Side Story One: His First Friend (Harry's Perspective)
When the Malfoys emerged from the snow-white building that towered above all the surrounding shops, the street was already bathed in brighter sunshine.
Goblin guards dressed in scarlet-and-gold-trimmed uniforms bowed and saw off Gringotts' VIP clients.
In Diagon Alley, the number of witches and wizards coming and going had grown steadily, and they now moved in a nearly unbroken stream along the narrow cobblestone lane.
With the start of term approaching, almost every young witch and wizard in Britain had descended on the Alley to buy school supplies, which made keeping your distance from others considerably more difficult — you risked bumping into someone wherever you stepped.
The Malfoys did not particularly enjoy this level of excitement. They stood on the steps of Gringotts, none of them in any hurry to plunge into the bustling crowd.
"This many people have turned Diagon Alley into a pigsty," Lucius said impatiently, squinting.
"We'll split up — that will be faster," Narcissa decided briskly.
"Very well. I'll go to Flourish and Blotts and collect the books," Lucius said, toying with his snake-headed cane.
"Isn't it ladies first? Don't I get a choice?" Narcissa gave her husband a haughty sidelong glance, her tone carrying a faint edge of challenge.
"A proper gentleman wouldn't ask his wife to carry a stack of heavy books through a crowded street." Lucius looked at Narcissa, a hint of warmth briefly softening his arrogant grey eyes. "Sissy, why don't you take Draco to Ollivanders? Or have a look at the new robes if you like."
"Lucius, today is about buying things for Draco." Narcissa pinched her husband's arm lightly, with the air of a woman who knew she would get her way. "I'm going to Ollivanders to find him the finest wand they have. Draco, why don't you go to Madam Malkin's first and order your school robes, then come find me? Yes?"
"I have no objection," Draco said calmly.
Why hadn't he noticed these things in his past life — these small, constant gestures between his parents? This life, paying close attention to everything, he could see plainly that they had been quietly expressing their affection in front of him all along.
In his previous life, Draco Malfoy had been a blind and self-absorbed son who had lived entirely inside his own narrow world.
Before long, Draco was standing on a low footstool in Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, patiently submitting to a young witch with a measuring tape.
His attention, however, wasn't on the robes. Through the shop window, he could vaguely make out Potter approaching — alongside the hulking figure of the gamekeeper, Hagrid. There was no mistaking that enormous silhouette. His wild, impenetrable face and beetle-dark eyes made him impossible to miss in any crowd.
Before Potter arrived, Draco — setting aside his usual arrogance — turned to Madam Malkin with a perfectly pleasant expression and asked, "Madam, I was wondering — do you happen to sell Invisibility Cloaks here?"
"Child, why on earth would you ask that? That's quite an unusual question for a little boy..." Mrs. Malkin was a short, plump witch dressed in mauve, who received her guests with a warm and ready smile.
But anyone who took her for easy to manage was very much mistaken. Draco knew perfectly well that behind the gentle manner, Madam Malkin was sharp and discreet — she would not sell such high-end, expensive magical fabric to a young boy who hadn't even started school yet. Sure enough, she fixed him with a slightly suspicious look, simply for having made such an age-inappropriate request.
But a true Malfoy always knew how to use charm and careful misdirection to achieve his ends.
"I'm asking on my mother's behalf, actually. You know how it is — she's busy collecting everything else for me and couldn't pop over herself." He gave a guileless, earnest little smile.
Mrs. Malkin was convinced. Her smile became warm and genuine again, and she said, "In that case, my dear, I'll give you my business card and our current catalogue. Mrs. Malfoy is welcome to place an order by owl at any time — just her signature, and we'll take care of the rest. We pride ourselves on providing the finest magical attire for the oldest wizarding families."
By the time Potter pushed open the shop door, the business card and catalogue were already tucked quietly inside Draco's dragonhide storage pouch — the kind that was barely larger than a palm on the outside but held dozens of square metres within, completely weightless to carry and very popular among wizards who needed to be discreet.
An Invisibility Cloak was something nearly every wizard coveted: not cheap, but not impossible to obtain through the right channels. Draco remembered that in his first year he had cost Slytherin fifty points for being out of bounds after curfew. With a cloak, conducting certain activities at Hogwarts would be far more straightforward. He also remembered that Potter had one, and he would wager his own hair that Potter made rather heavy use of it.
While Draco was occupied with this thought, Madam Malkin had already had Harry Potter step up onto the adjacent footstool and begun taking his measurements.
