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Draco Malfoy is, has been, and always will be a bit of an attention seeker. Possibly, and maybe, even more than a bit and closer to a lot. It stems a little from the way he was raised – he constantly sought his father’s hard-to-gain approval, and he was accustomed to being spoiled and generally getting his way. Hogwarts was perfect for him, like a kick in the balls to bring him down from his proverbial throne.

(But not, like, hard enough to damage the future of the House of Malfoy. Oh, never. That’d be a Wizengamot court case for sure. Or possibly a visit in the dead of night and a quiet murder of the responsible party. That’s growing up around followers of the Dark Lord for you.)

When he comes to Hogwarts, his most-repeated phrase is, “It’s Malfoy.” He hates his first name, and starting a school miles away from his parents means a redesigning of his image – one in which no one calls him Draco.

"Why would anyone name their child such a hideous name? It's just so bloody pretentious, Merlin!" Malfoy complains to whomever is willing to listen. There’s usually some first year willing to trail along behind Malfoy and listen to his complaints, nodding or humming in agreement every so often. (Fred and George Weasley pay them behind Malfoy's back, so there are actually quite a lot of willing, ickle little firsties, but regardless, the arrangement is beneficial to everyone.)

Malfoy is also notoriously known for his grand entrances and exits.

"Slytherin!" Malfoy announces as he throws open the doors of the Great Hall. Everyone turns to stare at him, like they do every morning. 

"Morning, Malfoy. Get out of the doorway," Harry Potter grumbles as he comes into the Great Hall, shouldering past the blond, who's still standing in front of the doors, looking both pompous and pleased. This is also a daily occurrence. 

Most eyes are on the pair, blatantly and shamelessly eavesdropping.

"Well I'm sorry, Potter, didn't realize your humongous Boy Who Lived ego couldn't get through the doorway without pushing me," Malfoy snarks. He moves aside nonetheless.

The Boy in Question rolls his eyes behind his, admittedly, very ugly wire frames. (Though, he'd take what he could get - he was blind as a Basilisk.)

"You should have used that line when Lockhart was still teaching," Potter replies. "Merlin knows his ego was big enough to fill the Great Hall," he adds as he walks over to the Gryffindor table.

At this point, most students turn back to their breakfast, to continue their eavesdropping in a more covert manner.

The Slytherin frowns in thought. "You’re right, Potter, I should have. I concede this time!" he calls, walking over to his own House table.

After a quick breakfast, Malfoy rises from the table and walks to the doors. The advantage of coming late and leaving early is that many people are still blearily sipping pumpkin juice and eating their pasties the entire time, so Malfoy still has a solid audience for his exit.

He opens the two doors and spins on his heel to face the Great Hall. 

"Slytherout!" he announces, before slamming the doors dramatically in front of his figure. Some of the first years startle, but everyone else just sighs and goes back to their food. It’s been happening every day since Malfoy's first year.

When Malfoy turns around, he finds himself face to face with Professor Snape.

"Mr. Malfoy," he drawls. "Good morning."

"Morning, Professor, how are you?" Malfoy greets. A slightly self-righteous smirk is affixed on his face, but inside, he can’t deny that even he’s a little intimidated by the Potions professor.

"I'm just fine," Snape answers in a clipped tone. "Now if you'd move aside, I might actually make an appearance at breakfast this morning," the professor says with a murky expression on his face that could either promise death or just indicate his under-caffeinated status. Malfoy always finds it hard to tell, even with the man as his godfather.

"Of course, sir," Malfoy says earnestly. His tone is slightly mocking, but as he would (probably) never dare to speak in such a tone to his godfather, professor, close family friend, and man with ties to the Dark Lord, he can get away with it.

Perks of being a Malfoy. 

He ought to write a book.

"August 25, 1991


Dear Friend Acquaintance(?),


I am writing to you because one Potions genius mentioned you would listen and understand and didn't try to kill that Muggle at that raid even though you could have. Please don't try to figure out who this one Potions genius is because then you might figure out who I am, and I really don't want you to do that. I will call people by different names or generic names because I don't want you to find me. I didn't enclose a return address for the same reason. I mean nothing bad by this. Honest.


I just need to know that someone out there listens and understands and doesn't try to kill Muggles even if they could have. I need to know that these people exist."

Actually, on second thought, he’d rather not. Far too emotional. He can’t afford to spend so much time wasted on self-reflection and self-pity. Good Merlin.

He moves aside as the heat of Snape’s glower is starting to make his skin crawl, as though he’s developing a sunburn just from his professor’s white-hot glare. Ah, to have such delicate porcelain skin.

