A/N:Well, hello there. How are you all doing?
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Thank you for reading!
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"Mum, tell me, how can I become friends with Harry Potter?" In his past life, young Draco had closed the book "The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts" and looked at his mother expectantly, hoping to get her wise advice.
"Oh, little dragon, no one can refuse a Malfoy's outstretched hand of friendship," Narcissa said gently to her son, smiling slightly. "Go and invite him to be your friend—just as you have with the other children."
"I thought he might be different from other boys, maybe he'd need special treatment," eleven-year-old Draco said anxiously. "He's a hero, after all."
"Oh, we don't need to grovel to anyone," Narcissa said proudly. "My little dragon is such a wonderful child that I can't imagine anyone needing special treatment from you. Just be yourself, be natural and generous, and don't be coy. That's how you make friends who truly appreciate you."
In his earliest memories, Draco hadn't disliked Potter. He had been filled with curiosity and longing for him; after all, what wizarding child didn't grow up listening to the story of "the Boy Who Lived—Harry Potter"?
Draco's father, Lucius, was also very curious about him—although his initial intentions were not so pure.
"The Harry Potter who was able to defeat the Dark Lord is very likely a more gifted and powerful dark wizard," he told his son. "I hear he will be starting in the same year as you. Keep a close eye on him, and when necessary, show him goodwill, befriend him, and win him over when the time is right."
Draco, at the time, hadn't thought much of it—he was caught up in the excitement of meeting Harry Potter soon—and nodded eagerly.
The problem was that Narcissa always saw her son through a certain filter—she overlooked Draco's condescending and arrogant attitude at times.
When Draco subconsciously treated Potter the same way he usually treated Crabbe, a strong rejection was almost inevitable.
Having never considered that there was anything wrong with his words, he was immediately embarrassed and left in an awkward position by Potter's rejection.
Young Draco never imagined he would face such a terrible outcome. He had adopted the demeanor expected of a child from a pure-blood wizarding family, extending his hand—the hand of a Malfoy, which could not be refused—and surely deserved a positive response.
As for his manner of speaking, it came from his experience of making friends within his Slytherin wizarding circle, and it always started this way: he would weigh the other person's worth, flaunt his family's power, and think he was being quite sincere.
But how dare Potter—who had so rudely refused his outstretched hand—be so arrogant?
Or rather, how could anyone be more arrogant and conceited than Draco Malfoy?
In retrospect, Draco could see how justified Potter's refusal had been, given his own serious blunders in expression and wording.
At that time, he hadn't realized that there was more than one way of communicating in the world, and that the way he was familiar with might not be well received. He didn't know how to get along properly with his peers. He had been excessively spoiled by his mother and influenced for years by his father's sharp tongue. Most of his friends simply tolerated or avoided him, so he had never needed to worry about what others thought. As a result, he never realized that his way of speaking and acting was too harsh and self-centered.
Potter, accustomed to being mistreated in the Muggle world, certainly wouldn't have taken that well. His pitiful pride had probably been utterly shattered by Draco's words back then! Draco clicked his tongue as he walked along the cobblestone street in Diagon Alley.
Looking back, although Draco's body had developed very early and his height was outstanding among his peers, making him impossible to ignore, he had matured psychologically later than other children, was more oblivious, and was less considerate of others' feelings.
Lucius and Narcissa never felt there was anything wrong with their parenting. They had always believed they were giving their only son the best of everything, and they were happy to instill certain "correct attitudes" toward life in their precious son early on.
Draco had initially believed so too. He had complete trust in and adoration for his parents—until one day he discovered a barrenness in his inner world: he lacked something important.
But by the time he realized this, it was too late.
These ridiculous misunderstandings from their youth, where they "hurt each other's self-esteem," had inexplicably put the two boys on opposite sides; in reality, they had no deep-seated hatred for each other.
When they were able to speak calmly, Draco discovered that they were capable of communicating effectively.
The feeling wasn't unpleasant. Even if he couldn't be good friends with the savior, they didn't have to be enemies—they could at least have been friendly nodding acquaintances, without all the confrontation. Draco sighed, somewhat regretting his actions.
He had been too eager to show off at that moment, and too resentful. The sting of his wounded pride had been too fresh and too intense. As a result, he had lost the rationality a Malfoy should have had, and that was his mistake.
