Rustle~
As the pages of the book turned, slender, clean fingers moved lightly across the parchment.
In the sunlight pouring through the train window, the boy's pale-gold hair caught a faint, warm gleam. The brilliance wasn't dazzling—more like the soft glow of a lazy afternoon—matching the languid aura he naturally carried, an air neither sharp nor aggressive.
What was strange, however, was that although he looked like an ordinary, underage boy, every small movement radiated a quiet maturity and an unmistakably refined temperament.
It was difficult to imagine what sort of ancient wizarding family could raise a child like this…
Reading on a moving train was hardly ideal. Loud conversations drifted in from the corridor through half-open windows, and the carriage occasionally rattled whenever the tracks grew uneven—a combination that would make most people abandon any attempt to concentrate.
But even alone in this compartment, the boy remained completely focused on the dense magical theory before him.
That calm expression.
Those steady hands.
He seemed untouched by the bustling world outside. If one didn't notice the subtle movement of his cool grey eyes scanning the page, paired with the faint rustle of turning parchment, one might assume he was simply staring blankly at the book…
101 Spellcasting Techniques
Judging from the title alone, it was obviously a book about advanced spellcasting. Whether it truly held one hundred and one techniques, or how difficult it was, a first-year student wouldn't normally know.
Yet none of that changed the truth—he was absorbing genuine magical theory.
And this was absolutely not a book a soon-to-be first-year at Hogwarts should be able to understand. At his age, mastering basic spells was already a challenge. Studying casting techniques—the efficiency, structure, and magical control behind spells—was far beyond the standard curriculum.
Spellcasting techniques assumed the reader could already perform magic with consistent precision. Without a strong foundation, there was no point thinking about conserving magical energy or shortening casting time.
This wasn't the kind of knowledge a child who hadn't even stepped into a magical classroom should be reading.
But the world always held a few exceptions.
And the boy before us was one of them—just like his name suggested.
Draco.
Dragon.
In the West, dragons were legendary creatures—symbols of greed, destruction… and power.
To name a child Draco was to express a hope for strength, ambition, and a future as imposing as a dragon's shadow.
Draco Malfoy.
He was eleven years old.
No one yet knew whether he would grow into the powerful wizard his family expected. But what was already unmistakable was the aristocratic elegance that clung naturally to him.
If one looked carefully, another detail stood out. While reading, Draco's long, well-shaped fingers moved occasionally beside him, tracing faint, irregular shapes—runes, perhaps. Whether this was an unconscious habit or a deliberate gesture was impossible to tell…
Time slipped by quietly until the calm atmosphere shattered with the abrupt creak of the compartment door.
"Excuse me…"
"How rude."
Draco didn't even allow the visitor to finish the sentence. He lifted his eyes from the page and cut them off with a soft, almost idle remark.
Casual as it was, the words carried an unexpected pressure.
He remained leaning lazily against the seat, still half-reclined, still flipping a page with deliberate slowness. In the warm afternoon light, he resembled a dragon stretched upon its hoard—except Draco's treasure was the book in his hand, and the knowledge within it.
His sudden remark made the intruder freeze mid-step.
The so-called impolite visitor was a young witch, also bound for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—soon to be his classmate.
Draco finally tore his gaze from the text and looked her over. Judging from her school robes and slightly nervous posture, she was clearly a first-year as well.
Her bushy, slightly unruly brown hair softened an otherwise plain appearance, yet her bright brown eyes shone with an unmistakable sharpness—intelligent, alert, almost electric. Perhaps that was what people meant by "spirit."
But at this moment, the soon-to-be witch looked decidedly uneasy. Whether it was guilt from entering without knocking, or the weight of Draco's poised, aristocratic aura, she seemed at a loss.
For an eleven-year-old, the elegant but undeniably intimidating way he held himself was both frightening and oddly intriguing.
"Um… have you seen my toad?"
The two stared at each other in awkward silence until a shaky, almost tearful voice sounded from the corridor behind the girl. Only then did she remember why she'd barged in.
"Y-yes—yes! Have you seen Neville's toad?"
"Huh! Is this a book about spellcasting techniques?"
"So that means you can cast spells already? Can you show me? What spells do you know?"
"Judging by your robes, you're a first-year student like me. Are you self-taught? Or—"
Her embarrassment evaporated the instant she noticed the book Draco was reading. In a single heartbeat, she transformed—excited, confident, and talkative. Words poured from her faster than Draco could process them, and she completely forgot poor Neville, who was now on the verge of sobbing.
No—he was sobbing.
Draco blinked, momentarily thrown off by the sudden torrent of enthusiasm. His cool grey eyes shifted, studying the girl whose energy filled the compartment like a spell gone wild.
More precisely, he studied the lively spark in her eyes.
Bang!
The sharp snap of the book closing cut her rambling off at once. If he hadn't acted, Draco suspected she would have talked until nightfall.
"Although the wisdom in your eyes is… undeniably striking."
"Eh??"
The girl's eyes widened in bewilderment, cheeks flushing pink—part embarrassment, part indignation.
Draco, of course, did not seem to realize how his phrasing might be misinterpreted.
But before she could gather a reply, he continued, voice cool and clipped.
"But that is not a reason for you to disturb me."
The tone wasn't harsh, yet the aloof, aristocratic finality in his voice made the young witch's brows knit instantly. And right then, she formed her first clear opinion of this strange boy—
Weird. And absolutely insufferable.