawk.

'What's going on?' she demanded.

'Malfoy's got my Remembrall, Professor,' Longbottom whined.

'I was just looking,' he said quickly and put the thing back on the table.

He went on shaking his head. They sure were a humourless lot, those Gryffindors.

In the afternoon, the Slytherins were early for Flying Instructions and had to wait for the Gryffindors and their teacher. On a little lawn on the opposite side of the grounds to the Forbidden Forest were lying twenty broomsticks in two rows, most of them looking rather old and worn, with scarred handles and little twigs sticking out of the tail-end. He quickly checked them to find the best for him and his friends.

When Madam Hooch arrived, she barked: 'Well, what are you all waiting for? Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up.'

They had all hardly taken their positions when she continued, 'Stick out your right hand over your broom, and say, 'Up!''

As he was left-handed he stood on the right-hand side of his broom.

They all shouted, 'Up!', but not every broom followed the order; his was one of the few that did. Potter also seemed to have no difficulties, he noticed with surprise. Crabbe and Goyle had managed their brooms without problem, and some of the Gryffindors had as well. As for the rest, their brooms simply rolled around on the ground. Pansy's did jump up, but only a couple of inches, and every time she tried to grab it, it just twitched away, until she jumped it and gave it a kick in the tail-end. After that it was tame. Longbottom's broom played dead.

Then Madam Hooch showed them how to mount their brooms and corrected their grips. She insisted on him using his right hand instead of his left and told him he had done it wrong all these years. Potter and Weasley grinned with delight.

Next she said: 'Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard. Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet and then come straight back down by leaning forwards slightly.On my whistle - three - two -'

But Longbottom, who had finally picked up his broom, apparently wanted to make up for his earlier delay and shot up in the air before the whistle had even touched Madam Hooch's lips.

'Come back, boy!' she shouted, as he stared down at them looking dumbstruck, and then he slowly slipped sideways off the broom and hit the ground with a 'WHAM!. There was a nasty cracking noise, and Longbottom lay in a heap on the grass, white as a sheet, sobbing and clutching his wrist, whilst his broom, still rising, made off towards the Forbidden Forest.

Madam Hooch, very pale, helped him up and stated, 'Broken wrist. Come on, boy - it's all right, up you get.'

Then she turned to the rest of the class and said, 'None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch'. Come on, dear.'

As soon as they were out of earshot, Madam Hooch's arm around Longbottom's shoulders, he burst into laughter. He felt no compassion for the clumsy boy, knowing from his own experience that broken bones did hurt, but were mended easily enough.

'Did you see his face, the great lump?' he asked Greg and Vince, giggling. His fellow Slytherins joined in.

'Shut up, Malfoy,' snapped Parvati Patil, a pretty Gryffindor girl.

'Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?' asked Pansy, 'Never thought you'd like fat little cry babies, Parvati.'

He saw something lying in the grass.

'Look!' he said, picking it up, 'It's that funny thing Longbottom's gran sent him.'

Curiously, he studied the glowing marble in his hand that had caught his attention already in the morning.

'Give that here, Malfoy,' said Potter, and everyone stopped talking to watch.

He had not intended to keep the thing, but Potter's tone challenged him, and he felt like teasing the annoying boy. He grinned mischievously.

'I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to collect - how about - up a tree?' he said, and jumping on his broomstick he took off.

'Give it here!' he heard Potter yelling, and giggled gleefully while rising to the topmost branches of the nearest oak tree.

Hovering there he playfully called back: 'Come and get it, Potter!'

Amidst shouts and gasps from the crowd below he saw Potter mount his broom and kick off.

'No!' yelled Granger, 'Madam Hooch told us not to move - you'll get us all into trouble.'

But up Potter soared, and when level with him, he turned his broomstick sharply around in mid-air and faced him.

'Give it here,' Potter called, 'or I'll knock you off that broom!'

'Oh, yeah?' he said, surprised by Potter's flying skills. Had the boy not told him that he had never sat on a broom at Madam Malkin's? But if Potter thought he could take him, a little chase might be fun.

At that Potter shot straight at him like a javelin and only a quick sweep sideways saved him from impact. Potter turned his broom and faced him again. A few people below were clapping and that ugly Weasley boy gave a great whoop.

'No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy,' Potter called.

He needed neither Vince nor Greg to aid him in a broomstick chase with anyone, let alone a bloody beginner like Potter, but he saw Professor McGonagall approaching from the school and suddenly remembered Madam Hooch's warning. If he was sent home for this prank, his punishment would be severe, and annoying Harry Potter simply was not worth his father's wrath.

So he threw the ball towards Potter, calling, 'Catch it if you can!' and swooped back to the lawn in a hurry.

He didn't see it, but as Greg told him later Potter missed the ball in midair, raced it to the ground and just managed to catch it a foot before it hit the grass, landing safely on both feet. And then McGonagall was upon them.

'HARRY POTTER!'

he dived behind Greg and Vince, out of sight.

'Never - in all my time at Hogwarts - how dare you - might have broken your neck -'

Peering from behind Greg's broad back he caught a glimpse of McGonagall's furiously flashing glasses and prayed for invisibility.

'It wasn't his fault, Professor -'

'Be quiet, Miss Patil -'

'But Malfoy -'

'Oh no,' he thought, 'shut up, Weasley!'

'That's enough, Mr Weasley. Potter, follow me, now.'

To his immense relief Professor McGonagall paid no attention to him at all, but turned around and rushed back to the castle, Potter in her wake. He caught Potter's gaze as he looked back and thought without pity, Better you than me, mate!

He felt no remorse at all. The whole thing had been Potter's fault. Had Potter not challenged him when all he was doing was looking at Longbottom's silly marble, nothing would have happened. And even then he had not intended to steal the bloody thing! All he had tried to do before Potter had confronted him, was to hide it somewhere where Longbottom would have been able to retrieve it later. Just this morning Greg and Vince had hidden his wash things, giggling mercilessly as he was frantically searching for them, and he had been forced to shower without soap or shampoo. He nearly had been late for class! As it was, it was only fair that Potter should be punished alone. Nevertheless he felt very subdued for the rest of the day.

He was surprised to see Potter holding court at the Gryffindor table that evening at dinner, apparently in high spirits. Perhaps he was glad to leave Hogwarts and live among Muggles again? On his way back to the dungeons with Vince and Greg they stopped at Potter's side.

'Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting the train back to the Muggles?' he asked with more bravado than he felt.

'You're a lot braver now you're back on the ground and you've got your little friends with you,' said Potter coolly.

Vince and Greg cracked their knuckles and scowled at him for being called 'little friends', but he didn't wait for them to do something foolish with the High Table still full of teachers.

'I'd take you on any time on my own,' he said bristling. 'Tonight, if you want. Wizard's duel. Wands only - no contact. What's the matter? Never heard of a wizard's duel before, I suppose?'

Weasley wheeled around to them.

'Of course he has,' he said. 'I'm his second. Who's yours?'

He gave his friends a quick look.

'Crabbe,' he said. 'Midnight all right? We'll meet you in the trophy room, that's always unlocked.'

At Weasley's nod he nodded curtly back and left, Crabbe and Goyle at his side.

--------------------

'Why him?' Greg demanded as they descended to the dungeons.

He turned around on the stairs.

'Because he can nearly do the Leg-locker curse; Nott's left leg was stiff the whole afternoon last time he tried it on him. That's why. Might come in handy.'

'Yeah,' said Vincent, 'a stiff leg will really stop him from killing you, I suppose.'

He snorted. 'As if!' he said. 'Potter doesn't know enough magic to kill anyone. And I bet he's never heard of the Furunculus jinx - but he will after I'm done with him, I swear!'

He stomped down the last few steps, stiff with indignation.

When they entered the Slytherin common room, it was in turmoil. Marcus Flint, the Quidditch Captain, Miles Bletchley, Seeker Terence Higgs and Adrian Pucey were standing by the fireside debating wildly, surrounded by a crowd of people who were all trying to get a word in and discussing amongst each other.

Flint, who was taller than the rest, saw them enter and cried out: 'There he comes!'

As everyone went quiet and looked their way Flint came over to them and asked furiously: 'What happened this afternoon at Flying Instructions, eh? Was it really necessary to give Potter a chance to show off?'

'I -' he said, but Flint interrupted him, saying: 'I tell you what happened! He's been given the position as Seeker. The youngest house player in over a century! Good job, Malfoy.'

He was stunned.

'But -' he said, looking up at the older boy's angry face.

'It wasn't his fault,' said Vince.

'Potter challenged him,' explained Greg.

'Nobody could have known it would turn out this way,' Pansy said.

And, permanently interrupted by questions from the excited crowd, the First-years told their housemates the story of the afternoon's events.

He couldn't believe it. Not only was Potter not punished, he had been promoted and was going to play Seeker for Gryffindor. And although he understood why there was no spot for him on the Slytherin Quidditch team, as at the moment all positions were filled, he could not help but feel really, truly envious of that annoying brat. He hardly heard his friends defending him. When he turned his attention back to his surroundings he just caught the last few words of Greg telling the crowd about the upcoming wizard's duel that night.

'- so tomorrow you'll all see Potter covered in boils. That'll teach him a thing or two.'

A few of them laughed. Flint seemed appeased.

'Wizard's duel, eh? Really the only thing you could do under these circumstances, I suppose. You better practise that Furunculus jinx, then. There's no saying what Potter might be able to do with a wand, and I bet your father won't be amused if you're the one, who ends up hexed into next week.'

He bit his lip. The crowd scattered as no one seemed eager to be a practise target for Furunculus. So the evening ended with Greg and Vince (partly as making amends for their earlier prank with his wash things) and the ever patient Millicent Bulstrode covered in pussy pustules.

--------------------

When it was finally time to leave, he was wound tight. This night it would be decided: Potter or Malfoy. And perhaps, after Potter had suffered a while and he had generously taken back the jinx, the boy would see that he was his equal - at least - and stop treating him like dirt. Perhaps they even could become friends still, afterwards?

When he and Vince crept out into the corridor, Pansy pecked him on the cheek, Millicent ceremoniously shook his hand, and Nott limped over (the effects of Vincent practising his Leg-locker curse not having worn off yet) to wish them luck.

