𝔰𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫
"Sometimes you remind me of a lighter and slightly nicer version of Wednesday Addams..." Anthony said jokingly as he, Isabelle, and Clementine walked together toward Hogsmeade.
It was the Sunday after the first task and the first trip to Hogsmeade. The small town was going to be rather busy as not only was it the first trip, but it was also the first time that the foreign students would be able to go.
Even as they walked down the pathway through the outskirts of the forest, the three were far from alone.
Students of all ages and schools were rowdy and excited as they made their way to the wizarding community.
Anthony had been speaking to Isabelle, eyeing her newly painted black and purple nails. It had taken everything for Anthony and Clementine to drag the girl out of her bed (which she had been planning to stay in all day) and to Hogsmeade with them.
While there was not yet snow on the ground, it was still decently cold outside. It was why Isabelle was dressed in a warm oversized black coat, a baby pink beanie, and dark gloves.
Isabelle was not gothic, but she did like black. However, she also wore bright colors — hence, her favorite pink beanie.
"Who is that?" Isabelle asked, unsure as to who this "Wednesday Addams" was.
"Never mind; muggle things..." Anthony responded, waving it off.
Isabelle raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing.
"She's a super violent, gothic, but emotionless person!" Clementine piped helpfully.
Isabelle turned to glare at Anthony. "I am none of those things!" She said in an offended manner.
"That could be argued," Anthony snickered as they finally approached Hogsmeade. "Should we start our trip off with a butterbeer?"
Isabelle eyed the busy Three Broomsticks with disdain. It looked like finding an open table would be a struggle and they probably would not be served for at least thirty minutes with how busy it was.
Clementine was thinking the same thing based on the way she crossed her arms and frowned at it.
"No." Isabelle deadpanned. "I would rather go anywhere else..."
She did not feel like being crammed with a bunch of other teenage assholes.
Anthony pouted. "It'll be busy all day though, should we not just get it over with?"
Isabelle pursed her lips. "I am perfectly fine with not getting a butterbeer at all while we are here," She said stubbornly.
Anthony gaped, his eyes nearly falling out of his head. "That's the most heartless thing I've ever heard!"
For once, his twin had to agree with him, Clementine sending an apologetic smile to Isabelle. While Clementine agreed that the place was ridiculously busy — a butterbeer made warm sounded good enough to wait for hours right about now.
"I agree, why don't we just try to squeeze in with Su Li, Boot, and Corner?" Clementine suggested, pointing out three Ravenclaws in their year who were sitting at a table in the middle.
They were looking through the open door, a door which was only left open because many people were rushing in and out. The amount of people standing around the bar was insane.
As Clementine had said: Su Li, Terry Boot, and Michael Corner were sat in the middle. There was a boat of food at the center of the table that they were all sharing, and pitchers of butterbeer for each other.
They looked to be having a good time — obviously in some sort of academic debate if the way Su Li was shaking her finger at the two boys was anything to go by.
Such a Ravenclaw quality.
Isabelle put her hands on her hips in an unimpressed manner.
If fashion statements were to be made — then Isabelle's would be the loudest of all the students. Her long dark overcoat was buttoned up and fell to her ankles hiding her entirely beige and white outfit underneath.
As stated before: Isabelle liked black but she does wear color a lot of the time as well.
The girl wore a plain but nice white blouse tucked into smart beige trousers. Her short boots (an expensive pair straight from wizarding New York that she had begged her parents for last Christmas) were black made with only the nicest of leather and pointed tips.
Her pink beanie was truly the cherry on top though — seeing as her white and beige outfit was hidden by the long dark coat, the beanie was the only source of color that could be seen on Isabelle.
Obviously, Anthony had not seen what the girl was wearing underneath before he had called her a knock-off Wednesday Addams.
Anyway, it was not that Isabelle had any problem with Su Li, Terry Boot, or Michael Corner, but she was not in the mood to be asked when she transferred to Hogwarts for the fifth time by Michael. It seemed he always forgot she existed until she was forced into some social setting with him.
Not that it was necessarily his fault, he'd been going to school with the other Raevnclaws of their year since they were all eleven. Isabelle was decently new, but still, a year-and-a-half and five introductions should be more than enough for him to know who she was.