Draco was determined to be as amiable as possible. He wanted to build a better relationship with Potter this time, and he could not afford another misstep.
"Are you going to Hogwarts as well?" Draco asked, keeping his tone light and easy.
"Yes," Potter said. He looked a little uncertain.
At this point, Potter was almost certainly entirely unfamiliar with the wizarding world. He had, by all accounts, grown up with a Muggle family. That life... Draco glanced discreetly at Harry's clothes and shoes beneath the hem of his robe... didn't seem to have been a particularly comfortable one.
For a moment, Draco was at a loss for how to begin. At a time like this, practically any topic would risk sounding forced.
Talking about family — Potter was an orphan. Talking about bloodlines and background — although the Potter family had been well-off, the money clearly hadn't reached Harry himself. Talking about pure-bloods versus half-bloods — Draco would stake every Galleon in his possession on Potter immediately taking offence, just as he had in his memory.
Quidditch, then? Something Potter might actually enjoy.
But had Potter ever so much as touched a flying broomstick?
Even the most fascinating subject became a burden for someone without any frame of reference.
"Do you know which house you'll be sorted into?" Draco asked after a pause — a safe enough opening, if a dull one.
"I don't know," Potter said, looking more uncertain still.
It was clear Potter had no concept whatsoever of Sorting.
A strange sort of sympathy stirred in Draco.
Was it really all right to arrive at Hogwarts with no idea what to expect? What had he been through all these years? Hadn't those irresponsible Muggles told him a single thing?
He looked like a dazed goose waiting to be plucked.
With a quiet sigh, Draco made a deliberate effort to produce something closer to a friendly smile than a smirk, and said — with careful warmth in his tone — "Don't be nervous. I can tell you're not very familiar with Hogwarts. If you don't mind, I can tell you a bit about it."
The dark-haired boy looked at him curiously and nodded.
"Hogwarts has four houses: Slytherin, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff. Each corresponds to one of the four founders." Draco watched a look of dawning understanding cross Potter's face.
"The houses look for different qualities in students. Slytherin tends to value ambition and drive, while Gryffindor prizes courage and a certain love of adventure—" Draco noticed that Potter said nothing but was listening with intense focus, as though committing every word to memory.
Pathetic, really. Every young witch and wizard in the country knew this, and yet Potter was treating it as though it were a rare discovery.
What had Dumbledore been doing all these years? His cherished "saviour" was living like this, and the man hadn't seen fit to do anything about it?
Draco kept this thought entirely to himself and continued, as patiently as if he were lecturing a first year. "Ravenclaw values wit and scholarship, while Hufflepuff prizes loyalty and a good deal of integrity." Potter nodded in agreement.
"Most people, in the mainstream view, hope to be sorted into Gryffindor. The current Headmaster of Hogwarts — Professor Dumbledore — was a Gryffindor himself." Draco noted the thoughtful expression on Potter's face and guessed, easily, that he was already hoping for the same.
"Would you like to be in Gryffindor?" Potter asked suddenly.
"No," Draco said plainly. "I'll almost certainly be in Slytherin. Both my parents were."
Draco had never seriously considered any other house, not even now. He was a Slytherin through and through — he had never thought there was anything shameful about that.
He said, in a measured tone, "Some people assume that everyone sorted into Slytherin must be a Dark wizard. Because the Dark Lord was also a Slytherin, you see..."
Potter looked at him properly for the first time, as Draco had expected.
"He — Voldemort — he went to Hogwarts?" Potter said, his voice a little uneasy.
"Yes," Draco replied, then added with deliberate care, "Hogwarts has been here for a thousand years, and he is the only one of his kind it has ever produced. Slytherin has also given the wizarding world a great many distinguished witches and wizards throughout its history. Using one person's choices to condemn an entire house is rather a broad generalisation, wouldn't you say?"
Potter said nothing more, but nodded slowly.
Draco concluded his point: "In short — it's probably best not to pass judgement on people based purely on surface appearances, before you've made any real effort to understand them."
Potter, deep in thought, glanced at him — appearing, Draco noted with quiet satisfaction, to have taken the point to heart.
Draco allowed himself a small smile, and turned to gesture casually with his chin toward the shop window, where Hagrid could be seen outside holding two ice creams. "Take that fellow there, for instance. Ordinary people might take one look at a man that size and assume he must be frightening, or uncivilised."
He noticed a flicker of quiet resistance in Potter's expression and changed tack smoothly. "Though I wouldn't necessarily assume that myself. I'd wager a Chocolate Frog that he's probably quite good company for the people he considers friends."
