Chapter 3
Draco felt overwhelmed.
His mind was moving a mile a minute, yet every path he considered was blocked by another obstacle. He had a plan—or at least, the rough outline of one—but the problem wasn’t coming up with ideas. The problem was the execution.
Every step required precision. Every move had stakes. If he failed, it wouldn’t just be his life at risk. There were too many things to consider.
His first priority was getting to Pettigrew. That filthy rat was the key to everything. Without him, Sirius Black wouldn’t be able to clear his name, and if Black wasn’t cleared, then Harry Potter would never trust him fully. But Pettigrew was a problem for later. Draco wouldn’t even be able to get near him until school started.
Which left him with one immediate objective:
Break Sirius Black out of Azkaban.
The very idea sounded ridiculous.
Azkaban. The most heavily guarded prison in the wizarding world. A place so soaked in despair that even its name made his skin crawl. He’d spent two years there in his last life. Two years of unrelenting cold, of hunger gnawing at his ribs, of shadows whispering horrors into his mind. And his mother had died there.
Draco clenched his fists.
He refused to let it happen again.
Black had escaped once before. That meant it was possible. The only question was how…
Polyjuice Potion.
That was the best option. If he could impersonate someone powerful enough, someone with clearance to enter Azkaban, he could walk right in and walk right back out with Black in tow.
The question was, who?
It had to be a high-ranking Ministry official, someone who wouldn’t immediately raise suspicion if they suddenly wanted access to one of the most infamous prisoners in history. More importantly, it had to be someone who had ties to the Death Eaters.
Because if things went wrong?
Draco wouldn’t feel bad about throwing them under the broomstick.
But even that plan had problems.
The first issue? He didn’t have a wand.
The second? Even if he managed to get one, he still couldn’t use it. The Trace would alert the Ministry the moment he cast a spell.
The third? His father wasn’t stupid. If there was one thing Lucius Malfoy controlled with an iron grip, it was his collection of magical artifacts. If Draco even tried to take something, his father would know. Immediately.
Draco pressed his fingers against his temples. This was exhausting, and he hadn’t even started.
He needed a workaround.
And then, suddenly, he had it.
A house-elf.
House-elves could perform magic without wands. More importantly, their magic wasn’t traceable.
It was perfect.
And Draco knew exactly which elf he needed.
Dobby.
He’d have to convince him. That might be a challenge, but… probably not too much of one. Dobby had always been too eager to help if it meant doing the right thing. He had, after all, switched sides in his last life.
Draco exhaled sharply. That settled it.
First step: get Dobby on board.
With a long, slow sigh, Draco ran a hand through his hair. His nerves were already stretched thin, but there was no room for hesitation. He had no other options.
He straightened his back, took a deep breath, and called, “Dobby.”
The air cracked as a loud pop echoed through the room. The force of the apparition sent a small gust of wind rattling the nearby candle flames. A second later, a small, spindly figure appeared before him, ears flapping slightly from the force of his arrival.
“Dobby is here, young Master!” The house-elf’s large, tennis ball-sized eyes blinked up at him, wide with expectation.
Draco hesitated for only a fraction of a second before standing up and stepping toward him. Slowly, deliberately, he bent one knee and knelt.
Dobby let out a sharp, startled squeak, stumbling back a step. His eyes grew impossibly wider, his ears twitching with confusion. A Malfoy, kneeling before a house-elf?
Draco didn’t blame him for his reaction. He was pretty sure if his father saw this, he’d die of sheer outrage.
But this wasn’t about pride. This was about trust.
“Dobby,” Draco said carefully, keeping his voice calm but firm. “I’m going to ask you something. But before I do, I need your word that you will not tell anyone about what we speak of tonight. Not my mother. Not my father. No one.” He paused, making sure Dobby was listening. “Especially my father.”
Dobby’s ears drooped slightly as he fidgeted in place, long fingers twisting the hem of his ragged pillowcase tunic.
“Dobby will do anything,” he said at last, his voice small but resolute. “As long as young Master does not get hurt.”
Draco felt the tension in his chest loosen just a little. “Thank you, Dobby.”
Dobby’s lips wobbled slightly, and his fingers gave a small twitch—like he was fighting the instinct to punish himself for receiving gratitude. Draco ignored the pang of guilt in his gut. There were more pressing matters at hand.
