Chapter Text
My Father Must NEVER Hear About This!
Salutations & Sortings
The boy was scruffy. She, by contrast had never been scruffy a day in her life.
That might have been the end of it right then and there; she wouldn't have given a scruffy mu- muggleborn wearing threadbare clothes that even a house elf would find undignified a second look, but Madam Malkin had given the boy the one look for the pair of them and ooh'd and aah'd over him and then a moment later he was standing right beside her, looking hopelessly lost.
She held her breath, not wanting to breathe in any of the odors she was sure he was carrying upon him, and who knows what else he had certainly trekked in from the muggle city that surrounded Diagon and Dracona was sure must smell absolutely foul, full of the stench of muggles and their infernal machines.
But then the tape measure tickled her and quite against her will she let out a huff of air. The boy took this as a signal and turned to her.
“Hello.”
“Hello,” she replied a moment later, doing her best to sound polite, as if she had only just realized he were there. Father had made it quite clear that he expected her to be on her best behavior, no matter who she ran into today. Hogwarts, he had reminded her every day of the past month, was a staging ground she was now entering, and she had many parts to learn if she were to live up to the Malfoy name.
But a burning curiosity grew inside her and despite the rashness of it, she couldn't help but ask about it. “Are you a muggle?”
He looked at her, confused and slightly taken aback at her own admittedly surprising intensity. “What – I'm sorry, umm, no? I mean, I'm Harry. I live with muggles but I'm not a muggle. My parents were both, you know, wizards?”
Oh. Oh! Her eyes flickered back to his oversized and patchy jumper and then back to his face, and by his own look he had clearly caught her doing so, his face quickly clouding over.
Oh dear, she had to fix this. He wasn't a muggleborn, he was an orphan. There were many of those these days, although usually far better dressed than this one was. Father gave a great deal of his money and mother her time to the orphans at Saint Mungo's. Doing their part to rebuild a shattered society from the prior unpleasantness, they always said. Her father had been placed under one of the Unforgivables during that, and now that he were free of that terrible curse made it quite plain that the Malfoys were and always had been the proper sort to fix and lead Britain.
“I'm sorry,” she said, not unkindly. “That's different then – is this your first time to Diagon then?”
The boy – Harry was it? - nodded slowly. About one in three boys around her age were called Harry, and if he were an orphan that did make a lot of sense.
“I'm getting ready for Hogwarts,” he said after another moment where they had stood in shared silence as chalk and tape and scissors had flittered around them this way and that, preparing uniforms for them that seemed to shape and grow by magic – which of course, they did.
Dracona beamed. “Oh, that's wonderful! Me too. What house do you think you'll be in? I'll be in Slytherin naturally – both mother and father were. They're off right now getting my books and wand - we're going to look at brooms next. I want a Nimbus.”
Harry gave her a shaky smile. “I dunno, they all sound alright I suppose.” Poor boy, not only an orphan but clearly a bit witless to boot. Father would be so proud of her right now, talking to him like so, almost as if he were an equal.
“Well, Ravenclaw wouldn't be terrible, I suppose. I would literally die if I were sent to Hufflepuff, wouldn't you.” Another thought struck her. “Do you play quidditch? What's your team?”
Father loved quidditch. Mother teased him that it was his one plebeian vice, whatever that meant. Every boy that Dracona knew loved nothing more, yammering on about this team or that. And Dracona... well, Dracona loved Father, and so Dracona loved quidditch.
The boy shrugged again, seemingly lost for words.
Merlin, were all orphans this slow-witted?
“Father and I cheer on the Falcons – they came in second last season. I don't play of course -” Father was not particularly kind about the sort of young ladies who went off to play for Holyhead even if he tempered his language around Dracona's ears and more prudently, mother's eyes - “But I enjoy flying a bit from time to time. Father said he might get me a new racing broom. Do you fly?”
“Umm, no – sorry.”
Dracona felt a spike of annoyance. She was trying so hard and this boy was giving her nothing. She stewed for a moment as the witch who had been assisting her asked her opinion on three types of cloth that Dracona honestly couldn't tell one from the other. Doing her best to appear confident and mildly bored, as she'd seen mother do, she gestured airily to the leftmost one.
“What do you th- oh goodness who is that!?”