As the stone wall closed behind them they stood in total darkness. The corridor stretched in both directions and only from the side where the stairs were leading up to the Entrance Hall was there a tiny glimmer of light at the end.

'Lumos,' whispered Vince and a faint light glowed up at the tip of his wand making them jump at the sight of their shadows at the opposite wall.

'Nox! Nox, nox!' he hissed, and the light went out again. 'Do you want to get us caught? Professor Snape's rooms are somewhere down here, too, you idiot!'

'But it's so dark,' whispered Vince and grabbed his hand.

He gripped it closely.

'It's night. It's supposed to be dark. Come on!'

They were half ways up the staircase when a tall black figure loomed over them from above.

'Mr Malfoy, Mr Crabbe, would you care to tell me what you're up to?' asked Professor Snape, who was just coming down the stairs, coolly. Standing a few steps above them he looked incredibly tall.

They froze on the spot.

'How could such a tall man tread so lightly that they had not been able to hear him before?' he wondered.

'I'm surprised and disappointed by your behaviour. Five points from Slytherin for each of you,' the professor continued. 'And now, tell me what you think you're doing - I'm waiting.' The tip of his boot, just visible under his long robes, tapped the ground.

'Please, professor,' he pleaded, 'I have to go. It's a question of honour, sir.'

'A question of honour...?' Did he sound vaguely amused? He wouldn't have made a bet on it.

'So where were you headed then, Mr Malfoy?'

'We're going to the trophy room, sir. For a wizard's duel. Crabbe here's my second.'

Snape's eyebrows rose to his hairline.

'A wizard's duel, indeed,' he murmured. 'And am I mistaken then, Mr Malfoy, when I stipulate that your opponent is our worthy Mr Potter?'

He swallowed.

'No, sir,' he whispered.

'Mmm,' said Snape softly, 'I see. I've heard already about your little brawl this afternoon. Bad luck, that. Now, I suggest that you two turn around and go to bed swiftly, and I'll forget about our little encounter here. And ten points to Slytherin for each of you for your bravado and your keeping up tradition.'

Vincent was already halfway down the corridor to the Slytherin house entrance, when he, still lingering on the stairs, dared to ask: 'But what about Potter?'

'Don't you worry, Mr Malfoy. Leave Mr Potter to me,' Snape said silkily, and turned to ascend the stairs again.

'Sir?'

Snape turned back, his robes smoothly swirling around him.

'Will you tell my father, sir?' he asked.

Professor Snape studied him silently for a long while.

'I don't see any necessity for that, Mr Malfoy.'

He relaxed.

'Thank you, professor,' he managed, before he ran after Crabbe.

Inside the Slytherin common room he slumped against the rock wall behind him as Vince fell into a boneless heap on the floor.

'Damn, we were lucky!' he gasped.

He winced.

'Do you think he'll award Potter with house points for bravado as well when he catches him?' asked Vince scrabbling to his feet again.

'Somehow I just can't see that,' he said grinning.

They both giggled madly as tension left them and they made for their beds.

--------------------

He awoke early the next morning and headed to the bathroom right away (he had found his wash things on his bed the night before, courtesy of Crabbe and Goyle). The sea-serpent was still asleep, curled tightly around a rock, and only the underwater plants were moving, lightly swaying in the tide. He tiptoed to the wash stalls, avoiding waking it up - it would only snarl at him again.

'You look a little tired, dear,' commented the mirror, as he brushed his teeth. He made an affirmative sound that sent a few bubbles into the air, and rinsed his mouth.

'Went to bed late,' he explained.

'Well, you shouldn't,' the mirror said with slight reproach, 'you need your sleep when you're supposed to study all day.'

He sighed. This mirror was talkative!

'I had a wizard's duel last night,' he stated proudly. 'And as duels are always at midnight I had no choice in that.'

'Oooh! A duel - and obviously you must have won, as you're still alive.'

He cringed.

'Not really,' he said. 'Professor Snape caught us on the stairs and sent us to bed.'

'Ah! And what was it about?' the Mirror inquired.

He hesitated for a second. Naturally, the mirrors at home did speak also, but they mostly told him that his buttons were askew or that he needed to comb his hair and things like that. None of them had ever shown an interest in him beyond his appearance. So he felt a bit silly actually having a conversation, but on the other hand, the mirror seemed to be really friendly and what could it hurt?

'It's all so bloody unfair, you know,' he complained, 'I didn't want to steal Longbottom's Remembrall, but Potter made out as if I did, and then we had a flying match and instead of him being kicked out, he was made Seeker for Gryffindor, and now my house is all cross with me! And I would have jinxed him with Furunculus; I know that I could have, only Professor Snape caught Crabbe and me on the stairs. And now he surely has caught Potter and Weasley in the Trophy Room and they will be expelled, which is good because they really hate me, but then I can't be friends with Potter, which is bad because my father will be angry with me.'

'Seems to be a stalemate,' the mirror conceded.

He nodded.

'So, the Potter-boy - it's Harry Potter, we're talking here, is it? - is nasty to you?'

'Yes,' he confirmed, nodding vigorously.

'Ah, don't worry, dear boy, it will all get sorted out in time,' the mirror comforted him, 'he may be famous Harry Potter, but you're such a nice boy and you're prettier than he is.'

He saw himself glow pink.

'Um, thank you, I think... But I'm a boy, you know, and boys aren't supposed to be pretty.'

And then he blushed even more as it occurred to him that the mirror had actually seen him taking a shower. Then a new thought hit him and he asked: 'How do you know what he looks like? He's never been in here, I suppose?'

The mirror chuckled.

'All mirrors are one, Master Malfoy, like all water from the tiniest droplet to the biggest ocean is one - one body of water.'

He did not quite understand that, but decided not to show his ignorance.

'Hmm,' he said, uncertain of how to end this confusing conversation. How was he supposed to shower now, knowing that someone was watching him? Admittedly, the mirrors at home had seen him in the altogether too, but they had not talked to him like sensible beings.

'Erm, could you turn around or something?' he asked, 'I really need to shower now and somehow it doesn't seem right, with you... in here...'

The mirror chuckled again.

'Bashful, hmm? No, I can't 'turn around', but how about this...?' It went dull.

He watched it for a moment, and then reluctantly went to the shower stalls.

When he left, the sea-serpent was just waking up, showing him its rows of gleaming teeth in a big yawn.

When they entered the Great Hall for breakfast, Greg shoved his elbow into his ribs hard enough to leave a bruise.

'Ouch!' he complained, but when he followed Goyle's gaze he forgot about the pain, because at the Gryffindor table - looking tired but perfectly cheerful - were sitting Potter and Weasley.

The Boy Who Lived had more luck than was believable.

--------------------

In this Sunday's letter home he wrote:

Dear Mother,

We have had our first Flying lessons and Madam Hooch says my grip is all wrong. Can you believe that? She makes me use my right hand, but it's no good.

Potter is a natural, everyone says, but he didn't kick me off my broom! I didn't mean to keep the Remembrall, I just wanted to look at it. Was that bad?

Please tell Father that there is no vacant spot on the Slytherin Quidditch team, but if there was I would like to be Seeker.

Your son, Draco Malfoy

P.S. It's so unfair that Potter is allowed to play Seeker although he's only a First-year!

--------------------

A week later at breakfast six large screech owls carried a long, thin parcel into the Hall and dropped it right in front of Harry Potter. Then, another owl dropped a letter on top of that. This was extraordinary, as Potter had so far never received any letters (except one in their first week). He nearly got a crick in his neck, trying to see what it was Potter had received, while trying to appear unconcerned. There was only one thing in the world with a shape like this.

He, Greg and Vince hurried outside before Potter had finished his breakfast and lay in ambush on the stairs to the Gryffindor Tower. When Potter and Weasley appeared, he snatched the parcel from Potter and felt it.

'That's a broomstick,' he said, disgusted at the lack of finesse in smuggling it in. And, throwing it back to him, he went on, 'You'll be in for it this time, Potter, First-years aren't allowed them.'

'It's not any old broomstick,' Weasley piped up, 'it's a Nimbus Two Thousand. What did you say you've got at home, Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty?' He grinned nastily. 'Comets look flashy, but they're not in the same league as the Nimbus.'

That was really outrageous!

'What would you know about it, Weasley, you couldn't afford half the handle,' he snapped, insulted beyond belief at having his best-loved gadget diminished. 'I suppose you and your brothers have to save up, twig by twig.'

Before Weasley could answer, Professor Flitwick appeared at his elbow.

'Not arguing, I hope, boys?' he asked.

'Potter's been sent a broomstick, Professor,' he complained.

'Yes, yes, that's right,' said the Professor, beaming at Potter. 'Professor McGonagall told me all about the special circumstances, Potter. And what model is it?'

'A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir,' said Potter, grinning at him Peeves-like. 'And it's really thanks to Malfoy here that I've got it,' he continued.

He felt sick.

--------------------

Next Sunday he sat down to write home.

Dear Mother,

Why can Harry Potter have his own broomstick in first year and I can't? Please tell Father to tell Professor Dumbledore that ALL First-years must have broomsticks or it's just NOT FAIR!!! Weasley made fun of my broom. But he hasn't got one himself - not even a Clean Sweep!

Your son, Draco Malfoy

P.S. Potter's got a Nimbus Two Thousand!

--------------------

Days and weeks came and went, and only when he awoke one morning to the delicious smell of pumpkin pasties did he realise that it was, indeed, Halloween already. The day started well enough when Professor Flitwick, in Charms, let them finally try to levitate objects and he (having secretly practised quite a lot) was able to make his feather fly right away - even Susan Bones, who had been good in theory (swishing and flicking), had needed a few trials before she could do it, too. Then they had Astronomy, which was his second favourite class after Potions, and finally History of Magic, which wasn't too bad, just a little dull at times. But he was used to learning endless dates and seemingly uneventful events by heart from his father's lessons in family history, so he did very well here. They didn't get much homework, either.

In the evening they all went to the Great Hall for the Halloween Feast and the decorations were a sight to behold! There were flying pumpkin-heads with lit candles inside, making the faces come to life and snarl and sneer uncannily. Live bats by the thousands were swooping across the enchanted ceiling, sometimes diving down and zigzagging low across the tables, making the girls (who were afraid they would nest in their hair) scream in panic. He didn't scream, of course, but accio-ed his hat.

