"And what, pray tell, is that?"
Lucius Malfoy, performing his duty as mentor for the First Years, was checking the contents of the newest intake's suitcase when his fingers encountered something that was … odd. Beside him, sullen and silent, stood Severus Snape, recently-sorted First Year and owner of the battered suitcase in front of him. He shrank even further into himself, effacing himself before the Prefect whose face showed a mixture of horror and curiousity.
Finally, Lucius could wait no longer. "Answer me, newt. What strange item is this?"
"It's a shirt."
"A what?"
"A shirt, you great git." Severus watched with a sinking feeling as the offending item was pulled slowly from the suitcase. Friction and static electricity meant that a loose sock and a handkerchief clung to it, which served only to highlight the oddness of the item. While the brown striping on it merely advertised its age, the crackling sound as Lucius pulled the sock free gave away the content.
"Not really a fashion item, is it? I mean, you wear that under your robes for a day, and you'd be zapping everything you touched."
Laughter rose from the surrounding group of fellow first-years, and Severus wished like anything that the floor would open up underneath him and send him straight to the sewers or catacombs or whatever this place had – he didn't really care. Anything would be better than this. However, he didn't expect the next thing that happened. An arm fell around his shoulders, and suddenly the laughter stopped. Surprised, he looked up to see Lucius glaring at the other new students with a look that showed that more than birth and money had gained him the place as Head of Slytherin.
"Can it, you worms. It's not like everyone comes from a home where the hand-me-downs are silk. We'll give him time, and I'm sure young Snape will show us why he was put into Slytherin. After all, there must be some serious conjuring behind the creation of this … fabric." Lucius ran his hand down the shirt, noting the lack of creases and the slightly slippery feel of the weave. "No house-elves at your place?"
Severus, not quite knowing what a House Elf was, shook his head. "It's polyester. A man-made fibre. Doesn't need ironing, washes easily – jarg silk, for the looks. Was me d... my Dad's best, and Mam packed it so I had something nice to wear." His look dared anyone to laugh again, and to his surprise, no-one did. Turning to sneak a glance of Lucius, he was surprised to see the senior boy looking proudly at him.
"Well spoken. And you don't need to wear that if you don't want to. I think I have some old shirts you might find useful – you're as skinny as I was at your age. The rest of you? I'm sure if I looked in your suitcases I'd find something twice as embarrassing, wouldn't I, young Stebbins?" The wizard in question glanced down at his flared trousers, and blushed, as Lucius continued. "Besides, it's the Seventies now. I'm sure the fashion gurus will have forgotten polyester and come up with something sensible in the next five years." Lucius dropped the shirt back into the suitcase, and patted Severus on the shoulder, and Severus finally realised he was in the right House after all.
