Room of Requirement.
"Harry, this thing's way better than a wand!"
"No incantation—just press the button. Only downside is it does one trick."
Ron was waving around something that looked like a Muggle hairdryer, practically bouncing as he bragged to Harry.
A training dummy wobbled toward him on its track. Ron aimed the "hairdryer," thumbed the trigger, and whoosh—a blast of compressed air shot out like a cannonball, launching the dummy clear across the room.
Everyone else—mid-duel or practicing dark-defense spells—snapped their heads around, curious and confused.
Ron jogged over to Lucien, cradling the gadget like a proud kid with a science-fair volcano.
"Lucien, how'd I do?"
Lucien took it and scanned the runes. He'd sketched the rough concept weeks ago, tossed Ron a few pointers, and let him build the rest himself. They'd dubbed it the Air Blaster—nothing fancy.
Basic charms layered together: Bubble-Head to trap air, a compression charm to pack it tight, and a propulsion charm to fire it off. Enough punch to send a grown wizard flying, but non-lethal. Perfect for quick-draw duels when your spellwork's rusty.
This term Lucien had started formal dark-arts defense lessons for Harry and the crew. One-on-one, two-on-two, even one-versus-many sparring. Real fights were the only way to own a spell.
Everyone was coming along nicely—some had raw talent, others solid foundations.
Except Ron. His hand-me-down wand (Percy's old one) was holding him back. Poor core compatibility slowed his casting and muddled precision. At least Lucien's reinforcement charms on the Weasleys' flying Ford Anglia had kept the wand from snapping outright—no backfiring curses for Ron, thank Merlin.
Ron had griped about it once. Lucien figured the twins—now rolling in joke-shop galleons—would hook their little brother up with a proper Ollivander original come Christmas.
Update's tough—remember to share on 101 Book Net!
For now, the Air Blaster let Ron tinker with adjustable alchemy while he waited for a real wand.
"Not bad," Lucien said, tapping a rune. "This line here needs tighter etching, and the compression array could use…"
Ron soaked it up, scampered off to tweak, then ditched his wand entirely and started ping-ping-ping blasting dummies like he was in an arcade. Muttering something about Muggles having "metal wands" too…
Lesson wrapped quick.
Once the others filed out, Malfoy sidled up, smirking like he was holding in a laugh.
"Lucien, you're a cracking flier. How are you at Quidditch—Seeker, say?"
Lucien arched a brow. Slytherin's not poaching me like Cho Chang does for Ravenclaw. Then it clicked: Malfoy was bankrolling the Slytherin team this year—Daddy Lucius buying a fleet of Nimbus 2001s so Junior could waltz in as Seeker.
"Planning to take Harry on over the pitch this year?"
Malfoy's grin finally broke loose. "Knew you'd catch on. Gryffindor's not sniffing that Cup again. Flint's already green-lit me as Seeker. Figured with your flying skills, you could coach me up—run drills, the works?"
He paused, then added, "Of course, tutoring fee separate."
A slim spellbook slid from Malfoy's sleeve straight into Lucien's pocket like a street magician's card trick.
Lucien held the pocket open with a smirk. Who says Brits don't do favors?
"Don't you lot have team practice?"
Malfoy's face scrunched—half sulky, half embarrassed. "You remember how Slytherin plays, right? I can't just… slot in yet."
Oh yeah. Slytherin Quidditch wasn't a sport; it was aerial warfare. Beaters legally pelting Bludgers at opposing players, Chasers ramming like rugby forwards. Flint—built like a troll—set the tone: hit first, score later.
Malfoy's skinny frame? Not exactly built for that mosh pit.
But Seeker? Speed, reflexes, broom control—that he could manage. And with Lucien's Peering Eye giving him superhuman peripheral vision at 200 mph? Coaching would be a breeze.
Plus, Lucien was already prototyping next-gen brooms—had bought a Nimbus 2000, Comet 290, and Cleansweep Seven just to tear them apart for data. Real-flight testing with Malfoy? Perfect R&D.
Broom market was huge. Quidditch was the wizarding world's football, cricket, and NASCAR rolled into one. Every family played backyard pickup—Lucien had joined the Weasleys for a chaotic Burrow match over summer.
Competition? Nimbus dominated; Comet and Cleansweep were eating dust. Firebolt wasn't even out yet.
Lucien was positive he could out-engineer them all. Nicolas Flamel's apprentice + SS+ alchemy talent? Child's play.
"Alright, deal."
