Draco Malfoy
Year One
It was a cold night. So cold that Draco had no need for the cooling charms in his room. The wind itself broke through the layers of silk sheets in his bed, sending chills running down his spine. The tall willow just outside his bedroom window was constantly knocking against it. If it weren't for the anit-shatter spells, the glass would've already broken. The racket it caused was no contest to the racket below him, however. Every other minute or so he'd hear a girlish shriek or howls of laughter. He had no doubt that the mead his father bought was doing its job.
Draco turned in his bed, gray eyes watching as the glowing numbers that hovered above his table-drawer counted slowly down to midnight. Three minutes to go. He sighed as another round of laughter echoed outside his room. His father had just said the punch-line to his Muggle joke. He could tell because of how forced the laughter was. A woman, whom he highly suspected was the Mrs. Parkinson his mother hated so much, let out a shrill giggle, no doubt trying to cushy up to his father. The sound was still fresh in Draco's ears by the end of the second minute. One more minute to go. Thirty more seconds and he'd be eleven. Twenty... ten — one of the partygoers burped loudly — three... two... one...
Beep.
He waited. No song, no cake, not even a kiss on the cheek. No congratulations for having survived eleven years of his life. Though not like he expected it. No one knew he retired early; that he was in his room, shivering beneath his covers like a child. He felt no different, though he was a full year older. He wondered how one would even know their age if they didn't have calendars. Would they even care? His father's guests continued to act and sound about 10 years younger, even after the twelfth beep of his lumiclock had ended. It was hard to believe, he thought, as Mrs. Parkinson let out another shriek, that the party was actually for him.
He got up early the next day. Not intentionally, as he hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. Slowly, he sat upright in his bed, wondering what force in heaven could've awaken him from what felt like an endless sleep. A cold, booming voice came as his answer.
"Get down here, boy, or we'll be late!" his father ordered, causing their house-elf to squeak. His father was definitely not a force fit for heaven, Draco thought darkly. Reluctantly, Draco left the comfort of his bed. He paused in front of his full length mirror to check his appearance, though he needn't have to. His hair, which he greatfully inherited from his mother, was so fine that it hardly ever tangled, not even in his sleep. He took a moment to button up his pajama top, which always seemed to undo while he slept. After he was sure he looked presentable enough, he trotted out of his room and down the grand staircase. He stopped just outside the dining room doors, readjusted his clothing, then calmly walked in.
His father sat at the far end of the dining table, as usual. He was currently hiding behind an open Daily Prophet, his breakfast untouched. To his right sat Draco's mother, whose face immediately brightened upon his arrival. She hadn't touched her breakfast as well, but for a completely different reason.
"Good morning," Draco's mother greeted, and motioned for Draco to sit down. He obliged, and took the seat across from her to his father's left. Almost immediately, his plate was filled with food, the delicious aroma filling his nostrils. Dobby seemed to have really outdone himself with this breakfast, Draco thought, as he gingerly poked his eggs with his fork. He vaguely wondered if the house-elf remembered it was his birthday.
Narcissa had picked up her fork as well. She was still smiling down at Draco, even after he had begun to eat. She cast her husband a wary look (he was still behind his newspaper) before glancing back at Draco. Softly, she touched the back of his hand to get his attention. With a secretive smile, she pointed at an empty saucer plate just beside Draco's orange juice. Within an instant, a cupcake appeared, with red frosting and a tiny green candle in the middle. Draco's face broke into a grin.
"Happy Birthday," she mouthed after she caught his eye. Draco mouthed his thank you and happily devoured his cupcake, making sure to pocket the candle before doing so. The cupcake was chocolate with strawberry frosting — his favorite. Though he noticed that it tasted different from the cakes Dobby baked him. It wasn't as fluffy, and it was a lot sweeter. He looked up from his cupcake, and saw his mother had finally started on her own breakfast. Even through the smell of her perfume, he could detect a tiny trace of flour. He knew how much his mother detested baking as it was never really her forte. But there was no doubting it — she had baked this cupcake just for him.
His mother caught his stare and smiled. Before he could mouth a second thank you, his father put the paper down.
"The Ministry's done four more raids," Lucius said casually, completely oblivious that anything had ever transpired between his wife and son.
"Really?" said Narcissa, pretending to be interested. "I could've sworn I heard the Ministry say they'd done their last raid last February."
"They did," said Lucius, still ignoring his breakfast, "but it seems that that Arthur Weasley hadn't reached the end of his rope yet. Pity." He turned to Draco, who would've been happier ignored, and said, "sit up, boy, you've got a terrible posture."
Without a word, Draco straightened his back, though not without catching the reassuring look his mother sent him. Lucius continued on with his daily critique.
"What've you been doing to your hair? It looks filthy. Narcissa, have Dobby replace Draco's conditioner with the like you use. I really wish you'd let the boy cut his hair. It's all over his face."
"I think his hair's lovely," Narcissa interrupted lovingly. She knew how much Draco prided himself on the quality of his hair. "It isn't so long," she added, smiling. "I'd gotten plenty of crushes on boys whose hair was always falling over their eyes like that."
Draco gave his mother a small smile, telepathically thanking her. Narcissa winked at him before returning to her breakfast. Lucius huffed. With a withering look to Draco, he said, "sit up, boy."
