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Chapter 71
Fudge walked out of the Gringotts office wearing a stiff, unhappy expression.
In truth, when he'd first spotted Draco Malfoy earlier, he had actually felt a wave of relief. For a moment, he thought today's fiasco might be easier to clean up than expected.
After all, this was the son of his long-time ally and business partner. With Lucius Malfoy's influence, Fudge had assumed the matter would smooth itself out. The younger generation was supposed to give face to their elders, after all. But instead, he'd discovered that this boy was an even sharper, slicker little fox than his father—one who had just bitten off a rather large chunk of political flesh.
"Your father will be proud to have a son like you," Fudge forced out, smiling through the sting of being extorted. Compared to what Draco was holding over him, wiping a minor violation record was nothing.
Draco, who had learned from the mess with his last incident, had already scrubbed away all traces on his body with every trick he knew—but what he still lacked was official Ministry confirmation. Today's opportunity was too perfect to skip. So he'd pushed Fudge to erase the record of him performing magic outside of school.
"Thank you for the compliment," Draco replied smoothly in the office, returning comfort for discomfort with perfect politeness. "You've only lost a few visible… benefits. But I can assure you—cooperating with our family will earn you far greater rewards."
Fudge let out a strained laugh, unable to continue. He'd had arrangements with Lucius for years—money for political favors, status traded for influence. But now the son had reached into actual business. Special-industry tax exemptions. Hidden quotas. Things the average Ministry worker didn't even know existed. He was certain he had never mentioned any of this to Lucius.
Of course, it was all bluffing. Draco had simply made clever assumptions. He certainly hadn't expected the goblin-tamer Minister to fold quite so easily—or offer such a hefty payoff.
When Fudge stepped through the door, he realized his legs were trembling. Whether from sitting too long or from being metaphorically gutted, he wasn't sure—but he forced himself to maintain the standard genial political smile.
"It's getting late," Fudge said as he and Draco emerged from the office. Once they passed through the stone doors and returned to the main hall, he announced loudly, "I've just spoken with the Gringotts branch manager. The bank will be closing for the remainder of the day. The Ministry will restore order as quickly as possible. We appreciate your patience."
They couldn't exactly negotiate in public. Fudge had used Draco as an excuse to call over the short, heavyset goblin manager, and only then had the real bargaining begun privately.
And despite how long it felt, the actual negotiation had taken mere minutes. The rest had simply been haggling.
No one in the hall objected to Gringotts closing. Most simply accepted their misfortune. After everything that had happened, no one would dare rush their errands—not unless it was desperately urgent.
And wizards, far more than Muggles, tended to believe in "signs" and "bad luck."
Well, Draco thought, an early end to the day isn't bad.
He'd barely had any free time lately. Going home early sounded wonderful.
Then, suddenly—
"How are you planning to thank me?"
The girl's voice, soft and lilting, reached him. This time, there was a hint of teasing warmth to it—a far cry from the prideful, icy tone she'd greeted him with earlier.
"Well?" Draco asked, amused. "What do you want as thanks?"
He genuinely liked her. No boy disliked spending time with a pretty girl—but she wasn't just a pretty face. The way she'd handled danger earlier had earned his respect.
"Then treat me to a meal," she said. Boldly. Confidently. Almost challengingly.
A man in a checkered shirt whistled sharply. Others nearby looked on with knowing grins.
The girl—usually composed, graceful, and oh-so-French—blushed.
A handsome boy and a beautiful girl. A brave young witch saved during chaos.
No matter the country, people loved stories like that. And when one unfolded right in front of them, naturally they had to show their support.
Draco felt the pressure of a hundred expectant eyes. Suddenly, backing out seemed impossible. And regardless, he wasn't foolish—he could feel the affection behind her words. And if a girl was brave enough to ask a boy out, refusing her would hardly be gentlemanly.
"…Alright," he said finally. Something felt off, but he couldn't place it.
"It's not mealtime yet," he added. "And you didn't eat anything earlier. We could get something sweet. Desserts? Ice-cream? Florean Fortescue's Ice-Cream Parlour on Diagon Alley is a good option. I know the owner quite well."
"No objections here." She agreed instantly, a bright note of anticipation in her voice.
Sometimes, the food didn't matter at all.
The company did.
The passionate French witch had begun believing in the "love at first sight" she'd always mocked.
She felt she had finally found her answer—
the key to summoning her Patronus.
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