Chapter Text
It is a fine morning in Wiltshire. Truly. Ten rows of perfectly trimmed hedges overlook miles upon miles of grassy slopes as far as the eye can see.
I stand at the helm of my balcony, grinning ear-to-ear. I cannot wait for the day to begin.
Why, you ask? Oh, it’s only the most important day in a wix’s young life: my eleventh birthday. Today, I graduate from childhood. I get my Hogwarts letter, my pet, and.. dare I even think about it? My wand.
Unable to stand in one spot for very long, I throw myself across the room and land squarely before my grand oak wardrobe. This is an important day, especially for a child of such importance and renown. I must look my best.
I take precarious time choosing my finest robes, (silk or satin? Green or silver?) my best shoes, and above all, my best hairstyle. Father says the hair is the mark of an honorable wix. That’s why his hair reaches the dip of his mid-back, and why mine is slicked straight onto my head. Once thoroughly satisfied, I give my skull a good rap, and smile at the brittle knock I hear in return.
Finally, I do a little twirl over to the mirror to give myself one last check-over before I make my appearance. Mother describes me as a lean, lithe boy, and I’ve always thought of it the same way. Although ‘lean’ implies muscle, which I have just about none of. I’ve got a long, thin nose, that comes to a perfect point at the end. My eyes are a sort of dull grey, which I’ve never quite liked, but father calls it ‘a very wise color.’
My hair is platinum blond, almost completely white. Mother’s hair started out like mine, but she decided to turn some of it black for style. It does fit her quite nicely.
I’ve got very pale skin. And not the sort of pale you’d see on a muggle. It nearly glows, especially in the moonlight. It’s a trait passed down through my mother’s family, the Blacks. I like it most times, except in the summer. Sunburns are awful, and sunblock is simply barbaric. So on hot days, I'm a vampire. All in all though, I know I’m quite a handsome young lad. That’s what Grandfather used to say, anyhow.
I’m about to settle into an armchair to read when someone knocks on my bedroom door. I recognize the pattern— Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap Tap Tap. It’s Dobby. I stride over and open the door.
The little house elf stands at the threshold, his head bowed so low the end of his long, pointy noise bends against the surface of the floor.
“Good morning,” I sigh, but the creature shakes his head.
”Dobby bids Master Draco his hellos, and a good happy birthday,” Dobby begins shakily, raising his head. His gigantic green eyes are particularly large this morning. He only looks that way when he’s nervous. It makes me rather uneasy.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
”Dobby... Dobby wishes to tell Master Draco something, but he is afraid Master Draco will be upset,” he says.
Now I’m really uneasy. I cross my arms.
”Go on,” I say, tapping my foot, “out with it.”
“Master Draco has slept in,” he nearly whispers.
”It is nearly one o’clock in the afternoon.”
My jaw drops open. One o’clock? On my birthday?!
“Dobby!” I cry, feeling the urge to rip my hair out, though I doubt I could with all the hair gel. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
”Dobby is very sorry! Dobby is a bad house elf, Master Draco! Dobby has already locked both his ears inside the oven door, and will do so again if Master likes!” Dobby wails, tears spilling from his eyes.
I cringe. I hate hearing about those horrid self-inflicted punishments.
“It’s alright..” I sigh, shaking my head.
He gives a quick bow, trembling.
“Run along downstairs and tell my father that I’ll be down readily.”
“Dobby cannot, sir, for Master Lucius is busy with guests.”
As soon as he says the words, Dobby gasps and begins to slam his head repeatedly against the nearest corridor wall with a painful thump.
I crouch down and grab him.
”Stop, stop. Guests? What do you mean, guests?”
Dobby only shakes his head.
Suddenly, I go very still. I try not to breathe.
Faintly, far away down the winding halls of our home, come the sounds of dim chatter. And not just one or two conversations— at least thirty. I gasp.
”Is there a party?” I ask, almost to myself.
Dobby tries to break free of my grasp to smack himself, but I hold steady. Eventually, his shoulders sag.
”Dobby was not supposed to say. There is a surprise party waiting for Master Draco downstairs.”
I leap up, a grin spreading across my face.
”A surprise party!” I exclaim.
Dobby is staring at the ground. I purse my lips.
”Promise me no more head-slamming, alright?” I ask quietly.
Dobby looks up at me, his eyes wet with tears.
”Yes, sir,” he whispers.
Satisfied, I give him a little pat on the head, and whisk off down the hall.
I practically dance through the corridors, grinning, winking, waving at every portrait along the way.
When I finally reach the overhang to the grand ballroom below, the entire place is buzzing with people, idly chitter-chattering and clinking glasses. I grin from ear-to-ear, so wrapped up in my joys that I don’t even notice Mr. Bullstrode spotting me.
“Draco!” he calls, snapping me out of my fancies with a jolly wave. “Happy birthday, my boy!”
I jump, startled by the sound of my name, and give him a cheerful wave back as the other partygoers turn to peer at me.
“Good morning!” I holler back, pretending to be surprised. “What’s all this then?”
