Rubes and Robes
date. time. location. speech.
July was a hellish month. Not only was the little red line of mercury in the thermometer soaring skywards with the speed and determination of a rocket, but it was the mugginess, and it was the humidity. That alone was almost guaranteed to lay the young, the frail, and the elderly down flat.
March checked off two of those boxes. Sweat tickled the junction of his neck and right shoulder, and he brought two fingers up to wick it away, catching the fluttering pace of his own pulse for just a second. He dropped his hand back down to his side. The summer crowds of— his eyes flicked to helpful signage on the unfamiliar street— Diagon Alley bustled all around him. Adults and children alike moved with purpose, some with destinations clearly in mind, while others asked for directions from whomever seemed friendly enough to stop.
March did neither of those things. Instead, he walked slowly, head swiveling left and right, as he searched for anything that even remotely resembled a map or a directory of sorts. The flow of foot traffic weaved around his halting, disruptive pace. Surely there was bound to be one here, for lost, confused, utterly out of place, regular huma-
A heavy hand landed on March's left shoulder, unexpectedly, and his head jerked, turning to look at his father.
"Don't stand around,” Baba said, voice low enough to be lost in the chatter around them. Yet March heard him loud and clear.
”R-right.” With a renewed sense of urgency, he ducked his head back down to peer at his mandatory supply list.
Three black plain work robes, standard model. He cast his gaze outwards again, stepping forward as his father’s hand left his shoulder. A pointed hat, black. His eyes fell upon a storefront with delicate gold lettering curling above the window. A winter cloak, black with silver fastenings. Madame Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions stood proud and tall in violet, and March could see people entering and exiting with their arms full of shopping bags.
July was a month full of miracles, big and small.
March let out a discreet sigh of relief. He checked a glance backward to make sure his father was still walking alongside him, then set off for the store. Everything about this entire trip had been a miracle, really. Baba had planned ahead, traded shifts with a coworker, all just to take him shopping for his books and uniform before school started. Wizarding school. Even when March had woken up this morning, he wasn’t entirely sure if his father was going to follow through with his promise and allow him to go at all. But here he was, with him, and Baba had even dressed a little nicer than he usually did too. March hadn’t seen that dress shirt and slacks combo since the last time he had gotten terribly in trouble at school.
They entered Madame Malkin’s together. Instantly, a wave of cool air hit March in the face, ruffling his clothes and pushing his bangs back. He brought his hand up to smooth down his hair, blinking in surprise. An AC? No… maybe… it was some sort of cooling spell? The confounding question of wizarding air conditioning systems would have to wait, however; Baba made a clipped noise with his tongue, and March came back down to reality, quickly standing at attention.
”What the hell are these people wearing…” The edge in his voice was a familiar warning, and March followed his father’s gaze to the offending clothing items in question.
Racks upon racks of robes in every color under the sun, shoes with heels and buckles and laces, a cloche hat dotted entirely in pearls. Blinged out, March thought, unable to stop himself from staring. There was a feminine mannequin in a velvet evening gown with a feathered hem that floated just a centimeter off the floor, and a masculine mannequin dressed head to toe in an androgynous style, complete with a pointed hat that was tilted on its axis charmingly. The selection stretched far back, and March knew that there were even more clothes for him to see. It was beautiful in here. And, obviously, very, very expensive.
A bright eyed store associate suddenly rushed over, smiling at him and his father with a picture perfect grin. She must’ve smelt the metaphorical fresh blood in the water (or noticed the lost expression on March’s face).
“Hello dears! Shopping before school starts? Come on ahead, and we’ll get you measured up in the back.”
March took a step forward, hesitantly. Unfamiliar coins weighed heavily in the small bag he carried, and he looked over at Baba for any cues on what to do. None were there. He cleared his throat and turned back to the worker.
”Hogwarts, yes, but—” He didn’t know how to phrase this in a way that wasn’t embarrassing. Navigating the currency exchange at Gringotts had been stressful enough; he didn’t need to overspend on unnecessary luxuries on top of that. ”I’m only here for three bla-”
“Yes, yes. Three black robes, a cloak, and a hat. We measure and hem everything here, dear. It’s all part of the process.”
Right. Right. She must be used to the average student’s back-to-school shopping list. It was clear that the worker knew her stuff, far better than March in any case. She ushered him along, and this time he followed.
”Don’t let her sell you nonsense.”
That was the final edict from Baba, before they walked out of earshot.
It was a little quieter towards the back. March took a big step up onto a wooden stool made of a lovely dark wood. He wasn’t able to catch a glimpse of the pretty carvings along the side, since the store associate had come out with a roll of measuring tape. Floating. He watched it work in wonder. The thing seemed to have a mind of its own, flying over and zipping open to gauge the distance between March’s shoulders. The worker, meanwhile, noted down the measurements.
