Chapter One
Galdur Forester had been staring at the letter for what felt like hours.
His only daughter—his precious girl—was about to begin her first year at Hogwarts. The thought filled him with pride and joy, but it was laced with a creeping sense of foreboding. The Dark Lord was dead. He shouldn't feel this way.
And yet… he did.
Perhaps it was the knowledge that his daughter was the same age as Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. That parallel alone stirred something ancient and uneasy within him—memories he had long tried to bury.
He had spent years as a prisoner. One of the few Slytherins who refused to bow to the Dark Lord, even when he had been among the most valuable. Not even the Dark Lord's finest could break Galdur's mind. His only true allegiance had been to his research—dragons, his passion. But even that had been twisted into a weapon under Voldemort's command.
Still, he never yielded.
He endured for one reason: the safety of his newborn daughter, Felicia, and his beloved wife, Selene.
"I'm ready, Father!"
Felicia burst into the study, her voice cutting through the fog of his thoughts and pulling him back from the shadows of the past. Galdur looked up to see her standing there, radiant and eager. Her dark brown curls, so like her mother's, had been neatly styled, and her bright amber eyes gleamed with excitement—eyes that matched his own.
The Forester family was as old as the Malfoys—perhaps older. Where Malfoy eyes gleamed silver, Forester eyes burned gold.
"You certainly do look ready," Galdur said with a warm chuckle, rising to his feet as he reached for his hat and wand.
His gaze lingered on the gift he had given her for her last birthday—a dragon replica. He crafted such figures often for his research, but this one had been special. He had enchanted it to last a very long time, perhaps forever. Made from two chestnut shells, it had been shaped into a Ruby Snarltooth, a breed known for its speed and the gemstone shimmer of its scales. Its body sparkled like rubies, its elongated snout and protruding lower fangs designed for scooping fish from the water rather than biting down.
Felicia had named him Redscale.
Since then, the two had been inseparable. The tiny dragon listened only to her—a trait not prompted by any spell Galdur had cast. It was simply that Felicia, even at her age, had a rare gift with magical creatures.
"Let's be off before your mother returns and wonders why we haven't left yet," Galdur said with a dry laugh, guiding his daughter toward the Thestral-drawn carriage waiting just beyond the door.
Felicia already had most of her school supplies—usually ordered in advance and picked up with little fanfare—but Galdur knew she wanted the full first-year experience, just like everyone else.
She wandered from shop window to shop window, eyes wide with wonder, watching the hustle of other students collecting their items for the new term. Whether they were first-years or seasoned seventh-years, the excitement was the same—alive and infectious.
"Is that Forester? Wow, who would've thought his daughter would be starting the same year as Malfoy's boy?"
"This year's going to be quite the spectacle—Forester, Malfoy, and the Boy Who Lived all in one class."
The whispers wove through the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley like stray bits of wind. Curious glances followed the pair, as golden eyes marked them unmistakably. Felicia and her father didn't need an introduction; their lineage was enough.
People always had something to say, but none of them would dare say it aloud. Not to Galdur Forester.
He might have been best known for his expertise in dragonology, a master of magical creatures—but he was also one of the most formidable duelists alive. Few would willingly meet the business end of his wand.
"Let's start with your robes—get the boring bits out of the way," Galdur said, glancing down at Felicia, who had paused to peer through the glass of Zonko's Joke Shop.
Inside, two red-headed boys were testing out the latest batch of magical mischief, laughing as something small exploded into a puff of glittering smoke. Felicia's eyes sparkled with amusement, but at her father's suggestion, she looked up and gave an enthusiastic nod.
"Sounds quite ideal! I can't wait to get my wand, though," she said with a grin that lit up her face.
Galdur chuckled. She had been practicing dueling since she could walk—his doing, of course. He'd ensured she learned the fundamentals early: spell precision, strategic footwork, fluid wand movement. She'd already mastered the stances and motions of key spells. All she needed now was a wand and the space to push her talent further.
Hogwarts would give her both.
He knew she was leagues ahead of most of her peers. Still, the path to a worthy career in the magical world required the full academic experience—year by year, step by step.
As they neared Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, a boy exited the shop in a hurry and nearly collided with Felicia. She stepped aside quickly, catching him by the arm just as he stumbled.
"Do be careful," she said calmly.
"Oh—thanks..." the boy replied, looking up at her with bright green eyes. Felicia noticed the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead but chose not to mention it. She released his arm, and he continued on his way, casting a glance back at her before a gruff voice in the distance called him over.
Galdur had witnessed the entire exchange. His lips twitched with a flicker of pride, a soft gleam in his eyes. He and Selene had raised a fine girl.
The tinkle of the door chime drew the attention of a few patrons inside. Galdur held the door open, and Felicia stepped in with graceful ease, offering a polite curtsey to the woman behind the counter.
