Magus's expression was distinctly unpleasant as he stepped out of Gringotts' ornate office door.
A few minutes earlier, he had been in excellent spirits. The moment he saw young Malfoy waiting for him, he had felt relief wash over him. After all, this was the son of an old friend and long-time associate. With Lucius's influence, today's affair ought to have been resolved easily. The elder generation knew how to smooth things over; surely the younger should be willing to give a little face.
Yet what he had not anticipated was that this "little fox" of a son was even more cunning than his father. Before Magus realized it, he had been out-maneuvered and forced to pay dearly.
"Your father would be proud to have a son like you," Magus said through a stiff smile. The words sounded like praise, but every syllable tasted bitter.
Even after being so deftly extorted, he could not lose his composure—he was still the Minister, after all. The matter of erasing a minor violation record was trivial compared with the price he had just paid.
Malfoy, for his part, had learned from previous mistakes. He had painstakingly removed every trace of his earlier misadventure by various means, yet what he still lacked was official acknowledgment of his innocence. This morning's encounter presented the perfect opportunity. In addition, he had boldly asked Magus to expunge his earlier record of underage magic use outside school.
"Thank you for your kind words," Malfoy replied smoothly, a faint, polite smile on his lips. Then, with the self-assured tone of a miniature statesman, he added, "You've only lost some visible benefits, Minister. I can guarantee that cooperation with my family will yield far greater rewards in time."
Magus forced a few dry laughs, but the sound came out strained and hollow. He could neither agree nor refute him. He and Lucius had indeed been involved in quiet financial dealings for years—nothing extraordinary by their standards. Lucius would offer generous 'support,' and in return Magus ensured that certain Ministry publications painted the Malfoy name in a flattering light. A convenient, mutually beneficial understanding.
But the boy had just taken that comfortable arrangement a step further. Tax-free quotas for specific trades, import privileges, secret commercial permits—those were sensitive topics buried deep within Ministry archives. How did this pale-haired teenager, barely past his first decade, even know such things existed? Magus could have sworn he had never breathed a word to Lucius.
Of course, he was wrong. Malfoy was merely bluffing, spinning a web of half-guessed details with calm confidence. He had never expected the Minister to crumble so quickly, nor to gain such an enormous concession.
When Magus finally walked out of the office, he discovered that his knees felt strangely weak. He was uncertain whether it was from sitting too long or from realizing how thoroughly he had been bled dry by a schoolboy. Either way, he struggled to maintain his usual politician's smile—the one he wore like armor.
"It's getting late," Magus announced as he and Malfoy stepped through the massive rock gate into the main hall. "I've already spoken with the Gringotts branch manager. The bank will close early today. The Ministry will restore order as soon as possible. Please forgive any inconvenience."
He could hardly negotiate such matters in public. The announcement was merely a cover to justify the private conversation he had just finished. Officially, young Malfoy had assisted him in "contacting the goblin authorities." In reality, they had been haggling like merchants over terms and favors.
The actual bargaining had taken mere minutes, but those minutes had left both men feeling drained. The goblins, short and rotund, glanced between them, perplexed by human politics yet shrewd enough to keep silent.
In the hall beyond, wizards and witches milled about uncertainly. None dared protest. A few muttered under their breath, but most resigned themselves to fate. In such moments, even proud wizards preferred not to tempt bad luck.
Superstition ran deep in magical blood—omens, fate, fortune. Few wished to quarrel with either the Minister of Magic or the Malfoy family on the same day.
Malfoy, on the other hand, felt almost cheerful. "Very good," he thought, straightening his cuffs. "I can go home early for once."
The day had been long enough, and though his negotiations had cost him energy, they had also brought satisfying results. A quiet evening of rest seemed the perfect reward.
Just as he was turning to leave, a soft, lilting voice brushed against his ear.
"So," a girl said playfully, "how are you going to thank me?"
Malfoy turned, startled for a heartbeat. The voice belonged to her—the French witch who had stood beside him earlier during the commotion. Her tone now was very different from the sharp, aloof arrogance of their first meeting. It carried a teasing warmth, a faint flirtation, like music played on a silver string.