“As you may or may not have noticed, the supply list states that you are required to purchase three sets of plain black robes, but the fabric type, however, is never specified.” She peered at him over her notepad. “We have an absolutely stunning collection of fine black fabrics for you to choose from, dear. It seems like our silk pieces have been catching on lately, and I’m sure you’ll see a number of your classmates walking the halls in Flitterby silk!” The measuring tape snapped shut, then opened again, stretching from his hip to his ankle. “Of course, we carry plant based fabrics here as well, if you’re more inclined towards cotton and linen blends. Any percentage blend you might want, dear, we most definitely will have. Might I suggest this one here—” She gestured to a dress form a few yards away. It was stuffed with needles, a midnight black fabric pinned on, half finished. “—it’s dyed with ink sourced from Giant Squids! ...Ethically sourced, of course.”
March opened his mouth dumbly.
”Uh.”
| interacting with. | ⟶ @Eveline Ashcombe. |
| notes. | ⟶let’s get this party started >:D |
Last edited by March Yeung on 7 Jul 2026, 08:45, edited 1 time in total.
sta 3. eva 8. str 0. wis 7. arc 4. acc 8.
˙ǝʎǝ lnɟʇıǝɔǝp 'ɓuıʎl ǝɥʇ ǝɹɐʍǝq 👁
Rubes and Robes
July 1st, 2026
It was ridiculous, Eveline decided. She'd been to Diagon Alley a whole month ago, purchasing every supply on her list. The only things she hadn't managed to buy were her school robes, hat, protective gloves, and winter cloak. She'd meant to get everything in one trip, but Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions hadn't had the material Mother had insisted on for the inner lining of her pointed hat in stock at the time.
As a result, Eveline had to make a second trip to Diagon Alley. As if that wasn't bad enough, the heat was sweltering. Eveline felt like she was walking through a sauna. And as if to make things even worse, Eveline had mistaken a visitor of her mother's for a different witch and greeted her with the wrong name, so, as punishment, Mother hadn't even brought the house elves to carry Eveline's bags for them when they were done.
Eveline was absolutely certain that this was going to be the worst day of her life.
Finally, after being bumped around like a pair of bludgers by the ridiculous crowds of shoppers, Eveline and her Mother reached Madam Malkin's. A flamboyant wizard approached the pair immediately. He was well-dressed, Eveline supposed. A lovely lavender tunic with fine silver threading and a matching set of trousers. They were well-fitted. At least he knew how to take proper measurements.
"Oh, darling," the wizard said excitedly. "I can see you two have impeccable taste. Oh, this gown has such lovely support. Let me guess - unicorn hair?"
Eveline's mother smiled.
"But of course," Seraphine said with a polite smile. One that actually seemed to reach her eyes. She seemed satisfied with her choice to bring Eveline to Madam Malkin's. "Eveline, dear? Please run along for your measurements. I've my own business to discuss."
Eveline knew how this was going to end. They would leave with armfuls of bags, courtesy of the assistant who was currently sweet talking her mother's fashion sense.
She kept quiet, obediently walking toward the back of the shop. She didn't need to be shown the way. She'd been here before for gown fittings since she was a little girl. Quite a few of the associates knew her by name, she would wager. She didn't know their names, of course, but she had felt a sense of recognition from the wizard who was currently speaking to her mother.
Another boy was already being measured when Eveline stepped out of the main showroom of the shop. Eveline's eyes swept over him appraisingly. A muggle, she realized. Maybe it was his clothes, or his demeanor, but this boy was certainly not from a proper magical family. Eveline stepped up onto the stool beside his, catching the tail end of the associate's sales pitch. Something about Giant Squid ink or some such nonsense.
Another witch arrived shortly. A plump witch with golden blond hair, brown eyes, and a set of robes that toed the line between blue and gray, but somehow worked on her. Eveline remembered her. She'd been the one to measure Eveline when Mother had thrown a ball to celebrate Eveline's official acceptance to Hogwarts and Eveline had needed a gown.
"Have you gotten Acromantula silk in yet?" Eveline asked politely, barely glancing at March. "It's the only proper liner for the inside of a school hat, you know. Very comfortable, my Mother insists."
The store associate, who was very familiar with the Ashcombes, nodded.
"Of course, Miss Ashcombe. And, as your Mother insisted, we've even stocked dragonhide for your school shoes. Very durable and resistant to scuffing," the witch said with a polite smile.
