When the Malfoys emerged from the snow-white building that towered above the
surrounding shops, the street was already bathed in even brighter sunlight.
The goblin guards, dressed in scarlet and gold-trimmed uniforms, bowed and saw off
Gringotts' distinguished clients.
In Diagon Alley, the number of witches and wizards coming and going had grown
considerably, moving in an endless stream along the narrow cobblestone street. With
the start of the school year so close, every young wizard in the country seemed to
have descended at once, and keeping any distance from one another was nearly
impossible—you risked bumping into someone at every turn.
The Malfoys had little appetite for this level of chaos. They stood on the steps of
Gringotts, none of them in any hurry to plunge into the crowd.
"These people have made Diagon Alley as crowded as a pigsty," Lucius said, squinting
with poorly concealed impatience.
"We'll split up—that will be faster," Narcissa decided.
"Right, then. I'll go to Flourish and Blotts for the books," Lucius said, reaching
for his snake-headed cane.
"Isn't it ladies first? Don't I get a say?" Narcissa looked sidelong at her husband
with haughty blue eyes, her tone carrying the faintest edge of challenge.
"A proper gentleman wouldn't send his wife down a crowded street carrying a
tower of books." Lucius looked at her, a hint of warmth flickering briefly in his
arrogant grey eyes. "Cissy, why not take Draco to Ollivanders for his wand? Or see
if there's anything new in the robe shops?"
"Lucius, I'm buying things for Draco today." Narcissa reached over and pinched his
arm with mock indignation. "I'm going to Ollivanders to find him the finest wand
available. Draco, go to Madam Malkin's and be measured for your school robes first,
then come and find me. All right?"
"I have no objection," Draco said.
Why had he never noticed these small things in his past life? Their endlessly
private gestures, always there, always overlooked.
Looking more carefully now, he could see clearly that his parents had been quietly
showing each other small acts of affection right in front of him all along. He had
simply been too wrapped up in himself to notice.
In his previous life, Draco Malfoy had been a blind and foolish son.
Before long, he was already standing on a footstool in Madam Malkin's Robes for All
Occasions, patiently submitting to a young witch who was pinning and measuring his
height.
His attention was not really on the robes. Through the shop window, he could make
out the figures of Potter and the Hogwarts groundskeeper, Hagrid, heading along the
street toward the shop.
There was no mistaking Hagrid. The man was enormous—towering head and shoulders
above the crowd, with a great wild tangle of black hair and beard, beetle-black eyes,
and a face weathered like the surface of an old oak. He was impossible to overlook.
Before Potter arrived, Draco made a point of abandoning his usual air of cold hauteur
and addressed Madam Malkin pleasantly. "Madam, may I ask—do you sell Invisibility
Cloaks here?"
"Child, now why would you be asking about that?" Madam Malkin was a short, plump
woman dressed in mauve, with a warm and practised smile. "That's not quite the usual
sort of question from a boy your age…"
If anyone thought that warmth made her easy, they would be mistaken. Draco knew
perfectly well that beneath Madam Malkin's pleasant manner was a sharp, discreet
businesswoman who would not simply hand over expensive, high-end magical fabric to a
child just starting school. Sure enough, she was already giving him a faintly
searching look.
But a true Malfoy always knew how to find the right angle.
"I'm asking on my mother's behalf, actually. She's busy getting other things for me
and didn't have time to come over herself." He offered a guileless smile, affecting
an air of earnest helpfulness.
Madam Malkin's expression cleared. She smiled again, genuinely this time, and said,
"In that case, my dear, let me give you my card and our catalogue. Your mother may
owl her order any time—just her signature, and we'll handle the rest. We take pride
in providing the finest magical attire for wizarding families."
By the time Potter pushed open the door, the card and catalogue were already tucked
away in Draco's dragonhide bag—one of those magically expanded designs, no
larger than a hand on the outside but containing enough space inside to hold a small
room's worth of belongings.
An Invisibility Cloak was one of those things most wizards coveted but few possessed—
neither cheap nor common. Draco remembered that in his first year at Hogwarts he had
cost Slytherin fifty points by being caught out of bounds after curfew. Having his
own cloak would make certain things considerably more discreet. He had a strong
suspicion that Potter made good use of his own.
