Chapter 7: Threads in Silk

The moment Harriet Potter and I step into Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, I am acutely aware that this is a pivotal scene in the grand tapestry I am weaving. The bookstore was a cacophony of noise and distraction, but within the confines of this shop, the atmosphere is one of hushed intimacy. Here, amidst the rolls of fabric and the scent of freshly cut cloth, the outside world fades into insignificance.

And then there is Draco Malfoy, a familiar figure who could not be more out of place in the quietude of Madam Malkin's establishment. He is perched on a stool, his posture radiating an air of entitlement as the old seamstress fusses over the hem of his robe. His eyes, a pale, washed-out gray, flicker toward the entrance, and for a brief moment, his gaze rests on Harriet. There is a flicker of disdain on his face, a reflexive sneer that vanishes as quickly as it appears.

He does not recognize her. To him, she is merely another first-year student, unworthy of his notice. This ignorance is a gift—a chance to observe Harriet Potter in a setting that is free from the weight of her celebrity.

The air in Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions is thick with the scent of fabric and the hum of magic. It's a place of quiet industry, where the only sound is the occasional snip of scissors or the rustle of robes being adjusted. I step through the door, Harriet Potter at my side, and the world outside seems to fall away, leaving us in a bubble of hushed expectation.

Draco Malfoy is already there, perched on a stool as Madam Malkin flits around him, her aged hands deftly adjusting the folds of his new robe. His gaze lifts to meet ours, a sneer of disdain marring his features as he takes in Harriet's ill-fitting clothes and unkempt hair.

"Hogwarts, too?" he inquires, his tone laced with an arrogance that is as familiar as it is grating.

Harriet hesitates, her gaze shifting from me to Draco, uncertain of his intentions. "Yes," she replies, her voice steady despite the wariness in her eyes.

Draco's inspection of her is thorough and dismissive. In his eyes, she is nothing—a mere Muggle-born, undeserving of the privilege that Hogwarts represents. "You must be a Muggle-born, then," he deduces with a cold finality, his words a brand meant to mark her as inferior.

A flicker of confusion crosses Harriet's face, but she remains silent, offering no correction to his assumption.

I watch, saying nothing. This is a test, a moment to gauge Harriet's mettle. She does not retreat into herself, nor does she lash out in anger. Instead, she studies Draco with a calm, appraising look—a look that suggests she sees far more than he intends to reveal.

The corner of my mouth twitches in a barely perceptible smile. Harriet Potter is full of surprises. She does not react as Draco expects, and this intrigues me. Her composure in the face of his arrogance is a quality that will serve her well in the years to come. It is a quality that I can mold, a strength that I can shape to my advantage.

Draco Malfoy turns to me next, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in my presence beside Harriet Potter. "Selwyn," he acknowledges, his voice carrying a note of surprise that he struggles to conceal.

"Malfoy," I return smoothly, my gaze steady and unflinching. Harriet, caught between us, watches the exchange with a keen sense of awareness. She's no longer just an observer; she's part of the game now, whether she realizes it or not.

"I didn't know you'd be attending Hogwarts," Draco says, his tone laced with a mix of curiosity and caution. He's well aware of the weight the Selwyn name carries—a family steeped in ancient magic and political influence.

"Why wouldn't I?" I reply, my question as mild as the late summer breeze that drifts through the open window of Madam Malkin's shop. I tilt my head slightly, a gesture that somehow manages to convey both innocence and a veiled threat.

Draco attempts a dismissive shrug, but the tension in his shoulders betrays his nonchalance. "I just assumed you'd be sent abroad. Durmstrang, perhaps. Or Beauxbatons," he suggests, the words hanging in the air like a challenge.

A slow, deliberate smile curves my lips. "Assumptions are dangerous, Draco," I chastise him gently, the underlying warning clear in my tone. Draco stiffens slightly, a reflexive response to the subtle shift in the balance of power between us.

"Well," Draco exhales, trying to regain some semblance of control, "I suppose Hogwarts could use a bit more proper company." His gaze flickers back to Harriet, raking over her disheveled appearance with thinly veiled disgust. "I expect it'll be filled with Muggle-borns, of course. They let in just about anyone these days."

Harriet's fingers twitch slightly, but she remains silent. Not because she's afraid—she's not the type to fear Draco Malfoy's petty barbs. Instead, she's observing, taking in the subtle power play unfolding before her. She's more perceptive than Draco gives her credit for, and that makes her far more dangerous than he realizes.

I step forward slightly, a movement calculated to draw Draco's attention back to me. "Let's hope they have the sense to choose the right company, then," I say, my tone light, but my words carry an edge.

