Lorelei Thurkell and the Philosopher's Stone

Of course the Malfoys were no hermits. Their halls often rang with music and crystal laughter, for not only did they host grand and resounding gatherings of their own, but they also took part — not in all, but in the essential, the unforgettable ones — in feasts held by other esteemed families such as the Rosiers, the Greengrasses, and the Yaxleys, those lavish evenings destined to be spoken of in hushed, reverent tones long after the last candle burned low. Besides these public rituals of status and silk, Mrs Malfoy often received private, slightly more casual invitations from her friendly acquaintances, and just as often she accepted, bringing both of children — or, leaving Draco to his studies, taking only her: Lorelei, the quieter shadow in a pale dress. The way people treated Lorelei Thurkell changed from house to house. At Malfoy Manor, lately, it was limited to quiet whispers behind her back and the occasional mocking look, and her peers didn’t exactly ignore her — they just didn’t care enough to include her in their foolish games. But once she stepped outside the gates, everything changed. Mrs Parkinson would greet them at the door with a smile so forced it looked painful, and then she’d spend the rest of the evening pretending Lorelei wasn’t even there, just like the other guests and their children. No one let their kids near a girl with blood not quite pure enough. Lorelei would sit silently beside Mrs Malfoy, counting down the minutes until the dull conversations ended and they could finally go home. At the homes of the Crabbes, the Goyles, the Rosiers, and the Bulstrodes, children were often separated from their elders so that the latter might “rest,” and as the other children avoided her company, Lorelei wandered the corridors or gardens alone — not always to the liking of the hosts. It happened more than once that before the night was over, she would be locked away in one of the smaller chambers — the kind even the house-elves neglected to enter. But there were places far worse than that. In the households of the Yaxleys Lorelei was not simply dismissed — she was exposed. Rather than shut her away, they kept her in plain sight, under the eyes of every adult and every child, scrutinised, watched, her every step weighed and every syllable measured, as though they waited — no, wished — for her to stumble, to say the wrong thing, to remind them all that she did not quite belong. Lorelei had learned to be silent. She had learned not to make mistakes. But it was not her mistakes they despised — it was her, her very presence, her breath and being, that they could not stand. And no one raised a voice against it. Lorelei was called the blot, or the curtain child, and no one objected, not once. Only in the Greengrass household did Lorelei seem to be welcome, as though her name did not carry a weight. Daphne and Astoria would invite her into their games, and once, Mrs. Greengrass had even allowed her a cup of coffee, warm and bitter and strangely kind. But those visits grew rarer, until in recent months they ceased altogether, and all because Mr Malfoy believed Mr Greengrass to be too gentle, too uncertain, and accused him — not directly, but in words carefully chosen — of holding left-leaning sympathies. Lorelei, on her part, had always thought Mr Greengrass to be reasonable. Their trip to Diagon Alley — the crooked little street that started at Gringotts, the wizarding bank filled with grim goblins, underground vaults, and heirlooms no one dared touch — wasn’t a novelty. But for Lorelei, this time it felt like something more. Like hope, maybe. The street, winding like a question, was packed with shops offering everything a young witch might need — wandmakers, potion shops full of ingredients or ready-made draughts, a bookshop humming with secrets. Everything she’d need to walk through the gates of Hogwarts, head held high. The tangible proof that Lorelei would soon leave the walls of Malfoy Manor. No more afternoon picnics beneath pale skies, no more receptions with watchful eyes tracing the lines of her hands, her legs, her spine. No more secret attempts at learning spells and brewing potions in shadows. School meant freedom — one could learn without hiding. At her own pace, Lorelei thought to herself with no small amount of smugness, she would outrun not just Theodore, but any fifth-year before