The boy turned to where she was now pointing, and a smile blossomed over his face. “Oh! That's Hagrid,” he said, sounding quite pleased at being able to answer her question. “He's brilliant. He's-”
Harry rambled on for a bit more, but Dracona was transfixed by the scary looking giant with a beard as big as a magic carpet and licking an ice cream as big as her head. Then suddenly something clicked.
“I know who he is! He works at Hogwarts. He's the servant. Father said he was too stupid to learn real magic,” she added helpfully for Harry's benefit.
Harry stopped talking and his jaw closed with an audible click as he snapped back to look at her.
“He's the groundskeeper,” he ground out, soundly oddly churlish.
“Yes, that's what I said,” Dracona spoke in the gentle tone she used with Astoria, when playing with Daphne and her younger sister tried to join in despite her illness. “Anyway, he works for Dumbledore...” Dracona hesitated. Her eyes flickered to Madam Malkin and her assistant, who had stepped aside for a moment. Then back to Harry. Father had said they needed to be discrete about these things, but what harm could some orphan who couldn't even remember a quidditch team actually do?”
“Father says Dumbledore is mad,” she whispered in delighted tones of hushed conspiracy. “Really letting Hogwarts go to the dogs. And hiring dogs, too.” She nodded her head ever-so-slightly towards the window.
Then behind the giant, a familiar head of ornate hair and an equally immaculate face appeared in the window. Mother! Orphans and secrets could wait, it was time to get her wand!
She jumped down. “I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” she said quickly without turning back towards the boy as she hopped down from the stool she had been standing on. “Goodbye.”
Mother came in and was soon being fussed over by Madam Malkin herself, as was proper. Mother paid for her new wardrobe and with a doting hug ushered Dracona out the door, leaving her none the wiser at the pensive look on Harry's face behind her, slowly scrunching into a deep frown the longer he thought upon her.
What little remained of the summer passed quickly enough.
Dracona Malfoy was NOT nervous.
For one, there was nothing to be nervous about. Hogwarts was practically her birthright, as was her place at the top of its highest tower. For another, and perhaps more reassuringly right now, she had known everyone in this compartment – Crabbe and Goyle, Pansy and Millicent, Theodore and Daphne, even Tracey who was a halfblood even though everyone pretended they didn't know, for as long as she could remember.
But, she could admit, just a little bit, that this was a rather different adventure than the sort of usual play dates their mothers arranged for them. And while she knew the proper wizards and witches who were also riding the Hogwarts Express for the first time, there were so many others. Not even just the half and mudb- muggleborns – but six whole other years worth of children, none more than a year or two older than she even had the haziest memory of. Quick mental maths suggested there were almost three hundred wizards and witches on this train. The sheer number of people boggled the mind, all being in one school together.
Then Gregory's older brother, an even larger version of the boy her own age, shoved the door open and breathlessly announced that Harry Potter was on the train, leading to an uneasy silence followed by shared looks and nervous giggles. Well, this would not do!
Dracona paused, her hand ghosting on the door knob. This was it. She could feel Crabbe and Goyle practically vibrating behind her. Normally, she would hardly have picked them to join her, but the other girls had been too flighty at the thought of meeting Harry Potter. And she didn't want Greengrass with her anyway, the girl was already too big for her boots, thinking she were just as pretty and her parents just as important as Dracona's. Not that Harry Potter wouldn't be able to tell the difference right away, but best not to tempt fate.
She took a breath. So it's true what they are saying, Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts. She'd drawl it out just a little bit, time to take in whoever else was in the compartment and make sure she picked the right boy. Give everyone time to stop what they were doing and look at her. Then she'd offer him her hand like mother did for him to take and offer to let him join her and her friends in their compartment. She'd say it in a way that wasn't quite an order, wasn't quite a question.
Behind her, Goyle fidgeted. She quelled a huff and then turned around and gave him a glare. Then, steeling herself, she grabbed the handle and pushed.
“So it's true what they're saying then, Harry Potter-” she paused. There were only two boys in here, and one was clearly a Weasley. The other was the boy from the shop. Her eyes widened. The orphan. Harry. Harry Potter was an orphan, of course. No, Harry Potter was the orphan. The most famous orphan in the world.
