Chapter 6 | Muggle-sympathizers & Mudbloods
It's as if he's breathing for the first time in his life. The freedom of being on the Hogwarts Express is overwhelming. No Lucius, no weeping Narcissa, and no ministry hearing. Draco feels this must be a dream. He tries to imagine not feeling his father's constant eye—and wand—on him, and realizes that he's never been alone. A strange twinge of homesickness spreads over him, before he banishes the thought. No, this is where he can be who he wants. Not who his father wants.
He finds a seat easily in between children of other Death Eater families. Crabbe and Goyle, the dim-witted idiots, nod at him as he approaches with his trunk. He's a little ashamed at himself for feeling comfort at their familiarity amongst so many new faces. It's impossible to tell which ones are pure bloods. He wishes there was some sort of indicator.
The train rumbles to a start, couplings jangling between the cars. The train is buzzing with excitement. Students have drawn their wands, some are practicing charms that yield puffs of smoke and pitiful sparks.
"Done any magic yet?" Goyle asks him.
Draco notices Crabbe eyeing him. He squints darkly, warning Crabbe to zip it. "Some. Bet I can make Crabbe's nose even bigger."
Goyle laughs. Crabbe even seems amused.
Draco pulls out his wand and recites a spell he once heard a wizard use on a barkeep's ears when he refused to turn off the Weird Sisters. "Engorgio!"
Crabbe's nose begins to swell like a balloon, to the great joy of the students surrounding them.
"Oh, that's terribly smart of you," a voice fawns from behind him. Distracting him from Crabbe's nose, which had enlarged to nearly the size of an apple, the girl swings into the bench, sitting too close. Her frizzy dark hair tickles his cheek.
Immediately, Draco dislikes her.
"I'm Pansy Parkinson, and you must be Draco Malfoy," she says. "I've seen your father at the ministry when I'm visiting my mother's office. You look just alike."
"Mmm," Draco says. Parkinson. Pure blood.
"Not many students can do magic before Hogwarts like that," she cooes, "you must be really powerful."
Despite a sickly churning in his stomach at her being so close to him, Draco feels a little satisfaction.
"Reducio!" a Slytherin prefect calls from the other side of the car, relieving Crabbe of his nose which had grown to the size of a quaffle. "Mind you know your counter-curses before experimenting!"
Draco snorts, amused.
"Let's try…this," he says, and points his wand stealthily towards the prefect. Under his breath, he whispers, "Confundus," and the prefect begins stumbling as if drunk, trying to steady himself on the seats.
Pansy giggles and squeezes his knee. He instinctively wants to pry her fingers from him and leave, but she's a pure blood. Which means he has to like her. And it can't hurt to have one more ally, even an irritating one. Perhaps she'll be useful someday.
...
Slowly the city gives way to little villages, and villages give way to rolling countryside. Draco tries other spells, but none produce the same effect as curses. The charms he's heard his mother use mostly yield halfhearted sparks from his wand, but Pansy seems to be enamored by even that.
Noise begins to build up at the back of the car, and Draco looks up. Students are gathering, whispering and looking about curiously.
"You there!" he shouts across the car to a nervous-looking boy with curly hair. "What's going on?"
"Harry Potter is on the train!" he says eagerly. "It's true! My brother's just walked past, and he swore he could see his scar!"
Draco is terrified and excited all at once. Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, the wizard who is famous without even trying—can either be an inseparable ally or absolute nemesis. This is his chance to get Potter on his side, before he gets ahead. Draco imagines how influential they could be together. The wealthiest pure-blood family, and the wizard who couldn't be killed. His father would certainly have a fit if they became allies. Or, he'd be impressed. This is the opportunity he's been waiting for: truly show Lucius what he's capable of.
Draco rises without hesitation. To his disdain, so do Crabbe and Goyle.
"What?" he says.
"We wanna see Potter," Crabbe says.
"I saw him on the platform already," Pansy says. "He looks boring. I'll wait for you here."
Draco sighs in frustration. "Fine," he says bitterly, sweeping from the car with Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind.
It takes them combing through nearly the entire train before they weed out the misinformation and find out where Potter is: in one of the last compartments. Its door is open, and Draco can hear a voice chattering excitedly about Quidditch. He approaches, barely fitting down the corridor with Crabbe and Goyle eagerly flanking him.
"Get behind me at least, I barely have room to breathe," he says, and they fall back.
With a deep breath, Draco straightens his robes, combs his hair back, and steps into the compartment entrance. His eyes fall instantly on a boy with dark, messy hair, glasses, and clothing that's way too baggy on his thin frame. The boy from Madam Malkin's. His heart skips a beat.
"Is it true?" he says eagerly. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"
Now that he's here, he feels wild with excitement.
"Yes," says the boy.
