bookishwench (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bookishwench) wrote2008-02-12 05:10 pm
bookishwench) wrote2008-02-12 05:10 pm
Fic: Shadowed Life, Part 6 (Draco/Hermione, FRT, 6/?)
Whew. This chapter took me long enough, and he finally actually meets her in this! Part 6: The World Tilts on Its Axis
Previous parts here
Author: Meltha
Rating: FRT at this point, but likely to rise
Feedback: Yes, thank you.
Spoilers: Currently, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Again, this will rise.
Distribution: The Blackberry Patch and Fanfiction.net. If you’re interested, please let me know.
Summary: Platform 9 ¾, the Hogwarts Express, and many meetings.
Disclaimer: All characters are created by J. K. Rowling, a wonderful writer whose works I greatly enjoy. I have borrowed them for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.
Author Note: Some information double-checked through the Harry Potter Lexicon.
The World Tips on Its Axis
Draco hadn’t really given much thought to how he and his mother would arrive at the Muggle King’s Cross station. Floo powder wasn’t an option, and neither was apparition, broomstick, or any other way Draco normally traveled, so he had no idea how they would be getting from point A to point B, except that for once he was probably going to have to go in a straight line, which was rarely the shortest distance between two points.
Draco’s question was answered as he met his mother at the front door of the Malfoy manor. Humming quietly outside in the garage drive was a sleek, long, gray, metallic… thing.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing.
“Muggle transportation,” Narcissa replied with a put-upon sigh. “It’s an automobile. For today, it will have to suffice.”
Calling the car in front of them an automobile was rather like calling Kilimanjaro a molehill. It was, in fact, a Rolls Royce Phantom III, circa 1936. The chrome glistened bright silver in the morning light, and the motor purred like a kitten. Draco Malfoy might be pureblood to the nth degree, but he was still a boy, and as a general rule, boys like shiny cars. Draco was no exception.
“Whoa,” he said, reaching out a hand to pat the side of it admiringly. “What’s it run on? Is there a tiny horse under there or something?”
“Petrol, I think,” his mother said, regarding him carefully.
“She’s a beauty,” he said, leaning close and catching his reflection in the highly polished paint.
He was startled nearly out of his skin when his mother blasted a football-sized dent into the side of the door with her wand.
“It’s a Muggle contraption, not worthy of your interest,” she said bitterly. “Don’t regard it with such reverence. We are using it only to keep the International Statue of Wizarding Secrecy intact, bothersome as it is. This monstrosity is beneath you. Do you understand?”
Draco was still stunned, but he nodded.
“Better,” his mother said, quickly repairing the dent so that the Malfoy name would not be smudged by having them appear in public in something less than perfect.
Draco, still rather shaken, opened the car door for his mother, who entered as regally as any queen. Draco ran around to the other door, opened it quickly, and seated himself next to his mother. He noted that somehow the house elves had already managed to put his baggage in the car.
“Drive,” his mother said imperiously to the wizard behind the wheel, and he obediently set off down the garage drive and through the front gate of the Malfoy home.
Draco turned around to see the gates clang shut behind them, cutting off his last glimpse of home for many months, the lonesome cry of one albino peacock echoing behind them. He faced the front again, reminding himself that Malfoys do not feel homesick, especially when they aren’t even down the road yet. But the road did fascinate him. He had rarely been here before since he tended to travel via Floo powder, skipping the streets and lanes of the English countryside and having only a pair of fireplaces and a dizzying flurry of lights and color as his sightseeing. Though he tried to school his face to look as incredibly bored as his mother’s, his eyes flicked from building to building with an interest he couldn’t quite hide. Several small homes dotted their path, each of which could have fit in the dining room of the Malfoy house. A few buildings that appeared to be shops clustered together towards the center of town, their windows filled with bizarre things like perfectly stationary mannequins or displays of batteries, CDs, or Muggle toys. On a corner was the pointy-roofed thing he could sometimes see from his bedroom window when the trees lost their leaves in winter and the view was less obscured. It looked rather like an upside down ice cream cone. This set him thinking about Fortescue’s ice cream, and from there to the odd boy he had met. His face fell. He hoped that whoever his housemates ended up being, they’d be slightly more loquacious.
“Now, Draco,” his mother said, and with a wave of her wand the windows were tinted nearly black, effectively blocking his view of the outside world, “I have several things to discuss with you.”
Disappointed at the lack of a view, he turned to his mother.
“First, remember that you are a Malfoy, and with that great honor comes a responsibility to behave in such a fashion that you will bring honor on your home. For that reason, remember to move only in pureblood circles. You don’t want to make connections with the wrong kind of people, a great danger at Hogwarts with its extremely. . . ,” she paused, as though searching for a bad enough word, “permissive enrollment standards. Once you are sorted into Slytherin, it is best if you associate only with your housemates. They should all be fine, upstanding purebloods, but realize that even in that grouping you should hold yourself above the rest as there are few families who can claim anything like your heritage.”
“Who are the other few?” Draco asked curiously.
“As your father told you, Goyle and Crabbe are both old and illustrious families, and they have been designated as your particular companions,” she said, watching him wince at the sore point of having his friends picked for him. “You may, of course, make other connections as well, and they could prove highly useful in the years ahead. For example, though there is some scandal in the family, the Zabinis are at about our level. Also, the Greengrass family is quite respectable, as well as the Flints. Trust your judgment, but be circumspect about your friendships. Don’t forget about your godfather. Professor Snape will be teaching you Potions this year, and he should be more than willing to help you in any necessary way.”
“I’d nearly forgotten he was at Hogwarts,” Draco said, not quite sure how to react.
His godfather was an unusual person, to say the least, and rather intimidating. He stopped by the Malfoy home every Christmas, usually with a remarkably complex potion that his father would admire greatly, something like Felix Felicis or the like. He was undoubtedly brilliant, but rather sour. He never seemed to smile. Draco had wondered many times if he was plagued with a perpetual stomach ache. But his mind drifted back to the topic of potential friends.
“Won’t any pureblood family be okay?” he asked.
“No!” she said quite loudly. “There are some who are blood traitors, or wastrels, or simply not worth speaking with. The Weasleys, for example, are a very old family but little better than mudbloods. They’re quite easy to recognize: they have flaming red hair, are invariably poor, and have so many children that they reproduce faster than rabbits. They have a habit of befriending Muggles, and that’s enough reason to shun them. Most likely you’ll have at least one in your year; the odds are in favor of it at any rate. Avoid them at all costs. They will ruin your reputation and that of anyone else around them.”
Draco nodded seriously. This was a great deal to remember. Still, he couldn’t understand why his mother seemed so concerned. He had no intention of interacting with anyone as stupid and boring as a mudblood, and if this Weasley family liked hanging about with them, they couldn’t be all that interesting, either.
“I won’t let you down,” he promised, and she smiled at him warmly, taking a moment to tousle his hair affectionately before laying it smooth again.
“I know you won’t, son,” she said.
To Draco’s disappointment, the car’s windows remained dark all the way to London, making it impossible to see any more of the journey. He tried to busy himself with paging through one of his new textbooks, but he couldn’t keep his mind on anything for long. After an interminable time, they pulled up in front of King’s Cross, and when the driver opened the door, Draco followed his mother into the swirl of activity surrounding the train station. His mother walked with precise, certain steps towards their destination, bypassing a number of wrong turns and arriving quickly at Platform 9 ¾.
“Through the wall,” his mother said, motioning him towards the solid brick.
Draco looked perplexed but followed his mother’s directions. In a moment, he was in the middle of a very different hubbub of activity. Hundreds of children carrying books, cauldrons, and trunks were scattered as far along the platform as he could see. Cats meowed, owls shrieked, baggage clacketed along on trolleys, and laughter and conversation of friends seeing each other again after the holidays surrounded him. A great scarlet engine puffed heavily at one end of the station, and the cars went on and on, so many of them. So very many. Something about its scale made him feel horribly small and unimportant, and coupled with the happy conversations of people who all seemed to know one another, he was feeling unsure of himself. A moment later his mother’s hand was resting lightly on his shoulder.
