Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy had been raised in the shadow of ambition. The Malfoy name, polished by generations of prestige, weighed heavily on his slim shoulders. His father's expectations hung over him like a perpetual thundercloud, waiting to strike at any sign of softness or deviation from the pure-blood ideals. Lucius Malfoy didn’t believe in affection; he believed in power, control, and legacy.
So when Draco stood on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters for the first time, the iron-wrought arch behind him and the gleaming scarlet Hogwarts Express before him, he felt less like a boy beginning a grand adventure and more like a pawn being slid to the center of a chessboard.
"Make Slytherin proud," Lucius had said with a curt nod. No hug. No warmth. Narcissa had kissed Draco lightly on the temple, her ice-blonde hair brushing his cheek, but even she looked torn between maternal worry and family duty.
Draco heaved his trunk onto the train and turned to glance back. Lucius was already walking away.
He sat alone for a while, too proud to seek out company and too anxious to be still. The compartment door slid open eventually, and a round-faced boy holding a toad peeked in, mumbled an apology, and vanished again. Draco sighed, flopping back against the cushioned seat.
The second visitor was far more intriguing.
A boy with wild black hair, round glasses, and clothes at least three sizes too big stepped hesitantly into view. He looked an utter mess, and Draco instinctively raised his chin.
"Well then, are you coming in or not?" he said, standing.
The boy blinked. "Er... yeah."
"I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy," Draco said, placing his hands proudly on his hips.
A pause. The boy looked wary, but not unkind. "Hi, I’m Harry."
Draco tilted his head. "You don’t have to talk to Weasleys if you don’t want to, you know," he added, flicking his gaze toward the redhead lingering in the corridor.
"He's alright," Harry replied, stepping inside. "He helped me find the platform."
"Suit yourself," Draco said coolly, sliding back into his seat. "But be careful who you make friends with. You don’t want to end up with the wrong sort."
Harry frowned. "I can figure out the wrong sort for myself, thanks."
He bumped shoulders with Draco as he passed, plopping into the seat across from him. The redhead came in behind, oblivious to the exchange.
"Who’s this, then?" he asked as he dropped next to Harry.
"Malfoy. Draco Malfoy," Draco said, turning slightly to look out the window, nose wrinkling at the dirt smudge on Weasley’s face.
"Blimey," Weasley whispered to Harry, "be careful with his lot. I’ll tell you later."
Draco's ears twitched. He kept his eyes on the passing countryside, but couldn't help snapping back, his voice silky and cool. "Funny, Weasley, I didn’t hear Harry asking you for advice on his friends. Maybe worry about your rat before you start whispering about other people’s families."
Weasley's face went pink. "At least I’ve got a family worth talking about, Malfoy. Not everyone needs to buy their way into being important."
Harry raised his hands before Draco could shoot another insult back. "Alright, that’s enough. If you two want to duel, maybe wait until we’ve had lunch first, yeah?"
Both boys fell quiet, Weasley grumbling under his breath and Draco stiffly turning back to the window.
"Anyway," Weasley said, leaning toward Harry, "is it true? Have you really got the... you know?" He gestured vaguely at Harry's forehead.
Draco perked up. What was he on about?
Harry brushed up his fringe. The lightning-bolt scar was unmistakable.
Harry Potter.
Of course. Father had gone on about him all summer. The Boy Who Lived would be starting Hogwarts this year.
"Wicked," Weasley breathed.
Draco rolled his eyes. If it had just been him and Potter, he might have been impressed. But he would not, under any circumstance, mirror a Weasley.
The conversation droned on, mostly Weasley prattling about his family, his rat, his many siblings. Draco tuned most of it out, only half-listening while occasionally sneaking glances at Potter.
He hadn’t expected Potter to be like this—unknowledgeable, curious, raised entirely away from magic. Draco frowned. What sort of childhood had Potter endured to not even recognize a Chocolate Frog?
A trolley stopped outside the compartment with a rattle.
"Anything from the trolley, dears?"
Draco reached for his robe pocket, but Potter beat him to it, producing a fistful of coins.
"We'll take the lot."
Draco's brow shot up. He was even more surprised when Potter passed the sweets around and told him to pick whatever he liked.
For a boy with no clue about wizarding culture, Potter was surprisingly... generous.
Time passed. Draco judged Weasley silently while listening to Potter stumble through wizarding basics. At one point, Potter admitted that in the Muggle world, photographs didn’t move. Draco's head turned sharply at that.
No wonder.
Draco was half-focused on a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans when the compartment door opened again.
