Chapter Text
The heavy parchment of Hogwarts’ invitation felt heavy in your hands, your fingers caressed the cool wax seal. Your desk was cluttered with similar envelopes—the stiff, formal stationery of Durmstrang and the delicate, shimmering parchment from Uagadou. Your parents had left the choice entirely to you, though you could feel the pressure of their legacy.
Your father was a proud Durmstrang graduate, a man who could discuss the intricacies of combative magic for hours, while your mother had honed her skills at Uagadou—mastering the art of wandless casting, Astronomy, and advanced Transfiguration. They had both known their calling from the moment they felt their first spark of magic.
You, however, interested in everything, but settled on nothing. Which is why Hogwarts felt like the best middle ground. It's built on old foundations but broad enough to let you wander through every discipline.
You’re especially excited today because the wait is finally over: you’re heading to Diagon Alley. Your mind is a whirlwind of possibilities—what wood will your wand be? Will a familiar, perhaps a tawny owl or a sleek soot-colored cat, feel that instant, soul-deep connection with you?
You’re waiting in the sun-drenched living room, tapping your toes against the rug, when your father walks over. He leans down to give you a quick, affectionate kiss on the top of your head, smelling faintly of old parchment and expensive tobacco.
"The Boy Who Lived is enrolled this year, too," he mentions casually, checking his pocket watch. "At least, that's the word at the office. Quite a stir it's causing."
You frown, trying to pull the name from the fragments of stories you've overheard. "Harry Potts? Garry... Howter?"
"Harry Potter, sweetheart," your father corrects with a soft laugh. "You’ll be in the same year as him. I can't believe how much time has flown since—"
He cuts himself off abruptly. Your mother has appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and she is staring daggers at him, her expression turning brittle at the mention of the past. Your father quickly clears his throat, offering her a sheepish, apologetic smile. You’ve heard whispers of the "Dark Years" in the wizarding world, but your parents treat those memories like fragile glass, rarely touching them, and never in front of you.
"Wear your best robes, my dear," your mother says, her voice smooth but commanding. With a graceful, practiced flick of her index finger, she summons your dark blue traveling robes from the coat rack. They fly through the air, settling softly into her waiting hands.
"We should make our visit to Diagon Alley today," she continues, draping the fabric over your shoulders and smoothing the lapels. "We’re quite late in the season for shopping. I only hope the finest wand woods and the healthiest owls haven't already been snatched up by the early birds."
You nodded. “My letter did come a bit late compared to the others, but I’ve already made a list of everything I need.” You flashed your parents a quick, mischievous grin, tapping the piece of parchment in your pocket.
“Let’s Apparate,” your father suggested, checking the silver cufflinks on his sleeves. “It’s much quicker than the Floo, and I’d rather avoid the soot today.”
“I agree,” your mother said, her expression softening as she smiled warmly at him.
But just as you all moved toward the center of the room to prepare for the jump, a sharp, trill sliced through the air. You froze.
Your father reached into his pocket and pulled out his two-way mirror. "Let me take this," he mumbled before going to another room.
“It better not be work,” you grumbled, crossing your arms over your robes. “The office can survive one afternoon without you both.”
“Hello? Yes... yes, what?” You could hear your father’s voice dropped. “No—Merlin! Are you serious?!”
You definitely didn't like where this was going.
“Sweetheart, is everything okay?” your mother asked in a worried tone once he's back.
“We need to head into the office,” your father answered softly, his gaze meeting hers with a grim intensity. “They’re asking for both of us. Immediately. There’s been a... complication with the latest shipment of enchanted artifacts.”
Your father had built a company that was a rarity in the magical community. He was able to leverage both the magical and non-magical world. He utilized Muggle logic and infrastructure to move ancient, and rare magical goods underground. Your mother by his side to help run the business.
While other pureblood children were shielded from anything "non-magical," you were raised with exposure—one foot firmly planted in each world, navigating enchanted libraries one day and bustling Muggle city centers the next.
But right now, the excitement that had been bubbling in your chest just a moment ago felt like heavy stones. They were always busy—a byproduct of being experts in their fields—and usually, you didn't mind. You were proud of them. But today? This absolutely sucked.