the year was done. It was no surprise, then, that the breakfast before their trip to Diagon Alley found her in a rather light-hearted mood. Every member of the Malfoy household was present. The house-elves, always nervous when Mr Malfoy was near, seemed to falter more often, knocking over goblets and misplacing forks, though by some stroke of luck, their mishaps went unnoticed. Draco, just as excited as Lorelei, kept groaning about how unfair it was that first-years weren’t allowed to bring their own brooms, tugging at his mother, then Lorelei. ‘You saw how excellently well I fly!’ said Draco suddenly, his fork sinking into the crisp skin of fried fish on his fine white plate trimmed with faded blue roses. ‘Yes, you fly well,’ Lorelei replied — and didn’t even need to lie. The boy was, in fact, gifted in the air, and although she couldn’t care less for brooms, which she found pointless and outdated, she sometimes paused at the window just long enough to watch him rise and spin. ‘Not well — excellently!’ Draco huffed, shaking his head. ‘It’s completely unfair that someone with my talent should be forced to sit around and wait for second year to join the Quidditch team. Isn’t that right, Father?’ ‘The team has no choice but to take you as Seeker,’ said Mr Malfoy, without even a flicker of interest. He was too busy sorting through his morning letters, eyes fixed on paper as though conversation at the table was a noise best ignored. The game itself — Quidditch — where players on broomsticks tossed enchanted balls with the aim of smashing goals and sometimes skulls, all while one person chased a golden dot through the sky — didn’t appeal to Lorelei either. But she was in fine spirits that morning, and humoring Draco had its uses: he’d pester her less later, and Narcissa, flushed with maternal pride, would often allow a little more. So Lorelei rolled one shoulder and said, ‘It’s no matter. Just show them how good you are in the first flying class. That’ll catch the teachers’ eyes — maybe even the captain’s.’ ‘But first-years aren’t allowed on the team,’ Draco muttered, his brows pulling together. ‘It’s the rules…’ ‘Rules can be rewritten,’ said Lorelei evenly. ‘If one proves they are exceptional’ Both Mr and Mrs Malfoy had been listening. Mrs Malfoy, concerned, leaned forward slightly and quickly offered her advice: ‘In due time, Draco. There’s no need to take unnecessary risks, nor endanger yourself. You will be on the Quidditch team, if that is your wish, next year. Of course the captain will recognise your talent,’ she added warmly. Then, turning to Lorelei, her voice sharpened, cool and clipped. ‘Do not provoke him, Lorelei, and do not encourage recklessness.’ ‘Nothing will happen. He flies well,’ said Lorelei, quickly working her silver fork with the same hurried precision. ‘Not well — excellently!’ snapped Draco, clearly annoyed. Then he turned once more to his father and said, ‘Father, maybe we could buy a new broom today, so I can practise before the first flying lesson?’ Fortunately, not every hour spent in Diagon Alley had to be endured at Draco’s side, listening to him moan about the broom he wasn’t allowed to bring to school. Right after breakfast, the Malfoys — with Lorelei — stepped through the Floo Network and into the already noisy, bustling street. Their first stop was Gringotts Bank, where goblins bowed a little too eagerly, their politeness bordering on theatrics — the Malfoy fortune did that to people. They were led to a waiting cart, where everyone fastened their belts. Lorelei glanced sideways at Draco, who was shifting in his seat, clearly nervous, and she readied herself for what she knew would follow. A mad ride through twisting underground rails. Left. Then right. Then down. A jolt, and Draco fell against her. More turns — upward, then another sharp fall. Lorelei covered her eyes — it wasn’t pain she feared, it was the sting of dust in her eyes. Her other hand, without consent, ended up clasped tightly by Draco’s. Down again. Right. Right once more. Down. Her head was spinning, her mouth felt like chalk. They stopped suddenly. Their first stop-vault belonged to the Thurkells. Mr Malfoy turned back to make sure both children were still in their seats and not halfway into the depths. It wasn’t the first time they had ridden these carts, and Mrs Malfoy, in her usual calm manner, had wisely decided to stay behind in the bank’s