Madam Malkin froze.
In decades of running her shop she had dressed Blacks, Malfoys, Weasleys—every kind of wizard family imaginable—but never once had a first-year walk in and request "tactical" upgrades. And she certainly hadn't expected one to be carrying a concealed knife in Diagon Alley.
She gave the polite, refined-looking boy another long once-over. "Well now… in all my years, you're the first first-year to ask for something like this. Planning to start a duelling club, Mr. Black? Or have you already foreseen a troll chasing you down the corridors?"
"Just planning ahead," Julien answered seriously, eyes clear and steady. "My father always says, 'Elegance never goes out of style—but true elegance comes from preparation, not luck.'"
The line made Altair straighten up instantly, chest puffed with fatherly pride—even though he was fairly sure he'd never actually said that.
He cleared his throat, stepped forward, and clapped Julien on the shoulder before turning to Madam Malkin with grand confidence.
"Madam, I think the boy's idea is excellent! When I'm doing business I like my suits fitted, sleeves that roll easily, pockets deep enough for business cards, contracts, spare pens. Make them, Madam Malkin! Gold—er, Galleons—are no object!"
Madam Malkin burst out laughing, professional spark lighting up her eyes. "In that case, I'll make an exception. But nothing too outrageous—we still have to get it past Professor McGonagall."
She disappeared into the back room, muttering to herself. "Right then, proper commission at last. I've got some 'Swiftweave' in storage—light, tough… and that protective 'mica-silk' lining…"
Magic made everything fast.
Half an hour later Julien walked out with not only the three standard black robes (so dark they seemed to drink the light) and a winter cloak, but also two extra "tactical" sets personally designed by Madam Malkin—blending Muggle tailoring with enchanted fabrics.
The new trousers had slightly tapered legs for easy movement. Hidden elastic bands sat inside the cuffs so sleeves stayed neat and out of the way. The cloak lining felt cool and protective, like morning dew. Best of all, three hidden pockets had been sewn inside the robes—one of them even expanded with an Undetectable Extension Charm. You could fit half a library in there.
"Satisfied?" Madam Malkin asked, clearly proud of her work.
"Extremely!" Julien said sincerely. "You're the haute couture master of the wizarding world!"
"If any of your classmates like the look, send them my way."
By then Clara had emerged from the changing room wearing an elegant floral charm-robe, twirling happily while McGonagall smiled beside her. She paid without hesitation and refused to take it off.
Madam Malkin personally escorted them to the door. "Oh, and Minerva—your new set will be ready next week. Here, take these gloves as a little extra. On the house."
Next stop: Flourish and Blotts.
The moment they pushed open the heavy revolving door, the rich scent of ink and parchment washed over them.
The shop was alive with noise—chattering customers, whispering books, and the occasional argument between volumes on the towering shelves. Some books wriggled impatiently; others shouted their own sales pitches.
"Powerful Potions—half price!"
"Don't listen to it! Advanced Potion-Making is the real one!"
"You're both wrong! True masters only read One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi!"
A young shop assistant spotted McGonagall and hurried over. "Professor McGonagall! Back with another first-year, I see."
"Hello, Maxim. How's the job treating you after graduation?"
"Wonderfully, thank you for the recommendation. Right this way, young sir—first-year textbooks are over here."
Julien moved through the shop like a fish in water. He quickly gathered every required first-year text, then started adding extras that caught his eye: Handy Household Magic Tips and One-Shot Spells for Self-Defense.
He deliberately skipped A History of Hogwarts—Hermione would definitely buy that one.
His Muggle parents were completely lost in the ocean of magical knowledge.
Altair picked up Advanced Potion-Making and flipped through it with mock seriousness. "Hmm, this fermentation process looks a lot like our wine-making… 'Add moonstone powder to the cauldron, stir clockwise seven times'… that's basically controlling yeast activity!"
Clara, meanwhile, had been hypnotised by a singing fairy-tale book in which tiny elves were belting out Three Billy Goats Gruff in operatic soprano. She was so enchanted she almost forgot why they'd come.
McGonagall didn't rush them. She simply nodded approvingly. A family that loved reading usually produced a student who loved learning. Gryffindor would be perfect for him.
After the books they moved on to the cauldron shop. Following McGonagall's advice, Julien chose a standard pewter cauldron and all the necessary accessories.
But when he spotted a beautiful ancient Egyptian mithril cauldron in the corner—covered in runes and said to self-regulate heat—his eyes lit up.
The price made even Altair suck in a sharp breath. After some hesitation, McGonagall gently talked him out of it. "A first-year with a cauldron like that would be wasted, my dear."
Julien left happily with the ordinary one anyway, already planning how he'd upgrade it himself once he mastered alchemy.
The wand, of course, was the most important purchase of all.
He still had his French willow wand as backup, but buying a proper one was a rite of passage every young witch or wizard went through. Julien wasn't about to miss it.
Ollivanders was noticeably quieter than the rest of Diagon Alley—no crowds, no shouting books. It felt as though time had taken a nap here and forgotten to dust.
Julien stepped inside alone. McGonagall had said this part was best done by the young witch or wizard themselves. She took his parents to a nearby tea shop to wait.
Though the Diagon Alley branch of Ollivanders had only existed since the seventeenth century, the sign above the door proudly declared:
Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
Julien's mind wandered. Classical Greece… the era of Sparta and Thebes battling for supremacy. He wondered idly whether the three hundred Spartans had managed to hold off a hundred thousand Persians with a little magical help.