Draco Malfoy had the perfect life, charmed by Fate itself it seemed. He'd been born into an aristocratic Pureblood family to the most beautiful couple on Earth. His mother loved him with unconditional love like only a mother could provide. And if his father wasn't around much, the man clearly cared for him.

If that wasn't enough, he had Hermione. From the moment he'd met her, they'd been glued together. She was nothing like his other friends, who all came from families much like his (if less wealthy less powerful). She didn't bother putting on airs around him since they lived together, and there was no undercurrent of rivalry in anything but academics. That area was hardly competitive either, since both were intelligent students, quick learners. If Hermione was perhaps a bit more diligent and quick to learn than he was, she always shared what she knew. The only other drawback was that she could be a bit of a know-it-all.

The morning their Hogwarts letters came, she practically glowed as the owl dropped an envelope with her name on it. She never received mail, and Draco only did for his birthday or holidays, so he was excited as well. They tore into their letters and the breakfast table was silent as they scanned the writing under the school's letterhead and headmaster's name.

Dear Mr. Draco Malfoy,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Deputy Headmaster

Excitement thrilled through him. It was finally time; logically, he'd known this day was coming. He'd just had his eleventh birthday, afterall, and Hermione had turned eleven last September. Still, to hold the letter in his hand was something else entirely. He skimmed the second page, looking up to grin at his companion.

"I'm gonna try it for Quidditch and see if I can make captain, like my father," he said.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but smiled. "You can't try out for Quidditch as a first year. You can't even bring your broom this year."

He frowned. "Why not?"

The girl jabbed a finger at the parchment in his hand. "It says so right there. Besides, there hasn't been a player our age in a century!" At Draco's questioning look, she said, "I read about it in Hogwarts: A History. Honestly, Draco, you still haven't read it yet?"

"I'm waiting until we're there," he explained. "Some of us like experiencing things as we learn about them."

"Don't you want to be prepared?"

"I am prepared; mother's told me loards about Hogwarts," he said evenly. "I'm just not a swot like you."

"I'm not a swot," she replied.

"You you feel like you need to learn everything; you're a swot."

"If I'm a swot, then so are you."

"Boy's can't be swots," he retorted. "When boys learn things, they're just smart."

Her cheeks flushed and she glared at him. "That's sexist. If girls can be swots, so can boys."

"Fine," he admitted, adding teasingly, "But you're the biggest swot of them all."

"Are you two bickering again?" They both jumped at the smooth voice. Usually they head the tap of Lucius Malfoy's cane against the marble floors preceding him, but he'd caught them unawares this time.

"We got our Hogwarts letters," Draco declared, waving his.

The man was suitably distracted and took his son's letter in hand to skim over it. "It seems Dumbledore is still hanging onto his deputy position. The man is ancient, he hasn't a hope of becoming headmaster by now. I don't know why Horace doesn't replace him."

Narcissa Malfoy finally looked up from the book she'd been reading while the children ate breakfast. "Albus Dumbledore still has friends in places; no one is likely to forget his duel against Grindewald. Besides, he is brilliant."

"There are other, younger brilliant men teaching at Hogwarts," he reminded his wife, who shrugged. "Well, it seems you'll need to make a Diagon Alley run, Cissa."

"Perhaps we'll go today," she said. "We had nothing pressing scheduled."

"Good. You can tell me all about it later; I have pressing business at the ministry today." He bade them goodmorning and strode out, calling after his personal house elf.

As the lord of the manor left earshot, the two children returned to their conversation with glittering eyes and hushed excitement.

Hermione had been to Diagon Alley before, of course; Narcissa took her and Draco there almost every time she went, unless she was meeting for tea with other Pureblood socialites. However, this time she would be leaving with a wand of her own. It had taken all of her willpower not to beg Draco to ask his parents to take them early. When she'd turned eleven, she'd secretly hoped he would. When he'd turned eleven, she'd expected it. She suspected the only reason why Draco hadn't was worry that his father would be displeased.