Malfoy lit up—then Lucien pulled out a folded parchment.
"Oh, right—your custom map. Wanna inspect the goods?"
Malfoy's grey eyes sparked. The map screamed understated luxury: supple dragon-hide parchment, silver-inked corridors that shifted in real time. Worth every galleon.
---
Slytherin Common Room.
A gaggle of little snakes crowded around Malfoy, ooh-ing over the map spread across a table.
"Look at all the routes—shortest path option?!"
"Hogwarts has secret passages? Midnight expedition, anyone?"
"Wait, why's it showing Argus Filch… and Mrs. Norris?!"
Night-owl Slytherins instantly clocked the value: dodge the squib caretaker and his demon cat without a Disillusionment Charm.
"Why's the filigree so much fancier than mine?"
"Mine doesn't track Filch or the cat!"
"Draco, didn't you buy yours at Seventh Workshop?"
A few pure-bloods who'd splurged on the priciest off-the-shelf version whipped theirs out for comparison—and wilted.
Malfoy basked in it, clearing his throat with theatrical flair.
"This beauty's a Lucien Grafton original—custom commission. Not some mass-market rubbish."
He tapped the map with his wand. Magic rippled across it, and bam—center stage bloomed the Malfoy crest: black, emerald, and silver, a coiled serpent and Norwegian Ridgeback breathing green flame. Latin motto in microscopic script along a silver ribbon:
Sanctimonia Vincet Semper
(Purity Always Conquers)
Subtle gold filigree, the Slytherin crest woven into the border like living quicksilver. Busy, but elegant.
The kids with basic maps suddenly felt like they'd bought knockoffs from Diagon's bargain bin.
Malfoy flipped it over. Top-left corner: a soaring eagle made of layered book pages, wings mid-flap. Stamped beneath in bold caps: L.G.
Someone muttered, "Even the logo slaps harder than mine…"
Sixth- and seventh-years taking NEWT Alchemy squinted. They couldn't parse the rune arrays, but the craftsmanship screamed mastery. Lucien Grafton—blew up the Great Hall with fireworks last Halloween, clinched the House Cup for Ravenclaw in June. Second-year. Second-year.
"Draco, how many galleons?" a prefect finally asked.
Malfoy smirked, chin high. "Galleons? A Malfoy doesn't measure value in coin—only in taste. If I commission it, it's one-of-a-kind."
Half the room rolled their eyes (show-off), half nodded (he's not wrong).
Pure-blood pride was all about standing out.
Then Malfoy side-eyed Blaise Zabini. "Blaise, feast your eyes—check the stitch work on 'VIP Map No. 1.'"
Gold-and-emerald thread gleamed around the label.
Blaise—dark skin, sharp cheekbones, pure-blood through and through—frowned. Why was Malfoy flexing a map? Sure, it was classy, functional, peak Slytherin aesthetic… but still.
He stood, smoothed his robes, and strode out without a word.
It's just a map. Like I can't afford one.
His mum had buried seven husbands. Seven. Every vault in their names now belonged to the Zabini estate.
Malfoy money was old, sure—but don't sleep on the Zabini widow's portfolio.
Plenty of other pure-bloods felt the same sting. Malfoys talked a big game, but everyone knew Lucius had flip-flopped allegiances post-Voldemort. Grass doesn't get greener than that.
Still… that map was fire. Custom crest? Personal sigil? Real pure-bloods needed statement pieces.
The NEWT alchemists were already plotting: buy one, reverse-engineer it. Money was just numbers to most Slytherins.
Malfoy watched Blaise's retreating back and grinned. Thank Merlin he'd befriended Lucien first—otherwise Zabini would've snagged the spotlight.
---
Ravenclaw Common Room.
Lucien flopped into an armchair, flipping through a fat stack of order forms the twins had passed along from Slytherin.
Custom engravings, family crests, Latin mottos… one pair of fifth-years wanted matching love vows etched in the margins.
Barf.
But… huh. Bundle romance with utility? "Diamonds are forever" but make it wizard. Limited-edition "soulmate maps" you could only gift once?
Black-hearted Merchant Lucien Grafton activated.
He tucked the orders away. Malfoy's hype train was rolling. Lucien had just asked him to "mention the VIP maps in passing" to Slytherin. Kid went full influencer.
High-profile, widely connected, natural bragger—perfect ad campaign.
Looked like half the house was hooked.
Guess that meant cranking Malfoy's flight drills up to nightmare difficulty. Fair's fair.