"Tell me," he replied smoothly, recovering his composure, "what sort of thanks do you have in mind?"
He had to admit, he liked this girl. No man would mind being addressed by a beautiful woman in such a tone. But she was more than pretty. In the chaos earlier, she had shown remarkable poise and courage—qualities that had impressed even him.
"Then treat me to a meal," she said suddenly, with a spark in her eye.
Before he could answer, a man in a checkered shirt among the crowd let out a loud whistle.
Several others turned and began to chuckle knowingly. The hall, which had moments ago been filled with tense murmurs, now rippled with good-natured amusement.
The girl, who had handled danger moments ago with perfect grace, flushed crimson to the tips of her ears. For the first time, her confident demeanor cracked; she looked, quite simply, adorable.
A handsome young wizard and a charming witch—how could bystanders resist the appeal? A classic "hero saves the beauty" tale unfolding right before them. No matter the country, such stories never fail to capture hearts.
Malfoy felt the weight of all those eyes upon him. An invisible pressure settled on his shoulders. To decline now would seem rude, even cowardly. To accept too eagerly might seem presumptuous. He had walked straight into a social snare, and there was no graceful way out.
But Malfoy was not the sort of dull-witted boy found in romantic fairy tales. He understood people—especially women. He could tell when someone harbored a favorable impression. And when a lady took the initiative to ask him out, declining would hardly be gentlemanly.
"All right," he said finally, with a faint smile. "I'd be honored."
Even as he spoke, however, he felt a flicker of unease he couldn't quite name. Something about the situation felt… off. Yet, caught in the warm current of the moment, he pushed the thought aside.
"It's not quite dinnertime," he said lightly, shifting to the role of host. "You didn't touch any of those snacks earlier. How about something lighter? Desserts and cold drinks, perhaps? Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour in Diagon Alley is excellent. I happen to know the owner."
The girl's eyes brightened, and her earlier embarrassment melted into laughter. "I have no objection," she said, her tone soft yet filled with anticipation.
Sometimes, it isn't the food that matters—it's the company.
As they stepped out of Gringotts into the slanting afternoon sunlight, a faint breeze lifted the girl's golden-brown hair. For a fleeting instant, she looked utterly carefree, her previous haughtiness replaced by genuine curiosity and delight.
The crowd watched them go with smiles and murmured blessings. Someone even muttered, "A perfect match," earning a few chuckles from others.
Malfoy, though slightly embarrassed, could not help but feel a twinge of pride. Being admired—envied, even—was not such a terrible thing.
The girl walked beside him, her steps light, her wand swinging casually in her hand. She was French, vibrant, and full of life—so different from the cold elegance of English society girls. As they passed through the cobbled streets toward Diagon Alley, she occasionally glanced at him, studying his profile as though memorizing it.
Until today, she had scoffed at the idea of love at first sight. It seemed like nonsense from storybooks, something that happened to naïve schoolgirls. But now, with the afternoon light glinting off Malfoy's pale hair, she began to think perhaps there was truth to it after all.
For her, this new, inexplicable feeling wasn't merely romantic fancy—it was inspiration. A warmth that drove away the shadows within her heart. A spark she had been seeking for months.
Perhaps, she thought quietly, this was the answer she had been searching for—the emotional key she needed to summon her Patronus Charm.
That day, the chaos at Gringotts faded into the background of Diagon Alley's ordinary bustle. For most, it would become just another curious story to tell at supper. But for two young witches and wizards, something had subtly changed.
The proud son of the Malfoy family had discovered that charm and cunning could open more doors than gold. And the spirited French girl had found, for the first time, a reason to believe in the light born from affection.
Neither yet realized how small choices could ripple outward, shaping the destinies of many. But for now, as laughter and the scent of ice cream drifted through the air, neither cared.
Sometimes, history turns not on wars or politics, but on the quiet beginnings of a shared smile.
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