Chapter Text
✧ ✦ ✧
STORY ONE
A PROPER INTRODUCTION
Draconia Malfoy never cared for shopping. It usually meant hours of following her parents from one shop to another while they examined things she did not want and discussed things she did not understand. Of course, they always bought her the finest of everything. She appreciated that. She merely wished that acquiring the finest of everything involved rather less standing about.
“I still think our girl ought to have a pet, Lucius,” said Narcissa, resting a hand on Draconia’s shoulder.
“What for?” Her father glanced towards a shop from which an unpleasant amount of squeaking could be heard. “She’ll have the whole of Slytherin to keep as pets, if she chooses.”
“A cat might be pleasant company.”
“A cat would need looking after. Time spent tending some creature would be better spent studying. I expect her to be the best in her year, without putting me in Snape’s debt over her marks.”
Draconia admired her father enormously, but he sometimes made rather heavy work of getting his way. Her mother could usually achieve the same result in a far more graceful manner.
“It’s all right, Mother. I don’t particularly want one.” She turned the expensive new quill between her fingers, careful not to bend its feathers. “And if I change my mind, you can always send me an owl, can’t you?”
Diagon Alley was crowded. People jostled past in faded robes and peculiar hats, several of which Draconia thought should've been thrown away years ago. One wizard’s sleeves did not appear to belong to the same garment. Another had allowed his hem to trail through mud.
She looked down at her own clothes with considerable satisfaction. Her jet-black birthday dress was immaculate, and her leather loafers shone beneath it. She was particularly pleased with the loafers. Unlike the dress, she would be allowed to take them with her to Hogwarts.
That is not to mention her wonderful, silky-smooth, long blonde hair, emerald-green eyes, and impeccable white skin.
Among these people, she felt like a graceful swan stranded in a pond of unusually dirty ducks.
At least they knew to move aside. People stepped out of her father’s path with reassuring speed, leaving Draconia room to walk without brushing against anyone’s grubby sleeves. She even felt certain satisfaction from mingling with them, for they made her feel truly royal, something she always enjoyed immensely but couldn’t get from her circle of friends.
This train of thought would come to a screeching halt as her gaze fell on some of the most disgusting robes she’d seen. It was, of course, Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, the only place that sold robes for Hogwarts specifically. Draconia felt a pit form in her stomach as she imagined having to wear these rags.
“Mother, must we buy these?” she asked. “Couldn’t we bring our own? They’re awful.”
She looked at the shop door with the dread most children reserved for a visit to the dentist.
“I know, darling,” said Narcissa. “They are rather dreadful. Unfortunately, the school insists.”
“Dumbledore insists,” Lucius corrected. “I raised the matter with him myself. Apparently, it is important that the students should feel ‘equal’.”
He pronounced the last word with particular distaste.
“A complete farce, of course. Why should my daughter wear the same robes as the Weasleys’ sixteenth brat?”
Draconia giggled.
“But the senile old fool refused to budge.” Her father looked down at her. “Never mind. I shall see to it that you stand out in every other respect.”
That was something, at least.
As the family entered the shop, they were welcomed by a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve.
“Hogwarts, dear?”
“Hogwarts indeed,” sneered Lucius, approaching the counter. “I am Lucius Malfoy, and this is my daughter, Draconia. I want the finest robes you can provide. Spare no expense.”
He cast a doubtful look around the shop.
“If you manage to produce something presentable, you will be rewarded accordingly.”
Madam Malkin’s smile remained quite undisturbed.
“Don’t you worry, Mr Malfoy. I’ve dressed some of the finest witches and wizards in the country, and I’ve had no complaints yet. I’m sure we can find something to please you.”
She took Draconia gently by the wrist.
“Come along, dear. We’ll get you fitted.”
Draconia followed her towards the back of the shop, where stools stood among racks of robes and rolls of cloth. Madam Malkin began examining the materials.
“Up you get, dear. We’ll have you sorted out in no time.”
Draconia stepped onto the nearest stool. From there, she could see her parents making their way towards the door.
“Wait, where are you going?”
Her fingers tightened around the quill. She had assumed they would stay.
“I’m going to buy your books,” said Lucius, turning back. “Your mother is going to speak to Ollivander. We don’t have all day to wander about.”
Draconia looked from him to her mother, feeling uncomfortable. She always hated it when her parents left her alone.
“Oh, Draco, darling, don’t look so worried,” said Narcissa. “We shan’t be long.”
Her mother had come up with Draco when she was little. Draconia thought the nickname made her sound rather childish, although she was still fond of it.