Now he was no longer that vain boy; he only wanted to quietly accumulate strength so that he could do something meaningful.
Today was a good start. He had repeatedly reviewed his conversation at Madam Malkin's, making sure he hadn't made any mistakes in his words, before stepping into Ollivanders, the small, shabby wand shop, with satisfaction.
Apart from Gringotts, Ollivanders was probably the oldest building in Diagon Alley. The shop dated back to 382 BC, in the fourth century BC.
Narcissa had been waiting in the shop for a long time, her haughty face showing a hint of impatience.
"Draco, come here quickly," Narcissa called out. The shop was dimly lit, and Draco looked around the narrow interior, which was filled with dust and silence.
There was something else, too: a little girl with brown hair sat idly on a bench in the corner, her back to him, seemingly looking around the shop.
It looked as though Ollivander's business was doing well today.
"Good afternoon." After a loud click, an old man with white hair was standing before them. He had a pair of large, pale eyes and a soft voice.
This was Ollivander, a man Draco could not afford to underestimate, because in his memories the Dark Lord had valued him highly.
Draco's intuition told him that, besides Florean Fortescue of the ice cream parlor, the wandmaker was an even more important entry point to the Elder Wand.
Of course, with his mother by his side, he had to diligently play the role of an obedient boy and couldn't possibly ask any outlandish questions; and Ollivander himself couldn't possibly reveal secrets to a little boy he was meeting for the first time.
Ollivander's silvery-white eyes were fixed on Draco as he spoke softly. "Oh, another Malfoy has come to buy a wand from me… Draco Malfoy… Your hair is platinum blond, just like your father's…"
He leaned closer. "Ah, the eyes are gray too… Eighteen inches, elm, with a dragon heartstring core—your father's wand. A pure-blood supremacist's dream. Very powerful, very powerful wand."
He stepped out from behind the counter, walked silently over to Draco, and said to himself, "I heard he also ordered a silver snake's head to attach to his wand… I imagine it must be quite exquisite?"
Draco nodded cautiously to him. He noticed a hint of disapproval in Ollivander's cloudy eyes.
"As for Mrs. Malfoy," Ollivander said, gesturing toward Narcissa behind Draco, "fourteen inches, fine redwood, unicorn hair. A good wand for getting out of trouble—a wise witch's wand." He seemed lost in some memory, clicking his tongue in admiration. "Such fine redwood is hard to find these days."
Narcissa gave him a forced smile. "Rarity makes things precious. Good wand materials are naturally priceless. That's why I wanted to ask you to find the best wand for my son. Price is no issue."
"Mrs. Malfoy, it is often said that wizards like certain wands, but that's not quite accurate. To be precise, it's the wands that choose the wizards," Ollivander said.
"Every Ollivander wand possesses extraordinary magical properties; they have minds of their own, and that is their essence. If we were to randomly find your son a wand that appears magnificent and rare on the surface, but which should rightfully belong to another wizard, his spells would likely be greatly diminished." As he spoke, Ollivander moved closer and closer to Draco, his nose almost touching Draco's face.
Draco heard Narcissa snort in disapproval behind him, seemingly dissatisfied with the answer.
"Alright, Mr. Malfoy, come on, let me see." Ollivander paid no attention to Narcissa's fuss; he had probably served quite a few customers like her, capricious and difficult to deal with.
He deftly picked up a measuring tape from the table and asked Draco, "Which is your wand arm?"
"Right hand," Draco said briefly.
"Raise your arm." Rather than Ollivander skillfully measuring Draco's entire body with the silver-marked tape, it seemed more as though the tape were moving on its own.
Ollivander weaved back and forth in front of the shelves, picking out long boxes from among the thousands of narrow boxes stacked almost to the ceiling and carrying them down; his agility made it impossible to tell that he was an old man.
"Young Mr. Malfoy, try this one—blackthorn and dragon heartstring, nine inches long." He held out a wand with both hands, speaking solemnly. Draco already knew it wasn't his wand, and he picked it up and swung it dismissively.
As expected, there was no response.
"Try this one too—rowan wood, dragon heartstring, eleven inches." Ollivander held out another wand with great relish.
Draco waved it. The wand remained silent, as still as a dead object.
Next, Draco tried wands made of maple, spruce, and grapevine wood. Ollivander was an eccentric old man; unlike ordinary shopkeepers who hoped to close a sale quickly, his interest in researching wands clearly outweighed his desire to make money, and he was never afraid of trouble.
