Chapter Five: Unicorn Hair and Dragon Heartstring
"Mother, how do I become friends with Harry Potter?"
In his first life, young Draco had closed The Rise and Fall of Dark Arts and looked up at Narcissa with eager eyes, hoping for her wisdom.
"Oh, darling," she had said with a gentle smile, "no one can refuse the hand of friendship extended by a Malfoy. Simply invite him, as you would any other child."
"But he's different," Draco had whispered, anxious. "He's a hero."
"We bow to no one," Narcissa replied proudly. "My son is exceptional. Be yourself—gracious, confident, unafraid. That is how you will find friends who truly value you."
At first, Draco had not disliked Potter. He had been curious, even admiring. Every wizard child grew up hearing the tale of the Boy Who Lived.
Lucius, too, had been intrigued—though for darker reasons. "A boy who defeated the Dark Lord may be a powerful dark wizard himself," he had told Draco. "Watch him closely. Offer friendship if it serves us. Draw him in if you can."
Draco had nodded eagerly, too young to see the trap.
But Narcissa's faith in her son had blinded her to his arrogance. When Draco treated Potter with the same condescension he used on Crabbe, rejection was inevitable. He had never imagined his words could wound. He had extended the hand of a Malfoy—how could anyone refuse?
Yet Potter had refused.
Only now, in hindsight, did Draco see how natural that rejection had been. His manner had been sharp, self‑centered, careless of others' feelings. Potter, bruised by years of neglect in the Muggle world, had bristled at such disdain. Draco's pride had been pierced, and he had lashed out, too vain to admit fault.
It had been a childish mistake. They had never been true enemies, only boys caught in a spiral of wounded pride. If they had spoken calmly, they might have understood each other. Perhaps they could have been friends—or at least not rivals.
Draco sighed as he walked the cobbles of Diagon Alley. He was no longer that vain boy. He wanted strength, not spectacle. He wanted meaning.
Today was a new beginning. He replayed his conversation with Potter in Madam Malkin's shop, reassuring himself that he had spoken well. Satisfied, he stepped into Ollivander's.
The wand shop was ancient, older even than Gringotts, its origins traced back to 382 BC. Dust and silence filled the narrow room. Narcissa waited, her proud face tinged with impatience.
"Draco, come," she called.
In the corner, a brown‑haired girl sat idly on a bench, studying the shelves. Draco barely noticed her.
"Good afternoon," came a soft voice. An elderly man with pale eyes and white hair appeared, measuring Draco with a gaze that seemed to pierce his soul.
Ollivander. A man Voldemort had valued greatly. Draco's instincts told him this wandmaker might hold secrets as vital as Fortescue's mutterings. But with his mother present, he could not ask.
"Ah, another Malfoy," Ollivander murmured. "Platinum hair, grey eyes… eighteen inches, elm, dragon heartstring. Your father's wand. Strong, very strong."
He leaned closer. "I hear he adorned it with a silver serpent's head. Exquisite craftsmanship."
Draco nodded cautiously. He saw disapproval flicker in the old man's eyes.
"And your mother," Ollivander continued, glancing at Narcissa. "Fourteen inches, redwood, unicorn hair. A wand of wisdom, rare and precious."
Narcissa smiled thinly. "Rare materials create rare power. That is why I want the finest for my son. Price is no concern."
But Ollivander shook his head. "It is not the wizard who chooses the wand. The wand chooses the wizard. Each has its own will. A wand forced into the wrong hands will falter."
Narcissa scoffed softly, displeased. Ollivander ignored her. He drew a silver tape measure, which slithered across Draco's body of its own accord. Then he vanished among the towering shelves, pulling down box after box.
"Try this—blackthorn, dragon heartstring, nine inches."
Draco waved it. Nothing.
"Rowan, dragon core, eleven inches."
Dead silence.
He tried maple, spruce, vine. Each failed. Ollivander grew more excited, muttering to himself, "Challenging, very challenging…" Draco grew bored, but endured.
At last, Ollivander returned with a box. "Hawthorn, unicorn hair, ten inches. Flexible."
Draco's fingers closed around it.
At once, golden light flared from the tip.
His wand. Simple, elegant, flawless. Brown at the tip, black at the base, smooth rings beneath his fingers. It fit his hand as though it had always been there.
Ollivander's pale eyes gleamed. "Curious. A loyal wand, suited to talent. Unicorn hair—noble, pure. But it resists dark magic. Strange, for a Malfoy." He muttered, "Yet your mother's wand is the same. Perhaps not so strange."
Draco ignored him. He had found his wand again—the wand he had lost to Potter, the wand he had longed to reclaim. No other had ever felt right.
He paid generously, bowed politely, and stepped toward the door, face calm but heart alight.
Behind him, the vine‑wood wand in another box glowed suddenly. Ollivander gasped. "Merlin's beard! Twice in two millennia!" He turned to the brown‑haired girl. "Miss Granger… destined for greatness."
Hermione Granger. Draco froze. Had they crossed paths here before, unnoticed? Was this their first meeting, hidden in memory?
He almost turned to look. Almost.
But outside, Lucius waited, impatient, his grey eyes sharp. This was no time to draw attention to a Muggle‑born girl. His father's prejudice could wound her.
Better not to risk it.
Draco sighed softly, pulled open the door, and walked away without looking back.
Hogwarts would bring their true meeting soon enough.