“-has come to Hogwarts,” she finished, pleased she remembered to do so despite the thoughts rapidly spinning in her mind. Inside she was cheering. She had met Harry Potter first! He already knew her, already liked her. Already knew she was the sort of witch worth hanging on to. A grin grew upon her face, this was going to be easier than ordering a house-elf to degnome the rose gardens, or convincing Father to read her another tale from the Big Book of Beedle.
“Potter,” she addressed the boy, and yes this time she could see the scar – if only he hadn't been hiding it last time! “It's so good to see you again! I hope you had a good summer?” She delighted in the surprised gasps that came from the two boys behind her, and the flicker of irritation that crossed over Weasley who ever he was's face.
She turned toward Crabbe and Goyle as if only just remembering them. “These are my friends Vincent and Gregory,” she said with lofty amicability. “And this” - she gestured her arm out - “is Harry Potter,” she said as if showing off a grand trophy. “We became... friends some weeks ago.” Weasley was turning a bright red, she noted with delight. Oh this was going more splendidly than she could have ever dreamed. Soon Harry Potter himself was going to be escorting her through the halls of Hogwarts and everyone would clap.
Well, there was no need for any more silly games at this point, not when she practically already had the whole bag of gobstones in hand.
“Come Harry, please join me and my friends in our compartment – they'll be delighted to meet you.” Daphne was going to be furious that she and Potter were already friends, even if – she grimaced – he was still wearing those awful muggle clothes rather than his proper robes. Did all muggles go around wearing such giant ugly sacks?
Then Harry – Potter – said the most awful thing imaginable.
“I'm sorry, what's your name? I don't think I caught it last time.”
She froze. Had she told Potter her name? Surely she must have. She felt her face flush, her cheeks burn first in indignation and then in horror. After telling Crabbe and Goyle that she and Potter were already good friends, he dared to embarrass her like this for no reason at all!?
Weasley snickered.
Her face shot up, pinching into a snarl as she whirled on the other boy before she could even think about it. “I'm Dracona Malfoy,” she said cooly. “And there's no need to ask your name – red hair, face covered in more red dots than a bag of Bertie Beans...” she waved her arm vaguely in his direction. “Robes like... that. You're a Weasley.”
Crabbe and Goyle let out two hollow guffaws behind her. Good.
Her embarrassment now given some other, proper focus, she turned back to Harry, all sweet smiles. “Come Potter, let me introduce myself properly. I can help make sure you don't end up with the wrong sort.” She held up her hand for him to take.
But he was looking at her with a look that she did not like. It was not a look anyone ever gave her. Not where she could see it at any rate. Her hand felt heavier by the moment. She would not take it back.
“I think I can figure out the wrong sort for myself, thanks.”
The world went red. How dare he. How dare he. Of all the ungrateful, awful, horrible things to say. Clearly, Harry Potter was a mudblood in spirit no matter what his family line may have been once-upon-a-time.
She could not – would not – drop her hand like some dead, useless fish. She lashed out, taking an unopened chocolate frog packet from the seat Potter had vacated when he stood up to meet her. Anger sizzled through her, he was a few inches shorter than her and yet it still felt he was looking down on her. On her. Whose father did more for the wizarding world in a day that the whole wretched Weasley clan did in a fortnight from whatever hovel they came from if her father were to be believed – which he was.
“We're out of sweets,” she said primly, sticking her nose up as if Potter were something foul beneath her nose, which he most certainly was. The edges of her vision were going blurry but she would not let Potter see her dab her eyes, and certainly not Weasley. She turned around and stalked out, pushing between the two boys with her so that neither Crabbe nor Goyle would see her face fall, either. In her hand, she crushed the chocolate frog, still in its packaging. If Pansy or Millicent or stupid Daphne said one word about her coming back empty handed she'd write father that very night and make sure they remembered the Malfoy name meant something, even if Potter were apparently utterly ignorant of it. She sneered. That would be the very first thing she'd be teaching him now that he were back in the magical world.
By the time they reached Hogwarts, Dracona had calmed down somewhat. She had told everyone in no uncertain terms that Potter, it turned out, was an uncouth barbarian. That no sooner had they entered the cabin to introduce themselves that he had screamed and raved at them as if possessed by a poltergeist, and she had retreated after he had pelted her with a chocolate frog of all things!
