"Mum, tell me — how do I make friends with Harry Potter?"
In his past life, young Draco had looked up from The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and fixed his mother with an expectant look, hoping for her usual wisdom.
"Oh, little dragon, no one can refuse a Malfoy's outstretched hand," Narcissa had said with a gentle smile. "Simply invite him to be your friend — just as you have with the other children."
"I thought he might be different from other boys," eleven-year-old Draco had said anxiously. "He might need... a different approach. He's a hero, after all."
"Oh, we don't grovel to anyone," Narcissa had said, with a note of quiet pride. "My little dragon is a wonderful child — I can't imagine anyone who would require special handling from you. Just be yourself: natural, generous, not too eager. That's how you make friends who will truly value you."
In his earliest memories, Draco had felt no particular dislike for Potter. He had been filled with curiosity and longing — what wizarding child hadn't grown up on the story of the Boy Who Lived?
father, who had his own complicated reasons — had also been interested in the boy, although his initial intentions had not been so pure.
"The Harry Potter who survived the Dark Lord is very likely a wizard of uncommon power," he had told his son. "I hear he'll be in your year at Hogwarts. Keep a close eye on him. Show him goodwill when the moment calls for it, befriend him, and bring him onto our side when the opportunity arises."
Draco, at the time, had hardly been paying attention — he was far too excited about meeting Harry Potter in person — and had nodded eagerly.
The problem was that Narcissa had always carried a certain blind spot when it came to her son. She tended to overlook Draco's condescending and superior manner at times when it would have been far more useful to correct him.
When Draco had instinctively treated Potter the same way he treated Crabbe — as someone who should simply be grateful to be spoken to — a sharp rejection had been almost inevitable.
He had never even considered that there was anything wrong with the way he'd spoken. And so he had been immediately embarrassed and wrong-footed by Potter's refusal.
Young Draco had never imagined he would face such an outcome. He had extended his hand — the hand of a Malfoy, which was never refused — and had expected, as a matter of course, a positive response.
His manner of speaking had been exactly what he'd learned among the children of pure-blood wizarding families. It always started the same way: you measured the other person's worth, established your own family's standing, and imagined that you were being quite sincere in doing so.
But how dare Potter — who had dared to rudely refuse his outstretched hand — be so arrogant?
Or rather: how could anyone be more arrogant than Draco Malfoy, given everything he'd been?
Looking back now, Draco could fully understand why the refusal had been justified. His blunders in expression and tone had been quite serious.
He had not understood then that there was more than one way of communicating in the world, and that the kind of communication he'd grown up with might simply not land well with someone outside his circles.
He had never really needed to learn to get along with peers who wouldn't simply tolerate him. He had been excessively indulged by his mother, and thoroughly shaped by years of his father's sharp tongue. Most of the children around him had simply tolerated his behaviour or worked around it — he had never been obliged to consider what others actually thought of him. As a result, he had never noticed that his way of speaking and acting was too harsh and too centred on himself.
Potter, who had grown up mistreated in the Muggle world, had certainly not been inclined to accept any of that. His modest and battered pride had probably been shattered on the spot by Draco's words. Draco clicked his tongue softly as he walked along the cobblestones of Diagon Alley.
Looking back, though Draco's height had always been notable for his age — impossible to overlook — his emotional and social development had lagged considerably behind his physical one. He had matured late in that regard, been less attuned to others' feelings, less considerate than he should have been.
Lucius and Narcissa had never believed there was anything wrong with the way they'd raised him. They had always felt they had given their only son the very best of everything, and they had been glad to instil certain "correct attitudes" toward life in their precious son from an early age.
Draco had believed them completely. He had adored and trusted his parents without question — until, one day, he had discovered a kind of barrenness in himself: he was missing something important.
By the time he realised what it was, it had been far too late.
Those ridiculous misunderstandings of their youth — those clumsy, mutually wounding encounters — had inexplicably placed them on opposite sides of a divide that had never really needed to exist. In truth, there had been no deep-seated hatred between them.
When they had finally been able to speak to each other calmly, Draco had discovered they were capable of quite reasonable conversation.
The feeling had not been unpleasant. Even if you could not be true friends with the saviour, you didn't have to be enemies.
They needn't have been so relentlessly at odds. They could at least have been civil. Draco thought this with a pang of quiet regret.
He had been too eager to show off. Too full of wounded pride. The sting of being refused had been too fresh, too sharp — and he had abandoned every shred of the rational composure that ought to have been second nature to a Malfoy.
That had been his mistake.
Now he was no longer that vain boy. He only wanted to quietly accumulate strength, and to do something that mattered.