He was just pondering whether to take the pumpkin pie or the baked pumpkin, when Professor Quirrel, who taught Defence against the Dark Arts, came running into the Hall, dishevelled and white with terror, flopped down across the table from Professor Dumbledore, and rasped out, 'Troll - in the dungeons - thought you ought to know.' Then he passed out.

Everyone (he included) jumped and screamed, it seemed. Professor Dumbledore had to use several purple firecrackers exploding from the tip of his wand to restore silence and make himself heard over the din.

'Prefects,' he rumbled, 'lead your houses back to the dormitories immediately!'

This was all good and fine for the other houses, but where were the Slytherins supposed to go? Their dormitories were in the dungeons and he was decidedly against stepping down there right now. In the end they just crouched in the corner of the Hall farthest from the entrance, unprotected, as all the teachers had hastened away at Dumbledore's orders, and stared warily at the door, wands at the ready.

For a long time nothing happened, then they heard a scream, muffled, but clearly not from downstairs, but from the same level. Doors were banging and things going 'CRASH!'. Someone pounded against the walls somewhere. Something ROARED.

It's up here - we're all going to die! he thought, and tried to squeeze closer into the corner, which was difficult, as apparently everyone else had the same idea.

Then they heard footsteps of a lot of people running, exclamations and furious shouting. Finally all went silent.

It was a long time before someone remembered the hapless Slytherins, and it was Professor Snape, limping severely, who came for them and led them down into the dungeons, which were now, according to him, safe again. But a terrible stench lingered in the corridors down there, and he felt all the fine hairs on his arms rising as he hurried towards the safety of the Slytherin quarters.

The next day the school was brimming with rumours. Apparently it had been Potter and Weasley who had brought down the troll and had rescued Granger, who was said to have tried to study it close up, from certain death.

He nearly banged his head against the rock wall of the common room. Was it luck, courage or sheer stupidity that made Harry Potter do the things he did?

--------------------

This week's letter home read:

Dear Mother,

Halloween here was great, only we had a troll in the dungeons. Do not worry, I'm fine. Crabbe and Goyle, too. They say that Peeves let it in as a Halloween joke. Do you think that's funny? I was NOT scared. Only a little.

Please tell Father that I would have rescued Pansy Parkinson if she had been in danger. And if I had known how to.

Your son, Draco Malfoy

P.S. I can levitate a feather!

--------------------

November came and brought the Quidditch season.The weather got icy cold and the grounds were covered in frost in the morning. No one could talk about anything than the oncoming first Quidditch match of the year - Slytherin versus Gryffindor. He was silently fuming that Potter was going to have a chance to show off while he would have to sit in the stands. But, as Pansy pointed out, this had a good side as well, as he would be able to study his style.

On Saturday morning Potter was hardly eating anything for breakfast. He wasn't, either. Of course he hoped for his team to win - in fact he hardly doubted it. But moreover he hoped for Potter to do something really stupid, like drop off his broom, and have to leave the pitch in shame.

At a quarter to eleven he and his friends were already sitting in the front row of the Slytherin stand, waiting for the match to begin. He nervously fondled his binoculars. To their extreme disgust the Gryffindors sported a large banner proclaiming Potter for President that flashed cheerfully in the sun.

Madam Hooch, who was refereeing, gave her little speech about fair play, and the captains, Marcus Flint for Slytherin and Oliver Wood for Gryffindor, shook hands.

The moment the players rose up into the air, one of the Gryffindor Chasers, a girl called Angelina Johnson, took the Quaffle and made off with it. She passed it to one of her team mates and back before Marcus Flint was able to take it from them. It looked as if he was going to score, but he was unfortunately stopped by Wood. Katie Bell of Gryffindor was in possession when she was hit in the head by a bludger, and Adrian Pucey of Slytherin was off with the Quaffle towards the Gryffindor goal posts. He was stopped by a bludger sent his way by the obnoxious Weasley twins, who played as Beaters for Gryffindor, and the Quaffle went back to Johnson. Dodging a bludger and diving under the Slytherin Keeper, Miles Bletchley, she managed to hurl the Quaffle through the Slytherin goal and scored for Gryffindor.

The Gryffindors whooped with joy. The Slytherins moaned loudly.

He had hardly seen any of it as he had kept his binoculars trained on Potter, who was swooping and diving through the air far above them all. Apparently he hadn't caught sight of the Snitch so far. While the teams fought hard for the Quaffle some lengths under him, he suddenly seemed to have spotted the Snitch, as he went down in a steep dive. But the Slytherin Seeker, Terence Higgs, had seen it too, and hurled himself after it in hot pursuit. Potter was faster than Higgs, and for a couple of seconds it looked as if the game was over, but Flint threw himself into Potter's path and blocked him.

'Foul!' howled the Gryffindors.

Hooch reprimanded Flint and gave Gryffindor a free shot at the Slytherin goal posts. Lee Jordan, a friend of the Weasley twins and therefore biased, gave the commentary for the match and cried, 'Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I'm sure, so a penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinnet, who puts it away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor still in possession.'

But the Snitch was.... gone.

He saw Potter dodge a bludger that came dangerously close, when it happened. His broom gave a sudden lurch. He jumped as Potter nearly toppled off. It happened again. It looked as if his broom was trying to buck him off.

No one yet had noticed that something was very wrong with Potter's broom, as just in this moment Slytherin scored. The Slytherins jumped and cheered while the crowd in the other stands kept silent.

Then everyone seemed to notice at once, and from everywhere people were pointing up to Potter, whose broom was now rolling over and over in the air, so that he was only just managing to hang on. Then his broom gave a wild jerk and he slid off it, holding fast with only one hand, dangling from it. He gaped open-mouthed at the spectacle. He had wanted the boy to disgrace himself, but if Potter fell from this height... he wasn't sure if even Madam Pomfrey would be able to mend him again.

Everyone was on their feet now, watching terrified as the Weasley twins attempted to pull Potter off his broom, but every time they came near it, it just jumped higher still. They started circling beneath him, obviously hoping they would be able to catch him if he fell.

Meanwhile Flint got hold of the Quaffle and scored. Five times. But no one even noticed.

A sudden commotion in the stand behind him captured his attention because Professor Snape seemed to be on fire and was frantically trying to quell the blue flames that grew up from the hem of his robes. He managed to put them out, and when he looked back at the pitch Potter had clambered back onto his broom and was speeding down towards the ground, suddenly clapping a hand over his mouth and hitting the pitch inelegantly on all fours. He thought Potter would be sick, and really! he coughed, but instead of bile something golden came out of his mouth and fell into his hand.

'I've got the Snitch!' Potter shouted and waved it above his head.

He fell onto his seat. Had anyone ever heard of someone catching the Snitch by swallowing it?

But it made no difference; Gryffindor had won by one hundred and seventy points to sixty.

--------------------

Dear Mother,

Yesterday was the first Quidditch match of the season and Gryffindor won, because Potter swallowed the Snitch! I mean, is that allowed?

Please tell Father that I would have caught the Snitch the right way if I had been allowed to play.

Your son, Draco Malfoy

P.S. Can I have a Nimbus Two Thousand? Please? For Christmas?

P.P.S. Can I come home for the Christmas holidays?

--------------------

Christmas holidays were approaching fast now, and the first snow fell. Down in the dungeons it was bitter cold. The fireplace in the Slytherin common room was constantly fired by the house-elves and in front of it it was warm and cozy, but in the far corners there was an icy draught.

Greg, Vince and Pansy were constantly talking about Christmas. They were all hoping for new brooms, especially Pansy, who had never owned one before, but had developed a real knack for flying. He tried to distract them by quipping jokes about Potter being replaced by a wide-mouthed tree frog in the next Quidditch match, but no one seemed to think it really funny (all right, the joke had been lame). When they didn't talk brooms, Pansy was describing her new dress robes in detail, which made all the boys, except him, groan and go away.

They were all sure they would go home for Christmas. Or rather, all but he. He had no news from home regarding the holidays. His mother in her letters never referred to anything he wrote to her and only seldom answered his questions.

Thankfully, on the penultimate school day he finally received a letter from home telling him his mother would pick him up at the station the day after tomorow. He was giddy with joy.

'I do feel so sorry,' he said that day in Potions, 'for all those people, who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas because they're not wanted at home.' Especially, he thought, as he himself might easily have been one of them.

He quickly looked over at Potter and bit his lip, but the boy didn't seem to have heard him. Crabbe and Goyle, who didn't know about his situation (how could he have told them that the Malfoy heir might not be welcome in his ancestral mansion?), thought he was referring to Potter and chuckled.

When they left the Potions classroom, the corridor was blocked by a large fir tree. Two enormous feet were all to be seen from the one carrying it, but they were enough to let him recoil in disgust. He never had overcome his horror of Hagrid.

Ronald Weasley stuck his head through the branches and asked, 'Hi, Hagrid, want any help?'

'Nah, I'm all right, thanks, Ron,' puffed the giant.

'Would you mind moving out of the way?' he asked.

He and the other Slytherins were a little late for their next class as they had to go all the way to the hothouses for Herbology after Potions.

'Are you trying to earn some extra money, Weasley? Hoping to be gamekeeper yourself when you leave Hogwarts, I suppose - that hut of Hagrid's must seem like a palace compared to what your family's used to.'

The redhead was always so unpleasant to him - from their very first meeting - that he loved taunting him with his family's financial situation. Got to him every time, too.

Weasley spun around and grabbed his robes above his chest, ready to fling him to the ground and pound on him, when Professor Snape cut him short.

'WEASLEY!'

The bigger boy let reluctantly go of him.

'He was provoked, Professor Snape,' said Hagrid. 'Malfoy was insultin' his family.'

'Be that as it may, fighting is against Hogwarts rules, Hagrid,' countered the Professor, 'Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley, and be grateful it isn't more. Move along, all of you.'

The Slytherins pushed through the tree.

'I'll get him. One of these days I'll get him -' he heard Weasley say through gritted teeth as he left. He smirked, although he felt a little worried. Weasley was quite strong, he had noticed.

--------------------

The next day they left for home. They were all in high spirits and singing Christmas carols during the train ride, so time passed quickly and before they knew it they had reached London. When they said good-bye on the train, Pansy and Millicent kissed him on the cheek and even shy Blaise Zabini smiled at him. Greg and Vince punched him playfully and promised to write to him with news about their brooms.

