Chapter Text
The chandelier above Draco’s head was made of floating crystal peacocks. Real ones, if his mother was to be believed, charmed into eternal glittery servitude. Draco found it mildly impressive, mostly horrifying, and far too bright.
The ballroom he found himself in smelled like lemon polish and expensive cologne. Draco, age seven and already thoroughly over it, tugged at the stiff collar of his miniature dress robes and scanned the crowd for anyone less boring than Gregory Goyle-thankfully, the ballroom was full of them.
"This is a waste of my time," Draco muttered, carefully walking to Pansy Parkinson, aware of the eyes on him.
“You’re seven,” she replied, sipping pumpkin fizz like it was wine. “What time could you possibly be wasting?”
“My time is precious, you know that Pansy,” Draco explained haughtily, irritated at Pansy now too. Father had thoroughly explained to Draco that he was to be a picture perfect pureblood child for this ball, and Draco took his job very seriously.
The live orchestra, loud mindless chatter, and sounds of wizard's apparating in and out all blurred into one as Draco waited for something, anything, that would rid him of this torture. He was debating whether escaping would be a good idea when he heard the telltale whoosh of the Floo.
Draco turned around to see a black haired, green eyed boy stumbling through the Floo Network, followed by 4 Adults, but Draco could only focus on the boy.
His hair was messy, let loose in short curls, the complete opposite of Draco’s, which were gelled in place. But his eyes, they were bright green, so much so that Draco could see them from across the ballroom. The beautiful irises were covered with black rimmed glasses that slipped further down his nose as he talked to a woman with fiery red hair and the same eye color.
Draco had stood up as if hypnotized before he was even aware of what he was doing, and before he knew it he was face to face with the beautiful boy.
“Hi,” Draco said, breathless and starry eyed. The Boy looked at him and tilted his head to the side, “Hi.”
“I’m Draco Malfoy,” Draco said, and internally panicked, he sounded like an idiot! Of course this boy would know he was Draco! This was his house! So Draco tried to think about what would make him look important, and what would make the boy want to talk to him. “You’re lucky. Most people have to wait until Hogwarts to be graced with my presence.”
Boom. Nailed it. Draco stood up straighter and puffed his chest out, knowing that he used just the right amount of confidence after embarrassing himself earlier.
The boy stared at him.
Draco held out a hand, smug and triumphant. “We should be friends.”
The boy looked at Draco’s outstretched hand, and then back to his face. Draco held his breath.
“No, thank you.” The boy turned around, his cape billowing behind him as he did so, and the 4 adults that were with him looked at Draco with wide eyes.
The entire world stopped. Draco’s hand hovered in the air, unshaken. His face remained perfectly neutral for three whole seconds. Then crumpled into a look of indignation.
Pansy, who had followed behind Draco when he started walking, sipped her juice. “Oh no.”
Draco slowly turned to her, blinking fast. “He rejected me.”
Pansy blinked back, saying nothing.
“He looked at me. Looked. At. Me. And then he said no, thank you?!” Draco’s voice pitched upward with every word, until he sounded like a very elegant tea kettle. “I hate him.”
Pansy blinked. “But he just got here, Draco.”
“I. Hate. Him.” He smoothed down his robes. “I will hate him forever. Forever, Pansy. And he will regret this.”
“It’s not the end of the world,” Pansy said, and then immediately regretted it when Draco’s gaze turned to her.
Draco gasped, as though she had thrown her pumpkin juice on him. “Not the end? Pansy! My reputation is ruined.”
“Draco,” Pansy said, exasperated, “No one noticed.”
“But I noticed,” Draco snapped. “And he noticed. He looked me in the eye. He made a choice.”
Pansy, who had seen Draco talk to this boy for all of thirty seconds, gave a long-suffering sigh and finished her juice. “You’re being dramatic.”
Draco whipped around so fast that his cape, which he had insisted on wearing, fluttered behind him. “I was wronged, Pansy. There’s a difference.”
He turned again to look at the boy, who was now standing at the snack table with a man who had the same messy hair as him, his dad, Draco assumed, pointing excitedly at a tray of enchanted dancing éclairs.
Draco narrowed his eyes.
There was something about him. His messy curls. The way he’d tilted his head. The fact that his cape was arguably more swooshy than Draco’s.
He was trouble. Obviously.
“From this moment on,” Draco announced, “he is my enemy.”
“You don’t even know his name.”
“I will,” Draco said, with a dramatic pause, “and he will find out that Draco Malfoy never forgets.”
And so began the greatest, pettiest, rivalry Hogwarts had ever seen.
Draco Malfoy would hate Harry Potter for the rest of his life.
Probably.