A girl stepped in, bushy hair bouncing, eyes sharp.
"Has anyone seen a toad? A boy named Neville's lost one."
She glanced at Weasley's raised wand and slid into the seat next to Draco.
"Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it then."
Weasley attempted a spell. It fizzled uselessly.
Draco smirked faintly.
The girl then noticed Potter. "Oh! You're Harry Potter! I read all about you in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and—"
Draco stifled a groan as she cast oculus reparo on Potter's damaged glasses and introduced herself.
"I'm Hermione Granger. And you are?"
"Malfoy. Draco Malfoy," he said, nose lifting slightly. Her surname wasn’t wizarding. Mudblood , he thought automatically—but the word felt like his father’s, not his own.
"Ron Weasley," Ron added quickly.
"Pleasure. Do you know what House you’ll be in? I’m hoping for Gryffindor. I think I might die if they put me in Slytherin. That was You-Know-Who's House."
Draco bristled. There was nothing wrong with Slytherin.
Before he could snap something biting, Hermione continued briskly, "You should change into your robes. We’ll be arriving soon. You've got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you know?"
With that, she was gone.
Ron hastily scrubbed at his nose.
"Slytherin is one of the best Houses at Hogwarts," Draco declared, mostly to Potter. "You’d do well to remember that."
As expected, Draco was sorted into Slytherin. He marched proudly to the Slytherin table after the Sorting Hat had barely touched his head. He sat tall, eyes scanning the rest of the first years being sorted, taking silent note of names and Houses.
Weasley went to Gryffindor and joined a table already roaring with cheers. Granger, too, landed in Gryffindor, and though Draco scoffed to himself, he grudgingly admitted it suited her boldness. She was probably already plotting how to be top of their year.
When Potter approached the stool, Draco leaned forward, heart pounding a little harder than it should have. The Sorting Hat seemed to hesitate. Potter was whispering—Draco squinted, trying to read his lips. What was he saying?
Finally, the Hat shouted, "Gryffindor!"
Draco blinked. He wasn’t sure what he had wanted the result to be. Slytherin, perhaps. They could have figured each other out. But Gryffindor? Of course it had to be Gryffindor. And yet, the feeling in his chest wasn’t quite disappointment.
In the weeks that followed, Hogwarts turned out to be far more than he had imagined. The castle was alive—portraits chatted, staircases moved, and the ghosts floated about like gossiping relatives.
But nothing was more distracting than Potter.
No matter how many snide remarks Draco made, or how pointed his criticisms were, Potter didn’t flinch. He didn’t take the bait. He just gave Draco that same calm, inquisitive look. It made Draco burn with an odd frustration.
And yet, he found himself watching Potter more often than he liked to admit. Watching the way he struggled to catch up in class, the way he laughed with Weasley, the way he somehow kept stumbling into adventures and emerging with that ruffled hair and those bright green eyes shining.
The incident with the Remembrall had been a turning point. Draco had snatched it from Longbottom out of boredom, only to have Potter soar into the air after it like a natural. McGonagall’s eyes had practically glittered when she saw him fly. Potter got to be a Seeker. As a first year. It gnawed at Draco in ways he didn’t know how to explain.
Halloween came. The feast glittered with pumpkins and sweets, but Draco’s eyes were drawn to the Gryffindor table. Granger was missing. Odd. Especially since she was never late for anything.
Then came the chaos. Professor Quirrell burst into the hall, shouting about a troll in the dungeons before collapsing. Students screamed, and prefects rallied the Houses. Draco’s group was herded back toward the dungeons, but he couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder—toward Potter.
Days later, he noticed the trio slipping away during dinner. Draco leaned toward Nott.
"Don’t wait up."
He followed them in secret, trailing them down to Hagrid’s hut. He crouched by a window, watching in confusion as a tiny dragon—an actual dragon—hatched before their eyes. Draco barely had time to react before Hagrid looked up and spotted him.
He bolted, heart hammering, straight to Professor McGonagall.
And yet, despite his best efforts to get Potter in trouble—efforts he justified in his own mind as necessary—Draco ended up with detention too. In the Forbidden Forest, of all places. He had gone to McGonagall not just out of spite, but out of a twisted sense of responsibility. He couldn't stand seeing Potter sneak off into danger with a Mudblood and a blood traitor, flaunting rules like they didn’t matter. Draco believed Potter was better than that. He needed better friends—friends who understood what it meant to be a proper wizard. Friends like Draco. If Potter would just see that, maybe things could be different.
He trudged alongside Hagrid, Potter, and the others, hating every second. The silvery liquid on the ground glinted like moonlight—unicorn blood, Hagrid explained.
