Chapter Text
“This year, you’ll do better, won’t you; little Malfoy?”
Draco feels the sting of his fingers as he digs his nails into them, he doesn’t acknowledge it, he nods his head at his aunt. He bites off the urge to make a noise, he’s sure it would only come out as a whine.
“This year, you’d be the brightest wizard of that wretched school. Sure, you’re a Malfoy—but you’re also a Black, and Blacks are never the lesser. Remember that, Draco, don’t disappoint; win . ”
Bellatrix holds Draco’s chin up, “Look at me, boy.”
Draco looks at her, determination in his eyes. Bellatrix beams at it, smiling at her nephew.
“ Win. ”
Draco nods again. He ignores the pungent smell of iron soaking through his shirt.
“This summer’s been the worst by far.”
Draco scoffs at Theodore Nott, whose face contorted into a grimace whilst remembering his summer. Draco turned away, disgusted at the antics of Pansy eating her ear wax beans beside Theodore. It was a strange appetite to have, but she’d been intent on not letting it go ever since she got a taste for it back in their second year. Even so, he felt relieved being in the presence of his friends. The walls at Aunt Bellatrix’s suffocated him no more.
“What, did your family lose a quid or two?” Pansy joked around.
“Worse.” Theodore responded. “I lost a house elf, which meant I had to work all summer..”
Draco watches the steady field outside, drowning his friends’ nonsense with his plans for the year. He felt uneasy at the thought of what damage he could do if he fails—the humiliation of his family that hangs on his shoulders. Don’t disappoint; win. Right. Winning was what mattered, to prove himself to both being a respectable Malfoy and Black.
“..Daft? You’re pureblooded, Theo. You’re fucking magical, use magic, you moron—”
A thud fell against the door of their compartment, shushing Blaise’s words. Draco flinched back at the sound but quickly regained his composure. He turned his wand at the lock, “ Alohomora .”
Draco heard Theodore make a sound once they were met with a ginger on the floor. Ron Weasley was at their compartment floor with red ears, Draco could hear Granger outside muttering words, presumably about her boyfriend’s stupidity.
“Feels better than your rags for a bed, Weasley?” Draco chirps out, earning a laugh from Pansy.
“Sod off, Malfoy, at least my parents wanted me home for the summer.”
Draco rolled his eyes, it stung, but he was better than to let it show. He watched as Potter came in and took hold of Weasley, a scoff etched on his face. He looked the most different. Granger and Weasley looked the same as always, they disgustingly matched each other very well. As for Potter, Draco noticed he grew even taller. His hair was fashioned the same— has it just been cut? —but Draco eyed the way his robe managed to end farther upwards his legs and the subtle bones peeking out of his skin.
“Used to dragging garbage, Potter? You’d make a useful house elf, have you considered? Nott’s been urging for one—”
“Fuck off, Malfoy.”
Draco was stunned. It was the first time Potter had ever cursed at him—and fuck off? Draco could almost laugh at the word. Such unsavory words for an even more unsavory person. He’s behaving like a muggle. Draco laughed at himself for that.
Granger dragged them away soon enough, thankfully. Theodore continued his stories after, which dosed Draco off to sleep effectively. He scanned his eyes carefully around the compartment once he was awoken, a habit he adapted from spending all those months with Aunt Bellatrix and her strange widowed house. There is no one there. Draco looked at his friends, you’re not back there.
“Have we arrived already?”
Blaise nods, suitcase in hand. “Pansy got your robes out.”
“You went through my luggage?”
“No, you prick. I accio- ed it. Why the bloody hell would I go through all that work?”
Draco shrugged his shoulders and waved her off.
Nothing changed within the walls of Hogwarts, all the young Slytherin wanted to do was be appointed prefect and head to his dormitories. Once they sat down and the first years were sorted out, Draco found himself eye to eye with none other than Harry Potter. He was two tables away, and yet somehow he managed to piss Draco off the same as if he’d been a foot away from him. Draco could even smell his obviously poor-picked scent he started wearing back in fourth year. To impress girls? More likely to make them detest him, Draco’s sure.