“Try not to worry too much,” she said, and her voice was uncharacteristically soft.
He made an attempt at schooling his features into an expression of disdainful ennui with the proceedings, the very picture of his father’s usual appearance, but the effect must have been slightly less perfect as his mother smiled at him in the same way she once did when he was very small and he had brought her home a bouquet of weeds instead of actual flowers.
“I have a present for you,” she said, and his ears perked up.
“Really?” he asked, excited in spite of himself. “What is it?”
“You’ll have to see for yourself,” she said. “I arranged for it to be delivered to the third railcar, the compartment closest to the engine. Your baggage will be seen to, so perhaps we should simply say goodbye here.”
He looked up at her and saw that her gray eyes were suspiciously bright. He knew he was expected to behave with gravity and dignity, especially with so many peers hanging about, but a quick glance around saw any number of students embracing family members or slightly choked up over leaving them for so long; however, he knew that wouldn’t be permitted of him.
“Goodbye, Mother,” he said gravely, then, restraining himself from a parting hug, he bowed, and left for the third car.
He did not look back. He had already heard the soft pop of her apparition. Draco Malfoy was on his own.
As he entered the first compartment of the third railcar, he immediately saw a large item wrapped in a black cloth with a dark green bow atop it. His first reaction was disappointment that it was not in any way broom-shaped, but curiosity got the better of him quickly. In a moment, the cloth was pulled away, and a pair of yellow eyes were blinking back at him, their owner obviously finding the abrupt introduction rather rude.
“An owl…,” Draco breathed, pleased.
The owl flapped its wings experimentally from inside the brass cage, then turned her head sideways to stare at her new owner. After a few moments, it gave a series of soft hoots that seemed approving. Draco noticed a small envelope attached to the bars of the cage. He quickly opened it and found a note on his mother’s stationary.
“Her name is Persephone. Write soon.”
“Persephone, is it?” he said, picking up the cage and peering into it quizzically but smiling broadly. “I’ll have to remember not to give you pomegranate seeds.”
“Oh, that’s a lovely owl!” said a voice behind him rapturously.
Draco nearly dropped the cage he was so startled.
“Sorry,” the girl in the doorway said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just love owls.”
“You didn’t frighten me,” Draco said huffily.
“Oh, good,” she said, and the look she gave him suggested she didn’t believe a word of what he’d said. “Are these seats taken?”
“No,” Draco said, eyeing her critically.
He watched as she dragged a trunk into the room. She didn’t appear to be any older than he was, but she was a couple inches shorter. Her brown hair stuck out wildly in all directions, and her teeth were a bit too large for her mouth. She was no beauty, that was certain, but she seemed friendly enough. At any rate, she was a good deal more chatty than the fellow in Malkin’s had been.
“Could you give me a hand with this?” she asked, gesturing to the trunk. “I can’t quite reach the rack.”
“Of course,” he said, internally berating himself for forgetting his manners. A pureblood gentleman always helped a pureblood lady with her parcels. He hefted it up to the luggage rack easily enough, though it had been rather heavy.
“What do you have in that thing? Rocks?” he asked, trying to sound friendly. He was pleased when she laughed.
“No, just books,” she said, sitting across from him. “There’s so much to learn, and I don’t want to fall behind. I’m Hermione, by the way, Hermione Granger.”
There was a part of him, a very small part, that was slightly disappointed she hadn’t said her name was Pansy. She put out her hand, and for a moment he was unsure whether it was more polite to shake it as he would a man’s or kiss it as his father did at introductions to women. Taking a wild stab, he took her fingertips and pressed them briefly to his lips.
“Draco Malfoy, at your service,” he said, bowing slightly while still seated.
She gave him an odd look, and he immediately guessed that it wasn’t exactly normal for people to greet each other quite so formally on the Hogwarts Express, but she continued the conversation.
“I’d love an owl myself, but Mother’s allergic to birds,” she said, turning her attention to the owl’s cage once more. “Did you just get her?”
“About two minutes before you walked in the door,” he said.
“She’s an eagle-owl,” she said with certainty, speaking with remarkable speed. “Probably from central Asia. I’ve read up on all the different kinds of owls. Does she have a name?”
“Persephone,” he said.
“Like the Greek goddess? I always loved that story when I was a little girl, but I couldn’t pronounce her name properly. I kept calling her purse-phone,” she said, laughing again. He found he quite liked the sound. “It’s an unusual name, but then I guess so is Hermione. There are lots of unusual names in the wizarding world. Yours is quite unique as well.”
“Draco?” he said, slightly offended. “I’ve never thought it’s odd.”
“Oh, not in a bad way!” Hermione said quickly. “I mean, really, if anyone doesn’t have room to joke about names, it would be me, wouldn’t it? I’ve just never heard it before.”
“It’s from the constellation. You know, the dragon?” he said, feeling a little better but still vaguely paranoid that all of Hogwarts was going to find his name was weird. “The Black side, that’s my mother’s, tends to name their kids after stars and such.”
“What a fascinating tradition,” Hermione said, interest evident on her face.
“And Hermione?” he asked, surprised the conversation was flowing so smoothly.
“It’s from one of Shakespeare’s plays,” she said. “A bit over the top, really. I sometimes wish my parents had gone with Miranda or Portia or something a bit easier to spell or at least pronounce. Still, I suppose they could have picked Imogen or Calpurnia or even Peaseblossom, so I should be happy with what I have.”
“Who’s Shakespeare?” he asked.
She blinked at him, then a look of understanding came over her face and she smiled.
“He was a Muggle writer,” she explained.
“Oh,” he said, a little surprised a pureblood family would name their daughter after a Muggle writer’s creation. “Well… I suppose he must have been unusually good, then.”
“He was,” she agreed. “He wrote a few plays about magic, but he got the details all wrong, of course.”
“Well, of course he would,” he said dismissively. “Muggles always do. Still, ‘Hermione’ is a mouthful, though.”
“It’s rather interesting every year when the Christmas cards come to see which of my relatives still have no idea how to spell it,” she said with a sigh, “and of course there’s no decent nickname to go with it.”
“I suppose not,” he said, puckering his mouth and considering. “Hermy? Mione? Onny?”
“Sounds like a list of medical symptoms, doesn’t it?” she said with a wry smile.
“Any brothers or sisters?” he asked.
Hermione paused for a moment before answering, “No.”
“Too bad,” he said with an over-exaggerated sigh. “I’d be curious to see what else your parents came up with for names.”
“Rather cheeky for someone whose siblings are probably named Ursa Major and Vega,” she said with a raised eyebrow that was nearly hidden under her bushy mane.
“I don’t have any brothers or sisters, either,” he said, then frowned. “On second thought, I think I might actually have a second cousin once removed who’s named Vega.”
She giggled in response, and after a moment, he found he was joining in with her.
“Do you have a middle name at all?” he asked when the laughter had finished quite naturally.
“Jean,” she said. “Rather one extreme to the other, isn’t it? Almost too normal.”
“I don’t know. It’s like Jeanne D’Arc, isn’t it,” he said, pronouncing the French extremely well after five years of tutoring in what his parents considered a highly important aristocratic language. “Not planning on becoming a warrior, are you?”
She rolled her eyes at the question, then looked out the window at the crowd still running around like ants on the train platform.
“I do wish we’d start already,” she said. “I read it takes all day to get to Hogwarts, and we won’t see it until after nightfall. I wonder what it will be like.”
“I haven’t been able to think of much else since the letter arrived last birthday,” he agreed.
“When was that?” she asked.
“June,” he said with a shrug.
“Three months? That’s nothing. Mine came almost a year ago,” she said an impatient huff.
“Good lord, that’s almost cruel,” he said, goggling. “I’d have gone mad. You’re a September, then?”
“The nineteenth,” she said. “I missed going last year by less than three weeks. Still, it’s given me plenty of time to research things, catch up, that sort of thing.”