He inhaled deeply, forcing himself to meet Dobby’s gaze head-on.
“What I’m about to say may sound… insane.” A bitter chuckle slipped from his lips. “But I need you to trust me. We’re going to break Sirius Black out of Azkaban.”
Dobby froze.
Then, all at once, he exploded.
The little elf let out a high-pitched wail, arms flailing wildly as he spun in frantic circles, shaking his head so violently his ears flopped with every movement. “No, no, no, no, young Master must not—young Master cannot—Azkaban is a place of terrible horrors! The Dementors! The cold! The dark! No one escapes! No one but—”
Draco surged forward, grabbing Dobby’s thin shoulders.
“Dobby!” he snapped, giving him a small shake. “Calm down.”
Dobby immediately stilled, but his breath was coming in quick, shallow pants, his tiny chest heaving.
Draco’s grip loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go.
“Listen to me,” he said, lowering his voice. “Sirius Black… he didn’t kill those people.”
Dobby’s ears twitched, his breathing still erratic.
Draco pressed on. “He was set up. The real culprit is still out there, walking free, while Black rots away in Azkaban for a crime he didn’t commit.”
Dobby’s lower lip trembled. “But—but young Master… why?”
Draco hesitated. He couldn’t tell Dobby everything. Not yet. But he needed Dobby’s help.
“Because,” he said finally, “it’s the right thing to do.”
Dobby stilled. His fingers stopped twitching, his ears perked up, and for a brief moment, he just stared at Draco, like he was trying to make sense of what he’d just heard.
Silence stretched between them.
Then, at last, Dobby nodded.
“If that is what young Master wishes…” He swallowed. “Then Dobby will help.”
Draco let out a slow breath of relief, finally releasing his hold on Dobby’s shoulders.
“Good.” He straightened up, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the conversation. “First thing’s first. I need you to help me brew Polyjuice Potion.”
Dobby’s ears perked up in surprise. “But young Master… does not have a wand.”
“That’s why I need your help,” Draco said, smirking slightly. “You can use magic without being tracked.”
Dobby hesitated, glancing between Draco and the floor, clearly conflicted.
But then, after a moment, he straightened, eyes gleaming with something new.
Determination.
“Then Dobby will help young Master.”
—
The first step of Draco’s plan was finally in motion.
They had successfully begun brewing the Polyjuice Potion. It wasn’t easy—finding the right location, gathering the ingredients, and ensuring absolute secrecy took careful planning. But, thanks to Dobby’s resourcefulness and Draco’s knowledge, they had managed to make it work.
Dobby had been indispensable. With his ability to move unseen and perform magic undetected, he had retrieved everything Draco had requested without raising any suspicion. Sneaking into apothecaries and even raiding the private collection of some unsuspecting Ministry officials—Dobby had done it all with an eager determination that surprised Draco. The little elf was far more capable than his father had ever given him credit for.
The brewing itself was being done in an abandoned, dust-covered cellar beneath Malfoy Manor. Draco had scoured the estate for a hidden, unused space where they wouldn’t be disturbed, eventually settling on this neglected chamber. It was damp, filled with cobwebs, and reeked of stale air, but it was secluded. That was all that mattered.
Thankfully, Draco had everything he needed to get started. Among his belongings, he had found the Young Wizard’s Advanced Potion Kit he had received as a Yule gift two years prior. Normally, it would have been nothing more than an overpriced set of tools that his father bought to ensure Draco was “adequately prepared.” But now? It was invaluable. The cauldron, stirring rods, measuring instruments—everything he needed to ensure precision was already at his disposal.
The potion itself was complicated. Every step had to be followed with absolute accuracy, every ingredient added at precisely the right moment. One mistake, and the entire batch would be ruined.
Dobby, despite his lack of formal training, proved to be a surprisingly adept assistant. His nimble hands worked efficiently as he chopped, stirred, and measured under Draco’s careful instructions. Though he flinched every time Draco thanked him, he carried out each task with unwavering focus.
As Draco carefully stirred the thick, bubbling liquid in the cauldron, he exhaled slowly.
This was only the beginning. The potion would take a month to properly brew.
A month to plan. A month to prepare.
And when the time came?
Sirius Black would no longer be trapped in Azkaban.
—
Draco had begun setting aside at least an hour every day to spend with his mother. It had started as a small attempt to reconnect with her—something he had never prioritized before. But now, with the knowledge of what was to come, he couldn't take these moments for granted.
