Violet Vitriol Solo

Malcolm's eyes once again scanned the pamphlet that had come not long after his Hogwarts Admittance Letter. 'We recommend all students who plan on being spectators for the Granian Derby to be in attire befitting the event - either store-bought or handmade fantastical hats, in particular, are highly encouraged.' A slight frown crossed his face. Considering his family scraped up enough money to help sponsor the event in the hopes of getting word out there about job openings that would be available for graduating students, he'd be expected to attend the Derby. But what in Merlin's name is he meant to wear to an event like that? The McGregors - branches of it at least - are purebloods, sure, but they're not exactly upper crust, they don't really have this kind of high society outfit just lying around, or high quality fabrics they could throw into something respectable.

"Could always ask yer granda. He actually has somethin' layin' 'round from when he was a lad hisself." His da, Rónán, suggested from his position by the cauldron, brewing up a fresh batch of Potion for Dreamless sleep.

Malcolm, turned his head to look at him, incredulously, before one corner of his mouth curls into a wry smirk. "They'd invented clothes by then, had they?" He asks.

"Bí múinte, a mhic." 'Be polite, son.' Rónán admonishes him gently, trying to maintain a semblance of the stern parent even though Malcolm could see his struggling not to laugh in response.

Rónán gave the potion a lazy stir, and the scent of lavender and wormwood bloomed through the kitchen. "Go on lad, ask him. He’ll be chuffed ta see it worn again. Reckon it's been passed through near a dozen hands by now. Just... be open minded, aye? It's a bit... outdated, but you make sure ye're rememberin' yer manners all the same. Yer mam and I didn't you ta be lookin' a gift unicorn in the mouth."

Malcolm nodded slowly, folding the pamphlet and slipping it into the pocket of his worn jacket. He wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of parading around in something his grandfather had worn decades ago — something that sounded more like a relic than proper attire — but Rónán’s words had a way of sinking in. Besides, family wasn’t just about pride; it was about tradition, and sometimes, a good story waiting to be told. He just wished it wouldn't have to be at his expense.

--- --- ---

Later that afternoon, Malcolm found himself at the threshold of his grandfather’s cluttered wardrobe, staring at the pile of clothes laid out for him, his eyes wide and his skin paler than usual. His eyes flit to his granda, then back to the... ensemble. "G'way with you, granda. This is a grand ol' laugh, but... em... where's the outfit da was actually talkin' 'bout? This one's just you havin' a laugh... aye?"

Granda McGregor’s eyes twinkled beneath a bushy fringe of silver eyebrows as he shuffled forward, a slow smile creeping across his weathered face. "Ah, now, ye’re lookin’ at it, lad. The very same rig I wore watchin’ my first Derby back in ’32. Belonged ta my granda's granda." He gestured grandly at the ensemble sprawled across the battered oak table, as if unveiling a long-lost treasure.

Malcolm blinked. The outfit looked like something that had been yanked straight from the back shelves of a dusty museum—or worse, a wizarding bazaar of fashion disasters. The hat was a deep, bruised-plum velvet, worn smooth at the brim’s edge by centuries of fidgeting fingers. The crown was tall and slightly slanted, a conical silhouette that once screamed 1740s wizarding chic and now whispered "please don’t breathe near me." It was bedecked with embroidered stars, once shining and bright, Malcolm was certain, but now the metallic thread had dulled to a faded pewter - scattered haphazardly across the velvet, like a night sky drawn by a particularly excitable six-year-old with a quill.

A sash of frayed ochre silk wrapped around the base, patterned with oak leaves in faded drab olive. One corner had unraveled just enough that Malcolm's sure it was going to get caught in the wind dramatically and frequently smack him in the face. A pin sat above the sash: a tiny, finely detailed bowtruckle astride a winged horse, both with expressions of terrified glee. The pewter was tarnished, one of the horse’s wings were slightly bent, and the bowtruckle’s arm was missing. Grand.

Sticking out of the left side were several dyed goose feathers (once matching the sash, now a confused yellowy-beige) and a sprig of silk lavender that had long since lost half its buds. Nestled at the crown: a silk poppy, a few pressed maple leaves, and, somehow, a forgotten Droobles Best Blowing Gum wrapper that some distant ancestor, possibly granda himself, had snuck in there one day.

Everything below the neckline wasn't much better. Everything was a faded eggplant color. The coat was long, sweeping, silver-stitched winged horses winging their way across his torso in various stages of flight. The lapels are enormous, trimmed in tarnished lace with curling edges like old parchment. They flanked a cravat the color of boiled lilacs, tied too many times and with a mysterious stain that smelled vaguely of lemon balm and old shoe polish.

The shoulders were puffed up like someone drown them in swelling solution, and the sleeves weren't much better in terms of... outdated charm - lacy and clearly designed to dangle loosely about the wrist. The acorn-shaped silver buttons were scattered down the front and cuffs - each one flickering erratically with a fading self-polishing charm that occasionally catches the candlelight like an old mirror, then dims as if sighing, "I used to be glorious."

Malcolm could only hazard a guess that his however many times great- granda had been somewhat lacking in character, because the hidden wand pocket sewn into the lining is far too small for the wand his da is loaning him. Now it could mostly be used for a half-stick of sugar quill or the occasional pressed flower.

