Neely sighed under her breath. She wasn’t so quiet that the trio of second years in front of her didn’t hear her. They turned, one and then the other two, to stare at her. The first one looked confused. The second nervous, the third a bit antsy. “Are you done not buying anything?” She asked, raising her brows, looking indignant, waiting for them to move out of the queue, stop pouring over the complementary catalogue that they could easily have mailed to their dormitories so she could purchase a new scarf, have it folded, wrapped, and bagged. Merlin H. in last season’s sheer, Neely was so done with preteens. Their suburban witch fashion sense and slighty off-center messy ponytails and pseudo-drama over boys whose voices were still breaking. Neely’s house elves had better style. Holiday shopping sprees were an important tradition that shouldn’t be brought down by second years wearing too much Elixir of Plebeian Culture or Eau de Will Peak in Sixth Year. Neely splayed fingers across her throat (just visible between the layers of cute new sweater and perfectly nonchalant circle scar), indicating a sensitivity to cheap perfume. She coughed lightly.

And the orangey-blonde one had the audacity to eye Neely like she was interrupting something.

The shopkeeper, luckily, sided with Miss Woolfolk. “If you aren’t buying anything, move along, ladies.” Neely smiled behind the woman’s back as the girls wore badly-practiced haughty expressions and herded themselves into the street.

Cornelia raised her head and gave the woman a very adult-ish, subtle smile of thank you. (Some people had real drama, tall boys with deep voices, and cover-worthy haircuts to worry about). Neely had no plans to peak in sixth year. Or to wear rash-inducing, cheap body spray on her sensitive skin. Pulling Daddy’s gold coins out of a chain-strapped rectangular clutch that wasn’t in stores yet, the five-foot-nothing natural blonde, poised on tall ankle boots, paid for her scarf.

She pushed past the girls, who had congregated some few meters away just outside the door of the boutique, adjusted her scarf (not the one she had just purchased), and headed across the street to the beacon of haute life that was Libertine Ltd. Her presence was announced by the faint echo of heeled boots. Neely stood with all the grace and reverence of a muggle Catholic about to his fingers in holy water and cross himself. Christmas shopping was a religious experience, even if— or exactly because— Christmas was all about presents.

And…

Was that…

Neely's lips parted, framing their intrigue with an o-shape verging on a smile. She took two tentative steps forward, her excitement nearly making her go weak in the knees. Luckily she kept it together. Barreling over in cute shoes and arms dangling with shopping bags was not chic.

She reached out, fingers clutching lightly at the immaculate, painfully cool shoulder of the jacket. This season’s it jacket. She could feel it. (And not just because London was so cold.) She imagined showing up the first day of the new term with it hanging from her shoulders, complementing her pleated skirt and heels with its masculine lines and too-cool-for-school sleekness. She needed this jacket.

It was a testament to Libertine's image that even now during the holidays everything could look so calm on the surface, so collected and so suave. But underneath - or more accurately, behind the curtain which separated the back room from the main shop - it was a madhouse of sewing and stitching, garments flying through the air, five dozen enchanted needles flicking in and out of half-constructed suits like tiny silver sharks. Here and there gowns rose like battleships, only a few at a time but nevertheless taking up the majority of Darian and his assistant's effort and time. Here was the real bustle that allowed the showroom to project such a sense of the impeccable. Here Darian would still be elbow's deep in the steel ribs of a particularly formidable gown if Misa hadn't shooed him out for his turn waiting on customers. He really needed to look into hiring another assistant - one that could take Misa's place, so that she could then become his second tailor as she properly deserved.

They had too much work for him to stay up front long with so few people coming in. He was too fidgety, too mindful of what he could be doing instead of lounging against the displays and looking attractive. Instead he'd set up a charm to alert him as soon as someone crossed over the threshold so that he could continue to work in the back. It went off and he trotted out again, his whirling mind and quick hands tucked away into something smoother, suaver, more customer-friendly. When he saw a pale blonde head bent reverently to one of his designer jackets, his mouth blossomed into a smile redolent with the salesman's slick pitch.

"You have excellent taste," he told the girl warmly, all glittering charm. He'd know - he'd designed it! Ho ho ho ho.

Neely was reluctant to tear her eyes from the jacket of her Spring dreams. But she knew better than to ignore an adult-- especially one in a shop like this. Besides, the voice had a kind of charm that was magnetic in almost the same way the jacket was. And that might mean...

