Draco, the boy who lived the fanfiction archive

Draco Malfoy and ...

HistoryPain / Consolation, Love Story / P18 / Het
Draco Malfoy Hermione Granger
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You are so great - thanks for the many clicks, favorites and recommendations just for the prologue ♡

So we're getting into it relatively slowly at first - that's still changing, I promise ;-)

The great kitchen girl has created a playlist again, you can find the link to it either in her review or in the next chapter - I'm on my phone right now and can hardly copy from here, sorry :-(

Anyway, many, many thanks to all of you!

We read each other - on the weekend, I guess ;-)


When all you wanted
What to be wanted
Wish you could go back
And tell yourself what you know now

Fifteen - Taylor Swift

Draco Malfoy and the refused handshake

For Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson and Zabini - the first friends I ever had

Harry Potter

In the summer of 1991 this name cast a shadow over my life; a shadow that will soon get longer and longer and which at some point I should only feel as a curse, but I didn't know anything about any of this at the time.

We spent this summer with us at the Manor, which was unusually warm by British standards. While the adults, with their faces unusually serious, even for purebloods, holed up with sherry, brandy and firewhiskey in my father's library and study, we took advantage of the weather and the fact that our parents were apparently busy with more important things than with their children to play Quidditch for hours, annoy the house-elves, or chase the peacocks.

Most of the time, Pansy sat barefoot on the jetty, dangling her feet in the water of our lake and lecturing us for hours about some Quidditch players she found attractive at the time - I can't remember a single name, but I can remember the glint in her eyes.

It was the summer when I finally got rid of the children's broom; Father gave me a nimbus and, to my mother's chagrin, I received his official permission to fly over the lands alone with the boys, and we felt so incredibly grown up.

Our fathers obviously trusted us - not that they hadn't taught any of us to fly years before, after all, it was part of good manners in our circles - but now they finally let us off the leash a little, gave us a leap of faith , and we couldn't have been more proud.

Of course, we didn't know about the things our fathers did instead, none of the things they talked about so mysteriously and for hours - today I think they would have better spent their time on us children.

I am often asked what it was like to grow up in this big, apparently cold house, and people usually expect a sad story about parents who made up for their lack of empathy and social skills with gifts; a story about a boy who couldn't defend himself, about a boy who had everything and yet again nothing at all; a story about the boy-who-had-no-choice.

But I have to say that - at least until this point in time - I did not find my childhood lonely, sad or stressful; my father was always aloof and cool, of course, but my mother read to me every night until I started school at Hogwarts, when I was sick, the house-elves would cook whatever I wanted, and I never had to change anything ask.

I have no siblings, as my parents' family planning was completed after they had fathered their heirs and brought them into the world healthy, but that was also common in our circles - we were all only children and therefore grew up together more or less like siblings. One of my very first memories is of a four-year-old Pansy who is weaving wreaths of flowers in the meadow while Blaise and I fly around her on our children's brooms.

Perhaps this is the only way to justify our friendship, which still exists to this day - neither our parents nor we ourselves have smeared ourselves with fame, but Blaise and Pansy in particular know me better than anyone else on this one World does, and such people are worth their body weight in gold.

In any case, there were no real threats to us this summer - we had all got our Hogwarts letters, we were all convinced we were going to Slytherin, we only knew the Dark Lord from our grandparents' stories, we got our wands and would travel to Hogwarts for the first time in September.

Besides being reminded by my father a hundred times a day that I should just befriend a certain Harry Potter, this summer was as light-hearted as any summer could be.

It was only years later that I would understand why it was so important to Father that I make friends with Harry - at that time the name Harry Potter was nothing more than a name, a myth, someone who was told stories about in Diagon Alley, a name that appeared in the Daily Prophet and books, but for Blaise, Pansy, Greg, Vince, and me it was nothing more than that - a name, and besides, how hard should it be to befriend a boy of your own age?

It is said that life is lived forwards and understood backwards.

With what I know today, would I have decided some things differently? - No doubt.

Do I regret things I've said and done? - Yes.

Do I hope that in the end it was all good for something at least? - Really.

My name is Draco Malfoy and this is my story.

It was a sunny day in August 1991 on which we met for the first time without knowing who we were dealing with.

My parents had left me with Madame Malkins; Father was on his way to get my school books while Mother ... I don't remember, to be honest. I think she was looking for a wand for me, but that doesn't really make sense because after all, the wand is looking for the wizard, not the other way around.

Anyway, I was standing on a stool with the always over-the-top Madame Malkins while my robes were being adjusted for Hogwarts. At least three people were bustling around me, but I didn't even notice it anymore, on the contrary - I must have always loved to be the center of attention.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a boy my age was standing on the stool next to me. He had completely messy, black hair, broken glasses, his clothes were ten sizes too big for him and also littered with holes, and he just looked incredibly out of place next to me.

