Chapter 3:
If Pomona's father, whom she had never met, had any redeeming quality, it was that he was very wealthy and extremely generous, as though trying to make up for his failings as both a father and a husband.
When she was very young, Mrs Sprout had rented her a vault at Gringotts, filled not only with Galleons but also with several silver ingots. This was one of the reasons Pomona liked Hufflepuff so much — Mrs Sprout had never once thought of taking advantage of her innocence to line her own pockets.
As she often said, gold couldn't fill a stomach. Down in the river valley, she grew many crops and kept chickens. Being Muggle-born, she had lived through the First World War, and during the Second, she lost contact with nearly all her relatives.
The carnage on the battlefield was certainly horrific, but it was civilians who suffered most from war. Mrs Sprout made food taste delicious not for indulgence, but out of respect for it. When food was good, people were less likely to waste it. If it tasted dreadful, people would reject it, and if it looked unappealing, it might be left until last even if it was delicious.
The young woman emerging from the back room was stunningly beautiful, with sleek black hair, bright, shining eyes, flawless pale skin, features like a finely carved statue, and a graceful figure. Yet her expression was proud and haughty, and she carried an air utterly unlike Mrs Sprout's. If Mrs Sprout brought to mind a sunny valley full of flowers and a table laden with food, this young beauty evoked thoughts of a dark, damp dungeon.
In the animal world, badgers were the natural enemies of snakes. In the wizarding world, however, Hufflepuff students often reacted to Slytherins as if they'd just encountered their natural predator — and Pomona felt her fur bristle.
"Well, well, I wondered who it might be — turns out it's just a little first-year who hasn't even started school yet." The black-haired girl stood with her hands on her hips, looking Pomona over with a mocking smile. Even with such an uncouth posture, she was striking, exuding a wild, untamed freedom. "Care to give me your name, little one? I promise I'll take good care of you when term starts."
Pomona immediately recalled Peter's warning: "Don't speak to anyone." If a Hufflepuff wanted to pass their seven years at Hogwarts in peace, the first rule was to avoid Slytherins at all costs. Right now, she felt like a young badger trapped in a snake's den, regretting her earlier bravado.
Before she could panic further, the black-haired girl seemed to realise something. Her eyes swept the shop, and she began cursing. "Damn! Sirius Black! Where are you?"
"He went out with the Potter boy," a kindly soul volunteered. "Only just left."
The girl stormed out like a black whirlwind, then vanished in a swirl of black smoke.
Pomona knew at once it wasn't Apparition — there had been no telltale crack. As soon as the girl was gone, the hushed chatter of the other customers swelled, buzzing like summer mosquitoes.
"That was Bellatrix Black. I hear she's the Slytherin girl prefect this year — and already a Death Eater."
"She's still a student."
"The Dark Lord was recruiting loyal followers when he was still at school. Age isn't an issue if you swear allegiance to him."
"Mummy, what's a Death Eater?"
"Hush, dear."
A young mother and her child, not wishing to get involved, left the shop, and several others soon followed. Madam Malkin looked displeased, but she still led Pomona into the back to take her measurements.
A thick curtain hung across the back room, shielding them from view. With no windows, the room still held the scent left behind by the previous customer.
Alongside the lingering perfume of Bellatrix, Pomona caught a faint whiff of decay — not like rotting leaves in a forest, but like dead rats or putrid meat. "Do you smell that?" she asked, covering her nose.
"What smell?"
"It's like… something's died in here."
"My dear, I've only been open a week — how can you say such a thing?" Madam Malkin's kindly face took on an edge of irritation. "Perhaps our English tastes don't suit someone as fashionable as a young French witch. There's a robe shop in Diagon Alley run by French wizards — you might try there."
As she spoke, she was already ushering Pomona out, making it clear she no longer wished to serve her.
"Half-breed Veela," someone muttered as the bell tinkled behind her. Only then did Pomona remember Mrs Sprout's parting advice — she really should have used a little charm on her appearance before leaving.
Bored and dispirited, she drifted back to the doorway of Flourish and Blotts. Shopping was supposed to be a joy, but her mood had soured completely. She wondered if it would even affect her choice of wand.
"Hey, dearie, want your fortune told?"
A stooped witch shuffled over, trying to smile warmly, but the effect only made her seem more menacing.
"No, thank you," Pomona replied warily.
"Then how about an amulet? Just a few Sickles for your safety," the witch said, reaching for her sleeve — the very arm where Pomona kept her money pouch.
"Go away!" Pomona cried.
"No need to be shy. Come along — I've got better ones at home." As some passers-by began to watch, the witch grabbed her wrist, trying to drag her into the alley behind the shop.
"No! Let go of me!"
"Don't touch her."
Peter appeared just in time. The witch looked ready to argue, but when she saw the wand in his hand, she finally backed off. Only when her shadow had vanished into the darkness did Pomona's heart stop racing.
"Are you all right?" Peter asked anxiously.
"I'm fine…" Tears prickled at her eyes, but she held them back. There really were too many bad people in the world.
"What are you doing back here? Finished shopping already?"
Every woman loved shopping — even Peter's mother, a busy Healer at St Mungo's, could happily spend the whole day browsing. Pomona had no idea how to explain her abrupt return.
"Flashing your wealth, idiot," came a mocking voice.
A boy with a sallow face walked past, sneering. His greasy black hair clung to his scalp, and he carried the bitter scent of potions — like a foul-tasting draught or a disastrously cooked meal.
"Two underage wizards with that much money — why aren't you back in your hole already?"
Badgers, when threatened, retreated to their burrows — underground dens. But no one liked having their home compared to a hole in the ground.
Even knowing that the boy was warning them they'd been targeted, Pomona still felt sour.
Freak.
That was her first impression of him — just as his of her was "idiot." A meeting that could not have gone worse.