HP: Redemption of The Platinum Boy

Chapter 5: Unicorn Hair and Dragon Heartstring

Chapter Five: Unicorn Hair and Dragon Heartstring

"Mother, tell me, how can I become friends with Harry Potter?" In his past life, young Draco closed the book *The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts* and looked at his mother expectantly, hoping for her wise advice.

"Oh, little dragon, no one can refuse a Malfoy's outstretched hand of friendship," Narcissa said gently, smiling slightly. "Go and invite him to be your friend—just like you have with the other children."

"I thought he would be different from other boys, maybe he would need special treatment," 11-year-old Draco asked anxiously. "He's a hero, after all."

"Oh, we don't need to grovel to anyone," Narcissa said proudly. "My little dragon is such a wonderful child—I can't imagine anyone needing special treatment from you. Just be yourself, be natural and generous, don't be reserved. That's how you make friends who truly appreciate you."

In his earliest memories, Draco hadn't disliked Potter. He'd been filled with curiosity and longing for him—after all, what wizarding child didn't grow up listening to the story of "the Boy Who Lived—Harry Potter"?

Father Lucius was also curious about him, though his initial intentions weren't so pure.

"The Harry Potter who defeated the Dark Lord is very likely a gifted and powerful wizard," he'd told his son. "I heard he'll be entering the same year as you. Keep a close eye on him, and when necessary, show him goodwill, befriend him, and win him over when the time is right."

Draco, at the time, was too caught up in the excitement of meeting Harry Potter soon and had nodded eagerly.

The problem was that Narcissa always had a certain filter regarding her son—she overlooked Draco's condescending and arrogant attitude at times.

When Draco subconsciously treated Potter the same way he usually treated Crabbe, a strong rejection was almost inevitable.

Having never considered there was anything wrong with his words, he was immediately embarrassed and put in an awkward position by Potter's rejection.

Young Draco never imagined he'd face such a terrible outcome. He'd adopted the demeanor expected of a child from a pure-blood wizarding family, extending his hand—the hand of Malfoy, which could not be refused—deserving a positive response.

As for his manner of speaking—drawn from his experiences making friends in Slytherin wizarding families—it always started this way. He would weigh each other's worth, flaunt his family's power, and think he was being quite sincere.

But how dare Potter rudely refuse his outstretched hand? How dare he be so arrogant?

Or rather, how could anyone be more arrogant and conceited than Draco Malfoy?

In retrospect, Draco now realized how justified the refusal was, given his serious blunders in expression and wording.

At that time, he hadn't realized there was more than one way of communicating in the world, and that his familiar way might not be well-received.

He hadn't known how to properly get along with peers. Excessively spoiled by Mother and influenced by Father's sharp tongue for years, most of his friends tolerated and avoided him—he never needed to worry about what others thought. As a result, he couldn't realize one thing: his speaking and acting style was too harsh and self-centered.

Potter, accustomed to mistreatment in the Muggle world, certainly wouldn't buy into that. His pitiful pride was probably utterly shattered by those words! Draco walked along the cobblestone street in Diagon Alley and clicked his tongue.

Looking back, although Draco's body developed early and his height was outstanding among peers, making him impossible to ignore, he matured psychologically later than other children. He was more obtuse, less considerate of others' feelings.

Lucius and Narcissa never felt there was anything wrong with their parenting. They always believed they'd given their only son the best of everything, and they were happy to instill certain "correct attitudes" toward life in their precious son early on.

Draco initially believed so too. He had complete trust and adoration for his parents. Until one day, he discovered a barren aspect to his inner world—he lacked something important.

But by the time he realized this, it was too late.

These ridiculous misunderstandings from their youth, where they "hurt each other's self-esteem," inexplicably put the two boys on opposite sides when they had no deep-seated hatred for each other.

When they were able to speak calmly, Draco discovered they were capable of communicating effectively.

This feeling wasn't unpleasant. Even if he couldn't be good friends with the Savior, they didn't have to be enemies.

They didn't have to be so confrontational—they could at least have been friendly acquaintances. Draco sighed, somewhat regretting his actions.

He'd been too eager to show off. Too resentful. The sting of his wounded pride had been too fresh and intense. As a result, he'd lost the rationality a Malfoy should have had—that was his mistake.

