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Chapter 30 — The Summer of Ledgers and Luck
Work, Draco soon discovered, was mind-numbingly dull.
Hour after hour he corrected the goblins' elementary accounting errors, doing his best not to be tempted into… creative bookkeeping. Their entire financial system was so primitive that he sometimes felt he could make a fortune just by rearranging a few columns.
With a half-dozen competent Muggle financiers from Wall Street, he suspected the whole wizarding economy could be monopolized before anyone noticed.
Not that he'd ever try.
First, he didn't need the money.
Second, "clever" people in the wizarding world tended to pay steep prices for their cleverness. The moment goblins and wizards realized something was off, they'd flip the table, haul the culprit away, and charge them with "undermining magical financial stability"—a law Draco wouldn't be surprised to learn Arthur Weasley had helped write after poking around Muggle economics.
Wizards weren't brilliant, but they weren't idiots.
Still, none of that was why Draco felt so dispirited. No—the problem was that Gringotts was too safe.
Aside from Hogwarts, this was the most secure place in magical Britain.
For now, he had no other options. Quirrell had only attempted that infamous break-in because Voldemort himself pushed him.
Ordinary vaults opened with nothing more than a golden key, but the deeper vaults were another matter entirely. Dragons guarded them. A few times, when Draco hopped into a cart during breaks, he could hear the rumbling growl of a sleeping beast echoing through the tunnels.
And then there were the keyless vaults—the ones accessible only when a goblin pressed its long finger to the metal. The doors melted open like water. Anyone else attempting to enter would be sucked inside, left to starve or suffocate until the next inspection… ten years later.
Polyjuice would be the best method of infiltration.
Unfortunately, the one person who might brew it for him was still in Azkaban—and a fugitive walking into Gringotts for a withdrawal would make the Daily Prophet for weeks.
The Fiendfyre curse and duplication charms inside the vaults were equally impossible to bypass.
So Draco set aside any heist-like ambitions and stuck to his ledgers.
"It's not that bad," he muttered to himself. Gringotts awarded him a generous bonus for catching so many mistakes. As he left, Mr. Ringpull—looking conflicted—told him:
"Your father will certainly object, but we would be happy to have you back after you graduate."
"I'll think about it," Draco lied politely before walking off.
The moment he inherited the Malfoy fortune, he was absolutely not becoming a wage-earner.
"Oh—right. A gift."
As he stepped toward the Floo fireplaces, he stopped short. Pansy deserved something. So he turned back and wandered deeper into Diagon Alley.
A few storefronts offered nothing interesting. But at the Quidditch Boutique, he paused.
A Golden Snitch sat perched on a velvet-blue platform inside a glass case. Walnut-sized, wings folded tightly against its shell. Hard to imagine it zipping madly through a stadium, driving Seekers half-insane with the chase.
The tag read:
"A meaningful collector's item — Golden Snitch from the Transylvania–Flanders finals. Severely damaged in the final minutes. 500 Galleons."
"So it can't even fly? It's broken, then." Draco tapped the glass.
"Oh—no, sir, not at all!"
The clerk sprang to life. "The value is historical, not functional! The Transylvania and Flanders teams have centuries-long histories, especially that match—"
He launched into an enthusiastic lecture.
"A pity it's broken," Draco repeated. "I might as well buy a broom. At least I can use that."
"Sir, please reconsider!"
The poor clerk nearly panicked. The Snitch had been gathering dust for ages. If he sold it, he'd probably get promoted. So he scrambled for any argument.
"I'm only browsing," Draco said mildly. "Do you really think someone my age can afford that?"
"We… we can discuss pricing, dear customer…"
The clerk was entirely in Draco's hands.
No one knew exactly how many Galleons Draco finally paid, but that night, half of Diagon Alley heard the Quidditch Boutique manager screaming.
He also picked up a tie for Lucius and the latest cosmetics for Narcissa.
"I'll have to buy books next time," he muttered, staring at the pile of purchases. With school nearing, Flourish and Blotts was getting crowded—he'd need to go early.
He stepped into the green flames and Flooed home.
"This transportation method is a love-hate relationship," he grumbled, dizzy from the spin. Lucius and Narcissa were still out, so he left the gifts in the drawing room and went upstairs.
A letter lay on his desk.
It was from Pansy.
She couldn't meet him in Diagon Alley after all. France was having Floo Network issues—transportation completely down. The French Ministry of Magic was infuriatingly slow, so her family was stranded until the situation was fixed.
"I might be late for the new term," she ended.
"That's not good," Draco murmured. He wrote back with polite reassurance and tied the reply to the owl's leg. But he couldn't solve the problem. Most wizards still refused to use Muggle transportation. And Apparition between countries? Nearly impossible.
There was only one option left.
Waiting.