(At least he’s fit, he thinks to himself, satisfied. If you can’t be tan, be tough! – no, actually, he takes that back – that sounds a bit like the slogan of a product that alludes to Ministry approval, but is likely utter shite. The pallor of his skin is probably the wonderful benefit of having family so inbred you don’t know who’s an aunt and who’s a cousin. For Fawkes’ sake.)

Malfoy finds himself wandering around the school, scowling at anyone who runs and threatening to take House points (perks of being a Prefect) as he waits for class to begin so he can make his way to the dungeons for Potions.

The solitude isn’t something Malfoy generally enjoys so early in the morning, who’s usually tended to gravitate to unfortunately maudlin thoughts anytime before noon, but his Housemates are all incredibly snappish and disgruntled at breakfast, and Malfoy prefers not to pick in-House fights so publically and early in the morning. He stays away.

----------

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle find themselves in the courtyard one afternoon. After arguing with Professor Moody, Malfoy turns, hears an incantation, and suddenly finds himself on the ground, and very, very small.

His first thought is to check to see if his dick is okay - priorities, right? He has a duty to carry on the Malfoy name.

But it isn't okay, because he doesn't have one. He doesn't even have clothes, which would have been just this side of mortifying if not for the fact that he was now a small, white, ferret.

"What the Fawkes?" he hears Pansy shriek. He climbs up her leg and under her sweater. Maybe he'd finally be able to feel up her boobs - they felt fake when he'd groped them over her clothes, but he wanted to see for himself.

Yes indeed, fake as Lockhart's career.

He scurries down to the ground again, and when he looks up, he sees Harry Potter laughing at him.

"Hey Malfoy," Potter and Weasley laugh. Or, Weasley sneers, and Potter laughs. As it turns out, if you insult someone's family, they become surprisingly hostile. That's probably why Malfoy and Potter are so amicable - Potter has no family that can be insulted, so Malfoy has nothing to hold against him.

(Well. Except for his aunt, uncle, and cousin. Though if what Malfoy’s heard is true, they seem like the sort of people who would probably get off on being given any sort of attention, good or bad, so he’d rather not give them the satisfaction.)

In response, Malfoy runs up Potter's leg under his trouser, just because he'd probably never get the chance to feel up Potter any other way. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

…Which, actually, makes Malfoy out to sound awfully unfortunate in matters of romance and other such matters. He’d like to take the time now to announce that yes, he gets laid, but maybe not as regularly as he’d like. Or by the people he’d like. Or – well. He’s getting off track. For anyone reading: ignorance is strength. Let’s not delve into his sexual life (or lack of one, his mind snarks unhelpfully).

"What the Fawkes?" Potter exclaims, batting at his leg. Alright, ow. 

Malfoy runs back down his leg, and there she is: Professor McGonagall herself.

She Transfigures him, and he finds himself human again. With, miraculously, all of his clothes on. Shame. He'd been working out all summer and had been looking for an excuse to show off his gains. Also, his dick. He couldn't really just whip it out and show it to Potter, all casual like. How was he supposed to bang the Chosen One otherwise? They were sort of rivals, you know - there were rules. He almost makes a face in disgust at the thought.

He shrugs mentally, and absentmindedly palms his dick as discreetly as possible to make sure it was doing okay. It was.

"Thanks, I guess," Malfoy mumbles. He stands up as dignified as one can after spending several minutes as a rodent and attempts to smooth out his hair.

McGonagall's face looks all pinched and wrinkled, like she had aged forty years, gotten Muggle plastic surgery, and bitten into a lemon, all in the span of five minutes. Malfoy fights back a grin. Muggle Studies was somewhat useful after all – he’d originally signed up for the course to shock his father, but some of the information was good for everyday use. References and jokes, and whatnot.

"I guess?" she sniffs disapprovingly. She probably liked him better as a ferret. Figures.

"I wasn't really looking forward to going to class," he replies. "Also, how else was I going to feel up Parkinson, Professor?" Malfoy asks as innocently as possible. Inside, he is on the verge of spasms trying to hold back his laughter.

McGonagall looks positively murderous, and a lot like she's getting ready to confiscate his Prefect badge. So that's why Malfoy is so thankful when his Mortal Enemy, Theodore Nott walks past, arrogant as ever.

"Her tits are fake, you prat," Theodore Nott drawls, slapping the back of Malfoy's head as though Malfoy is supposed to be aware that it was common knowledge.

Malfoy freezes for a moment, shocked that anyone would deign to touch his carefully crafted hair – like he is constantly reminding everyone, he is a Malfoy - but then finds his senses and runs after Nott.

"I know that! I wanted to feel for myself!" he calls. The other Slytherin turns around and smirks.

"You've never slept with her?" Nott's smirk drips with smug satisfaction. Malfoy wants to hex it off.

Malfoy's face morphs into a look of disbelief. "And you have?" 

