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Chapter 3 - Chapter 03

Tormented by the uneasy suspicion that I'd accidentally gotten on friendly terms with Harry Potter, the day finally arrived: September 1st—Hogwarts admission day.

I had promised to ride the Hogwarts Express with Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, boys I'd known since childhood because our parents were acquainted. To meet up with them, I headed for the platform at King's Cross.

The trip to the platform was mostly uneventful, but you can't avoid the crowds of Muggles in one of London's biggest stations. Mother, already prone to a perpetual scowl, kept a handkerchief pressed to her lips whenever a Muggle passed by. Father wore the expression of a man who had stuck his face into a swarm of bothersome flies. Honestly—how rude.

I'd first met Vincent and Gregory as the sons of my father's friends, and from the beginning there was pressure to "get along" because it was expected. We were the same age.

Astonishingly, when we met for the first time, they were already seven and still couldn't read a single word. I assumed their parents simply didn't care about basic education, but it turns out that attitude is fairly common across the wizarding world. The thinking seems to be, "You'll end up at Hogwarts anyway."

If so, I wonder what they think about Hogwarts not teaching basic language arts, and about the fact that a few graduates still look suspiciously illiterate. …Perhaps they don't care. Many old pure-blood families in our aristocratic niche of society have the sort of wealth that lets them live without ever engaging their brains. In their value system, cleverness is a virtue, yes—but the spirit of hard work is rather thin on the ground.

Whether it's the weight of Hogwarts tradition or wizarding minds stuck somewhere in the eighteenth century, the whole thing is irresponsible. Adults consigning themselves to remain fools is one thing; leaving my two young friends that way was unacceptable.

So I had them stay over at our house and drilled them in letters and other basics. At first they hated it—vigorously—but over time that softened. …Or so I want to believe. Fortunately, the pair can usually be motivated with food, which makes incentives relatively easy. I now keep sweets in my pocket at all times, even though I don't eat them myself.

Lately, just before we start at Hogwarts, they've even begun to enjoy the sense of achievement that comes with learning. That, at least, is truly gratifying.

Despite having plenty of time before departure, Mother cultivated an atmosphere as if this were a final farewell, while Father went on at length about how I should make friends with people like Harry Potter and the children of the powerful in general. I soothed them both as best I could, took my leave, and the three of us boarded the front carriage of the Hogwarts Express while it was still quiet. To avoid more nagging from my parents, we slipped into a compartment that didn't face the platform and took the window seats. With two broad-shouldered bodyguards—pardon, friends—sitting beside and across from me, I was all but invisible from the corridor.

No sooner had we sat down than Gregory spoke up, uneasy.

"Draco… did your father tell you to get into Slytherin, too?"

There was almost none of the excitement a first-year ought to feel in Gregory's expression. Vincent, sitting opposite him, listened in a slightly fluttery, distracted way. It seemed both of them were quite worried about the sorting.

I could guess their feelings easily. In our old pure-blood circles, people treat being Sorted anywhere but Slytherin—especially Gryffindor, and after that Hufflepuff—as a disgrace. Father certainly said as much. Still, because he considers me a rather studious child, he magnanimously declared that Ravenclaw would be acceptable.

In truth, I myself was quite anxious that the Sorting might not go as I planned. A character in my position, if such a person existed in a story, would naturally end up in Slytherin—and that's what I intend. But there are too many variables. By bloodline alone, the odds are in my favor, of course, but there are exceptions—my mother's cousin, for example.

And it's not as if I think I'm suited to any of the other three houses. I don't want to make any odd moves until I have a firmer sense of how events are going to unfold. Slytherin is essential. The problem is that the Sorting's done by a hat that can read minds. What a delightful out-of-place artifact. I'd love to know how to make one. …In any case, when you're facing a hat that can read a child's nature without appeal, it's unclear how much the student's own wishes actually matter.

As an educational system, grouping children by similar traits and backgrounds has little to recommend it, and you'd expect that such traits would only be distilled into something more extreme—hardly ideal. But wizards don't think in educational terms. Our population is small to begin with, and communication across distances is neglected. For all our instant modes of travel, scholarship is left to individuals; knowledge pools are scattered.

Perhaps because of that, the branches of learning society might demand—those not dependent on individual genius—develop slowly. And therefore, the old pure-blood families, those ancient communities, still hold value that cannot easily be replaced. The wizarding world is a small place; precisely because it's small, the will to bridge division and inequality is weak.

At any rate, among our kin who like to believe they sit at the top of this little world, there are many who hold that if you're not Slytherin, you're no one. Children are expected to deliver an outcome they may have no control over, and they tie themselves in knots over it. …And once they manage to clamber over that hurdle, they take the success and force the same trial on their own children. A fine vicious cycle.

To calm the two of them, I kept my voice light.

"He did say so—but if I don't make it, I won't. Your parents aren't going to do something as disgraceful as abandoning their child over a house, surely."

At that, they let the subject drop for now.

Even so, Vincent and Gregory still carried a taut, brittle air about them. …Understandable. In truth, even I couldn't quite banish the image of their families cutting them off.

That's how unreasonable Slytherin families can be—backing children into corners. Before you even arrive at school you're under pressure to meet parental expectations; if you get Slytherin, you must wear its traits with pride, and if you don't, you'll be shunned by the pure-blood set.

