Chapter Text
Draco’s father had been livid when he found out that Draco had inadvertently insulted the Harry Potter’s friend, alienating him and potentially ruining his chances to get such a noble figure in the Malfoys’ corner. He had been told, in no short terms, that he had better become, if not friends, then at least allies with the Potter boy. Draco was afraid to find out what his father would do if he failed in his task – he had seen his father lay harsh punishments on Dobby and the other house elves for not adding enough milk to the tea; what would he do if his son tarnished the reputation of the Malfoy name in front of the boy who was being hailed as the savior of the wizarding world?
So Draco planned, very carefully, what he was to say to Potter – he didn’t feel right, using his name so freely, this near-mythical figure that he had grown up hearing whispered and praised at every turn. He would call him Potter for now – and was assured that he couldn’t possibly foul it up, this time. He made it as far as the platform until those plans were dashed.
Potter had shown up with the insufferable Weasley clan. His father had told him time and again that they were riff-raff, not to be trusted with anything of value and not worth his time or effort. Why was Potter always seeming to be in the thick of it with people who would just drag him down? His father whispered all of these things in his ear, snake-like, wheedling him into easing the Potter boy over to their side of the Hogwarts pond, the nice side. Draco wrinkled his nose. Something about what his father was saying seemed a little… off.
His mother seemed to think the same, if the hushed whisper-yell match that commenced meant anything. Draco stared balefully up at his parents. They had been doing this a lot, lately, and Draco was rather glad that he was leaving for school, at least until Christmas. He turned his grey gaze onto the laughing gaggle of Weasleys, bustling off and dragging their plethora of trunks onto the train. Usually, he didn’t think about the fact that he was an only child; it was a fact of life in the same way that his mother was always right and his father should shut up and take it like a man, but today, he longed for someone to share this moment with. An older sibling, perhaps, who would roll his eyes with Draco at their parents’ bickering and help him lug his black dragon-leather trunk onto the train and into an empty compartment. They’d leave with and wink and a nudge, letting Draco forge his own path, but standing steady in case of storms; a rock for Draco in his new environment, a familiar haven from which he could take strength. He wondered what it would be like to have a little brother, standing on the platform, crying for him not to leave like the smallest Weasley was. He decided that it would have been nice, having someone with whom to share these moments. But that wasn’t how his life played out, after Narcissa had become so sick after suffering from a particularly nasty curse from the bassinet that she was trying to retrieve for Draco from their basement. Instead, he was the sole progenitor of the Malfoy line, alone on his pedestal.
Well, he was going to fall sooner or later; he might as well kneel on the pedestal now and make some friends.
Draco wandered onto the train, pushing fruitlessly at his cart. He made it onto the train, looking for an empty compartment, but found none. The only one that still had space was with a dark-haired boy, turned towards the window and watching the goings-on. “Do you mind if I sit here?” he asked, knocking on the door. “It’s rather full, this year.”
The boy whipped around just as the train started to move. “That’s fine, but I’m not sure how we’ll get your trunk up onto the rack.”
Dear Merlin, it was Harry Potter himself. Of all the things that Draco couldn’t have planned for, this was possibly the best. What a great opportunity to apologize to him for being such a troll in Madam Malkin’s. “It’s all right, I know a quick levitating spell. My mum taught it to me last summer, when she wanted to get back at my father for forgetting their anniversary.” He muttered the incantation under his breath, swished and flicked, and up the trunk went.
Potter grinned. “That’s wicked,” he said, breath stolen by this effortless display of magic. “Wait, don’t I know you from somewhere…?”
“Oh. Um, yes. We met in Madam Malkin’s. I’d, uh, I’d like to apologize for upsetting you; I really don’t know what I said wrong.” Draco swallowed around the lump in his throat, and glanced up from his knitted hands to see Potter regarding him impassively.
“I grew up outside of the wizarding world. I didn’t know about Hogwarts until I got the letter,” he finally said. “I’m kind of new to this world, but I always was treated badly in the muggle world. I wasn’t happy when I heard that there were the same kind prejudices here, too, and you just. Seemed kind of unaccepting of people that were different.”
Draco had shrunk in onto himself during Potter’s speech, feeling worse with every new word. After Potter let out a heaving sigh, seeming to signal his speech ending, Draco couldn’t contain himself. “But why would they ever treat you badly? You’re the savior of the wizarding world. How could they not know that?”