“All right,” she said reluctantly. “But you’d better be back when I’m finished.”
Narcissa smiled at her once more, and then they were gone.
Draconia watched the door close before turning back to Madam Malkin, who was bringing over a length of black cloth. There was nothing to do now but submit to the fitting. She was slightly taller than most girls her age, which always seemed to complicate these matters. So with a small sigh, she straightened her back and held out her arms.
✦ ✦ ✦
As the minutes dragged on, Draconia could do nothing but watch children pass beyond the fogged shop window. She wondered how long this would take. Not known for her patience, the girl would start fidgeting, only for Madam Malkin to repeatedly warn her about the needles currently pinned uncomfortably close to her bottom.
Just as she started to question whether she was the only one buying robes today, the door to the shop opened. A boy walked in.
Somehow, he managed to look shabbier than most people she saw so far. His strangely patterned shirt was at least four sizes too big, his trousers were old and baggy, and his round glasses had been repaired with some sort of tape. He was small and thin, with hunched shoulders and untidy black hair hanging almost into his eyes. Draconia wondered if this boy had any house-elves in his family tree, and snickered to herself.
Yet, as he was guided into the shop by Madam Malkin, Draconia felt an odd comfort about him. She couldn’t quite explain it, but the air around him felt warm, like standing near a fireplace. In the end, she decided that her boredom won out, and began talking.
“Hello,” she said, smiling at him. “Hogwarts too?”
“Yes,” the boy responded awkwardly, returning her smile.
It had been some time since Draconia had spoken to somebody she did not already know. With her friends, there was always something to discuss, but she could think of nothing now. Her eyes wandered around the shop in search of inspiration.
“My father’s next door buying my books and mother’s up the street looking at wands.”
No, that doesn’t sound right. She sounded as though she had lost her parents and was hoping the boy might help her find them.
“Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first-years can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully Father into getting me one, and I’ll smuggle it in somehow,” she added, with a mischievous grin.
This was a lie, of course. Her racing broom was at home, and Father had expressly forbidden her to take it to Hogwarts. He had no intention of giving Dumbledore the pleasure of reprimanding his daughter.
“Have you got your own broom?” she asked, trying to keep the conversation from sinking into uncomfortable silence.
“No,” the boy responded.
“Play Quidditch at all?”
“No,” he responded again.
She felt like she was losing whatever competition they were having. The boy had absolutely no interest in her entire being. She was beginning to find this rather insulting.
“I do - Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you’ll be in yet?”
“No,” the boy said again. Draconia swallowed and tried once more.
“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family have been - imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”
She almost hoped he had a particular fondness for Hufflepuff. Even an offended response would have given her something to work with.
“Mmm,” he answered.
…Then again, no one capable of speech would have fondness for Hufflepuff.
Then a fresh conversation piece waddled into view and blocked half the store window.
The man outside looked rather more like a bear than a person. An enormous shaggy beard covered most of his face, and his clothes easily surpassed anything she had seen that morning for dirt and general shabbiness. Given the competition, this was a considerable achievement.
“I say, look at that man!” Draconia gasped, nodding at the window.
“That’s Hagrid,” the boy responded, suddenly looking a lot more animated. “He works at Hogwarts.”
Perhaps the boy found him entertaining?
“Oh,” Draco said, “I’ve heard of him. He’s a sort of servant, isn’t he?”
“He’s the gamekeeper,” said the boy. His tone was difficult to read, but they were definitely having an actual conversation now, which means she was winning.
“Yes, exactly. I heard he’s a sort of savage - lives in a hut in the school grounds, and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed.”
Her mother had warned her about the man. Draconia was rather pleased to have remembered something useful.
“I think he’s brilliant.”
Not sure if the boy was joking, she sneered.
“Do you? Why, is he with you? Where are your parents?”
“They’re dead,” the boy said shortly.
The atmosphere turned to ice immediately.
Draconia felt like she lost whatever train of thought they were forming together. She knew that children had lost their parents in the war, pure-bloods and mudbloods alike. Adults sometimes mentioned them. But she didn’t know how to even begin reacting to this. She felt a slight jolt of shame, looking away from the boy.
“Oh, sorry… But they were our kind, weren’t they?”
“They were a witch and wizard, if that’s what you mean.”
She needed another subject quickly, something easier to talk about. Father had been discussing Hogwarts admissions the previous evening. She knew what to say about that.
“I really don’t think they should let the other sort in, do you? They’re just not the same, they’ve never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine,” she gave an exaggerated chuckle at this absurd idea, feeling like the topic had been changed successfully.
