August 1st, 1991

In the back of Madam Malkins Robes For All Ages, I watched as a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin brought another boy with shaggy hair drooped over his forehead and glasses to stand on a stool next to the first boy. Madam Malkin promptly slipped a long robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length.

“Hello,” said the pale haired boy, his face that distinct shade of ‘ghastly’ that seemed to run in the family, “Hogwarts, too?”

“Yes,” said the boy with glasses, who, if the pale haired boy had taken even a moment to truly look at, was obviously The Boy Who Lived.

“My father’s next door buying our books and Mother’s up the street looking at wands,” said the boy entire countenance screamed ‘insufferable’. He had a bored, drawling voice and I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of him screeching like a banshee when he realizes I’ll be able to mock him for days after this. “Then I’m going to drag Father off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first years can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully Father into getting me one and I’ll smuggle it in somehow.”

I had to hold back a choked laugh at the thought of him bullying Father. As if he’d have the backbone for it.

“Have you got your own broom?” the boy went on.

“No,” said The Boy Who Lived, who I’ve already written off as any help beyond the obvious. This conversation has been entirely predictable this far -other than some meager article changes.

“Play Quidditch at all?”

“No,” He repeated once again. I’d be willing to bet the The Boy Who Lived didn’t even know what that word meant yet.

“I do — Father says it’s a crime if neither of us are picked to play for our House, and I must say, I agree. Know what House you’ll be in yet?”

“No.” It’s a trifecta of entirely predictable responses.

“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family have been — imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?” I had to, once again, hold in a snort as I eavesdropped on my brother’s insufferable conversation. Slytherin or not, Father would castrate him if he couldn’t make it through the sorting ceremony.

Sure, our house had always been filled with snakes, but if one of the heir candidates couldn’t even stomach spending a year at Hogwarts even if they had to do so as a Badger? Well. Suffice it to say he wouldn’t be an heir candidate anymore. I found myself half hoping fate wasn’t truly set in stone and my brother was a Hufflepuff -just so I could save myself the trouble of inheritance.

Besides, Mother would sooner take the lumps of having a badger in the family than ship him off to Durmstrang.

“Mmm,” The Boy Who Lived, whose name I do remember but prefer to treat like the Dark Lord, clearly didn’t enjoy this conversation. Can’t say I blame him.

“I say, look at that man!” said my brother, nodding toward the front window. There an overly tall man with an unkempt beard was standing, grinning inside -clearly at The Boy Who Lived, and pointing at two large ice creams that were already dripping. Madam Malkin would surely throw a fit if he took even a half step inside.

“That’s Hagrid,” as though he was sharing the most fascinating tale, his expression looked pleased as punch. “He works at Hogwarts.”

“Oh,” said my brother, his nose scrunching in disgust, “I’ve heard of him. He’s a sort of servant, isn’t he?”

“He’s the gamekeeper,” said The Boy Who Lived sharply. I knew the conversation was dead long before, but it’s nice to know my brother has all the tact and subtlety of a crowbar to a glass pane. Not that he would know what a crowbar was.

“Yes, exactly. I heard he’s a sort of savage — 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.”

You know, I wonder why Father even told us that story. It seems a bit beneath him if I’m honest -would’ve been more his style to mock the man for having his wand snapped rather than entertain us with drunken tales and mischief. Though Father has often surprised me over the years, so maybe I’m once again letting fate cloud my eyes. Seeing only what I remember rather than the true reality.

“I think he’s brilliant,” The Boy Who Lived, who I think I may begin referring to as TBWL -or Tibble for ease of understanding and clarity of thought.

“Do you?” said brother dearest, with a slight sneer that made him look rather constipated. “Why is he with you? Where are your parents?”

“They’re dead,” As I was out of sight of both boys, I rolled my eyes and pretended to be fascinated by a silver and violet ombré set of robes. When Mother comes by I’ll remind her how fetching she looks in the color and ‘maybe we should get matching sets’. I’ll even be a sweet sister and get masculine accessories for my brother so he isn’t left out. Not that I could leave him out even if I wanted to -the pest refuses to fade into the background no matter the occasion. Mother will handle the coddling of Father’s ego, so it’s not like he won’t get a set as well. She’s quite lovely like that.