They split into pairs. Of course, Potter ended up with Draco.
“I want Fang, then,” Draco muttered.
They walked in tense silence through the trees, the fog curling around their ankles like the cold fingers of something unseen. Draco's heart pounded with a prickling sense of fear that he tried desperately to hide. This was madness. Sending students—children, really—into a place known for its horrors to investigate what was killing unicorns? He thought Hagrid must be utterly unhinged. Dragons were one thing, but this? This was the Forbidden Forest, and it was forbidden for a reason. Every crack of a twig beneath his feet made him flinch, every rustle in the distance set his nerves alight. He couldn't believe this was real. He was a Malfoy, not a bleeding monster-hunter.
“Wait until my father hears about this. This is servant stuff. We should be writing lines, not hunting monsters.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were scared, Malfoy,” Potter said.
“You’re stupid if you aren’t,” Draco snapped. “You wouldn’t know—you grew up with Muggles. If you were from a real wizarding family, you wouldn’t be laughing.”
“Believe me, I’m not.”
Then they saw it—a hooded figure hunched over the body of a unicorn. Draco froze. Fang bolted. Draco tried to follow but slipped, catching at Potter’s sleeve.
“Run!” he hissed.
But Potter wasn’t moving. His hand clutched at his forehead. The scar, Draco realized.
Draco watched in horror as the hooded figure lifted its head, slithering forward with an eerie, unnatural glide. Its face was hidden, but its intent was clear—it was focused on Potter. Thank Merlin. Or maybe not. Draco couldn't move. His legs felt rooted to the forest floor, a frigid chill running through him as his mind whispered, This is how I die. Right here in the dark. All because a half-giant thought this was an appropriate punishment.
Then—thunder. Hooves. A centaur burst through the trees like a living statue of fury and starlight, muscles rippling beneath his coat, a bow raised and eyes blazing. He threw himself between them and the figure. The hooded creature reeled back, retreating into the shadows as if chased by the moonlight itself.
“Harry Potter. You are known to many creatures here. The Forest is not safe—not for you.”
“What was that thing?”
The centaur’s voice was deep and ancient, echoing like wind through the trees. “It is a monstrous thing to slay a unicorn. The blood of a unicorn will keep you alive, even if you are an inch from death, but at a terrible price. A cursed life.”
“Who would choose such a life?” Potter asked.
“Can you think of no one?”
“Do you mean, that thing—that was Voldemort?”
The moment Potter spoke the name, Draco felt his head spin. He knew all about the Dark Lord. He’d heard from his father—spoken of in reverent, hushed tones. The Dark Lord was to be feared and respected. But now, after witnessing that thing in the forest—feeding on unicorn blood—Draco wasn’t so sure. Surely that was beneath someone as powerful as the Dark Lord. Right?
That night in bed, he stared up at the ceiling of the Slytherin dormitory, his mind refusing to quiet. He thought of the unicorn. Of the blood. Of Voldemort.
Afterward, Draco went straight to bed. He lay awake that night in the Slytherin dormitory, the green-tinted light from the underwater windows dancing on the ceiling. His hands were folded tightly over his chest as if to keep his thoughts from spilling out where someone might see them.
He kept seeing the unicorn’s still body. The slithering shadow. And Potter—just standing there.
Firenze had looked at them like they were children, like they didn’t understand the true danger they were in. And maybe they didn’t. But Potter hadn’t run. Draco couldn’t stop thinking about that. Was Potter brave, or just completely reckless? Maybe both. Still, there was something about the way he had held his ground, even with that thing bearing down on him, that had lodged itself in Draco’s chest and refused to budge.
He thought about what the centaur had said—about unicorn blood, about cursed life, about Voldemort.
Draco had been raised to believe Voldemort was powerful. Imposing. Worthy of fear and reverence. But now... he wasn’t sure. Feeding off unicorns like some scavenger in the woods? That didn’t sound like the powerful Dark Lord his father admired.
And Potter—raised by Muggles of all people—had stood in front of that horror without flinching.
Draco had been told his whole life that bloodlines mattered most. But Potter made him doubt that. And worse, that doubt felt... like a betrayal. Like something he’d have to lock up tight.
Because if Lucius Malfoy ever suspected his son admired the Boy Who Lived—even a little—it would not go over well. There would be consequences.
So Draco didn’t say anything. Not to Crabbe. Not to Goyle. Not even to Pansy.
And just like that, at eleven years old, Draco Malfoy learned he would have to keep a secret—from his father, of all people.
