A/N: I'm an avid fanfiction reader and I occasionally write a few oneshots. Usually just share them with my friends but now I'm posting this here..so I hope you guys will like it.

Chapter 1

If he had to take a wild guess, he'd say that the Dark Lord was going to win this war and win it twenty times over. He usually didn't give two shits over the whole Death Eater business and he just couldn't bring himself to care about world domination. All he needed to know was that he'd inherit a gargantuan amount of money when his dear pop decided to do him the favours and his mum would gladly drown her fat tears in her fat glasses of wine. The galleons alone could last the next five centuries or so if one took into account the Malfoys' expensive luxuriant lifestyle and the rising rates of wizarding inflation. Not forgetting the countless family heirlooms, jewellery, scriptures and paintings which could grossly double the galleon count in their vault. (Yes, he had long admitted to himself that it was rather disturbing for him, a direct blood heir, to think along the lines of selling the Malfoy property.)

It was usually times like these and a sight like this that led him to think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was, in fact, leagues ahead of these do-gooding losers.

Ronald Weasley had draped one of his baboon arms over the shoulders of what looked to be Hermione Mudblood Granger. He was snorting some sort of powder into his nose and biting off a candy cane, alternating the two acts. He looked like the same blithering idiot he had met six years ago. He noticed that he seemed to have grown around five inches over the summer. This made him think of last week when Aunt Bella had remarked that he had grown exactly five inches since she'd last seen him. Increased height did him a favour as opposed to Weasley whose extra inches were wasted on him. His posture just about painted him a Blood Traitor. Bent neck, sunken chest, hulking shoulders. If it weren't for the List of Europe's Oldest Pureblood Families citing him as one, nobody in their right minds would believe that he was a Pureblood.

His brothers stood nearby; the twins; urging him on. His fat, bulbous mother who looked about ready to explode in her gaudy orange overcoat wagged one meaty finger in front of the youngest Weasley who hadn't yet quite perfected the art of eye rolling. She seemed halfway scared of her mother but was trying to play it off. She had something going on about her, he just couldn't say what. Arthur Weasley stood off to the side admiring his collection of redheads. His permanent smile seemed forced in the dull weather.

Hermione Granger, the smartest stupid Mudblood if there ever was, was doing what she always seemed to be doing, admonishing everyone in that shrieking, high pitched voice of hers. The brown cloud of hair surrounding her head gathered the platform's dust and soot while she swatted at the Weasel's shoulder telling him to grow up. She had done her share of growing up, only discernible in the length of her hair. And yeah, he looked at her chest, there. She looked plain at best what with that overbite, those mud coloured eyes and clothes that he could've sworn were miles out of fashion even in the muggle world.

The star of the show was obviously, Potter. He stood in the middle, hands in pockets, eyes alert, and a grinning mouth. Draco had a habit of trying to see the people that surrounded Harry Potter through Potter's eyes, to perceive what he did, and find out what he saw in them. Befriending a carrot haired clown who introduces him a new world, an irritating girl who could recite all the books from the Hogwarts Library by heart, a supporting family containing an impressive number of redheads that were all similarly deranged, a werewolf who liked to play Professor, an Animagus escapee from Azkaban and of course, a white haired old man with a liking for lemon drops.

No matter how hard he looked he could never understand why Potter hung around them while the rest of the world was tripping over itself to kiss his feet and lick his shoes.

Nor could he understand how these people could even hope at surviving a war, let alone fight one. Order of the Phoenix that they called themselves. It was a joke. He would always choose becoming a Death Eater just to get that badass tattoo and the ability to fly without a broom. And that wicked mask.

He felt his mother's hand on his sleeve

"Something on your mind, Draco?"

"Just calculating the days till the vacation, Mother."

She smiled fondly and laid her delicate hands on his chest.

"You look forward to your father's letters, son. He has plans for you."

He missed a beat at that. Fine Death Eater he was going to make. He realized now, that all he really wanted was, in fact, that tattoo and not the title.

"Plans?" And she decided to inform him now?

"He's going to initiate you at the Ministry, dear."

"Oh." He felt that curious mixture of relief and disappointment.

"He wanted to raise you to be a Death Eater, Draco. I wouldn't allow it. You are a fine, intelligent, sweet boy and first and foremost, a Malfoy. No cause is greater than being a Malfoy. You are to learn the ways of the world, not fight it. You are to carry the legacy of the name."

He held in the urge to snort. He was to do what the Dark Lord fancied him to. His mother could blind herself with the illusion of choice she thought she had in the matter. If he wasn't going to be a Death Eater it was because the Dark Lord didn't imagine him as being one. Again he felt that mixture of relief and disappointment.

He realized she was waiting for his reply. "I'll keep that in mind."

She gave him a tired smile. "It's your last year at Hogwarts. Have a good time and make us proud."

She looked like she wanted to embrace him but was interrupted by the shrill whistle of the scarlet Hogwarts Express. She settled for a one armed hug.

"It's time to go", she sighed, wiping a stray tear. "Oh, Draco you cannot imagine how happy I am. Seeing you here, like this...so grown up and ready to face the world. You don't know how long I've waited for this day. You have a long, bright future ahead of you. Make the right choices and always think of your poor mother."

He glanced at his mother, trying to gauge her emotions. She was a mysterious woman with secrets to rival his father's. As she stood clutching his arm, he wondered what would become of her if he ran far, far away.

"Goodbye, Mother. I'll write to you."

Boarding the train, he gave her one final wave and watched her figure disappear in the billowing steam.

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