Draco's brows furrow slightly at my neutral wording, unsure of where he stands in this exchange. He's used to reading people, to knowing exactly where he stands, but with me, he's always on uncertain ground.

And that is when he knows this conversation is over. Draco Malfoy does not like uncertainty, and I am nothing if not a master of ambiguity.

With a short nod, he steps down from the stool, his robe billowing slightly as he moves. "See you at Hogwarts, Selwyn," he says, his voice carrying a note of reluctant respect.

"Indeed," I reply, watching as he exits the shop, leaving Harriet and me alone amidst the rolls of fabric and the quiet hum of magic.

And now, now the stage is set. The players have taken their positions, and the game has truly begun.

"What's his deal?" Harriet asks, her brow furrowing as she steps onto the stool for her fitting, glancing in the direction Draco Malfoy had departed.

I let the silence hang for a moment, allowing her question to linger in the air. Then, with calculated deliberation, I reply, "Draco Malfoy is a symptom of a greater disease."

Harriet's eyes widen slightly at my words, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. She turns to look at me directly, her curiosity piqued. "What do you mean?" she inquires, her voice carrying the weight of her nascent understanding of the complexities of the wizarding world.

As Madam Malkin bustles around us, adjusting the fabric of our robes with deft, practiced movements, I take a moment to consider my response. I step onto my own stool, feeling the cool brush of the fine material against my skin. "There are those in the wizarding world," I begin, my voice steady and measured, "who believe that power is inherited, rather than earned. They think that one's worth is determined by the purity of their bloodline."

Her frown deepens, a thoughtful expression that suggests she is truly contemplating my words. "And you don't?" she probes, her gaze locked onto mine, searching for some semblance of truth in the midst of this new and bewildering world she has stepped into.

"I think blood can be a starting point," I concede, choosing my words with the precision of a master strategist. "But true power? That is something one must seize for themselves. It is not a birthright but a prize to be won through cunning, intelligence, and an unyielding will."

I pause, letting my words settle in the quiet, magical air of Madam Malkin's shop. Then, with a subtle shift in my posture, I turn to face her more fully, my gaze intent upon her reaction. "And you, Harriet Potter?" I ask, my voice soft but resonant with an undercurrent of challenge. "What do you believe?"

For a moment, she is silent, her lips parted as if on the cusp of answering, yet no sound escapes. Because she doesn't know yet. But she's curious. Inquisitive. And that curiosity is a seed—one that I will nurture with care and precision.

"You seem to have thought a lot about this," Harriet observes, her gaze focused as Madam Malkin fusses over the hem of her robe.

A soft hum of agreement escapes me. "Knowledge is power, after all. I prefer to be prepared."

"Prepared for what?" she presses, her voice tinged with the weight of her fledgling understanding of the wizarding world's complexities. I glance at her, a calculated tilt of my head offering a glimpse of earnest sincerity.

"For everything the world might throw at us." Her eyes meet mine, a cautious evaluation taking place behind those brilliant green irises. She's piecing together the puzzle of my character, trying to discern friend from foe, ally from adversary.

As Madam Malkin adjusts the pins on her sleeve, I glance at Harriet's reflection in the mirror. Her oversized shirt hangs loosely over her small frame, her jeans frayed at the ends, the shoes scuffed and clearly too big. It is not poverty. It is neglect. And neglect is a weakness waiting to be exploited.

"You should replace everything," I suggest, my tone casual yet deliberate.

She turns to me, surprise flickering in her eyes. "What?"

I gesture slightly to her reflection. "Your current clothes won't last. Muggle wear tears easily. Wizarding fabrics are enchanted for durability," I explain, letting my words sink in. "And you'll blend in easier if you don't look out of place."

A flicker of comprehension crosses her face. Harriet Potter is no stranger to standing out, but not in the way she might prefer. The notion of blending in is novel to her, a concept that carries with it the promise of a reprieve from unwanted attention.

"I—" She hesitates, the gears of her mind visibly turning. "I don't know if I have enough money for that."

I study her for a moment, my head tilted in a show of mild curiosity. "Do you have enough money for the things you need?" I ask, my voice soft, yet firm.

Her hesitation is brief but telling. She is accustomed to making do with what she has, to accepting the bare minimum as sufficient. But now, standing on the precipice of a new world, she is beginning to reassess what it means to have enough.

I offer her a small, knowing smile and say nothing more. The decision is hers to make, or so she will believe. The seed has been planted, and given time, it will take root and flourish. When she ultimately decides to purchase the new clothing, she will see it as her own choice, never realizing the subtle guidance that led her to it.

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