*I do not own Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, or anything that is used from the books.*

CHAPTER ONE

Letter From Hogwarts

Mother and Father Malfoy were starting to feel frantic. Draco knew it was because he hadn't gotten his Hogwarts letter yet. He had never seen them like this before. Mother was sitting in her favorite chair by the fire staring into the flames. Father, when he wasn't at the Ministry working, would ring his hands while he paced by the window the owls preferred.

The letter was supposed to come six days previously. The arrival time usually fluctuated by a few days. Not six though! What a disgrace it would be if Draco never received his letter. He would be a pure blood wizard without magic. A squib. And he was sure he would be outcast from his family.

"Draco," Father called from the living room, "would you come join me?"

Draco walked down the stairs from the second floor landing. He had been in his room reading his Tutshill Tornadoes Quidditch magazine to keep his mind off the absent letter. He slowly walked into the extravagantly decorated living room. There was a deep green area rug covering most of the cherry floor. The plush couch and chairs that circled the fireplace were black with a snaky silver pattern. There were moving portraits on the walls of all significant members of the Malfoy ancestry. Floor length silver curtains hung coving the windows. The fireplace was ablaze accenting that the mantle was the same wood as the floor. It was also accenting Father's strangely calm face.

"Come here Draco."

Father was standing to the right of the fireplace staring into the flames. Mother was also there, as she had been the past few days. Draco eased himself over to stand by Father, though a little farther away from the fire.

"Sit," he commanded. He turned around and stared at Draco as he sat on the couch. "Your mother and I have come to a decision about your schooling."

Draco looked over at Mother. She looked down and away from him. He looked up into Father's cold, hard eyes. His stomach turned over and Draco felt his throat sticking. The letter wasn't coming. That's what Father was going to tell him. He was going to have to leave.

"We have decided," Father drawled, "that if your Hogwarts letter doesn't come tomorrow, we will be writing to Durmstrang."

Draco didn't know weather to sigh of relief or calmly excuse himself to go hide. It didn't sound like Father had any doubts that he had magic. Then what had he been so nervous about? Draco looked over at Mother again. A small tear was streaming down her cheek. Draco knew that it was Mother that wanted him to go to Hogwarts. She didn't want him to go as far away as Durmstrang.

Father went on for a few minutes about how wonderful it would be if Draco attended Drumstrang. How he wouldn't be surrounded by filthy muddbloods and that he would be taught more practical things like the dark arts. Draco tried his best not to react to what his father was saying. He must have succeeded in not letting his true feelings show. Father didn't say a word against him.

When Draco was excused he went straight up to his room, ignoring the inquiries from a portrait of Father's Grandfather at the top of the stairs. He almost slammed his door on the way in but caught himself just in time. He didn't really want to attract attention to himself just at this moment. He sat down on his plush bed and stared at the silver and black all around him. If he managed to go to Hogwarts and be placed in Slytherin they'd turn his room green and silver. He'd like that better, black had always made him feel slightly uneasy.

He took a deep breath and listened for sounds from his parents. He didn't hear anything. They were probably still downstairs.

"Dobby," Draco called.

With a crack like a whip, Dobby stood in front of Draco. His bat like ears hanging low in front of his face while he bowed.

"How many times," Draco sighed, "do I have to tell you that you don't have to bow when we're alone?"

"Oh but Dobby does young master," Dobby squeaked. "If Dobby is caught disobeying protocol Dobby will have to iron his hands sir." He came out of his bow and looked at Draco with his big, golf ball sized, green eyes.

"Right, whatever," Draco collapsed back onto his bed. "What am I going to do Dobby? If my letter doesn't come. I don't want to go to Durmstrang. They think like Father there. And it's so far away. And what if I don't have any magic at all? What if that's why my letter isn't here?"

"Young master," Dobby almost sounded like he was scolding, "you have magic sir. Think sir, when has the young master used magic?"

Draco closed his eyes and tried to picture himself doing magic. The first thing that came to his mind was flying Father's broomstick. Squib's couldn't fly. Could they? Then he remembered the time he'd set the kitchen on fire when he was five years old. Then the time he'd gotten ahold of his mother's wand and turned the living room blue. He felt better. He wasn't a squib. He couldn't be.

"Thanks Dobby."

"Any time young master Draco," Dobby bowed again. "Does the young master have anything for Dobby to do, or should Dobby get back to making dinner sir?"

"What's for dinner?"

"Shepherd's pie sir."

"That sounds good. Go do that," Draco sat up on the bed and smiled at Dobby. The house elf vanished with another crack. Draco reached down to the floor by his bed. His Tutshill Tornadoes magazine had been knocked off his bed, probably when he collapsed. He lay on his stomach and continued to peruse the magazine until he was called down for dinner.