"Of course he is." Potter seemed to relax slightly, and finally opened up. "I know him — he works at Hogwarts."
"Gamekeeper, isn't he?" Draco said easily.
"You know him too?" Potter asked.
"He has a particular gift for magical creatures. Perhaps there's something worth learning from him one day." Draco thought, involuntarily, of the Hippogriff in third year.
He pressed his lips together, quietly setting aside the fact that he had been the one to provoke the beast in the first place.
And then there were the Blast-Ended Skrewts, and the Flobberworms...
Merlin. What on earth could students possibly learn from Rubeus Hagrid?
Potter did not appear to catch the gentle irony in Draco's tone. He took the initiative to reply, "He's a good person. He came to help me get my things."
"You'll make plenty of friends at Hogwarts," Draco said.
He wisely said nothing about why Harry's parents hadn't come shopping with him.
Potter was quiet for a moment. Then he looked at Draco with careful curiosity and asked, "What's a Chocolate Frog?"
"Merlin, he doesn't even know that?" Draco barely stopped himself from sighing out loud.
"They're a type of wizarding sweet — chocolate shaped like a frog, and each one comes with a Famous Witches and Wizards card inside that you can collect..." Draco explained with enthusiasm.
As he spoke, his mind drifted back to their encounter on the Hogwarts Express in his past life — when he had approached Potter first, and been rebuffed.
Potter had clearly liked Chocolate Frogs. There had been a considerable pile of them on the table in their compartment. Goyle, that hopeless oaf, had helped himself to one without asking and been bitten by Weasley's rat for the trouble.
It had been thoroughly undignified, all of it — reaching out first and having it mean nothing.
And then Potter had said, coldly, "I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks."
That remark had lodged under his skin like a splinter.
Thinking of it now, Draco maintained a neutral expression, though a tightness in his chest ached faintly.
"All right, my dear," said Madam Malkin, drawing Draco back to the present. "Your measurements are done."
Best to finish on a pleasant note, while the atmosphere was still easy. Draco stepped lightly off the footstool.
"Then I'll see you at Hogwarts." He paused, his heart beating a little faster than he let show, and extended his hand with an expression of unhurried confidence. "I'm Draco Malfoy. And you are...?"
"I'm Harry — Harry Potter." Harry reached out quickly and shook Draco's hand.
"Well." A faint smile crossed Draco's pale face. "Nice to meet you, Harry Potter."
He strolled out of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions with the same unhurried ease he had walked in with.
The moment the door swung shut behind him, he exhaled very slowly.
That had gone fairly smoothly, hadn't it.
---
Side Story One: My First Friend
(Harry's Perspective)
In eleven years of living in the Muggle world, Harry had often been mocked by children his own age for his ill-fitting clothes and the pair of glasses held together with tape.
Before his classmates had even had the chance to form their own opinion of him, they were chased off by his slovenly appearance and the intimidation of Dudley and his gang. During physical education at primary school, when teams were chosen, Harry was always the last one standing.
The neighbours, too, had long thought him strange — largely thanks to years of whispers from Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon.
Draco Malfoy was the first person to tell him, to his face, that it wasn't right to judge by appearances.
"It's probably best not to pass judgement on people based purely on surface appearances, before you've made any real effort to understand them."
Harry had felt something warm stir in his chest when the platinum-haired boy said those words.
He could sense that Draco was different from him — the quality of his robes, the cadence of his speech, the quiet, effortless elegance he seemed to carry without thinking about it. It made Harry realise, in a slightly dazed way, that they had come from very different worlds.
His bearing had the assurance of someone who had never been made to feel small. That, Harry thought, was both enviable and a little isolating to observe.
Draco had extended a friendly hand to him and even explained a bit about the Hogwarts house system. He had a slightly arrogant air, it was true — but he hadn't been unpleasant while speaking, and what he'd said had made a fair amount of sense.
He'd even noticed Harry's discomfort and quietly walked him through the basics. It had been new information, and the boy had delivered it without any impatience. Harry was rather grateful.
And when Draco heard his name, he showed neither the disgust of someone prejudiced against Muggle-borns nor the wide-eyed astonishment of a pureblood meeting a legend — he simply stayed calm.
There was a kind of steadiness in that. A quality of quiet equality that Harry had never encountered before.
Hagrid had been Harry's first friend in the wizarding world. But when it came to friends his own age, Draco Malfoy was probably the first.
And even if he was going to Slytherin — he was nothing like the wizard from Slytherin whose name Harry could barely bring himself to say, was he?