"My, my—Felicia! You've grown quite a bit," Madam Malkin greeted warmly. She had fitted Felicia before, mostly for private family events, but this time was different. This time, it was for Hogwarts.
Galdur stepped forward to handle the formalities, and Felicia's attention shifted to the other customer in the shop—a pale boy trying, not very successfully, to pretend he hadn't noticed her.
Draco Malfoy.
Silver eyes met gold. He was good at hiding his feelings, but Felicia had always been the exception. They'd known each other since infancy, and she had an uncanny way of unraveling his well-guarded expressions. Still, that didn't stop Draco from trying to mask his surprise with an air of superiority, as if he'd always expected they would arrive at the same time.
"Forester," he said, tone clipped but composed—too composed.
He was already preparing to dominate whatever conversation would follow, ready to turn it into a competition of wit, knowledge, or bloodline. But Felicia approached with a calm confidence, a subtle, knowing smile tugging at her lips.
"Draco," she returned, her voice smooth, with just enough warmth to disarm.
Draco almost flinched at the sound of her voice—not out of fear, but out of recognition. He had deliberately used her last name to create distance, and, as always, she refused to let it stand.
Felicia arched a brow, catching a faint trace of his father's cologne clinging to him. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course he was wearing it. Always trying to appear older than he was.
She watched as he fussed over the robe selection, inspecting them with unnecessary scrutiny.
"They're all the same robes, Draco," she said flatly.
Draco scoffed, but without malice. He turned to the mirror, adjusting his posture with deliberate poise.
"That's where you're mistaken, Forester," he said smoothly, then pivoted to face her fully. "It's not about the robes themselves—it's about how you wear them."
There was that practiced confidence again, refined and deliberate. But Felicia could sense it—the undercurrent of competition, the unspoken need to outshine her. He always had it when she was near.
His silver eyes dropped to the small dragon coiled on her neck and shoulder, and his smug smirk faltered, just for a moment.
The damn Ruby Snarltooth—her little enchanted monstrosity.
He'd always thought it was a bit much, flashy and unnecessary. But, he begrudgingly admitted to himself, it suited her. Somehow, it always had.
Still, he wasn't about to let her have the upper hand.
"I see you're still dragging that thing around," he said, tilting his chin. "Hope it doesn't give the wrong impression at Hogwarts. Then again, I suppose it wouldn't be the strangest thing there."
Felicia laughed softly, amused more by his tone than his words. Draco knew better than to insult Redscale too directly. The dragon wasn't technically alive—and thus not classified as a pet—but he behaved like one in nearly every way that mattered.
"He behaves," she said with a calm smile. "He just doesn't take well to being provoked."
Draco's smirk wavered. He remembered the banquet. The sudden burst of heat. The singed edge of his finest trousers. And the laughter.
He cleared his throat, straightening stiffly as if to shake off the memory.
"Right," he muttered, flicking a wary glance at the miniature dragon before turning toward the sound of approaching footsteps.
Galdur and Madam Malkin approached as Felicia was instructed to step up onto the fitting platform.
Galdur gave his daughter a brief, fond look. "I'm going to head over and pick up your books. Your mother should be meeting me there. Once you're finished here, meet us at Ollivander's."
As he turned to leave, he caught sight of Draco and immediately recognized the exchange that had taken place between the two. A knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Young Malfoy. Always a pleasure to see you," Galdur greeted with polite warmth.
"Mr. Forester," Draco replied with a respectful nod. "The pleasure is mine. I'll be sure to keep Miss Forester out of trouble."
Felicia raised a brow, but said nothing. Galdur chuckled, glancing at his daughter with amused affection before replying.
"I assume your father is also seeing to your supplies?"
"My father ensured everything was arranged well in advance," Draco said, his tone laced with smug pride. "He believes in being properly prepared."
He shot a quick, sideways glance at Felicia, clearly enjoying the opportunity to highlight his superior readiness.
Then, remembering his manners, he turned his full attention back to Galdur. "I trust your preparations have gone smoothly as well?"
"Very much so," Galdur said with a nod. "Most of it was completed weeks ago, but Felicia insisted on doing the final bits today—wanted the full first-year experience, like everyone else."
He gave another polite smile. "Well, I'll be off before the line becomes unbearable."
Galdur tipped his hat and exited swiftly, leaving the soft chime of the door in his wake. Felicia watched him go, a faint smirk playing at her lips as enchanted measuring tape danced around her, taking precise dimensions. Nearby, a quill hovered over parchment, scribbling down the numbers in smooth strokes.
Draco had acted as though he were the only one prepared, the only one thinking ahead—but Felicia had simply chosen to wait for the important parts.
He watched Galdur disappear down the street, her father's words lingering in his mind longer than he cared to admit. When he turned his gaze back to Felicia, his eyes narrowed slightly, catching the expression on her face.
"So that's it, then?" he drawled, arms folding as he leaned casually against the fitting station. "You wanted to soak up the full 'first-year experience' like a common Hogwarts student? How... sentimental."