"No thanks..." Isabelle clicked her tongue, "But you guys go and enjoy yourselves... I'll be in Scrivenshaft's when you're done..."
Even though Isabelle liked using muggle pens (not that her parents knew that) she also enjoyed browsing the nicer quills in Scrivenshaft. While her parents tried not to spoil her too much, Isabelle still enjoyed the finer things in life.
She had an expensive taste.
"Aww, but c'mon, Iz..." Clementine tried to soften her up with a nickname she only used on occasion. "I know you want that butterbeer..."
Isabelle shook her head. "Not if I need to introduce myself to Michael Corner for the sixth time — I could also do without Su Li's ranting on magical theory."
Isabelle could only take so much talk about magical theory in one sitting before even she was bored by it.
And she loved magical theory.
Anthony weakly tried to defend Michael. "Don't be silly — I'm sure that Michael remembers..." the Goldstein male trailed off unsurely, "You..."
He was not actually sure that Michael Corner would.
Knowing that Isabelle's mind would not be changed, especially when she had the quill shop on her mind, Clementine nodded. "Very well — we'll try to be quick and then we'll come find you. How about we go to Zonko's afterward?"
Isabelle nodded but quickly added on. "And then Tomes and Scrolls?" She referred to Hogsmeade's bookshop.
It was like a goldmine in there, Isabelle could stay and look through the books for hours.
"And then Tomes and Scrolls," Anthony agreed with a roll of his eye, but his inner nerd was excited for the visit to Tomes and Scrolls. "Now, let's go before someone else snags those spots!" He quickly pulled Clementine inside with him.
Isabelle watched them push through the crowd, turning to leave. However, her eyes briefly met a pair of green ones sitting behind round glasses.
Harry Potter jumped as he was met with the female Ravenclaw who had saved his life the previous day.
"Bloody hell, Harry — where are you going?" Hermione questioned as Harry jumped from his chair, pushing through as many people as he could to get to the front.
"I'll you tell guys later, but I need to go before I lose sight of—" he was unable to finish his statement as he suddenly ran straight into someone.
Both grunted, Harry, making direct eye contact with Draco Malfoy. There was no hesitation, both boys suddenly nose-to-nose with each other — scowls painted across their faces.
Malfoy was, of course, flaked by his entire entourage.
Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, Nott, and Zabini. Even Millicent Bulstrode and Daphne Greengrass stood nearer to the back, they both were obviously accompanying Pansy more than Draco, but it was all the same nonetheless.
"Watch it, Potter! Did your parents not teach you how to walk... oh wait — I forgot, you don't have parents." Draco hissed, hitting Harry with a low-blow insult immediately.
Then again, it was kind of their thing to immediately insult the other whenever they interacted even in the slightest.
Harry's heart swam in red-hot anger with the smallest bit of pain as he was once again reminded of his lonely family line—the lonely little boy who grew up unloved.
But that was not true anymore — not when he had the Weasleys and Hermione. Dumbledore and McGonagall. Hagrid and Lupin. And now Sirius Black.
Harry may have not had parents, but he did have a family.
Typically, this would start an all-out screaming match between the two, but Harry did not have the time.
"Piss off, Malfoy! It's you who has two left feet!" Harry said right back before turning and continuing on his way.
Malfoy nearly went after him if it was not for Zabini grabbing his shoulder and stopping him.
"Mate, I am hungry and want a butterbeer, so if you do not work your Malfoy magic and get us that table filled with idiot third-years..." Zabini trailed off in an upset manner.
Malfoy rolled his eyes, pulling away from Zabini and using his anger at Potter to aid him as he stormed up to a table of idiotic third-year Hufflepuffs (who were no longer eating or drinking anything, mind you) and proceeded to scare them off.
Crabbe and Goyle standing behind him menacingly certainly helped in that aspect.
Anthony watched the exchange from where he sat next to his twin, leaning over to whisper in her ear so no one else heard, "I can't believe Isabelle fancies such an ass..."
Clementine smiled lightly, whispering right back. "I can..."
Malfoy had no clue of the whispered conversation happening just halfway across the establishment.