Now he was no longer that vain boy. He just wanted to quietly accumulate strength to do something meaningful.

Today was a good start. He repeatedly reviewed his conversation at Madam Malkin's, making sure he hadn't made any mistakes, before stepping into Ollivanders' small, shabby wand shop with satisfaction.

Compared to Gringotts, Ollivanders was probably the oldest building in Diagon Alley. The shop dated back to 382 BC.

Narcissa had been waiting in the shop for some time, her haughty face showing a hint of impatience.

"Draco, come here quickly," Narcissa called out. The shop was dimly lit, and Draco looked around the narrow interior, filled with dust and silence.

Perhaps there was something else—like a little girl with brown hair sitting idly on a bench in the corner, her back to him, seemingly looking around the shop.

It looked like Ollivanders was doing well today.

"Good afternoon." After a soft tinkle, an old man with white hair stood before them. He had large, pale eyes and a soft voice.

This was Ollivander, a person Draco couldn't underestimate, because the Dark Lord in his memories valued him highly.

Draco's intuition told him that besides Florean Fortescue, the wandmaker was an even more important entry point regarding the Elder Wand.

Of course, with Mother by his side, he had to diligently play the role of an obedient boy and couldn't possibly ask any outlandish questions. Ollivander himself couldn't possibly reveal secrets to a little boy he was meeting for the first time.

Ollivander's silvery eyes fixed on Draco as he spoke softly, "Oh, another Malfoy has come to buy a wand from me... Draco Malfoy... Your hair is platinum blonde, just like your father's..."

He leaned closer. "Ah, the eyes are gray too... Eighteen inches, elm, dragon heartstring core. A wand fit for a pure-blood supremacist's ambitions. Very powerful, very powerful wand."

He stepped out from behind the counter, walked silently to Draco, and said to himself, "I heard he also commissioned a silver snake head to affix to his cane... I imagine it must be quite exquisite?"

Draco nodded cautiously. He noticed a hint of disapproval in Ollivander's cloudy eyes.

"As for Lady Malfoy," Ollivander gestured toward Narcissa behind Draco, "Fourteen inches, walnut, unicorn hair core. A good wand for getting out of trouble—a wise wizard." He seemed lost in memory, clicking his tongue in admiration. "Such fine walnut is hard to find these days."

Narcissa gave him a tight smile. "Rarity makes it precious. Good wand materials are naturally priceless. That's why I wanted to ask you to find the best wand for my son. Price is not an issue."

"Mrs. Malfoy, I always say that wizards prefer certain wands, but that's not quite accurate. To be precise, the wand chooses the wizard," Ollivander said.

"Every Ollivander wand possesses extraordinary magical properties. They have their own... how shall I say... character. That is their essence. If we were to randomly find your son a wand that appears magnificent and rare on the surface but should rightfully belong to another wizard, the spell's effectiveness would likely be greatly diminished." He moved closer and closer to Draco, his nose almost touching Draco's face.

Draco heard Narcissa snort in disapproval behind him, seemingly dissatisfied with the answer.

"All right, Mr. Malfoy, let's see." Ollivander paid no attention to Narcissa's displeasure—he'd probably served quite a few customers like her who were difficult to please.

He deftly picked up a measuring tape from the table and asked Draco, "Which is your wand arm?"

"Right," Draco said briefly.

"Extend your arm." The silver measuring tape began moving of its own accord, measuring Draco from shoulder to finger, wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and around his head.

Ollivander weaved among the shelves, selecting long, thin boxes from among thousands stacked almost to the ceiling, his agility belying his age.

"Young Mr. Malfoy, try this one—blackthorn and dragon heartstring, nine inches, slightly springy." He held out a wand with both hands, speaking solemnly. Draco already knew it wasn't his wand and picked it up dismissively.

As expected, there was no response.

"Try this one—rowan, dragon heartstring, eleven inches." Ollivander held out another wand eagerly.

Draco waved it, but the wand remained silent, still as a dead thing.

Next, Draco tried wands of maple, spruce, and vine wood. Ollivander was an eccentric old man—unlike ordinary shopkeepers who hoped to close sales quickly, his interest in researching wands clearly outweighed his desire for profit. He was utterly unafraid of trouble.