“Why, your surprise party!” waves Mother, a bright smile on her face. “Come on down, darling!”
I can’t help it. I dash for the staircase, beaming.
As I descend, I’m given a tasteful round of applause. I can’t help but preen. You only turn eleven once, after all.
I reach the bottom, where my parents are beaming at me. Mother sports a slim white dress with a black feather boa draped across her shoulders, while Father is in a matching set of black robes that contrast against his white hair and gloves.
”I’m terribly sorry Dobby didn’t wake you sooner, I hope he gave himself a right good beating,” Father smiles warmly.
I swallow.
”Mhm, he did,” I nod, trying not to make eye contact.
“Care for a slice of tart, sweetie?” Mother asks, but I’ve got my mind on other things.
“No,” I shrug half-heartedly, slipping off into the crowd.
What I want to find are my friends. Being an elite, you don’t get to have many ‘playdates’. So parties like this are a hail-mary for my social health.
I reach the other end of the ballroom, where the buffet table sits. I haven’t spotted a single one of them, and I’m starving, but I can’t just glut on food all alone at my own party— I’d look pathetic. So I wait.
Thankfully, I don’t have to wait long.
“Draco!” squeals a voice from behind me. I whirl around on my feet. There, standing before me with a cheshire-cat grin, is Pansy Parkinson. She’s got a pin-straight, French-style bob, and a pair of small, glimmering black eyes, like two glossy buttons sewn onto her face.
Pansy is without a doubt, my first and very best friend in the entire world. Now, I don’t call many people friend, but she is more than one of them. I’ve known her since the day I was born.
“Pansy!” I shriek, and she leaps into my arms. When I draw back, we both give each-other a look over.
“You haven't changed a bit,” she breathes, stepping slowly backwards, as if an artist admiring her handiwork.
“Neither have you,” I laugh, gesturing vaguely towards her face.
“You look..” I pause. What should I say? Something too ooey-gooey, and any nosy parent could arrange a marriage. Something too biting, and there could be a house war. Not that I’d say something biting anyhow, she looks quite pretty. Oh, that’s the ticket. “..pretty.”
“Thanks,” she nods gratefully. “So! Where’s meathead and knuckle sandwich?”
I realize in an instant who she’s referring to: Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. It’s hard not to, when you’ve never met two boys who fit that description more marvelously.
“No idea,” I reply, looking around for any particularly large children within eye’s view.
“Right. Won’t take long, watch this,” she smiles evilly, strolling over to the nearest table of food.
“What are you doing?” I question, raising a suspicious eyebrow. She waves me off without looking.
“Merlin’s beard, is this a meatball sandwich?” she gasps loudly.
Suddenly, from the other side of the ballroom, Mrs. Zabini stumbles aside and crashes into the jelly sculpture. Then, to my left, Amaryllis Parkinson lands flat on her bottom with a thump. The two wix currently picking out their salad toppings nearby are shoved carelessly aside, and there standing in their wake are Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, huffing like a pair of angry rhinoceroses.
“Where,” Vincent snorts, “Is the meatball sandwich?”
“Yeah, where,” Gregory adds unhelpfully.
“There is no meatball sandwich, you morons,” Pansy huffs, rolling her eyes. “I just wanted you over here.”
“Oh, right,” they respond in unison, both visibly disappointed. Vince folds his lip over like a whiny dog.
“Circe..” Pansy mutters. “I’m sure there’s one around here somewhere.”
Greg nods, now much more cheery, and turns to go, but I grab his wrist.
“Aren’t you going to say hello to the birthday boy?” I smile promptingly as he turns around.
“Oh, Draco!” he grins. Suddenly I rather regret grabbing him, because before I know it I have both meathead and knuckle sandwich pulling me into a suffocating hug.
“Crushing.. my.. lungs..” I choke, slapping the nearest pair of thick shoulders until they let me go.
I’ve known Greg and Vince almost as long as I’ve known Pansy, give or take a year. They’re rather undignified and utterly stupid, but they’re also the closest things I’ve got to brothers.
When I finally get a good look at them, I’m fairly unsurprised. They’ve each grown about 2 inches taller and 5 inches wider, which is the usual gauge. You could hardly tell them apart, really, if not for Crabbe being a little thicker with brown hair, and Goyle being a little taller with black hair.
“How.. have you two been?” I ask cautiously, brushing off my satin robes with an obvious disdain for the wrinkles that have now been pressed in with the wide lines of their bodies.
“Brilliant, mate,” Vince nods. “I flew on a broom last week.”
“And survived?” I gasp. This is quite an accomplishment for one with the motor skills of a limbless troll on a trampoline.
“Well.. I did… crash into a muggle music concert,” he mumbles.
“Of course you did,” Pansy sighs, shaking her head.
“Did they see you?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“No, just.. Felt me. I think they were told I was an earthquake.”
“That checks, for a.. shapely boy such as yourself,” Pansy smiles encouragingly, giving him a firm pat on the arm.
I try not to laugh.
“Hey, you lot!” comes a nasally voice from behind me.
