"How was school?"

"Well, I enjoyed Defence Against the Dark Arts until Harry Potter burnt the teacher's face off."

"Made any new friends?"

I shrugged. "Some. Harry Potter is friends with a blood traitor and a Mudblood."

There was a loud bang as my father's newspaper connected against the dining table, causing his peas to go flying.

"Will you not mention that word in my house," he roared, spittle flying from his lips.

I blinked up at him. "What, Mudblood?"

"No - Potter!"

"But-" I spluttered, "last summer you said I had to make friends with him!"

"Yes, but that was before I knew he was going to associate himself with such filth! He's just like his father, it seems."

I fell silent as Father went on a long rant about what a treacherous bunch of Muggle-loving fools the Potters and Weasleys are.

Summer sucked already. Two months of lonely days stretched out before me, the promise of school seeming too far away.

My mind drifted to what everyone else was up to. I wondered if Father would allow me to have some friends over to hang out. He didn't usually like visitors in the Manor unless it was beneficial to him.

When I was finally excused from the table, I went straight upstairs to my room with an intention to write to my new associates, but I found I was stuck for anything to say, my mind too busy thinking about Harry, instead.

I wondered how he was spending his summer. Rumour had it that the Muggles he lived with didn't like him very much. Can't say I blame them. He really is a smug show off with something of a hero complex.

And the way that everyone just seemed to love him. Especially Dumbledore. Perfect Potter with his shiny new broomstick and tousled black hair-

Damn, I had been pressing my quill down so hard on the blank parchment that the nib snapped.

*****

What luck, Father allowed me to go with him down Knockturn Alley, despite my mother's protests.

"Relax, Narcissa," Father drawled lazily as he placed a hand upon my shoulder, "it won't hurt Draya to see the real parts of the wizarding world. It isn't all Quidditch and unicorns unlike which Dumbledore would rather they believe."

I shivered at the mention of unicorns, still not over my midnight excursion into the forest.

We arrived at a shop called Borgin and Burkes which seemed to be entirely full of Dark Arts artefacts. Excitement swirled in my stomach as I stepped inside and feasted my eyes on the displays, wondering where to start.

"Touch nothing, Draya," Father ordered sharply as he rang a bell on the empty shop counter, preventing me from reaching for a glass eye.

"I thought you were going to buy me a present." I pouted.

"I said I would buy you a racing broom," Father replied, drumming his fingers impatiently on the counter.

"What's the good of that if I'm not in the house team?" I said, feeling suddenly sulky and bad-tempered. "Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year. Special permission from Dumbledore so he could play for Gryffindor. He's not even that good, it's just because he's famous... famous for having a stupid scar on his forehead..."

I bent down to examine a shelf full of skulls.

"...everyone thinks he's so smart, wonderful Potter with his scar and his broomstick-"

"You have told me this at least a dozen times already," Father spat looking thunderous. "And what did I say about mentioning that name- ah, Mr Borgin."

With my father distracted, I moved across to a large black cabinet, stroking my fingertips along the closed door. I wanted to open it to see what was inside, but I knew my father would go ape shit if I disobeyed him.

It felt... alive, somehow. I just knew that it held something amazing, something special, and the temptation to open it was almost overwhelming.

My heart pounding fast, I reached for the handle-

"Done," Father announced loudly, causing me to drop my hand guiltily down by my side. "Come, Draya."

Damn it.

*****

I groaned with frustration when Mother said it was time to get my books. I hated Flourish and Blotts.

Sulking, I disappeared up to the mezzanine, wanting to be above all the fame whores swooning over an extremely minor celebrity. Did they not realise how pathetically desperate they were being?

Oh, and surprise, surprise, there was Harry Potter, getting his photograph taken. Hatred swirled in my stomach as I watched Gilderoy Lockhart treat him like an equal.

"Bet you loved that, didn't you, Potter?" I spat, marching down the stairs to confront him. "Famous Harry Potter, can't even go into a book-shop without making the front page."

Piercing green eyes looked up sharply, the intensity of his gaze causing the breath to catch in my throat. For a moment we just stared at one another, sparks of hatred crackling in the air between us.

And the moment was ruined by some little scowling red head throwing herself in front of him.

"Leave him alone!"

Who the fuck was this? Something other than anger stirred inside me.

"Look, Potter," I sneered spitefully, "you've got yourself a girlfriend!"

Suddenly, more red heads popped up behind Harry, each and every one of them scowling angrily at me like a pack of rabid animals. Feeling slightly nervous, I took a step back.

"Oh, it's you," Ron said, looking at me as if I were something unpleasant on the sole of his shoe. "Bet you're surprised to see Harry here, eh?"

What the fuck was he on about?

"Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley," I retorted, not wanting to lose face. "I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for this lot."

A familiar cane dug into my shoulder, making me flinch.

"Silence, Draya," my father drawled in a dangerous voice. "Ah... Mr Potter. I don't believe we've met."

I inwardly cringed as he reached his cane forward to brush aside Harry's floppy fringe. Why does he have to be so bloody embarrassing?

"Forgive me, Mr Potter. But your scar is legend. As, of course, is the wizard who gave it to you."

"He was a murderer," Harry snarled, refusing to look away from my father.

I hated that I felt mildly impressed. Not many people could hold their own under Lucius Malfoy's icy glare.

"Yes," Father said quietly. "A pity about your parents. Curious that you yourself should escape with a mere flesh wound. Curious too, that you speak of him in the past. Surely, you don't think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is gone forever?"

"His name is Voldemort."

I held my breath as a collective gasp swept around those within earshot.

My father, however, did not flinch. "You must be very brave, Mr Potter, to dare speak his name. Or foolish."

"Fear of a name only increases the fear of the thing itself."

I closed my eyes, wishing suddenly we were anywhere but in this place with Hermione sodding Granger.

"You must be Miss Granger." Father said, clearly enjoying this far too much. "Draya's told me all about you... and your parents. Muggles, aren't they?"

"Father," I whispered furtively before he could embarrass me any further, "perhaps we should go and find Moth-"

But I was cut off by a red-faced, angry, middle-aged, ginger guy wading in to throw a punch at my dad.

*****