A/N:Well, hello there. How are you all doing?
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"Mum, tell me—how can I become friends with Harry Potter?" In his past life, young Draco set down
The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and looked at his mother expectantly, hoping for her wise counsel.
"Oh, little dragon, no one can refuse a Malfoy's outstretched hand of friendship," Narcissa said
gently, with a soft smile. "Go and invite him—just as you would any other child."
"I thought he might be different, that he would need special treatment," eleven-year-old Draco said
anxiously. "He's a hero, after all."
"Oh, we don't grovel to anyone," Narcissa said, her voice full of quiet pride. "My little dragon is
such a wonderful child—I cannot imagine anyone requiring special handling from you. Simply be
yourself: natural, generous, and unaffected. That is how you make friends who truly appreciate you."
In his earliest memories, Draco bore no dislike for Potter. He was full of curiosity and longing;
after all, what wizarding child grew up without hearing the story of the Boy Who Lived?
Draco's father, Lucius, was also deeply curious about him—though his motivations were far from pure.
"The Harry Potter who defeated the Dark Lord is very likely an exceptionally gifted and powerful dark
wizard," he told his son. "I hear he will be entering Hogwarts in your year. Watch him closely, and
when the moment is right, show him goodwill—befriend him, and bring him over to our side."
Draco, at the time, had barely registered his father's words. He was too caught up in the excitement
of soon meeting Harry Potter, and simply nodded.
The trouble was that Narcissa always viewed her son through a certain fond filter—one that
conveniently overlooked his condescension and arrogance.
When Draco unconsciously treated Potter the way he treated Crabbe—as though his favour were a gift
to be accepted without question—a sharp rejection was almost inevitable.
Having never considered that there was anything wrong with his approach, he was immediately
embarrassed and wrong-footed by Potter's refusal.
Young Draco had never imagined such an outcome. He had extended his hand in the manner expected of
a child from a respectable pure-blood family—the hand of a Malfoy, which was not to be refused—
fully expecting a positive response.
As for his manner of speaking—drawing on his experience making friends within Slytherin wizarding
circles—he had always operated this way: weigh the other person's worth, display the family's
standing, and consider it a perfectly sincere gesture.
But how dare Potter refuse him? How dare he be so arrogant?
Then again, was there anyone more arrogant and conceited than Draco Malfoy?
In retrospect, Draco now understood how justified that refusal had been, given how badly he had
blundered in both manner and words.
At the time, he did not yet realise there was more than one way to communicate—and that the only
mode he knew might not be welcome everywhere.
He had been excessively indulged by his mother and shaped by his father's sharp tongue for years.
Most of his childhood companions simply tolerated and worked around him, so he never had cause to
worry about what others thought. As a result, he never noticed the crucial thing: that his manner of
speaking and acting was too harsh, too self-centred.
Potter, who had grown up enduring mistreatment in the Muggle world, would never have responded well
to that approach. His fragile pride had probably been utterly demolished by Draco's words. Draco
walked along the cobblestones of Diagon Alley and clicked his tongue.
Looking back—though Draco had developed early and stood tall among his peers, making him impossible
to ignore—he had matured psychologically far later than most children. He was more insulated from
consequence, and less attuned to the feelings of those around him.
Lucius and Narcissa never saw anything wrong with how they had raised him. They believed, quite
sincerely, that they had given their only son the very best of everything, and were glad to instil in
him early on certain "correct attitudes" toward life.
For a long time, Draco believed it too. He trusted and adored his parents completely—until one day
he stumbled upon a hollow place within himself, a barrenness at the centre of his inner world. He
was missing something important.
But by the time he recognised it, it was already too late.
Those absurd misunderstandings from their youth—that cycle of wounded pride and wounded pride in
return—had inexplicably placed the two boys on opposite sides, when in truth there was no deep-
seated hatred between them.
When they were finally able to speak calmly to one another, Draco discovered that genuine
communication was possible.
The feeling wasn't unpleasant. Even if you could never be close friends with the saviour, you didn't
have to be enemies. They could at least have been cordial acquaintances—the kind who gave each other
a nod in the corridor. Draco sighed, feeling something close to regret.
He had been too eager to show off. Too resentful. The sting of wounded pride had been too raw, too
immediate. In his bitterness, he had lost the composure a Malfoy ought to have possessed—and that
was his mistake.
He was no longer that vain boy. Now he only wanted to accumulate strength quietly, and use it for
something meaningful.