While Draco was still turning this over, Madam Malkin had placed Harry Potter on the
footstool next to his and begun taking his measurements.
Draco resolved to appear as approachable as possible. He intended to ally himself
with Potter eventually, and he could not afford to bungle the first impression a
second time.
"Hallo," he said, keeping his voice easy. "Are you going to Hogwarts too?"
"Yes," Potter said. He looked a little uncomfortable.
At this point, Potter probably knew very little about the wizarding world. By all
accounts he had been raised by a Muggle family. That much was evident. Draco cast a
subtle glance at the clothes visible beneath Potter's robes—worn, several sizes too
large. It seemed that Muggle family of his had not been particularly kind to him.
Draco found himself briefly uncertain of how to proceed. Almost every natural topic
felt like a minefield.
His parents: Potter was an orphan. His family wealth: the Potters had money, but
none of it had clearly reached Potter himself. Blood status: Draco would wager every
Galleon in his pocket that bringing up pure-blood versus half-blood would send
things exactly as wrong as he remembered.
Quidditch, then? But had Potter ever been on a broomstick?
Even the most enjoyable subject became a burden for someone who had no frame of
reference for it.
"Do you know which house you'll be sorted into?" he asked after a pause—a safe
enough opening.
"I don't know." Potter looked even less at ease.
He clearly had no idea what Sorting even meant.
Draco felt a strange flicker of sympathy.
Is it really all right to arrive at Hogwarts with no idea what's coming?
What had he been through all these years?
Had those irresponsible Muggle relatives of his not told him a single thing?
He looked like someone who had walked into a situation completely blindfolded.
With a slight exhale, Draco made a deliberate effort to keep his expression
friendly rather than condescending.
"Don't be anxious," he said, adjusting his tone carefully. "I can tell you're not
familiar with Hogwarts yet. If you don't mind, I can explain how it works."
The dark-haired boy looked at him with curiosity and gave a small nod.
"There are four houses at Hogwarts: Slytherin, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and
Hufflepuff. Each bears the name and values of one of the school's four founders."
Draco caught a flash of recognition crossing Potter's face—some of this, at least,
he must have heard from Hagrid.
"Each house looks for different qualities in students. Slytherin favours ambition
and cunning. Gryffindor prizes courage and a spirit of adventure—" He noticed
Potter listening very intently now, as though committing it to memory.
How extraordinary. These were the basic facts every young wizard grew up knowing,
and Potter was treating them like newly discovered treasure.
What exactly had Dumbledore been thinking, all these years? His so-called saviour
was living like this, and it apparently hadn't occurred to anyone to do anything
about it.
He kept the thought behind his teeth and continued. "Ravenclaw values wit and
wisdom. Hufflepuff prizes loyalty and fair dealing." Potter nodded along steadily.
"Most people, if they have a preference, tend to want Gryffindor. The current
Headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, came from Gryffindor himself." Draco watched the
brief, tell-tale shift in Potter's expression and guessed with some certainty that
Gryffindor was already where Potter hoped to land.
"Do you want to be in Gryffindor?" Potter asked suddenly.
"No," Draco said, without any particular drama. "Slytherin, most likely. Both my
parents were Slytherins."
He had never seriously considered any other house, even now. He was a Slytherin
through and through, and he had never thought there was anything wrong with that.
"Some people assume," he added, keeping his tone matter-of-fact, "that everyone
who ends up in Slytherin is destined to be a dark wizard—because the Dark Lord
was also a Slytherin."
As he had expected, Potter finally looked at him directly.
"Voldemort... he went to Hogwarts?" The unease in Potter's expression sharpened
slightly.
"Yes," Draco replied. "But Hogwarts is a thousand years old and has only ever
produced one person like him. Slytherin has a long history of distinguished witches
and wizards. Using one man's choices to condemn an entire house seems a rather
unfair leap, don't you think?"
Potter said nothing, but gave a slow nod.
Draco let the point settle before adding: "What I mean is—it isn't wise to decide
what someone is before you've actually made the effort to know them."
Potter looked at him for a moment—genuinely, as though actually considering it.
