Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR
You watch him. Across the hall – a world away. He laughs and jokes with friends. He has friends, known since childhood… just like this world. He belongs here, in the stately splendour of the Great Hall… with golden cutlery and enchanted ceiling. He appears as the son of Kings. His very name brings respect from older members of his house. You envy him. You are alien here, in this world of magic and mystery. You know no one, all your knowledge gleaned from books you slaved over all summer in the hopes of fitting in. This is your fairy tale. You feel like a lost beggar girl in a court of kings. He is eleven and he is their prince.
You watch him. Across the hall. He tears open a package from home. He gets mail everyday, parents sending sweets, chocolate, the latest fashion from London. You do not receive anything in the breakfast post. Your parents do not understand owls, "Why cant we just send it the normal way?" they ask. They do not understand your world. You tried explaining to your father, "There doesn't need to be any logic behind Windgardium Leviosa!" But the magic is lost on them. They do try, conversing with the Weasleys at length in the hopes of finding answers, but they will never know. Never feel the adrenaline of casting your first spell, seeing your first phoenix, witnessing your first blood based attack… The Chamber of Secrets is open. You suspect him. Everyone suspects him. He bears it like a catwalk model; taking it in his stride, head high, forever proud. He is twelve and he is their star.
You watch him. Across the hall. He's flirting with Pansy Parkinson… she giggles and flicks her hair. He is striking, angelic features drawing looks from girls almost three years above him. You envy him. With his silken hair and silver eyes. Your hair is like a rats nest, and he tells you so. Your eyes are like he mud that taints your blood… He was born to taunt you, his perfect hair and pale eyes a living reminder of everything you fail to be. You strive hard for your perfect grades, but with seemingly little effort he is just one place behind you. For him it is natural. He needn't read the textbooks cover to cover by the beginning of the school year. The magic is within his very blood. He teases you, provoking your friends. You slapped him; the look on his face etched into your memory as the triumphant day you wiped the smirk from Draco Malfoy's face. He is thirteen and he is their peacock.
You watch him. Across the hall. He conspires with housemates, fugitive glances sent in the direction of teachers. He is plotting, scheming. He is a Slytherin; it is required. He has revenge in mind you think, and smile. Draco Malfoy: the amazing bouncing ferret. Whatever stunt he tries on Moody you know he will never live it down. It amuses you; he doesn't take well to humiliation. He is restless; his every mannerism reflects it. The Triwizard Tournament has left him out of the spotlight for too long and he craves attention. He is fourteen and he is their egotist.
You watch him. Across the hall. He talks to his neighbour with the air of a businessman sealing a deal. He was born to succeed, the ability to manipulate others woven into his brain from birth. He is a Malfoy: failure was never an option. Tension is brewing. War is ahead; you both know it. Waiting…Him with anticipation, you with dread. What the conflict will bring you cannot tell, but one thing is certain, whatever his decisions; his housemates will back him. He is fifteen and he is their future.
You watch him. Across the hall. He talks regally to the lower years; they watch in awe, eyes wide. You have no wish to witness what he speaks of. He can see the thestrals now you realise, and shudder at the thought… it was not the death of an aged relative that bought the midnight steeds to light. You hate to admit it, even to yourself, but you have began to fear him… Fear what he may become. The will of his father rests heavily on his shoulders; will he follow in the footsteps of his parents? You are on opposite sides of this war: you sitting proudly beneath the flag of the lion, him beneath the emblem of the snake. But he is no snake; sitting in silence was never his style. He is a dragon, their dragon. Draco Malfoy: The Dragon of bad faith. He is sixteen and he is their captain.
You watch him. Across the hall – a world away. He sips his drink in dignified silence, cold eyes dispassionately scanning the hall. The transition from tactless bully to dignified aristocrat both surprises and appals you. He is calculating, you can almost see his brain working. His house's politics are complex and competitive and he controls them; manipulating those below him, commanding those around him, he has his world at his fingertips. He angers you…his arrogant manner, his flawless appearance. You think it unfair, the start he had in life. He doesn't need intellect or accomplishment to succeed, only the inheritance bound to him by blood. What is blood anyway? You question. What is heritage to real people in the real world? You only need look at the newspapers for that…it is everything. He is seventeen and he is their King.