Isabelle herself was walking merrily on her way to the quill shop, humming the song "Double, trouble" under her breath.
She predicted that the first snowfall would be due in the next week or two if the heavy clouds in the sky were anything to go by.
She wandered into Scrivenshaft's peacefully, her boots tapping across the ground. The air immediately warmed up around her from the fire that crackled in the fireplace. The owner was diligently restocking items, his focus on the different quills.
There were not many other students — only a quiet seventh-year Ravenclaw couple admiring the quills in the back.
Isabelle herself made her way to the glass case that held the most expensive quills in the store.
A golden and black one caught her attention. It was simple but pricey. She could tell even without holding it that it wrote smoothly, and she was assuming it was one of the few quills charmed to not need ink.
She would switch from muggle pens for this beauty for sure.
"I've always admired the more expensive quills..." she said quietly, sensing the wizard lurking behind her hesitantly. "Better quality and all that..."
Isabelle spun around spotting Harry Potter standing a few feet away, his untamable hair creeping toward his eyes as always.
"Anyway — was there something I can help you with, darlin'?" And like a true hospitable Southern sweetheart, her accent came out in full overwhelming force, the urge to call anyone and everyone 'darling' winning.
Harry finally spoke, the boy surprised. He supposed that seeing as the last time he interacted with her he was fighting for his life he did not notice the American lilt to her tone.
"You're the one who helped me! But you're not from here...?" He did not want to assume anything but she certainly did not sound like she was from anywhere in Great Britain, France, or any of the regions that Durmstrang took.
Isabelle was not offended that Harry Potter did not recognize her in the slightest. In fact, she would rather her transition into Hogwarts be so quiet and seamless that it went unnoticed by the majority of the student population.
"No, I'm from Louisiana... I transferred here last year..." she explained easily.
"The States? But you weren't sorted in the Great Hall — no one talked about it?" Harry was more confused.
No way a student who not only transferred mid-year (which was rare) but also transferred from across the globe (something even rarer) slid under the radar as easily as this girl appeared to be doing.
Harry would not have believed it if it were not for the fact that she was speaking in American Southern talk that no one at Hogwarts talked with.
Hell, Harry was sure he'd never even heard that accent in real life. Only on the muggle television back at the Dursley's when his uncle would occasionally put on the international news network.
"Why?" Harry found himself asking.
Even he knew that she should currently be attending Ilvermorny — not Hogwarts.
Isabelle shrugged. "Because I wanted to — who would not take the opportunity to go to school overseas? Not to mention, Dumbledore persuaded my parents, so that helped."
Harry was slightly offended that Dumbledore did not mention that to him. He thought they were close. However, he decided not to let that get to him.
Harry nodded, clearing his throat before getting on to what he actually wanted to say. "I wanted to introduce myself properly and thank you for yesterday. I'm Harry Potter — and you did really help me out, so thank you..." he said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.
Isabelle tilted her head.
She really was a pretty girl, not the definition of what most would consider a wallflower. Harry was surprised she had managed to go unnoticed by most of the student body for so long.
Especially at a school like Hogwarts.
"Isabelle Lockley, a pleasure to meet you, Harry Potter. And it was no trouble at all — I'd rather not have seen you eaten alive..." Harry shuddered at her choice of blunt wording. "But I am taking what you said yesterday to heart..."
"Yesterday? What did I say?" Harry could not figure out what she was talking about.
Isabelle smiled a grin that was almost too innocent. "Well, ya' did say that ya' owe me your life. I'll come knocking one day, Harry, and when I do — I'll expect that you repay that debt..."
Harry was taken aback, if not a little creeped out. Her words held such certainty with a dark undertone, as though she knew that one day her life would be put in jeopardy and she would need the help of the-boy-who-lived.
But if Harry was anything, it was honorable. Even if he did not owe her his life, he would have be willing to help anyway.
And so, the answer he settled for was easy.
"Seems reasonable enough..." He nodded.
As interesting as this new student was, Harry did not doubt that Ron and Hermione were out on the hunt for him. It was also slightly awkward between the two seeing as the topic of their conversation had turned heavy.
"I should be going now — do you want to join?"
Isabelle gave him a genuine smile for the true kindness he showed.
