What Confidence Can Buy You

Harry's father had always wanted to renovate the roof into a private owlery.

"What would be the point?" his mother had said. "We don't even have owls."

This was true. The only bird his family owned was his father's crow, Morrigan. When Morrigan was out delivering something for his father, his mother would just head to Diagon and use the courier service owls.

"Fine, we'll have an aviary instead."

His mother had only given his father an unimpressed look. Building an unneeded owlery, or an aviary as her husband so helpfully clarified, just for the sake of owning one was the height of wasteful extravagance, in her opinion.

This event had confused Harry for some time. His father had always been a practical man. Sure, he may demand quality and excellence out of every aspect of his life but at his core, effective, efficient results were what mattered. And his mother had always been the parent more prone to excess, so the idea that she would stand firm against his father over the issue of money – which had never been much of an issue for his family, to be honest – was strange.

It was only when Harry grew a little older that he realized money had never been the issue.

A private owlery was not just a symbol of financial status, it was a symbol that declared to all that the Reed family was a family of wizards. His father saw it as a point of pride to own anything that was a fixture of wizarding life, as if he was compensating for his family's Muggle ties.

His mother didn't – no, couldn't, wouldn't – understand. She may have learned all the words, all the rituals, all the customs that respected and called on the Magic, wholeheartedly – she may even have learned the ones that made no sense at all, for the sake of navigating the traps of pureblood society – but she would never be a pureblood. She was unapologetic about her blood, about the woman she was, and utterly disdainful of any attempt to compromise herself in order to appeal to "bloody purebloods who had their noses so far up each other's arses, all they could taste was the shit of their own hypocrisy."

Harry is reminded of this argument every time he goes up to the roof and visits Morrigan's comfy, little enclosure, but his thoughts are currently far more occupied by the fact that, unlike all the other times, he now actually has letters and parcels to send off.

His happy whistling makes Morrigan pop her head out of her window and, at the sight of him, the rest of her body follows. He stretches out an arm for her to perch on and grunts a little at her weight. "Has mum been spoiling you while I was gone?" he says, eyeing the curve of her belly, which is more pronounced than he remembers. Morrigan flaps her wings in indignation and he laughs again before he sets her down next to his bag of gifts.

He decides to send Neville and Hermione their gifts first and secures one to each of Morrigan's feet. He'll send Ron his when Morrigan returns since she'd have to go all the way to Scotland, and he leaves Draco's out since he'll be delivering his gift personally at the Malfoy's ball.

The thought of the ball makes Harry wilt a little bit. He pats Morrigan one last time and she spreads her wings and takes off with a great cry. He gives her shrinking figure a wave before heading back downstairs.

It's still early, so he goes to the kitchen. His mother is there cooking breakfast, singing along to the crooning voice of Celestina Warbeck on the Wireless.

He takes a seat at the kitchen table, shaking out the bits of snow in his hair.

His mother pauses in her singing long enough to sigh, "I really wish you would bundle up more when you go out." She taps the kettle and it gives a high whistle before pouring itself into a tea-bag filled mug. When it's done, she walks over to place the mug in front of him.

Harry wraps his hands around the mug to warm himself up and gives his mother a grateful little smile. "I swear, I always plan to, but before I know it I'm out the door."

His father comes in just as he says this and laughs. "Just like someone else I know," he says as he sits down.

His mother sniffs before turning back to the stove.

Harry hides his giggles behind the curve of his mug as he takes a sip.

"So you delivered your gifts, then?" his father asks absentmindedly, digging through some of the mail on the table.

"Yep." Harry hands him the Daily Prophet. "Just now."

His father accepts the newspaper with a murmured thanks and Harry watches as his head disappears behind it.

"Well, with the amount of effort you put into those presents, I'm sure they'll love them," his mother says as she plates up their breakfast.

"I hope so," Harry says and takes one plate as it nudges at him. There's two sunny side up eggs, a little pool of beans, and strips of bacon there to make a little face, grinning up at him encouragingly. He grins back before slicing one of the eggs with the back of his fork to watch the yolk run.

"So what are our plans for today?" his mother asks, pouring out two cups of coffee.

His father accepts his with a nod, folding the Daily Prophet and picking up one of the other newspapers on the table. French, judging by the flash of the French minister Harry could see on the cover. "The review board has approved of my last revisions, so I'll be free for a while yet. At least until after the journal comes out." He smirks. "Then I'll have to deal with the public's reception of my research."

Harry and his mother share a laugh. It wouldn't be the first time his father's work was met with outrage.