The first thing he saw on stepping to the platform was Snotty, as usual with a handkerchief knotted around his nose (his cold hadn't become any better apparently), heading for the luggage compartment. Then he spotted his mother and ran towards her, laughing.

'How good to have you back, dear,' she said, rising a hand to stop him from jumping, and kissed his forehead as usual. When he looked up at her he registered with a pang that he had nearly forgotten how beautiful she was. He started telling her all about the last few months away from home and she patiently smiled at him while they waited for the house-elf to reappear with his trunk.

When they portkeyed into the Manor's entrance hall she sent him to his room, promising him he would be allowed to dine with his parents this evening. He was disappointed to lose her company so soon - he had been in the midst of his retelling of the infamous Quidditch match - but obediently went to freshen himself up.

His room seemed much smaller than he remembered it. He walked around, touching things and reacquainting himself with home. In the corner beside the window stood his broom in its stand and he took it out, caressing its smooth handle, admiring the neatly stacked twigs of its tail. It might not be a Nimbus Two Thousand, but it was his and he loved it dearly. And perhaps, who could know, he would own a Nimbus soon...? He imagined Potter's face when he would overtake him on his new broom and dive for the Snitch in a daring manoeuvre, heard his house applaud him, Lee Jordan shouting his name as the one who made the match... He sighed and jumped onto his bed, broom in hand. Soon he was asleep, a happy smile on his face.

'Master! Oh, young master's late. Master Lucius will not like that. Hurry, hurry!'

Pitty was shaking his shoulder, yammering loudly.

'Wha -' he yawned.

'Young master's to have dinner with parents tonight!' she exclaimed, wringing her hands.

Startled, he jumped from his bed and ran towards the wardrobe, already unbuttoning his robes.

'Why didn't you wake me up in time?' he asked desperately, shrugging his robes and slipping on his second best dress robes.

'Pitty not knows young master's sleeping,' she squeaked, handing him a comb.

He quickly adjusted his hair and ran out, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridors.

When he reached their private dining room his parents were already seated. He came to a halt, sliding the last few feet, and stopped in the open doorway. His father greeted him with raised eyebrows.

'Hogwarts doesn't seem to have done anything for your manners,' he remarked coolly.

'Father,' he murmured and lowered his head, 'I'm sorry, I fell asleep.'

'Sit down, don't keep us waiting.'

He slid on his seat and the elves started serving the soup course.

His father didn't speak to him again during the meal, showing his dislike for his behaviour, and he was hardly able to eat anything, his stomach in knots, although he was starved.

After the pudding his father addressed him again. 'You are allowed to leave now. I will see you tomorrow afternoon in my study. Four o'clock sharp. Don't be late again.'

As he left with a whispered 'good night' his mother nodded at him. She seemed a little worried. Why was it, he thought, that he always managed to upset his father? There was nothing in this world he craved more than his father's love and respect, but it was so hard to gain. He did not look forward to their meeting.

--------------------

As usual, he woke up early the next morning although none of the elves had awakened him. He went to his bathroom, no sea-serpent to taunt him here, and went through his morning routine. The mirror didn't speak to him.

When he came back to his room he found his breakfast ready on the table before the fire. He took his solitary meal and thought of Vince, Greg and Pansy. He found he missed Hogwarts. He even missed Potter, being so used to spying on the Gryffindor table to see what he and his gang were up to.

After breakfast he took his Comet and went for a ride. It was good to sit on his own broom again, but flying was no fun without company. When he came back his lunch was waiting for him, but he had no real appetite. The afternoon was looming before him.

As his appointed time approached, he left his room early. The family portraits on the walls seemed to be pointing and whispering, but when he looked at them sharply they went mute. Before the great double door of his father's study he dried his sweating palms on his robes and knocked.

'Enter!'

His father was already waiting for him, for once not occupied with something else.

'So, you've managed to make a complete mess of the Potter-affair, I've heard,' his father said when he stood before his desk.

He swallowed nervously.

'He was already with Ronald Weasley when I met him, Father,' he said (he didn't think it wise to mention their earlier meeting at Madam Malkin's). 'And they just didn't like me. Weasley laughed about my name.'

'He laughed?!' said his father with raised eyebrows, 'Like his father young master Weasley doesn't seem to know what's good for him, then.'

'No, Father.'

His father put his fingertips together and spoke across his steepled hands.

'And then Potter bested you in everything you tried.'

'I'm better in Potions than he is,' he protested. 'And in Astronomy, I suppose.'

'You suppose?'

'We don't have Astronomy together, Father. But I'm really good in Charms, and in Transfigurations, too. I don't think he's as good as I am.'

'We will see that at the end of term. And you'll better be right, Draco. But do you think I let you have flying lessons just so you could be outmatched by a half-blood who's never sat on a broom before?'

'He's a natural, Father, everyone says so. And it's not my fault that they made an exception for him and took him on the Quidditch team in first year.'

'Not your fault,' his father said considering. 'A Malfoy, Draco, never waits for a chance to happen. He makes his own chances. And do you know why that is, my son?'

He shook his head.

'Because a man, who is master of his fate never has to say 'it's not my fault'. It's a weak excuse and not a very believable one. I don't want to hear that from you again.'

'No, Father,' he whispered.

'Well, then. It can't be helped. You may go now.'

He took a deep breath and chanced a last look at his father. His father watched him like Professor Snape watched one of Longbottom's potions, he thought with deep regret. He tried to smile, failed pitifully, and retreated. His father didn't smile back.

--------------------

On Christmas Eve his parents gave a great banquet. And, to his delight, all his friends were accompanying their parents. They were seated at the table with the adults and therefore had to behave properly, but later they were allowed to leave and have their dessert in a small room for themselves where they feasted on plum pudding, baked apples, nuts and ice cream.

He showed everyone his old broom and they were suitably impressed. And later his mother handed him a decorated basket holding festively wrapped parcels with presents to give out to his friends.

The girls, Pansy and Millicent, got beautiful silver bracelets, shaped like little snakes with delicately crafted scales and emerald eyes, that were charmed to bite on their own tails when attached to the wrist, and would come slithering back when lost.

The boys, Vince and Greg, got scarves in their house colours and with a Slytherin emblem, whose little snake would say: 'I belong to Vincent Crabbe!' (or Gregory Goyle), when someone else tried to pick it up.

They had a great time.

On Boxing Day he hardly could suppress his excitement. He was to have breakfast with his parents at a late hour because they wanted to sleep late after the party last night, and after that: presents! He was eyeing the parcels under the tree when he entered the private dining room, but couldn't make out the familiar shape of the desired broomstick. He fidgeted with his toast while his parents were drinking their tea. When he finally was allowed to have a closer look at all the colourful packages, he swallowed with disappointment. No Nimbus Two Thousand for him. He got a beautiful new cauldron made of unbreakable glass and a set of matching phials for potions, though. Unfortunately, he would not be allowed to use it at school as school rules prescribed pewter cauldrons for students - but he could always use it at home, he comforted himself.

Then there were books, several jumpers, a fur-lined cloak with matching hat and gloves and a fine-crafted astrolabium that moved by itself when so told, every planet humming on another note.

He gave his father a handcrafted little silver bowl containing quick-dry ink in a deep shade of black he had made himself in Potions, and his mother a crystal phial with toilet water scented of winter roses, also brewed by himself - after class and with Professor Snape's permission. They accepted his presents in good grace, and seemed to be rather pleased.

After that the holidays drudged along, and after New Year he was fairly pleased to be going back to Hogwarts.

As it turned out, everyone had got a new broomstick but him. Greg and Vince had a Cleansweep Seven each and Pansy even a Twigger Ninety - a very flashy model and quite swift.

--------------------

As the weeks passed, the weather turned rather nasty and endless rain was dribbling from a cloudy grey sky. That didn't keep the Quidditch teams from practice though, as the next house match, Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff, was looming on the horizon. This time Professor Snape would be refereeing, and the Slytherins nourished some hope that there would be no unfair favouring of Gryffindor for once.

One rainy afternoon he was about to enter the library to bring back some books and check out new ones, when Neville Longbottom, who was just leaving, ran into him. Greg and Vince - although forever complaining that he spent far too much time reading - were accompanying him for lack of something better to do (they had pondered going down to the Quidditch pitch to spy on the Gryffindors, who had practise, but their natural disinclination against water had spoilt that plan). his books went flying as he nearly toppled over from the impact.

'Hey, Longbottom! Watch it!' he said irritably.

'S-s-sorry, M-M-Malfoy,' the boy spluttered, and bent down to help him retrieve his books.

Greg, had had the same idea, and he banged their heads together, when grabbing for the same fat volume lying sprawled on the floor. Longbottom shrank back as if threatened and landed on his fat backside.

'Really, Longbottom,' he said, 'I've no idea why a little bunny rabbit like you has been sorted into Gryffindor. Aren't they supposed to be brave, or so I've heard?'

'Rumours,' mumbled Greg, still rubbing his head and handing the book to him.

Vincent stepped closer to the unlucky boy and stretched out his hand to help him up. Longbottom shrank back into the corner, where he carefully got to his feet, supporting himself on the wall. His eyes, wide and tearful, never left them as if he suspected them of doing something terrible to him the moment he turned away.

'S-s-sorry,' he mumbled again and squeezed by them, just to stumble anew across one of the books still lying around.

The Slytherins broke into laughter and he said, 'As you've obvious problems sorting out your legs, let me help you!'

He grinned mischievously. Pointing his wand at the oaf he said, 'Locomotor mortis!'

With a SNAP! Longbottom's legs fixed themselves together and couldn't be separated again.

'Oh! I've done it!' he cried enthusiastically. 'I've always wanted to practise this one!'

Longbottom turned tail and bunny-hopped - with surprising speed and astuteness - along the corridor towards Gryffindor tower.

'Look!' he said, looking after him. 'Much easier for him. Not one stumble.'

Vince and Greg howled with laughter, and a few Ravenclaw Fifth-years, just leaving the library, shook their heads, but he could see that they had a hard time suppressing their grins.

