Slytherin. Slytherin. Slytherin. I'm not afraid of inflicting pain on a hat, you know. Actually that was quite a Slytherin thing to say, just then. I'm perfect, you know it.

"Slytherin!"

Draco grinned widely before quickly hiding the expression and replacing it with a superior sneer. His new House looked at him with varying degrees of welcome, and he sat down safe and secure in the knowledge that his place for the next seven years was assured – if he could only reach out and grab it.

Pansy smiled happily at him for a moment, before turning back to her new friend, Millicent Bulstrode, some girl she had met on the train, no doubt. Privately, he suspected she was a half-breed, but better a Slytherin half-breed than any other kind. Crabbe and Goyle were near him during the feast, both giving him nods of open support, though to his dismay, the Bloody Baron was also sitting near him. Draco glanced at the blood on his robes and the ghastly expression on the ghost's face out of the corner of his eye, and tried not to recoil too much. He didn't, after all, want to appear like a pansy in front of his new house. He gamely took a huge bite of pudding, trying not to feel nauseous.

Everyone stuffed themselves silly that feast, and Draco exerted himself in conversation as much as was possible, being near the edge of the damned table. Everybody laughed themselves sick, as least, when Draco recounted their first meeting in the robe shop – "Imagine, Potter didn't even know whether he was pureblood or not!"

Half the time Draco tried to talk though, he was interrupted by the older students, who clearly outranked him. It rankled a bit, but Draco knew it was to be expected. For now, at least. Feeling slightly discouraged, slightly exhilarated by the challenges in front of him, he went back to the common room with the rest of the first years, taking the chance to make himself known to everyone who didn't already know exactly who his father was.

Lying in his bed that night, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle on either side, he was far too excited to go to sleep. Sneaking out of his bed, he headed out to the common room, admiring the heavy green velvet draped over the stones. Elegant and effective at keeping out cold. He approved. The entire common room, in fact, was a mass of luxurious fabrics and sleek design. Anti-mold and anti-dark magic charms probably encircled the room, a display of power that Draco knew he shouldn't be surprised at.

The fire was still going, and all around the fire were chairs, filled at intervals with older students, almost all of them hunched down over desks, though a few people were just talking. Coming closer, he could see that the desks held drugs: some stims, some aphrodisiacs. A few of the groups were doing some more exotic things. Was that dried Phoenix blood? Ah yes, Father had warned him about this: common beer for Gryffindors, performance-enhancers for Ravenclaws, nothing for the ever-so-honest Hufflepuffs, and for the Slytherins... the fun stuff.

Looking up, a sixth-year cousin of his waved him over with a dulled smile. Ground will-o-the-wisp, perhaps? Draco came closer, and saw the people's dilated pupils and restlessness. Yes, definitely. With everyone looking on, judging him, Draco reached down and picked up a fingerful as he had seen the others doing, and rubbed it over his eyelids. He felt a social pressure; his performance tonight would be the basis for the rest of the year.

With a deep breath, he could feel the drug start to work, spreading warmth from his neck down, tingling a bit. There, he hadn't embarrassed himself with any childish lack of knowledge. Everybody did another round, the older ones rubbing in more and more risqué places. When some of the girls started moving against each other, Draco had to sit down, flushed and thrumming.

His cousin waved at him in dismissal, but not a mocking one. He stood up and started tottering away, just as happy to get out of something he knew he wasn't ready for. "No more playing at the big kid's party, Draco," one seventh-year said, her lips swollen and smiling. A few people he knew from family parties nodded at him as he left, and he felt a rush of pride.

When Draco lay down in his bed again, he shifted restlessly, not knowing what to do. Sweat started running down his face, and he felt like little bugs were skittering up and down his arms underneath his robes. Really, this, this wasn't as pleasant as he had imagined. Draco caught himself scratching at his arms and stopped immediately; his great-uncle had scars up one arm from doing that. Feeling worse and worse, but not knowing what to do about it, Draco finally got out his wand and spelled himself unconscious.