Eveline didn't need to tell the witch what sort of materials she wanted for the robes themselves. It was obvious that she would only accept the most expensive materials available for her uniform. Her mother was probably making the arrangements even now.
Only then did Eveline finally acknowledge March's presence.
"You're to be attending Hogwarts, then?" Eveline asked curiously. But she didn't wait for an answer before continuing. "I wouldn't worry too much. There are loads of students who come from muggle families. I've been reading ahead. Most of the first year classes are more about the fundamentals than actual magic. Even muggle-born students should be able to manage."
Reducio
@March Yeung
Rubes and Robes
date. time. location. speech.
“I don't… I don't think I need all that.” March swallowed, acutely aware of the fact that he hadn't been told any of the prices for any of the items she had listed just now. Even worse, he felt as if every word she had been saying had gone into one ear, done a few loop de loops and maybe an ollie, and then promptly slipped out the other ear. He had understood each individual word she had said. Just… never in that order before, nor at that rapid fire speed.
Cotton… that was cheaper, right? Or at least, more cost friendly than silk he's never heard of and… squid ink? What on earth was a Flitterby? It was both confusing yet exciting, but March didn't have too much time to ruminate about it (he was beginning to notice this as a pattern). A girl, maybe about his age or so if he had to guess, with pretty blonde hair and a prim, self-assured look on her face had entered into his semi-secluded space. Or, well, it wasn't really his space, but it had felt like it for all of two minutes.
“Go ahead and hold your arms wide out for me, dear.”
Attention directed away, he did as the associate asked, lifting his arms up while the measuring tape unfurled to measure his wingspan, wrist to wrist. As he did, he began to feel the back of his neck prickle. Little hairs stood on end, and it felt almost like… someone was looking at him. Was she staring? March couldn’t help it; he glanced over with a side eye, but by then, she had turned away and was stepping up onto a stool next to him. The measuring tape whistled from speed at which it snapped shut, breaking his gaze. He blinked, stifling his little jump of surprise just in time.
"Have you gotten Acromantula silk in yet?”
More textiles he had never heard of before. It didn’t count as eavesdropping if it was in an open space, right? Pretending to pay attention to the measuring tape, March listened in.
"It's the only proper liner for the inside of a school hat, you know.”
Is that so? He hadn’t known that— maybe that was something worth asking the store associate about. He didn’t really have a strong frame of reference for what was right and what was wrong for wizards. Whatever he could glean from other people’s conversations was the best shot that he had without subjecting himself to the grand humiliation that was asking for help.
But then again, surely silk was a bit much, wasn’t it? Wouldn’t a simpler fabric suffice?
“Of course, Miss Ashcombe.”
The next tidbit about dragonhide (dragons?!) completely flew over March’s head, as he realized that the workers knew who this girl was. Miss Ashcombe. She must be a regular then. Or possibly, somebody important? A hodgepodge of assumptions, curious thoughts, and guesses flew through his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen any department store worker address a customer by name, much less himself. He tested out the thought in his mind. Mister Yeung. It felt a little silly.
"You're to be attending Hogwarts, then?”
Oh. He hadn't expected her to speak to him at all. But maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised; they were going to classmates, after all. It was a bit of an exciting prospect, really. March opened his mouth to respond. Ye-
"I wouldn't worry too much.”
Her words were a douse of cold water down his back. He blinked once, twice, and then shut his mouth, not knowing what to say as she continued on. I wouldn’t worry too much. Worried. Worried? He wasn’t worried. At least, not right now, he wasn’t. The cold water evaporated in a steam of heat and indignation, flaring bravely to life. He had nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. Why on earth would he be-
"Even muggle-born students should be able to manage.”
March looked away from the girl, casting his eyes down to the floor in what could almost be mistaken for a moment of meek shyness. He composed his anger and readied his tongue.
“What makes you think I’m scared?” His voice wavered for a moment in his bluff, but he regained his edge and pressed forward, unable to stop. “Being able to read isn’t much of an accomplishment, you know.”
The rustling of fabric and scissors around them stilled. Somebody was listening in, but that wasn’t of any importance right now. Does she think I’m slow? He wasn't stupid. So what if she had been reading ahead? So what if the first year classes were mostly fundamentals, something he might’ve been reassured by if he weren’t feeling a swell of offense at the present moment? As things stood right now, March just didn’t have the bandwidth to acknowledge that fact or question if he was overreacting. Instead, something else was nagging at him.
“...And what did you just call me?”