Today had been a good start. He reviewed his conversation at Madam Malkin's one more time, satisfied
that he had not misspoken, then stepped with quiet contentment into the dim little wand shop on the
corner.
Compared to Gringotts, Ollivanders was likely the oldest establishment in Diagon Alley. The shop's
history stretched back to 382 BC.
Narcissa had been waiting inside for some time, her composed expression showing the first faint
traces of impatience.
"Draco, come here quickly," she called. The shop was dim, its narrow interior thick with the quiet
weight of centuries—dust motes drifting through the sparse light, shelves upon shelves of long thin
boxes rising almost to the ceiling.
Though not quite empty: a small girl with untidy brown hair was sitting idle on a bench in the
corner, her back to him, looking around the shop with quiet curiosity.
Ollivanders was busy today, it seemed.
"Good afternoon." With a sharp, decisive click, an elderly man with a shock of white hair appeared
before them. He had large, pale, almost silvery eyes, and spoke in a voice that was soft yet oddly
penetrating.
This was Ollivander—a man Draco knew not to underestimate. The Dark Lord, in his memories, had held
this wandmaker in the highest regard.
Draco's instincts told him that, alongside Florean Fortescue of the ice cream parlour, Ollivander
was an even more significant point of entry into the history of the Elder Wand.
Of course, with his mother present, he had to play the dutiful, well-behaved boy. There was no
question of asking outlandish questions; and Ollivander himself would never reveal his secrets to a
small child he was meeting for the first time.
Ollivander's silvery eyes settled on Draco, and he murmured softly, "Ah, another Malfoy come to buy
a wand from me... Draco Malfoy... Platinum blonde hair, just like your father's..."
He leaned closer, his large eyes searching. "Grey eyes as well... Your father's wand: eighteen
inches, elm, dragon heartstring. An instrument befitting a pure-blood supremacist's ambitions. A
very powerful wand—very powerful indeed."
He stepped out from behind the counter and moved toward Draco with quiet deliberation, murmuring to
himself, "I understand he had a silver serpent's head fitted to the handle... It must make quite a
striking impression."
Draco gave a cautious nod. He caught a flicker of something—not quite disapproval, but close—in
Ollivander's pale eyes.
"As for Lady Malfoy," Ollivander continued, glancing toward Narcissa, "fourteen inches, fine
redwood, unicorn hair. A wand for navigating difficult circumstances, suited to a witch of
considerable wisdom." He seemed briefly lost in memory, clicking his tongue softly. "Such fine
redwood is rare these days."
Narcissa offered him a thin smile. "Rarity makes things precious. Fine wand materials are worth
their price—which is precisely why I wish you to find my son the very best. Cost is not a concern."
"Mrs. Malfoy," Ollivander replied, "I always say that wizards choose wands—but that is not quite
accurate. To be precise, it is the wand that chooses the wizard."
He moved closer to Draco as he spoke. "Every wand I have made possesses extraordinary magical
properties of its own—they have, in a sense, their own preferences. Were I to place in your son's
hands a wand that appears magnificent and rare, but which truly belongs to another wizard, its
effectiveness would be greatly diminished." His nose was nearly touching Draco's face.
Draco heard Narcissa give a soft, dissatisfied sound behind him.
"Very well, young Mr. Malfoy. Shall we begin?" Ollivander paid no attention to Narcissa's
displeasure; he had almost certainly dealt with more than a few difficult customers of her sort.
He lifted a measuring tape deftly from the table and asked, "Which hand do you use for your wand?"
"Right," Draco said.
"Raise your arm." The silver-marked measuring tape moved almost of its own accord, sweeping
methodically across Draco from every angle, while Ollivander began weaving back and forth along the
shelves, pulling down long narrow boxes from the thousands stacked nearly to the ceiling with an
agility that belied his age.
"Try this one, young Mr. Malfoy—blackthorn, dragon heartstring, nine inches." He extended it with
both hands and a solemnly expectant look. Draco already knew this wasn't his wand; he took it and
gave it a dismissive wave.
No response.
"And this—rowan, dragon heartstring, eleven inches." Ollivander extended another with undiminished
enthusiasm.
Draco waved it. The wand remained inert, as still as a dead branch.