If only there were a system that allowed more time and listened properly to a child's wishes before deciding where they belong. Seven years in a single House narrows your circle of acquaintance as it is…

At that point, I remembered the worry that had been gnawing at me since last month.

The protagonist—the "Boy Who Lived"—will end up in Gryffindor, won't he? I'm fairly sure that in that "Ear-Splitting Potter" meme, he was wearing red Gryffindor colors, and courage suits a protagonist perfectly. …Slytherin, meanwhile, is said to prize cunning, ambition, and pure-blood supremacy. To be honest, the House practically advertises villain traits. It seems obvious where Harry Potter will go.

With that in mind, I couldn't help imagining the future my recent, careless actions might have set in motion.

If that boy I met in Diagon Alley really was Harry Potter—

If, by some mistake, he'd taken a liking to me, a stranger he'd only run into by chance—

If I were Sorted first, and he, in a moment of madness, decided to follow me into Slytherin—

Then, for the next seven years, the relationships around the protagonist would warp; things that should never happen might happen, and things that must happen might not.

That, at this stage, is something I absolutely must avoid. I have no idea what's coming. The last thing I want is to scramble the plot the moment I set foot in Hogwarts.

Perhaps it's vanity to think he's taken a liking to me… but the way his face lit up at a few kind words after all that pitiful awkwardness—well, it sticks with me.

While I was thinking along those lines, Pansy Parkinson—another acquaintance—appeared. Word had it Harry Potter was near the back of the train. Perfect. I decided to go and confirm whether that boy really was the protagonist. If my worries weren't baseless, I'd cut off the problem at the root.

I meant to go alone, but Gregory and Vincent insisted on tagging along. I appreciate the camaraderie, but can I manage this smoothly while also controlling their reactions? With that worry simmering, we asked Pansy to watch our luggage and headed down the corridor.

In the compartment Pansy indicated, there he was—the black-haired boy from the robe shop. The fringe that had fallen over his eyes back then was now pushed back, and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead was plain to see.

My stomach sank like a stone. So I had, without any plan, created a connection with the protagonist. The impact this might have on a story already in motion is impossible to measure… An utter blunder. Can it even be fixed?

My mood lifted slightly when I saw the boy sitting opposite Harry. That distinctive red hair, the hand-me-down clothes—his place at Harry's side as they got on well together. Almost certainly a Weasley. If so, as someone raised on the "light" side of wizarding Britain, all he needed to do was tell Harry what he knew about my family. Starting with Father, then Bellatrix Lestrange, Sirius Black. My relations are a parade of high-profile Death Eaters. If Harry learned I came from a line sympathetic to his parents' killers, surely he'd take a dim view of me and choose Gryffindor. …Yes. I just need to make sure he doesn't want Slytherin.

I'd prod the Weasley boy a little—just enough—so that Harry would come away with a poor impression of me and of Slytherin, enough to cancel out our pleasant meeting that day. …My apologies to the Weasley boy for dragging him into this.

With my ignoble plan set, I slid the compartment door open without ceremony and strode in. Two pairs of eyes snapped toward me. The black-haired boy's face brightened when he saw me. My chest ached, thinking of what had to come next, but needs must.

Before Harry could speak, I cut across him, arranging my features into an arrogant mask.

"I heard Harry Potter was in this compartment—and with that scar, that must be you? I'm Draco Malfoy. These are Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle."

Harry tried again to speak, but the red-haired boy coughed to hide a laugh before he could. He'd recognized what my name signified and reacted to my rudeness appropriately.

I turned to the redhead, narrowed my eyes, and let one corner of my mouth lift.

"Do you have a problem with my name? Oh, don't bother introducing yourself. I'm quite familiar with your father, with his little Muggle obsession. I've heard he breeds children like rats—you're one of them, I suppose?"

Harry was stunned by my sudden transformation. Behind me, I could feel the confusion radiating from Gregory and Vincent, who know me better. My cheeks threatened to burn with shame and guilt, but—please, you two, stay quiet. This is the crucial moment.

The redhead's face, on the other hand, went scarlet without restraint. He glared at me.

"You're the last person who should talk about anyone's family, Malfoy."

A very direct hit; I had to smother a laugh. He wasn't wrong. Even so, I kept up my insolence.

"How rude. It says everything about your upbringing, Weasley. Your father can dote on Muggles all he likes, but perhaps he took less interest in his son's manners. Or is this the result of taking after him?"

At that, the redhead sprang to his feet, livid. He jabbed his wand at me in threat.

"Go back to your own compartment. Now."

Growling as he was, I gave him one last push with a sneer.

"Oh my, someone's been taught a few curses, have they? I'd love to see. But you needn't tell me twice. Let's hope we won't have to share the same space at school for long."

He looked ready to snap, but when I put my hand on the door, he lowered his wand.

…That should balance the scales—or tip them toward Gryffindor. Disgusted with myself for tearing into an innocent eleven-year-old, I started to step out—when Gregory suddenly yelled. I turned to see a fat, scruffy rat clamped on his finger.

I yanked out my wand and flicked the creature off him. The redhead shouted, "Scabbers!"

"At least learn to control your pet, Weasley!"

I tossed that parting shot over my shoulder and left, checking Gregory's finger as we retreated.

Back in our compartment, Vincent and Gregory peppered me with questions: Were you nervous, is that why you said those things? Are you ill? Do you hate Weasley that much? Cursing myself for not preparing an excuse for them, I stonewalled as smoothly as I could.

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