Malfoy had been in a bad mood lately, all thanks to a meeting with another young wizard a month ago.
They had not got along.
Merlin's shorts, that boy was far too strange. Was he really a first-year, and not a Dark wizard who'd just been released from Azkaban?
I only wanted to give him a shove, but he actually tried to kill me!
Ever since that encounter, Malfoy had been plagued by nightmares, all replaying that moment over and over again.
He often found his hand creeping up to his cheek, as if the hideous wound that had once been there still hadn't healed.
He kept seeing phantoms of golden light, kept feeling, in flashes of memory, the biting chill of that golden blade.
Damn it, what kind of magic was that?
Appearing behind him in an instant could still be explained away as Apparition, but even his father—old Mr Malfoy—didn't recognize that golden lightsaber.
It felt like some lost ancient magic.
Before term started, his father had warned him very seriously: if he ever met that boy again, he was not to provoke him.
If at all possible, he was to apologize, make nice, and become that boy's friend.
Wizards who knew ancient magic were never simple.
Oh, Merlin's shoes… Malfoy had no idea how he was supposed to complete that mission.
These days, just thinking about that boy's face made him tremble. Talking to him on purpose? Impossible.
Poor Malfoy just wanted to stay as far away from that boy as physically possible.
Right now, though, he was trying to complete another mission his father had given him: make friends with the saviour, Harry Potter.
That one had to be easy. Who could possibly refuse the goodwill of the noble and ancient Malfoy family?
Not even the saviour.
He strolled slowly up to a compartment. A moment ago he'd heard a young wizard inside shout Harry Potter's name.
If he'd guessed right, Harry Potter ought to be in this compartment.
Malfoy arrogantly ordered his two hangers-on to slide the compartment door open, then looked down his nose at the people inside.
A bushy-haired little witch, hair all over the place—he didn't recognize her. Probably a half-blood or a Mudblood.
A redhead in shabby old second-hand robes—clearly one of those disgraceful, poverty-stricken Weasleys.
Then his gaze landed on the last boy, and he froze. That familiar, delicate face swam into view and a wave of bottomless terror swallowed him whole.
It was the kind of face any adult would call handsome and adorable—but for Malfoy, it had been the face of his nightmares for the past month.
He would never forget that face. That was the boy who had brought him pure, unfiltered terror.
While Malfoy was sizing up the three students inside, Harry and his friends were sizing up the trio at the door.
Hermione eyed the three boys standing there. The leader was clearly only about eleven, yet he'd plastered his pale blond hair back with so much gel that it was slicked straight off his forehead, like some ridiculous little businessman.
He held himself with an air of lofty superiority as he looked them over—but there was absolutely no real pressure behind it.
To Hermione, he just looked like a child pretending to be grown-up. She'd seen plenty of boys like that in her Muggle school.
Behind him stood two more boys—one short and fat, the other tall and fat. Together they looked like a pair of mismatched marrows, and just as ugly.
They must be the blond boy's bodyguards.
When the blond boy suddenly stiffened, Hermione spoke up first.
"Hello. Can we help you with something?"
Goyle prided himself on being smarter than Crabbe and considered himself Malfoy's number-one henchman.
Seeing that his boss wasn't speaking yet, his finely-honed lackey instincts told him it was time to step up and "help."
Goyle raised his chin and did his best to copy Malfoy's usual haughty expression.
"I'm Goyle, he's Crabbe, and this is Malfoy—the noble Draco Malfoy.
"We heard Harry Potter was in this carriage. Malfoy would like to meet him and become friends."
"Mm—" Ron gave a small cough, just in time to keep himself from bursting out laughing.
Goyle's performance was a lot funnier than Malfoy's.
The sound caught Goyle's attention at once.
"You think our names are funny, do you? Look at that red hair and those freckles. I don't even have to ask who you are—you're a Weasley, one of that freak wizard family with more kids than they can afford."
"You—!" Ron started to snap back, but Goyle had already lost interest in him.
He turned to Harry instead.
"Harry, you'll find out soon enough that some pure-blood families are far nobler than others—and the ancient, noble Malfoys are the best of the lot.
"I'm sure you'd much rather be friends with Malfoy than with a pauper and a Mudblood."
With everyone's attention on him, Harry looked at Malfoy—who was drenched in cold sweat and shaking—and smiled faintly.
"Oh? Is that so? Malfoy, is that what you think too? About 'Mudbloods' and all that?"
"Of cour—" Goyle started to say, but Malfoy cut him off in a panic, raising his voice.
"That's enough, Goyle. They're going to be our classmates—we ought to get along and not use nasty words like 'Mudblood'!"
Goyle stared at Malfoy in disbelief, feeling very much as if he'd just been thrown under the Knight Bus.
What was going on?
Malfoy was always the one who hated Muggle-borns the most!
Right now, though, Malfoy had no time to worry about his underling's bruised feelings. His mind was full of one panicked thought:
I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead! How can it be him? He's Harry Potter?
Malfoy wanted nothing more than to get out of there—away from the monster sitting right in front of him. He did his best to sound calm.
"Sorry, everyone. I'd like to apologize on Goyle's behalf."
He didn't dare look at the amused curve of Harry's mouth. Instead, he focused on Hermione, who had just been insulted as a Mudblood.
"I'm sorry. We absolutely didn't mean to insult people from Muggle families. The wizarding world welcomes young witches and wizards from Muggle homes."
With that, Malfoy grabbed his two cronies, very carefully slid the compartment door shut, and almost bolted down the corridor.
Hermione and Ron were left staring after them, rather at a loss.
Hermione, not knowing what "Mudblood" actually meant and seeing how quickly Malfoy had apologized, didn't think badly of the three boys at all.
Especially Malfoy. To her, he seemed like a surprisingly polite and kind little wizard.
"Ron, do you know who they were?" Hermione asked. Of the three of them, Ron was the only one from a wizarding family.
He was the most likely to know something about Malfoy and his friends.
"I know who Malfoy is," Ron said uncertainly.
"Our family doesn't get on with theirs. There's always been bad blood.
"The Malfoys are a nasty wizarding family—selfish, arrogant, scheming. Old Mr Malfoy was even one of those rotten Death Eaters…"
The more Hermione heard, the less it matched up with what she'd just seen, and she couldn't help but argue.
"But I thought Malfoy seemed… quite polite."