Today had been a good beginning. He reviewed the exchange at Madam Malkin's carefully in his mind, checking for any misstep in word or tone, before stepping — with a feeling of quiet satisfaction — into the narrow, rather shabby premises of Ollivanders.
Compared to Gringotts, Ollivanders was probably the oldest establishment in Diagon Alley. The shop dated to the fourth century BC — 382, by some accounts.
Narcissa had clearly been waiting for some time, and the faintest edge of impatience had crept into her otherwise composed expression.
"Draco, come here quickly," she called.
The shop was dim and very quiet. Draco looked around the narrow interior, which was crowded with shadow and dust and thousands of narrow boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling.
There was also, it seemed, a young girl sitting on the bench in the corner, her back to him, apparently examining the shelves. A slender adult witch stood beside her, whispering something.
So Ollivander had other customers today. Good — for a moment he had worried his mother had been waiting alone and had taken it upon herself to say something cutting to a young girl who'd gotten there first.
"Good afternoon."
With a soft click, an elderly man appeared before them as though from nowhere — white-haired, with large, pale, luminous eyes and a voice like a whisper. This was Garrick Ollivander himself.
Draco did not underestimate him. The Dark Lord in his memories had valued this man very highly indeed.
His instinct told him that beyond Florin Fosco of the ice cream parlour, the wandmaker was an even more important key to understanding the Elder Wand. Of course, with his mother standing right beside him, he had to play the role of an obedient boy carefully — he could not possibly ask outlandish questions; and Ollivander himself would never reveal secrets to a child he was meeting for the first time.
Ollivander's silver-tinged gaze settled on Draco as he murmured, half to himself, "Another Malfoy... Draco Malfoy... Platinum blonde hair, just like your father's..."
He leaned closer, studying Draco's face with unsettling thoroughness.
"Ah. And grey eyes too... Elm, eighteen inches, dragon heartstring core. The pureblood supremacist's wand of choice. Powerful — very powerful indeed."
He stepped out from behind the counter, moved silently around Draco, and said almost as an aside, "I heard your father had a silver serpent head attached to the handle... it must be quite striking."
Draco gave a careful nod. He noticed the faintest trace of disagreement pass through Ollivander's cloudy eyes.
"As for Lady Malfoy," Ollivander said, gesturing toward Narcissa, "fourteen inches, fine rosewood, unicorn tail hair. A wand well-suited for getting out of trouble — a wise witch's wand." He seemed lost momentarily in memory, clicking his tongue in quiet admiration. "Such fine rosewood is rare these days."
Narcissa gave him a thin smile. "Rarity makes it precious. Quality wand materials are naturally priceless — which is precisely why I'd like to ask you to find the finest wand you can for my son. Cost is no concern."
"Mrs. Malfoy, I always say the wizard chooses the wand — but that isn't quite right either. To be more precise: the wand chooses the wizard," Ollivander said.
"Every wand from this shop possesses its own extraordinary properties. They have their own inclinations. If I were to simply hand your son a wand that looks impressive and rare on the surface — but which, by right, belongs to another wizard — the results in spellwork would almost certainly be diminished." He had, by now, moved very close to Draco, his face uncomfortably near.
Draco heard a soft sound of disapproval from Narcissa behind him.
"Right then, Mr. Malfoy — let's begin." Ollivander paid absolutely no attention to Narcissa's displeasure. He had no doubt dealt with any number of similarly demanding customers over the centuries.
He plucked up a measuring tape from the table and asked Draco briskly, "Which hand do you use for wand work?"
"My right," Draco said.
"Arm up."
Rather than Ollivander guiding the measuring tape himself, it moved entirely of its own accord — gliding silently around Draco's arms, hands, and fingers, recording measurements with an efficiency that needed no commentary.
Ollivander, meanwhile, was already weaving back and forth along the shelves, pulling long, narrow boxes from stacks that rose almost to the ceiling with a speed and agility that belied his age.
"Young Mr. Malfoy, try this one — blackthorn with a dragon heartstring core, nine inches."
He held it out with both hands, quite solemnly. Draco already knew it wasn't his — but he picked it up and gave it a dismissive wave.
As expected, nothing.
"And this one — rowan wood, dragon heartstring, eleven inches." Ollivander offered the next with great relish.
Draco waved it. The wand sat dead and silent in his hand.
Then came maple, spruce, and vine wood in turn. Ollivander was, by any ordinary measure, an eccentric old man — unlike most shopkeepers who hoped to conclude their business quickly, his interest in the craft of wandlore clearly outstripped any eagerness to make a sale. He showed no impatience whatsoever.