Next came maple, then spruce, then vine. Ollivander was a peculiar old man; unlike most shopkeepers
who wanted to wrap things up quickly, his passion for wand research clearly eclipsed any desire to
close a sale swiftly. The more Draco tried, the more animated he became—pacing back and forth,
scratching his head, muttering delightedly, "Very challenging, isn't it?"
Draco was simply bored. He knew none of these wands were meant for him, but he could only wait
patiently until Ollivander hit upon the right one.
While waiting, he glanced around and noticed that Narcissa was no longer in the shop.
She had likely grown impatient with Ollivander's refusal to accommodate her wishes, and slipped out
to purchase potion ingredients from the list—just as she had in his previous life.
Only then did he notice the brown-haired girl again. A slender adult witch had appeared beside her
on the bench and was whispering something to her. So she had simply been waiting for someone to
arrive.
Draco breathed a quiet sigh of relief. For a moment, he had wondered whether his mother had cut in
front of the child out of impatience—which would have been rather poor form, even by the standards
of the Malfoy name.
"Oh, I think I've been going about this entirely the wrong way." Ollivander's voice drew him back.
The old man reached for yet another wand from the well-stocked shelves.
"What about this? Ten inches, hawthorn, unicorn hair—quite springy." He brought his lined face close
to Draco's and regarded him with the intensity of a man reading a difficult text. A thoughtful pause.
"Yes. Try this one."
At last. Draco felt a sudden surge of certainty, like a key turning in a lock.
His wand. Simple, elegant, and entirely his own.
The wood was a warm honey-brown at the tip, deepening to jet black at the base, with two smooth
raised rings where the fingers would rest naturally. It had a pleasing weight and a wonderful balance
when you moved it through the air.
Unlike the ornate, elaborate handles favoured by his parents, it was plain—and yet it surpassed
every engraved and gilded wand in the world, as far as Draco was concerned.
The moment he closed his hand around it, a pale golden light bloomed from the tip.
"Interesting—and contradictory..." Ollivander's gaze was fixed on Draco with an almost unsettling
intensity. "This is unquestionably a loyal wand. It suits a talented wizard; in the wrong hands, the
consequences could be severe. The unicorn hair core is a mark of dignity and purity. But it also
means..." He paused. "...that dark magic will not come easily from it."
"A Malfoy, with this core..." He seemed genuinely perplexed for a moment, then blinked and murmured,
half to himself, "Well—the same core as your mother's. Perhaps not so surprising, after all."
Draco paid little mind to Ollivander's reaction. He had lived this moment before; its strangeness
had long since faded into the familiar. His entire attention was on the wand resting in his hand.
He had missed it deeply. Ever since Potter had taken it from Malfoy Manor, he had never stopped
trying to get it back. No other wand had ever felt right. That was why he had gone to the Room of
Requirement—to wait for Potter, hoping he would return it.
Draco paid generously and bid Ollivander a polite farewell, tucking his wand carefully away. He was
already walking toward the door, his pale face finally showing the first genuine trace of
satisfaction since he had entered the shop, when he almost drifted past it all without noticing.
He didn't notice the girl with the brown hair brushing past him as he reached for the door.
He didn't notice the vine wand on the shelf behind him suddenly blaze with a peculiar, wondrous light.
He barely registered Ollivander's startled exclamation: "Merlin's beard—this has only happened once
before in Ollivanders' two-thousand-year history—this is only the second time..."
He caught only the tail end of it: "...Miss Granger, without a doubt, a witch destined for
remarkable things—a talent of the highest order..."
Hermione Granger? Draco stopped walking.
He turned the name over in his mind with a mixture of surprise and something less definable. Should
he turn around and look at her?
Had this happened in his past life as well?
He had crossed paths with her this early, and never once noticed. She had been right there—right
here—and he had walked past her without a second glance.
Back then, he had been a spoiled boy wrapped entirely in his parents' world, with no awareness of
what he was missing and no interest in an unfamiliar little girl.
Now, this unexpected near-meeting made him want to turn around—just once, just a glance.
But outside the shop window, Lucius was already watching him with impatient grey eyes, a stack of
books under one arm and an eagle owl perched on the other.
This was not the time or place to make the acquaintance of a Muggle-born witch. Draco was sharply
aware of that.
His father's attachment to pure-blood prejudice was an open wound. Any closeness between them now
could put her in danger.
If being near her might hurt her, then the only sensible choice was to stay away.
He would see her at Hogwarts.
Draco exhaled almost imperceptibly, pushed open the door, and walked out without looking back.