Malfoy Manor looked exactly how I imagined it would: tall, arrogant, and polished like it spent most of its time judging the poor. The wrought-iron gates creaked open without a sound—because of course they were charmed for silent disdain—and I was greeted by two house-elves who looked like they'd been trained in hospitality and threat detection.
"Welcome, Mr. Kingston," one of them squeaked with a nervous bow. "Your invitation was confirmed. Right this way, please."
"Much obliged," I said, stepping in like I hadn't nearly died in a vegetable patch an hour ago.
The interior was marble everything—floors, walls, ceilings, furniture that looked like it sighed whenever someone with under 1,000 Galleons entered the room. A butler in forest-green robes led me down a wide hall and up two elegant staircases that felt like they were judging my shoes.
Blaise Zabini intercepted me just outside the youth lounge.
"Looking well-fed and dramatically punctual, as always," he said dryly.
"I fell into a tomato patch," I said with a smile. "Now my clothes smell like spaghetti."
He nodded toward the lounge. "Pansy's already inside. She's actually being tolerable tonight. You want me to keep her from getting dragged into Draco's nonsense?"
"If you would," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. "I trust your ability to deflect snobbery like a social spellshield."
"Please put that on my tombstone."
We shared a chuckle as we entered the youth wing and took a breath. Showtime.
The lounge was bigger than my house. Probably three of my houses. Floating candles hung in a perfect alignment above the arched ceiling, and music drifted from a quartet of invisible instruments near the fireplace. Long couches circled drink tables with charmed cutlery that politely clinked itself into place.
Half the room was pure-blood teenagers trying to sound like minor nobility.
"I heard the Abbott estate recently upgraded its floo gate with triple-spiral security wards—"
"—yes, but the Greengrasses only use goblin-forged glassware, so obviously—"
I stood there listening for a moment and decided to add 'Survived Political Peacocking' to my résumé.
Naturally, I had to make an entrance.
"I come bearing gifts," I announced, holding up a levitating tray of shimmering boxes.
Conversations stopped. Not paused—stopped.
"These," I said, setting the tray on the nearest table, "are imported magical pastries from a hidden patisserie in the heart of France. Each box enchanted to keep the goods warm and fresh for seventy-two hours. Made by wizards who probably don't even need ovens."
I handed one specifically to Theodore Nott.
He blinked. "Why me?"
"Because you once lent me a book without asking questions. And because you never bring up blood status like it's a business card."
Nott looked stunned. "This is the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me... Whats the catch?"
Several other kids looked at their empty hands. I smiled like a spider in a candy store.
By the third flute of enchanted lemonade, I had most of the room's attention. That's when I brought out the catalogue.
Leather-bound, silver-edged, embossed with a serpent-wrapped quill—classy, understated, and legally vague.
"What's that?" asked Daphne Greengrass, eyeing it with interest.
"A list of services and magical products I offer. Custom potions, alchemical consultations, enchantment services… You know, small things."
Padma raised an eyebrow. "Is this legal?"
"Define legal," I said.
Susan Bones snorted. "Oh, this is going to be fun."
I made sure each of the students I trusted—Hannah, Tracey, Neville, Parvati—got a subtle mention of the Community Room Project I was planning at Hogwarts.
"Inter-house collaboration," I whispered. "Think library, lounge, strategy center, and snack haven all in one. Somewhere to be… us."
They didn't say anything at first. But the excitement was there, behind the eyes.
Mission: seed planted.
A butler tapped my shoulder. "Mr. Kingston, Griselda Marchbanks would like a word."
Fantastic.
I followed him to the adult wing—lavishly silent, filled with murmuring nobles and glittering wine goblets. Marchbanks stood beside Dumbledore, both flanking a thoroughly bored-looking Cornelius Fudge. Umbridge hovered near the drinks table, already radiating spite.
"Mr. Kingston," Marchbanks said. "A correspondence of mine from France told me you have something to share."
I nodded and reached into my trunk-space coat pocket.
"Behold—the Neverending Guide. Weightless, charm-locked, self-updating. Replaces seven years of textbooks with a single volume," I explained. "No additional enchantments without unanimous authorization. And it will never overwrite without consent from myself, the course professor, the Headmaster, the Minister, and Madam Marchbanks."" I said, holding up the enchanted prototype.
"It's thinner than expected," Dumbledore commented.
Umbridge sniffed. "And how, exactly, do we prevent this... 'guide' from becoming a vehicle for unsanctioned material? Or worse, ideologically biased inserts?"
"Checks and balances," I said. "As I already said, it will require unanimous consent." I pulled out a magically sealed scroll and placed it on the table in front of them. "This contract outlines the exact restrictions, voting procedures, and legal clauses related to the Guide."
Griselda Marchbanks raised an eyebrow. "You prepared a binding magical agreement?"
"I came ready," I said.
For the next thirty minutes, the four of them took turns asking questions. Dumbledore inquired about spell conflicts. Marchbanks dissected the update protocol. Fudge asked if he could have a custom edition with his face on it. Umbridge, as expected, probed for any loopholes.
I answered each one thoroughly, calmly, and with just enough wit to make them smile despite themselves. Except Umbridge.
Finally, Griselda gave a slow nod and signed. Dumbledore followed with a soft hum of approval. Umbridge didn't move until I slid the pouch closer. Then she snatched the quill.
Fudge coughed. "Well, I do have campaign expenses—"
"One thousand Galleons," I said. "For continued excellence in magical leadership."
He grinned and signed the scroll immediately.
Marchbanks groaned. Dumbledore closed his eyes and muttered, "Why do I even bother?"
I smiled and filed the signed contract away.
"Thank you all for your time. Please enjoy your bribes."