Your parents exchanged a heavy, silent look of shared concern, and you could feel the "we’re so sorry" speech brewing. You didn't want to hear it, and you certainly didn't want to be the reason they felt guilty for doing their jobs. You had the list, you were responsible, and you’d been to Diagon Alley before—granted, it was four years ago to buy a birthday gift, but the cobblestones hadn't moved since then.
"Look, Mum, Dad," you said, rubbing your temple to stave off a brewing headache. "It’s fine. Really. I can go by myself. I know the Floo network close by that's connected directly to the Gringotts atrium. I’ll just withdraw the Galleons and head out to shop."
Your parents looked at you, their mouths opening in synchronized protest, but you cut them off with a firm look.
"I said it’s fine," you repeated shortly, keeping your voice steady so the disappointment wouldn't leak through and make them stay out of pity.
"Okay... but please, be careful. The crowds can be quite thick this close to the term," your mother said, stepping forward to cup your face in her hands. Her eyes searched yours. "Do you have your two-way mirror? In case of an emergency?"
"Yes, Mum, I have it," you said, tapping the side of your enchanted bag to reassure her. You squeezed her hands gently before slowly pushing them down.
"I think it’s best for you to use the exchange counter instead of going all the way down to the vaults today. It’ll save you an hour," your father added. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small, glinting golden key with the number 32 etched into the bow.
You were about to reach out to take it, but he had a point. The Gringotts carts were a thrill when you were seven, but today you were on a mission.
"On second thought, you're right. I really don't want to spend my afternoon in a damp, dingy mine shaft," you said with a half-laugh. "I'll just hit the exchange."
Your father nodded, he pulled a thick, heavy brown envelope from his inner coat pocket. He handed it over with a wink.
“Keep this safe, sweetheart. There is a fair amount here—around £6,500, I believe. The exchange rate for Galleons is steady today, so this should more than cover the premium cauldron and the custom robe fittings—even some accessories, if you'd like.” He paused, his expression turning mock-serious. “Just... try not to spend it all on enchanted candies and trick quills, alright?”
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips. “I won’t. Thank you, Dad,” you answered, tucking the envelope securely.
Money had never been a point of stress in your household—you're grateful, of course. You were well aware of the privilege you held, you had access to the finest tutors and rare magical texts long before your Hogwarts letter arrived. Having parents from two of the world's most prestigious wizarding institutions meant your "homeschooling" had been rigorous. But as you felt the weight of the money in your bag, it felt a little cold.
You just wanted their company.
"I'm off, then. See you both tonight," you said, pushing the disappointment aside. You stepped forward, pulling them both into a tight, lingering hug. You breathed in the scent of your mother’s floral perfume and the faint cedarwood of your father’s robes, trying to memorize the moment.
"We love you," your parents said in unison, their voices echoing in the quiet foyer.
"Love you too," you called back over your shoulder.
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You managed to exchange your Muggle money for a heavy heap of Galleons, with a few silver Sickles and bronze Knuts for change. You poured them into your leather pouch, feeling the weight settle comfortably.
Exiting the cool, marble halls of Gringotts was a bit of a shock. The midday sun beat down on the cobblestones, and the sheer volume of people in Diagon Alley was insane. A sea of pointed hats, colorful robes, and floating packages moved in every direction. You held your supply list tightly in one hand, looking around at the chaotic storefronts, feeling a sudden, sharp pang of loneliness.
You sighed, trying to regain your focus. “Maybe Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions is a good start,” you mumbled to yourself, tightening the strap of your bag.
As you navigated the crowd, you couldn't help but notice the other first years. Most were flanked by doting parents who were double-checking lists or pointing out brooms in the shop windows. A few high-ranking families strolled by with house-elves trailing behind them, struggling under the weight of heavy trunks and birdcages.
You pushed through the heavy oak door of Madam Malkin’s. A silver bell chimed overhead, followed by the soft, rhythmic whistling of the little head sprites perched atop the shelving units, chirping a synchronized welcome.
The air inside was thick with the crisp, clean scent of unrolled parchment and new fabric. The shop was a hive of activity. Elegant purple velvet curtains draped from the ceiling, creating private fitting nooks, while glass cases shimmered with silver cloak clasps and enchanted brooches.
You walked in your eyes darting from the racks of shimmering dress robes to the rows of pointed hats. You found the section for standard Hogwarts school robes and ran a hand down a sleeve. You frowned immediately. The fabric was a basic, scratchy twill—functional, yes, but felt remarkably lackluster.