His father had left for France on a business trip, which meant that the manor was the calmest it had been in years. Without his presence looming over them, there was no tension in the air, no expectation of cold formality. Draco had always felt that his father’s influence shaped the way he interacted with his mother, but now that he had been given another chance, he wanted to do things differently.
At first, Narcissa had been perceptive enough to notice the shift in his behavior. He no longer merely gave her brief, polite greetings before moving on with his day. Instead, he actively sought her out, sitting with her in the drawing room, walking with her through the gardens, or simply enjoying quiet tea together in the afternoons.
She had never once questioned him outright, but he could tell she was watching him closely. Her sharp, intelligent blue eyes studied him whenever he lingered at her side a little too long, whenever he was more affectionate than usual. The Malfoys were not known for displays of warmth, and Draco knew she must have found his change in demeanor puzzling. But rather than asking, she simply accepted it.
Perhaps she didn't mind the change.
This particular afternoon, the two of them were seated in the sunlit parlor, where Narcissa often spent time reading or working on embroidery. A delicate china tea set rested on the polished table before them, steam curling from the cups in elegant wisps. House elves had prepared an array of light refreshments—freshly baked scones, delicate finger sandwiches, and Draco’s personal favorite: clotted cream and strawberry tarts.
Draco sat across from his mother, observing her as she took a graceful sip of tea. She was beautiful, in a way that was both ethereal and untouchable. Her platinum blonde hair was elegantly pinned back, and her sharp, aristocratic features were softened only by the gentle glow of the sunlight streaming through the tall windows.
She set her teacup down with a soft clink and regarded him with quiet amusement.
“So, darling, are you excited to go to Diagon Alley and get your supplies for Hogwarts?”
Draco blinked, brought back from his thoughts.
This was it. Another unchangeable event. The annual trip to Diagon Alley to purchase books, robes, and whatever else was needed for the school year. He had done it before—many times. But this time was different.
This time, he had plans.
He met his mother’s gaze, keeping his expression carefully neutral.
“Yes, Mother.”
Even as he answered, his mind was already racing, calculating.
Diagon Alley would be the perfect opportunity to set more of his plan in motion.
But alas, he still had just under a month before that time would come.
—
Draco couldn’t be prouder. The Polyjuice Potion was coming along perfectly. Dobby had worked tirelessly, pulling off feats Draco had thought impossible. Somehow, the little elf had managed to secure rare and crucial ingredients from Corban Yaxley—one of the most crooked and dangerous Death Eaters around, and the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Draco didn't know how Dobby had done it, but the elf's ingenuity and resourcefulness were undeniable. It was a stroke of luck—and perhaps something more—that Yaxley’s personal supplies had fallen into their hands. No one would expect that kind of breach, especially not from someone like Draco.
In addition to the Polyjuice, Draco had been brewing a large supply of Draught of the Living Dead. It was a potion he planned to use sparingly, but its effect was crucial: an enchanted sleep so deep that one wouldn’t wake even if they were to be stabbed. Even under the guise of a high-ranking Ministry official, he couldn’t afford to take any chances.
With the amount of danger involved, Draco wanted to make sure no one could interfere—not even by accident. The Draught would ensure that anyone who posed a threat would be out of commission for hours, maybe days. That kind of silence was vital when slipping in and out of Azkaban.
But even the Draught of the Living Dead wasn’t enough. Draco knew that the plan depended on everything going right, and that meant preparing for contingencies. So, he’d also brewed several Strengthening and Healing Potions for Sirius Black. If the man was going to escape from Azkaban, he would need all the help he could get.
Years of imprisonment and torture had broken him in ways Draco couldn’t even imagine. But there was no time for pity. He couldn’t afford to waste a moment, so those potions were a necessity—one for stamina, and another to heal whatever physical damage Sirius had sustained during his long years in the prison.
A month was almost up, but Draco knew that there was still one more critical step before he could execute his plan. He would have to make a trip to Diagon Alley.
He took one last glance at the bubbling cauldrons in the basement, at Dobby quietly working nearby, his face alight with determination. The plan was nearly ready. Soon, the pieces would fall into place, and the first steps of freeing Sirius Black would be set in motion.