He couldn’t figure out what she’d need to catch up on since school had yet to even start, then immediately he began to wonder if perhaps there had been a booklist that went out of prereading or suggested texts or something that he hadn’t got, and if he was the only one who hadn’t got it, and if that meant he’d be stuck in a remedial magic class learning how to do the most basic spells while the rest of his class was off fighting trolls and turning iron into gold.
“Don’t look so worried,” she said kindly.
“I’m not worried,” he lied at once, “just thinking. I wonder when the Sorting takes place.”
“Right before the feast,” Hermione said knowledgably. “If you had a choice, which house would you pick?”
“Slytherin, of course,” Draco said automatically.
“Oh,” she said, slightly taken aback, though he couldn’t figure out why. “I think I’ll probably wind up a Ravenclaw. Bookish, you see.”
It was Draco’s turn to look surprised now. He hadn’t pegged her as being an underachiever.
“Oh, come off it,” he said, watching as the last students boarded the train. “Stop being modest. I’m sure you’ll get into Slytherin with no problem.”
“I...,” she started to say, then stopped herself. “Well, it’s all up to the hat in the end, isn’t it.”
“I guess so,” Draco said. “Our fates are in the hands of a talking hat, of all things. You ever wonder what the founders were drinking when they came up with some of this?”
She smiled a little. Just then, the compartment door opened with a bang, and two large shapes stood alarmingly silhouetted in the frame. Draco nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Malfoy?” grunted one of the pair.
“Yes,” he answered, and while he had meant for the word to come out commanding and proud, there might just have been a slight squeak at the end of it.
The figures stepped inside the compartment, and closer inspection didn’t warrant any greater degree of confidence. They looked like a pair of gargoyles. Draco instinctively stood and reached for his wand even though he didn’t know a single spell to protect either himself or the girl… well, perhaps he could shoot snowflakes at them. To his surprise, he saw Hermione was on her feet as well, wand already out. Jeanne d’Arc, indeed, then.
“Who are you?” she asked, and yes, there was a little quaver in her voice as well, he was glad to hear.
“I’m Crabbe,” said the figure on the right as it threw a trunk into the overhead rack where it seemed to strangely dwarf Hermione’s.
“I’m Goyle,” said the second, exactly mirroring the first one’s movements. “Your father tell you about us?”
“Yes, he did,” Draco said, his mouth drawing up at the corner unpleasantly. For a few brief moments he’d been in control of his own destiny, and now, here was his family directing his path once again.
“Good,” Crabbe said, sitting down next to Hermione with a rather loud thud. Draco swore he thought the whole car bounced a little. He noticed Hermione was nearly pressed against the window.
“Yeah,” Goyle agreed, taking his place next to Draco, who at once moved over on instinct. A quick look shot between him and Hermione, who gave a nearly imperceptible shrug.
“So…,” said Draco uncomfortably.
“Uh-huh,” Crabbe grunted.
“Yeah,” Goyle commented.
“Right,” Hermione put in.
Joy, he thought. He was right back to where he’d been with the chatty boy in the robe shop: monosyllabic grunts.
Thankfully, the train whistle blew loudly at that exact moment, the sound nearly deafening, and with a lurch, the cars began to move forward. The rhythm of the puffing steam began to pound more quickly, and as a brass bell rang in bright, almost merry tones, they were off. In less time than he could have imagined, they had left the buildings of London far behind, and the green countryside was rolling past like an endless chessboard of hedge-bordered fields. Every turn of the wheels and blast of smoke from the engine was bringing him that much closer to Hogwarts, with everything that meant. It was thrilling.
“I’m hungry,” Crabbe said abruptly, shattering the silence.
“Yeah,” Goyle agreed.
Well, Draco thought sarcastically, they eat. As last, something we have in common. We can easily build a lifelong friendship around that one similarity.
“I think there’s supposed to be a witch with a food trolley,” Hermione said, and Crabbe’s head swiveled towards her as though he’d just noticed her presence.
“Who’re you?” he asked.
“Hermione Granger,” she said pleasantly, though Draco noticed that she didn’t put out her hand this time, not that he blamed her. Crabbe’s fingernails were disgustingly dirty. Draco wouldn’t shake his hand for fifty galleons; there might be plague living on that thing.
“Vincent Crabbe,” he said, then pointed at the other boy. “Gregory Goyle.”
“Pleasure,” she said, eyeing them a little distastefully, and he noticed her nose sniffed a bit. For pity’s sake, he thought, how could he have possibly missed the odor before. The pair of them smelled like rancid bacon. “First years as well?”
“Yeah,” Crabbe said. “We’re friends of Malfoy.”
“You’re a girl,” Goyle added intelligently.
“Yes,” Hermione agreed, rather as though she didn’t know how to answer that. “Yes, I am.”
So Goyle could tell girls from boys. Well done. He would have thought it would take at least four more years for him to figure that one out.
“Girls are dumb,” Goyle added, grinning stupidly.
“Not this one,” she said, glaring daggers at him.
“Whatever. I don’t care,” Crabbe said, shrugging lethargically and staring out into the passageway, but then his whole face brightened like a newly lit fire. “Here’s the trolley!”
To Draco’s shock, rather than the appropriate step of allowing the lady in the compartment first choice, the other two boys were immediately on their feet, pushing and shoving at one another in the doorway until it seemed they’d gotten entirely jammed and were unable to move. Draco gaped in horror.
“Singulus,” he heard Hermione say from behind him, and as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw a glitter of light erupt from the end of her wand and gently pry the two boys apart. Crabbe immediately ran out the door and almost knocked the trolley over, Goyle right behind him.
“Nice one,” Draco said. “Ever done that before?”
“No,” she admitted. “I’ve studied the theory, though.”
He was just about to congratulate her when a thought crossed his mind.
“What would have happened had it gone wrong?” he asked.
“Wrong?” she said. “But it went fine.”
“Yes, but you’d never done it before. How did you know it wouldn’t split them in two or something,” he said, frowning at her.
“Oh,” she said, obviously taken aback and her features horror-stricken. “I-I hadn’t thought of that. You’re right; that was stupid of me. I should apologize to them.”
Draco was about to tell her off further (after all, these were his friends, even if he’d never seen them before and didn’t like them that much… or really, at all), but her panicked expression somehow seemed enough. “Eh, don’t bother. I don’t think they even noticed. Besides, if we don’t get to the cart quickly, I think the only things left will be a set of rubber tires and maybe the witch… if she’s lucky.”
A few minutes later, they returned to their seats, Draco chewing a beef pasty since he loathed pumpkin, Hermione enjoying a large mug of chocolate and a pumpkin pasty, and Crabbe and Goyle betting over Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.
“That’ll be liver, that will,” said Crabbe, pointing at a reddish-brown candy. “Go on. I bet a sickle on it!”
“Right,” Goyle said, popping it in his mouth, and then grimacing. “Not liver. Worcestershire sauce.”
Crabbe flipped a coin to him, and Draco saw Hermione looking at the two of them oddly, though she didn’t say anything. Personally, Draco was thrilled to find the other two were capable of speaking coherently.
“The white one is plain sugar,” Hermione said abruptly, and the others looked at her critically.
“You’re on,” Goyle said, then swallowed it. “It was boiled milk. Pay up.”
“Excuse me,” she said, “but it really was sugar.”
Draco regarded her coolly. This promised to be interesting.
“No,” Goyle said angrily, “it was boiled milk.”
“It wasn’t,” she said firmly. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a key on the back of the box that says what each one is. The white one is sugar. You’ve lied about each one you’ve eaten.”
Goyle looked livid, then Draco said, “So why didn’t you say something before?”
“Because Crabbe was looking at the back of the box during his turn as well and betting from that,” Hermione said with a shrug. “They were both cheating.”
Draco gave the two idiots a look of pure disbelief, then let out a howl of laughter. The boys didn’t seem to see what was so funny, but Hermione’s disapproving look slowly turned amused despite how much she tried to hide it.
“Huh?” Crabbe said.
“Dunno,” Goyle responded, looking confused.
Just then, there was a quiet tap on the compartment door, and a boy with a round face looked in.
“Excuse me,” he said sadly, “but has any of you seen a toad? I’ve lost him.”
