I am still not J.k. Rowlings, and she still owns the rights to Harry Potter. Trust me. If it were otherwise, you'd better believe I'd be milking that cash cow until it ran dry. We'd have twice as many books and a more spin-offs than you could shake a wand at. Enjoy, my patient readers.
Just so you know, I do go back and edit previous chapters. (You guys are bad at telling me about typos.) So if a sentence or passage mysteriously changes, you're not crazy! I'm just obsessive.
Morning saw Draco wide awake and irritable. He'd returned to the dormitory only to realize he had nothing to do. No letters to write. No homework. Nothing to read other than his first year textbooks, which contained information so elementary that it actually offended him. Miranda Goshawk was apparently under the impression that the average eleven-year-old was barely smarter than a below-average ape.
He was halfway out the portrait-hole for a late-night trip to the library when he stopped himself. He might very well need the Hogwarts staff to one day act on faith and his word alone. Could he really afford to be caught and pegged as a troublemaker on his very first night? No, he decided. The Owlry had been worth the risk, but his boredom was not. It was best if he were seen as respectful, well-behaved, and honest.
Merlin, this was going to be difficult.
Sighing, Draco picked the least beat-up armchair and sat in it, brooding on problems past and present until dawn raised its blushing head.
As the first noises of stirring people drifted down the stairs, Draco figured that was as good a time as any to use up all the hot water. Not easy in a castle with magically heated plumbing, but possible if you caught the house-elves at a busy time. It was with great relish that Draco listened to the anguished howls drifting down the stairs to where he sat, drying his hair with his wand.
Granger clattered down the stairs first, bag and bushy hair bouncing wildly.
"Granger, hold on a moment, will you?" he called.
She stopped halfway out the portrait hole. "Yes, did you need something?"
He squashed a surge of irritation. As if she could help him!
"Quite the opposite," he answered smoothly. "You see, my father is on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, so I'm rather more familiar with the castle. I thought you and the other first years might appreciate a guide to the Great Hall."
"Oh, yes," she said breathlessly, trying in vain to shove some of her hair back behind her ears. "I read all about that in Hogwarts, A History. Moving staircases and trick doors. I thought it was rather horrible to leave all that in a school, but then I read that there's so much magic around that it can't be helped. The castle just takes on a life of its own. I was actually hoping to ask one of the teachers about…"
As she babbled on, Draco had to rather forcefully remind himself that he was a seventeen-year-old time-travelling war veteran who had stood in the presence of the most terrifying Dark Lord to have ever lived and walked away with his sanity while she was just a know-it-all little girl with no friends and so it would absolutely be counterproductive to hex her mouth shut. He lightly cleared his throat.
"Oh, and I actually memorized the way last night, so I won't be needing a guide," she finished with a buck-toothed smile. She turned to go.
"It's different going the other way, obviously," he said, exasperated. What part of 'magical castle' is escaping her?
Just then Potter and Weasley came stomping down the stairs. Both were blue, shivering, and damp. Draco suppressed a smirk. Seven years' worth of payback was going to be very sweet.
"Morning, Potter. Weasley," he greeted cheerfully. "As I was telling Granger here, I thought I'd show you all the way to the Great Hall. It's almost a tradition for first years to miss breakfast the first day, but Potter looks like he needs the food. And Weasley, you might find you enjoy not having to fight for scraps."
Weasley reddened and opened his mouth, but Potter grabbed his arm.
"What's in it for you?" he asked warily. Apparently he hadn't quite forgiven Draco for nearly blasting his head off last night. An understandable caution, Draco supposed, although he obviously hadn't meant to do it.
He shrugged. "You can just owe me a favor."
Weasel scoffed. "To a slimy git like you? Not bloody likely. Come on, Harry."
The freckled redhead pulled Potter quite firmly by the arm, and after a moment's hesitation and a glare in Draco's direction, he followed his friend out the portrait hole.
Draco frowned. It seems he'd lost Potter's grudging benefit of the doubt. He'd have to fix that.
"Well then, Granger," he said. "Shall we?"
She chewed her lip, eyes narrowed just slightly. "Ron may have a point about open-ended promises. I read that, in the wizarding world, promises can be magically binding."
Draco rolled his eyes. They were all getting way too worked up over this. He missed his Slytherins—Crabbe and Goyle, who would have nodded in brutish gratitude; Pansy, who would have fluttered her eyelashes and readily promised him all sorts of things; Zabini, who would have smirked and made a counteroffer; and Nott, who would have rolled his eyes and pointed out that he knew the way just as well as Draco did. Any one of them would have walked to breakfast with him with the understanding that they might have to cover for him one night after curfew.
"Favors have to be paid with like favors, Granger. For showing you around, I couldn't ask for, say…your firstborn child."
She narrowed her eyes a bit more, but allowed him to step past and push through the portrait hole.