“Oh, sorry,” said my brother, who very clearly couldn’t care less about Tibble’s sob story. “But they were our kind, weren’t they?”

“They were a witch and wizard, if that’s what you mean.” Ah, Tibble has realized the truth of the matter if his clipped tone and measured expression are any indication.

“I really don’t think they should let the other sort in, do you? They’re just not the same, they’ve never been brought 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. What’s your surname, anyway?”

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But before Tibble snipped back, Madam Malkin said, “That’s you done, my dear,” and the boy with a covered scar in the shape of a lightning bolt and round glasses that did his green eyes no favors hopped down from the footstool.

“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” said my non-the wiser brother.

“Hey, you gnat, don’t just embarrass the family name to anyone who will listen,” I couldn’t help but throw out, propping myself up against the mirror in front of my brother and looking him over as he took in a choke of air at my appearance. Now that Tibble was gone I let out a laugh and arched an eyebrow, “Really. What would Father say?”

My brother scrunched his nose, much like his Sneer of Disgust, but instead of the flat drawling voice his had used earlier he had a hint of amusement now, “He’s more likely to scold you for wearing that garnet than he is to tell me I did wrong.”

“It’s not even griff red - it’s more red violet!” I half heartedly defended myself as I tucked the jeweled necklace beneath my collar, “The stuffy old man won’t complain once Mother shows him the matching robes we’ve gotten him -well, once she knows we’re getting them. He’ll go positively radiant.”

“Oh, will I now.” The slow, measured voice of my father filled the small area we’d been bantering in and I felt myself smile almost immediately.

“Father,” I started, letting my grey eyes meet his own, “Between you and me, and whoever else happens to be listening, the lot of us will look quite fetching at the next Governors social in our matching robes.”

Before him or my brother could get a word in I felt my smile sharpen, “Besides, Mother would hate for you to strip her of the opportunity to wear a color that make her look so fetching.”

My father arched a brow, so controlled, so sharp, I nearly voiced my envy, as he said, “Very well, why don’t you show us these fetching robes you are convinced will turn the tide of the Wizarding world.”

I heard my brother snort and I couldn’t help but sign and feign exasperation, “Oh, bugger. Fine, but we’ll be telling Mother I’m the one who picked it out and I get to be the first to compliment her when she tries it on.”

“Like you would’ve kept quiet anyway,” I heard my brother mumble as we went on our way.

A few short minutes later I found myself outside Ollivander’s propping myself up against the shabby front wall, waiting for my brother to come out with mother so I could get my own wand. The gold letters covering the door were worn and peeling, and even though I could still read the iconic tagline ‘Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.’ I couldn’t find it in myself to be impressed by the wand shop. Maybe had I simply awoken yesterday to a magical world I would have the wonder of an eleven year old boy who spent his formative years in a cupboard, but alas. The magic is ruined. So, when my brother dearest strode out with a 10” Hawthorne with Unicorn Hair, I simply took his spot and stood with my mother in the cramped shop.

“Yes, welcome, welcome, oh my!” The soft words matched well with the frailty of the old man before me, who must be Mr. Ollivander himself, “I can tell already - whatever wand you fit will be magnificent.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ollivander. I’m sure my mother has told you our families preferences?” Hopefully a Hawthorne or an Elm, maybe even a Blackthorn like my mother.

“Of course - but it’s up to the wand, after all. Stick out your wand arm, now.” He said dismissively, his silvery eyes zoning in on my right wrist as he took a measuring tape with silver markings to my arm.

“Oh, yes, hmm,” He was no longer making small talk as he ran his finger over the rows and columns of messily stacked wand cases until he tapped a red box twice and popped it to set it in front of me, “Go on -give it a swish! It may be your other half. Twelve inches, Walnut, unicorn hair. How’s your father? Elm if I remember, proper?”