I turn to find Theodore Nott with one arm around Millicent Bullstrode, and the other around Blaise Zabini. He’s got a weasel-ish smile on his face like always, and has yet to fix his set of yellowish, protruding, rat-like teeth. He wouldn’t really have been an ally of mine had Father not found a way to turn an enormous profit off his father when we were younger. Now, Theo just sort of hangs around.
Millicent gives an awkward sort of smile-grimace-thing. She’s quite similar in appearance to Crabbe, only with longer, darker hair, and a rounder jaw. She doesn’t really fit in much either, being a half-blood with a dead mother. And the worst part is, she knows it. She’s never quite friendly or genial, because she doesn’t think she can afford to be. Consequently, her and Theodore are really quite close.
On Theo’s other arm is Blaise Zabini, a rather dead expression on his face. If I had to make an assumption, I would tell you that Blaise is without a doubt the person least likely to enjoy.. anything. He rarely speaks, and when he does, it’s something with minimal syllables. His eyes are always half-hooded, like he’s falling asleep on his feet. His casual aloofness is almost admirable, if it weren’t so off-putting. He’s a tall, thin boy, with dark skin, a square jaw, and a nearly shaved head.
“Theodore, Millicent, Blaise,” I greet curtly, holding up the glass that Pansy’s just handed me.
“Oh, er, hi Draco,” Millicent nods, shuffling awkwardly from side-to-side. “Happy birthday.”
“Why, thank you,” I respond, trying not to stand too close. Those three aren’t exactly the lot I want to associate with.
“Yeah, happy eleventh,” Theodore nods, slurping his own glass through his two front teeth.
There’s an awkward silence. Millicent scratches the back of her neck.
“Oh Merlin, look at that!” I gasp loudly, pointing vaguely north into the crowd.
”Some new guests are entering the party! As the man of the hour, I ought to go greet them. Goodbye!”
Before anyone can protest, I slip off through the throngs of chattering wix.
Pansy and the doltish duo catch up with me before I’m halfway across the room. She grabs my hand, and within moments, she’s whisked the four of us off to the back lawn of Malfoy Manor.
“I forget how.. colorful they are,” I laugh after a while, flopping down onto the grass.
“You can say that again,” Pansy agrees, sitting as well.
“I forget how colorful they are,” Greg parrots.
“No, not literally, no-brain-mcginty,” I huff, rolling my eyes.
“Knew that,” he mumbles.
I sigh, laying back on my hands to watch the clouds. I really couldn’t ask for a better way to spend my birthday than this. Laying on the grassy hills, my friends beside me, a bright blue sky full of twittering bluebirds, white fluffy clouds rolling across the sky, something brown barreling downwards, the calm breeze…
Something brown barreling downwards?
I try to sit up, but it’s too late. I’m smacked in the face with a whirlwind of beak and feather and claw. I shove the bird off, shrieking and coughing with a disbelieving, offended glare on my face.
“What in the- AUGH! Get- get off me, you- you wretched creature! Ew!”
I look over to Pansy for help, but she’s rolling on the ground with laughter, tears streaming down her face.
“Oh, you’re no help..” I grumble, turning my attention back to the dreaded bird.
“What in the world is so urgent that...”
I trail off as my eyes catch green ink glimmering in the sunlight. Staring, unable to quite believe it, I kneel down to pull the letter from the beast’s claws. I run my fingers over the brown parchment as a smile comes to my face. Laying there on the envelope’s flap is the red wax seal I’ve never seen in person, but could pick out in the dark. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Greedily, I turn it over.
Mr D. Malfoy
The Largest Bedroom in The East Wing
Westmost Estate of the Noble House of Malfoy
Wiltshire, United Kingdom
“Draco..” I hear Pansy say, though it sounds quite far away. “is that what I think it is?”
I nod slowly, my eyes never leaving the envelope.
“It is,” I confirm breathlessly. “My Hogwarts letter.”
Pansy lets out an ear-splitting shriek. Before I know what’s happening, I’m being violently shaken about by the shoulders.
“DRACO! DRACO! YOU GOT IT! YOU ACTUALLY GOT IT!” she yelps.
I push her backwards, holding it out before her proudly.
“Just.. look at it, Pans,” I grin. “This is my ticket. I’m getting out of here!”
Pansy nods enthusiastically. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Greg start to laugh at Vincent. I cock my head at him.
“What’s so funny, you?” I ask, raising my chin.
They exchange glances.
“I owe him 50 galleons,” says Vince sulkily. “Bet that Pans’d get her letter first.”
“Oh,” I shrug, unable to contain a smile. “Well, I suppose a bet is a bet.”
“Don’t you think you should tell the party?” suggests Pansy, lightly shoving me in the shoulder.
Right. The party! And what a perfect day to celebrate. I look down at the letter once more, just to take it in. Then, I close my eyes and run my fingers reverently over the parchment, breathing deeply. This is it. I’m the heir to two long lines of successful, pureblood, Slytherin wix. I’m going to make them proud.
Then, my eyes are wide open once more. I take off at a sprint through the back garden, brandishing the letter above my head, beaming. A happy birthday indeed.