After breakfast, Lucius was still in a sour mood. He would've canceled their outing if Nacissa hadn't been so adamant about it. But Draco didn't let his father's mood darken his day for he had been looking forward to it since the day he first waved a wand. It was the day that he'd be shopping for his school things, which meant a day out of the boring Manor. He had sent his return owl days ago, and had been consciously hoping it arrived alright. He really doubted the stability of the old barn owl, and would've used his own owl if it hadn't been for the school owl's insistency.
Since he already bought his familiar a month ago (a young eagle owl with brown-gold feathers and piercing yellow eyes he affectionately named Zephyr), all he needed were his books, wand, uniform, and the other standard equipment. His father offered, somewhat grudgingly, to take care of his books, while his mother went off to look at wands. She left him in the care of Madam Malkin, who eagerly took him into her arms — literally.
"It's been ages since I've seen you," said the old witch, after having placed Draco on one of her stools. "You've grown into such a fine young lad!" Draco nodded politely, but chose to remain silent. Malkin, sensing Draco's preference to silence, ended her small talk and slipped a long black robe over his head. Before she got to begin pinning, the door opened and another young boy walked in. Malkin motioned for her assistant, and she began to pin his robes up while Malkin tended to the newcomer. He couldn't have been any taller than Draco was, though the rest of his appearance was by far the opposite of Draco. The boy was filthy, as if he'd slept on the floor. He had black hair that would look half-way decent if the boy would rake a comb through it once and a while. He was tan, and had nice enough green eyes though his glasses did nothing to compliment them.
Draco hid a scowl when Malkin chose to put the boy next to him — he'd really prefer to be pinned like a doll alone. Nevertheless, his mother's words rang through his ears, and he remembered his manners.
"Hello," he said, "Hogwarts too?"
"Yes," said the boy. There was a pause. The boy obviously had no intention on carrying out the conversation, so Draco put the burden on himself.
"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," he said, sounding bored. So much for manners, he thought. But he couldn't help it. Standing there with his arms parallel to the floor was boring. He still got no response from the boy. How rude, he thought, and decided to think of something else to talk about. What would a young boy wizard want to talk about, he thought. Sports! "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at raching brooms," he said, then added, "I don't see why first years can't have their own." He remembered being very sour when he read about it in the school letter. "I think I'll bully my father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow." He knew there was no way his father would do it, but the boy didn't need to know that. He had appearances to keep up, afterall. The boy was still silent. Draco found himself getting very irritated by the boy's lack of response. "Have you got your own broom?"
"No," said the boy simply. At least it was something.
Draco thought. "Play Quidditch at all?"
"No," the boy answered, somewhat hesitantly.
"I do — Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my House, and I must say, I agree," said Draco, lying like a rat. He remembered his father's words well enough, though they were more of a "play for your team or I will be thoroughly ashamed and disown you" than a "crime". But, again, the boy did not need to know that. "Know what House you'll be in yet?"
"No," the boy said again. Draco was beginning to wonder if this was the only word the boy knew.
"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been," he said. He didn't really know, but he was hoping he would be. He could just imagine the tantrum his father would invoke if he was sorted to a different House. He almost shuddered when his father mentioned Hufflepuff. "Could you imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?" More like forced to leave, Draco thought bitterly.
"Mmm," said the boy. Draco frowned. This boy was being extremely resistant to any form of dialogue. Did the boy find him boring or something? He looked around, searching for something to talk about, when something big — really big — caught his eye.
"I say, look at that man!" he said, and nodded towards the front window. A large man was standing there, grinning like a maniac with two large ice cream cones in his overly humongous hands. Perhaps the sight would force some sort of reacton from the boy.
"That's Hagrid," said the boy, sounding a bit smug. "He works at Hogwarts."
"Oh," said Draco, remembering something his father had said. "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant isn't he?"
"He's the gamekeeper," said the boy, sounding irritable.
Draco cast the boy a wary glance. What was his problem? "Yes, exactly," he said, liking the boy less and less every second. "I heard he's a sort of savage," he continued, nearly quoting his father's words, "lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed."
The boy beside him stiffened. "I think he's brilliant," he said coldly.
Draco then decided that the boy was daft. "Do you?" he said, forcing his frown into a sneer. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"
"They're dead," the boy said shortly, obviously wishing to keep off of the topic.
Draco didn't mind — he wished the witches would work faster so he wouldn't have to put up with the boy any longer. (He noticed that Malkin was working a lot faster than his tailor was.) But his mother's voice echoed in his mind, and again, he remembered his manners.
"Oh, sorry," he said. He really wasn't. He was beginning to despise this boy. Still, he had to ask. "But they were our kind weren't they?"
"They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean," answered the boy. He was starting to sound snotty to Draco. But he wouldn't let that get to him.
"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, don't you?" he began, completely quoting his father with the same superior tone. "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. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families." He paused, remembering he didn't even know the boy's name. For all he knew, the boy could've been a Muggle-born. "What's your surname anyway?"
But Malkin was done before the boy could answer. He seemed to be eager to get away too. "Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts," said Draco, keeping his manners in mind. Within a beat, he decided to screw his manners and added, "I suppose," as coldly as he could. Why be polite to a total prat, he figured. He hoped it would be the last he'd see of the boy.
---------------
Weird, eh? I'd been tossing this idea around for the longest time, and only got around to doing it now. Didn't take too long, which probably explains it's quality. Anyways, it was fun, twisting around JKR's world like that. I had the first book in hand when I was writing the robe shop scene, so it's fairly accurate. I might do more, if anyone likes it at least. Maybe of different characters too. Also, if anyone's curious, I made Draco have the same birthday as Harry. Just for fun.