Written for the QLFC Season 6, Round 6

Team: Wigtown Wanderers

Position: Seeker

Position Prompt: June: Draco Malfoy, Dudley Dursley, Dobby.

Word Count: 1190

Beta(s): Aya Diefair, DinoDina, CUtopia

Chapter 24: By My Own Choice

With a sidelong stare, Draco watched as the dark-haired boy all but tumbled through the door from the tailor's and hastened to the gamekeeper's side. The gamekeeper –– an actual half-giant, if the stories were true, and terrifying in all of his gargantuan size –– was only visible from his shoulders down. His head, but for a wild mess of tangled beard, disappeared above the window into the shop, leaving visible only the sight of a heavy coat and wide sleeve-wrapped arms that looked capable of breaking tree trunks.

He held an ice cream. For some reason, Draco was captured by that sight. He was rarely allowed ice-cream himself – which was fine, really; it was – and the sight of it, of the half-giant handing it to the nameless boy with the solemn expression and too-big glasses, was somehow enchanting.

Just like how the boy glanced up at the giant and tentatively accepted the treat. Just as he didn't quite smile but his face softened just slightly as he accepted it with awkward hands.

There were some consistencies in the world, consistencies that Draco had been taught from a very, very young age and knew were lore. One was that purebloods were superior to other witches and wizards, from Mudbloods to half-bloods and mixed races. Their magic was purer, after all, and magic was everything. Why shouldn't those with purer magic be superior?

Another fact was that money meant power, and power meant further superiority, which was, ultimately, what every pureblood should strive for. Draco had long ago accepted that the reason for that was too complex for him to understand as of yet, but accept it he did. Those that were poor were beneath him; they hadn't been lucky enough, or worked hard enough, or been smart enough to climb the ladder of society and accumulate wealth like a hoarding dragon.

Skill in academia and sports like Quidditch entitled respect. Being sorted into a respectable house was a necessity of life. Denying the company of those that wouldn't benefit him and acknowledging those that did, regardless of how little or how much their presence was enjoyed went without question. And it was never, never acceptable to lose face. Ever.

Rules, rules, rules. They were the backbone of Draco's life, dictating how he acted and how he thought. Like sitting up straight, and falling silent around his elders when they were speaking, because that was the respectful thing to do. He hadn't questioned such realities for years because there was no need to. So why…?

For whatever reason, as Madam Malkin jabbed away at his new robes, Draco couldn't look away from the messy-haired boy and the giant gamekeeper. That he should disregard the giant entirely went without saying, but he couldn't quite manage to draw his gaze from staring at his enormous hands, at the chaos of pockets on the outside of his jacket, or from listening to the booming voice that asked a jovial "What's up?"

Draco didn't hear the boy's reply. For some reason he wished he had, because that boy… he was different. He hadn't ducked his head and glanced away from Draco as anyone who recognised him as a Malfoy would have. At the same time, however, there was something about him, some tingling feeling, that felt so definitely and strongly magical that Draco had no misconceptions that he was a Muggleborn, let alone a Muggle.

Except he was scruffy. He wore jeans like a Muggle did, jeans that Draco was never allowed to wear – though he didn't want to, of course; not at all – and had the face of someone who thought too much and too deeply but said very little of it. There was solemnity about his expression that didn't quite lift even when he accepted the ice-cream that looked, really, really delicious. It probably was, too – though Draco didn't care. Of course he didn't.

Draco was still watching as the scruffy boy and his giant attendant strode from view. He unconsciously turned to follow them with his gaze and, in doing so, nearly fell from the stool he stood upon. Malkin jabbed him with a needle, and it was all Draco could do to withhold a yelp.

"Watch where you're sticking that," he snapped, fighting the urge with abrupt embarrassment to flush as he teetered slightly on the stool.

Malkin spared him a glance, her eyebrow twitching. "Well, if you didn't move it wouldn't have happened."

Draco clenched his teeth. He knew that. Of course he knew that. It was embarrassing to be told as much more for the truth of Malkin's words as because she was, in accusing him, effectively undermining him. Draco wasn't supposed to be undermined. He wasn't supposed to let himself be undermined. His father said so; it was part of being a pureblood, of being a Malfoy.

"Just do your job," Draco hissed through his teeth. Straightening, he raised his chin and glared across the room as Malkin sighed and returned to her work. He ignored her because he was entitled to. Because she wasn't saying anything to him, and anything she could say was routinely spoken to Malfoys anyway. If there was one core understanding of society that Draco had been forced to learn on his own without being told it was that his family was far from being well-liked.

He didn't care. It didn't matter. Life wasn't about liking and not liking. It was about winning. It was about being higher and better than everyone else. It was about knowing when to bow one's head and still one's tongue to rise to the occasion later when justice was served and an opportunity was presented.

Draco had taught himself that lesson, too.

Even so, he couldn't quite withhold his gaze as it drifted towards the window once more, to where the boy and the giant had been. He couldn't quite forget the ice-cream, or the jacket with the pockets, or the boy's solemn expression that seemed to speak a language that Draco hadn't heard before.

I should have demanded to know what his name was before he left, he thought to himself. Interesting people – not necessarily smart, or skilled, or pureblood – could be a benefit, after all.

Provided the boy wasn't Muggleborn, of course. Or half-caste. Or from a disrespectful family, or a low-rung name, or of questionable descent, or was sorted into a Hogwarts House other than Slytherin, or –

There was a wealth of possibilities that would make it impossible, but Draco found himself silently hoping that none arose. He'd never picked a friend of his own before. He'd rarely had the chance to outside of the rigid circles his parents allowed him to mingle with. Hogwarts was a world of possibilities in itself, and this one?

Well, ice-cream wasn't necessarily delectable, but it might be interesting to try it just once. And jeans didn't look particularly comfortable, but Draco might like to try them just once, too. And a friend. A friend he chose for himself.

Yes, Draco thought he might like to try that. Just once.