In fact, the more Draco tried, the more excited Ollivander became. He paced back and forth before the thousands of narrow boxes piled to the ceiling, scratching his head and muttering, "Very challenging, isn't it?"

Draco was simply bored. He knew these wands were meaningless to him but could only patiently try until Ollivander figured it out.

While testing wands, he idly turned and discovered Narcissa was no longer in the shop.

Draco guessed she might be a little unhappy about Ollivander's obstinacy, so she'd gone to buy some of the potion ingredients on the list, just like in his previous life.

Only then did he notice a slender adult witch standing beside the little girl on the bench, whispering to her. It seemed the girl had been waiting for someone.

Draco breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment, he'd thought Mother might have been abusing her privileges by cutting in line or something... To be honest, that would have been rather impolite.

"Oh, I'm sorry—I think I was completely wrong before." Ollivander's words made Draco turn and refocus on the wands.

The old man took another wand from the well-stocked shelf.

"Why not try this? Ten inches, hawthorn, unicorn hair core. Reasonably springy." He brought his wrinkled face close to Draco's, scrutinizing him as if trying to see into his soul, speaking thoughtfully.

It's finally here! Draco felt a surge of joy.

His wand. His simple, elegant, flawless wand.

It had a brown front and pure black grip, with two raised rings where fingers would rest. It felt perfect—well-balanced, comfortable weight when waved.

It was simple, unlike the elaborate decorations of Father and Mother's wands, yet better than any wand in the world with intricate carvings and ornaments.

The moment he touched it, pale golden light emanated from the tip.

"Strange and contradictory... Undoubtedly, this is a loyal wand, suitable for a talented wizard—otherwise the consequences could be dire. The unicorn hair core is a symbol of nobility and purity. But this also means..." Ollivander stared intently at Draco, speaking softly, "...that it is difficult to use for Dark magic."

"A Malfoy, actually..." He seemed confused by the result but quickly blinked and muttered, "Yes, the same core as your mother's—not surprising."

Draco paid no heed to Ollivander's reaction. These memories, already etched in his mind, were tedious. His entire focus was on his destined wand.

Draco had missed this wand dearly. Ever since Potter took it from Malfoy Manor, he'd been trying to get it back.

None of the other wands were as easy to use as this one. That was why he'd gone to the Room of Requirement to wait for Potter, hoping Potter would return his wand.

Draco generously paid seven Galleons and politely bid farewell to Ollivander, the wandmaker.

He looked down and examined his reclaimed wand, slowly walking toward the shop door. His pale, indifferent face finally showed the first hint of joy since entering the wand shop.

He didn't notice that just as the brown-haired girl brushed past him, the vine wood wand behind him emitted a wondrous light.

He didn't pay attention to Ollivander's exaggerated exclamation: "Merlin's beard! This phenomenon has only happened once in the more than two-thousand-year history of Ollivanders—this is only the second time..."

He only caught Ollivander rambling, "Miss Granger, without doubt, possessing lofty aspirations and vision, suited to be a witch of amazing talent..."

Hermione Granger? Draco wondered with surprise and uncertainty, debating whether to turn around and look at her.

Was it the same in his past life?

So early on, he'd already crossed paths with her, though he'd been unaware of it.

Had he been the first person to meet her?

It just so happened they "met" right here?

This was something he hadn't paid attention to in his memory—at that time, he'd been unaware of the meaning behind the name and had no interest in a strange little girl.

Back then, he was just a spoiled boy immersed in his parents' love, completely unaware of what he was missing.

Now, this unexpected "encounter" made Draco want to turn around and look at her.

Even just a glance would be enough.

However, outside Ollivanders, Lucius—carrying a pile of books and an eagle owl—was already looking at him impatiently with his gray eyes.

This wasn't a good time to meet Muggle-borns, Draco suddenly realized.

Father, clinging to pure-blood prejudices, might hurt her.

He didn't want any such possibility to arise.

If getting close to her might hurt her, he'd rather not get close at all.

Well then, see you at Hogwarts.

Draco sighed almost imperceptibly, opened the door, and walked out without looking back.