"Besides." He grinned, the sideways one that made him look cheeky and charming. "I already know what favor I want from you."
The expression worked because she grinned back a bit, hefted her bag, and followed him. "And what favor is that?"
As she clambered over the threshold, she wobbled under the weight of her books. He stepped quickly out of range.
"Share your notes with me, of course. You're obviously the brightest witch in Gryffindor."
Draco tried not to roll his eyes as Granger practically flushed with pride. It was almost pathetically obvious, her desire to be recognized by her peers and not just her teachers. He had just about finished laying the foundation: she would learn to listen to him, and Potter would eventually listen to her.
Still, she frowned a little, obviously considering the morality of helping another student slack off.
"That's seems unfair," she hedged. "An entire year's worth of notes in exchange for a walk to the Great Hall."
Self-righteous little brat, isn't she?
"I can also answer any questions you may have about the wizarding world. You could probably figure it out all on your own eventually," he assured her, "but it'll be quicker to just ask me when you want to know something specific."
Her muddy brown eyes gleamed at the idea of a ready source of first-hand information. "Deal."
"Great. Now jump that one," he said, pointing to the vanishing step halfway up the third floor staircase, "or it'll swallow you."
When they reached the Great Hall, Draco noted with satisfaction that Potter and Weasley were nowhere in sight.
"Well, here we are," he told Granger. "See you in class."
He wandered off to find a seat, preferably far away from Weasleys and mudbloods. He was pleasantly shocked by how few of the students glared and squished together to bar him entry. He even got a smile and a welcoming wave from a group of giggling second years. Was it because he was a Gryffindork now too that they welcomed him?
Not seeing anyone that he deigned to associate with, Draco settled himself at a relatively empty stretch of the table and reached for the toast.
"So are you excited about your first day of classes?"
He jumped and spilled crumbs on his robes at the voice of a regrettably familiar know-it-all.
"Granger," he said irritably. "Shouldn't you be getting to know the other girls?"
She heaved her bag up onto the bench and—with much manhandling that forced him to shift or risk having his legs crushed—shoved it under the table.
"Not really," she said. "I talked to them last night and all they care about is how dull the uniform is and whether or not our teachers will be attractive. I don't think we'll be very close."
"You really should try," he insisted. "Connections are important."
And being seen with you will absolutely destroy mine.
But Granger was about as socially perceptive as a stone. "Maybe later," she said. "Now, for my first question…"
Draco considered drowning himself in his morning milk as Granger assaulted him with her grating voice. How does she make a question sound bossy? Some of them were laughably ignorant, like how wizards generally traveled. Others were so obscure he had to wrack his brain for half-remembered scraps of his etiquette lessons. She completely ignored his many hints about enjoying his morning alone time, and if his answers were vague or short in the slightest, she practically attacked him with demands for more details. She even took notes, spattering his sleeve with ink from her frantic scribbling.
His one consolation was that Potter and Weasley never made it to breakfast, so he could look forward to their miserable grumbling the entire day.
Except even that was spoiled because when the pair skidded into their first class two minutes before the bell, Hermione got up from where she was still glued to Draco's side and dropped a stack of buttered toast in front of them.
"And maybe this will teach you not to be so judgmental of people when they offer you help!" she scolded.
The Weasel glared at Draco over Granger's shoulder, even as he crammed an entire slice of toast in his mouth and reached for another. Draco maintained a studiously neutral expression. For all that he enjoyed his petty tormenting of the Gryffindors, he did need them on his side. For that he needed to make himself tolerable, if not likeable. So he clamped down on the snide comments and gloating grins, and reached into his book bag for a small jar of jam.
"Apricot," he said, setting it in front of the pair with the calculated petulance of an eleven-year-old reluctantly sharing with his new housemates. "It's my favorite, so don't be greedy."
And it had been his favorite when he was eleven, so much so that his younger self had tucked a jar into his school-trunk and eaten it every morning until he got sick of it. Now Draco didn't much care for it and had only put the jar in his bag hoping to fob it off on one of his classmates.
"What's the catch?" Weasel mumbled with his mouth full, eyeing the little jar suspiciously
"No catch," Draco said, pretending to be offended. "I'm being nice. Or would you rather we pick at each other for the next seven years?"
Weasel shrugged and grabbed the jar. When he made to upend it over his toast, Draco made a scandalized sound and conjured a butter knife, which he thrust into the redhead's grimy hand.
"I said don't waste it, Weasley! That means don't dump it all over the table!"
Weasel took the knife, slightly wide-eyed. Hermione, too, was staring at it with shining eyes. "That was a third-year spell," she breathed.
Fourth, he thought, because of the details on the handle. But all he said was, "Merlin, you can use more than that, Potter. I can always owl my parents to send me more."
The other boy had smeared the thinnest possible film on a corner of his toast and was nibbling it in tiny, slowly-chewed bites.