She turned spritely, eyes widening, mouth parting with the same overwhelming feeling a five-year-old Neely might have had upon seeing her tiered birthday cake (with a music-box-esque dancing pastel unicorn at the tippy top, naturally). The chill of excitement on her spine just before she’d turned around had been right. She had sixth sense.

“You’re Darian Morgan,” she said breathlessly. He thought she had excellent taste?! She knew she had, but the words coming from the lips of fashion royalty was like someone handing her a trophy. And then, realizing that she looked completely fifteen when she was absolutely a young adult, all sixteen years of her, she changed her expression. (Fashion royalty-in-waiting did not faint over invisible awards.) “I mean,” she said more collectedly. “Of course you are. This is your shop.” She returned his smile, which made fabled Salazar’s sparkly whites seem positively gray. And Merlin, did good hair ever run in the family.

“Thank you!” She added, not managing to keep all of the girlishness out of her voice. “You, too.” Obviously. He was a Beacon of Excellent Taste. Capital letters and everything. The blazer he wore was luxe, expertly fitted. “I’m Neely Woolfolk.” She had been taught to introduce herself as soon as the opportunity presented itself. She extended a hand gracefully.

After a moment, she turned back to the jacket again-- even if Darian Morgan and his smile and those curls were competing for Neely’s attention more than blush pink and mint macarons ever had. She ran her fingers over the perfect structuring. “This jacket would be perfect over my uniform,” she confided.

“You’re Darian Morgan. I mean, of course you are. This is your shop.”

"Yes," he replied, endlessly amused, correctly interpreting from her sudden lack of breath and her great shining eyes that what he had here was a fan. Darian did so like his fans, those fashion groupies who might not quite keep him in business single-handedly but who did such a good job of spreading his name. They reminded him of the finer things in life when he was feeling the daily grind of managing a business, of cutting and sewing, and of course, they required very little from him in terms of upkeep. Unlike the rest of his potential customers, they were already charmed.

She extended a slim hand and he took it in his own, choosing to bow and brush his lips over the back of her girlish knuckles with insouciant grace. Considering her youth there was a fine line between classy and skeezy, and he was mindful not to cross it. But was Darian Morgan the sort of semi-celebrity to shamelessly encourage teen crushes? Absolutely. Besides, it was no more than a pureblood princess like the Woolfolk daughter would expect. He had been courting her family's coffers since the first year he opened Libertine. But no teenager wanted to be compared to their parents, and he did not mention that he frequently designed for her mother however likely it was that they both already knew.

"Ms. Woolfolk, I'm charmed," he said easily as he straightened again. "It's only a surprise that we haven't met before."

She ran envious fingers over the structure of the blazer. Darian, knowing the Woolfolk fortune, let her linger as she wished. "New to my line," he noted. "Certainly no one at Hogwarts has one of its ilk." Now there came to his tone something very like a sigh, as if he did not make a small fortune every September in selling school robes. "Those uniforms are the saddest things; they leave so little room for individual flair."

The single-syllable reply would have been enough. She already knew who he was, had seen him a couple of times before at short distances— had felt the triumph of spotting a golden snitch (but it had been better, because, sports)— but this was the first time Neely had talked to him. So, that his affirmation came with a princely kiss to the back of her hand was enough to make Neely melt or run down the block to that giant blond man’s tattoo shop and have him add ink to the absolutely-invisible mark of Darian Morgan’s lips on her skin. But her father, who let Neely trample over his bank account like an elephant in a tea shop, would kill her. And hand tattoos were decidedly not en vogue, even if they had the Midas touch.

It only took a few seconds to recover (for the second time in under a minute), and she thought— or hoped to dear Merlin— that she looked fairly casual now, considering. Or at least like she wasn't going to fall over (which she might have done). Neely Woolfolk was good at the Cool as a Kitten look.

"It's only a surprise that we haven't met before.”

“I know,” she agreed, nodding earnestly, her tone apologetic and wistful for imaginary meetings past. “But school is so far away from civilization.” The burden. She was a martyr for fashionistas everywhere. Hogsmeade was cute, had that country charm of Witch Weekly’s season decor issues, and was definitely better than being kept in the castle all of the time (she still fondly remembered her first school-sanctioned visit to Hogsmeade in third year, and still had the charmed photographs of Jordyn and herself to prove it), but it was no London.

