It had to be said: working was tedious. Malfoy found himself constantly correcting the goblins' endless low-level mistakes and doing his best to resist the temptation of embezzlement. Their primitive understanding of finance made him feel as though it would be child's play to manipulate the system for easy profit.
He even suspected that if he recruited a few clever Muggle financiers from Wall Street, they could control the entire wizarding economy within a year.
Of course, he would never do that. For one thing, he wasn't short of money. For another, people who were too clever often paid the price for it. Once the goblins and wizards noticed something amiss, they'd flip the table, accuse him of corruption, and probably create a new charge on the spot—something dramatic like endangering the financial security of the wizarding world. Malfoy could almost picture Arthur Weasley proudly drafting such a law, inspired by some fragment of Muggle bureaucracy.
Wizards might not be as clever as Muggles in some ways, but they certainly weren't fools.
Still, none of this was what frustrated Malfoy most. The real problem was that Gringotts—tedious as it was—was also the safest place in the wizarding world, second only to Hogwarts.
At least for now, it was a fortress he couldn't touch. Even Quirrell had only dared to raid it once, and that was under Voldemort's direct influence.
Ordinary customers could open their vaults with a small golden key and retrieve their savings, but the more important vaults were guarded by dragons. On several occasions, during his breaks, Malfoy had taken a small trolley down to the lower levels, where he could hear the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the beasts in the dark.
Some vaults, however, had no keyholes at all. To open them, goblins would knock rhythmically with their long fingers, and the door would melt away piece by piece. Anyone else attempting to enter that way would simply be sucked inside—and never return. There were only two possible outcomes for such intruders: starvation or suffocation, since those vaults were inspected only once every ten years.
Breaking into one was nearly impossible.
Polyjuice Potion seemed like the most feasible method, but the one who had truly mastered it was rotting in Azkaban. A wanted criminal strolling into Gringotts to withdraw funds would be front-page news in The Daily Prophet.
Even if someone managed to get in, the Fiendfyre Curses and Geminio traps inside the high-level vaults would make escape nearly hopeless. Reluctantly, Malfoy had to dismiss the idea altogether and focus on finishing his accounting work.
"Still," he told himself, "it's not all bad."
Thanks to the numerous errors he had uncovered, Gringotts granted him a generous bonus before his departure.
Mr. Griphook himself congratulated him, saying, "Although your father might not approve, young master, we'd be happy to have you back after graduation."
"I'll consider it," Malfoy replied politely, though the thought made him laugh inwardly. Him, working as a banker? When he could inherit the Malfoy fortune and never lift a finger? Absurd.
As he left Gringotts for the last time, he thought of something. "Right—the gifts," he murmured, turning toward the shops of Diagon Alley.
He passed several storefronts without finding anything suitable, until he reached Quality Quidditch Supplies. There, something caught his eye: a Golden Snitch.
It rested quietly on a blue velvet stand inside a glass cabinet, no larger than a walnut. Its delicate wings were folded tight against the golden shell, and it looked utterly still. It was hard to imagine how frantically this tiny ball once darted through the air, driving Seekers mad with its speed.
The label beneath it read:
"A rare and meaningful collectible. This Golden Snitch was used in the final match between the Transylvania and Flanders teams. The fierce competition caused irreparable damage to the Snitch by the end of the game. Price: 500 Galleons."
"So it's broken, then?" Malfoy asked, tapping the glass in mock disappointment. "It can't even fly?"
"Oh, sir, you can't think of it that way!" The clerk, sensing a potential sale, straightened up instantly. "The value of a piece like this lies in its history, not its function. Both the Transylvania and Flanders teams are ancient, prestigious clubs—especially considering what happened during that match—"
He launched into a long-winded recount of the game's history, gesturing animatedly.
Malfoy shook his head. "Still, it's a pity. I'd rather buy a broom—at least that's useful."
"Sir, please reconsider," the clerk pleaded. The Snitch had been sitting unsold for months, perhaps years. If he could finally sell it, the manager would surely reward him. Desperate, he mustered every persuasive trick he knew.
Malfoy smirked slightly. "Do you really think someone my age could afford that price?"
"The price is… negotiable, esteemed guest," the clerk stammered, completely caught in Malfoy's rhythm.
How many Galleons Malfoy eventually paid was unknown. But that night, nearly everyone in Diagon Alley heard the furious shouting of the Quality Quidditch Supplies manager.
Of course, Malfoy didn't forget to buy gifts for his parents either—a fine silk tie for Lucius, and some newly released cosmetics for Narcissa.
"I'll have to save the rest for books next time," he muttered, surveying his purchases.
Flourish and Blotts would soon be crowded with students buying their school supplies, so it was best to go early.
He stepped into the emerald-green flames of the Floo Network and vanished.
"This really is a means of travel one both loves and hates," he grumbled, feeling dizzy as he stumbled out into the familiar marble hall of Malfoy Manor.
Lucius and Narcissa were not yet home, so he set the gifts neatly in the living room before heading to his room.
The moment he entered, he noticed an envelope resting quietly on his desk. The elegant handwriting told him who it was from even before he opened it—Pansy Parkinson.
She wrote that she wouldn't be able to meet him in Diagon Alley as planned. There had been a major problem with the French Floo Network, and traffic between countries was completely paralyzed. The French Ministry of Magic, as usual, was being slow to respond, so her family had no choice but to stay in France until it was fixed.
"Perhaps I'll be late for the new term as well," she concluded.
"That's unfortunate," Malfoy murmured, reaching for parchment and quill. He penned a short, polite reply with some comforting words and tied the letter to his owl's leg.
There wasn't much else he could do. Most wizards, including Pansy's family, were still uncomfortable using Muggle transportation. The Weasleys were practically the only exception.
As for Apparition—traveling directly between countries by magic required immense skill and energy. It wasn't something even trained wizards attempted lightly.
So there was only one option: wait.
He leaned back in his chair, gazing absently out the window at the fading afternoon light. The day's fatigue finally began to settle in. Working at Gringotts had been dull, yes—but it had also been strangely instructive.
For all their arrogance, goblins were efficient and disciplined in their own way. And their fierce sense of property and value—though different from wizarding notions—had taught him something about how the world really worked.
Still, he would never say that out loud.
He allowed himself a small, smug smile. "Not bad for a summer's work," he whispered.
The house was quiet, save for the faint rustling of the curtains in the breeze. Somewhere below, a clock chimed softly, echoing through the marble halls of Malfoy Manor.
Soon, he would be back at Hogwarts. Another year, another set of games to play, alliances to forge, and rivals to humiliate. The world of wizards—corrupt, chaotic, and endlessly fascinating—waited for him.
For now, though, he was content to rest. He glanced at the Snitch on his bedside table—the one that supposedly couldn't fly. Under the flickering lamplight, a faint shimmer ran across its golden surface, as if the wings twitched almost imperceptibly.
Malfoy blinked.
"Hmph," he said, smirking slightly. "Broken, are you?"
He lay back on the bed, letting his thoughts drift between the hum of the evening wind and the gentle tick of the clock. Outside, the sky deepened into a soft violet hue.
Somewhere, faintly, the old magic of the manor stirred.
And for the first time in weeks, Draco Malfoy felt at ease.
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