Diagon Alley
Draco
I was standing in the back of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. A tall, smiling blonde dressed in light green came over with a bundle of black robes and helped me put them on before starting to pin it to the right length. As she started to pin the left sleeve, a boy with messy black hair entered. Madam Malkin said something to him, too quietly for me to hear, before leading him over and standing him on a stool next to me.
She had just started working on his robes when I decided to try talking to him. "Hello," I say, trying to keep my nervousness out of my voice, "Hogwarts, too?"
"Yes." The boy said.
"My father’s next door buying my books and Mother’s up the street looking at wands,” I told him. I knew that I probably sounded bored, but bored was better than how I really felt. “Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first years can’t have their own. I think I’ll try to bully Father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow.”
After a moment, I added, "Have you got your own broom?"
"No."
"Play Quidditch at all?"
"No." This kid was odd. He didn't seem to have any interest in the biggest sport of our kind.
"I do — Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my House, and I must say, I agree. Know what House you’ll be in yet?”
"No." The boy sounded slightly confused.
"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I'm sure I’ll be in Slytherin, my whole family have been — imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?”
"Mmm,” said the boy. I wished he would say something a bit more interesting. I didn't want to be the one carrying this conversation.
“I say, look at that man!” I said suddenly, nodding toward the front window. There was a large man with a long, unruly beard and matching hair standing there, grinning at the boy and pointing at two large ice creams to show he couldn't come in.
“That’s Hagrid,” said the boy, sounding pleased. “He works at Hogwarts.”
“Oh,” I said, “I’ve heard of him. He’s a sort of... servant, isn’t he?”
“He’s the gamekeeper,” The boy said. He sounded... bitter.
“Yes, exactly. I heard he’s sort of wild — lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed.” My father had told me, though with more choice words.
“I think he’s brilliant,” The boy said coldly.
“Do you?” I said curiously. “Why is he with you? Where are your parents?”
“They’re dead,” said the boy shortly.
“Oh, sorry,” I said the other, feeling bad for him. “Were they our kind?”
“They were a witch and wizard, if that’s what you mean.”
“I really don’t think they should let the other sort in, do you? They’re just not the same, they’ve never been bought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families." Give the muggle-born their own school. I continued to myself. I knew that it was a sentiment many did not share.
"What’s your surname, anyway?”
But before the boy could answer, Madam Malkin said, “That’s you done, my dear,” and he, not looking sorry to end our conversation, hopped down from the footstool.
“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” I said.