Lucius Malfoy's displeasure was the only thing Draco feared. It was bad enough to upset one's father, but Lucius' aggravation could become Hermione's pain. Every time Hermione took a punishment because of Draco's actions, the boy was consumed with guilt. He would apologize profusely, offer her sweets or trinkets, anything he could think of to soothe her. She appreciated his thoughtfulness, and how careful he was not to provoke his father's wrath, but she sometimes had to remind him that that was why his family brought her in.

She knew her place after five years with the Malfoys. While they didn't treat her badly, she was not their daughter. She was the companion of their son, the "whipping boy." She'd stumbled upon the term in an old French history book in the Malfoy library. Both children were tutored in French, though it was one area where Draco superseded her. He'd heard it from the cradle, whereas she hadn't started learning until she was with the Malfoys.

Whipping boys were apparently stand-ins for princes who couldn't be disciplined directly by their teachers. In return for taking the brunt of the prince's punishments, they were educated and raised among nobility. She'd tried to find out more about the custom, but there had only been one reference, and that one bereft of much information.

Hermione also knew that, while the Malfoys didn't treat her badly because of her blood, they still believed it was a mark against her (albeit one that made her presence possible in their manor). Lucius Malfoy particularly sometimes stared at her as though wondering where this strange mongrel had come from. And, while Narcissa never used the term, she'd heard him refer to those like herself as "mudbloods" more than once.

Draco had long since stopped using the term.

Whether she deserved her position in life or not, Hermione accepted it as best she could, and was determined to use it to her advantage. She was sure that she'd prove herself at Hogwarts.

The bell above the door chimed as the three of them, two Malfoys and one Granger, entered the shop. Mr. Ollivander, whom Hermione had never met, immediately appeared on the staircase to the left.

He graced them with a smile, and Hermione felt herself returning it without thought. Mr. Ollivander was old, and had mutton chops that she was fairly certain hadn't been fashionable even among wizards for some time. There was something otherworldly about him, standing there in his dusty clothes, amid the dusty boxes of wands. He seemed as though her stood between two worlds, but the weight of his gaze shot straight through to the heart of things.

"Narcissa Black, black walnut, fourteen inches, unicorn hair core." The man then directed his gaze to the two children. "This must be your son," Ollivander said, eyes lighting on Draco."

The older witch nodded. "Draco Malfoy, yes. He and his companion Hermione have come to get their wands."

When his gaze landed on Hermione alone, she had to suppress the urge to squirm. He came forward and shook all of their hands, his eyes boring into her as he introduced himself. "Hermione Granger," she said as his weathered, leathery hand took hers. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"The pleasure is mine, Miss Granger." Ollivander then stood back, looking from one child to another. "Hmmm. Which of you will be going first?"

"Can I?" asked Draco, his youthful voice nearly vibrating with energy. Hermione merely smiled and held herself back, looking on as her friend was measured in ways that made sense (the length of his hand, forearm, arm to wrist) and ways that didn't (the distance between his nostrils, the length of his face, the circumference of his ankle).

"Let's see, let's see," murmured Ollivander as he skimmed the wall beside them, a finger running over boxes as he considered. "We'll try this one first. Eleven inches, beech, dragon heartstring. Slightly bendy." He held out the wand in its open box.

Hermione watched, fascinated, breath held as Draco's fingertips brushed it. When the boy waved it, she was disappointed to see nothing happen.

"Not the one then," said the man, putting it back as that faraway glimmer returned to him. "Acacia, ten and three quarter inches, unyielding, dragon heartstring."

Again, there was nothing. Nor was there with the next one, an alder wand that was "surprisingly bendy," nor the next, which was a "springy" beech in opposition to the first.

The wand maker hummed to himself, considering. He faced them, eyeing first Draco and then Narcissa. "Perhaps…" He pulled out another box and presented it to the boy. "Hawthorn, ten inches, unicorn hair. Reasonably pliant."