With her attention returned to the blazer, Neely listened as he elaborated, as if he were sharing the sort of story the History of Magic professor wished he could captivate the class with. Neely would get straight O’s in a class taught by Mr. Morgan (not to be confused with her Head of House, of obvious relation.) No one at Hogwarts had it. She had known that— there was no way any of the drably-dressed schoolboys would get to a blazer this perfect before Neely Woolfolk did-- but the testimony of Darian Morgan might as well have been the exchange of gold coins.

"Those uniforms are the saddest things; they leave so little room for individual flair.”

“It’s so true. It’s terrible, some of the professors are so picky about personal style. You would think they don’t want us to dress for success. I have no idea how they ever got jobs.” But it wasn’t as if professor was an aspirational title to Neely Woolfolk (even if she had her favorites). Everyone who was important knew that one had to dress well to get anywhere. That people got away with wearing ugly trainers with wrinkled trousers made Neely want to scream. Still, Darian Morgan had survived seven years of Hogwarts himself, once upon a time ago, and Neely knew he must have personalized his restricted wardrobe like a rockstar. “Can I try it on?” She asked, looking back at his magazine-selling visage.

Darian smiled at Neely for her remark, the warm expression of a man who was pleasantly surprised she'd said something so clever. Hogwarts was depressingly far from civilization when one couldn't leave it. He was glad he was no longer held to such silly rules.

"Oh, many are quite interesting in their way," he said, and now Darian began to toy with an idea of his own. Neely, for all her fresh-faced adoring ways, could be easily added to his school network. Some things he could only count on the students to tell him, as the most exciting happenings were all censored by Tapendra or Maiko as befitting "confidentiality" or "not horribly embarrassing themselves or their coworkers." And Landis, however family loyalty would expect him to be a goldmine of information, was frequently tight-lipped about absolutely everything because he enjoyed being a bore. "People talk to their tailors, you know," he said, pitching his voice lower with that delicious lurking delight that characterized gossip everywhere and, he guessed, would be as instantly attention-grabbing to Neely as the strike of a tuning fork right next to her delicately pierced ears. "You wouldn't believe what some of them get up to. The stories I could tell you...." He sighed, running absent fingers through his hair to draw it back from his face. "Though it is so much harder to hear anything during the course of the school year when everyone's back up at the castle. Still, one can hardly complain as long as the staff are willing to place themselves in the hands of those who can dress them, wouldn't you say?"

“Can I try it on?”

"Of course," he cried, and a careless swish of his wand had it slipping from its hanger to hover smartly at her back in gentlemanly offer, its sleeves lifted invitingly all the easier for her to slip her arms into its fitted embrace.

Her professors were interesting? It was hard to believe. But Darian Morgan could have told Neely that Herbology was useful or Hufflepuffs had the best house colors and she would have believed him.

People talked to their tailors. His voice was becoming almost conspiratorial now— Neely’s favorite, besides melodramatic or ridiculously cool— and he was hinting at something scandalous(ly wonderful). Neely’s gaze was wide, her mouth poised to ask questions. She was obviously listening intently. “Tell me,” she begged, a loud whisper. And then, quickly realizing she had to bring something to table so as not to appear desperate (desperate was not cute): “I could tell you things, too. Did you know your cousin has his nip—“ On second thought, that might not be a good place to start. Neely blushed, before realizing that tailors indeed knew everything about everyone, including what her professors looked like in their skivvies. Librarian Morgan was often dressed in his cousin’s smart creations, after all. “One day at breakfast, someone threw cursed powder over everyone. Tons of people’s bodies got switched. Students and professors.” She didn’t add me, too. “Professor Trishna and Professor Vaillancourt switched bodies.” And Neely had learned plenty about the librarian’s taste in jewelry.

He waved his wand, and the most graceful magic happened; the jacket waited for her, like a boyfriend without the hassle. It was fate. She would have the coolest effing jacket in Hogwarts (A History; the old people would be writing it down soon enough) and she hadn’t tried it on yet. When she did try it on, it was a moment. She could feel its perfectness before she even caught sight of her reflection. She stood there, waiting for him to do the things a tailor did to fit perfect garments perfectly. “How does it look?” She knew the answer.