In fact, the more Draco tried, the more excited Ollivander became. He paced back and forth in front of the thousands of narrow boxes piled up to the ceiling, scratching his head and muttering to himself, "Very challenging, isn't it?"
Draco was just bored. He knew these wands were meaningless to him, but he could only patiently keep trying until Ollivander found the right one.
While testing a wand, he idly turned around and discovered that Narcissa was no longer in the shop.
Draco guessed that she might be a little unhappy about Ollivander's response and had gone to buy some of the potion ingredients on the list, just like in his previous life.
Only then did he notice that a slender adult witch was standing next to the little girl on the bench, whispering something to her. It seemed the girl had been waiting for someone.
Draco breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment, he had thought his mother might have been abusing her privileges by bullying the little girl, cutting in line or something… To be honest, that would have been rather impolite.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I think I was completely wrong before." Ollivander's words made Draco turn back and refocus his attention on the wand.
The old man, who loved wands, took another wand from the well-stocked shelf.
"Why not try this one? Ten inches, hawthorn wood, unicorn hair. It's quite springy." He brought his wrinkled face close to Draco's, scrutinizing him as if trying to see into his soul, and spoke thoughtfully.
It's finally here! Draco felt a surge of joy.
His wand, his simple, elegant, and flawless wand!
It had a brown tip and a pure black handle, with two raised rings where his fingers would rest. It felt great to hold; it was very rounded, and it had a good weight when waved around.
It was simple, unlike the elaborate decorations of Father's and Mother's wands, yet to him it was better than any wand in the world with intricate carvings and ornaments.
The moment he touched it, a pale golden light shone from its tip.
"Strange and contradictory… Undoubtedly, this is a loyal wand, suited to a talented wizard—otherwise the consequences could be unimaginable. A unicorn hair core is a symbol of nobility and purity. But this also means…" Ollivander stared intently at Draco, speaking softly, "…that it is difficult to cast dark magic with it."
"A Malfoy, actually…" He seemed confused by the result, but quickly blinked and muttered, "Yes, the same core as your mother's. Not surprising."
Draco paid no heed to Ollivander's reaction. These memories, already etched in his mind, were tedious. His entire focus was on his destined wand.
Draco missed that wand dearly. Ever since Potter had taken it from Malfoy Manor, he had been trying to get it back.
None of the other wands had been as easy to use as this one. That was why he had gone to the Room of Requirement to wait for Potter, hoping that Potter would return his wand.
Draco generously paid a hefty sum of Galleons and politely bid farewell to Ollivander, the wandmaker.
He looked down and fiddled with his "found" wand, walking slowly toward the door of the shop. His pale, indifferent face finally showed the first hint of joy since he had entered the wand shop.
He didn't notice that just as the brown-haired girl brushed past him, the grapevine wand behind him emitted a wondrous light.
He didn't pay attention to Ollivander's exaggerated exclamation: "Merlin's beard! This phenomenon has only happened once in the more than two-thousand-year history of Ollivanders… this is only the second time…"
He only registered that Ollivander kept rambling on: "Miss Granger, without a doubt, with lofty aspirations and vision, is suited to be a witch of amazing talent…"
Hermione Granger? Draco thought, with a mixture of surprise and uncertainty, wondering whether he should turn around and look at her.
Had it been the same in his past life?
So early in his life, he had already crossed paths with her, though he was unaware of it.
Had he been the first person to meet her?
It just so happened that the two of them had "met" right here?
This was something he hadn't paid attention to in his memory—at that time, he had been unaware of the meaning behind the name and had no interest in getting to know a strange little girl.
Back then, he had simply been a spoiled boy immersed in his parents' love, completely unaware of what he was missing.
Now, this unexpected "encounter" made Draco want to turn around and look at her.
Even just a glance would be enough.
However, outside Ollivanders, Lucius, carrying a pile of books and an eagle owl, was already looking at him impatiently with his gray eyes.
This was not a good time to get to know a Muggle-born, Draco suddenly realized.
His father, clinging to pure-blood prejudices, might hurt her.
He didn't want any such possibility to arise.
If getting close to her might hurt her, he would rather not get close to her.
Well then, see you at Hogwarts.
Draco sighed almost imperceptibly, opened the door, and walked out without looking back.