—
Draco took a deep breath, gripping the pinch of Floo Powder in his hand. He stepped into the grand fireplace of Malfoy Manor, feeling the familiar heat of the emerald flames licking at his feet as he tossed the powder over himself with practiced precision. His mother would be proud—no hesitation, no stumbling.
"Diagon Alley," he enunciated clearly, feeling the pull of magic as the world blurred around him.
A moment later, he stumbled out of the fireplace in Flourish and Blotts, where his mother was already waiting, standing tall and elegant amidst the chaos of bustling shoppers.
“Darling, let’s go get your books first,” she said smoothly, not missing a beat as she handed their shopping list to the clerk.
Draco exhaled subtly. Good. Everything was still following the same schedule.
Diagon Alley was as lively as ever, filled with Hogwarts students both young and old darting from shop to shop, their arms full of school supplies. The air smelled of fresh parchment, roasted nuts from a street vendor, and the faint metallic tang of cauldrons stacked outside Potage’s Cauldron Shop.
Despite his determination, Draco felt a ripple of unease settle in his stomach. This was where he met him last time. The boy who would upend everything.
He followed his mother through the shop, watching as a young clerk hastily gathered his required books, nearly dropping a particularly thick tome in his rush. Draco paid little attention to the titles—he already knew them by heart—but his mind remained alert. Would things play out the same?
Once their books were packed neatly in a bag, they moved through the alley to continue their shopping.
The moment Draco stepped inside the apothecary, his nose was assaulted by the pungent mix of crushed herbs, drying roots, and the acrid bite of powdered moonstone. The dimly lit shop had walls lined with shelves of bottled ingredients, their contents shifting and swirling in ways that defied logic.
His mother led the way to the counter, where an elderly wizard with half-moon spectacles adjusted his glasses and looked at their list.
“A standard potions kit for Hogwarts, I presume?” the man asked, his voice hoarse from years of inhaling powdered ingredients.
“Yes,” Narcissa replied smoothly. “And add a few extra supplies.”
Draco watched with interest as the shopkeeper moved deftly, scooping dragon liver into a small pouch, measuring out unicorn hair, and carefully selecting glass vials. His mother always ensured he had the best.
His fingers itched to reach out and examine some of the rarer ingredients tucked behind the counter. He knew how valuable certain items could be, especially for more advanced potions.
Once their package was ready, Narcissa handed over the payment, and they exited, the door’s brass bell chiming behind them.
They stopped briefly outside the Eeylops Owl Emporium, where the air was thick with the scent of hay and feathers. Owls of every color and size rustled in their cages, their sharp eyes watching passersby with keen intelligence.
Draco had always liked owls. Efficient. Reliable. Loyal if trained properly. His own eagle owl was already at the manor, but he still took a moment to admire a particularly striking tawny owl that met his gaze with an almost knowing look.
His mother, however, was uninterested in lingering, so they quickly moved on.
Madam Malkin’s was next. As Draco and his mother stepped into the warmly lit shop, the familiar scent of fabric and fresh parchment filled his senses. The walls were lined with bolts of cloth in every shade, enchanted needles floating in midair as they stitched hems without the need for a seamstress’s hands.
Draco stiffened. His stomach twisted in a way he wasn’t prepared for. This was it. The place where he had first met him.
His grey eyes quickly flicked across the shop. No sign of the messy-haired boy in ill-fitting Muggle clothing. Not yet, at least.
Before he had a chance to dwell on the memories threatening to surface, a plump woman in mauve robes bustled toward them, her expression warm and businesslike.
“Ah! Young Master Malfoy,” she greeted, smiling at Narcissa before turning her attention to him. “Here for your Hogwarts robes, I presume?”
“Yes,” Draco answered smoothly, schooling his expression into one of practiced ease.
Narcissa gave a gentle squeeze to his shoulder. “Darling, I need to run a few more errands. Stay here and behave. I’ll be back soon.”
“Yes, Mother.”
With that, she exited, leaving Draco alone as Madam Malkin guided him toward a small, raised platform in front of a mirror. A floating measuring tape snapped to life, circling his limbs as she took his measurements.
Draco inhaled deeply, forcing his body to relax.
Then, the door chimed.
The air in the shop shifted.
There he was.
A small boy entered hesitantly, the way someone does when they aren’t sure they belong. His untidy black hair stuck up at all angles, nearly swallowing the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. He wore a pair of round glasses too big for his face, slipping down his nose as he took in his surroundings.