When she finally caught sight of the mirror, Neely was enchanted. Her breath was caught in the way it might if she had stumbled upon a macaron-pink unicorn saddled with a tray of iced hot cocoas and Amortentia albums signed by Jagger Stone. It was even better than she’d thought. Her first Darian Morgan jacket. The smile that spread between her koala cheeks was a touch less blasé than the one she would give her classmates when she showed up on the first day of the semester wearing the jacket. But for now, girlish delight. “I’ll take it.”

He had her, her eyes and mouth perfectly round, breath baited, begging, tell me. She followed his cue perfectly to let slip some secrets of her own. Staring at her Darian's brows shot up in horrified delight. This was better than anything he could have possibly expected. "I know that," he said, voice breathy with sudden, withheld laughter. "But how do you know that?" He was already writing scandalized letters in his head. Landis, I suspect your relationship with some of your students has become most unprofessional... McGoogles, one of your staff is an enormous pervert... Her explanation was perfectly fascinating. Darian mused over it, wishing he could have been there. Tapendra and Juliette switched was a titillating thought. And surely a student had swapped with his cousin, and during the course of the switch had decided to unbutton his shirt.

Darian couldn't blame them. The idea was hilarious. Landis, you're so popular with your students... Had he when at Hogwarts been so lucky as to have been transported into a professor's body, he would have taken advantage of the situation too. He had a strict blackmail policy with such things, and had to wonder if anyone in the Great Hall had managed to take pictures.

"I was with him when he got it," Darian said, Neely's reward for the deliciously incriminating knowledge. "He had just turned twenty." Laughter still lurked in the tailor's voice, and there was obviously more to the story. But instead of continuing Darian waved his wand, tightening the shoulders and shortening the length of the jacket so that Neely might try it on.

"It's you," he promised, watching her lips spread in a huge, girlish smile. "Let me just make the adjustments permanent." Lifting her arm he quickly checked the length of the sleeve, long light fingers pressing only briefly at her wrist. The drape was fine - mannish, but fashionably so - he drew it off her delicately for some quick-and-dirty modifications to fit her smaller frame.

Neely would probably have confided anything; Darian was a pillar of wizarding fashion. But she had been vague, unsure whether to confess she had ended up in an adult man’s body for a few hours. Much as she adored Landis, it was kind of mortifying for a sixteen-year-old girl who was usually occupied with women’s magazines, makeup, and how to find a boyfriend, to find herself in a dreamy teacher’s trousers. Literally. Cornelia, almost Trace-less, hadn’t planned to go from lacy push-up bras to flat as the wall between platforms nine and ten (with some added metal). And the way the librarian’s girlfriend, stuck as their astronomy professor (stuck as the potions professor), had bossed her around… not glam. Still, Landis had been well-dressed, beautiful, and Neely had learned a lot. She was pretty sure she had narrowed down his shampoo, too.

She debated it for a few seconds before confessing. “I got switched with him,” she sighed, heaving her shoulders, as if this were a burden. It had been exciting, too, of course. Just… overwhelming. But she could tell Darian. And as appealing as it was to have other people think Neely might have a closer relationship with her Head of House, it might not be the kind of rumor she wanted getting back to the Headmistress. Besides, she was pretty sure she was still one of the special Slytherin students Librarian Morgan liked. It was an exclusive club.

Her lips parted, she waited for more of the story. He couldn’t just leave her hanging like that! But he could. He was Darian Morgan. “Why did he get it?” She asked excitedly. "Did he want a specific design?” She asked, trying to figure out just how adventurous her librarian prince was. “Was it his first piercing?” Was he a big fan of jewelry? Earrings would be something she would consider giving to Professor Reid. But the librarian… that probably wasn’t an option. Neely might have to up her game, though. She had the suspicious feeling that someone in her house was encroaching on her turf.

The jacket took the forefront of her attention— all of it really. Between its gloriousness and the added beauty of Darian Morgan’s red hair in the mirror, checking it for her personally, her mind was quickly occupied. “Thank you,” she said, not for the first time that day, still almost out of breath. She stood still while he checked the sleeves, all the patience in the world. “My dormmates will be so jealous.” She should get House Points for this. If House Points could be awarded for good taste, Neely would be Head Student, a child young adult prodigy. When he removed it for adjustments, she turned back around to look at it again with wanting eyes. Her father should be proud she made such smart investments. Neely was networking.