She could read it on Draco's face the instant he touched it. This was the one. And when he waved it over his head, golden flecks shimmered in the air around him, making him positively glow in the dim light of the shop.

"Excellent!" cried Ollivander. "A lovely match." He nodded, then turned that sharply focused attention toward Hermione. "Now, Miss Granger." Her own measuring was shorter, as he seemed to have an idea where to start with her. Before the measuring tape could begin taking any strange dimensions, he had his first pick. "Rosewood, ten inches, unicorn hair. Pliant."

The wand, though it felt nice enough in her hand, did nothing. He had another at the ready before she'd set it down.

"Pear, nine and a half inches, dragon heartstring, slightly bendy."

She thought she felt something, but whatever it was wasn't enough for Mr. Ollivander. He examined her once more, eyes narrowing as he seemed to whisper things to himself. The moment stretched, and she shuffled her feet. He nodded, pulling out another wand and opening up the box. "This one, I think. Vine, ten and three quarter inches, dragon heartstring. Resilient."

This was it. She could feel it even before she touched it, and her magic seemed to surge through her as she held the wand aloft. Even before she'd started the arc of her wave, it was showering them with red light that twinkled brightly as it fell to the floor.

The rest of the trip was far less interesting, though Hermione was on a cloud, feeling unusually whole with her wand in-hand. She would have liked to spend more time at Flourish and Blotts, but there were more books than she could ever read at Malfoy Manor. She didn't even have to be there for anything other than her wand and her robe fittings, since Narcissa just bought the best of everything for the two children without bothering to look at the rest.

"Mother," Draco implored as they approached the end of their excursion, "can I get a snake? I can take a familiar to Hogwarts. I promise I'll take good care of it."

Hermione tutted. "You can't bring a snake with you."

"Says who?"

"Says the letter we received." She further explained, "It said you can bring a toad or a cat or an owl. And that's all."

He frowned. "Who would want a toad as a familiar?"

Hermione shrugged. "Who would want a snake?" was her retort.

Draco rolled his eyes, playfully bumping her with his shoulder. "You'll have a snake soon enough; I'm going to be sorted into Slytherin."

"How could you know that?" she demanded.

"I'm a Malfoy," he drawled. "And a Black. Both houses are notoriously Slytherin."

As they reached the Apparition point, Narcissa held her hands out to the children. "You never know, Draco," she said slyly. "I had a cousin who got sorted into Gryffindor."

The horror on his face spoke volumes.

They were lying in the garden an hour later, heads beside one another, bodies splayed out in opposite directions. Hermione sighed and set aside her copy of The Standard Book of Spells.

"What's wrong?" asked her friend, turning his face toward her after flattening her curls enough to see the downturn of her mouth.

"I'm worried about the Sorting Ceremony," she confided in a hushed tone. "The only person I really know is you. And I don't think Slytherin is the right house for me."

"No, probably not," he reluctantly agreed. He didn't mention the other people she'd know; Blaise Zabini (who'd been his best friend before Hermione came into his life), Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle- they were all Purebloods and slated for Slytherin as well. He swallowed thickly, realizing he didn't like the idea of Hermione being alone, in another house. Without him.

"What if-" she knew this was a foolish fear, but it worried her all the same. "What if I don't get sorted into any house?"

Draco laughed, immediately stifling it as she directed a glare his way. "You'll be fine, Hermione. Besides, everyone knows Hufflepuff will take anyone. Even little know-it-all brats."

"I doubt Hufflepuff would take anyone," she said. "Can you imagine Gregory Goyle as a Hufflepuff?"

They both giggled at that. When their laughter had fallen away, Draco reached toward her. She accepted his hand, and they lay there like that for some time.

"You know, if you're so worried about it, maybe we can try to find a way to get into the same house?" he offered.

"You'd do that?"

"Of course. You're my best friend, Hermione." He gave her hand a light squeeze, which she returned, and they fell into a comfortable silence.