“Oh!” Hermione said, looking concerned. “No, I haven’t. I’ll keep an eye out, though.”
“So’ll I,” Goyle said, laughing, “so’s I can squish him. Toads are dumb!”
“Like girls?” Hermione said, her voice dripping venom.
“Nah, girls and toads are dumb different ways,” Crabbe said sagely. “Sides, only ugly girls are spotty, and all toads are.”
“Really?” Hermione asked icily.
“Maybe someone threw it under the train,” Crabbe told the other boy. “Why not look for him there, runt!”
The unknown boy, who looked practically ready to cry, shut the door and moved to the next compartment. Hermione, though, was on her feet.
“I think I’ll help him look,” she said, throwing a withering glance over her shoulder at the two larger boys which was entirely wasted on them. “Draco, it was nice meeting you. I hope I’ll see you at the Sorting.”
“See you in Slytherin,” he said with a casual wave as she went out the door. Personally he would have liked to join her. Toads really were pathetic pets, but he couldn’t doubt they’d be far more interesting company than what he was left with. Still, his father had insisted he get to know these two.
“So…,” Draco said uncomfortably.
“Uh-huh,” Crabbe grunted.
“Yeah,” Goyle commented.
God, this was going to be a long train ride. He was thrilled that in a few minutes, during which he found out the fascinating information that Goyle had once actually eaten a toad and Crabbe was vaguely itchy, the other two lapsed into a bored silence. Finally, he simply couldn’t abide it another moment.
“I think I’ll have a walk,” he said, stretching exaggeratedly as he stood.
“Okay,” Crabbe said as both he and Goyle got to their feet.
Draco’s intention had been to take a walk alone, but there really wasn’t any way around their coming without being bluntly rude, and that was for mudbloods, not friends hand-picked by his parents. With a frustrated sigh, he stepped into the passageway.
The lanterns bobbed slightly in their brackets as the train bumped its way down the tracks, casting interesting and exaggerated shadows on the dark red carpeting. Draco peered lazily into compartment after compartment, seeing a variety of different students, but not a face he knew. Of course he didn’t expect to know anyone, but still, the unfamiliarity of everyone around him was putting him ill at ease. Crabbe and Goyle followed along close behind like a pair of bodyguards, and it crossed his mind that his father may have picked them specifically for that function. A spark of rage ignited in him at the idea that his parents thought he couldn’t bloody well take care of himself, but before he could decide whether or not it was the real reason for these so-called “friends,” he caught sight of Hermione popping in the door at the other end of the car, looking quite interested about something, though Neville seemed as forlorn as ever.
“You’ll never believe it,” she said, running up to him. “Do you know who’s in the next car down, sitting across from some red-haired boy with a smudge on his nose?”
“Who?” he asked.
“Harry Potter, that’s who!” she said.
Draco blinked. So, the rumors were true. He remembered at once what his father had said about the boy being powerful and highly influential, as well as the importance of not turning him into an enemy. Well, at least he had something interesting to do now.
“What’s he like?” Draco asked curiously.
Hermione shrugged. “You know, honestly, he didn’t really say much, just his name and ‘am I?,’ I think.”
Draco paused. It wasn’t possible. Really, it couldn’t be. There had to be any number of boys on the train who were as uncommunicative as slugs.
“Huh,” said Crabbe.
“Hmm,” put it Goyle.
See, Draco told himself. There’s two right there.
“What say we have a look, eh boys?” Draco said to them as Hermione and Neville headed to the other end of the car, still looking for his toad.
Sure enough, just as Hermione had said, the next car did indeed contain a red-headed boy (complete with dirty smudge on nose, quite disgusting), and another boy whose face was just out of view. As Draco opened the compartment door, the other boy turned to face him, and with a clunk Draco felt his stomach drop. It was indeed Mr. Chatty.
“Is it true?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t. “They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment.”
The boy looked up at Malfoy, and he noticed the tell-tale scar peeking from beneath his fringe. Well, that settled it.
“So it’s you, is it?” he said, hoping that it didn’t sound quite as openly disappointed as it did in his head.
“Yes,” the boy responded.
Wonderful. It’s like we’ve never parted, Draco thought as Harry Potter stared at Crabbe and Goyle wordlessly. Draco waited a decent amount of time for the two behemoths to introduce themselves, but as they seemed to be transfixed by the pile of sweets on the seat, he gave it up and did it himself.
“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” he said, introducing them. “And my name’s Malfoy.”
He expected something—awe, shock, recognition, a damn nod would be enough—instead, the historical and venerable name of Malfoy had no more impact on this kid than Jones or Johnson. He’d either been living under a rock since birth or this was a deliberate slight.
“Draco Malfoy,” he tried again, hitting his first name hard.
The red-head with bad facial hygiene snorted, and Draco turned as red as the kid’s hair. Maybe Draco really was an odd name. Maybe every single student at Hogwarts was going to break into guffaws of laughter as soon as they read out his name during the Sorting. Humiliation quickly turned to indignation. When confronted with an insult, he could sling one back quite a bit harder when he chose.
“Think my name’s funny do you?” he said, taking in the boy’s appearance quickly and remembering something. “No need to ask who you are. My mother told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford.”
Oh, now that did it. The brat’s freckles were completely camouflaged in his blush. Draco put his attention back to Potter, choosing to explain the basics to him. That, if nothing else, should put him on Harry’s good side.
“You’ll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go around making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there,” he offered, holding out a hand for the other boy to shake, thinking this should put things right back on track.
Potter stared at it, his hands remaining on his lap.
“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” he said.
At long last, the Boy Who Lived became the Boy Who Spoke, but of all the things, to leave a Malfoy’s hand hanging in the air, to choose a blood-traitor like Weasley over a freely offered friendship with the finest wizarding family in England? Draco’s face burned.
“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” he said, making one last stab at pointing out the dreadful mistake the kid was making. “Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as your parents. They didn’t know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys and Hagrid, and it’ll rub off on you.”
And suddenly the two were on their feet. Alright, he thought, the crack about his parents might have been going a bit too far, in retrospect.
“Say that again,” the Weasley said, Draco registering shock he had dared to address him directly.
“Oh, you’re going to fight us, are you?” Malfoy said, suddenly quite happy to have Crabbe and Goyle looming behind him like a pair of trolls.
“Unless you get out now,” Harry said, and Malfoy had to begrudgingly admit that he had some courage not to flinch at the wall of humanity behind him. Still… he had to push him just a little harder. It was a matter of honor.
“But we don’t feel like leaving, do we boys? We’ve eaten all our food and you seem to still have some,” he said, hoping to direct Crabbe and Goyle’s attention back to the situation at hand by mentioning food. He was relatively sure their minds could have wandered by now, say, to things like food, or perhaps food. Maybe even food.
It worked. Goyle stuck his hand into the pile of treats… and let out a blood-curdling scream as he pulled back, a large rat hanging off his finger by its sharp teeth. What followed was a slow motion ballet as Goyle pirouetted idiotically, spinning like a top, howling to beat the train’s whistle all the while, until the rat let go and flew through the air, smacking against the window with a loud thunk. All three of them were out of the compartment as fast as possible and running back down the corridor to their own compartment.
“I don’t like rats,” Goyle said.
“On that,” Draco said, grimacing, “we agree. Filthy, ugly, hideous beasts.”
“Yeah,” Crabbe said, rolling over on the seat and immediately falling asleep.
“Uh-huh,” Goyle said, sucking the injured finger, then following his chum into slumberland a few minutes later.
Draco found it impossible to catch a nap. His mind was entirely too full. Well, he’d certainly rebelled against one of his father’s commands, but then again, who could blame him? Potter was obviously a moronic idiot with lousy taste in friends. Time passed, and Draco stared out the window again, listening to the rhythmic breathing of the other two occupants. Finally, he reached up into the overhead compartment, opened his trunk, and took out one of his books just to peruse it. The light slowly vanished from the sky, the clouds turning pink and gold, then finally replaced with deep blue. Draco looked into the darkness and wondered what the next years would bring to him, trying hard to suppress the memory of that disturbing dream. He knew that soon he would find out if he could be happy here, and, most importantly, whether Pansy Parkinson was anywhere near as much of a knockout as he was.