He sent a smirk out to Potter, which earned him a glare back. He caught a few newly-sorted Gryffindors giving him a nasty look in defense of their savior Potter, and he gave them nothing more than they deserved, which was a glare as well.
“This year’s Slytherin prefect shall be.. Draco Malfoy .”
It was expected, and Draco perked up from his seat, tensing up as he stood up and watched Professor Snape appoint him as prefect. He smiled and looked around the Slytherin table to show off. Green robes clapped for him, and nothing felt better than it. He’d been a prefect two years in a row now, and who else was qualified better than a Malfoy as the head of Slytherin?
A different robe is given to him, and he wears it elegantly. He was joyous, but he had manners; he couldn’t be seen as if he was unfit for the role of head of the student body. It fits him snugly, it felt like everything that was done right in his life. Being prefect was only the first step—it was only the beginning, after all.
“..Potter!”
All noises were drowned out as that word hit Draco. Potter? The Gryffindor’s claps were hellish, like several stallions were released in those very halls. It was poorly mannered, such a Gryffindor thing to do; couldn’t even clap properly.
“ Potter ..?” He unconsciously muttered, scowling.
Blaise snorted beside him, “Bloody hell, imagine how much more idiotic Gryffindor would be now that Potter’s in charge?”
“Won’t matter, McGonaggal’s just gonna excuse every idiotic shit they do as she always does.” Pansy adds on.
“ Professor McGonaggal.” Draco reminds her.
“Alright, don’t get your prefect knickers in a bunch, Dray.”
“I just..” Draco starts, staring right at Harry Potter who’s currently being congratulated by the whole Gryffindor table. Somehow. “Why would they pick him? Has Professor McGonagall gone dim?”
“Don’t let anyone catch prefect Draco talking shit about one of the teachers..!” Pansy laughs, whispering at Theodore.
“Oh, shut up!”
The room was cleared after the feast. Draco felt himself growing tired as they walked down to their house dormitory, his suitcases wearily floating behind him as his magic mimicked his own body. He eyed the painting that led to the Slytherin common room, and figured he had missed the old hag. Still, he was quite tired, so acknowledgements are not for tonight. The password hadn’t changed since fifth year, and although Draco had deemed it stupid to not change it; he cared less of it.
He let the first years in, then the second, the third, up until the seventh before he went in himself. He was chivalrous like that. He lets them be once he gets inside, his suitcases dragging themselves up their shared room as he meticulously scolded a bunch of first years for disturbing the merpeople through the glass.
“We’re sorry, Prefect Draco!”
“It’s Prefect Malfoy . Now sort yourselves out, the common room shall be tidy when I come down tomorrow morning; understood?”
“Understood, Prefect Malfoy!”
Draco smiled at them, what lovely first years, and not many scoffed at his face this time. He was aware he’d been quite a menace to his prefect back when he was a first year, and he was nothing more but appreciative to not have a Draco Malfoy in the bunch.
He retired to his bed a few minutes later, but before it; he made sure to put up their family portrait on his bedside table. There weren’t as many motions as the others had, they’d been still in this one, though he could point out the way they breathed and the subtle twitch of his mother’s hand. He hugged a pillow tight and closed his eyes, ignoring the complaints Blaise let out as Theodore joined him in bed.
He was no stranger to his friend’s preference, he had caught the young Nott under a bloke many times that he had liked. It was a surprise, but nothing special entirely. But Draco wasn’t certain if Blaise liked the candied treats Theodore was fond of, so he couldn’t make anything of the way the latter would always end up in Blaise’s bed by the morning ever since the last month of fifth year. He himself didn’t like other people barging in on his personal space, let alone to cuddle.
It was one of the many things that lacking a sibling did to him, Draco thought it too many times that it turned him allergic to physical interaction besides with his parents. Aunt Bellatrix would hug him, but it suffocated him more than anything else.