"And if you don't like it, don't force yourself to eat it," Draco added, confused by the other boy's behavior. What eleven-year-old was so sparing with jam? "I won't be offended."
"No, it's good," Potter said quickly, helping himself to more. "I'd never had apricot, so I was just tasting it first."
Still, Draco noticed that Potter was careful to always use less than Weasley. And he kept trying to flatten his unruly bangs. Hadn't he figured out by now that it wasn't working?
Draco shrugged and went back to his seat, satisfied that the opening salvo had progressed as planned. He plotted absentmindedly all through his classes, formulating strategies, reprisals, possible responses to likely conversations, and doing his best to ignore Granger's pointed glances at his blank parchment and the occasional hiss of "Draco, at least pretend to pay attention!" She stopped pestering him when he transfigured his match into a needle on his very first try, although he made sure to turn it back before McGonagall could see. He wasn't ready reveal this inexplicable level of expertise just yet.
Ultimately, Draco decided that his usual methods of ingratiation wouldn't work on the Golden Trio. Gifts or other displays of his extravagant wealth would be interpreted as boastful at best, a dig on the Weasel's poverty at worst. Their families could not benefit from his father's influence, Potter's being dead, Granger's being muggles, and Weasel's being mortal enemies of the Malfoys. Nor did any of them covet the reflected glory of his social standing, and any unspoken offer to become part of his circle would go right over their collective dunderheads.
Draco sighed. Sentiment it would have to be then. Gestures—empty though they might be—of kindness and consideration, favors and confidences, shows of loyalty and feelings of mutual indebtedness. A process not only tiresome, but trite. Still, he supposed it would be a small price in light of the catastrophe he hoped to prevent.
Draco looked up at Granger's sudden gasp. Professor Flitwick had toppled off his precarious pile of books and was picking himself up to the class's collectively concerned murmuring. Many students were turning to look at Potter, whispering among themselves and pointing.
"What happened?" he hissed under his breath to Granger.
She gave him a superior look as if to say 'this is what happens when you don't pay attention,' but said, "Professor Flitwick was calling roll, and when he got to Harry's name, he startled and fell."
Draco shot a surreptitious glance at Potter, who had ducked his head until it nearly touched the desk. What Draco could see of his face was bright red, and he was flattening his hair down again, almost as if he were trying to hide his scar…
A sudden thought struck Draco, one so preposterous that he nearly dismissed it out of hand.
Potter hated being famous.
Sure, Draco knew that Potter wasn't the attention-seeking fathead the media made him out to be. Indeed, he had always figured that Potter's reckless heroism stemmed more from a burgeoning self-righteousness, disturbing lack of faith in authority, and misplaced sense of nobility rather than a need for attention. But he had also been of the private opinion that Potter purposely cultivated an air of nonchalance toward his fame. His actions kept him in the papers and therefore kept his name relevant in the public's mind, but by refusing interviews, public endorsements, etc., he gave an impression of earnest, honest youth that would have served him well had it not been for Rita Skeeter and the Ministry's smear campaign.
Never—not once—had it occurred to Draco that Potter had not cultivated an image at all, or that he had in fact studiously avoided any and all opportunities to wield his name and power because the attention made him…uncomfortable. Or something. He had to bend his brain in entirely new ways to make the idea fit inside it. Who could fail to appreciate a tool like that? Potter, apparently.
This theory required testing. "Professor Flitwick," he said, raising his voice above the whispers, "is it true that you were a dueling champion?"
The class's attention shifted. After all, dueling was much more interesting than a scrawny kid with a funny scar who did nothing but stare at his desk.
"Well, yes," Professor Flitwick answered. "At one time, I was considered quite—"
"What was it like?" someone asked eagerly. Then the conversation was off, students practically shouting over each other as they demanded details.
And like magic, Potter relaxed. He lifted his head, dropped his shoulders, and stopped flattening his hair over his forehead. He even raised a hand to ask a question of his own.
Huh, Draco thought. For the next several days, every time the whispering and pointing started up again, he would cut in with a question, insulting observation, or outrageous story. Every time, Potter went from tense, jumpy, or obviously trying to sink into the floor to…normal. Normal for Potter, anyway.
Draco had just finished telling a truly disgraceful whopper about fleeing from muggle helicopters on a broomstick (a story he suspected he had lifted wholesale from a classmate in his future) when Granger leaned over and whispered, "What are you doing?"
She looked from him to Potter and back again with narrowed eyes. "It has something to do with Harry, I know. You tell these ridiculous lies, and then you watch to see what he does. Why?"
Draco sighed. If he didn't answer, she'd pester him until he responded or went insane. "Have you noticed how twitchy he gets when people stare at him or ask him about his scar?"
