#ollivander's

It’s a nice morning, all in all. You can hear the pigeons in the trees, cooing incessantly as they always did. The smell of bacon wafted up from the kitchen, accompanied with steam rising up outside and fogging up your window while you hear the kettle ding, symbolizing that Arthur’s tea was done. out of the ordinary, though, is the call of your name. “Y/N!” you hear, and it’s unmistakably Gerard’s voice. Gruff as it always was in a morning, vaguely irritated. You knew why he’d called you, though. It’s the morning of your eleventh birthday today, and to say you’re excited is an understatement. You don’t bother to shower or brush your teeth yet. Instead, you throw on the nightgown that Flynn had gifted you on Christmas day, and you dash downstairs. All three of your cousins are waiting at the bottom with various forms of happiness in their eyes; Gerard has a letter in his hand, and Arthur is sat in his chair, leaning over the back of it with his cup of tea clasped firmly between them. You don’t pay attention to how on earth his hands aren’t burning. Instead, you tear open the letter with a squeal and read the contents. The feeling you’re overcome with is far past happiness, past excitement and despite the fact that you’d known all along you’d be going (having, in Gerard’s words, been a nuisance with your accidental magic all your life) you’re so overwhelmingly pleased that you might just cry. But you don’t. It’s nothing to cry over, you tell yourself In a rare moment of sweetness, Gerard lets his fingers card through your tangled hair as you latch onto him, flattening it momentarily to your scalp. Flynn, who is most definitely the nicest of all of your cousins combined, kneels down to wrap you in his arms and then lifts you into the air, spinning you in circles as he does so with a deep-bellied laugh. Arthur, though not mean and not nice, isn’t fond of touchy-feely moments though still lets you wrap your arms around his neck and nuzzle your face into his shoulder. It’s sweet. It’s home. Later that evening, after you’ve each showered, ate and brushed your teeth, you’re walking through Diagon Alley when your cousins stop to talk with Hagrid, a figure you’d become rather familiar with over your eleven years. He has a boy with him today, and you almost smile when you see his umbrella, but then it happens. He’s moved his hair. Your jaw snaps shut loudly. It catches all five of their attention, and your teeth are grinding harshly, shoulders pulled back and chin jutting out as a familiar ache sets into your chest. Flynn’s hand falls onto your shoulder comfortingly, though you shrug it off, eyes setting into a harsh glare as your fists curl tightly. You look about ready to pounce on the boy with the lightning scar, and had it not been for the sound of another boy’s voice, you might have done so. You turn at the call, and it’s almost as if the look gets worse. If it were possible, the silver-haired boy would’ve dropped dead at his feet. He wears a smug smile across his pale lips, though his face turns a pasty white when he sees the expression on your face. “Get lost, Draco, or I might hex you the minute I get my bloody wand.” you snap, a sinister sneer twisting at your lips. Flynn thinks he’d never seen an eleven year old look that positively terrifying, and so with a simple look towards Hagrid the three older boys had dragged you off by the arms. Your gaze never left the lost-looking boy the whole time, not until you stepped into Gringotts. Gerard did have to stop you, in the end, from waltzing out of the shop with your 11 3/4″ cedar wood, phoenix feather core with a slightly springy flexibility wand and cursing the boy where he stood after you’d spotted him outside the shop with Hagrid gifting him a snowy owl. To say you went home pissed off that day was entirely too much of an understatement. And now you had to get used to the fact that you were going to suffer through seven years with both of them, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, in your year, possibly in your house. Bloody brilliant.