To say that it was love at first sight would not only be infinitely trite and idiotic, but also be untrue. Silver and emerald never coalesced for the most delicious of seconds, sparks and shivers never erupted in the most profound parts of the heart: only fools believe in that. Love does not exist, only desire. And like a fine wine, desire languidly breathes its glorious scent into the air, the intoxicating taste growing stronger and stronger with the passing time.

To me, the heart of desire always smelt like clover and mint. The scent tangled in his raven hair, laughing on his sun-kissed shoulders, whispering into the air with his every step.

The scent that was the closest thing to a tangible part of him that I could have.

The initial sentiment, however, was not desire: it was a selfish attraction to all the words that preceded him. The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the Golden Boy: I could hardly contain my excitement. A boy who, like me, had crafted the perfect smile for countless photographs, could artfully charm a person into guarded alliances. A boy with whom I could share the delicious discoveries I had made about social etiquette and manipulation of the populace. A boy who was perpetually the center of attention. A boy who, more importantly, would make me even more commanding of attention.

To my infinite disappointment, I was only right about one statement: that he commanded attention. At eleven years in a train cart going to a dreary academy I took no interest in, even then, I saw him for the first time and was appalled. This is the great Boy Who Lived? A lanky, slight boy with chaotic inky hair, hollow cheekbones, a slightly pasty complexion, dreary clothes and the most unbecoming pair of spectacles I had ever seen in my life. In my eyes, he was positively dreadful. Father had been right; his very existence was due solely to sheer dumb luck. He was, much to my chagrin, completely insignificant.

For all the time I spent overanalyzing his countenance, I was oblivious to what hid behind his hideous spectacles. The strength, the nobility, the sheer good that crackled wildly in those large emerald orbs did not overthrow me, did not send shivers racing through my veins as though a thousand bubbles had burst simultaneously within me. Not yet.

That moment would come when he would pointedly refused my hand and, of all people, take Weasley's instead. A low-class, insipid hothead who possessed the wit and charm of a troll: it was inconceivable. How dare he dismiss a pureblood from a family that had sown its seeds of wealth and influence long before that carrot family began spawning their secondhand children, before his family came into being! How pathetic was he to be won over by nauseating praise of a ginger imbecile and a bushy-haired little twit!

Five years later, I can still remember the words murmured by that soft mouth that changed everything: I think I can tell who are the wrong sort for myself, thanks. The iciness that made me look for the first time into the scintillating pools of green that would paint the sky in my mind forever. The intensity of his gaze, of him. Thirteen dismissive words that chased away the rumors and whispered words to reveal the soul and the bane of my existence: Harry Potter.

With painful lucidity, I remember the chill that went down my spine as I realized the cataclysmic event that had just happened, completely shattering the foundation of my eleven selfish years: I had been ignored.

I wince as I think of the solemn oath I took to myself as I entered the Great Hall for the first time, absorbed in my own thoughts: to never be ignored by Harry Potter again. However much he'd want to toss me aside and never speak to me, I vowed to never let him, lividly chanting that he would remember Draco Malfoy. Sorted into our respective Houses and tucking into the first feast, I tossed my hair nonchalantly and smirked to myself: he was going to eat his words.

If only, if only I had known.

Author's note goes here: So, I may have forgotten to mention this, but the story's development will be across the years that Malfoy knew Harry. As much as I loved the books, I did not pay fantastically close attention to ALL the details, so I MAY inadvertently just make stuff up. If it's REALLY inaccurate, please point it out to me! Otherwise, enjoy my potentially slightly AU story.

This part focuses on their very first encounter on the eve of their first year, on the Hogwarts Express; next chapter about first year! Hurrah, except not for Draco. :P

Flamers will be subject to a clever pun on obliteration and reviews are always welcome! :)

~teacuptea