I remember it like it was yesterday.

During my first year at Hogwarts, my mind had been poisoned by a Gryffindor. My first childhood crush was Hermione Granger, and it was a catastrophe. I wandered the halls at my house that summer, pacing, the thought of her deep-brown eyes and bushy hair leeching onto my brain with every footstep like an earthquake.

"Draco, what are you doing pacing around the corridors this late?" My father spat at me. I had lost track of my feet, and ended up outside his bedroom.

"I-It's a girl," I mumbled. The Malfoy's weren't known for their affection, but I felt as if I would melt from the inside if I didn't tell someone my affliction. Even at the young age of 11 years old, I knew something was very wrong.

"Pansy?" My father asked hopefully. He had already made my future with her abundantly clear, regardless of my constant protests.

"No. Her name's Hermione. She's a muggle-born in the Gryffindor house. She has brown eyes," I'm not sure why I told him that. It meant nothing. But for some reason, all I could think about was her eyes.

My Father looked at me. "You are not to associate with mudbloods. That is an order."

The word, "Mudblood," lodged itself firmly in my vocabulary, failing to defend my mind from thoughts of Hermione Granger.


My father's words still ringing in my ears, I made my way through the aisles of Flourish & Blotts, largely unsupervised. The smell of books mingled with body heat as the crowd gathered to get their books signed by Gilderoy Lockhart, and I rushed up the stairs of the store to escape the huddled masses and excited desperation. Then I saw her.

She was walking with Harry Potter and one of the younger Weasley children. Something burned inside of me. The Weasley's were absolute gits, and Harry Potter seemed intolerable. I was enraged that my less than tolerable peers were able to look into her brown eyes whenever they wanted, and I was stuck with the word, "Mudblood," hanging over my head. Without thinking, I confronted them angrily.

However, my adolescent attempts at intimidation were quickly ceased by the cool chill of my father's cane on my shoulder.


That was the year I called her a "Mudblood."

I remember it. The Gryffindors had booked the Quidditch field for the day, but I had made it on the Slytherin team so recently that they needed to begin training that day. My eyes caught her big, brown orbs and I froze. My father's voice surfaced in my head. I didn't know what else to do.