“I suspect he was just frustrated, to be honest.” She made as if to sound sad and sorry for Potter. “It was pitiful really – I half think now that maybe he was trying to get my help into opening the packaging. He's clearly not right in the head.” She opened the package then, the small bits of chocolate vibrating slightly in disemboweled lumps as she dumped them onto the table in the center of the compartment. A crumpled card lay in the pile of them. She picked it up. She wrinkled her nose.
“Dumbledore. Eww.” She made a show of dropping the card as if it had dirtied the cuffs of her robes. And a minute or so later nobody was talking about Potter anymore, but Quidditch or Hogwarts or the new article in Witch Weekly about the Weird Sisters, much to her relief.
Then the train had stopped and things had been quite a rush, leaving the station at Hogsmeade and then the older students filing off to a line of horseless carriages while she and the other first years were led by the big oaf Hagrid – who somehow appeared even larger without a window between him and her and honestly terrified her – father should know about this – took them to a small fleet of boats on the lake. Dracona gasped – there was magic, which surrounded her daily like the very air she breathed, and then there was magic. Seeing Hogwarts on its bone white cliffs across the waters, the reds of the late Scottish autumn evening behind her... for the first time she understood magical in the sense her parents spoke of it with reverence, like another person that one loved very much.
Potter, Weasley, Longbottom and some girl who was clearly speaking a million words a minute and Potter seemed rather put out by got into one of the boats. Dracona made sure to pick one far away, though close enough she could still see Potter's look of irritation. Another one of the wrong sort he could have avoided by being sensible, she thought with a firm nod.
Over the waters they sailed, a perfect wind pushing them unerringly towards the great castle looming high and afore them. Over and then up and then in they went, into a cramped stone room where nerves and reality seemed to settle upon them all once more. Whispers began to spread about what they might be made to do next. Weasley's voice carried in a spate of silence that they might have to fight a troll. Dracona snorted. Father would never have countenanced that!
She was about to say so when she, along with the other students let out a great scream as a horde of ghosts appeared, and before she could chastise herself for joining in with the... the plebeians and the muggleb - she saw the bushy haired very obviously now muggle girl say something to Harry – the mudbloods – as if she'd never seen a ghost in her life, an older witch arrived and announced herself as Professor McGonagall and that they would all have to try on a hat.
That didn't sound awful, until she saw what an ugly, scruffy hat it truly was. And that it could sing. And that it could read her thoughts.
Hmmph, M came before P, didn't it. She could let the hat know what a stupid, self-absorbed boy it had to look forward to. She could warn it about Weasley too, but honestly it had probably already sorted dozens of them over the last few years and had that lot properly figured out for itself.
She never got the chance, because no sooner had she sat down upon the stool and the hat brought down to barely touching the top of her head, it shouted far too loudly near her ears, 'Slytherin!”
She stood up and as gracefully as she could she swanned over to her new table. Well, at least she hadn't had to touch the ugly thing. She patted the top of her head gently, removing invisible specks the hat might have left behind and took a seat next to Greengrass. Parkinson followed not too long later. Then a pair of Indian twins that Panay tittered about and finally...
“Potter, Harry.”
Her fists clenched under the table. It could still happen. Slytherin was the best house. He had seemed as annoyed with the muggleborn chatterbox as Dracona herself had been and the stupid mudblood hadn't even been talking to her, and that might be enough to push him away from that blasted house filled with its blasted Weasleys and blasted mugglelovers (not, she supposed, there were any difference there).
The hat sat on Potter's head for a long time. Malfoy smirked, maybe it was going to send him straight home. She felt an unwelcome lurch at that and glowered at her empty plate.
“Gryffindor!”
The lurch sank into her stomach. It was still there when the sorting ended, the mad old Headmaster spoke his nonsense and the feast began. It receded somewhat as a trio of second years across the table regaled them with stories about life at Hogwarts – father had always been rather tight lipped about that, saying it was something she must wait to experience for herself.
Sleep came easily, it had been a long and exciting day and she were fully fed and watered. Tomorrow she'd get her schedule and know exactly what classes she would be able to show everyone – everyone – just what a powerful and fantastic witch she was.