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CHAPTER 64
Narcissa's original plan was to keep Draco at home for the entire holiday, where she could watch him herself and remain unalarmed.
But Draco refused the idea outright—and, surprisingly, Lucius objected as well.
"Since when has the son of Lucius Malfoy been afraid to step outside over a minor accident?" Lucius said firmly, in a tone he rarely used with his wife. Teaching Draco to protect himself was not the same as teaching him to cower. Lucius had high expectations for his son; he would not allow Draco to be ruined by fear.
Realizing she had overreached, Narcissa compromised—under strict conditions.
Which was why Draco now sent home a daily report of his safety through the family owl.
"Everything is going well, don't worry," he wrote each day. The message hardly changed, but to avoid seeming perfunctory he sometimes added elegant little phrases, purely to soothe Narcissa's nerves.
Lucius, however, was beginning to wonder: why did his son seem so eager to spend his days at the bank? Did Draco harbor an unusual fondness for money? Lucius found himself considering whether he ought to pull his son aside one day and explain the true sweetness of power. A family's legacy depended not only on wealth, but on influence.
And, of course, reputation.
Draco knew none of this. For now, he merely knew he had to release the owl each day if he wanted the bargain upheld.
After opening the window and sending off the owl, he returned to the table, pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment, and wrote:
"The opportunity is coming. I hope you can grasp it."
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Pulring had not spoken to him for nearly twenty days. The boy—more cunning than most adults—made the Goblin deeply uneasy. Pulring even began to suspect that the young Malfoy heir had been toying with him from the start.
"Yes… he must be going back on his word!" Pulring muttered to himself at work. "If I acquire that sword, I won't act recklessly."
But even if this was all a trick, even if it was a trap, Pulring had no choice but to leap into it. It was an offer he could not refuse.
Tab was making his way down a wide corridor, carrying a routine document meant for the branch manager—one of his daily duties. Yet the image of the sword hovered in his mind constantly, tempting and tormenting him. Lost in thought, he kept his head down, making his already limited field of vision even narrower.
He never saw the collision coming.
He smacked into something solid—someone human, judging by the size—and stumbled backward, landing flat on his back against the cold marble floor. The tall blur before him swayed into focus.
"My apologies, Mr. Pulring," said Draco, extending a hand to help him up.
Pulring stared, stunned, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. He wanted to speak, but the words stuck in his throat. His large eyes simply stared ahead, unblinking.
Draco steadied him, offered another apology, and walked away down the corridor.
Only when Draco's footsteps faded did Pulring's mind clear. He looked down and found a piece of parchment in his hand. Draco must have slipped it to him as he pulled him up.
"The opportunity is coming.
I hope you can grasp it."
Pulring's heart erupted in violent thumps.
"He didn't lie to me!"
But then came the problem—what opportunity? Not even Goblins themselves could enter private vaults without proper authorization.
His confusion lasted less than five minutes.
After delivering the document, the branch manager summoned him:
"Prepare to increase vault security tomorrow. The periodic ten-year inspection will be moved forward to tomorrow. The bank will be closed for the day."
For Pulring, sleep became impossible.
He tossed and turned through the night, caught between the thrill of having the treasure within reach and the crushing guilt of betraying Goblin loyalty.
When dawn finally broke and a blade of red sunlight cut into his cramped little room, he knew it was time.
There was no retreat.
To calm himself, he began whispering, "It's only an accident. I'm simply retrieving what belongs to Legnard the First…"
A thin veil over his guilt.
Outside, as morning spread across Diagon Alley, the Goblins gathered in the great marble hall. The once-in-a-decade inspection was not merely to check for thieves; it ensured every stored item remained intact. Potions could lose their preservation charms and spoil. Blades could rust. Magic faded, and most enchantments lasted no more than ten years.
Even brought forward, the work still had to be done.
Older and younger Goblins descended together into the underground vaults. The tradition was vital—elders teaching the next generation how to conduct inspections properly.
They climbed into the small carts. With a jerk, the carts shot forward, racing through the twisting maze of tunnels. Wind howled past them, wheels clattered, walls and stalactites blurred. Sharp turns nearly flung them sideways.
Another sudden turn—then a great waterfall crashed down ahead, drenching them as the carts soared through.
Nothing happened.
This waterfall stripped away curses, glamours, and disguises. It was designed to remove all external enchantments—a guard against Polyjuice, Imperius, or any magical manipulation.
Useful against impostors.
Useful against meddling Goblins.
Useful against vault owners themselves.
But the thieves today accepted those risks.
And the one thing the waterfall could not wash away—
—was what lay in a traitor's heart.
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