lobby. ‘Let go of my hand,’ said Lorelei quietly, barely moving her lips. Draco pulled away at once. ‘No need to thank me — I had to help you, it’s what any gentleman would do,’ he added, saying it like it meant something real. It wasn’t easy to climb out of the cart. Lorelei’s legs felt wobbly as she stepped onto the stone floor, dusty and dark with earth, leading toward a tall iron door. Cold air moved all around her, sweeping the warmth from her face, from her neck. She took a breath — the air was damp and scratchy in her throat — and looked up. In the flickering light of the torches, she saw the golden numbers on the vault door: 528. ‘Your key, miss,’ said the goblin, holding out a wrinkled hand. He opened the door himself. Inside, everything looked just as she remembered it: piles of gold Galleons, neat stacks of silver Sickles, and little bronze Knuts in scattered hills. In one corner stood a cabinet filled with rolled-up scrolls and books — but, just like always, Lorelei didn’t have the time to go near it, to see what was hidden there. ‘Can’t it go slower?’ came Mr Malfoy’s voice, steady and demanding. He was still in the cart with Draco, waiting. ‘The cart only has one speed,’ said the goblin, his voice careless. ‘That’s unfortunate,’ said Mr Malfoy. Scooping a handful of Galleons, Sickles and Knuts into a dark green pouch, Lorelei returned to the cart. Since the age of nine, she had managed her own expenses — drawing on the fortune left to her by ancestors long gone — and she had done so with care, exactly as she had been taught. By the time she climbed back into the cart, the goblin had closed the vault behind her, locked it, and returned the key with a nod. The cart jolted into motion almost instantly, and this time it seemed to rush even faster, diving downward through the stone veins of the earth. The Malfoy vault was lower — far lower — seemingly buried in the very bottom of the underground labyrinth, alongside those of most old pure-blooded families in Britain. The Thurkell vault, by comparison, had only been established a century ago, when a descendant of a French line had chosen to settle in English soil. Narcissa Malfoy hadn’t wasted a moment during their absence. With the Hogwarts supply list unfurled before her, she had already worked out a methodical order for their errands — what to buy, when, and who would go where — ensuring that the entire day wouldn’t be lost to dull shopping, and they’d still have time to visit Rosa Lee Teabag, where, beyond the obvious shelves of tea, there were trays of fine pastries and cakes her son adored — and she even more so. Without speaking, Lorelei took the parchment from her — the same one that had come tucked inside the envelope with her Hogwarts acceptance letter.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Uniform First-year students will require: 1. Three sets of plain work robes (black) 2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear 3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar) 4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings) Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags Set Books All students should have a copy of each of the following: The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble Other Equipment 1 wand 1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2) 1 set glass or crystal phials 1 telescope 1 set brass scales Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST-YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS ‘We’ll go to Madam Malkin’s for the uniform,’ said Mrs Malfoy with quiet finality. Then she turned to her husband. ‘Darling, go to the bookshop, get the schoolbooks for both of them…’ ‘I’ll go to Madame de Sévigné’s,’ said Lorelei, softly but with quiet certainty. Narcissa Malfoy glanced down at her, her tone dipped in doubt as she asked, ‘Does she sew school uniforms?’ ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Lorelei, uncertain in truth, but giving no sign of it. ‘Very well. In that case, I’ll go with you,’ said Mrs Malfoy with a slow nod. ‘But first, let’s see Draco off.’ Madame de Sévigné’s atelier was not on Diagon Alley. To find it, one had to step away from the main street and walk through a few quiet blocks, but it was worth the detour. Tucked between old wizarding homes, the shop had the scent of magnolia and pear hanging in the air, soft and warm. It was never crowded, and the few staff within murmured to themselves in French, as if the magic they worked with were meant for silence. Lorelei was recognised the moment she entered, with Mrs Malfoy beside her. ‘Come in,’ said Cécilie — a tall woman with flushed cheeks, dark hair, and eyes that watched too well. ‘I shall let madam know you are here.’ The shop was small — but by no means cramped. It had just enough space to move without haste, to drift from one shelf to the next, to reach out and feel the weave of each fabric like you were reading it with your hands. The lighting was strange in the best possible way: it poured down from above, soft and even, so the entire room looked as though it had no shadows at all. The white walls bounced that glow back at you, turning everything sharp and clean, like a stage before the curtain rises. On either side stood rows of racks, each one holding clothes that refused to blend in — long gowns in shades from stormy sapphire to pale apricot; crisp jackets, soft coats, blouses that fluttered, sweaters that hugged; silk, velvet, cotton — some transparent, some bright, some as matte as stone. No piece looked like the next. It felt like every one had been made for someone — maybe someone who hadn’t come through the door yet. The clothes weren’t just different in style or colour — they felt different. Some seemed joyful, others bold, a few looked noble or serious, and some almost seemed like they were waiting to be worn by someone who dreamed a lot. The fitting rooms stood in a soft arc along the walls — round and warm-looking, covered in fabric that made you want to reach out and run your hand across it. Every room could be closed off with a heavy curtain so you could be alone inside. And at the very back of the shop was a simple wooden door. It was warm to the touch and had faint carvings that looked like leaves. It didn’t lead to a storeroom or an office. Behind it was the workshop, where a dozen house-elves worked quietly through the day and night. One was cutting fabric while sitting on the edge of a button, another used a needle as long as he was tall. Some blew dust from new cloth. One stood frowning over a tiny pair of scissors, arguing about the shape of a neckline. Everything they made ended up here, on these shelves. And everything here had been designed by Madame de Sévigné, who, even in her later years, still made clothes for the pure-blood witches and wizards of Britain and not only. ‘Look, Lorelei,’ said Mrs Malfoy, and the girl turned to her, seeing in her hands a dress the colour of soft peach. ‘Not bad, is it?’ ‘I won’t wear it,’ said Lorelei, and in that moment, she seemed to understand at last why Mrs Malfoy had come with her. ‘And why is that?’ came a woman’s voice — sharp, like a thread snapping under tension, precise and dry, with a note of cold metal. ‘Has the little lady decided she no longer likes the clothes I make?’ From behind the wooden door at the far end of the room emerged a woman of age, her hair the colour of ash, swept into an elegant chignon. She had not lost her grace — nor her refinement — though she leaned slightly on a cane as she moved. Each step was measured, deliberate. She came toward them, and her gaze fixed on Lorelei with such intensity it was as if she could see straight through her — such was the depth of her dark, near-black eyes, sharp as ink and twice as permanent. ’No, Ma'am. I'm just not wearing anything but...‘, Lorelei starts. ’Black. I remember‘, Madame de Sévigné finished for her, looking none too pleased. She subdued Lorelei with an attentive look and beckoned her over with her hand. ’Come here, let me see how you've grown.‘ After looking her over from every angle, placing one hand on her waist and drawing her gently closer, the old woman let her breath fall warm across Lorelei’s cheek and spoke in a voice so low it felt like a secret — as if she were whispering behind Mrs Malfoy’s back. Lorelei found it strange, almost amusing, and for the first time, her expression softened, just a little. ‘She wouldn’t have liked this stubbornness of yours, Lorelei. You know that,’ said Madame quietly. ‘Then she shouldn’t have left me,’ Lorelei replied, her voice just as hushed, though a faint tremble nearly betrayed her. She pressed her lips together. Madame de Sévigné shook her head with a heaviness that belonged to someone who had seen too much, and her grip around Lorelei’s waist tightened. ‘She didn’t leave you, Lorelei. She died,’ she said, and at those words, Lorelei shifted her weight. Madame’s tone turned firmer. ‘Death is a thing that comes — often sudden, always unwelcome. One day it will come for us all. That’s no reason to lose your mind or shroud yourself in black.’ Lorelei looked away, her mouth a thin line. Madame de Sévigné sighed, long and tired. ‘Fine. I’ll make you a few more black dresses. But after that..!’ she said, catching Lorelei’s eyes and pinning them in place. ‘After that, you’ll start wearing colours fit for a proper lady. Enough of the mourning.’ ‘I didn’t come for black today, madam,’ said Lorelei quickly. ‘I need a uniform. For Hogwarts.’ The statement seemed to puzzle Madame more than it should have — and for a woman who had seen the better part of a century pass her by, that meant something. She turned slowly, her gaze drifting toward Mrs Malfoy, who stood by the racks inspecting an elegant red dress with detached interest. ‘The child is ten. Isn’t that too young?’ ‘I’ll be eleven in December,’ Lorelei said, trying — foolishly — to explain what had already been stated, as if the month would matter. ‘But surely only those who’ve turned eleven are accepted. That’s the rule.’ ‘In Lorelei’s case, the letter arrived early,’ said Narcissa Malfoy, her voice tight, touched with irritation. Lorelei couldn’t see why it should bother her. She’d always imagined Mrs Malfoy looked forward to the girl’s departure — not out of malice, but out of sheer practicality. Life was simpler without someone to manage all day. Truth be told, Madame de Sévigné didn’t care much for rules. Her clients were rarely British — her work travelled to the daughters of wizards in Paris, Berlin, Madrid, and now and then even to the East Coast of America. Hogwarts was a rarity, not a rule. Still, she gave no argument, only nodded and sent Lorelei into the fitting room with a wave of her hand. ‘Did you make hers too?’ Lorelei asked her, barely above a whisper, a question she wasn’t sure she had the right to ask. The woman gave her a sharp look and lifted one brow. ‘How old do you think I am, girl?’ Lorelei did not answer, and a heavy silence settled between them, the sort of silence that presses on the chest and rings faintly in the ears — until Madame broke it with a sudden laugh, low and dry. The moment passed, the measurements were finished, and with a murmured wish for good health, Lorelei stepped out of the shop, Mrs Malfoy following in quiet grace. Their next destination was Ollivander’s — the wand shop — a place Lorelei had been dreaming of for months, her longing growing with each passing day, now finally close enough to touch. The shop stood crooked and worn, tucked between taller buildings, its faded charm clinging to the stone like perfume from another life. The once-golden letters reading "Ollivander’s: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C." had long lost their shine, and in the dusty window, upon a withered violet cushion, lay a single wand, lonely and still. Inside, a bell chimed softly from somewhere in the back, echoing like a memory. The room was small, nearly bare, save for a single narrow chair with long, delicate legs, and thousands of slim boxes stacked from floor to ceiling, quiet and patient like they had been waiting for centuries. Lorelei stood still, breath held in her chest, her eyes scanning the boxes one by one, wondering which one would be hers. She looked around, eager now, her anticipation humming just beneath the skin. And then she saw him — an old man stepping quietly into view, with pale, nearly colorless eyes that shimmered like the moon on still water. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said softly. ‘Good afternoon,’ Lorelei replied, her voice quiet but certain. ‘Truth be told, I was expecting you later — a year later, to be precise, Miss Thurkell,’ he said in a tone that was slow and echoing, like footsteps down an old corridor. ‘You are the very image of your father. Roger Thurkell. A wizard of extraordinary strength, gifted with remarkable magical potential. Twelve inches, elegant, willow, unicorn hair. Your father was a wise man. Patient, too.’ Lorelei tilted her head ever so slightly, listening with the careful stillness of someone unused to kindness. For the first time in her life, someone had spoken of her father without scorn — even with admiration. The old man’s pale eyes, ghostlike and glowing, held her still, and she could not, or would not, look away. ‘Your mother,’ he went on, unhurried, as though every word had waited years to be said, ‘was different. Quick-tempered. Difficult. It took time to find the right wand for her — none accepted her, and she accepted none. But after the fifteenth attempt, we found it. Eleven inches, pearwood, dragon heartstring. It chose her, not the other way round.’ The man had not introduced himself, but Lorelei knew — she knew it must be Mr Ollivander. And when he stepped closer, without pause, she instinctively took a step back. ‘Elizabeth Snape had a heart as clear as spring water. She had the purest one I have ever seen,’ he said, gazing into her like he was reading an old letter she did not know she had written. ‘I am most curious to see which wand will choose you, Miss Thurkell. Shall we begin?’ Lorelei nodded firmly, something deep and steady sparking in her chest. But they did not begin at once. Mr Ollivander turned, noticing Mrs Malfoy for the first time, and spoke to her with a flicker of familiarity in his expression — a memory, vivid and perfectly preserved. He recalled the wand he had sold her more than twenty years ago, and Lorelei, quietly impressed, quelled her impatience. That particular trait — patience — she had not inherited from her father. ‘Ten inches. Hawthorn. Dragon heartstring,’ Mr Ollivander said. Mrs Malfoy offered a polite nod. ‘As I recall, your husband’s wand is nearly the same — only shorter in length. That is a rare match indeed.’ ‘Indeed,’ Mrs Malfoy nodded in agreement, her voice soft as silk. Mr Ollivander drew a ruler from his coat pocket and stepped once more towards Lorelei. His voice was calm, habitual, as though he’d asked this question a thousand times under dusty chandeliers. ‘Which is your wand hand?’ he inquired. ‘Left,’ Lorelei replied. The old man paused for a moment, surprised — or perhaps just caught off guard by something else entirely. ‘Truly?’ he asked. ‘Yes, sir.’ His hesitation was brief, a flicker rather than a shadow. Whatever story he might have told drifted from his mind unspoken, and he returned to his task without another word — a decision Lorelei welcomed with secret relief. ‘Then stretch out your left arm.’ As the enchanted measuring tape sprang to life, darting from shoulder to fingertips, from wrist to elbow, from shoulder to floor, and finally spinning lightly around her head, Mr Ollivander approached the towering wall of wand boxes, the pale light casting long lines across the floor. ‘Inside each wand is a powerful magical core, Miss Thurkell,’ he began, his voice low, reverent, almost like a lullaby. ‘It might be unicorn hair, phoenix tail feather, or dragon heartstring. Every wand I craft is one of a kind — no two are ever quite the same, just as no two unicorns or dragons or phoenixes are ever alike. And you must know by now, I expect, that you will never do great magic with another wizard’s wand.’ Lorelei nodded smartly, and the enchanted ruler slid downward, grazing her eyes before clattering unceremoniously to the floor. ‘That’s enough,’ said Mr Ollivander briskly, bending to retrieve it. ‘Let’s begin, Miss Thurkell. Our first candidate — cherry with phoenix feather, nine and a quarter inches. A wand of rare make and formidable ability. Not to be taken lightly, especially in the hands of the unsteady.’ Lorelei accepted it with care. She barely had time to lift it when the wand was snatched from her grip with startling speed. ‘No, that’s not it,’ muttered the old man, frowning as he turned on his heel and made for the back wall. ‘Old fool… Let me think… Ah, yes — this one.’ He held out another box. ‘Thirteen inches. Willow. Phoenix feather. Not the longest wand I’ve ever made, and certainly not the most difficult, but it’s a graceful one.’ Lorelei gave it a fair trial — one wave, then another — but the air remained stubbornly still. He sighed and pulled it from her hand again, already moving. ‘Blackthorn, dragon heartstring. Eight inches. Temperamental, but resilient.’ She tried it. Nothing. Not even a flicker. Mr Ollivander gave the wand a curious look as if it had misbehaved deliberately, then wandered off with that faraway glint in his eyes, stopping somewhere unexpected and drawing a box without ceremony. He opened it and spoke slowly. ‘Ten and a half inches. Pine. Dragon heartstring. Let’s see what you make of this one, Miss Thurkell.’ Lorelei took it, carefully, thoughtfully. And before she’d even lifted her arm, she knew, that's what they looking for. Her fingertips grew warm, her chest felt light and expectant. It wasn’t like Nott’s borrowed wand — it didn’t feel borrowed at all. She raised it, traced a circle, and from the tip burst twin sparks of blue and red, spinning in the air and falling in a soft spiral of curling smoke. Mr Ollivander smiled contentedly. ‘Bravo! Yes, that’s the one, it’s simply marvellous,’ he said, clasping his hands together. ‘Just so you know, Miss Thurkell, pine wands choose only those with a creative, independent mind. And if my experience counts for anything, they tend to favour those destined for a long life.’ ‘Independent,’ said Mrs Malfoy later, once Lorelei had paid and they’d stepped out into the street. ‘As if that were a becoming trait in a lady.’ If there was any place Lorelei had wished to visit nearly as much as Ollivander’s, it was the apothecary, with its promise of jars and tinctures and the possibility of brewing something that might one day change the course of things. It was Mr Malfoy who escorted her there, for Mrs Malfoy had turned back with Draco to secure his wand from the same curious old man. Mr Mulpepper’s Apothecary looked just the same as always — walls lined with jars, the shelves leaning, the light dim and yellowing — but today she saw it differently. For the first time, she let herself wander. The air inside was unbearable — like rotten eggs mashed with old cabbage. Mr Malfoy, visibly disgusted, waited outside without a word. Lorelei paid him no mind. Her hands hovered over dried things and pickled things and little bits of what might once have been alive. She chose without rushing, and her basket grew heavy. ‘All this for school?’ asked the shopkeeper, whose massive arms seemed too large for his narrow frame. ‘Not just for school,’ Lorelei replied, her voice cool and light as glass. She hadn’t meant to go so far. But when the tally came up — over sixty ingredients, almost fifty Galleons — Lorelei didn’t even blink. Somewhere along the way, she had unlearned what it meant to be careful with money. ‘Do you even know what this one’s for?’ the shopkeeper asked, holding up a small glass jar. Inside it lay a strip of boomslang skin, dry and curled. ‘It’s used in salves for burns and scar-reducing ointments,’ Lorelei said, her voice level, calm. ‘Sometimes in potions of invisibility. A few antidotes. But it’s most famously used in Polyjuice Potion.’ The man raised his eyebrows, then gave a small nod. The doubt in his voice lessened. He studied her a little more closely. ‘What if someone ate it raw? Just like that?’ Lorelei hesitated. Her mind drifted back through everything she had read, all those quiet hours hunched over books by candlelight. ‘In small amounts — not much would happen. Maybe an upset stomach,’ she murmured. Her eyes looked far away for a second, like she wasn’t entirely in the shop anymore. ‘But in large doses, it can cause hair loss. Teeth and nails too, if you’re not careful.’ ‘Right,’ the man said. Then, quieter, half-joking, ‘Don’t go feeding this to your classmates, alright?’ He measured each item with deliberate movements, writing notes with an old ink-stained hand. Lorelei waited patiently. When he held things up to test her knowledge, she answered without pause. She liked it — the rhythm of the questions, the way her voice felt when it spoke of something real. Not music drilled into her for show, not steps rehearsed for others. Just knowledge. Just her. It feels great. ‘Peacock feathers are used in elixirs that restore magical energy, sir,’ Lorelei answered, a little too quickly, a little too precisely — like a girl who knew things she wasn’t meant to know just yet — when the shopkeeper asked what else they might be useful for, aside from curing dragons. ‘Too much ruby in a healing potion will raise the blood too fast, speed the heart until the chest tightens,’ she added, her tone clinical and proud, as if she’d dared someone to disagree. Lorelei loved potion-making. She admired the precise science, where every drop had weight, every moment had meaning. It seemed an art, where one dose saved a life, another took it, where a mistake turned a medicine into a poison, and a drop of cunning turned poison into a healing potion. Not just smoke rising from a cauldron, but