His voice carried that familiar, lazy arrogance, but beneath the tease was a thread of genuine curiosity. Felicia had never struck him as someone ruled by nostalgia or tradition—at least, not in the same way others were. So what was her angle?
"How else would I size up the competition?" she replied coolly.
Then she broke into a soft snicker, which earned her a gentle scolding from Madam Malkin to hold still. "Sorry," she said with a grin, before glancing back at Draco.
Her gaze softened just slightly. "I had a feeling your father would focus on being overly practical—and leave you to handle the more important bits on your own. Thought you might want some company."
Draco blinked, visibly taken aback. He understood the sizing-up part—naturally—but the second part caught him off guard. Compassion wasn't something most offered him freely. But Felicia? She never looked away. She saw people. And she spoke.
That was the difference.
She hopped down from the pedestal, her first set of school robes already fitted and draped neatly over her frame as the rest continued to be tailored. Madam Malkin gave a warm nod and informed her that the remaining garments would be delivered to her home, as per her father's request.
Felicia offered a polite courtesy and thanked her before turning back to Draco, a glint of mischief and invitation lingering in her golden eyes.
Draco didn't want to admit it—not even to himself—but he was touched by the fact that Felicia had considered him when deciding to do all of this.
His gaze flicked over her, feigning judgment of the robes she wore, as though assessing their cut or fit. But it wasn't really the robes—it was Felicia. Somehow, she made the standard uniform look like something far more refined. She wore it with a natural elegance, a quiet confidence that wasn't performative. She was genuinely comfortable in her own skin.
And that was what unsettled him.
How could she come from a household as storied and strict as his own—one of equal renown—and still be so composed, so effortlessly herself?
His silver eyes met her golden ones once more, and he tilted his chin slightly, expression guarded but playful. "Since you're being so thoughtful today… where exactly are you planning to drag me?"
Felicia raised a brow, then let out a soft laugh, politely covering her mouth with her hand. She turned to Madam Malkin and offered another sincere thank-you before looping her arm around Draco's and tugging him gently toward the door.
"Come on," she said. "Judging by the lack of wand-waving, you haven't gotten yours yet. Neither have I."
As they stepped out of the shop, Draco's eyes widened slightly at the sudden pull. He should have been used to it by now—she always did this. But only when it was just the two of them.
Felicia had no patience for his entourage. Crabbe and Goyle made her roll her eyes faster than a curse could fly. Draco knew he wasn't his best self when they were around; the pressure to act a certain way, to perform for status, always crept in. And Felicia? She didn't play those games. She didn't care how others viewed her, not in the same way.
She wasn't strange or socially distant—just… forward. Direct. At times, too much for polite society. But when it was just the two of them, everything felt calmer. Easier. More honest.
And though he would never admit it aloud—Draco liked it that way.
Draco and Felicia now walked at a more leisurely pace—she was no longer dragging him by the arm, though the ghost of her grip seemed to linger between them.
Draco cast her a sidelong glance, his tone casual and laced with that familiar lazy arrogance. "Planning to start dueling the moment you step onto the grounds?"
Felicia smirked, glancing back at him. "No one would know what to do with a first year casting fourth-year spells. I figured I'd give it a week—scope out the playing field before tossing out Depulso."
She turned the question back on him. "Are you planning to try out for the Quidditch team? Not that I think they'll pick a first year… Knowing Slytherin, they'll want someone older. They're not exactly known for playing gently."
She said it lightly, without judgment. Quidditch had never really held her interest, at least not in the same way it captivated Draco. He was practically obsessed. If it were up to him, he'd already be gunning for the professional leagues. But his father had other plans—plans that didn't involve flying for sport.
Still, they both knew how to fly—and well. Felicia had the edge when it came to speed and racing. That, in turn, had made Draco better. He hated losing to her, and he had pushed himself hard over the years just to keep up.
They brought out the best—and the most competitive—in each other.
"Of course I will," Draco huffed, giving Felicia a look as if she'd just asked the most obvious question in the world.
She laughed softly, but he pressed on. "I plan on becoming the youngest Quidditch player on record."
"Mm… we'll see. Maybe I'll try out," she said, her tone deliberately teasing.
Draco's eyes widened, a flicker of genuine alarm flashing across his face. He clearly believed she would—and worse, that she might actually make the team instead of him.
Felicia snickered. "Relax, I'm joking. Besides, I prefer the other position—the one with the big ball."
"The Chaser?" he asked, lifting a brow. "It pains me how well you fly and yet how little you know about Quidditch."
"I only know what I do because of you," she grinned.
As they turned the corner, she spotted that her parents hadn't yet arrived at Ollivander's. Draco, for all his arrogance, still had his gentlemanly moments—he stepped ahead and opened the door for her.
Felicia stepped inside with a quiet nod of thanks, and Draco followed close behind.
