A/N: This is basically Harry Potter and the Philosopher's/Sorcerer's Stone from Draco Malfoy's point of view. I may eventually - and it could take me a very very long time - try and do the whole series. But only if people like it so please let me know what you think.
Disclaimer: All character's, places etc. belong to J.
Chapter One
It's a normal day when my Hogwarts letter comes, and we don't make a big deal about it. It's not like it was unexpected, after all. I've been showing signs of magic since I was five. And besides, how could I not be a wizard? I'm Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. On both sides, my parents are part of a direct line of pure-bloods. As far back as can be remembered, every member of our family has been a witch or wizard, with the exception of a few embarrassing – and now disowned – family members who have chosen to marry mudbloods, or worse, muggles. So anyway, it wasn't like I was going to be a squib.
This doesn't stop my heart from giving a slight leap when Dobby comes in with the post, and hands me the long-awaited letter.
"Draco, darling! Your letter! How wonderful!" Mother exclaims, getting up to hug me.
"Now, now, Narcissa," Father drawls impassively, "There's no need to get so excited. I don't know why they bothered sending the letter at all. It's not like we needed to be told that Draco is a wizard."
"Yeah, it's no big deal, Mother," I yawn, eager to show Father that I'm as uninterested in the letter as he is, and that I'm not some stupid kid who'll go dancing around the room from excitement. Perhaps I am a little excited, but there's no need for him to know that.
"Oh but they had to send him one," Mother points out, "It's got his book list and everything in it. And now we can go shopping and buy all his equipment. I was thinking next Wednesday would be a good day to go. What do you think, Lucius? Lucius? Are you listening?" Father glances up from his newspaper absentmindedly.
"What was that Narcissa?"
"I was asking if next Wednesday would be a good day for a trip to Diagon Alley," she says patiently. Mother never seems to get angry with Father, even when he treats her like this, not listening to a word she says or behaving as though she doesn't exist at all.
"Yes, yes, that's fine," he agrees, waving her away impatiently and going back to his newspaper. She gives a little sigh and, rising gracefully form the sofa, leaves the room. Aware that Father is in no mood for company, I follow her. Sometimes, just sometimes, I wonder if all fathers are like this. I don't really get many chances to talk to anyone else my age, so it's hard to know. But that will change soon, I remind myself, grinning a little. I'm going to Hogwarts!
Wednesday morning dawns clear and bright. Father is in a good mood. He talks cheerfully about his own days at Hogwarts, reminiscing about hours spent studying, and performing prefect duties and, though he makes it sound as though this was only very occasionally, relaxing in the Slytherin common room with his endless crowds of friends. It never even occurs to me to doubt the truth of these stories. I simply listen, entranced and eager to get to Hogwarts and follow in his footsteps. I have no doubt that I can be as talented and brilliant and hardworking and popular as Father was. Why shouldn't I be? I'm a Malfoy.
"And you're a brilliant flier, Draco," Father says, and I flush with pleasure at this very rare praise, "so I'll expect you to try out for the Slytherin house team as soon as possible."
"First-years aren't allowed broomsticks," Mother says, bursting my little bubble of happiness, " 'Parents are reminded that first-years are not allowed their own broomsticks,' " she reads aloud. Father frowns.
"I'd forgotten about that rule," he says, "Well, Draco, you're to try out as soon as you're old enough and it'll be a crime if you're not picked. No son of mine will be refused a place on the house team." I smirk, visions of myself lifting the Quidditch trophy above my head and basking in the cheering and applause of my entire house flashing before my eyes. And, better still, the admiration on Father's face as he says proudly to his friends, "Yes, my son Draco. He won the Quidditch cup last year. Slytherin could never have done it without him. Yes, yes, he's an excellent flier."
We enter the Leaky Cauldron, my head still spinning with wonderful fantasies. There's an odd buzz in the air as we sweep through, but Father either doesn't notice or doesn't care, as he doesn't stop to find out what has happened. Probably nothing exciting anyway, I tell myself. Nothing we would care about.
There are a lot of people my age in Diagon Alley. A lot more than I am used to, anyway, but that is hardly surprising. Some are dragged around by harried parents desperate to get the shopping done as quickly as possible, while others wander slowly past the shops, staring in amazement at the stacks of gleaming cauldrons, the shops bursting with strange ingredients and unusual animals, the witches and wizards bustling around in their long robes. Muggle-borns of course. No one else would be so fascinated by these perfectly ordinary sights. I turn away, knowing what Father would say if he caught me watching them, but I can't help glancing back occasionally. I admit I am a little intrigued by them. What must it be like, I wonder, to see Diagon Alley for the first time after being raised as a muggle? Father is right, of course, that it is ridiculous to let them into Hogwarts. Not only for the sake of pure-bloods such as myself who shouldn't be forced to associate with the likes of them, but for their own sakes. After ten years in the muggle world, they will never truly be able to catch up, and it would be kinder just to leave them in the muggle world, where they could actually make something of themselves.
After a quick trip to Gringotts, where Father replenishes his supply of gold and provides me with my pocket money – twice as much as he usually gives me, but this is a special day – we head towards Ollivander's for my wand. Father doesn't come – he has some business to conduct elsewhere – but Mother insists on accompanying me for this, which is why it has to come first as she also has other things to do in about half an hour.
My stomach lurches a little with nerves as I step into the small, dimly lit shop, Mother close behind me. A wand is the most important thing a wizard owns. Once I have one, I won't be a little child anymore; I'll be a wizard. A real wizard.
"Narcissa Malfoy," Ollivander says, appearing suddenly out of the shadows, "How time flies. I remember when you were first in here. Fourteen inches, made of cedar, very pliable. And young Draco," he continues, turning his pale, unblinking eyes on me. I shiver, but keep my face cool and expressionless. The man creeps me out, but I'm not going to let him see that so I stare impassively back at him as he goes on, "I suppose you're looking for your wand." I nod.
"Yes," I say coldly, "I am. And I'm in a hurry. So do hurry up." He stares at me for a moment longer, before pulling out a tape measure and beginning to take my measurements. I can feel Mother frowning at me – she doesn't like it when I talk to people like that – but I ignore her. Father treats everyone like they are inferior to him, and I don't see why I shouldn't do it too. People like Ollivander are here to serve us as their customers. They aren't supposed to be treated like equals, whatever Mother may think.
"Hawthorn wood and unicorn hair, ten inches, quite springy," Ollivander says, placing a long box on the table in front of me. Slowly, I open it and lift out the wand. From the moment my fingertips touch it I know it is the right one. It fits perfectly in my hand, as though it is part of me already, and sparks fly from the end. Mother smiles and hugs me, but I shrug her off, keeping my face expressionless.
"I'll meet you outside, Mother," I say, sweeping from the shop with my wand in my hand and leaving her to pay Ollivander. I have to admit, I'm impressed by his speed. I had heard it normally took two or three tries to find the right wand, but I had found mine instantly. I smile. My wand. It was truly mine. Suddenly the sunshine feels a little warmer and the street looks a little brighter. I even deign to smile at a young witch passing by, not caring whether she is pure-blood, half-blood, or even a muggle-born. Right now, the world feels like a wonderful place to be.