He was supposed to trust Lucius. Trust the Malfoy name. Trust power, legacy, and the certainty of being right. But lying there, beneath the green glow of the lake, Draco felt something shift. He knew that if his father ever found out he admired Potter, even a little, even in the smallest, most reluctant way, it would mean punishment. Disappointment. Maybe worse.
And Draco wasn’t ready for that. He wasn’t ready to lose the only version of safety he’d ever known. But he also wasn’t ready to stop feeling what he was feeling.
So he folded the thought away, tucked it behind polished words and practiced sneers.
It was the first secret Draco Malfoy ever kept.
And it belonged to Harry Potter.
As spring melted into summer, Hogwarts seemed to come alive with blooming flowers, warmer breezes, and exams looming like a cloud over everyone’s heads—except, of course, for Hermione Granger, who was disturbingly excited about them.
Draco pretended not to care about exams, though he definitely did. He studied in quiet corners of the common room, always making sure to scoff at anyone who looked too serious about it. Secretly, he’d started taking notes in a tidy, color-coded system.
Potter, Weasley, and Granger were always together. Always whispering. Always plotting. Draco told himself it was ridiculous. But he still watched.
The rumor mill exploded after the trio was caught out of bed again—this time for real. Something about the third-floor corridor, a massive chessboard, and a dog with three heads. And Potter... Potter had ended up in the hospital wing. Again.
Draco didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to. The whole school was buzzing, but Draco had his own conclusions.
Typical Potter, being the talk of Hogwarts.
At the end-of-year feast, the Great Hall glittered with candles and House banners, and Draco found himself, once again, watching Potter. It was beginning to feel like a habit he wasn’t proud of.
At the High Table, Dumbledore rose with a twinkle in his eye, and the Hall fell silent.
"To our brave first years, and to the completion of another remarkable term," he began, his voice echoing through the hall. He then listed the current House standings: Gryffindor in last, Hufflepuff in third, Ravenclaw in second, and Slytherin in first. The Slytherin table erupted in cheers.
Draco clapped hard, smug satisfaction pulsing through him. Of course Slytherin had won. Obviously. They were better than the rest.
Then Dumbledore lifted a hand. The room hushed. "Yes, well done, Slytherin. However, recent events must be taken into account. I have a few last-minute points to award."
Draco’s clapping slowed.
"First, to Miss Hermione Granger, for the cool use of intellect when others were in grave peril: fifty points."
Draco exchanged a look with Nott. What in Merlin’s name was Dumbledore on about? Maybe something to do with the troll on Halloween? There had been rumors... Draco wasn’t sure.
"Second, to Mr. Ronald Weasley, for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years: fifty points."
Draco’s mouth fell open slightly. Really? Chess? He could play chess. He didn’t see anyone tossing points his way.
"Third, to Mr. Harry Potter, for pure nerve and outstanding courage: sixty points."
That one, Draco could almost understand. Almost. He tried not to look, but his eyes flicked to Potter anyway. He was glowing.
"And finally," Dumbledore continued, "it takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but even more to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom."
Draco blinked. Longbottom? Really? He hardly seemed the type to stand up to anyone.
But that thought stuck. Draco had never had to stand up to anyone. He obeyed. He followed. He did what was expected. What would it be like—to choose differently? To defy? To be seen as brave?
As the Gryffindor banners unfurled and the Hall burst into cheers, Draco clapped slowly with the rest of the Slytherin table, though his hands felt a little numb.
Potter caught him watching again. Draco looked away first.
Draco stood on the platform amid the swirl of steam and chatter, his trunk at his side and his eyes fixed on the crowd. The Hogwarts Express waited, gleaming and red, just as it had nine months ago. But this time, something felt different.
He spotted Potter across the station, surrounded by Weasleys and Granger, laughing about something Draco couldn’t hear. Potter’s hair was messier than usual, if that was even possible, and his smile tugged at something behind Draco’s ribs.
Beside him, Theodore Nott nudged his elbow. "What are you staring at?"
"Nothing," Draco replied quickly, but his gaze didn’t move.
Nott rolled his eyes. "Sure. Come on. Let’s find a compartment before Crabbe and Goyle claim the last one and make it smell like stale sandwiches."
Draco gave one last look toward Potter before grabbing his trunk and stepping onto the train with Nott. The noise of students and luggage faded slightly as the door shut behind them.
As the train rattled along through the countryside, Draco leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, trying to lose himself in the motion. But his thoughts didn’t drift far.
He already missed Hogwarts.
But he missed Potter more.
And that was going to be a problem.