"What about you, Harry?" his mother asks, spreadings some beans on a slice of toast.

Harry hums. "I only have a little more of my homework to finish, but other than that, nothing."

"Perfect!" His mother claps her hands. "I've finished talking with Capello about our dress robe designs, so let's head over to get our measurements done."

Harry's fork pauses in mid air and his father is suspiciously silent behind his newspaper.

His parents had never been the idle type, even with a toddler on their hands. As proof, in one of their albums there's a photo of them rappelling down a rocky cliff face, Harry strapped onto his mother's back, as she posed next to a confused family of augureys and his father diligently collected samples from the nest.

Unexpectedly, it was his scatterbrained mother who was most concerned about documenting and organizing these moments. Every photo is carefully labeled with the spiky letters of his mother's chicken scratch.

Harry (age 2) eating peas.

Tom and Harry (ages 27 and 4) taking a nap.

Tom, Harriet, and Harry (ages 26, 22, and 3) with the augureys on Mt. Divis

There are no photos of his mother pregnant and there aren't many photos of his parents before they had him. One of the few is a photo of his parents receiving a trophy for winning an international pair dueling tournament.

His parents are as poised and attractive as ever, but what really stands out are their robes. There are plates of actual armor on the shoulders, like the burnished scales of a dragon, and all along the arms are armored glove-like sleeves, that seemed to draw inspiration from the kote arm guards of Japanese samurai. His father is cast in gleaming silver and his mother is resplendent in gold. The rest of the robes are conventional cloth but exquisitely embroidered with the same metal as the armor. It should have looked overdone and gaudy, but all he could see was his father oozing with lethal grace and his mother glowing with a more feral, otherworldly power.

It was that tournament that sparked Capello's friendship with his family. The woman had been an undervalued apprentice for a moderately successful Italian designer, but after his parents wore her creations to the award ceremony, she became so sought after that she launched her own brand.

They floo to Capello's receiving room and are surprised to see it already occupied.

Seated at one of the sumptuous settees flush against the wall is Blaise Zabini. Harry and Zabini stare at each other, nonplussed, before the woman beside Zabini asks mildly, "A friend from school, Blaise?"

"He's just another first year, mother," Zabini replies, before specifying, "from Gryffindor."

Harry doesn't detect any antagonism in his tone, but from what he remembers from seeing Zabini in class, the boy was never as hostile as the other Slytherins.

His parents step out of Capello's floo pointedly and Harry flushes as he follows them. Staring while standing ankle-deep in soot was not going to leave the most flattering of impressions.

The Reeds take a seat on the opposite settee and the uncomfortable silence is broken by a near silent pop . A female house elf stands primly in front of them in a rose colored shift just simple enough not to qualify as clothing, but with all the marks of a uniform.

"Mistress will be-" The house elf cuts herself off with a squeak. "Mrs. Reed!" Her enormous blue eyes bulge out even more. "Mr. Reed and the young master, too!" She immediately summons another house elf. "Tell the Mistress that the Reeds are here."

"Oh, no need to go to any trouble Isa," Mrs. Reed protests.

"It is being no trouble at all, Mrs. Reed," says Isa firmly. "If the Mistress knew Isa is leaving the Reeds waiting, she would be most upset."

His mother looks uncomfortable but doesn't protest further. His father had, of course, accepted this preferential treatment as their due and hadn't moved from his calm, seated position during the entire exchange.

Zabini's mother folds her arms and drawls, her low, honeyed voice now a little sharp, "If Madame Capello has pressing engagements, she might have mentioned when I scheduled my appointment."

The house elf wrings her tiny hands in distress. "Mrs. Zabini, we is being most sorry but we will, of course, complete your order as scheduled-"

"What my elf is trying to say, is that my time is very valuable."

An imposing blonde woman strides in on impossibly high stilettos, the heels looking like they were taken from the pointed teeth of some deadly sea creature. A small fleet of female house elves trails behind her, harried expressions on their faces.

The woman, Capello herself, stops in front of them and addresses the Zabinis with a thin smile. "Your contract stipulates that an appointment may be postponed or canceled at any time, for any reason." Capello raises a fine brow. "If you are unhappy with those terms, you might have mentioned as you signed."

Zabini's mother stands up, her beautifully made up eyes twitching. "We will reschedule our appointment, then." She gives the Reeds a slow nod and then sweeps her son into the floo. They disappear into the emerald flames and the final hiss seems like it's the hiss of her displeasure.

"No need to drive away customers on our account," his mother says ruefully.

