As July burned itself out into a humid, stifling August, the atmosphere at Malfoy Manor underwent a palpable decompression.
The imminent threat of Ministry raids, which had hung over the estate like a guillotine blade for weeks, finally dissipated. Lucius Malfoy returned from the Ministry one evening not with the tense, vascular-throbbing rage that had defined his summer, but with the smug, self-satisfied air of a cat that had not only eaten the canary but successfully framed the dog for the crime.
"It is finished," Lucius announced at dinner, swirling a glass of elf-made wine. "Arthur Weasley's ridiculous 'Protection Act' has been bogged down in the sub-committee for Administrative Oversights. I called in a favor with Madam Bones and reminded Fudge of certain... contributions."
He sliced his steak with surgical precision.
"The raids for higher classes suspended indefinitely pending a 'review of protocol'. Weasley is furious, of course. He turned a shade of red that clashed violently with his hair."
Narcissa offered a serene smile. "Excellent news, Lucius. It will be nice to have the floo network open without fear of uninvited guests tracking mud onto the carpets."
"Indeed," Lucius agreed. "It gives us time. Time to... properly curate the collection in the cellar without hasty decisions."
Orion ate his potatoes in silence, masking a small smirk. He knew what this meant. The Dark artifacts would be moved, sold to Borgin, or hidden deeper. The Manor was safe.
But while the external threat was neutralized, Orion was acutely aware of an internal saboteur.
Dobby.
The house-elf was behaving erratically. He was jumping at shadows, issuing punishments to himself for unseen crimes (punishments were basically just zealous cleaning and helping, mostly because Orion had thrown a tantrum against Lucius when he had tried to go for a more corporeal punishment, one of the very few tantrums in Orion's new life that had shaken Lucius), and disappearing for long stretches of the day.
Orion knew exactly where he was going. He was intercepting Harry Potter's mail. He was stopping Ron and Hermione's letters. He was constructing a wall of silence around the Boy Who Lived to make him think his friends had abandoned him, all in a misguided attempt to keep Harry away from Hogwarts.
"You going to stop him?" Sparkle asked one afternoon as they watched Dobby hyperventilate near a flower pot. "The elf is gaslighting the protagonist. It's kind of mean."
"It is necessary," Orion replied, turning a page of his book. "If I stop Dobby, Harry gets his letters. He feels loved. He comes to the station happily. He gets on the train."
"And?"
"And then he doesn't fly a magically modified Ford Anglia into the Whomping Willow," Orion pointed out. "That event is a cornerstone of the Second Year experience. It alienates Harry, it puts Ron in trouble, and it introduces the concept of the rogue Bludger later on. If they take the train, the timeline smooths out too much. I need the chaos variables intact to distract Dumbledore."
He looked at the trembling elf.
"Let him save Potter," Orion decided. "The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and the road to Hogwarts is apparently paved with flying cars. Besides, Howlers and Gryffindors losing points are interesting things to raise house morale at the start of the year."
The morning of the Hogwarts letters arrival was usually a routine affair. This year, however, it was a comedy sketch.
Two owls swooped into the dining room, dropping heavy envelopes onto the table. Draco tore his open, scanning the list.
"What is this?" Draco wrinkled his nose. "Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2... Transfiguration... and then..."
He held up the parchment.
"Seven books by Gilderoy Lockhart? Seven? Who is this man?"
Narcissa took the list, her eyebrows rising. "Gilderoy Lockhart... he is the adventurer, Draco. The one who writes about banishing banshees and curing werewolves. He is quite... photogenic."
"He's a flop," Lucius sneered, glancing at the list. "A celebrity wizard. Why Dumbledore requires you to buy his entire bibliography is beyond me. The cost alone is extortionate."
"Perhaps he is the new Defense teacher?" Orion suggested innocently, buttering a crumpet. "It fits the pattern. Only a narcissist would take the job after what happened to Quirrell."
"Great," Draco groaned. "Another year of useless Defense lessons."
"Regardless," Lucius waved a hand. "We must procure them. We shall go to Diagon Alley this coming weekend. The crowds should be manageable."
Lucius paused, looking at his sons. The relief of the political victory had made him uncharacteristically generous. Or perhaps, he was simply feeling guilty that his earlier stress had cancelled their birthday gala.
"I also realize," Lucius said, clearing his throat, "that due to the... pressures of the Ministry, your birthday was a somewhat muted affair. No gala. No public celebration."
"The pool party was excellent, Father," Draco said quickly. "Orion rented me the float!"
"Be that as it may," Lucius continued, ignoring the 'renting' comment. "A Malfoy should not be deprived. While we are in the Alley, I intend to rectify this oversight."
He looked at them both with a gaze that was usually reserved for business partners.
"You may select a gift. Something substantial. Within reason, of course, but do not feel constrained by a student budget."
Draco didn't even blink. He didn't need time to think. He had been waiting for this moment since June.
"Brooms," Draco blurted out instantly.
Lucius raised an eyebrow. "You already have a Comet, Draco."
"Not just for me," Draco said, his grey eyes shining with the glint of pay-to-win mechanics. "For the team. The Slytherin House Team."
He leaned forward, his voice taking on a persuasive, desperate edge.
"Father, the Gryffindors are desperate. They lost badly last year. Wood is going to push them hard. If I want to be Seeker—and I will be Seeker—I need an edge. Not just for me, but for the Chasers. For the Beaters."
Draco slammed his hand on the table.
"I want the Nimbus 2001. It just came out. It's faster than the 2000. It's sleek. It's black. If the entire Slytherin team is mounted on Nimbus 2001s, we will be the fastest team in the school. Gryffindor won't be able to catch us. We will humiliate them."
He looked at Lucius, playing the trump card.
"It would show everyone that the Malfoys support excellence. That we provide the best."
Orion watched his brother, impressed. It was a bold ask. Seven top-of-the-line racing brooms cost a small fortune.
Lucius stroked his chin. He wasn't looking at the cost; he was looking at the prestige. The image of the green-clad team zooming around on gifts from the House of Malfoy. The crushing defeat of Arthur Weasley's house.
"The Nimbus 2001," Lucius mused. "It is a fine machine."
He looked at Draco.
"If I do this... if I equip the team... I expect results, Draco. I expect the Cup."
"You'll have it," Draco promised breathlessly.
"Very well," Lucius nodded. "Seven brooms. We shall order them at Quality Quidditch Supplies."
He turned his gaze to Orion. "And you, Orion? Do you also require a fleet of vehicles? Or perhaps something more... eclectic?"
Orion sipped his tea. He had many things he needed. Ingredients for rare potions. Books on soul magic. Tools for the Cabinet.
But he didn't want to show his hand yet. And frankly, he enjoyed the leverage of an owed favor.
"I am undecided, Father," Orion said calmly. "Draco's request is... singular. I need some time to consider what would be most beneficial for my second year. Perhaps I will find inspiration in the Alley."
Lucius nodded, seemingly relieved he didn't have to buy a second sports team. "As you wish. Take your time. We prefer decisive action, but thoughtful consideration is also a virtue."
"Thank you, Father."
"Seven brooms," Sparkle whispered in his ear. "Draco really just went for the 'Money Can Buy Happiness' route."
"It's the Slytherin way," Orion smirked. "Why train harder when you can just fly faster?"