Part 7 here
Previous parts here
Author: Meltha
Rating: FRT at this point, but likely to rise
Feedback: Yes, thank you.
Spoilers: Currently, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Again, this will rise.
Distribution: The Blackberry Patch and Fanfiction.net. If you’re interested, please let me know.
Summary: Platform 9 ¾, the Hogwarts Express, and many meetings.
Disclaimer: All characters are created by J. K. Rowling, a wonderful writer whose works I greatly enjoy. I have borrowed them for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.
Author Note: Some information double-checked through the Harry Potter Lexicon.
Draco hadn’t really given much thought to how he and his mother would arrive at the Muggle King’s Cross station. Floo powder wasn’t an option, and neither was apparition, broomstick, or any other way Draco normally traveled, so he had no idea how they would be getting from point A to point B, except that for once he was probably going to have to go in a straight line, which was rarely the shortest distance between two points.
Draco’s question was answered as he met his mother at the front door of the Malfoy manor. Humming quietly outside in the garage drive was a sleek, long, gray, metallic… thing.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing.
“Muggle transportation,” Narcissa replied with a put-upon sigh. “It’s an automobile. For today, it will have to suffice.”
Calling the car in front of them an automobile was rather like calling Kilimanjaro a molehill. It was, in fact, a Rolls Royce Phantom III, circa 1936. The chrome glistened bright silver in the morning light, and the motor purred like a kitten. Draco Malfoy might be pureblood to the nth degree, but he was still a boy, and as a general rule, boys like shiny cars. Draco was no exception.
“Whoa,” he said, reaching out a hand to pat the side of it admiringly. “What’s it run on? Is there a tiny horse under there or something?”
“Petrol, I think,” his mother said, regarding him carefully.
“She’s a beauty,” he said, leaning close and catching his reflection in the highly polished paint.
He was startled nearly out of his skin when his mother blasted a football-sized dent into the side of the door with her wand.
“It’s a Muggle contraption, not worthy of your interest,” she said bitterly. “Don’t regard it with such reverence. We are using it only to keep the International Statue of Wizarding Secrecy intact, bothersome as it is. This monstrosity is beneath you. Do you understand?”
Draco was still stunned, but he nodded.
“Better,” his mother said, quickly repairing the dent so that the Malfoy name would not be smudged by having them appear in public in something less than perfect.
Draco, still rather shaken, opened the car door for his mother, who entered as regally as any queen. Draco ran around to the other door, opened it quickly, and seated himself next to his mother. He noted that somehow the house elves had already managed to put his baggage in the car.
“Drive,” his mother said imperiously to the wizard behind the wheel, and he obediently set off down the garage drive and through the front gate of the Malfoy home.
Draco turned around to see the gates clang shut behind them, cutting off his last glimpse of home for many months, the lonesome cry of one albino peacock echoing behind them. He faced the front again, reminding himself that Malfoys do not feel homesick, especially when they aren’t even down the road yet. But the road did fascinate him. He had rarely been here before since he tended to travel via Floo powder, skipping the streets and lanes of the English countryside and having only a pair of fireplaces and a dizzying flurry of lights and color as his sightseeing. Though he tried to school his face to look as incredibly bored as his mother’s, his eyes flicked from building to building with an interest he couldn’t quite hide. Several small homes dotted their path, each of which could have fit in the dining room of the Malfoy house. A few buildings that appeared to be shops clustered together towards the center of town, their windows filled with bizarre things like perfectly stationary mannequins or displays of batteries, CDs, or Muggle toys. On a corner was the pointy-roofed thing he could sometimes see from his bedroom window when the trees lost their leaves in winter and the view was less obscured. It looked rather like an upside down ice cream cone. This set him thinking about Fortescue’s ice cream, and from there to the odd boy he had met. His face fell. He hoped that whoever his housemates ended up being, they’d be slightly more loquacious.
“Now, Draco,” his mother said, and with a wave of her wand the windows were tinted nearly black, effectively blocking his view of the outside world, “I have several things to discuss with you.”
Disappointed at the lack of a view, he turned to his mother.
“First, remember that you are a Malfoy, and with that great honor comes a responsibility to behave in such a fashion that you will bring honor on your home. For that reason, remember to move only in pureblood circles. You don’t want to make connections with the wrong kind of people, a great danger at Hogwarts with its extremely. . . ,” she paused, as though searching for a bad enough word, “permissive enrollment standards. Once you are sorted into Slytherin, it is best if you associate only with your housemates. They should all be fine, upstanding purebloods, but realize that even in that grouping you should hold yourself above the rest as there are few families who can claim anything like your heritage.”
“Who are the other few?” Draco asked curiously.
“As your father told you, Goyle and Crabbe are both old and illustrious families, and they have been designated as your particular companions,” she said, watching him wince at the sore point of having his friends picked for him. “You may, of course, make other connections as well, and they could prove highly useful in the years ahead. For example, though there is some scandal in the family, the Zabinis are at about our level. Also, the Greengrass family is quite respectable, as well as the Flints. Trust your judgment, but be circumspect about your friendships. Don’t forget about your godfather. Professor Snape will be teaching you Potions this year, and he should be more than willing to help you in any necessary way.”
“I’d nearly forgotten he was at Hogwarts,” Draco said, not quite sure how to react.
His godfather was an unusual person, to say the least, and rather intimidating. He stopped by the Malfoy home every Christmas, usually with a remarkably complex potion that his father would admire greatly, something like Felix Felicis or the like. He was undoubtedly brilliant, but rather sour. He never seemed to smile. Draco had wondered many times if he was plagued with a perpetual stomach ache. But his mind drifted back to the topic of potential friends.
“Won’t any pureblood family be okay?” he asked.
“No!” she said quite loudly. “There are some who are blood traitors, or wastrels, or simply not worth speaking with. The Weasleys, for example, are a very old family but little better than mudbloods. They’re quite easy to recognize: they have flaming red hair, are invariably poor, and have so many children that they reproduce faster than rabbits. They have a habit of befriending Muggles, and that’s enough reason to shun them. Most likely you’ll have at least one in your year; the odds are in favor of it at any rate. Avoid them at all costs. They will ruin your reputation and that of anyone else around them.”
Draco nodded seriously. This was a great deal to remember. Still, he couldn’t understand why his mother seemed so concerned. He had no intention of interacting with anyone as stupid and boring as a mudblood, and if this Weasley family liked hanging about with them, they couldn’t be all that interesting, either.
“I won’t let you down,” he promised, and she smiled at him warmly, taking a moment to tousle his hair affectionately before laying it smooth again.
“I know you won’t, son,” she said.
To Draco’s disappointment, the car’s windows remained dark all the way to London, making it impossible to see any more of the journey. He tried to busy himself with paging through one of his new textbooks, but he couldn’t keep his mind on anything for long. After an interminable time, they pulled up in front of King’s Cross, and when the driver opened the door, Draco followed his mother into the swirl of activity surrounding the train station. His mother walked with precise, certain steps towards their destination, bypassing a number of wrong turns and arriving quickly at Platform 9 ¾.
“Through the wall,” his mother said, motioning him towards the solid brick.
Draco looked perplexed but followed his mother’s directions. In a moment, he was in the middle of a very different hubbub of activity. Hundreds of children carrying books, cauldrons, and trunks were scattered as far along the platform as he could see. Cats meowed, owls shrieked, baggage clacketed along on trolleys, and laughter and conversation of friends seeing each other again after the holidays surrounded him. A great scarlet engine puffed heavily at one end of the station, and the cars went on and on, so many of them. So very many. Something about its scale made him feel horribly small and unimportant, and coupled with the happy conversations of people who all seemed to know one another, he was feeling unsure of himself. A moment later his mother’s hand was resting lightly on his shoulder.
“Try not to worry too much,” she said, and her voice was uncharacteristically soft.
