The air in the Hogwarts dining hall tasted of anticipation and burnt toast. Draco Malfoy watched Neville Longbottom fumble with his cutlery, a smirk twisting his lips. The boy was all elbows and awkward angles, a constant source of amusement. + 

Draco leaned back against the bench, his silver-blond hair gleaming under the candlelight. The first year was always a performance. A test of power, of breeding. He’d already secured his place at the top of the food chain, or at least, the beginning of it. + 

He addressed Neville with a casual cruelty that only a Malfoy could deliver. “Longbottom, if brains were gold, you’d be poorer than Weasley, and that’s saying something.” The words hung in the air, sharp and precise. He didn’t expect a response, just the flush of embarrassment that bloomed on Neville’s cheeks. + 

It was a small victory, a perfectly executed jab at a boy who would never understand. Eleven years old, and already steeped in the delicate art of dominance. Draco adjusted his robes, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips. He wasn’t here to make friends. He was here to remind everyone exactly who held the power. The first year was simply a stage, and Draco Malfoy was born to perform. + 