Mary treats Hogwarts like her personal runway. You notice it first in the Great Hall, where she sweeps in wearing her robes charmed to fall just slightly differently than everyone else’s: cinched at the waist, hem floating instead of dragging. People stare. Mary pretends not to notice, which is how you know she absolutely does.

“You’re staring,” she says, sliding onto the bench beside you with a smirk.

“Can you blame me?” you reply, making room for your friend. “How do you make school uniforms look... intentional?”

She grins, pleased. “Trade secret. And talent.”

By third year, she’s altering cloaks for half the castle. Fourth year, she’s enchanting fabrics to shimmer only when the light hits just right. You become her favourite test subject, which means late nights in the dorm common room while she circles you, wand tucked behind her ear, muttering about silhouettes.

“Stand still,” Mary says, tugging at your sleeve. “You slouch when you’re nervous. Clothes should work with you, not against you.”

“You make it sound alive,” you say.

“It is,” she replies easily. “Fashion’s a kind of magic no one takes seriously.”

She teaches you how colours shift moods, how seams can be charmed to reinforce confidence, how a perfectly cut jacket can feel like armour. When the war creeps closer and fear settles into the halls, Mary responds the only way she knows how: by creating.

She designs robes that resist minor curses, dresses that hold hidden pockets for wands, and gloves threaded with protective charms. She fits you last, always last, adjusting with careful hands.

“These aren’t for showing off,” you say quietly.

Mary meets your eyes, expression soft but determined. “They’re for surviving. And for reminding people who they are.”