Chapter 2:
Wizarding bloodlines were dwindling, especially among the pure-bloods. Wizards were already few in number, and with low birth rates and close intermarriage among the aristocratic families, even fewer children were being born. To keep magic alive, half-blood witches and wizards were now allowed into houses like Slytherin that once touted pure-blood status, so it was no surprise to see shops in Diagon Alley run by Muggle-born witches and wizards.
Shops run by the old aristocracy felt aloof and exclusive; their owners were proud and reserved, and their staff did not offer the warm smiles you might get at the Muggle-run shops next door. Naturally their business suffered. Where some shops prospered, others went bankrupt and closed — that was the law of the market — but the aristocrats refused to admit blame. They blamed non-pure-blood witches and wizards for "invading" and ruining trade, and many shops that had lasted centuries were forced to shut.
Without income but determined to maintain a life of "taste," the plight of the once-great pure-blood families was easy to imagine. Poverty and pride made them radical; the busy streets seemed full of customers hurrying past, unwilling to linger in Diagon Alley, just as Mrs Sprout had said — the wizarding world was no place for an eleven-year-old to wander alone.
Life went on, and some aristocrats swallowed their pride and adapted. The Richen Bookshop, founded in 1694, was the best bookshop in Diagon Alley. Hogwarts opened in September, and sometime after midsummer owls would deliver acceptance letters and lists of required texts; here you could find almost every book you'd need. Pomona noticed a new robe shop next door, its sign bearing the name of its mistress, Madame Moggins. The shop catered to the wealthy and well-dressed; its customers were graceful and well-bred, as if deliberately contrasting with the bustling, chaotic Richen Bookshop next door.
"Jamie, where are those books on the invisibility charms?" Pomona heard someone ask the moment she stepped into Richen.
"Blast! They're gone again!" a harried clerk cried, clutching his hair. "I swear I'll never touch those blasted books again!"
"Do you want to come in?" Peter asked her. Pomona shook her head without hesitation; this was the busiest time at Richen before term, packed with fidgeting little kids and exhausted clerks.
"Then wait for me by the door."
"I'm going to look next door." Pomona pointed at the new shop. "You can come and find me there later."
"You sure?" Peter frowned as he watched the well-turned-out aristocrats. "Don't talk to them. Who knows what those pure-bloods might do to a minor."
Pomona thought Peter was worrying unnecessarily. No matter how fierce the quarrels between pure-bloods and others, they would not harm a child; children represented hope, and every newly awakened witch or wizard was precious.
After giving his instructions, Peter raised his wand and, like Moses parting the Red Sea, forced a path through the crowd until he vanished from sight. Pomona turned and headed next door.
"Hey, Jan, which house do you think you'll be sorted into?"
"Gryffindor, obviously. You?"
"My mum wants me in Slytherin, but I'd rather be in Hufflepuff. At least I'd be top of the house then."
With a clatter of bells the robe shop's door opened, and the loud conversation of two smartly dressed young wizards caught her attention; she disliked the comparison one of them had made.
People often said Hufflepuffs were the leftover students, that Hufflepuff demanded nothing. But to Pomona that spirit meant inclusiveness, a quality sorely lacking. Some thought bravery as precious as gold, but if a person had no sense of approachability they were nothing but an arrogant oaf. The earth yields crops, wheat makes bread, grass feeds cattle — gold won't fill a stomach.
Human nature was many things. The brave could turn timid, the clever could be blinded by ambition, loyalty could betray, righteousness could become wicked. When society dismissed house-elves as nothing, it was Helga Hufflepuff who brought them into Hogwarts kitchens and gave them work and shelter.
Remembering Peter's warning, Pomona said nothing to anyone and slipped quietly into the shop. The air was heavy with expensive perfumes. The two boys outside had spoken loudly enough for everyone to hear, and many patrons glanced at the pair who had just left. Though those looks were not aimed at Pomona, being the focus of so many stares made her uneasy.
She suddenly thought her daring dress had been a poor choice.
"May I help you, young lady?" a witch in a purple robe asked, stepping forward and kindly shielding Pomona from the searching gazes with a gentle smile.
"I need a robe," Pomona said, a little nervous. "A school-style robe for Hogwarts."
Her voice was not loud, but in the quiet shop it sounded abrupt, and someone snorted in scorn.
"You want a Hogwarts uniform, dear? I have many standard sizes…"
"Custom-made, of course." Pomona deliberately raised her voice, speaking with a faint French lilt. "Where do you take measurements?"
"You'll have to wait a moment; there's a young gentleman in the back room." The assistant smiled on. "Feel free to look around; call me if you find anything you like."
She turned away, and the aristocrats lowered their voices to murmur. Pomona heard words like "Black" and "black sheep" drift past.
The Black family was one of Britain's most eminent pure-blood houses, perhaps only matched by the Malfoys. Mrs Sprout had told Pomona about these families when her magic had awakened. Most Blacks attended Slytherin; having a Black determined to be sorted into Gryffindor would be an unthinkable scandal for such a distinguished name — as damaging, in their eyes, as fathering an illegitimate child with someone of non-pure blood.
As she browsed she still felt those unpleasant looks. Men stared at her as if she were an oddity; women examined her as if trying to guess her parentage.
"Madame Moggins!" Pomona called out when she had had enough of the glances.
"Have you taken a fancy to that gown, dear?" Madame Moggins asked, polite as ever.
"I'll take all of these." Pomona pointed at a row of robes displayed on wooden mannequins.
"And your parents?" Madame Moggins asked with the same courteous smile, assuming an eleven-year-old's nonsense.
Pomona slammed a pouch of Galleons onto the counter with a loud thud.
"Now," she said, chin raised and voice proud, "send the fellow from the back out. Don't waste my time."