"I think I'll stay here, maybe test out a few of these quills... but you have a good day now, darlin'. I'm sure we'll talk again." Isabelle said before turning back to the quills.
Harry nodded, slowly walking away. "Alright then, it was nice meeting you, Isabelle..."
With that, he spun on his heel and chaotically swooshed out the door.
Isabelle was not sure about her new opinion on Harry Potter. She did not dislike him but she also could not say with confidence that she liked him. She supposed she was still neutral with him.
The original Scrivenshaft's grandson, an older man suddenly finished with his restocking. Isabelle wasted no time in approaching him, tapping his shoulder.
Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop opened for the first time in 1778: the shop has been passed down the Scrivenshaft generation ever since.
The old wizard whirled around, eyes gleaming as he recognized her as someone who came in frequently but he was unable to remember her name. He leaned against the counter, scratching his beard and speaking in a gruff Scottish accent.
"Aye — ya' want to test some more quills, lass?"
Normally, Scrivenshaft would not allow students to constantly test out different quills without ever making a purchase, but there was simply something about Isabelle that made him allow it. As though he was physically unable to say no to her.
And Isabelle knew this.
She grinned brightly, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Oh, yes please, sir..." and how could anyone say no to that absolutely darling accent?
With Isabelle, when it came to charming adults — those Southern manners came out in full force.
As her grandmother taught her from a young age, it was always "yes, sir" or "yes, ma'am" when addressing elders.
It was not long before Scrivenshaft was handing her that beautiful quill she had been admiring. The first thing she noticed about it was the weight, it had an incredibly nice weight to it. The gold and obsidian felt cool against her skin.
"Here, give it a try!" The old man pushed a blank piece of paper to her.
Without hesitation, Isabelle wrote down a spiraling, "Hello, Draco Malfoy..." she paused before following it with a, "We should get butterbeer sometime..."
So here was the thing.
Isabelle thought this was funny — did she want Malfoy to figure out it was her? No.
But would it be really hard for him to track down who left a random note at some shop in Hogsmeade? Yes.
She highly doubted that Scrivenshaft even knew her name. There was no way Draco would find out.
And see as Draco still had no clue that Isabelle was the one to write the letter — she figured she would push her luck just a bit more. She might as well start having fun with this crush of hers. Especially seeing as it was obviously here to stay.
"Marvelous!" She said happily handing the pen back to Scrivenshaft who carefully put it back in its nice box.
Isabelle folded the paper over, handing it to the old man.
"If you see the young Mr. Malfoy come in today, do give him this..." she handed the owner the piece of paper. "It's been a pleasure!" She tilted her head before turning on her heel and walking toward the door.
Scrivenshaft called out before she could leave. "Don't you want me to tell him who it's from?"
Isabelle turned around quickly, shaking her head. "Oh! Definitely not — and if he asks, tell him you don't remember what I looked like either!"
That was insurance, now there was no chance Malfoy would be able to figure this out.
No name or description to go off: impossible.
Scrivenshaft winked at her. "But, of course, lass..."
★✯☆★✯☆
Draco Malfoy sat squashed between Millicent Bulstrode and Pansy Parkinson. The glare he was delivering to Theodore Nott who was pointedly ignoring him was fierce.
This was originally Nott's seat, but the second Malfoy left to use the restroom — his seat was stolen and he was left with the chair Nott had ditched. Stuck in the middle between Bulstrode and Parkinson.
Bulstrode was not the issue, it was Parkinson who kept trying to scoot her chair closer to his.
Malfoy was not sure what to do — at this point, he was confused about his own feelings for Parkinson. He liked the attention she gave him occasionally, but he also recognized that there were more times that he would rather do without it.
Was it so hard to just ask for the girl who used to be his friend back?
But then again, Parkinson was a good choice for a potential partner. She was part of the Sacred 28 — the true pureblooded families of Great Britain. Parkinson had historically remained in good graces with the Malfoys (although, if Draco had to guess, he was probably related to Pansy in some way seeing as nearly all the purebloods of Great Britain were related).
The Parkinson family was also rather well-off themselves. Pansy's father, Percival worked some higher-up position in the ministry while her mother remained home living off the Parkinson wealth.