It had sounded condescending, coming from her. There was no way in hell that had been a compliment. He turned the word around in his head, brow creasing in confusion and annoyance. A muggle-born? What? He had never heard that word before.
| interacting with. | ⟶ @Eveline Ashcombe. |
| notes. | ⟶ sorry for the slow response speed!!  |
sta 3. eva 8. str 0. wis 7. arc 4. acc 8.
˙ǝʎǝ lnɟʇıǝɔǝp 'ɓuıʎl ǝɥʇ ǝɹɐʍǝq 👁
Rubes and Robes
July 1st, 2026
Oh, this poor boy. Looking down at his feet, like they would hold any answers that would help him at Hogwarts. Poor, poor boy. Eveline knew it was a bit presumptuous of her even as the thought crossed her mind, but perhaps it would be the kind thing for her to take him under her wing. He wouldn't reach pure-blood levels of talent, of course, but she could elevate him quite closely to her level. If they both worked hard.
Eveline wordlessly let the witch who'd been tending to her gather her measurements, moving her limbs as needed. This whole procedure was one she was intimately familiar with. She didn't even have to think as she lifted her own arms, mirroring the boy's posture.
"Oh, don't be so shy. You were accepted into Hogwarts. That's something to be proud of. As for what I called you? I called you a muggle-born," Eveline said, her eyes shining with something akin to pity. "You know what a muggle is. It's what we call non-magical people. Muggle-borns are witches, wizards, and wixes born to those families."
Her eyes traveled from March's head to his toes, then back up again.
"Of course reading isn't all that impressive," she agreed. "But I can't imagine walking into class without at least trying to get through the first few chapters of our book list. It shows a lack of ambition, I think. And the first year book list really is quite simple. Except, perhaps, the books for History of Magic. They're all quite dull-"
Miraculously she stopped talking. She hadn't even introduced herself. Mother would be most displeased, if she were here.
"Oh, where are my manners? I'm Eveline Ashcombe, daughter of Cassian Ashcombe and Seraphine Ashcombe, née Duskmere. You might have seen my family crest on some of your potion ingredients at the shop when you bought your cauldron. Or you might have heard of my French cousins if you've any interest in the Hundred Years' War," Eveline said, finally letting her arms down as the witch's measurements shifted to her waist and legs. She didn't even look at the associate. Her eyes were on the student next to her. "And you are...?"
Reducio
@March Yeung
Rubes and Robes
date. time. location. speech.
Where— indeed— were her manners?
And, more importantly, what was going on? An odd look had crossed over the girl’s face, and March stalled, momentarily thrown off. He felt the argument straining against the backs of his teeth, all pent up hot air that had swelled and pressurized in his lungs, ready to breathe forth… but instead, he watched as the girl calmly lifted up her arms to match his. It was graceful and confident, like a swan spreading her wings, and the lights above them shone gently down, lighting up the pale strands of her blonde hair. Some kind of weird air was practically radiating off of her now.
…This was not the reaction March had been looking for.
No, really, this was very much the opposite of what he had anticipated. The fight deflated out of his chest, leaving him feeling rather off kilter as the girl called him shy. Shy! Where on earth was she getting all these assumptions from? A twinge of self-consciousness knit a stitch between his eyebrows. He hadn’t been feeling shy before, but now he was starting to feel a little embarrassed; did he really come off as shy to her? It took considerable effort not to check the standing mirror in the fitting room, and even more effort to keep his face fixed in a frown of anger and not one of confusion.
“I called you a muggle-born.”
There was that word again. Something that he was supposed to be.
“You know what a muggle is.”
No, he didn’t. How was he supposed to know?
“It's what we call non-magical people. Muggle-borns are witches, wizards, and wixes born to those families.”
Those families. Those people. His people. People like him and his father and his grandma and grandpa. And his mother, too. March swallowed the new knowledge down, letting it settle down in the bottom of his stomach bitterly. He was March Yeung, the muggle-born. And the girl— the witch— standing across from him was… not. He didn’t have the words for it yet, but the unspoken was obvious and undeniable; she had something to her that he did not have, could not have. She was different, must’ve been born different.
…Well, that didn’t matter, because he was made better.
He’d seen his fair share of rich snobs in school, and he wasn’t going to let another one shake him just because they were in the middle of magic London as opposed to the city streets of Manchester. Not even one as… unnerving as she was. The girl looked March up and down, and a traitorous shiver ran from the divot in the base of his skull down, down, down into the taut strings of his Achilles. Eurgh.
“I'm Eveline Ashcombe, daughter of Cassian Ashcombe and Seraphine Ashcombe, née Duskmere.”