In fact, the more Draco tried, the more animated Ollivander became. He paced in front of the towering shelves, scratching his head, muttering with evident delight: "Very challenging indeed — very challenging..."
Draco, for his part, was merely bored. He knew perfectly well that these wands were not meant for him, but there was nothing to be done except wait patiently until Ollivander arrived at the correct conclusion.
While waiting, he glanced around the shop idly and noticed that Narcissa was no longer there.
She had probably stepped out to purchase some of the potion ingredients from the school list — just as she had done in his previous life, most likely in quiet protest of Ollivander's refusal to simply be told which wand to produce.
Only then did he look properly at the girl on the bench. The slender witch beside her had apparently finished speaking with her. The girl sat alone, still absorbed in studying the shelves with obvious fascination.
Draco felt a small measure of relief. For a moment he'd worried that his mother had swept in and cut the queue in her impatience. That would have been rather impolite, even by his standards.
"Ah. I believe I've been going about this entirely the wrong way." Ollivander's voice brought Draco's attention snapping back.
The old man who loved wands more than anything reached once more into his well-stocked shelves.
"What about this? Hawthorn wood, unicorn tail hair, ten inches — quite springy." He brought his lined face very close to Draco's, scrutinising him with that unsettling thoroughness, apparently attempting to read something in the very substance of him.
Here it is. A surge of quiet joy moved through Draco.
His wand. His simple, elegant, perfect wand.
It was warm brown at the tip and deepened to pure black at the handle, with two smooth raised rings where his fingers would naturally rest. It felt extraordinary to hold — well-rounded, perfectly weighted, balanced to the last degree.
It was simple, without the elaborate ornamental carvings of his father's wand or his mother's — and yet it was finer than any wand encrusted with decorations could ever be.
The moment it touched his hand, a pale golden light bloomed from the tip.
"Strange — and contradictory..." Ollivander said softly, studying the wand with intense interest. "Without question, this is a wand of great loyalty, best suited to a wizard of real talent. The unicorn tail hair core is, classically, a mark of nobility and purity. But it also means..." He fixed Draco with a long, searching look. "...that performing Dark magic will be considerably more difficult."
"A Malfoy, of all people..." He seemed genuinely puzzled by the result. Then he blinked, and muttered quietly to himself, "Well. The same core as his mother's — perhaps not so surprising after all."
Draco paid Ollivander's reaction no particular mind. These reflections had already played out once in his memory, and they held little novelty. His entire focus was on his wand.
He had missed it. More than he'd realised, he had missed it terribly. Ever since Potter had taken it from him at Malfoy Manor, he had chased after other wands that never felt quite right — none of them as natural, as easy, as this. That was ultimately why he had gone to the Room of Requirement to wait for Potter: in the hope that Potter would see fit to return it.
Draco paid a generous sum of Galleons and bid Ollivander a polite farewell.
He walked toward the shop door, head bent, turning his reclaimed wand slowly in his fingers. The pale and guarded expression he had worn throughout the wand-testing process had at last given way to a faint, genuine smile.
He did not notice that, at the very moment the brown-haired girl brushed past him on her way toward the counter, the vine wood wand on the shelf behind him emitted a soft and extraordinary light.
He did not hear Ollivander's astonished exclamation: "Merlin's beard — this has only happened once in the two-thousand-year history of Ollivanders. Only the second time ever..."
He caught only the tail end of the wandmaker's wondering voice: "Miss Granger — without question, a witch of remarkable aspirations and exceptional talent..."
Hermione Granger?
Draco slowed, a mixture of surprise and something less easily named moving through him.
Had that been the same in his past life?
So early — and they had already crossed paths here, without either of them knowing it.
Had he been the first person to cross her path?
He and she had been in the same place at the very same moment?
This was something he had never noticed in his memories. Back then he had not yet known the name, and had no interest in a strange girl on a bench. He had been a spoiled boy immersed in his parents' love, entirely unaware of what he was missing.
Now, this unexpected encounter made him want to turn around. Just to look at her.
Even a single glance would have been enough.
But outside the shop door, Lucius was already standing on the pavement, arms full of books and with an eagle owl perched on his arm, regarding his son with the particular impatience he reserved for anyone who made him wait.
This was not the moment to make the acquaintance of a Muggle-born. Draco understood this with a clarity that stung slightly.
His father, still clinging to every last one of his pure-blood prejudices, might hurt her — might say something cutting, might make his contempt plain before a word had even been exchanged. Draco did not want to be the reason that happened.
If getting close to her now might put her in the path of harm, then he would rather not.
There would be another time.
Draco gave a sigh that was barely audible even to himself, pushed open the door, and walked out of Ollivanders without looking back.