While they were nowhere near as rich as the Malfoy's, they were still one of the more well-off families in the wizarding world.
Draco knew that his father was already looking into potential arranged marriages for him. He had no doubt that Parkinson was an option. Draco would need to tell his father sooner rather than later that he had no interest in the Parkinson girl.
Malfoy thumbed over the idea of finding a nice French girl.
If the girls from Beauxbatons were anything to go by, he would certainly be happy with whatever pureblooded French girl his father suggested.
If he was lucky, maybe his father would not even arrange a marriage. As long as Draco did not become an idiot like his mother's sister — Andromeda Black — and married some lowlife mudblood, his parents would be happy.
And he would be happy too. Draco Malfoy had never had a chance to figure out his own beliefs when it came to blood status, all he knew was what his parents had spoon-fed him since he was young as well as the beliefs that came from all those around him.
He had barely ever visited the muggle world, but the few times he had, he had hated every second of it.
"Oh, Dracooo..."
Malfoy sighed, looking to his left — his face scrunched in pain. "Yes, Parkinson?" He breathed in a manner that was anything but patient.
He had stopped using Pansy's first name weeks ago. Draco hoped this would give her a hint, but she appeared to not notice.
"We should go to Madam Puddifoot's!" She suggested.
Blaise and Zabini both snickered from across the way earning an immediate harsh glare from Pansy. Bulstrode did not even notice seeing as she was wrapped in a conversation with Daphne, Crabbe, and Goyle.
Draco cringed at the suggestion.
This Hogsmeade visit was already turning out to be anything but enjoyable. Being forced to sit in that tacky, cramped, steamy little place where everything seemed to have been decorated with frills or bows would only make it ten times worse.
Not to mention, he would be alone with Parkinson of all people.
Absolutely the fuck not.
Somehow, Draco Malfoy — Draco Malfoy who was NEVER polite to anyone unless his father demanded it turned to Parkinson almost gently.
"No, thank you..." he rejected her in the kindest way he could muster.
Of course, it was Draco Malfoy's kind, so his voice was rather cold despite his words.
Pansy frowned but nodded and accepted his response. She did not appear to be put off; however, which was slightly concerning to the Malfoy boy. He glared at the two buffoons who sat across from him.
Nott and Zabini were cracking up under their breaths, their eyes sparking with mirth for him.
Malfoy huffed and looked away disinterested, resting his head on his hand.
His arrogant and slightly angsty thoughts drove him to hate this school even more than he already did. His father's words rang in his head — Hogwarts was falling off — Malfoy was too good for it now.
Back when he was eleven, Lucius Malfoy had pushed for Draco to go to Durmstrang. And he would have if not for his mother who did not like the idea of Draco being so far away.
While Draco would never admit it out loud, he was glad for his mother. Despite his hate for Hogwarts, he was not sure that he would have faired well at Durmstrang.
The last string in Draco broke when Pansy suddenly put her hand on his thigh from under the table. His body went rigid, the boy suddenly standing up — practically knocking his chair over as he did so.
Malfoy was arrogant and egotistical — he was selfish. He did not like being out of control in the worst ways possible: he was not fair.
Essentially, this added up to Malfoy being able to touch Pansy however he so pleased whenever he pleased, but it was not the same vice versa.
Pansy was not allowed to touch him without Malfoy explicitly saying he wished so.
It was quite an unfair mindset, but he was Draco motherfucking Malfoy. He did as he pleased.
Draco quickly smoothed over his black coat as all eyes at the table fell on him from his hasty movements. Pansy's hand clenched as though she had been burnt, her lips puckering as she looked at the table almost angrily.
It was not fair — Draco could touch her whenever he wanted but she was not allowed to put her hand on his thigh?! Of course, Draco had never touched her violently or in a way that made her uncomfortable (and she doubted he ever would, Malfoy was more bark than bite) but still, it was the principle of it.
Pansy would never say such things though, not when her father was pushing her to make Draco Malfoy fall in love with her.
Percival Parkinson would love nothing more than for his daughter to marry into the Malfoy fortune.
And Pansy had already been quite soft for Draco, so she chose to pursue it as best she could.