I gingerly grasped the smooth grain of the wand, giving it a light swish -and no sooner did I do that than did it shoot out of my hand straight back to Ollivander. Before I’d even processed that, the old man was already pulling out two more cases from higher up, “All was well last I saw him.”

“Take your pick of these two - yes, I imagine your fathers wand is serving him just as well as a Governor as it ever did in the war.” There wasn’t any malice in his words, but a cold trickle still spread across my spine as I took in their meaning.

Simply nodding my head, I chose to let my mother handle that bit with a mild, off hand comment about versatility. I was already transfixed by the auburn wand with ornate fixtures.

“10 inches. Redwood and Phoenix feather -an unlikely pair, based on the particular creature but I think it’ll fit you well. Nice and pliable that one.”

“Here goes - I’ve heard Redwood is one for the lucky. I’m hoping for a good omen.” I have a small smile as I once again swished. Unlike before, there was simply… nothing.

“Tut tut! Third times the charm, eh? Go on! Give this one a go!” Ollivander quickly swapped the Redwood for a silvery green wand that seemed to shimmer.

“It’s beautiful, what kind is it?”

“A 12 and a half inch Silver Lime with a Phoenix feather - I’m sure of at the least the core for you. They say these ones are good for those with destinies tied to Seeing and Knowing.” I swished and a depressing fizzle filled the air. Ollivander swiped it out of my hand just as quick as before, a smile spreading across his crinkling skin, “Ah - ah - I’ve got another. Hold, please.”

As the man darted back behind a corner, I heard a furious rustling sound and a thump that seemed to indicate Ollivander may have hit something. I looked over to my mother with concerned eyes, “Should we be worried for him?”

“Oh, no, the man has been this way since I was a babe. A whole season at St. Mungos couldn’t fix what he’s got going on.” Mothers voice was soft and lilting, and it reminded me of a winter morning spent wrapped in front of the fireplace. Mother was home, safety, and love, all rolled into one. I couldn’t wait to show her the new dress robes once we Floo home.

Furiously, Ollivander made his way back to me as he held a wooden box stained green. As he got closer I could see the box jolt and an occasional spark seep from the jostled opening, “Quickly, quickly, a 12” Vine wand with the core of a Nordic Phoenix - flexible as it gets!”

As Ollivander pushed the case into my hands, I slid off the top to see the wand producing wonderful silver and lavender sparks. Wrapping my fingers around the base, I felt something click into place. As if the wand simply belonged in my palm. It was only a handfuls of seconds before the sparks stopped but I was quite pleased with the display.

“That’s only the third time I’ve seen a Vine wand react so strongly -simply by being in the same room as it’s wizard.” Ollivander had an unsettled look in his eyes as he took in the wand once more, “Vine and Phoenix make a fine pair - a perfect addition to one’s own ambition if you’re like the rest of your family.”

With a look from my mother, Ollivander slid the empty wand box towards me and told my mother it was fifteen galleons before we left the shop and met back up with the two men in the family at the broom shop.

“Did you get the new Nimbus, little brother?” I sniped from a half yard away, causing him to jolt. It only took a moment for him to re-settle before sending a tight lipped smile my way.

“I am older than you by three minutes, little sister. And yes, we were about to head back to you.”

I couldn’t help but snort, undignified as it was, “Look at you! A whole three minutes older but I’m still an inch taller.”

“Children. Mind yourselves. It is time to return home. The items are by the Floo waiting for us.” The cold voice of father cuts our banter like a knife, pushing the two of us back into the rigid expectations our father has for us.

Calm. Collected. Docile until provoked, but lethal when pushed. Our expressions go from casual amusement to droll in a moment. A mask worn to protect us.

As we approach the fireplace, father took a handful of Floo powder and flung it outward. Once we were all inside, with the trolley of items in with us, he spoke coldly and clearly.

“Malfoy Manor, Reception Hall.”