On the day of the match, when he and his friends entered the stand (they were a little late this time, as this game wasn't going to be as exciting as the first in which their house had participated), the last free seats were behind a row of Gryffindors, in fact Potter's friends, Longbottom, Weasley and Granger.

'I've never seen Snape look so mean,' Weasley just told Granger. He could not help overhearing it. 'Look - they're off.'

While taking seats behind them he 'accidentally' poked the annoying boy in the head with his elbow (after all Professor Snape was his favourite teacher).

'Ouch.' Weasley complained.

'Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn't see you there.' he said, then grinned broadly at Vince and Greg. 'Wonder how long Potter's going to stay on his broom this time? Anyone want a bet? What about you, Weasley?'

The boy didn't answer, as Professor Snape had just awarded Hufflepuff a penalty because George Weasley had hit a bludger at him.

The Slytherins grinned happily at each other. It was, perhaps, this happiness that started him on a dangerous course he had otherwise avoided.

'You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor team?' he asked loudly to add insult to injury, while on the pitch Professor Snape awarded Hufflepuff another penalty. 'It's people they feel sorry for. See, there's Potter, who's got no parents, then there's the Weasleys, who've got no money - you should be on the team, too, Longbottom, as you've got no brains.'

Longbottom turned around, his round face a bright red.

'I'm worth twelve of you, Malfoy,' he stammered.

At this the Slytherins could do nothing but double over with helpless laughter. The idea that the fat and clumsy little prat thought of himself in terms of being worth twelve Malfoys was just too funny.

'You tell him, Neville,' said Weasley without turning around, his eyes fixed on the pitch.

'Longbottom, if brains were gold you'd be poorer than Weasley, and that's saying something,' he answered, hitting two flies with one patch.

'I'm warning you, Malfoy - one more word -' Weasley started, but was interrupted by Granger who exclaimed: 'Ron! - Harry -!'

'What? Where?'

On the pitch Potter had gone into a spectacular dive, making the crowd gasp and cheer.

'You're in luck, Weasley, Potter's obviously spotted some money on the ground!' he joked.

Before he knew what happened to him, Weasley had tackled him and was wrestling him to the ground. The last he saw before the other boy's fist hit him in the face was Longbottom clambering over his seat to join in. He just hoped Vince and Greg would take care of him, as he had his hands full. They rolled around on the ground, Weasley on top of him, cursing and punching each other. He tried to wriggle free, but Weasley was not only stronger but also far heavier than he. They both pulled no punches, but Weasley was in the better position, and his fists hit more often and with more power than his. Over the blood pounding in his ears he could suddenly hear the crowd explode in cheers and whoops, then Granger's shrieking. Weasley didn't react to anything; he was too busy beating the living daylight out of him. Finally, to his immense relief, Vince's and Greg's faces appeared over Weasley's shoulders and they lifted him bodily off him. Greg had to hold Weasley back, who struggled to get back at him as Vince helped him up. He was shaking all over (his first real fistfight!) and was thankful for Vince supporting him, as he wasn't too sure his legs would carry him.

'Get lost, Weasley,' Greg snarled and shoved the redhead towards the exit, 'or I'll put you to sleep like your little mate here.'

Only now he saw Longbottom lying on the ground, out cold. He looked at Greg and swallowed. Greg shrugged.

'Are you all insane?' they suddenly heard Granger cry out. 'Someone call Madam Pomfrey! Oh, Neville -' she sank down to her knees next to him and shook his shoulder, then looked helplessly up again. 'Oh, Ron!'

But people around them had finally noticed, and Professor Sinistra, the Astronomy teacher, parted the crowd, climbing down the stairs from the seats higher up the stand and took matters in hand. Shaking her head, she cast a Levitate spell on Longbottom's lifeless form and manoeuvred him out and down, heading back towards the school's hospital wing. Weasley, squeezing Granger's handkerchief under his heavily bleeding nose, Granger, and he, who was supported by Vince and Greg, followed her silently, by her orders.

Madam Pomfrey took one look at Longbottom and had him put to bed at once, while he sat down on a bed, his knees giving way now that the rush of the fight left his body. Granger and Weasley kept standing by the door, murmuring with each other and throwing baleful glances towards the Slytherins.

As it turned out, Longbottom was only unconscious and would be fine as soon as he came to. Then Madam Pomfrey took care of Weasley's nosebleed and sent the Gryffindors on their way.

'And now to you, Mr Malfoy,' she said angrily, stemming her fists into her hips. 'Always good for trouble, you Slytherins.'

'He jumped me!' he protested weakly, but she paid him no heed and gripped his chin, lifting his face.

'Let me see that face of yours. Oh, you'll have a beautiful black eye there. Serves you right for fighting at a sports match. Nothing much can be done for that. You just put some ice on it and you'll be fine.'

He was sent away.

As they left the infirmary, Greg put his hand on his shoulder and Vince said, 'You've done well, giving that git some back.'

'Yeah,' said Greg, 'it's not easy to fight back when you're pinned like that and he's bigger than you.'

When they entered the Slytherin common room Pansy flung herself at him and cried, 'Oh, Draco, you've been so brave! Fighting all those ghastly Gryffindors!'

'Well,' he said, 'it actually was just Weasley -'

But she didn't listen to him, and Greg and Vince just grinned and winked, and so he let them lead him to a chair by the fire and they all gathered around him for a first-hand account of Slytherin versus Gryffindor, the unlucky Quidditch match for the moment forgotten.

When he went to the bathroom that night, the mirror exclaimed: 'Oy, Draco Malfoy! You've got a shiner there!'

He grinned around his toothbrush and bubbled, 'Ushouldaseeroweasy!'

'Pardon me?' said the mirror.

He rinsed his mouth and repeated, 'You should have seen Ron Weasley! I gave him a bloody nose!' He grinned delightedly.

'Hm,' mused the mirror, 'open combat? Not very Slytherin-style....'

'Well,' he said, 'he started it, you know.'

'Ah, I see. Have a fiery temperament, those Gryffindors, haven't they?'

'True,' he nodded and went into the shower.

--------------------

Dear Mother,

I have a black eye. Ronald Weasley attacked me during the Quidditch match, but I gave him a nosebleed, although he is bigger than me. Greg and Vince said I've done well and Pansy has put ice on my face.

Please tell Father that I've been in a fistfight! Was he ever in one when he was at Hogwarts?

Your son, Draco Malfoy

P.S. Gryffindor won.

P.P.S. The Quidditch match.

--------------------

In the following weeks, while the weather turned from late winter to spring, he tried to concentrate on his studies. Although he found that his housemates paid him more respect due to his heroic battle against the evil forces of Gryffindor, he was not really keen to repeat the experience any time soon.

But one morning at breakfast he noted that Potter received a letter. This was such a rare event that it simply had to be investigated. So, on his way out he pretended to have a loose shoelace, and crouched down as close to the Gryffindor table as he dared to set it right.

'Hermione, how many times in our lives are we going to see a dragon hatching?' he could hear Weasley ask.

'We've got lessons, we'll get into trouble, and that's nothing to what Hagrid's going to be in when someone finds out what he's doing -' she answered.

But by then Potter had discovered him and shut them up.

'Dragon?' he thought, aghast, as he left the Hall. 'DRAGON?'

He had to find out more, there was nothing for it.

So, when the three Gryffindors hurried down to Hagrid's hut during morning break, they were followed by a stealthy Slytherin shadow.

Running from one hiding place behind a tree to another, he tailed them to Hagrid's hut and came warily closer as soon as they had all vanished inside. Circling the little wooden building he tried to peek into one of the windows, but they were all shut and heavily curtained.

If the giant indeed hid a dragon inside his hut, this could be very dangerous. The Warlock's Convention of 1709 had had very good reasons to outlaw the breeding of dragons in populated areas, as the beasts had a nasty habit of making a lunch out of their keepers. A fully grown Welsh Green or Hebridean Black could easily eat all of the Slytherin First-years for breakfast and be hungry again for lunch, when he would be prepared to start on the Second-years, with Professor Snape for dessert. He groaned. How right his father had been about giants and other non-Wizards being dangerous and not to be trusted!

Then he discovered a window with a tiny gap in the curtain and drew himself up the windowsill to peek inside. Potter, his friends and the giant were sitting around the table, watching something... something black with leathery wings, a long snout and glowing orange eyes. He gasped as the creature sneezed, sparks flying out of its nostrils. He nearly lost his hold and his boot scraped against the wall. At this, the giant looked up and straight at him.

'No, no, no, no!' He screamed inside, let go of the windowsill, dropped to his feet and turned tail. Fear gave him wings and he ran - dropping any thoughts of stealth and hiding - as he had never run before back to the school, to safety. Throwing himself onto the great stairs leading up to the Entrance Hall with his last strength, he finally dared to look back, panting. Miraculously, no one was following him with the intent of feeding him to the dragon in order to guarantee his silence.

Still breathing heavily, he dragged himself up the stairs and into the twilight of the Hall. His mind was spinning in circles. He wondered what he was supposed to do about this situation. Should he tell anyone? But whom? And would anybody believe him? Of course, if he told Professor Snape...? He would surely know how to handle this. On the other hand - now that he felt fairly safe again he could think more clearly - the dragon had not been really big, more the size of a big cat or a small dog, so perhaps it was not that dangerous yet? But how fast would it grow? If he told Professor Snape now and Hagrid hid the beast away somewhere in the Forbidden Forest, it would look as though he was making things up. Potter and his friends were, of course, not likely to back him up, and Hagrid... He shuddered at the thought of what the giant could possibly do to him. If he grabbed him somewhere where he was alone, no one would ever find so much as a knuckle bone of him, as he would have served as a perfectly tasty morsel for that black creature on Hagrid's table... No, better to wait and see how things developed, he thought. No one could hide a dragon for long.

In the following two weeks he took care to go nowhere alone and kept Greg and Vince at his side at all times. He saw Potter and his cronies going down to Hagrid's hut at least once a day during breaks or in the afternoon after classes from one of the windows in the classrooms or the Hall. When he caught them watching him, he was afraid they were up to something nasty. Of course they must know by now that he knew about their secret. Would they keep still and stand aside if something happened to him? Perhaps Potter would welcome this opportunity to be rid of him for good?

