Draco's Mudblood - Draco Malfoy Fan Fiction - *Year One*

Friends

Draco, also now 11, had finally escaped his mother's arms and was now prowling through the carts on the Express.

A lot had changed since his 6th birthday.

His two best mates trailed closely behind him as they walked past the compartments. Crabbe and Goyle kept close to him, their large shoulders and round faces set as they passed a small girl with very frizzy brown hair. Draco pushed his shoulder into hers and was sent nearly to tears with laughter as she hurried away. Crabbe and Goyle, as always, just followed suit.

He'd known both of them for all his life, from the extravagant parties his parents threw at the manor, but he'd never been close to them. He didn't particularly like them, if he was honest, they were quite boring, but they were loyal as all bloody hell and Draco supposed he didn't mind the company.

After all, he'd had a rather miserable, lonely life.

They nicked a few snacks from a group of other, very intimidated first years, and continued on their way through the train, rulers looking down on their peasants, when something caught Draco's eye.

He couldn't stop thinking about the boy from Madam Malkin's. Draco had been getting his robes rehemmed, the last job had been soddy and his father was furious at the lousy sewing, so Draco had stood and waited for his robes to be fixed when the boy walked in. They talked only briefly, but Draco realised later that perhaps this boy thought they'd gotten off on the wrong foot (although Draco didn't think this himself), as the boy seemed eager to leave his presence. It was one of Draco's first times talking to someone his age that hadn't been introduced to him by his parents, and even though he would never admit it, he was nervous around the boy when they'd met in the shop.

This boy was his first chance at making his own friends, real friends, and he rather liked the idea.

A real friend. 

And better yet, there was a more than likely chance "the boy" was Harry Potter himself. 

He took the door of the compartment before him and swung it open. Sure enough, the boy from Madam Malkin's was here. His dishevelled black hair, wire rim glasses, and wide green eyes. A flash of confusion crossed his features before they grew sour.

"Is it true?" Draco started, looking directly into the boy's eyes. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"

Harry's eyes moved to Crabbe and Goyle over Draco's shoulder, seeming to take in their rather large builds for 11 year olds. Draco couldn't blame him, they were quite intimidating at first glance. He fought the urge to laugh, knowing full well that both boys were horrifically scared of nearly everything, and that once he'd seen Goyle scream over a toy rat Crabbe had insisted on turning into a live one.

"Oh, this is Crabbe and Goyle," he snapped out of the memory, but vowed to remind the boys of it later, knowing it would get a laugh out of both of them. "And my name's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

The other boy in the compartment, who Draco had honestly not even noticed, coughed. Behind his hand was a smile.

Draco felt his anger bubble out of his mouth before he could figure out a better thing to do with it, or why this boy bothered him so much. "Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are." He sneered. "My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."

He felt a little nauseated, but he didn't let it stop him, even though the Weasley boy looked near to vomiting too. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

Draco held out his hand.

Harry didn't take it. "I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks."

"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," Draco said, desperately hoping his face wasn't as visibly hot as it felt. Why did this boy seem to hate him already? Draco figured he'd been nice enough so far, he hadn't said anything wrong or particularly mean yet, but Harry Potter seemed to dislike him greatly. No one had ever dared to defy him. He wasn't sure what to do with himself. He let his building embarrassment and rage spill from his lips. "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 that Hagrid, and it'll rub off on you."

The boys stood in unison. "Say that again," the Weasley boy dared.

"Oh, you're going to fight us, are you?"

Potter spoke up this time. "Unless you get out now."

"But we don't feel like leaving, do we boys? We've eaten all our food but you still seem to have some." He didn't really mean it, about the food, they had just nicked a trolley's worth of sweets from some of the others just earlier, but Draco would not step down. He refused.

Goyle was extra eager at the mention of sweets and swept over Draco's shoulder to pick up a Chocolate Frog, the Weasley boy stepping into action...

Goyle yelped almost as loudly as he had when he'd seen the toy rat.

But this time, the rat was very real.

There was a fat mouse hanging off of his finger, teeth deeply sunk into his knuckle.

Draco panicked and swept out from beneath Goyle as he swung his hand about, shrieking like a toddler. There was a thud and a speedy trail of footsteps behind him as Goyle followed after Draco and Crabbe, who had also sped away when the rat attacked, and they ran all the way down to their own compartment, not stopping once.

When they got back, Goyle was near to tears. "Bleedin' rat! Bleedin' rat! It's bit me! It bit me!"

Draco sneered and hissed, "Oh shut it, Goyle. You're not dying."

Goyle did, in fact, shut it, but he kept quietly whimpering and cradled his finger to his chest like he'd lost an appendage.

Draco stared, silent, out the window for a long time after that. Crabbe and Goyle wouldn't shut up about Harry Potter and his stupid red friend, and it made Draco sick with fury.

First year was off to a great start.