Draco woke up with aching shivers running up and down his body and with a muddled head. The first day of classes was important; he needed to tackle it with clarity. Right then. Just as soon as he had something to eat. After staring at the canopy over his bed for another five minutes or so, he woke Crabbe and Goyle up so they could back him up. The other Slytherin first-years started moving too, everyone looking like they were nervous but trying to hide it. Fortunately, Draco felt too sick from his hangover to be nervous.

Class turned out to be a moderately dull affair. History of Magic was perhaps the least engaging class Draco had ever encountered. He amused himself by flicking things at the Hufflepuffs, who winced and shot him the most hilarious timid scowls. Crabbe and Goyle backed him by laughing at all his jokes, and Pansy was looking at him admiringly by the end of class.

But on Friday, there was Potions with the Gryffindors. Draco didn't know how Professor Snape stopped himself from expelling them all, or at least making them drink their own potions. In terms of subject matter, Potions was the most interesting of all the classes yet; it gratified Draco that he was finally able to follow a simple set of instructions, and the ingredients would do exactly what they told him too. It was all the more gratifying that the Gryffindor louts were too hung-over or stupid to do the simplest of potions correctly.

The best part of class, however, had to be the way Professor Snape praised his godson Draco and completely smashed Potter. Poor ickle Harry, scolded for not knowing something he was already supposed to have studied. Draco didn't know what the product of infusion of asphodel and powered root of asphodel were either, or whatever it was Professor Snape had asked about, but that was where it paid to have family connections.

Longbottom, however, provided the highlight of Draco's week when his cauldron exploded, which Professor Snape somehow cleverly used to make Potter lose even more points. They were like a troupe of clowns just waiting to entertain Draco!

Draco looked forward to even more hilarity during the flying lesson. Neville was disgustingly bad on a broom. "How has he even lived this long?" asked Draco in mock-wonderment. All the other Slytherins snickered, and Pansy looked admiringly at him for what must have been the fourth time that day. It really was like the Gryffindors tried to help him.

Potter gave him a look as Hooch led Longbottom away, clutching his arm and snot running all down his face. When Draco sneered back at him, Potter just stared back expressionlessly.

Draco couldn't help but think of on the train, when Potter had just looked at his outstretched hand. As though it wasn't even real. Had muttered off something like "I'd rather not." Bugger him. Just... he's not important. But he had been and was still unavoidably important; he was a hero, and he had rejected Draco. In public, out of hand, as though he hadn't been worth the effort. Even now, he just looked out Draco with a look of, was that amusement? As though Draco were some familiar little puppy, come to play games.

He moved with a self-assuredness that Draco longed for suddenly, with a stab of envy. To go through life without any doubts, status given for something he did as a baby, it probably hadn't even really been because of anything little baby Potter had done, he had just happened to be there, but still anything the prat wanted was at his fingertips... In a sudden burst of genius, Draco grabbed Neville's Rememberall and hurtled up into the air. Come on, Potter, just try to get it back and act the hero. You don't even know how to fly, Potter, let's see you break your arm too.

Potter leaped onto his broom and flew up to Draco, catching up quickly. He faced Draco, face lit up and flushed, his height no longer an issue for him. "Neither of your thugs up here!" he shouted. Suddenly afraid, Draco held out his hand with some of his former bravado, and opened it, keeping his eyes on Potter. Draco's eager grin turned blank when Potter caught it. Just before it hit the ground. In a Wronski feint move, something Draco had broken a leg trying to learn. And Potter had never been on a broom before.

Draco saw McGonagall rushing up quickly, and flew back down, shaking off his shock. Damn him! As Draco watched McGonagall lead Potter off to a probably-not-that-horrible punishment, because he was The Boy Who Lived, he felt a black emotion pooling in his heart, hot and cold at the same time. Oh right - that was hate. He hated Potter more than he had ever hated anyone, and Draco didn't think he could ever hate anyone this much again. It wasn't even that Potter was a prat – it was that he just didn't care. About Draco, who deserved everyone's praise and adulation. As though Draco was just like a little foolish puppy. One who yapped with one of those silly tiny barks. Draco was not annoying, he should be a nemesis at least. Just... bugger him. Potter. Even when all the Slytherins patted him on the back and cheered as Potter disappeared into the school, that was all he could think.