Draco had just finished fixing a second year’s tilted robe when he felt a sting on his nape. He turned around and glared at the paper swan that was set on poking him once more, he quickly grabbed and crumpled it against his hand, the used paper limped, magic-less.
“Potter!” Draco shouted, he was certain the twat was somewhere around the halls. “Your jests are quite elementary—gone quite stupid, Potter?!”
A few students started looking at him, and it was then that he realized the commotion he had caused. He cleared his throat and glared at the group of Ravenclaws passing by, “Found something funny, did you?” He muttered murderously.
“Stop terrorizing the second years, Malfoy.” It was Potter, who decided to come out of the large pillar behind him to make himself look like a hero once again, probably. Draco sneered at him and noticed the wrinkled corners of his robe, the dust that accumulated from the stone in which he most definitely leaned on, and the hanging stitches on the school logo. He looked the same, which infuriated Draco even further.
He straightened his robe and gestured to Potter, wearing his signature smug expression that he knew never failed to get under the other’s skin. “Are Gryffindor prefects expected to look their worst? It must be hard for the other dimwits to obey orders from you, isn’t it, Potter?”
“And how does the Slytherins feel knowing you have your wand up your ass?”
“Charming, Potter.” Draco said.
Potter replied, smiling. “Didn’t deny it, Malfoy.”
“You—” Draco didn’t quite know what to say, he just thought he needed to, otherwise Potter would believe his own words like the fool he was. He stayed quiet in the end. He glared at the other and sauntered off to the other direction, what a horrible way to start the day.
Potions and quidditch were the only things that got Draco through the day. Their classes that involved Ravenclaws were very easy to pass through; but DADA and Configurations ate him alive and spat him back out.
He’d never confess to it. The way Granger almost always gets the higher score and the way it makes him feel.. inferior. It was a guilty feeling. Malfoys aren’t supposed to feel inferior to anyone else, nor should Blacks. They were purebred— he was the most pureblooded wizard that currently graced the room, and yet he felt small, to a muggle-born nonetheless! It was humiliating, and even more so when it wasn’t even the worst part of the whole catastrophic academic crisis Draco was suffering from;
Harry Potter was at the top. Good, saint, young Potter .
It was always him—always had to be him, didn’t it?
But Potter couldn’t be better than him in Potions, Draco wouldn’t ever allow it. No one had ever gone near his position, no one except Potter, that cheeky twat. He and Granger must be seething in rage— yes , Draco thought—all while the benevolent Draco Malfoy stomps them down with his leather shoes his father gifted him for winter. It was all due to the undeniable fact that purebloods were merely better than everyone else, right. Right. Right? Draco forced something dark bubbling in his throat, it was a horrendous thought, it might even be a sin perhaps. But, still, it spoke its words out, spewing nonsense— Potter is better than you, a halfblood at that, why? Why is he better, Draco? His blood is tainted and yet yours that are pure is lesser, wh—
Thud.
Draco found that banging his head against anything solid silenced everything long enough. He learned it at Aunt Bellatrix’s, where the thoughts surfaced frequently and visibly as he learned. He could feel his Aunt’s nails digging into his skull as his head was plunged into the cold, damp walls of his late Uncle Rodolphus’ manor. Her words seemed to echo in his head whenever he did it, like a spell that had casted itself into the walls of Draco’s brain.
“Such impure thoughts must be brought to heel and destroyed. No one is lesser than us, Draco. We are merely better than everyone else, stronger, capable; we are merely better than..”
“..you doing? Draco?”
His head stung horribly when he looked at his caller. It was Pansy. She was carrying some sort of towel with the Slytherin colors on it, something a quidditch player would appreciate.
Draco cleared his throat, willing to make his forming headache go away. “Pansy,” he said.
“What were you bloody doing? I’ve been calling you for days now, and you seem to have broken yourself into that damn wall. Look, it’s going to crack.” She motioned to the lack of cracks in the wall and gave Draco a concerned look. “Are you alright, Dray? Do you need to skip practice?”