(scene break)

Draco woke early the next morning. He lay in his bed for a few minutes hoping to hear the sound of an owl pecking on a window. He went over the events of the previous night in his head. They had eaten their dinner in silence. As always, Mother and Father treated Dobby as if he wasn't there so Draco had as well. He hadn't eaten very much. His pie was cold before even half of it was gone.

It had felt like hours before Draco was allowed to get up from the table. When he had, he had gone straight to bed. What was there to wait up for? Right before he had gone to bed he thought he heard an owl. He'd practically jumped out of bed and ran down the stairs. It was an owl. Not for him though. It was informing Mother that Draco's second cousin, Contessa Rosier, had gotten her letter that evening. And it questioned about Draco's letter. Mother hadn't sent a response.

After several minutes' contemplation, Draco decided to get out of bed and get dressed. He chose a navy blue robe with silver accents out of his wardrobe. As he was clasping the front of his robe together, Draco heard the pecking sound that he had so eagerly been waiting for. He rushed to his door. He tried not to run down the stairs but his excitement got the best of him. Before entering the living room, Draco took a deep breath and tried to slick back his uncombed, blond hair.

He opened the door and walked in as calmly as he could manage. Mother was closing the window and there was a letter in her hand. She turned around and looked at Draco. She held the letter out for him. Draco tried not to race forward in his eagerness to open the letter. He took it and held it in his hand. Here it was, his letter, address so that there could be no mistake. It even knew which bedroom was his.

With shaking hands, Draco turned the letter over and opened the seal. He pulled out the letter and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL

of WITCHCRAFT and Wizardry

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,

Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. Of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted

at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please

find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no

later than August 7.

Yours Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,

Deputy Headmistress

Draco let out a sigh of relief. He had been accepted. He looked at Mother. She rarely smiled; she was smiling now. The sight elevated Draco's spirits even higher. He didn't have to go to Durmstrang. He would be closer to home. And Mother was smiling.

Draco turned around, letter still in hand, when he heard the living room door open. In walked Father, his face as cold as ever. He looked at the letter in Draco's hands. He looked at Mother.

"Very well," he droned. "Shall we go? I don't want to be knocking elbows with every muddblood in that disgusting alley."

Draco nodded, maybe too eagerly, and started heading toward the fireplace. Mother came up behind him and put a hand on his arm. She looked sternly into father's face.

"I think Draco needs to eat before we head out on such a long errand."

Father looked at Draco. Then he looked at Mother.

"Dobby," he commanded. The house elf appeared with a crack. "Have you started on breakfast yet?"

"N… no master, Dobby hasn't," the elf groveled at Father's feet. Father whacked Dobby over the head with his cane. "What are you waiting for?" he growled. "We don't have all day."

With another crack Dobby was gone. Within minutes there was the smell of sausages and eggs coming from the kitchen. Mother directed Draco to the kitchen table. It was laid out with a frilly gold tablecloth and a single black rose in the middle. Dobby had already set the table and placed the food on the plates. Draco sat and wolfed down his food. Mother took her time. She was taking each bite almost delicately. Father didn't join them.

While he waited for Mother to finish eating, Draco read the enclosed list of all necessary books and equipment. It listed things like uniform, course books, a wand, a cauldron, and a pet. It was the last line of the letter that captured Draco's attention:

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS

Not allowed their own broomsticks? Why hadn't he been told this before? Draco stared at the last line of the letter for a few minutes. He knew that first years weren't allowed on the Quidditch team, which was totally not fair in Draco's mind, but he hadn't known that he couldn't even take a broomstick. If he hadn't been so happy to have finally gotten his letter, he might have crumpled it up and thrown it against the wall. Draco loved flying. He couldn't imagine a year without getting on a broomstick.

Mother was finally done eating. She got up from the table and held out her hand for Draco to take. If they hadn't been alone, Draco would have been completely embarrassed by this. As it was, he took Mother's hand and let her lead him out of the kitchen. When they got to the door Draco pulled his hand away. He quickly made his way back to the fireplace in the living room. Father was there, reading the Daily Prophet.

"Are we ready?" he drawled in his cold voice. He held out a bag of floo powder to Mother. She took a pinch of the glittering powder and stepped into the flames.

"Diagon Alley," she enunciated as she put the powder into the flames. The flames turned a vibrant green color and Mother vanished.

"Draco," Father offered him the bag. Draco, much in the same manner as Mother, took a pinch of the floo powder and walked into the fireplace.

He enthusiastically threw the powder into the ashes at his feet and called out "Diagon Alley."

Draco closed his eyes as he felt a touch of vertigo. He spun around and around on his path toward Flourish and Blotts. He arrived just behind Mother, almost bumping into her. He fell back into the fireplace. Mother reached out her hand and helped him up. She then brushed down Draco's robes to get the ashes off. Draco looked around, thoroughly embarrassed, to make sure no one was watching. There was barely anyone in the store. It was still early enough that the crowd of students hadn't gathered. Now they just had to wait for Father.