Sometime at breakfast by the end of the second week he noticed that Weasley was carrying his right hand wrapped up in a handkerchief. When he heard that the boy had gone to the hospital wing for treatment, he decided it would be safe enough to follow him there and find out more. They couldn't snatch him from under Madam Pomfrey's nose, could they? So, he told her he had come to visit and wanted to borrow a book from Weasley and she let him in without making a fuss, murmuring something about boys and dog-bites.

He found the redhead in the bed at the end of the row close to the windows -and Weasley was not at all pleased to have him visit.

'Malfoy!' he said, disgust colouring his voice. 'What do you want? Why did she let you in?'

'Told her I wanted to borrow a book,' he answered. 'Weasley, you're really a bloody idiot, you know that? A dog-bite, for sure! Why do you think dragons are forbidden, huh? Want me to tell Madam Pomfrey what really bit you?'

'Shut up, you git! It's not your business.'

'A dragon on the school grounds is anyone's business. You'd better do something about that soon. I'm not waiting for that beast to grow up and become really dangerous. I'll tell Professor Snape - or the Headmaster.'

'You keep your gob shut or you'll regret it,' Weasley threatened.

'We'll see who'll regret this in the end,' he said. 'I'd better take this; after all I've told her I've come for a book.' And he grabbed Weasley's Potions book from the nightstand before he left.

He shook his head as he wandered back to the dungeons. So the dragon was big enough already that its bite caused sufficient damage to require medical treatment. Why did those foolish Gryffindors always think rules were made just for other people but not for them?

When he reached his dormitory he threw Weasley's book onto his bed and something slipped from the pages. A letter!

Dear Ron, it said.

How are you? Thanks for the letter - I'd be glad to take the Norwegian Ridgeback, but it won't be easy getting him here. I think the best thing will be to send him over with some friends of mine who are coming to visit me next week. Trouble is, they mustn't be seen carrying an illegal dragon.

Could you get the Ridgeback up the tallest tower at midnight on Saturday? They can meet you there and take him away while it's still dark.

Send me an answer as soon as possible.

Love, Charlie

He felt decidedly relieved at this news. He just hoped Potter and his friends were smart enough to grab this opportunity. In any case, he would have to make sure himself on Saturday that the beast really left Hogwarts for good.

Come Saturday night, he was lurking in the shadows at the foot of the staircase of the tallest tower, waiting for Potter and Hagrid. He didn't mean to interfere; after all, he wanted the dragon gone. He was not even willing to let his presence be known to them, although he doubted Hagrid would try to feed him to his pet right in the middle of Hogwarts. He just wanted to make sure the animal was really going, so that he could feel safe again crossing the school grounds.

Unfortunately, he was intercepted by Professor McGonagall, who unexpectedly turned up in the corridor - tartan dressing-gown, hair net and all - as if she knew he would be there, and grabbed him by the ear.

'Detention!' she shouted. 'And twenty points from Slytherin! Wandering around in the middle of the night, how dare you -'

No way was he willing to accept this. It was not he, after all, who was keeping forbidden animals illegally on the school grounds, endangering everyone else.

'You don't understand, Professor,' he pleaded, 'Harry Potter's coming - he's got a dragon!'

'What utter rubbish! How dare you tell such lies! Come on - I shall see Professor Snape about you, Malfoy!'

And not heeding his assertions that he was telling nothing but the truth, she dragged him away, down to the dungeons again.

Professor Snape, although still awake and fully dressed, wasn't amused when she knocked at his door and shoved him towards the professor when he opened.

'One of your lot, Professor,' she said accusingly, 'hanging around at the staircase to the Astronomy tower - past curfew! I'll leave him for you to deal with, although I have given him detention already and taken twenty points from Slytherin.'

'Indeed, Professor McGonagall,' he said severely, eyebrows raised, 'it seems you have dealt with him already. What do you want me to do with him now?'

'Talk some sense into him, Severus,' she demanded, pulling her dressing-gown closer around her, 'and make him stop this ridiculous feud with Potter! I won't have my students molested.'

Professor Snape gave her a tiny somewhat condescending bow, and she swept off.

'Mr Malfoy again,' said Professor Snape, closing the door of his room.

He shivered.

'It's true, Professor,' he said unhappily, 'I'm not lying, really! I saw the dragon myself, in Hagrid's hut, two weeks ago!'

'The dragon? This sounds interesting, Mr Malfoy. Take a seat.'

The professor's private quarter was a square room illuminated only by the fire in the fireplace and a single candle burning on his desk where he had apparently sat reading, as a book was lying open on the desk top next to a steaming mug of tea. He sat on one of the leather chairs in front of the desk and unburdened his heart.

'- and so I just wanted to make sure the dragon was really gone and I'm sorry Professor McGonagall has taken points from Slytherin, but it's just not fair that Potter always gets away with everything!' he finished his tale.

Professor Snape had sat down at his desk and started scribbling on a piece of parchment when he had begun his account. Now he folded it and tapped it lightly with his wand, murmuring something. It vanished.

'I think, we can leave Mr Potter and his big friend to the attention of our capable Mr Filch, Mr Malfoy. You should have come to me right away. There's very little I can do for you now. You will serve the detention, of course. And your parents will have to be informed. Now go to bed and get some sleep. And I do hope this will be the last time you give reason for such an unpleasant performance.'

He hung his head.

'Yes, Professor,' he mumbled as he was let out of Professor Snape's room.

Only in the corridor did it occur to him that Professor Snape had not tried to talk him out of his feud with Potter.

The next day though didn't turn out too bad, as it seemed that Mr Filch had indeed caught Potter, Granger and Longbottom (of all people), but not Hagrid, coming down from the Astronomy tower. And apparently Professor McGonagall had taken fifty points each from them! That put Gryffindor in the last place for the House Cup and Slytherin on top again. And the Gryffindors were not at all happy about it. From being the most popular boy at school, Potter went to being the most detested one. Even the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs turned on him, and didn't bother to be quiet about it. On the other hand, the Slytherins, though annoyed that his escapade had cost them twenty points, were ready to forgive as long as Gryffindor had suffered most, and went clapping and cheering when they met Potter and his gang somewhere.

'Thanks, Potter, we owe you one!'

He felt that in fact they owed him, but didn't venture to drive home the point, being glad he had escaped the general disapproval that Potter had to endure. And seeing him, Weasley, Granger and Longbottom finally subdued and miserable nearly made up for the task at hand: writing home and telling his parents.

--------------------

Dear Mother,

Professor McGonagall has given me detention and I have lost twenty points for our house, but it was NOT my fault. Hagrid had a real dragon in his hut, I saw it, I swear, and I was only trying to make sure they really put it away.

Please tell Father that I'm really, really sorry and won't do it again, I promise.

But she has taken one hundred and fifty points from Gryffindor and now they are in the last place for the House Cup, isn't that fine?

Your son, Draco Malfoy

--------------------

His father's letter back the following Thursday was very strict, though, and ended on the note that they would be talking about this as soon as he came home again for the holidays. He was not looking forward to that conversation. Bloody Potter.

He buried himself in revision work for the exams that were due at the end of term. He also had to help Vince and Greg, who were not really fast learners, truth be told. About a week before the dreaded event he received a note at breakfast:

Your detention will take place at eleven o'clock tonight. Meet Mr Filch in the Entrance Hall.

Professor McGonagall

Bloody Potter, indeed. Why did the detention have to take place at night? he wondered, but promptly turned up on time, as ordered, to be met by a sneering Mr Filch. To his surprise the caretaker didn't lead him away at once to chain him up in the dungeons, but waited - for Potter and his gang! He, Granger and Longbottom had got detentions, too, and they were to serve them together. The other students looked at least as unhappy about it as he felt.

'Follow me,' said Filch, lighting a lamp and leading them outside. 'I bet you'll think twice about breaking a school rule again, won't you, eh?'

He felt sure he would think about it at least three times in the future before he did anything forbidden again.

'Oh yes.... hard work and pain are the best teachers if you ask me...' Filch continued. 'It's just a pity they let the old punishments die out... hang you by your wrists from the ceiling for a few days, I've got the chains still in my office, keep 'em well oiled in case they're ever needed... Right, off we go, and don't think of running off, now, it'll be worse for you if you do.'

He had thought about exactly this at the man's words, but refrained from it now, using all his strength of will.

They were marched off across the dark grounds to Hagrid's hut under a brightly shining moon, occasionally covered by drifting clouds. Longbottom sniffled. Potter and Granger were very quiet for once. He felt a little bit comforted that they seemed to be at least as frightened as he was.

Then they heard the gamekeeper shout: 'Is that you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get started.'

His heart sank. Potter, on the other hand, seemed to experience an uplifting of spirits, so Filch hissed at him, 'I suppose you think you'll be enjoying yourself with that oaf? Well, think again, boy - it's into the Forest you're going and I'm much mistaken if you'll all come out in one piece.'

That was it. His nerves gave and he stopped dead in his tracks. Longbottom moaned pitifully.

'The Forest?' he repeated. 'We can't go in there at night - there's all sorts of things in there - werewolves, I heard.'

Longbottom clutched Potter's sleeve and choked.

'That's your lookout, isn't it?' Filch said gleefully. 'Should've thought of them werewolves before you got in trouble, shouldn't you?'

He stared speechlessly at him. This was madness! They were all going to be murdered!

Hagrid strode towards them, carrying a crossbow and a quiver of arrows, a huge boar hound at his side.

'Abou' time,' he said, 'I bin waiting fer half an hour already. All right, Harry, Hermione?'

'I shouldn't be too friendly to them, Hagrid,' said Filch, 'they're here to be punished, after all.'

Between the two hostile adults and with no friend at his side, he felt like he was going to faint.

'That's why yer late, is it?' said Hagrid to Filch. 'Bin lecturing them, eh? 'snot yer place ter do that. Yeh've done yer bit, I'll take over from here.'

'I'll be back at dawn,' answered Filch sneering, 'for what's left of them.' And he turned and started back to the castle, taking his lamp with him.

He turned towards Hagrid.

'I'm not going in that Forest,' he said, panic audible in his voice, but he didn't care.

'Yeh are if yeh want ter stay at Hogwarts. Yeh've done wrong an' now yeh've got ter pay fer it,' the giant answered fiercely.