Draco smiled slightly and glanced toward the window, where Hagrid could be seen
outside holding two ice creams. "Like that fellow out there, for instance. Most
people would take one look at someone that size and assume the worst."
He noticed Potter's expression shift toward mild indignation, and adjusted
accordingly. "That said, I'd wager a Chocolate Frog he's actually quite good-natured
toward the people he cares about."
"He is," Potter said, with just a hint of warmth creeping in. He seemed to relax a
fraction. "I know him. He works at Hogwarts."
"A groundskeeper, I believe?" Draco said.
"You know him?"
"He has a reputation for magical creatures. Perhaps he'll be useful to know." Draco
thought, involuntarily, of that wretched Hippogriff in third year.
He pressed his lips together and said nothing further on that subject.
Though he did also think, fleetingly, of the Blast-Ended Skrewts and Flobberworms
yet to come.
Merlin—what exactly was one supposed to take away from Hagrid's lessons?
Potter, to his credit, hadn't caught the undercurrent of that. He'd relaxed enough
now to take the initiative. "He's a good person. He came with me today to help me
get my things."
"You'll have many more people like that at Hogwarts," Draco said.
He carefully did not ask why Harry's parents hadn't come instead.
Potter was quiet for a beat, then: "What's a Chocolate Frog?"
"Merlin," Draco said, before he could stop himself.
"It's a wizarding sweet. Frog-shaped chocolate—and inside, there are Famous Witches
and Wizards cards you can collect..." He launched into the explanation with more
enthusiasm than he'd intended.
As he spoke, the memory of the train intruded: his past life, walking into Potter's
compartment on the Hogwarts Express with his hand outstretched, only to be turned
away. A great pile of Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans on the
table, and still Potter had refused.
Goyle had reached in and grabbed one without asking, and Weasley's rat had bitten
him for it—which had served him right.
But at the time, all Draco had been able to see was the rejection.
"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks."
The words still stung, even years removed. Draco kept his expression easy, but
something in his chest pulled tight.
"All done, dear," said Madam Malkin.
Better to end it here, while the mood was still good. Draco stepped down from the
footstool with practised ease.
"Then I'll see you at Hogwarts." Though his heart was beating rather faster than he
would have liked, his face wore its steadiest expression as he held out his hand.
"I'm Draco Malfoy. And you are—"
"I'm Harry. Harry Potter." Potter reached out and shook it.
"Well. It's good to meet you, Harry Potter." Draco offered a small, composed smile
and walked out of Madam Malkin's.
The door had barely swung shut behind him before he let out a quiet, slow breath.
That had gone rather well, hadn't it?
───────────────────────────────────────
Side Story One: His First Friend
(Harry's Perspective)
During his eleven years in the Muggle world, Harry had been teased often—for his
oversized hand-me-downs, for his glasses held together with a strip of Sellotape,
for looking, in general, like someone who had been dressed by accident.
Before his classmates had the chance to know him, they were put off by how he
looked, or else warned away by Dudley and his friends. In PE at primary school, he
was always the last one chosen for any team.
The neighbours had their own opinions about him too—years of careful work by
Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had seen to that.
Draco was the first person who had said to him: don't judge someone before you know
them.
"It isn't wise to decide what someone is before you've actually made the effort to
know them." When the platinum-haired boy said those words, Harry felt something
loosen a little in his chest.
He could tell, even then, that Draco was different from him.
The clothes, the easy confidence in his voice, the unhurried way he carried himself—
all of it made Harry quietly aware that they had come from very different places. The
boy seemed to have moved through life without ever being at its mercy.
And yet he had offered a friendly word. He had even noticed Harry's uncertainty about
Hogwarts and taken the time to explain the four houses and the Sorting without any
sign of impatience. Harry had been grateful for that.
And when he heard Harry's name, Draco hadn't reacted the way others had—no wide
eyes, no dropped jaw, none of the startled reverence that Harry was already finding
slightly unnerving. He had taken it entirely in his stride.
That steadiness felt, to Harry, like something very close to ordinary. And ordinary
was something he hadn't been offered in a long time.
Hagrid was Harry's first friend in the wizarding world. But when it came to friends
his own age, Draco Malfoy was probably the first.
Even if he was planning to go to Slytherin—he was nothing like Voldemort, was he?