Ashcombe and Duskmere. March had not, in fact, purchased his cauldron for the school year yet, but now he knew which potions products to avoid in the shop. An act of conscious consumerism. As the store associates moved in tandem to continue taking their measurements, March had hoped that it would be enough of a minor distraction to break Eveline’s stride. No such luck would be afforded to him, however; her gaze remained unwavering as she barreled onwards, likely spurred by the sound of her own voice.
“And you are…?”
First things first. “Stop making that face,” March tried to snap, as she finally finished her speech. He was creeped out, and it fell flat, landing without nearly as much sting as he would have liked. “Do you always stare at people like…” He waved a hand vaguely in her direction, willing her to blink and dispel that disturbingly patronizing glint in her eye. “...that?”
He straightened his back, pushing past the perfect line that his spine was already in to draw his shoulders back and square. The store associate made a tittered sound, marking down yet another set of numbers with her quill. “Try not to move so much, dear.”
“I’m March Yeung.” His name came out firm, as if he wanted to leave no space for a challenge. “I’m…” God, it really was incredibly strange, introducing himself as his father's... by his father's name. Was it really such a standard way of introducing yourself amongst wizards, so much so that no one else seemed to bat an eye? Was it off to feel silly and odd about it? He powered through, forcing himself to match Eveline’s proud, unaffected air. “...My father is Anthony Yeung.”
March tilted his head back a degree, the corner of his mouth hooking down into a sharper scowl.
“It must’ve been pretty difficult for you to get into Hogwarts then, with the way that you think it’s such an accomplishment. No wonder reading ahead is ambitious to you.” He wasn’t some kind of ungrateful brat of course. He was proud to have been accepted to Hogwarts, proud and shocked and delighted beyond his wildest dreams, even if sometimes he wasn’t quite sure if he was still dreaming. But Eveline didn’t need to know all that. He could hold those feelings closer, privately to himself and nestled safely away from eyes to see. “I didn’t have to do a thing to get my letter, but you…”
He was reaching. It was a bit nonsensical. He hoped that the barbs would strike anyway. “You needed to be from some dusty old family to get your invite, didn’t you? What are you supposed to be, anyway?” He was March, the muggle-born. And she was… “Magic-born? Wizard-born?” Or something.
| interacting with. | ⟶ @Eveline Ashcombe. |
| notes. | ⟶ the pure angel of compassion is an unnerving sight to March XD |
sta 3. eva 8. str 0. wis 7. arc 4. acc 8.
˙ǝʎǝ lnɟʇıǝɔǝp 'ɓuıʎl ǝɥʇ ǝɹɐʍǝq 👁
Rubes and Robes
July 1st, 2026
Eveline didn't move. She kept her face carefully blank, because she didn't have even the tiniest inkling what she'd done to earn the ire of this muggle-born boy. In fact, she'd complimented him. Encouraged him to be proud of his acceptance into Hogwarts. Mother didn't care much for muggle-borns, but Eveline was of a mind that they were like plants. With a bit of care and encouragement, they could bloom to become just as capable as some purebloods.
“Do you always stare at people like... that?”
Eveline blinked. Had she been staring? Surely, this boy was interesting. This son of... who had he said? Anthony Yeung. A name which Eveline was unfamiliar with, yet one she would remember, all the same. To have raised a boy so bold, despite being a muggle, was something to remember, after all.
"I'm a pureblood, actually. I can trace my lineage - from memory, mind - to the fourteen hundreds, and there isn't a single muggle in the line. There was a coupling between a great-great uncle and a Veela, but we don't really discuss that in polite company," Eveline said, composed as ever.
The witch tending to her measurements draped the new set of robes onto Eveline - plain black, lacking any sort of House ornamentation. Her name wasn't even sewn in yet. They hung past her ankles, at a height that would surely drag beneath her shoes. The witch, without a word to Eveline, raised the bottom of the robes, pricking Eveline's calf with a pin as she did so. Eveline didn't react. She was used to remaining quiet and still as she was dressed and fitted for clothes.
"And actually, you're quite wrong. You did have to earn your spot at Hogwarts. Same as me," Eveline said. "Simply performing magic to prove you belong with us is your rite of passage, but it's the only one. You needn't come from a powerful family, or be particularly witty or intelligent. You simply need to prove you have magic in your blood."
Eveline's eyes remained on March's. She wouldn't be the one to look away from the boy. Especially when she found him so amusing. The way he'd straightened up beneath her gaze. The way he got so defensive about his own status as a muggle-born. It was adorable, and Eveline was considering keeping him.
"My first time doing magic, I blew up a wine glass. Nothing too impressive, of course, which I was grateful for. I'd have hated to cause a scene," She continued, with the same tone as if she was speaking to an old friend. "Control is paramount, you know. What sort of magic did you first perform?"
@March Yeung