He can't believe it's actually him. He's speaking to Harry Potter. In the company of—red hair—must be a Weasley. Draco watches as Harry's piercing green eyes dart between Crabbe and Goyle, looking somewhat uncertain. He has a good mind to shove them off the train.
"Oh, this is Crabbe and Goyle," he says carelessly, wanting Harry's attention only on him. "And my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."
The Weasley boy coughs, a poor attempt at hiding a snigger. Their family always was indecent. Always with their noses in piles of muggle litter, you could swear they wanted to be muggles.
"Think my name's funny, do you?" he knows his voice is dripping in disgust. He doesn't even try to hide it. "No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."
He turns back to Harry, who is looking at him with a stony expression that's hard to read. This is going all wrong. Again. Draco wishes everyone would just disappear into another compartment. It doesn't help that a Weasley is there trying to spread his corruption around. Something about Ron Weasley makes him want to strangle a house elf. Just as well there are none nearby.
He feels waves of defensiveness coming off Harry, and it makes him desperate. A few milliseconds is enough to tell him that he has to get him away from Weasley if he ever wants to have a chance with Harry.
"You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."
He holds out his hand to shake Harry's, but Harry doesn't take it.
"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," he says coolly.
Draco's face begins to flush hotly. He can feel his hands shaking in embarrassment.
"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," he says slowly, knowing that what's about to come out of his mouth will destroy any modicum of a chance at friendship with Harry forever. But his blood is boiling and he wants nothing more than to hurt someone.
"Unless you're a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents," he sneers, knowing now that Harry wasn't lying in Madam Malkin's. "They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riff-raff like the Weasleys and Hagrid and it'll rub off on you." It's as if his father is speaking through him and he has no control. It's horrifying.
Both Harry and the Weasley boy shoot up from their seats, the energy in the compartment instantly hostile.
"Say that again," Weasley growls. It's kind of pathetic, seeing him scatter wrappers of dozens of chocolate frogs from the seat as he stands, his face literally flushed the colour of his hair. As if his dirty nose is better than a Malfoy.
"Oh, you're going to fight us, are you?" Draco sneers, staring Weasley in the eye.
"Unless you get out now," says Harry.
Draco turns, seeing Harry surprisingly close. There's something darkly intriguing about him, and the angrier he gets, the more thrill shoots through Draco's veins. From here, he can see the hazel flecks in Harry's green eyes, and a crinkled strip of tape holding his wire-framed glasses together at the nose. It's a detail that he'd ordinarily judge, but something in Harry's determined eyes tells him that he's more Draco's match in will and defiance than his ragged clothes indicate. He can't help but think in this moment that he'd much rather have Harry this close than Pansy Parkinson.
The flush in his cheeks intensifies. Harry's eyes are piercing into his.
"But we don't feel like leaving, do we, boys?" Draco says, keeping his eyes locked on Harry. "We've eaten all our food and you still seem to have some."
Understatement. Weasley has destroyed most of the pile. But food is what motivates Crabbe and Goyle, and he needs a distraction so he can get out of here. Goyle reaches towards the chocolate frogs—Weasley lunges for him, but before he reaches Goyle, Goyle lets out a horrible yell.
A mangy-looking rat is hanging off of his finger, teeth sunk deep into the skin. Goyle, the big lump, starts swinging his arm wildly, spinning and howling in chaos.
While Goyle desperately tries to dislodge the rat from his finger, Draco retreats down the corridor, silently grateful for the way the dumb scene escalated. His face still burns in embarrassment. Harry Potter could have been on his side. And now he's destroyed all hope of it. What is it that Potter sees in Weasley? Ragged, ginger-haired, muggle-loving Weasley? Draco's heart beats heavily on his ribcage. There's a riot of noise pouring from the compartments—he rushes to the door at the end of the car and wrenches it open, hiding himself on the platform between the bustling cars.
The wind whips at his robes. Hot shame bursts over him, a salty burning in his eyes. The railing is cold and unyielding against his fingers. He feels an anger he's never felt before. All he can see is the disgust in Potter's eyes, over and over and—
Jealousy burning inside him, Draco draws his wand and aims recklessly out to the speeding landscape.
"Confrigo!"
The force of the blast shocks him with a terrifying thrill. The earth close to the track vomits into the sky, churning a crater black soil into the air.
The silence following it is filled with adrenaline coursing through Draco's veins. Adrenaline and…relief. Finally, finally he can use magic. He can make his anger disappear. Damn Potter. Damn him. Draco wants to hate him with every bit of his being. Hate him so deeply that whatever this other feeling is, is crushed into darkness.
He leans his head back to the train door, feeling the cool September air whipping against his skin. Hogwarts is nothing like he thought it would be.
…to be continued.