Draco’s breath caught, but he quickly forced himself to appear indifferent.
Madam Malkin, always efficient, didn’t waste a second. “Hogwarts, dear?” she asked kindly.
“Uh—yes,” the boy answered, stepping further inside.
“Come along, then. You can stand next to young Mr. Malfoy here. Won’t take but a moment.”
She ushered the boy toward the stool beside Draco, positioning him so they were now shoulder to shoulder.
Draco turned his head slightly, finally meeting those green eyes in person again.
For the briefest second, something in his chest squeezed painfully.
Those eyes had haunted him in Azkaban.
This was Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived. The boy who would become his rival, his enemy, and yet, the one person he had wanted so desperately to understand.
But this time… this time things would be different.
Draco knew he had to start mending things now.
His mind raced, but he quickly slipped into the role he had perfected over years of being a Malfoy. Smooth, confident, in control.
He gave Harry a polite—almost lazy—smile, tilting his head slightly.
“Hello,” he said casually. “Hogwarts too?”
The boy blinked, as if surprised someone was speaking to him. “Uh, yes.”
Draco nodded, keeping his expression friendly. “I can’t wait. Do you know what house you’ll be in?”
Harry hesitated. “…No.”
That hesitation told Draco everything. He doesn’t even know what the houses are yet.
Draco could use that.
In the past, he had gone on about how Slytherin was the best, insulting Hufflepuff, and making an overall bad first impression. This time, he needed to be smarter. He needed to plant the seed of friendship here.
He turned his gaze back to the mirror, watching as Madam Malkin pinned the fabric at his shoulders. “Well,” he said in a light, conversational tone, “there’s Slytherin, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff. My whole family’s been in Slytherin for ages, so I expect I will be too.”
Harry made a noise, not quite agreeing but not objecting either.
Draco considered his next words carefully. “Gryffindor’s well-respected too,” he added, giving Harry a sideways glance. “It’s where Dumbledore was.”
That got a reaction.
Harry looked up, interested.
Draco kept his tone neutral. “Ravenclaw’s all about intelligence, and Hufflepuff—well, they’re loyal to a fault. I suppose every house has its strengths.”
This was a stark contrast from how he’d spoken last time, and Draco could only hope it was enough to make Harry second-guess what he might hear from others later.
Madam Malkin, blissfully unaware of the weight of this conversation, clapped her hands together. “There we are, dear, all done!”
She finished adjusting Draco’s robes, stepping back to admire her work before turning to Harry.
Draco took the moment to school his expression, stepping off the stool. He could feel the weight of the conversation still lingering in the air.
He had planted the seed.
Now, he just had to make sure it grew.
Draco watched as Harry mulled over his words. There was a slight crease in his forehead, as if he was trying to work out whether or not Draco was someone worth listening to.
Draco could tell he still wasn’t sure what to make of him.
Madam Malkin had moved on to adjusting Harry’s robes, leaving them in relative privacy. Draco decided to push just a little more.
“So, are your parents wizards?” he asked, keeping his tone light.
Harry hesitated. Draco noticed his fingers twitch slightly at his sides, and he suddenly realized—he was gripping the fabric of his too-big trousers, as if anchoring himself.
“They were,” Harry finally answered.
Draco frowned slightly. Were. That confirmed it.
He knew, of course—everyone did. Harry’s parents had been killed by the Dark Lord. But hearing it directly from Harry himself, in such an uncertain voice, made it feel… different.
It wasn’t that Draco had never known loss. He’d lost everything before. His family, his freedom, his dignity. But at this age he hadn’t. Not yet, anyway.
“Oh,” Draco said after a pause, trying to think of what to say. He had never been good at comforting people. That had always been—well, there hadn’t really been anyone to do it for him, either.
“I’m sorry,” he added after a beat. It came out quieter than he intended.
Harry blinked, clearly not expecting that response. He didn’t say anything for a moment, but the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease just the tiniest bit.
Draco pressed on. “You grew up with Muggles, then?”
Harry gave a small nod. “Yeah.”
Draco tilted his head. “Must’ve been strange, finding out you’re a wizard.”
Harry let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You have no idea.”
Draco smirked, sensing the shift. “I may not, but you should’ve seen my father’s face when I accidentally turned our peacock blue.”
Harry blinked. “You have a peacock?”