“Oh, they knew, all right,” Harry growled. “They just didn’t want their scum-of-the-earth kin’s child, purely because I came from magic. Do you see now how I walked into what was essentially the opposite when I met you?”
Draco paused. He couldn’t fathom how someone could think magic was wrong – it saved so much time, and was so useful. Could they purely be jealous? Or was their revulsion ingrained like his was for mudbloods? Suddenly, he was wondering about all the things that his family had taught him, wondering if maybe they were wrong.
The compartment door slid open. “Anyone sitting there?” the youngest Weasley boy asked, pointing at the seat opposite Potter. "Everywhere else is full."
Draco wrinkled his nose. Revelations or not, this was a blood traitor, spawn of a family of ginger rabbits that hadn’t a penny to their name, with a mother who amounted to nothing and a father who was obsessed with muggles at almost a freakish level. But as Draco was opening his mouth to refuse, Potter spoke over him.
“Come on, then, and let’s get your trunk up onto the rack. He knows a good spell to get it up there,” Potter said, gesturing at Draco. Draco glared. Betrayer, he thought to himself. “By the way, what’s your name? I don’t think I caught it.”
At this, Weasley finally seemed to notice Draco. “Eugh, it’s Draco Malfoy.” He said it like the sound tasted bitter in his mouth, and Draco wanted to do nothing more than stand up and punch him in his long, dirt-spotted, freckled nose. “Are you sure you want to be talking to him?”
“I could ask the same about you, Weasley, so why don’t you just shut your mouth and maybe it won’t look as dumb as it does hanging open.”
Potter glanced between the two of them, looking extremely confused and a tad exasperated. “While I don’t know what’s going on here, the train is full, and we don’t have any other seating options. We have to get along for at least this trip. So can you two drop it and just help me get Ron’s trunk up top?”
Draco stared at Potter petulantly. “Fine,” he finally bit out, and in no time, the trunk was away and he and Ron were sitting at opposite corners of the compartment, staring at each other like two owls put into a too-small cage.
The door rattled open again. This time, the Weasley twins stuck their heads through the door. “Hey, Ron. Listen, we’re going down the muddle of the train – Lee Jordan’s got a giant tarantula down there.”
“Right,” Weasley muttered.
“Harry, did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later, then.” Draco found himself sighing in relief as they slid the door closed after saying their goodbyes. He had managed to evade notice, and therefore, scrutiny from these upperclassmen. That might actually ruin his chances of becoming friends with Potter.
“Are you really Harry Potter?” Weasley blurted out. At Harry’s nod, he continued. “Oh – well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George’s jokes. And have you really got – you know…”
Draco was torn between rolling his eyes and the obvious request when Weasley pointed at Potter’s forehead and leaning forward to get a better look at the scar that was the only remnant of the killing curse that the Dark Lord attempted against a mere baby. “So that’s where the Dark Lord –” Draco breathed out.
“Yes,” said Potter, “but I can’t remember it.”
Weasley and Draco met eyes, but both looked away quickly. “Nothing?” Weasley pressed.
“Well – I remember a lot of green light, but nothing else.”
“Wow,” both boys said in unison, staring at Potter. When Draco noticed that Weasley was also paying rapt attention to the celebrity in their cart, he jerked his gaze away, cueing Weasley to do the same and begin staring out of the window.
“Are both of your families all wizards?” Potter finally asked.
Slowly, Weasley said, “Yes, I think so. I think Mum’s got a second cousin who’s an accountant, but we never talk about him.” Draco paused in his internal scoffing. He had forgotten that the Weasleys were the same kind of old wizarding family that his father preached about, the ones that he had grown up to show unconditional respect to. “It’s just how I grew up.” Weasley shrugged. “I’m sure Malfoy was the same way.”
Draco started. Was Weasley actually talking to him? Not at him, but to him? “Um, yes. My Aunt Andromeda married a mudblood, and she got forcefully ejected from the family. It’s weird, because she still sends me an owl each birthday and Christmas with my favorite treats. I’m still not sure how she finds out, but without fail, there it is. I don’t think she talks to my mum anymore, though.”
“What’s a mudblood?” Potter asked. Right, Draco kept forgetting that he didn’t know everything about wizarding society.
Weasley looked uncomfortable with the subject, so Draco forged on. “It’s someone who’s not of pure blood. Someone who’s born from muggles.”
Potter stared at him. “Well, that sounds like a load of owl pellets. My mum was a mudblood.”