“I’m alright, Pansy.” Draco lied. “Why’re you holding towels? As far as you’re concerned, quidditch is not in your schedule.”
“This is for Theo, he lost his wand somehow and needed it for practice and..I—Draco, are you really alright?”
Pansy was a good liar, which meant she was good at seeing when someone’s lying to her face. It was a trait Draco admired for a long time, even now, despite it being an annoyance to him.
“I am, Pans.” He rarely used nicknames, his father once said it was a halfblood thing to not use proper names. All halfbloods were improper, and those lesser than them were dimwits. Draco cared less and less about his father’s weekly rants about muggles as he grew older. He was outdated. And it was not a halfblood thing to use nicknames. Pansy had made sure to lecture him about how nicknames were cool.
Pansy’s stare never wavered and it irked him further. Lying to her or any of his friends had burdened him badly, and it continued to do so. Pansy was a loyal friend, a caring one if she ever put in the effort. She was good. Sensible. And eerie in the way she could cast any nefarious spells to anyone or anything without remorse. Despite her suspicion, something in her told her to let it go as Draco noticed the hitch in her breath.
Draco smiled softly at her and gestured to her arms. “I’ll hand those over to Theo, I shall tell him you brought it and to not be a prancing idiot.”
“Tell him worse.”
“I will.”
Draco felt Pansy’s eyes linger for a second as he walked away. It was gone quickly, given that he had dashed away and into the open field where a few students soared up in the sky. He spotted Blaise and was certain Theodore would be near; he was right. Theodore emerged from the ground, Draco could hear his rapid breathing as if he’d been hexed by the floor.
“I can’t find my wand, Blaise! It’s— ha.. it’s not there!” Theodore said, panting as he did.
Draco set the towels down. His ears ignored the two and his eyes scanned the ground, and when he found no one of interest—he scanned the sky. He found Marcus Flint close to the top seats, seemingly arguing with another player in the air. However, the other wore red and yellow, and Draco instantly recognized him as Oliver Wood. He was aware of their rivalry, an active participant even if you will, he’d said more than a few words about the Gryffindor captain whenever he had the chance.
His Nimbus 2001 ran cold under his fist as he got ready to fly, he adjusted himself quickly in the air. He was to go to Flint to aid him in his argument when a student darted in front of him, making him almost lose his balance. He was twenty feet in the air, falling would incapacitate him badly, and he had never liked going to Madam Pomfrey’s.
“Bloody hell!” Draco yelled out in anger. “Watch where you’re going, you arsehole!”
He hears a snicker behind him and Draco finally turns around, scoffing as he sees Weasley with his Cleansweep Eleven. As far as he was aware, it was a gift when he made prefect last year. It all made sense now, Draco thought, Gryffindor prefects are just a bunch of bellends. No wonder Potter made it.
“Surprise you’re still alive in that death stick, Weasley. You are aware there’s been new broomsticks made? Or is that another pathetic hand-me-down?”
“What’s that, Malfoy? I can’t seem to hear you from the sound of your father’s Nimbus 2001’s that got you your position!” Somehow, Weasley looked more smug than before. “Just so you know, we’re in the air, and you might fall. You know, since you’re absolute shite in riding.”
“Sure you know a lot about riding, Weasley. How’s Granger feeling about having a boyfriend with a cunt?”
“Not as good as what you’re feeling as one, I’m sure.”
Draco was about to retaliate when he saw Flint approach them, a rather menacing look in his eyes. He was merciless, especially when it came to his team, but Draco feared no one in Hogwarts. After all, who could a Malfoy and a Black fear except his own kind?
Flint chased Weasley away. It unsettled Draco, he felt like a toddler who’s always in need of defending. He could’ve beaten Weasley down by himself, but he supposed Flint helped enough.
“In your place, Seeker.” Flint ordered. Draco went to his place immediately.