You turned your head, scanning the shop’s layout with a discerning eye. Surely there was a section for custom tailoring or at least a higher thread count?
You're about to ask for help, but the shop was a blur of motion.
Assistants hurried back and forth, trailed by clouds of enchanted pins that zipped through the air like silver gnats, self-adjusting hems on the frantic first years standing atop circular footstools. Near the back, a cluster of staff members stood behind a polished counter, busily counting heaps of Galleons and assisting a stout, bustling woman in mauve—Madam Malkin herself—who was currently buried under a mountain of measuring tapes.
Finding yourself momentarily ignored in the chaos, you began to weave through the aisles
While looking through the robes, you felt a sharp, focused gaze prickling at your peripheral vision.
"Hello," said a boy standing nearby. He had a pale, pointed face and hair so blond it was almost white. "Hogwarts, too?"
You looked up, catching his grey eyes as they darted down to your fingers, which were still pinched critically around the sleeve of a standard-issue cloak.
"Yes," you replied, straightening your posture and letting the fabric drop with a dismissive flick.
"What are you doing? Touching and feeling the robes like that?" he asked, his eyebrows arching in genuine curiosity.
"I don't quite like the fabric in this row," you answered plainly, meeting his gaze. "It’s thin and I’m not sure where they keep the better quality stock."
"Hah!" The boy let out a short, knowing laugh, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That’s Malkin’s for you. Everything is 'standard' here. You’d do much better at Twilfitt and Tattings—at least, that’s what Mother always says. She won't touch anything from this rack."
You hummed a non-committal response, your mind already cataloging the name of the other shop.
"You should probably get yourself fitted," the boy drawled, gesturing vaguely toward the unoccupied footstools. "I’m going on next. I honestly can’t believe there are this many people in here today; it’s stifling. I can’t stand being crowded."
He adjusted his collar, looking around with a bored, haughty expression. "This is exactly why my family does most of our shopping on the South Side—the boutiques are far more exclusive—but unfortunately, the core school supplies are only available in this stretch."
You glanced at him. For someone who claimed to hate the crowd, he certainly talked a lot. With a flick of his hand, he signaled for you to follow him toward the fitting area.
He didn't bother to greet the assistants or even acknowledge Madam Malkin as she approached; he simply stepped onto the stool and stretched his arms out, expecting the magic to happen around him. Immediately, several enchanted measuring tapes began to whip around his waist and shoulders like snakes.
"Hogwarts, dear?" a Madam Malkin asked, appearing from behind a rack of traveling cloaks. "Got the lot here," she said briskly, already reaching for a standard black robe before you could even open your mouth.
"Um, actually," you said, stepping onto the footstool beside the boy, "could you fit me for the enchanted robes, please? And I’ll need the self-mending charms on the hems."
Madam Malkin paused, her eyebrows shooting up as she looked at you with newfound interest. Beside you, the boy turned his head just enough to give you an interested look.
“Certainly, my dear!” Madam Malkin chirped, her eyes lighting up at the request for premium stock. She gave a sharp snap of her fingers, and a pair of silver needles began dancing around your shoulders, weaving the fabric with rhythmic precision.
“I’ll take a few sets,” you added, watching the reflection in the mirror as the needles nipped at the air. “And it would be wonderful if you could add custom threading to the hems. Silver would be lovely, thank you. Oh! And I’ll need the fastenings upgraded as well—charcoal dragon-hide would suit the weight of the fabric nicely.”
The shop assistant scurried off toward the back room to pull the specialized materials, her pins clattering in her wake.
“You’re asking for quite a lot, aren’t you?” the boy next to you cut in, his tone amused. His eyes tracking the movement of your custom needles.
“Yes,” you answered curtly, not taking your eyes off your own reflection. “Quality matters if you're going to be wearing them every day.”
He shrugged, seemingly unfazed by your short tone. Whether he was naturally thick-skinned or just used to getting his way, he didn't miss a beat. “Honestly, I agree. My father’s next door at Flourish and Blotts buying my books, and Mother is further up the street looking at wands,” he said, letting out a bored yawn while staring out the shop window.
“Then I’m taking them to look at racing brooms. I’m going to get my father into getting me a Nimbus and I'll find a way to smuggle it into school somehow,” he said, a sharp, mischievous grin spreading across his face. “I don’t see why first years shouldn't be allowed their own. It’s a ridiculous rule, really.”