'But this is servant stuff, it's not for students to do. I thought we'd be writing lines or something,' he tried to argue. 'If my father knew I was doing this, he'd -'

'- tell yer that's how it is at Hogwarts,' Hagrid interrupted him. 'Writing lines!' he growled. 'What good's that ter anyone? Yeh'll do summat useful or yeh'll get out. If yeh think yer father'd rather you were expelled, then get back off ter the castle an' pack. Go on!'

He couldn't move. He stood there, staring at the giant challenging him, and tried to decide what would be less painful: being murdered by a werewolf or facing his father's wrath? Finally he dropped his gaze, defeated.

'Right then,' said Hagrid, 'now, listen carefully, 'cause it's dangerous what we're gonna do tonight an' I don't want no one takin' risks. Follow me over here a moment.'

At the edge of the forest he pointed down a narrow track that was winding into the darkness between the shadowy trees.

'Look there,' he said, 'see that stuff shining on the ground? Silvery stuff? That's unicorn blood. There's a unicorn in there bin hurt badly by summat. This is the second time in a week. I found one dead last Wednesday. We're gonna try an' find the poor thing. We might have ter put it out of its misery.'

'And what if whatever hurt the unicorn finds us first?' he asked, shivering.

'There's nothing that lives in the Forest that'll hurt yeh if yer with me or Fang,' said Hagrid. 'An' keep ter the path. Right, now, we're gonna split inter two parties an' follow the trail in diff'rent directions. There's blood all over the place, it must've bin staggerin' around since last night at least.'

'I want Fang,' he demanded quickly. By now he didn't know anymore whether he was more afraid of the 'summat' in the Forest or of being alone with the giant.

'All right, but I warn yeh, he's a coward,' said Hagrid. 'So me, Harry an' Hermione'll go one way an' Draco, Neville an' Fang go the other. Now, if any of us finds the unicorn, we'll send up green sparks, right? Get yer wands out an' practise now - that's it - an' if anyone gets in trouble, send up red sparks, an' we'll all come an' find yeh - so, be careful - let's go.'

Into the dark they went, and a little way into the Forest they reached a fork where Hagrid, Potter and Granger took the left path, while he, Longbottom and Fang went along the right one.

There was a bit of shuffling around as neither of them wanted to be going in front, but finally they settled for going all three abreast - Fang in the middle flanked by the two boys, who each kept a hand on his collar.

Never had a night been darker and more filled with mysterious whispering. The moon shone between the quivering branches, throwing slivers of pale light on their way that made the blackness lurking around even darker and more frightening. The leaves were rustling and the trickling sound of running water was to be heard not far away.

When they came to a spot where the path tightened and wouldn't allow them to go side by side they hesitated for a moment before Longbottom with Fang went first, closely followed by him, who was glancing over his shoulder. The path behind them lay in impenetrable darkness, but for a second he thought he saw something or someone cloaked and hooded - a shadow even blacker than the choking blackness around him - crossing the path in their back in a slithering movement. He yelped and jumped at Longbottom, clutching the back of his cloak and trying to melt into the other boy for cover. Longbottom cried out and flicked his wand. A flurry of red sparks went up into the night sky.

'What? Where?' shrieked Longbottom and grabbed Fang around the neck.

The boar hound gave a choking sound and struggled for air, shaking them off. Both boys landed in a tangle on the mossy ground.

'What is it? Where is it?' cried Longbottom, brandishing his wand like a sword.

He was terribly embarrassed. The path behind them was empty and nothing, neither werewolf nor other creature, was threatening them.

'Oh, Longbottom, you oaf,' he groaned.

Then they heard something trashing through the undergrowth and a faint light emerged between the trees. Hagrid came crashing through the branches to their rescue.

'What's goin' on?' he demanded and picked the shaking Longbottom up from the ground.

'Malfoy jumped me,' he explained, quavering.

He got up, brushing leaves and moss from his cloak.

'It was just a joke, you nutter,' he declared defiantly. Never would he admit that he had panicked at the mere sight of a shadow.

'You -' growled Hagrid and grabbed him by the shoulder, shoving him into the thicket beneath the trees back to where he had come from.

When they reached Potter and Granger, who were waiting silently on the path, Hagrid said: 'The little brat sneaked up behin' Neville an' frightened him so that he sent up the sparks. Thought t'was funny, he did. We'll be lucky ter catch anything now, with the racket you two were makin'. Right, we're changin' groups - Neville, yer stay with me an' Hermione, Harry, you go with Fang an' this idiot.'

Then he added in a whisper to Harry, but he could hear him well, 'I'm sorry, but he'll have a harder time frightenin' you, an' we gotta get this done.'

So he followed Potter with Fang into the heart of the Forest, for once quite content to leave the lead to the other boy. They walked and walked, seemingly for hours, and now he could see splashes of silvery unicorn blood on the ground and amidst the tree trunks, getting thicker and more frequent the farther they got. Finally the path became so narrow and the surrounding trees so thick that they could hardly go on any longer. Potter held out his arm to stop him, who dragged along behind him, and murmured, 'Look -'

Right in front of them he could see a clearing through he branches of an ancient oak tree and on the ground was lying something gleaming silvery white: the unicorn. He gasped softly. There was something heartbreakingly sad about the beautiful animal lying wasted and lonely on the cold ground.

They stepped carefully closer, Potter still in front, when the bushes on the opposite side of the clearing started to quiver and rustle and out came the black hooded figure he thought he had seen before. They froze. It crawled across the ground towards the fallen unicorn - and there was something decidedly uncanny about its movements - and when it had reached its prey it lowered its head and a soft slurping sound emerged from the clearing. The thing was drinking the unicorn's blood!

This was about as much as he was able to take.

'AAAAAAAAAARGH!' he screamed and bolted, Fang in tow.

He couldn't see anything; his eyes, momentarily used to the light on the clearing and the faint gleam of the unicorn's body, were thoroughly blinded by the blackness of the path before him as he ran back to where they'd came from. He could not hear, either; nothing but the blood pounding in his veins making a thrumming noise in his ears. He ran in total blind and deaf panic, ran until he thought his lungs were bursting and his hammering heart was about to jump out of his chest - and ran SMACK! into something.

He had no breath to scream again, he just gave a whimpering sound, scuttled backwards and landed flat on his back. Panting, he looked up and straight into Hagrid's maddened face.

'You again!' he howled, 'Where's Harry?'

Only then did he look back, convinced that Potter must be right behind him. But the path he had come bolting down was empty.

'Yrch! You useless - come here, Neville, you take that coward right back ter the castle, take the lamp, an' I go looking fer Harry.'

With that he left them, trashing down the path he had come from, Hermione in his wake.

Longbottom sat down beside him, waiting for him to regain his breath.

'You all right?' he asked hesitantly.

He nodded, still panting. After a while he was ready to get up and again they walked side by side, Fang in the middle.

'I'm not a coward,' he said after they had walked for some time.

Longbottom hmphed.

'I thought Potter was right behind me. Wonder what became of him?'

'You better pray nothing happened to Harry, Malfoy,' said Longbottom. 'Anyway, what were you running from?'

He shuddered.

'It was.... it was this thing again.... I thought I saw before.'

'When you jumped me?'

'I didn't jump you, Longbottom,' he said, regaining his dignity, 'I was just--'

'Scared, yeah.'

'Well, so were you and you didn't even see it, did you?'

Longbottom hmphed once more.

They did not speak again and when they reached the castle they parted without good night, Longbottom scrambling up the stairs to the Gryffindor tower, he descending into the dungeons.

He did not fall asleep at once and when he did his dreams were unpleasant.

His only comfort in the days to follow was the fact that Potter looked rather morose and even his friends' attempts at cheering him up seemed to fail. No one knew what had happened back in the Forest during that nightly detention when he had left Potter behind. No one except Potter, his friends, and, of course, Hagrid. And they weren't telling. So the time until their exams passed relatively quietly, and even he was too busy revising and helping on Greg and Vince (who seemed to have even a less academic streak than Longbottom) to think up new things to taunt Potter.

--------------------

Dear Mother,

I'm not a coward. Everyone would have run away when they were attacked by a black thing. And why do they say that students are not allowed to go into the Forest and then they make them go into it at night? It's so UNFAIR!

Please tell Father that I have served my detention all right. Potter and I have found the unicorn, but it was dead. The black thing was drinking its blood. Eeew!

Your son, Draco Malfoy

P.S. Potter came back all right, too.

--------------------

On exam day the weather was uncomfortably hot and nary a breeze moved the curtains in the open classroom windows. The written exams took hours, in which they had to answer hundreds of questions on virginal parchment and with Anti-Cheating quills. He was sure he was doing pretty well, but Greg and Vince were throwing him desperate glances.

During the practical Charms exam they had to make a pineapple tap-dance across the desk for Professor Flitwick, and he added a nice little cane which he transfigured from a toothpick for the pineapple to whirl around. Greg later told him that his pineapple had refused to dance, and instead had marched right across the desk until it dropped from the edge and smashed on the ground.

In Transfigurations Professor McGonagall made them turn a mouse into a snuff-box, which he managed effortlessly, creating a nice silver box with a Slytherin emblem on top (the mouse's tail serving as a little snake). Vince was not so lucky, as his mouse became a four-footed egg-cup instead.

In Potions they had to brew a Forgetfulness Potion which was really easy, as they had done the opposite - the Remembrance Potion - just a week or two before the exams and the ingredients were the same. One just had to add them in the opposite order.

After the History of Magic exam, which was next to Potions the easiest for him, they were free to enjoy the sunshine for the rest of the day. The prospect of a week without classes ahead before they got their results and would start into the summer break was increasing their joy as they ran out cheering with the rest of their fellow students.

The next day Potter didn't turn up for breakfast, neither for lunch nor dinner. Weasley and Granger were looking wan and worried. Same the following day. He couldn't help but wonder what had happened to him and sent Greg, Vince and Pansy out to hear around and gather news. A lot of rumours were floating around: Potter had been hit by a lethal curse and was wasting away in the infirmary; he had been expelled and sent back home in shame for breaking school rules again; he was serving an overlong detention trying to make up for his abysmal result in the Potions exam. Other news had it that Potter had saved a valuable bauble and killed Professor Quirrel, who had attempted to steal it (which was highly unlikely in his opinion) - but nobody knew anything concrete.