Draco finished smoothing over his coat. As usual, when he was not in the Hogwarts uniform, he wore black. He wore dark trousers and warm boots — an equally as black sweater hidden under his overcoat.
His white hair just barely stuck out on the sides as he wore a fur hat. Of course, the fur was real — it was from some furry magical creature from the Antarctic. Draco could not remember the long complicated name of the creature for the life of him, all he knew was that it was probably endangered seeing how expensive the hat was.
Only the best for a Malfoy.
After moments of silence, his friends looking at him questioningly — Malfoy spoke.
"I'm going to buy a new quill." He said plainly.
His quills were ridiculously expensive, of course. Smooth writing with self-filling ink.
Crabbe and Goyle began to stand up, ready to follow him but Malfoy held up a hand.
"I'm going alone," he said before spinning around.
All of them looked at each other in confusion. Malfoy rarely went anywhere alone when he was at school. If there was a ring leader to their Slytherin group — then that leader was most definitely Malfoy.
However, they soon forgot about their friend's sudden bitterness, all of them falling into easy conversation with each other again.
Draco found himself pushing through the crowd at Three Broomsticks. He snickered as he accidentally shoved a fifth-year to the ground. It always felt good when he managed to be mean to an upperclassman, especially Hufflepuffs or Gryffindors.
Draco was greeted by cool air — his pale face turning pink from the cold almost immediately. Even as it had not snowed yet, it might as well have from how chilly it was.
The Durmstrang students seemed unaffected; however, seeing as they practically lived in the icy tundra.
Hogsmeade was much busier than usual with people from all three schools wandering around.
As Draco walked by a group of French girls — he smirked at them appreciatively causing giggles to erupt from the group. Every girl in that group was some part Veela seeing as their beauty was anything but natural.
Well technically, it was natural for them, but not natural by human standards.
Draco wondered how his father would react if he ever came home with a beautiful Veela witch hanging from his arm. Lucius Malfoy would lose his shit no doubt: he'd probably bark at Draco to get that halfbreed abomination out of his presence.
For the students who thought Draco was intense about blood purity — he only wished they could see his father on a bad day.
Just the thought had Draco shuddering.
Malfoy pushed open the door to Scrivenshaft's, walking to the back where they kept the more expensive quills. Thankfully, there was no one else in the shop apart from the owner. Not many people liked to look at quills, it was one of Malfoy's weird quirks.
He liked admiring expensive quills. He would take that weird hobby with him to the grave.
He leaned against the glass casing that kept his favored quills.
Unsurprisingly, the quill he liked the best was black with a large white feather. The tip was perfectly pointed and took a long time to dull. The quill was charmed with never-ending ink — so he did not need an ink pot.
And, not that anyone was able to see it from far away, the quill was actually engraved with different symbols. There was not one symbol that was the same for the quills, all designs were different for each quill.
It was why Draco liked this specific brand so much, he enjoyed feeling and investigating the different engravings on each of his quills.
His eyes moved to the royal blue one. He had many quills in black, gold, and green. He even had one in red. He did not; however, have one in this particular shade of blue.
It was quite beautiful, and he had to wonder what animal this came from to have such a unique shade of blue for the feather.
"Oi — Scrivenshaft, let me see this one!" Draco demanded.
He was one of Scrivenshaft's most avid buyers, the man would never deny him anything.
Scrivenshaft scurried from the back, not surprised to see Malfoy, but surprised that he came so soon after the curly-haired girl left.
"Ah, our newest model quill!" Scrivenshaft said joyously, reaching into the glass case and carefully taking out the quill. "The quill itself is made from silver, charmed to reflect the rare blue of its feather. The feather comes from a diricawl — they're typically green you see, but this one was a rather rare shade of blue..."
"So it's rare, and this is the only quill?" Malfoy raised a brow whilst taking the quill from Scrivenshaft and testing its weight in his hand.
"Rare; yes. The only one; no. But there are not many, only six quills were made for only six feathers were plucked from the diricawl..." the owner explained, sliding a blank page over to Draco who quickly started doodling on it to test its writing capabilities.
"Hmph," Draco finally acknowledged, "I'll take it..."