“I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What’s your surname, anyway?”
But before the boy could answer, Madam Malkin said, “That’s you done, my dear,” and he hopped down from the footstool. He wore a complicated expression, not that Draconia could blame him.
“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” she said to him, trying to smile again. But he didn’t look at her.
Draconia watched him leave, then glanced down at Madam Malkin, who still seemed to have an unreasonable amount of work left to do on her robes. How much longer could it possibly take?
Her height really did cause a great deal of trouble.
✦ ✦ ✦
As the Hogwarts Express chugged along, Draconia kept straightening her sleeves more times than perhaps should be necessary. To her opposite sat Pansy Parkinson - a girl with short black hair and a somewhat pug-faced look, which pleased Draconia, because it made her look prettier in comparison.
Pansy’s gaze kept following Draconia’s fidgeting.
“Mother said the cuffs would crease if I wasn’t careful.”
“They’ll crease more if you keep fiddling with them, Draco.”
Draconia shot a certain look at the girl.
She liked Pansy, if only because Pansy was the only girl Draconia happened to know. Most wizarding families seemed to have been graced with male heirs. Pansy had been coming to Draconia’s house for years, usually accompanied by a mother whose visits required the good tea service.
Beside Pansy, sat Millicent Bulstrode. A somewhat overweight girl with black, straw-like hair, she wasn’t someone Draconia knew, but she was a pure-blood who respected the Malfoy name, which was enough. She was trying to push a rather noisy cat basket beneath the seat.
“Your cat sounds dreadful,” said Pansy.
“He doesn’t like trains.”
“Neither do I, but you don’t hear me whine like that.”
Millicent gave her a flat look and pulled the basket back out.
The remaining space was occupied entirely by two boys: Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. Friends of the Malfoy family, these two had been at Draconia’s side since she was little. In truth, she did not like their company at all - oafish and unbelievably stupid, they served as little more than her bodyguards, but she really wished they were at least somewhat pretty. Instead, she was always graced by two hogs at her side.
Crabbe had brought a large packet of biscuits, and Goyle spent several minutes examining the packet with a jealous look before deciding to look for the trolley. There was supposed to be a witch who’d bring them something to chew on, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“If you see it, tell her we’re here,” Draconia instructed.
Goyle nodded and went out.
Pansy had already examined Draconia’s new shoes.
“Mother wouldn’t let me bring mine,” she said. “She says they’ll be ruined.”
“Then she ought to have bought better ones.”
“She did buy better ones. That’s why she wouldn’t let me bring them.”
Millicent finally settled the cat basket between her feet and looked up as Crabbe held out the biscuit packet.
“You gals want one?” He threw a glance at them, perhaps realizing that Draconia Malfoy herself was being left to starve.
Draconia took a biscuit, partly to give herself something else to do. Pansy selected two without asking, and Millicent accepted one while keeping an eye on the basket.
They had moved on to discussing their trunks when Goyle returned.
“Well?” said Crabbe.
Goyle shut the door behind him.
“Harry Potter’s on the train.”
Pansy sat forward.
“Who told you?”
“A girl down the corridor. She says she’s met him. She saw the scar.”
Harry Potter.
Draconia had heard his name often enough at home. Father had opinions about him, although these tended to change depending on who else was in the room. Nevertheless, Draconia always held a certain fascination with his story since she was young, and wanted to meet him.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“Further down. I can show you.”
Draconia brushed a crumb from her lap and stood.
“We ought to introduce ourselves. Father would expect me to make his acquaintance.”
“Well, bring him back here,” said Pansy. “There’s room.”
Millicent glanced at the empty place beside her.
“If his luggage isn’t enormous.”
“I’ll see what he’s like first.”
Draconia checked the front of her robe, then reached for the door. Crabbe hastily put away his biscuits and got up. Goyle was already waiting in the corridor.
“You girls stay. Don’t let anyone take my seat.”
Pansy stretched her legs across it with a snide grin. Draconia chose to ignore that.
She followed Goyle down the swaying corridor, with Crabbe close behind. Through the compartment windows, she caught glimpses of unfamiliar faces eating sweets, examining cards and laughing together.
What would Harry Potter be like? Tall and broad-shouldered, perhaps, like a professional Quidditch player. Or gaunt and mysterious, like Professor Snape. Perhaps Father was right, and he was a powerful dark wizard.
The thought of having someone like that at her side gave her a pleasant flutter of excitement. By the time they reached Hogwarts, she would have acquired an ally who would impress even Father.
Then Goyle stopped at a compartment, and her pleasant imaginings came to an abrupt end.
