The warm scent of wool and silk lingered in Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions after Harry left.
Draco turned once before the mirror. His pale blond hair shone softly under the overhead lamps—freshly trimmed by the stylist on Narcissa's order, falling just to the tips of his ears. Refined, elegant, unmistakably Malfoy. Exactly how he had looked at thirteen.
"Let's take this one." He lifted a hand to smooth his collar, his voice cool and even. "The cuffs should be tightened by a centimeter. They get in the way."
Madam Malkin hurried to oblige, her measuring tape circling his wrist twice. "Of course, Mr. Malfoy."
Narcissa stood nearby and handed him a cup of hot cocoa with a gentle smile. "I bought this from the tea shop next door. You always loved it when you were little."
Draco accepted it, fingers brushing the warm ceramic, his movements softening—he could never help lowering his guard a little around Narcissa. "Thank you, Mother."
He took a sip. The sweetness slid down his throat, but he barely tasted it. His mind was still caught on that brief handshake—Harry's hand had been cold, gripping his with an urgency that felt as if he feared Draco might slip away.
"That boy from earlier… he's from the Potters, isn't he?" Narcissa asked lightly, though her eyes searched his expression. "The Boy Who Lived."
Draco's fingertip traced a line across the cup, his tone steady. "Yes. First time meeting him."
He couldn't say more.
Rebirth was something not even Lucius or Narcissa could know— not because he didn't trust them, but because every extra person aware of it was another chance for Dumbledore to notice something was wrong.
He had to react to "Harry Potter" exactly as he did in his past life: wary, as a Malfoy should be, but with no particular interest.
Just then, the shop door swung open with brisk little footsteps.
"Draco! You're here too!" Pansy Parkinson bounced in, her pink hair ribbon swaying distractingly. Her mother followed behind her, glittering in a purple robe adorned with pearls.
Draco turned, slipping easily into the polite arrogance of his former self—the faint curl of his lips, the detached look in his eyes, just distant enough without being rude.
"Pansy." He nodded. "Your mother is here as well?"
"Yes! She's buying my robes." Pansy leaned in, eyes flicking over Draco's new black robes. "Yours looks amazing—is this imported Italian silk? My mother wanted the same fabric for mine, but Madam Malkin said yours was the last one."
"Malfoys always have the best." Draco sidestepped neatly, giving her and her mother room to browse. "Take your time. Mother and I need to visit Ollivander's for my wand."
Pansy opened her mouth to reply, but her mother tugged her back. Mrs. Parkinson clearly understood Draco's cues—this was his "not interested in talking" look.
"We'll let you go ahead," she said with a polished smile. "We'll find you later for tea."
Draco inclined his head slightly in response.
Once they were out of earshot, he turned back toward the window, cup in hand, eyes drifting toward the flow of people outside. Harry had gone that way earlier. Draco wondered if he'd reached the bookshop yet—if he was managing everything on his own.
"What are you looking at?" Narcissa asked as she joined him, following his gaze. All she saw were witches, wizards, and shopfronts crowded together.
"Nothing." Draco set down the empty cup. "We should go. If we're late, Mr. Ollivander will be too busy."
Narcissa chuckled. "All right. Your father specifically asked that you choose a wand that suits you perfectly."
The mention of Lucius stirred something in Draco. In his past life, Lucius had accompanied him to buy his wand, lecturing him on how "a Malfoy must use nothing but the finest." This time, Lucius was tied up at the Ministry, leaving Narcissa to attend with him.
It was fine. Once they returned to the manor, Draco would find a chance to talk to his father—to slowly shift Lucius's perception of Harry and quietly clear the path ahead.
They stepped out of Madam Malkin's. Afternoon sunlight fell across Draco's pale hair, gilding it faintly.
He carried the robe box for Narcissa as they moved down the cobblestone street. Whenever they passed members of pure-blood families, Draco paused to greet them—voice, posture, the angle of his nod—everything impeccable.
"Look, Draco—Honeydukes." Narcissa pointed toward the colorful storefront of Honeydukes Sweetshop, her eyes bright. "You've always loved their Acid Pops. Shall we get some?"
Draco blinked, then nodded. "All right."
He remembered this from his past life too—Narcissa buying him Acid Pops here, and him pretending they were too sour and "only children ate such things." He'd still pocketed a few in secret. Later, on the Hogwarts Express, one had fallen out, and Harry had laughed at him for half an hour.
Inside the sweetshop, the air was thick with sugar.
While Narcissa was busy picking candies, Draco drifted once again to the window. Still no sign of Harry.
He slipped a hand into his pocket and touched the two-way mirror he had secretly brought from the manor. He'd intended to give it to Harry if they met under the right circumstances. Now it would have to wait until the Hogwarts Express.
"What are you hiding there?" Narcissa walked over with a bag of Acid Pops and pressed it into his hand. "If we don't go soon, Ollivander's will close."
"Nothing." Draco tucked the mirror away and took the bag. The candies knocked together inside—solid, familiar—and something in him loosened.
Whatever happened, Harry was back. They'd be reunited soon enough. There would be time.
They left the sweetshop and continued toward Ollivander's.
Draco walked beside Narcissa, pale-gold hair glinting in the sunlight, expression calm. But only he knew how far his thoughts had drifted—to a private compartment on the Hogwarts Express; to the Slytherin common room; to the boy he would protect with everything he had.
He had to keep acting: arrogant, haughty, sharp-tongued—exactly as Draco Malfoy was expected to be.
Only then could he avoid suspicion.
Only then could he clear Harry's path quietly, unseen.
Only then could he make sure they never again ended up in that desperate, hopeless clearing in the Forbidden Forest.
At the door of Ollivander's, Draco paused and turned back once, gaze sweeping the length of Diagon Alley.
The sunlight was warm. The crowds bustled. Everything was the same—and yet utterly different.