And with that, barely two minutes had passed before Scrivenshaft placed it in a nice velvet casing of red and was ringing Malfoy up.
"That'll be 20 galleons..."
Expensive indeed, but the Malfoy name was made of money. Even if Draco did not have access to the family wealth on his own quite yet, he was certainly spoiled by his parents. They gave him a ridiculous amount of spending money per school year.
Without hesitation, Malfoy reached into his coat pocket pulling out the required coins and dropping them on the counter. Scrivenshaft quickly handed the boy the quill and greedily began placing the money in his register.
Malfoy rolled his eyes at this, taking the new quill case and turning to leave.
"Wait!"
Malfoy froze, turning back around perplexed.
Did he hand over the wrong amount of galleons?
There was no way — if Malfoy was proficient in anything it was certainly money counting.
"What?" Malfoy scowled, almost immediately becoming defensive.
"Some girl dropped this off," Scrivenshaft spoke while handing Draco a folded piece of paper. "Said to give it to ya' if ya' ever come in..."
What the bloody hell?
Malfoy ripped the paper out of his hands, unfolding it and reading what it said. He recognized the handwriting because it was the same handwriting as was in that damn love letter. The love letter he was still unable to find the owner of!
He had practically given up on trying to find the author of it, whoever it was would not step forward and there were no leads for Draco to go off. Pansy had no clue who'd left the letter, and even if she did, Draco was highly doubtful she would even tell him to help her own chances.
Obviously, Draco was curious about the whole thing. Other than Harry Potter's ludicrous adventures, this was the most interesting thing to happen in Draco's time at Hogwarts.
A secret admirer? What teenager would not want that!?
Draco may have been a rich pureblooded asshole — but he was still a teen boy. A teenager wondering who the writer could be. What house was she in? Was she smart? Was she pretty? Did she smell of flowers or anything else sweet?
Was she a pureblood or a half-blood? Merlin, he prayed she was a pureblood, his family would never accept anything less.
Was her hair long or short? Was she tall or short? Younger or older than him?
What did she like to do for fun? Did she have any hobbies — did she play quidditch? Does she like butterbeer as much as he did? Was she as spoiled as him or poor like the pathetic Weasleys?
So many questions: and Draco did not know the answer to even one.
It was bloody infuriating — the first girl who actually seemed to like him for something other than his name and wealth (or at least, based on the letter she did) and he had no clue who it was!
The note quite literally read:
𝓗𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓸, 𝓓𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓸 𝓜𝓪𝓵𝓯𝓸𝔂! 𝓦𝓮 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓰𝓮𝓽 𝓫𝓾𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓻 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮...
And there was no signature, no indication of who could have possibly written it. How was he meant to go out with this person if he did not even know who it was?!
They were toying with him — testing him to see if he was smart enough to figure out who it was.
Or it was legitimately just some girl who was too nervous to approach him. The latter seemed like the more likely idea.
Especially given Draco's track record. For the first time, the Malfoy boy wished he was a bit more approachable.
"Who left this here?" Draco demanded, looking to Scrivenshaft after reading through the note five more times.
The man shrugged. "Some girl..."
Malfoy was about to lose his fucking head. "Well, what did she look like? What house was she in?!"
Scrivenshaft looked at him almost appalled. "How should I know what house she was in — she wasn't wearing any house robes. And I'm an old man, I don't take in young girl's appearances..."
"Yet, you remember that she was not wearing anything to symbolize what house she is in?" Draco pointed out heatedly.
"I can't pick and choose what I do or don't remember..." Scrivenshaft answered before wandering to the back and humming annoyingly as he did so.
Draco huffed, about to murmur how he would complain to his father. He stopped because he realized that his father definitely would not be hearing about this. He had no clue how his father might react, but Draco had the sinking feeling that it would not be positive.
Not unless Lucius knew for a fact that whoever this girl was with a crush on his son came from a respectable and powerful pureblooded family.
He teetered against the idea of owling his mother about it — surely his mother would have ideas on how Draco might find this lovebird.
But no, Draco wanted to figure it out on his own. And he was now ten times more determined. Draco Malfoy was going to find out whoever this doe-eyed little lovebird was if it was the last thing he ever did.
After all, all is fair in love and war.
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