He made an attempt at schooling his features into an expression of disdainful ennui with the proceedings, the very picture of his father’s usual appearance, but the effect must have been slightly less perfect as his mother smiled at him in the same way she once did when he was very small and he had brought her home a bouquet of weeds instead of actual flowers.
“I have a present for you,” she said, and his ears perked up.
“Really?” he asked, excited in spite of himself. “What is it?”
“You’ll have to see for yourself,” she said. “I arranged for it to be delivered to the third railcar, the compartment closest to the engine. Your baggage will be seen to, so perhaps we should simply say goodbye here.”
He looked up at her and saw that her gray eyes were suspiciously bright. He knew he was expected to behave with gravity and dignity, especially with so many peers hanging about, but a quick glance around saw any number of students embracing family members or slightly choked up over leaving them for so long; however, he knew that wouldn’t be permitted of him.
“Goodbye, Mother,” he said gravely, then, restraining himself from a parting hug, he bowed, and left for the third car.
He did not look back. He had already heard the soft pop of her apparition. Draco Malfoy was on his own.
As he entered the first compartment of the third railcar, he immediately saw a large item wrapped in a black cloth with a dark green bow atop it. His first reaction was disappointment that it was not in any way broom-shaped, but curiosity got the better of him quickly. In a moment, the cloth was pulled away, and a pair of yellow eyes were blinking back at him, their owner obviously finding the abrupt introduction rather rude.
“An owl…,” Draco breathed, pleased.
The owl flapped its wings experimentally from inside the brass cage, then turned her head sideways to stare at her new owner. After a few moments, it gave a series of soft hoots that seemed approving. Draco noticed a small envelope attached to the bars of the cage. He quickly opened it and found a note on his mother’s stationary.
“Her name is Persephone. Write soon.”
“Persephone, is it?” he said, picking up the cage and peering into it quizzically but smiling broadly. “I’ll have to remember not to give you pomegranate seeds.”
“Oh, that’s a lovely owl!” said a voice behind him rapturously.
Draco nearly dropped the cage he was so startled.
“Sorry,” the girl in the doorway said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just love owls.”
“You didn’t frighten me,” Draco said huffily.
“Oh, good,” she said, and the look she gave him suggested she didn’t believe a word of what he’d said. “Are these seats taken?”
“No,” Draco said, eyeing her critically.
He watched as she dragged a trunk into the room. She didn’t appear to be any older than he was, but she was a couple inches shorter. Her brown hair stuck out wildly in all directions, and her teeth were a bit too large for her mouth. She was no beauty, that was certain, but she seemed friendly enough. At any rate, she was a good deal more chatty than the fellow in Malkin’s had been.
“Could you give me a hand with this?” she asked, gesturing to the trunk. “I can’t quite reach the rack.”
“Of course,” he said, internally berating himself for forgetting his manners. A pureblood gentleman always helped a pureblood lady with her parcels. He hefted it up to the luggage rack easily enough, though it had been rather heavy.
“What do you have in that thing? Rocks?” he asked, trying to sound friendly. He was pleased when she laughed.
“No, just books,” she said, sitting across from him. “There’s so much to learn, and I don’t want to fall behind. I’m Hermione, by the way, Hermione Granger.”
There was a part of him, a very small part, that was slightly disappointed she hadn’t said her name was Pansy. She put out her hand, and for a moment he was unsure whether it was more polite to shake it as he would a man’s or kiss it as his father did at introductions to women. Taking a wild stab, he took her fingertips and pressed them briefly to his lips.
“Draco Malfoy, at your service,” he said, bowing slightly while still seated.
She gave him an odd look, and he immediately guessed that it wasn’t exactly normal for people to greet each other quite so formally on the Hogwarts Express, but she continued the conversation.
“I’d love an owl myself, but Mother’s allergic to birds,” she said, turning her attention to the owl’s cage once more. “Did you just get her?”
“About two minutes before you walked in the door,” he said.
“She’s an eagle-owl,” she said with certainty, speaking with remarkable speed. “Probably from central Asia. I’ve read up on all the different kinds of owls. Does she have a name?”
“Persephone,” he said.
“Like the Greek goddess? I always loved that story when I was a little girl, but I couldn’t pronounce her name properly. I kept calling her purse-phone,” she said, laughing again. He found he quite liked the sound. “It’s an unusual name, but then I guess so is Hermione. There are lots of unusual names in the wizarding world. Yours is quite unique as well.”
“Draco?” he said, slightly offended. “I’ve never thought it’s odd.”
“Oh, not in a bad way!” Hermione said quickly. “I mean, really, if anyone doesn’t have room to joke about names, it would be me, wouldn’t it? I’ve just never heard it before.”
“It’s from the constellation. You know, the dragon?” he said, feeling a little better but still vaguely paranoid that all of Hogwarts was going to find his name was weird. “The Black side, that’s my mother’s, tends to name their kids after stars and such.”
“What a fascinating tradition,” Hermione said, interest evident on her face.
“And Hermione?” he asked, surprised the conversation was flowing so smoothly.
“It’s from one of Shakespeare’s plays,” she said. “A bit over the top, really. I sometimes wish my parents had gone with Miranda or Portia or something a bit easier to spell or at least pronounce. Still, I suppose they could have picked Imogen or Calpurnia or even Peaseblossom, so I should be happy with what I have.”
“Who’s Shakespeare?” he asked.
She blinked at him, then a look of understanding came over her face and she smiled.
“He was a Muggle writer,” she explained.
“Oh,” he said, a little surprised a pureblood family would name their daughter after a Muggle writer’s creation. “Well… I suppose he must have been unusually good, then.”
“He was,” she agreed. “He wrote a few plays about magic, but he got the details all wrong, of course.”
“Well, of course he would,” he said dismissively. “Muggles always do. Still, ‘Hermione’ is a mouthful, though.”
“It’s rather interesting every year when the Christmas cards come to see which of my relatives still have no idea how to spell it,” she said with a sigh, “and of course there’s no decent nickname to go with it.”
“I suppose not,” he said, puckering his mouth and considering. “Hermy? Mione? Onny?”
“Sounds like a list of medical symptoms, doesn’t it?” she said with a wry smile.
“Any brothers or sisters?” he asked.
Hermione paused for a moment before answering, “No.”
“Too bad,” he said with an over-exaggerated sigh. “I’d be curious to see what else your parents came up with for names.”
“Rather cheeky for someone whose siblings are probably named Ursa Major and Vega,” she said with a raised eyebrow that was nearly hidden under her bushy mane.
“I don’t have any brothers or sisters, either,” he said, then frowned. “On second thought, I think I might actually have a second cousin once removed who’s named Vega.”
She giggled in response, and after a moment, he found he was joining in with her.
“Do you have a middle name at all?” he asked when the laughter had finished quite naturally.
“Jean,” she said. “Rather one extreme to the other, isn’t it? Almost too normal.”
“I don’t know. It’s like Jeanne D’Arc, isn’t it,” he said, pronouncing the French extremely well after five years of tutoring in what his parents considered a highly important aristocratic language. “Not planning on becoming a warrior, are you?”
She rolled her eyes at the question, then looked out the window at the crowd still running around like ants on the train platform.
“I do wish we’d start already,” she said. “I read it takes all day to get to Hogwarts, and we won’t see it until after nightfall. I wonder what it will be like.”
“I haven’t been able to think of much else since the letter arrived last birthday,” he agreed.
“When was that?” she asked.
“June,” he said with a shrug.
“Three months? That’s nothing. Mine came almost a year ago,” she said an impatient huff.
“Good lord, that’s almost cruel,” he said, goggling. “I’d have gone mad. You’re a September, then?”
“The nineteenth,” she said. “I missed going last year by less than three weeks. Still, it’s given me plenty of time to research things, catch up, that sort of thing.”
He couldn’t figure out what she’d need to catch up on since school had yet to even start, then immediately he began to wonder if perhaps there had been a booklist that went out of prereading or suggested texts or something that he hadn’t got, and if he was the only one who hadn’t got it, and if that meant he’d be stuck in a remedial magic class learning how to do the most basic spells while the rest of his class was off fighting trolls and turning iron into gold.