the breath of alchemy. She was fascinated by the way each ingredient revealed its power at the right moment, how the combination of properties gave birth to a miracle - or a catastrophe. It was the thrill of the search, the subtle calculation and the awe of what could happen. As she considered which potions she’d craft first at Hogwarts — perhaps something healing, perhaps something forbidden — Lorelei handed her heavy basket of ingredients to the elves, who vanished with it in silence, carrying it to Malfoy Manor. She left the apothecary alone, stepping into the afternoon haze where Mr Malfoy waited with the air of someone unused to being kept waiting. He walked her to Rosa Lee Teabag, where Mrs Malfoy and Draco were already seated, and where an unexpected and, of course, unpleasant surprise awaited her. ‘This is for you,’ said Draco, with a grin that curled like smoke. He pointed at a silver cage — inside was a raven, feathers as dark as an eclipse, sleek and immaculate. But its eyes — pale, almost white — darted about in a quiet panic, as if it had seen the end of the world. When Lorelei approached, it spread its wings wide and puffed its feathers like stormclouds, lifting its shoulders and doubling in size, a silent warning that needed no voice. ‘You even resemble each other,’ Draco laughed, too pleased with himself. Lorelei’s eyes found his and froze the moment in place. ‘School rules allow only owls,’ she said, her tone cool and exacting. ‘Unless, Mister Malfoy, you’d rather have me leave the creature behind at your manor?’ ‘Rules are for fools. Weren’t you the one who said that?’ Draco gestured with casual defiance. ‘I’ll have an eagle, thank you very much. Let them try and stop me.’ She didn’t answer. She just sat down at the table. The desserts were too sweet and even the tea felt fake on her tongue. ‘Lorelei,’ said Mrs Malfoy, her voice all politeness and pride. ‘You ought to thank Draco. He picked this… gift especially for you.’ Lorelei looked at the boy, and then the raven, and then somewhere far past both. ‘Thank you,’ she said. She was raised to say thank you, even when she didn’t mean it. ‘He needs a name,’ said Draco, puffing up like he’d done something grand. Lorelei glanced at the raven once more. Its pale eyes, its stillness, the quiet threat it carried. ‘I shall refrain,’ she said shortly. They stayed long in the café, waiting for Mr Malfoy, who had wandered off to Knockturn Alley on business he did not share. It was just a turn from Diagon Alley, though it might as well have been a different world — crooked, dim-lit, lined with shops that had no place in the light: sellers of ancient artefacts, dark tools, forbidden books, a funeral parlour for wizards, and a place where house-elves offered their services, be they chimney-sweeps, cooks or trackers. Lorelei didn’t know what errand had drawn him there, but she rather wished he had taken them with him. Anything would have been better than waiting in this sugar-glazed cage. Back at Malfoy Manor. Dinner. Playing the piano in the hall, with the fire blazing, while Draco chattered to his mother about some new acquaintance he had bumped into in Madam Malkin's. He seemed to be afraid that he had been talking to a half-blood or, Merlin forbid, a mudblood, since the boy was accompanied by the Hogwarts gamekeeper. Lorelei was patient, waiting for night to come, when Spriggan would help her get ready for bed, complaining about how noisy and restless the bird the young lady had gotten (the raven had been brought into her room, and was still sitting in its cage, rocking from side to side, occasionally cawing). Lorelei waited until the elf turned off the light, until the house and the raven were quiet, and then she jumped out of bed, taking with her the most precious things - her wand and her Memoranda Book. ‘Quiet,’ she hissed, catching the raven stirring. The last thing she needed was its noise giving her away. The halls were familiar, their shadows long. She knew the way to the library better than anything. She walked the same path she had walked many times before, but tonight there was one stark, beautiful difference — in her hand, not a lantern, but a wand, and the tip of it aglow with soft white light. ‘Lumos,’ she whispered. And as the glow grew warm in her palm, she knew — Mr Ollivander had been right. No borrowed wand could ever feel like this. She had the night ahead to prove it.