Finally he resigned and instead started to look forward to the end-of-year feast - where Slytherin was to be awarded the House Cup, seventh year in a row.

--------------------

Dear Mother,

Exams are over now and I think I've done well. I transfigured a mouse into a real nice snuff-box in Transfigurations, but when I wanted to take it, Professor McGonagall wouldn't let me. I wanted to show it to you. You would have really liked it.

Please tell Father that Slytherin has won the House Cup again!

Marcus Flint says it will be handed over at the end-of-year feast and the Great Hall will be decorated in our colours and I'm sooo glad I'm in Slytherin and not in Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw or Gryffindor!

Your son, Draco Malfoy

P.S. Is Father still angry with me because of the detention?

--------------------

On their last evening everything Flint had told them became true. When they came down into the Hall it was decked out in their house colours, green garlands fastened with silver bows draping the walls, green candles floating in the air and a large green banner showing the silvery Slytherin serpent covering the wall behind the High Table. His heart swelled with pride and joy as he took his seat next to Greg and Vince at the Slytherin table. Pansy was blinking repeatedly and sniffing as if she was short of shedding tears.

However, just when everyone was seated and the celebrations about to begin, a small figure showed in the entrance and slipped towards the Gryffindor table, taking a seat next to Granger and Weasley without looking at anyone: Harry Potter! The soft murmur of the students talking among themselves died down for a few seconds before swelling up to double volume again.

Next Professor Dumbledore arrived at the High Table, and the students went silent.

'Another year gone!' he started his speech, 'And I must trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller then they were.... you have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts...

Now, as I understand it, the House Cup here needs awarding and the points stand thus: in fourth place, Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points; in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; Ravenclaw have four hundred and twenty-six and Slytherin four hundred and seventy-two.'

A storm broke loose at the Slytherin table. Everyone was cheering, whooping and stamping their feet. Marcus Flint threw his hat into the air, Greg and Vince were clapping each other on the shoulders like mad, while Pansy and Millicent clung to each other screeching. He himself got so enthusiastic he started banging his goblet on the table to add to the general din. Ha, his father would be proud of him! He needn't fear the still-to-come talk about his detention so much anymore.

'Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin,' said Dumbledore. 'However, recent events must be taken into account.'

The room went very still. The Slytherins' smiles faded a little.

'Ahem,' said Dumbledore. 'I have a few last minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes....

First - to Mr Ronald Weasley for the best played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor house fifty points.'

Weasley's face was beet-red - an ugly contrast to his carrot hair, he thought unmercifully - as the Gryffindor table broke out in cheers. Gryffindor was now in third place.

'Second - to Miss Hermione Granger...' Dumbledore continued, 'for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor house fifty points.'

Granger buried her face in her arms, crying, if he wasn't much mistaken. The Gryffindors were beside themselves. Still in third place, but very close to Ravenclaw now.

'Third - to Mr Harry Potter...' said Dumbledore. The room went deadly quiet. '...for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor house sixty points.'

Potter looked stunned, he thought clinically. He quickly did his maths and came up with a result he didn't like at all. The Gryffindors went berserk. They were now even with Slytherin.

Then Dumbledore raised his hand and the room gradually fell silent.

'There are all kinds of courage,' he said smiling. 'It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr Neville Longbottom.'

Longbottom was white with shock - and for once he could very well sympathise with him as he felt the same (though for other reasons) - as he was tackled by a whole pile of people hugging him, while Potter, Weasley and Granger cheered them on and the Gryffindor table exploded in a storm of yells and whoops.

Four hundred and eighty-two. Gryffindor had four hundred and eighty-two points. Which meant: ten more than Slytherin.

'Which means,' Dumbledore called over the storm of applause, for even Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were celebrating the downfall of Slytherin, 'we need a little change of decoration.'

And he clapped his hands. Before his eyes the green became scarlet and the silver became gold. The Slytherin serpent was replaced by a huge Gryffindor lion. He saw Professor Snape shake Professor McGonagall's hand in congratulation, smiling bravely. He saw Marcus Flint sit down stunned. Vince and Greg looking at each other shrugging and shaking their heads. Millicent and Pansy still clinging to each other, crying now on each others' shoulders.

He stared ahead of him, lost to the world. Not that he had ever so much as doubted his father's word, but just now he could see how very right he had been with everything he'd told him. There was no such thing as fairness; it was all a lie. And he hated them all. Hated them with a power that made him regret not being able to cast 'Crucio!' on all of them. He hated Dumbledore, the scheming old fool. He hated McGonagall, who never saw anything good in any of the Slytherins. He hated Flitwick and Binns and Hooch and Hagrid, who all rejoiced in Gryffindor's victory while the best of them, Professor Snape, sat silent and forgotten at the side. And most of all he hated Harry Potter. Potter, who had rejected him to befriend a Muggle-lover and a Mudblood and had cost Slytherin their well-earned award.

That night, the bed curtains tightly shut, a cushion over his head, he cried. He had not cried the very first night feeling all alone and insecure. He had not cried when Potter got his broom and was made Seeker. Nor when Weasley had punched him in the face or when he had to face the dangers of the Forbidden Forest without a friend at his side. But now, betrayed by all those who were supposed to be trusted and respected by him, he cried. Slytherin had lost the House Cup in his first year at Hogwarts after six years in possession - and he would have to face his father with the news.

When their exam results came out the next day, he didn't wonder any longer that despite his best efforts he didn't come out top of his year (Granger did), but only in the second place. Admittedly that was better than Potter and Weasley and way better than Vince and Greg and especially Longbottom, but it was totally unfair. Granger had bested him in all classes (even History of Magic) but Herbology (Longbottom's only strong subject and he was first there), Potions and Flying. And in Flying he was considered only second best after Potter.

So it was a sad journey home for the Slytherins, who could hear the Gryffindors partying in their compartments all along the train.

--------------------

As he parted from his classmates when the train had pulled into platform nine and three-quarters, they bravely tried to cheer each other up, and Pansy whispered in his ear that they sure would do better next year. But he knew that he had disappointed his father's expectations and so he walked over to his waiting mother with the carefully measured steps of someone going to his doom.

She greeted him coolly, unfazed by his silently pleading eyes, and portkeyed with him to the Manor where she sent him to his father's study right away.

His father was standing at the window watching the sun setting on the Malfoy estate. He slowly turned around when he entered and watched him with an expression of deepest discontent.

'Second?' he said unbelievingly.

He stared down at his shoes, not daring to face his sire's stare.

'Second!' his father repeated, in a cutting voice. 'Bested by a Mudblood in all subjects but one. Bested by someone, who did not even know she was a witch before she received her letter. And after all the lessons you've had before. After all the teachers I've paid from your fifth birthday on to give you a head start when you entered school. Sometimes I can't believe you are my--' He stopped, shaking his head.

'And a detention! Not only were you breaking school rules - you were caught doing so!' he continued, scathingly.

He looked up shortly, but at once lowered his head again, studying the ornaments in the rich carpet covering the dark wooden floor.

'And then - to top it all! - Slytherin lost the House Cup to Gryffindor because Harry Potter performed some last minute miracle, accompanied by Arthur Weasley's son and the Mudblood that has managed to top the finest in pure-blooded wizarding offspring, while my son - my son! - was left gaping at the sidelines with the rest of the numbskulls! What have you to say to this?' he demanded.

He was shaking. 'I'm sorry,' he whispered.

'Sorry?' his father repeated, his voice now as sharp as a razor blade. 'You well should be. You will be. No lazing around for you during these holidays, no gambolling around in the garden playing with gnomes, no flying and no visits from your friends. Instead, you will study. You will start tomorrow and work every day repeating this year's lessons and preparing the ones for next year, when you will finish your exams with a result worthy of my name.'

He gazed at his father and protested with a trembling voice: 'It wasn't my fault....'

'I told you I didn't want to hear that from you ever again, Draco!' his father answered in cold fury and then, with a sudden flick of his wand, hissed: 'Cruc-'

His father bit his lip so hard, a thin line of blood run down his chin.

He backed away in terror as he understood what his father had nearly done to him. Numb, cold and trembling he stared at the tall blond man in front of him. The very next moment he was swooped up in his father's arms and cradled against his chest.

'I'm sorry,' his father murmured into his hair, 'I'm so sorry, Draco, my son...'

He started to weep, not caring any longer about conduct or self-control, wrapping his arms around his father's neck and hiding his face at his shoulder.

'I tried, Daddy, I really tried,' he sobbed, 'but none of the teachers or the other houses like Slytherins and everyone likes Potter and he doesn't like me, too....'

'Shhh,' his father murmured, 'do you think I want to punish you, Draco? Do you think I like to hurt you? It hurts me more than you. But you have to understand that we cannot afford to be weak. We cannot afford to be bested, especially not by those who are not our equals, not of our kind. Not in times like these, when everything we stand for is challenged. We must be strong for what is coming.'

He cupped his chin and tilted his head so that he could look into his eyes.

'Do you understand that?'

He nodded weakly, tears streaming down his cheeks.

'What's coming?' he asked.

'Hard times, Draco. Times of change and challenge. Muggle-lovers and Mudbloods are trying to brush us aside, aided by fools like Dumbledore and that Weasley. The Ministry is performing raids on those who are not on their side, and none of us who keep to the old ways are safe. Not even in our own homes! But our house will come into its own again, and no Weasley will dare to laugh when our name is mentioned. And when this happens I need you by my side, my son. I want you by my side when the pride of house Malfoy is restored, and we laugh into their faces at last!'

All he understood and cared for was his father holding him and telling him he wanted him by his side (although the image of Potter shoved off his pedestal was not a bad one). Never had he felt so safe and protected as now when his father carried him out of the library and along the corridors to his own room, where he lowered him gently onto his bed and tugged the blankets around him.

'Sleep, my son,' his father said, brushing away a few strands of wayward hair and placing a cool palm on his forehead.

He snuggled deeper into the comfort of his bedding and sighed. The last he saw before he fell asleep was his father's shape outlined by the light from the hall outside.

--------------------

This night he had the bad old dream again: The shadows of his parents towered above him while he was lying in bed. He didn't feel well. They were talking to each other, and he knew they were talking about him, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. He started to cry and his father left, his mother following him. He was all alone.