Blaire Zabini || Draco Malfoy

2 - His Spoilt Little Rich Life

I'm not going to lie, it took me a little while to warm to Draco Malfoy in those early days of our friendship.

He had such an arrogant and conceited way about him of which I found hard to stomach.

But of course that was before I realised it was all down to his insecurities; I had been, after all, just eleven years old.

On that first day, as we journeyed to our new life, we eventually located an empty compartment where we stored away our trunks and made ourselves comfortable on opposite sides, eyeing the other skeptically; sussing each other out.

"Did your parents go to Hogwarts, too?" he asked; his eyes instantly narrowing as he waited for me to give my answer.

"My mother went to Beauxbatons," I replied, his features relaxing at once. "I have no idea where my father attended."

"Oh." Another frown. "He is one of us, though?"

"I guess, I wouldn't know," I shrugged nonchalantly, "he died before I was even born and mother refuses to talk about him."

"Oh." Draco looked uncomfortable as if he didn't know what to say. "Sorry."

"Don't be," I shrugged again, my voice light and indifferent, "she never talks about any of her late husbands, and my father is certainly no exception."

Draco failed to respond and a silence fell between us. I cast my eyes up at the window and watched as trees and buildings flew by. I briefly wondered if we'd left London already, excitement swirling in the pit of my stomach upon the realisation that was I moving further and further away from my mother by the second.

I could feel Draco's eyes on me, studying me intently. I wondered what was going through his mind. I wouldn't know; males baffled me. But then again, so did females. Especially my mother.

According to her all men ever thought about was sex. I wondered if this boy was thinking about sex right now. Do eleven year old boys even know about sex?

I probably knew more than I should on the subject; Mother talked openly about it all the time much to my revulsion.

"You mark my words, Blaire," she had said to me one dinner time, nursing a gin as she watched me eat, "make sure you find a man who knows his way around the garage. Nothing is worse than a lazy selfish lover who thinks it's only his gear stick that needs servicing. Isn't that right, Bernard?"

I had no idea what she was going on about but it had put me off bangers and mash for life.

Draco coughed and I could see him shift out of the corner of my eye. He clearly wanted to interact.

"Play Quidditch at all?" he asked eventually, killing the silence. "I tried to bully father into getting me my own broom but apparently first-years aren't allowed. It's preposterous if you ask me."

I tore my eyes away from the window, slowly and deliberately casting them back at him. His face was looking expectantly across at me, almost as though he was hungry to get into a tirade about how unfair his spoilt little rich life was.

"So, do you?" he asked again when I had still said nothing, "do you fly your own broom?"

"And chip a nail?" I drawled lazily, coolly flicking a hand up to inspect my perfectly manicured fingers. "I don't think so."

Mother always said there was nothing more unsightly on a woman than blunt, dirty fingernails.

"Oh," Draco said, his face dropping slightly in disappointment. He seemed at lost as to what else to say.