But as he stood there, completely insecure, looking around helplessly with his incredibly green eyes, I just had to speak to him. Maybe it was the absence of my parents, maybe I was simply bored, but maybe it was also because I actually liked him.

I was eleven years old and had no idea about life - in fact, I didn't even know how to address another person, after all, everyone else always knew us and it wasn't necessary to introduce myself to anyone, let alone anyone to be good - on the contrary, most people were eager to be good with us.

"Hogwarts too?" I asked him, and he looked at me uncertainly.

For a while I was convinced that he would not have been half as insecure if he had already known then who he was, what he had done and what significance he had for our society back then, but that's not true, because it there are days when he looks at me exactly the same way today as he does at this moment. If there's one person who's been true to himself over the years, I guess it's him.

"Yes," said this walking collection of old clothes, and I felt immediately obliged to give him a lecture about racing brooms, Quidditch and house affiliations, of course directly vilified Hufflepuff and out of sheer arrogance did not even notice how I stumbled from one faux pas to another - the person opposite had grown up in a closet under a staircase, had no idea about brooms and Quidditch, although ironically, to this day, I should never have a chance against him in this very sport.

It turned out he was with Hagrid in Diagon Alley, and that fact disturbed me on several levels. I had heard a few stories about this supposedly always drunk, neglected gamekeeper, whom they had expelled from school at the time and who had since lived in a hut on the edge of the forbidden forest on the school grounds, and I absolutely did not understand why of all the people on this one Planet, of all people, this half-giant should be on the road with this intimidated child.

So I made some comments about Hagrid, and shortly afterwards I learned that the parents of this boy who was standing next to me were dead.

"I'm sorry," I heard myself say, but I don't think I meant it myself. I guess I've never been particularly good at dealing with emotions, and empathy is a foreign word to me to this day.

"I don't think much of accepting the others," I told him, and had absolutely no idea what I was talking about.

After all, these ominous others weren't around at all - I was surrounded by purebloods, gold and prestige, moving in a world in which these others, or, as my father called them, mudbloods, had no place at all. I knew about as much about the world of the Muggle-born and half-bloods as a cow about flying, but in my unshakable self-confidence and still without the slightest idea who I was talking to, I sat down to speak about this said others, but luckily for Harry Madame Malkins interrupted us and he was gone faster than I could see.

In retrospect, you can think and say a lot about this first, fateful encounter - I sometimes still dream about it today and then imagine how it would have gone if I had known who I was talking to.

Would we have made friends? Liked us? I do not think so. I think if there is one thing he and I were never particularly good at, it was being friends, and in fact, not much has changed to this day, I'm afraid.

But that day, along with Madame Malkins', a door slammed shut between us, and that's exactly what it was supposed to stay for a very, very long while - closed.

"Is Harry Potter really on the train with us?" Goyle asked, putting half a pumpkin pie in his mouth.

It was September first, autumn had already colored the leaves on the trees brightly, and we were sitting on the Hogwartsexpress, excited as probably never before in our lives.

"Bullshit," Pansy said without looking up from her magazine.

I ignored my fellow human beings, closed my book and leaned my head against the window. I didn't know if this walking phenomenon was on the train with us, I just knew that I should find out as soon as possible and make friends with him if I didn't want to get in trouble from my father over the Christmas holidays.

Somebody tore open the door to our compartment and put me out of my thoughts.

“Have you seen a toad? A boy named Neville lost his. "

My friends exchanged irritated looks while I could only stare stupidly at the girl who was now standing so confidently in our compartment.

Although we had only been out for a short time, she was already wearing her uniform, her hair was much too bushy and seemed to have a life of its own, her front teeth were somehow too long, but she looked at us almost disparagingly from her brown eyes, stuck her chin in the height and then, because still none of us had said a word, turned back on the heel.

“Very helpful, really. Come on, Neville, we're going, ”she said, taking the boy with the round face, who was standing helplessly in the hallway and only now I noticed, by the arm and a second later the door was closed again.

"Did you know them?" Asked Pansy, who suddenly seemed to remember our presence, and closed her newspaper.

"No, but I'd like to have their nerves," Blaise replied, who seemed no less stunned than any of us.

"I bet she'll come to Ravenclaw," Pansy then speculated and took one of my chocolate frogs without being asked.

"What makes you think that?"

In the uninvolved manner that she still has today, she unwrapped the frog and looked at it as if she were holding one in her hands for the first time in her life.

"Exclusion principle. She's way too self-confident for a Hufflepuff and too helpful for a Slytherin, "she explained, breaking off the poor frog's head and shoving it into her mouth.

I looked at my friends, crossed my legs and shook my head.

"Gryffindor," I heard myself say, but the others had already changed the subject and paid no attention to me.

* Excerpts, correspondingly and literally taken from: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
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