“Don’t look so worried,” she said kindly.
“I’m not worried,” he lied at once, “just thinking. I wonder when the Sorting takes place.”
“Right before the feast,” Hermione said knowledgably. “If you had a choice, which house would you pick?”
“Slytherin, of course,” Draco said automatically.
“Oh,” she said, slightly taken aback, though he couldn’t figure out why. “I think I’ll probably wind up a Ravenclaw. Bookish, you see.”
It was Draco’s turn to look surprised now. He hadn’t pegged her as being an underachiever.
“Oh, come off it,” he said, watching as the last students boarded the train. “Stop being modest. I’m sure you’ll get into Slytherin with no problem.”
“I...,” she started to say, then stopped herself. “Well, it’s all up to the hat in the end, isn’t it.”
“I guess so,” Draco said. “Our fates are in the hands of a talking hat, of all things. You ever wonder what the founders were drinking when they came up with some of this?”
She smiled a little. Just then, the compartment door opened with a bang, and two large shapes stood alarmingly silhouetted in the frame. Draco nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Malfoy?” grunted one of the pair.
“Yes,” he answered, and while he had meant for the word to come out commanding and proud, there might just have been a slight squeak at the end of it.
The figures stepped inside the compartment, and closer inspection didn’t warrant any greater degree of confidence. They looked like a pair of gargoyles. Draco instinctively stood and reached for his wand even though he didn’t know a single spell to protect either himself or the girl… well, perhaps he could shoot snowflakes at them. To his surprise, he saw Hermione was on her feet as well, wand already out. Jeanne d’Arc, indeed, then.
“Who are you?” she asked, and yes, there was a little quaver in her voice as well, he was glad to hear.
“I’m Crabbe,” said the figure on the right as it threw a trunk into the overhead rack where it seemed to strangely dwarf Hermione’s.
“I’m Goyle,” said the second, exactly mirroring the first one’s movements. “Your father tell you about us?”
“Yes, he did,” Draco said, his mouth drawing up at the corner unpleasantly. For a few brief moments he’d been in control of his own destiny, and now, here was his family directing his path once again.
“Good,” Crabbe said, sitting down next to Hermione with a rather loud thud. Draco swore he thought the whole car bounced a little. He noticed Hermione was nearly pressed against the window.
“Yeah,” Goyle agreed, taking his place next to Draco, who at once moved over on instinct. A quick look shot between him and Hermione, who gave a nearly imperceptible shrug.
“So…,” said Draco uncomfortably.
“Uh-huh,” Crabbe grunted.
“Yeah,” Goyle commented.
“Right,” Hermione put in.
Joy, he thought. He was right back to where he’d been with the chatty boy in the robe shop: monosyllabic grunts.
Thankfully, the train whistle blew loudly at that exact moment, the sound nearly deafening, and with a lurch, the cars began to move forward. The rhythm of the puffing steam began to pound more quickly, and as a brass bell rang in bright, almost merry tones, they were off. In less time than he could have imagined, they had left the buildings of London far behind, and the green countryside was rolling past like an endless chessboard of hedge-bordered fields. Every turn of the wheels and blast of smoke from the engine was bringing him that much closer to Hogwarts, with everything that meant. It was thrilling.
“I’m hungry,” Crabbe said abruptly, shattering the silence.
“Yeah,” Goyle agreed.
Well, Draco thought sarcastically, they eat. As last, something we have in common. We can easily build a lifelong friendship around that one similarity.
“I think there’s supposed to be a witch with a food trolley,” Hermione said, and Crabbe’s head swiveled towards her as though he’d just noticed her presence.
“Who’re you?” he asked.
“Hermione Granger,” she said pleasantly, though Draco noticed that she didn’t put out her hand this time, not that he blamed her. Crabbe’s fingernails were disgustingly dirty. Draco wouldn’t shake his hand for fifty galleons; there might be plague living on that thing.
“Vincent Crabbe,” he said, then pointed at the other boy. “Gregory Goyle.”
“Pleasure,” she said, eyeing them a little distastefully, and he noticed her nose sniffed a bit. For pity’s sake, he thought, how could he have possibly missed the odor before. The pair of them smelled like rancid bacon. “First years as well?”
“Yeah,” Crabbe said. “We’re friends of Malfoy.”
“You’re a girl,” Goyle added intelligently.
“Yes,” Hermione agreed, rather as though she didn’t know how to answer that. “Yes, I am.”
So Goyle could tell girls from boys. Well done. He would have thought it would take at least four more years for him to figure that one out.
“Girls are dumb,” Goyle added, grinning stupidly.
“Not this one,” she said, glaring daggers at him.
“Whatever. I don’t care,” Crabbe said, shrugging lethargically and staring out into the passageway, but then his whole face brightened like a newly lit fire. “Here’s the trolley!”
To Draco’s shock, rather than the appropriate step of allowing the lady in the compartment first choice, the other two boys were immediately on their feet, pushing and shoving at one another in the doorway until it seemed they’d gotten entirely jammed and were unable to move. Draco gaped in horror.
“Singulus,” he heard Hermione say from behind him, and as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw a glitter of light erupt from the end of her wand and gently pry the two boys apart. Crabbe immediately ran out the door and almost knocked the trolley over, Goyle right behind him.
“Nice one,” Draco said. “Ever done that before?”
“No,” she admitted. “I’ve studied the theory, though.”
He was just about to congratulate her when a thought crossed his mind.
“What would have happened had it gone wrong?” he asked.
“Wrong?” she said. “But it went fine.”
“Yes, but you’d never done it before. How did you know it wouldn’t split them in two or something,” he said, frowning at her.
“Oh,” she said, obviously taken aback and her features horror-stricken. “I-I hadn’t thought of that. You’re right; that was stupid of me. I should apologize to them.”
Draco was about to tell her off further (after all, these were his friends, even if he’d never seen them before and didn’t like them that much… or really, at all), but her panicked expression somehow seemed enough. “Eh, don’t bother. I don’t think they even noticed. Besides, if we don’t get to the cart quickly, I think the only things left will be a set of rubber tires and maybe the witch… if she’s lucky.”
A few minutes later, they returned to their seats, Draco chewing a beef pasty since he loathed pumpkin, Hermione enjoying a large mug of chocolate and a pumpkin pasty, and Crabbe and Goyle betting over Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.
“That’ll be liver, that will,” said Crabbe, pointing at a reddish-brown candy. “Go on. I bet a sickle on it!”
“Right,” Goyle said, popping it in his mouth, and then grimacing. “Not liver. Worcestershire sauce.”
Crabbe flipped a coin to him, and Draco saw Hermione looking at the two of them oddly, though she didn’t say anything. Personally, Draco was thrilled to find the other two were capable of speaking coherently.
“The white one is plain sugar,” Hermione said abruptly, and the others looked at her critically.
“You’re on,” Goyle said, then swallowed it. “It was boiled milk. Pay up.”
“Excuse me,” she said, “but it really was sugar.”
Draco regarded her coolly. This promised to be interesting.
“No,” Goyle said angrily, “it was boiled milk.”
“It wasn’t,” she said firmly. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a key on the back of the box that says what each one is. The white one is sugar. You’ve lied about each one you’ve eaten.”
Goyle looked livid, then Draco said, “So why didn’t you say something before?”
“Because Crabbe was looking at the back of the box during his turn as well and betting from that,” Hermione said with a shrug. “They were both cheating.”
Draco gave the two idiots a look of pure disbelief, then let out a howl of laughter. The boys didn’t seem to see what was so funny, but Hermione’s disapproving look slowly turned amused despite how much she tried to hide it.
“Huh?” Crabbe said.
“Dunno,” Goyle responded, looking confused.
Just then, there was a quiet tap on the compartment door, and a boy with a round face looked in.
“Excuse me,” he said sadly, “but has any of you seen a toad? I’ve lost him.”
“Oh!” Hermione said, looking concerned. “No, I haven’t. I’ll keep an eye out, though.”
“So’ll I,” Goyle said, laughing, “so’s I can squish him. Toads are dumb!”