Draco started. “I didn’t mean to offend you – just –”
“I mean, what if someone called you a pureblood with the same thing in mind when you called someone a mudblood? It just wouldn’t be right.”
Draco and Weasley both paused. They had never thought about the word before, just had grown up learning it and learning to use it, or not, in their respective situations. “Okay,” Malfoy said slowly. “My Aunt Andromeda married a muggle-born, then.”
Weasley took advantage of the lull in conversation to jump in with the next question that he had obviously been dying to ask. “I heard you went to live with Muggles. What are they like?”
“Horrible – well, not all of them,” Harry replied, matter-of-factly. “My aunt and uncle and cousin are, though. Wish I’d had three wizard brothers.”
“Five. I’m the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I’ve got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left – Bill was head boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy’s a prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks they’re really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it’s no big deal, because they did it first. You never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I’ve got Bill’s old robes, Charlie’s old wand, and Percy’s old rat.” Ron sighed, and reached into his jacket and withdrew a fat, asleep, grey rat. “His name’s Scabbers and he’s useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they couldn’t aff – I mean, I got Scabbers instead.” His ears went pink. Was he embarrassed to be saying this much in front of Potter? From what Potter had told him, and what he had been wearing to Madam Malkin’s shop the first time they met, and what he was wearing now, Potter was no stranger to hand-me-downs and not being able to afford nice things.
And Potter decided to tell Weasley so. He told them both all about having to wear his cousin’s old clothes and never getting birthday celebrations. Weasley and Draco had exchanged scandalized looks when they heard about his treatment. It was barbaric – worse than how Draco’s mother treated the house elves, and they were actually made to serve. When he said the Dark Lord’s name out loud, though, Draco thought that both he and Ron were going to have heart attacks. “You don’t just say his name!” Draco hissed through his teeth.
“I’d have thought you, of all people –” Ron continued.
“I’m not trying to be brave or anything, saying the name. I just never knew you shouldn’t. See what I mean? I’ve got loads to learn… I bet,” Potter started, swallowing and staring down at his worn trainers, “I bet I’m the worst in the class,” he finished in a much smaller voice than either of the other boys in the compartment had heard from Potter the entire time.
“You won’t be,” Draco said confidently. “And if you are, then I’ll help you. I won’t let you be the worst.”
Weasley and Potter both looked at him. “That’s really nice of you,” Potter said. “Draco, right? What was growing up in the wizarding world like for you?”
And so, Draco filled the compartment with stories of grand balls, meeting vampires, and going on expeditions to fantastical places with his mother. His father was a topic he avoided like the plague – he didn’t particularly care to tell the other boys what his father would think of him, associating with a blood traitor and a half-blood in such friendly terms. His storytelling was vivid and striking, with alluring images almost seeming to form in the air above his head, and every time he told Potter – no, Harry – of a new creature or place, Weasley (Ron?) would scramble to tell him about it. When Draco told the two about the time he had gotten to see a roost of Antipodean Opaleye eggs, Ron (yes. Ron, that was starting to sound right in his head) gasped and launched into a story about his brother Charlie, and what he was doing in Romania. Draco was fascinated at how daring the eldest Weasley sounded – and was struck with the notion that if he had had siblings, and they done something fantastic like Charlie, he could have been the one telling that story. He barely had a moment of regret before Ron was nudging him – when had they all migrated closer to one another? – and telling him to go on. Time flew until there was a great clattering outside in the corridor.
A smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and asked, “Anything off the cart, dears?” The three looked between amongst themselves, and Draco pulled out a few Sickles and grabbed a few of his favorite treats. Harry, however, cleared out the cart, buying at least two of everything.
Ron’s eyebrows were practically becoming one with his hairline, looking at Harry’s stash. “Hungry, are you?”
“Starving,” Harry said around a huge mouthful of a pumpkin pasty. Ron continued to stare wistfully at Harry’s treats while unwrapping a lumpy package.
“She always forgets I don’t like corned beef,” he mumbled mournfully.
“Swap you,” Draco said, grabbing up a pasty and tossing it over to Ron. “I’d kill for some meat; my mum forgot to get the house-elves to pack me anything.”
“My aunt and uncle wouldn’t pack me anything if their lives depended on it,” Harry said cheerily, deftly swapping out a chocolate frog pack for a sandwich. “Go on, have a pasty,” he said, nodding to Draco’s outstretched hand. “I can’t eat all of this sugar myself, you know.”