Capello waves the reproach away with a bejeweled hand. "What "drive away"? Didn't you hear her, she's going to reschedule." She spots Harry and gives the boy a wink. "You'll find that the public is willing to tolerate much as long as one is uniquely talented."

"Still, I should have owled you," his mother sighed.

"The only one who seems troubled by this is you," his father says. "If she says it's fine, then trust the woman to know her own business." He smiles at Capello. "Thank you for always treating our family so kindly."

"See, Harriet? Your husband understands how this works." Capello waves them through the receiving room into an elegantly decorated corridor. Hanging from the walls are paintings filled with beautiful men and women modeling her designs. "If you let these types of people disrespect you, you'll always be subject to their criticism. An artist must prize their work and their time very highly." She leads them into a large, open space filled with light. "Only then can they truly create ."

Harry stares at the studio in wonder. There are racks and racks of unfinished pieces, each more fantastical than the next, and the tables are littered with designs drawn boldly on sheets of parchment. Everything is a riot of colors, patterns, and textures. Running around are at least a dozen female house elves, presumably of a higher rank than the elf who greeted them, judging by how they were trusted with such important tasks as cutting fabric and pattern pieces.

They are seated on soft benches and served refreshments by the elves. Capello instructs two others to bring over a few scrolls. "Now, I've taken Harriet's vision and made it my own, but look these over and tell me if you'd like to make any changes."

Harry unrolls the scroll handed to him and sees a magically animated drawing of a boy. The boy is left faceless and uncolored, drawing your eye to the vividly rendered robes he's wearing. The outer robes are a deep bronze trimmed with gold, with a deep vee, while the inner robes are black, high-necked, and long sleeved. The outer robes open in front to reveal trousers and heeled boots. Harry vaguely remembers that in pureblood society, a boy starts to wear heeled shoes once he reaches Hogwarts age as a right of passage.

His mother sees his uncertainty and says, "Capello doesn't make shoes but she does contract out to a very reputable cordwainer."

Harry gives a vague sound of acknowledgement.

"This ball is essentially your debut into society. Whatever your mother might have told you…" His father and mother share a loaded glance before his mother looks away. His father continues, "you must pick and choose your battles. Some of the purebloods will see you following the customs as a boy imitating his betters, hiding the mud of his blood with gilt, and others will give you more consideration than they would have otherwise."

His mother gives him an assuring pat on the shoulder. "If they're bound to dislike you either way, choose the option that annoys them the most," she jokes.

"Not...exactly what I meant."

"Well, that was all I took from it."

"Well," Capello interrupts with an amused look, "is there anything you'd like to change or shall we move on to taking your measurements?"

When Harry gets home he's more conflicted about the Malfoy ball than ever.

He knows what his mother wants him to do. She wants him to be himself and to not feel pressured into believing that there's anything wrong with who he is. She can dance with the purebloods on their playing field, attack using their weapons, but she fears Harry's too young, too inexperienced, to do the same without internalizing some of those toxic ideas.

His father thinks differently.

His father wants him to take what he's learned about pureblood culture and apply it in a real world setting. It's easy to be confident about how you would behave when presented with a hypothetical scenario, but real life opponents are never so easily conquered. He believes that Harry is ready to face the challenges his heritage will bring him. Even if he fails, he will have his family there to protect him. To his father, the Malfoy Ball is the perfect, controlled environment to test his son's ability.

Harry questions the amount of "control" his father will have, but admittedly, his father has never yet failed to turn a situation to his advantage.

But what does he want to do?

All Harry really wants is to see his friend. He doesn't want to disappoint his parents of course, but to him, all this talk of reputation and society and staying true to your identity just makes his head spin.

The one difference between him and his parents is that his parents live for confrontation. Or more precisely, they have always been able to meet confrontation head on and come out the other side stronger than before.

His father is so confident in his own abilities that he takes any threat as an opportunity to demonstrate his superiority. Harry winces at his uncharitable observation but knows his father would forgive, even approve, of such insight into his character. His father had always appreciated truth over sentiment.

His mother does not suffer from a superiority complex, but she has never been one to let an attack go unanswered. She would not stand idly by and let herself become a victim to someone else's schemes. She obviously believed in the philosophy that "a good offense is the best defense."

But Harry didn't want to fight anyone. He just wanted to live happily and freely. He had spent so long yearning for companionship that he wanted to bask in that uncomplicated joy for a little longer.

Thinking about his friends, however, steels his nerves and strengthens his resolve.

Harry takes a deep breath. He'll take things one situation at a time and decide what to do from there.

How could he stand up for his friends if he couldn't first stand up for himself?