He was beginning to grate on your nerves, and you silently pleaded with the universe for him to run out of breath.
The universe was not listening today.
“Have you got your own broom, then?” the boy went on, his voice taking on a competitive edge.
“No,” you answered, your voice flat.
“Got your books yet?”
“No.”
“What about your wand?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, surely you’ve picked out your familiar? An owl, I expect? Or a cat?”
“No,” you sighed, the weight of the afternoon finally starting to press down on you.
You felt a wave of defeat as you stood there on the footstool, answering the interrogation of this stranger. Usually, you were more than capable, but doing this entire solo trip in one afternoon suddenly felt like a monumental mistake. There was a behemoth of supplies still to find—cauldrons, scales, potion ingredients, and the daunting task of Ollivanders. You were definitely going to be heading home long after the streetlamps were lit.
The boy paused, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the empty space beside you.
“Where are your parents?” he asked, his tone shifting from boastful to genuinely curious—perhaps even a little suspicious.
“They’re at work,” you answered matter-of-factly, adjusting your posture as the silver needles hummed near your neck.
He raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting into something more skeptical. “Work? On a Saturday?” He lingered on the word, his voice dropping into a sharp, judgmental drawl. “Are they Muggles?”
You don’t like the way he spat the word.
“No, they’re not,” you said shortly, your eyes flashing. You had no intention of explaining your family’s professional lives or their backgrounds to a stranger in a robe shop.
He hummed in reply, seemingly satisfied for the moment, though his eyes remained curious. “Do you know what house you’ll be in yet?”
“No,” you said, looking at him with genuine curiosity. “Do you? I didn't think anyone knew until the Sorting.”
“Well, no. No one really knows until they get there, do they?” he conceded, though he looked entirely too confident. “But I know I’ll be in Slytherin. All of our family have been—imagine being in Hufflepuff! I think I’d leave the school entirely, wouldn’t you?” He snickered, looking at you as if expecting you to join in on the joke.
You stared at him, a flat expression on your face.
Seriously, what?
Before you could give him the stinging retort he deserved, Madam Malkin appeared back in front of you, a roll of fine shimmering thread in her hand. “Anything else, my dear? We’re nearly finished with the base. What would you like the custom threading to be?”
“My initials would be wonderful,” you said, forcing a polite smile and turning away from the blond boy.
"Beautiful,” Madam Malkin answered warmly, her eyes crinkling as she admired the silver sheen of the thread. But the moment of peace was short-lived.
“Were your parents Hogwarts graduates, too?” he asked, tilting his head with a calculating look.
“No,” you answered shortly.
“Hm. Anyway, I really don’t think they should let the others in, do you?” he continued, his voice dropping into that confident, ugly drawl. He didn't even wait for you to breathe before pushing on. “They’re just not the same. They’ve never been brought up to know our ways, have they? They don't understand how things are meant to work.”
“What do you mean, the others?” you cut in, your voice cooling several degrees.
“You know,” he said, clicking his tongue like a weary know-it-all. “Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter. Imagine! It’s a shock to the system, isn't it? I think they should keep the education strictly within the old wizarding families. It keeps things... pure.”
The air in the shop suddenly felt very thin. He was officially pissing you off.
“And what’s your surname, anyway?” he asked, his tone shifting back to that bored, casual arrogance as if he were simply checking a brand name on a piece of luggage.
He looked you up and down, waiting for a name that would tell him exactly how much respect—or disdain—he should show you.
You knew exactly what this was. This was the "make or break" moment for so many first-year witches and wizards here—the point where they decided if you were worth their time based on a family tree. It annoyed you to your core. The rigid class structures, the suffocating blood-status hierarchies, and the utterly stupid obsession with "purity."
You knew your lineage, of course. It was ancient and prestigious, but being labeled as part of an "elite pureblood" family felt like being tagged as an exotic specimen in a zoo. Your parents had raised you better than depend on your name, and you knew deep down that you were no better than the next Muggle-born witch.
"What’s yours?" you challenged back, lifting your chin. You weren't about to hand over your identity like a trophy until he’d played his own cards.
"Malfoy," he answered, his voice dripping with practiced smugness. "Draco Malfoy."