The breeches were at least subdued in their awkwardness - knee-length and puffy and made of threadbare silk embroidered with gilded horseshoes and ivy. They were meant to tuck into the stockings, which had yellowed with age. These in turn were to be slipped into pointy, black dragon-hide slippers with ornate silver buckles shaped like crescent moons. The toes curl slightly upward—not because of design, but age and exposure to too many hot summers in attics.

“It’s certainly... somethin', granda...”

“She's outdated, aye. But it fits you better than you think.” Granda’s eyes crinkled kindly. “The clothes are enchanted ta refit themselves ta whoever's wearin' 'em, but I won’t lie, the magic’s seen better days. Was goin' even in my day. Doubt it's strengthened over the years, so, it might look a wee bit frumpy, but it’s got character. Just like you, lad.”

"Granda... I... I'm not tryin' ta be rude, but this summer camp's the first time I'll be meetin' anyone from Hogwarts. This... fashion disaster's goin' ta make me a laughin' stock before I even get sorted..." Malcolm sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and narrowly avoiding brushing velvet dust into his eyes. He glanced again at the coat as it gave a little twitch on the table, as though offended by the remark and determined to prove itself. One of the acorn buttons gave a reluctant gleam.

Granda folded his arms across his chest, eyeing the ensemble with a faint sense of reverence. “Lad, listen here. That ‘disaster’ walked the Derby green back when wizards duelled in the stands over who had the finer hat trim. That coat’s seen more social history than the Ministry’s archive wing. It’s been courted in, cried on, hexed at, complimented by a Veela, and once got into a scuffle with a jealous billywig during a Triwizard Cup. It’s earned its wrinkles.”

Malcolm gave him a long, slow blink. “The coat’s been complimented by a Veela?” He asked, sounding like he doubted that very much.

“Not the wearer, mind,” Granda said proudly. “Just the coat.”

Malcolm muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer to Merlin for strength, before dragging his hand down his face. “At least I've no need ta worry if the shoes squeak...” He murmured as he wheeled his chair over to risk a closer look.

“Well, even if you had, they didn’t when I was eleven,” Granda said, his tone cheerfully evasive.

Grimacing like a man headed to his own execution, Malcolm carefully reached for the coat. The fabric crackled faintly under his fingers, a sound not unlike an old spellbook sighing open. As soon as he slipped it on, the refitting enchantment gave a valiant, if arthritic, attempt at resizing — the shoulders twitched, cinched, and then surrendered to a half-slouch, leaving him looking like a particularly broody discolored dandelion gone to seed. The sleeves hiccupped once before stopping mid-shrink, hovering awkwardly just shy of his wrists.

"Well, it’s... certainly eye-catchin'," he said tightly, resisting the urge to scratch at the cravat which had coiled itself around his neck like a fabric python with intimacy issues.

Granda beamed. “There now! Wear it with pride, lad. It’s got centuries o' charm stitched inta every thread.”

"And dust," Malcolm muttered before slipping the hat on his head. "If nothin' else, it'll distract from the wheelchair... or that's just goin' ta make me look like a bloody parade float..."

The hat settled on his head with a stately sort of gravity, as if it knew it had once been the toast of wizarding high society and wasn't about to let moth-chewed velvet or a slumped crown diminish its grandeur. It listed slightly to the left, dragging the sprig of silk lavender with it like a tired banner, and the gum wrapper fluttered gently with the movement, a banner of forgotten sweets and questionable choices. Perturbed, he reached up, snatching the wrapper and trying to dislodge it, but century's old Drooble's had cemented it in place. Fantastic.

Malcolm looked in the cracked mirror propped against the wall. The reflection that stared back at him was… bewildering. He looked like the ghost of a child aristocrat who had tragically drowned in a vat of plum jam and returned to haunt social functions forevermore.

The sash rustled faintly as he shifted, a papery, whispering sound like dead leaves skittering over a stone path, and the little bowtruckle-and-horse pin jostled just enough for the horse’s bent wing to wobble, giving the distinct impression that the tiny creature was attempting liftoff and giving up halfway through.

“I'm doomed.” Malcolm said flatly. "But at least it's only fer one day. Nobody's goin' ta be rememberin' this years from now, aye?"

Malcolm adjusted the sash once more, trying not to wince as the threadbare silk rasped against his fingers. His fingers brushed over the embroidered oak leaves, the same design that had decorated countless family heirlooms, relics of a past where the McGregors had a foothold in the swirling eddies of wizarding society. Now, it was more like a whisper of those times, clinging on with stubborn pride.

“Yer grandda’s got the right idea, mo chroí.” came a soft voice from the doorway.

Malcolm blinked and turned to see his mam, Onóra, stepping in quietly, a knowing smile curving her lips. “Aye, maybe you look like ye’ve stepped out o' a history book, or maybe a cautionary tale from The Tales o' Beedle the Bard. But, there’s magic in the old things, even if it’s mostly the kind that makes you want ta curse when it's not quite workin' the way ye'd like.”

She stepped forward, eyes gleaming with fondness, and ran a gentle hand over the dusty folds of the coat. “That coat’s got soul. It’s stubborn, temperamental, and utterly charming. Just like its wearer, I’d wager.”

Malcolm gives a halfhearted smile, I hope ye're right, mam..." He muttered, before giving her a sidehug. He gave a sigh then turned to his granda, "Thanks fer the clothes. They're... well... they're 'fantastical', ta be sure."