Inside, there were two boys, completely surrounded by candy. Draconia now realized why the trolley witch never got to her compartment - she must’ve been squeezed dry by these two.
One of them had ginger hair, freckles, and very shabby robes, so there was no need to guess who he was. But the other one… That’s the boy from the robe shop! No longer in those weird rags, he was wearing the same robe she did. His glasses looked normal now, and with his hair pushed slightly up his forehead, the lightning bolt scar was clearly visible.
That was Harry Potter?
She straightened her shoulders. Whatever had gone wrong in the robe shop, this time she would make a proper introduction. She slid the door open and entered.
“Is it true? They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment. So it’s you, is it?”
“Yes,” he responded, staring daggers at Crabbe and Goyle.
“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” she wondered briefly whether bringing them had been a mistake. “And my name’s Malfoy, Draconia Malfoy.” Draco flaunted her name, trying to look as impressive as she could.
In response, the ginger boy only gave a derisive chuckle.
Heat crept into her cheeks.
“Think my name’s funny, do you?”
He rolled his eyes at her.
“No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles and more children than they can afford.”
She turned back to Harry Potter. His expression, now plainly visible, made her heart drop a bit.
She had thought he was glaring at Crabbe and Goyle. Now she could see quite plainly that it was her he disliked.
But… why?
Had Weasley been filling his head with nonsense about her? It would be just like that family to resent a Malfoy. Her embarrassment sharpened into anger.
“You’ll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter.”
Harry still looked unimpressed. Perhaps she had not made herself clear.
“You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”
She held out her hand to shake Harry’s.
But Harry didn’t take it.
“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” he said, looking at her as if she were walking garbage.
She heard Crabbe give a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snigger.
Draconia felt all blood rush away from her face as she withdrew her outstretched hand that she now wanted to wash thoroughly. No one had ever defied her before, and the first person doing so being Harry Potter was something she could not accept.
She could not remember being made to feel so foolish. Certainly not in front of Crabbe and Goyle. Harry Potter was supposed to be her ally, and here he was treating her as though she ought to be grateful he had bothered to answer.
Was it the thing she said about his parents? But she apologized! What else was she supposed to have done?
Was this git so full of himself that a single misspoken thing from her made her deserving of this hostility? Or was it Weasley who turned him?
“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” she hissed. “Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as your parents.”
She knew that was cruel. But she wanted to hurt him now.
“They didn’t know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riff-raff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid and it’ll rub off on you.”
Both Potter and Weasley stood up. The latter’s face was as red as his hair.
“Say that again,” he said.
“Oh, you’re going to fight us, are you?” Draconia sneered, now wondering if the Weasleys taught their children that hitting girls is bad.
“Unless you get out now,” Potter spat out. There was no mistaking the hatred in his voice now. Her stomach tightened.
“But we don’t feel like leaving, do we, boys? We’ve eaten all our food and you still seem to have some,” said Draconia, more bravely than she felt. Taking Crabbe and Goyle with her was the correct move after all.
Goyle reached towards the Chocolate Frogs when the Weasley leapt forward, but before he’d so much as touched Goyle, Goyle let out a horrible yell.
A rat was hanging off his finger, sharp teeth sunk deep into Goyle’s knuckle - Draconia, shocked at this, backed away as Goyle swung the rat round and round, howling, and when it finally flew off and hit the window, she was already pushing towards the door. Crabbe and Goyle hurried after her.
✦ ✦ ✦
Back in their compartment, Crabbe began explaining what had happened. Draconia sat beside the window and folded her arms.
“Potter’s an idiot, then,” said Pansy. “Imagine choosing a Weasley.”
“And attacking people with a rat!” said Millicent. “What’s wrong with them?”
She looked at Goyle’s hand.
“Are you all right?”
Goyle was still clutching his finger, though he had stopped howling, perhaps realizing how it made him look.
Draconia scarcely listened.
She admired Harry Potter. She expected to like him, and took it for granted that he would like her. Why wouldn’t he?
Her father was rich and powerful. She was clever, well brought up, and rather pretty, if she said so herself. Her blood was pure. She had every reason to expect to do well at Hogwarts.
Potter ought to have been pleased she wanted to know him.
Instead, he had refused her in front of a Weasley. Then he and his new friend had driven her out with their horrible rat, as though she were some unwelcome creature herself.
She remembered smiling at him in Madam Malkin’s, before she had even known who he was.
The memory made her face burn. She clenched her fists beneath her folded arms.
Father could say what he liked.
She would hate Harry Potter for the rest of her life.