“Like girls?” Hermione said, her voice dripping venom.
“Nah, girls and toads are dumb different ways,” Crabbe said sagely. “Sides, only ugly girls are spotty, and all toads are.”
“Really?” Hermione asked icily.
“Maybe someone threw it under the train,” Crabbe told the other boy. “Why not look for him there, runt!”
The unknown boy, who looked practically ready to cry, shut the door and moved to the next compartment. Hermione, though, was on her feet.
“I think I’ll help him look,” she said, throwing a withering glance over her shoulder at the two larger boys which was entirely wasted on them. “Draco, it was nice meeting you. I hope I’ll see you at the Sorting.”
“See you in Slytherin,” he said with a casual wave as she went out the door. Personally he would have liked to join her. Toads really were pathetic pets, but he couldn’t doubt they’d be far more interesting company than what he was left with. Still, his father had insisted he get to know these two.
“So…,” Draco said uncomfortably.
“Uh-huh,” Crabbe grunted.
“Yeah,” Goyle commented.
God, this was going to be a long train ride. He was thrilled that in a few minutes, during which he found out the fascinating information that Goyle had once actually eaten a toad and Crabbe was vaguely itchy, the other two lapsed into a bored silence. Finally, he simply couldn’t abide it another moment.
“I think I’ll have a walk,” he said, stretching exaggeratedly as he stood.
“Okay,” Crabbe said as both he and Goyle got to their feet.
Draco’s intention had been to take a walk alone, but there really wasn’t any way around their coming without being bluntly rude, and that was for mudbloods, not friends hand-picked by his parents. With a frustrated sigh, he stepped into the passageway.
The lanterns bobbed slightly in their brackets as the train bumped its way down the tracks, casting interesting and exaggerated shadows on the dark red carpeting. Draco peered lazily into compartment after compartment, seeing a variety of different students, but not a face he knew. Of course he didn’t expect to know anyone, but still, the unfamiliarity of everyone around him was putting him ill at ease. Crabbe and Goyle followed along close behind like a pair of bodyguards, and it crossed his mind that his father may have picked them specifically for that function. A spark of rage ignited in him at the idea that his parents thought he couldn’t bloody well take care of himself, but before he could decide whether or not it was the real reason for these so-called “friends,” he caught sight of Hermione popping in the door at the other end of the car, looking quite interested about something, though Neville seemed as forlorn as ever.
“You’ll never believe it,” she said, running up to him. “Do you know who’s in the next car down, sitting across from some red-haired boy with a smudge on his nose?”
“Who?” he asked.
“Harry Potter, that’s who!” she said.
Draco blinked. So, the rumors were true. He remembered at once what his father had said about the boy being powerful and highly influential, as well as the importance of not turning him into an enemy. Well, at least he had something interesting to do now.
“What’s he like?” Draco asked curiously.
Hermione shrugged. “You know, honestly, he didn’t really say much, just his name and ‘am I?,’ I think.”
Draco paused. It wasn’t possible. Really, it couldn’t be. There had to be any number of boys on the train who were as uncommunicative as slugs.
“Huh,” said Crabbe.
“Hmm,” put it Goyle.
See, Draco told himself. There’s two right there.
“What say we have a look, eh boys?” Draco said to them as Hermione and Neville headed to the other end of the car, still looking for his toad.
Sure enough, just as Hermione had said, the next car did indeed contain a red-headed boy (complete with dirty smudge on nose, quite disgusting), and another boy whose face was just out of view. As Draco opened the compartment door, the other boy turned to face him, and with a clunk Draco felt his stomach drop. It was indeed Mr. Chatty.
“Is it true?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t. “They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment.”
The boy looked up at Malfoy, and he noticed the tell-tale scar peeking from beneath his fringe. Well, that settled it.
“So it’s you, is it?” he said, hoping that it didn’t sound quite as openly disappointed as it did in his head.
“Yes,” the boy responded.
Wonderful. It’s like we’ve never parted, Draco thought as Harry Potter stared at Crabbe and Goyle wordlessly. Draco waited a decent amount of time for the two behemoths to introduce themselves, but as they seemed to be transfixed by the pile of sweets on the seat, he gave it up and did it himself.
“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” he said, introducing them. “And my name’s Malfoy.”
He expected something—awe, shock, recognition, a damn nod would be enough—instead, the historical and venerable name of Malfoy had no more impact on this kid than Jones or Johnson. He’d either been living under a rock since birth or this was a deliberate slight.
“Draco Malfoy,” he tried again, hitting his first name hard.
The red-head with bad facial hygiene snorted, and Draco turned as red as the kid’s hair. Maybe Draco really was an odd name. Maybe every single student at Hogwarts was going to break into guffaws of laughter as soon as they read out his name during the Sorting. Humiliation quickly turned to indignation. When confronted with an insult, he could sling one back quite a bit harder when he chose.
“Think my name’s funny do you?” he said, taking in the boy’s appearance quickly and remembering something. “No need to ask who you are. My mother told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford.”
Oh, now that did it. The brat’s freckles were completely camouflaged in his blush. Draco put his attention back to Potter, choosing to explain the basics to him. That, if nothing else, should put him on Harry’s good side.
“You’ll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go around making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there,” he offered, holding out a hand for the other boy to shake, thinking this should put things right back on track.
Potter stared at it, his hands remaining on his lap.
“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” he said.
At long last, the Boy Who Lived became the Boy Who Spoke, but of all the things, to leave a Malfoy’s hand hanging in the air, to choose a blood-traitor like Weasley over a freely offered friendship with the finest wizarding family in England? Draco’s face burned.
“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” he said, making one last stab at pointing out the dreadful mistake the kid was making. “Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as your parents. They didn’t know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys and Hagrid, and it’ll rub off on you.”
And suddenly the two were on their feet. Alright, he thought, the crack about his parents might have been going a bit too far, in retrospect.
“Say that again,” the Weasley said, Draco registering shock he had dared to address him directly.
“Oh, you’re going to fight us, are you?” Malfoy said, suddenly quite happy to have Crabbe and Goyle looming behind him like a pair of trolls.
“Unless you get out now,” Harry said, and Malfoy had to begrudgingly admit that he had some courage not to flinch at the wall of humanity behind him. Still… he had to push him just a little harder. It was a matter of honor.
“But we don’t feel like leaving, do we boys? We’ve eaten all our food and you seem to still have some,” he said, hoping to direct Crabbe and Goyle’s attention back to the situation at hand by mentioning food. He was relatively sure their minds could have wandered by now, say, to things like food, or perhaps food. Maybe even food.
It worked. Goyle stuck his hand into the pile of treats… and let out a blood-curdling scream as he pulled back, a large rat hanging off his finger by its sharp teeth. What followed was a slow motion ballet as Goyle pirouetted idiotically, spinning like a top, howling to beat the train’s whistle all the while, until the rat let go and flew through the air, smacking against the window with a loud thunk. All three of them were out of the compartment as fast as possible and running back down the corridor to their own compartment.
“I don’t like rats,” Goyle said.
“On that,” Draco said, grimacing, “we agree. Filthy, ugly, hideous beasts.”
“Yeah,” Crabbe said, rolling over on the seat and immediately falling asleep.
“Uh-huh,” Goyle said, sucking the injured finger, then following his chum into slumberland a few minutes later.
Draco found it impossible to catch a nap. His mind was entirely too full. Well, he’d certainly rebelled against one of his father’s commands, but then again, who could blame him? Potter was obviously a moronic idiot with lousy taste in friends. Time passed, and Draco stared out the window again, listening to the rhythmic breathing of the other two occupants. Finally, he reached up into the overhead compartment, opened his trunk, and took out one of his books just to peruse it. The light slowly vanished from the sky, the clouds turning pink and gold, then finally replaced with deep blue. Draco looked into the darkness and wondered what the next years would bring to him, trying hard to suppress the memory of that disturbing dream. He knew that soon he would find out if he could be happy here, and, most importantly, whether Pansy Parkinson was anywhere near as much of a knockout as he was.
Part 7 here