She nodded. "Of course. It would bother anybody, having people constantly talk about how their parents died. You're distracting them so they'll leave him alone, aren't you?" She sat back, surprised. "That's…that's very kind of you, Draco."
Well, not exactly, but…I'll take it. "Don't look so surprised!" he said, letting himself sound hurt. "Why is everyone surprised when I do nice things?"
"Sorry, Draco," she said, apologetic, "It's just that you do seem to go out of your way to be conniving."
"Of course I'm conniving! I'm a Slyth—I mean, my entire family was in Slytherin. Conniving is a perfectly respectable trait."
"Yes, well, you are in Gryffindor, where you will get farther faster if you are a little less subtle."
With that, she got up from her place at the table and moved to sit with the Not-So-Dynamic Duo. Weasel said something with a nod of his head toward Draco. Hermione answered calmly and took a bite of her mashed potatoes. Potter's head shot up, and both he and Weasel stared blankly at her, then suspiciously at Draco.
He frowned, not sure how to handle this development. Wasn't it a bit brash to walk up to someone and say, "By the way, I've been distracting people from staring at the scar you got when your parents died because I saw how it made you uncomfortable. You're welcome."
Draco finished his pumpkin juice and left, figuring Granger would nag Potter into making the first move.
He was right. Later that evening, as Draco was double-checking a detail of his Transfiguration homework in the textbook, Potter threw himself into the armchair next to him.
"I talked to Hermione," he said, somewhat sullenly. "She says you've been telling all those crazy stories to stop people staring at me."
"And if I have?" he said, not looking up.
"Why? What do you want from me?"
"Nothing," Draco said. A lie, technically, although Potter never needed to know that. He decided to borrow Granger's words. "I just thought it was rather crude, hounding a bloke for a scar he got when his parents died. Seemed like it might bring up bad memories."
"Wow, Malfoy, that's—"
"Potter, if I look up and see surprise on your face, followed by a statement regarding my kindness or some such nonsense, I'm going to bludgeon you to death with this textbook."
Draco looked up and found Potter frozen with his mouth half-open, obviously about to say and do exactly that. He shut his mouth, opened it again, stopped.
"Don't strain yourself, Potter," Draco said wryly.
The other boy laughed. Then, "I was going to say 'That's very interesting.'" His expression was carefully bland.
"It really does bother you, doesn't it?" Draco said suddenly, changing tact. "Not just the constant reminder about your parents, but the attention itself. The fame. Why?"
Potter fiddled with a thread poking from his sleeve. "I dunno," he said, frowning. "It's just…It's not like I did anything to deserve it. I didn't even know I was famous until a week ago. Everyone knows my name and expects me to do all these great things, but I'm still the same old Harry. Just Harry."
"You're not just Harry," he said, snapping his book shut and throwing it aside. "You're Harry Potter. Just like I'm Draco Malfoy. It's your family name that really matters. That's the one people will remember. Do you have any idea what you could do with your name? A word from you could sway a Ministry election. An interview could buy you a majority vote from the Wizengamot. People would sell the family heirlooms for a chance to shake your hand. Name it, Potter, and the wizarding world will fall over itself to give it to you."
Draco stopped, breathing hard. He wasn't sure why he wanted so badly for Potter to understand this. It could very well cause problems in the future if he embraced the inherent power of his name. He and the Malfoys weren't likely to agree on many issues. And yet…the waste of it. Why couldn't he appreciate the true value of what his parents had given him?
Potter only looked disgusted. "I won't profit from my parents' deaths."
"Your parents didn't die just so you could survive, Potter! They died so you could live. They would have wanted you to have…everything."
"How would you know what my parents would have wanted, Malfoy?" he said coldly.
"Because they were your parents. Obviously." Draco shook his head. Didn't those muggle relatives of his teach him anything?
Potter's lip curled. "Would you trade your parents for fame, then?"
Draco felt himself grow very cold. From far away, he heard his own voice gone hard and brittle as ice: "Never. But if they were gone, I'd make it so no one ever forgot them. I'd make it so no one ever forgot our name. And the man who tried to take them from me? I'll wipe him from the face of history."
With a vicious swipe of his wand, Draco charmed his things to fly up to his room while he himself stormed out the portrait-hole to fetch some reading material. He wouldn't be sleeping tonight, not with his mother's white face looming in his mind's eye or his father's screams echoing in his ears.
Someone left a review asking if this story had been abandoned. Hopefully this update answers the question! I'm in my final year of college, working part-time, and trying to finish up my first original novel, so updates are and probably always will be sporadic. However! I give you my solemn vow that short of my untimely demise, I will not abandon you all without notice. So! I hope that soothes any anxieties.
If you so desire, you may and are in fact encouraged to leave nagging reviews, pepper me with requests for updates, and/or stalk me over the internet. I consider all these things to be sincere forms of flattery. At best, they may galvanize me into working a little faster for you. Cheers!