Theodore Nott shrugs in nonchalance. "It’s not particularly difficult or anything. You must have an awful reputation, Draco, if you can't get Pansy in bed," he comments, before walking away again.

However, Malfoy’s half-convinced Nott’s taken a lazy look at the general area of his crotch, which bodes well for the both of them.

Malfoy pulls out his wand, almost regretfully. What a shame he has to hex his Housemate in public. Before dinnertime, even.

"Levicorpus!" he says lazily. Nott swings upside down, suspended in the air by invisible forces.

"What the Fawkes? Go bang Potter, or something!" Nott cries in anger, his face rapidly turning red.

"Trust me, I'm trying." Draco says like he repeats the phrase often. "And it's not Draco, it's Malfoy – and you know it," the blond says, shoving Nott as he walks past. "The spell wears off in two minutes!" he calls over his shoulder.

"You're Malfoy and you know it," a group of second year Muggleborns sings to the tune of Sexy and I Know It (which is most definitely not a song Malfoy knows, since he's a Pureblood and listens to the Wizarding Wireless, and only that, obviously.).

"I'm Malfoy and I know it," he sings back as he walks past them. The second years swear they see him do a bit of a shoulder shimmy, but that's never been confirmed nor denied.

----------

Two minutes before Charms starts with the Gryffindors, Malfoy strides in, Crabbe and Goyle following dutifully behind him.

“Slytherin!” He proclaims as he walks in the door. Flitwick looks up with a start, nearly jumping out of his seat at the unexpected shout.

“Good morning, Mr. Malfoy, if you’d please take a seat,” he squeaks before clearing his throat and shuffling around papers, flustered.

“Morning,” Malfoy returns, because while he can be rude or dismissive, his parents (inbred though they were) certainly raised him to have manners. (They’re helpful when Death Eater associates come by the manor, too, so Malfoy can suck up just enough so that he’s not kidnapped and Imperio’d in the dead of night – but that’s a story for another time.)

Class crawls by. Malfoy Charms a paper aeroplane to repeatedly hit Potter on the head until he plucks it out of the air and opens it.

He watches furtively as Potter unfolds the paper and watches for his reaction. He’d drawn a stick figure portrait of himself in a crown standing on top of Potter. It was childish, sure, but he really was bored. Flitwick had already taught them Scourigify – in first year, no less – but apparently review for OWLs meant learning arbitrary Charms that you knew like the back of your hand.

Potter turns around and immediately makes eye contact with Malfoy. Malfoy winks at him suggestively, just to push his buttons. Potter only rolls his eyes and turns back around, which causes Ron Weasley to turn around like a chain reaction and glare daggers into Malfoy’s gaze, who only deigns to smirk in reply, with a lewd hand gesture aimed at him.

Only seconds later, a paper aeroplane from Potter flies over to him. Excellent, Malfoy’s winning him over already. He unfolds it.

“What the Fawkes, Malfoy?” is the only message inscribed into it. Malfoy doodles another stick figure of himself and animates it, returning it to the Gryffindor.

When Potter opens it, he turns around. “I don’t want a handjob from you,” he hisses as quietly as he can.

The entire class is openly gawping at their exchange, and Flitwick’s oblivious lecture facing the chalkboard continues unheeded.

Malfoy scrawls out a response, which ends up being so sexually explicit that it’s really not safe for work and therefore he can’t tell anyone the specifics – and sends it out to fly across the Charms classroom before reaching Potter.

Suddenly, the bell sounds. A flurry of movement is the only thing that cuts off their Charms professor, and everyone rushes to the door ready for lunch.

However, they don’t reach the door before Malfoy. He stands in front of the door, facing the crowd of hungry Slytherins and Gryffindors eager to escape such close proximity to one another.

Malfoy makes a flourishing and grand gesture.

“Slytherout!” he shouts, throwing the door open behind him and spinning on his heel to exit the classroom.

Behind him, everyone groans, and he can practically see the rolling of eyes boring into his back. As he’s walking down the hall, he can hear Potter’s enraged yelp as he receives Malfoy’s note. “What the Fawkes, Malfoy!”

He grins to himself. It’s not a no, so he’ll be preparing to see Potter in the Astronomy tower at midnight.

Mission accomplished.

Looking around the hall, he makes sure he’s alone. He fist pumps the air silently. “Yes!” he whispers.

----------

Back in the Great Hall, Potter’s mentally wondering if he could get away with saying “Slytherin” when he sticks his dick into Malfoy. The blond’s had more of an influence on him than he was aware of, he realizes with a groan.

He sends a quick note to Malfoy to ask just that. He’s sitting three tables away and spearing potatoes like they’re the most vicious of enemies.

When Malfoy gets his note and reads it, he looks up and scans the room for Potter immediately.

He says only one thing:

‘What the Fawkes?”

(It’s not a no.)