Draco straightened slightly, pleased to have gotten a reaction. “Several, actually. White ones. My mother thinks they’re elegant.”
Harry gave a small huff of amusement. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was close.
Draco took that as a victory.
“I suppose you’ll be getting your wand soon, then?” he asked, his tone more curious than before.
Harry nodded. “Yeah, Hagrid said he’d take me.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “Hagrid?”
“The, uh, giant guy. Works at Hogwarts.”
Draco’s expression softened slightly, but he still looked unsure. “Oh, I see. That’s... interesting. Not exactly what I expected, but I’m sure he knows his way around.”
He paused, as if thinking. “I haven’t gotten mine yet, either. It’s a bit nerve-wracking, really. Finding the right wand... it’s important.”
Before Harry could respond, Madam Malkin stepped back, clapping her hands. “All done, dear!”
Harry looked down at his new robes as she smoothed them out. Draco took that as his cue to leave.
He stepped away, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve.
“Well,” he said, giving Harry one last glance. “Maybe I’ll see you at Hogwarts.”
Harry hesitated. Then, finally, he nodded and smiled. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Draco smirked, then turned toward the door.
That was a start.
—
Draco walked alongside his mother as they made their way to the final stop on their list—Ollivanders. He had to suppress a small shiver as they approached the narrow, ancient-looking shop at the end of the alley.
The shopfront was modest, the gold lettering above the door slightly faded:
Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
Through the dusty window, he could see stacks upon stacks of long, thin boxes piled haphazardly in every available space. The shop itself looked exactly as he remembered it—dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of polished wood and aged parchment.
His mother stepped inside first, the small bell above the door letting out a soft chime. Draco followed, instinctively straightening his posture.
The silence inside was almost suffocating.
Then—
“Ah, Narcissa Malfoy.”
A soft voice echoed from the shadows, and within moments, Garrick Ollivander appeared from behind a tall stack of wand boxes. His silvery eyes gleamed with a peculiar intensity as he focused on her, then flicked toward Draco.
“And young Draco Malfoy,” he said with the faintest of smiles. “Here for your first wand, I assume?”
“Yes,” Narcissa said, her tone cool and polite.
Ollivander studied Draco closely, his piercing gaze making him feel as though the old man could see right through him. He knew things about wands that no one else did.
“Let’s begin, shall we?”
Draco nodded.
Ollivander moved swiftly, plucking a long, narrow box from one of the countless stacks and lifting the lid with practiced ease. “Try this one. Maple and dragon heartstring. Ten inches. Quite flexible.”
Draco took the wand, feeling the smooth wood against his fingers. He gave it a small flick—
A loud CRACK echoed through the shop as a stack of boxes tumbled to the floor.
“No, no, not that one,” Ollivander murmured, swiftly taking it back. “Perhaps… this.”
He handed Draco another wand—ebony and unicorn hair. A cool sensation spread through Draco’s fingertips as he gripped it, but before he could even attempt a spell, Ollivander snatched it away with a small frown.
“Not quite.”
Several more attempts followed—ash and phoenix feather, walnut and kelpie hair, yew and dragon heartstring. None felt quite right.
Then—
Ollivander paused. His gaze lingered on Draco for a moment longer than necessary before he turned and reached for a box high up on the shelf. He pulled it down carefully, almost reverently.
“Curious… very curious…”
He removed the lid, revealing a pale, polished wand nestled in velvet lining.
“Hawthorn and unicorn hair,” Ollivander said softly. “Ten inches. Reasonably springy.”
Draco reached out, hesitating for a fraction of a second before wrapping his fingers around the smooth handle.
A warmth spread through his palm, up his arm, like a pulse of energy recognizing him. A faint hum seemed to vibrate in the air around him.
“Yes,” Ollivander murmured, his strange silver eyes gleaming. “That will do.”
Draco stared at the wand in his grip. His wand.
Ollivander studied him, his expression unreadable. “Hawthorn is a tricky wood—suited for those who may undergo great change, often reflective of the complexities within the wielder. And unicorn hair, a core that remains loyal. A fascinating combination.”
Draco swallowed, unsure of what to say.
His mother stepped forward, producing the necessary payment, and just like that, it was done.
As they stepped out of the shop, Draco tightened his grip on his wand, feeling the weight of it settle in his hand.
This time, he would do things differently.