"He was gone for ages," someone muttered just loud enough to be curious and just quiet enough to pretend it wasn't gossip.
"I bet he got pulled into some adult conversation about bloodlines," another said.
"Maybe he went to duel someone in the dining hall," someone else offered hopefully.
I returned to the youth wing with all the nonchalance of someone who absolutely hadn't just spent half an hour discussing book contracts and curriculum reform with ancient political powerhouses.
The lounge was still warm with golden light and floating charm-music, but the air felt a little different now—denser somehow, like people were waiting for something.
Whispers chased me as I passed the drink table. Not loud. Not hostile. But definitely curious.
with all the nonchalance of someone who hadn't just bribed half the Ministry. The lounge was still warm with golden light and floating charm-music, but the air felt a little different now—denser somehow, like people were waiting for something.
Whispers chased me as I passed the drink table. Not loud. Not hostile. But definitely curious.
"Do you think he went to talk about some new school reform?"
"I heard the servants say he bribed Umbridge. With actual money."
"Do you think he could replace Hogwarts with his own school?"
I smiled just enough to keep them guessing.
The bigger the gossip, the better my position.
I took a moment to admire the room's decor as I walked around.
More specifically, the table settings. As I leaned over a nearby dinner display, something caught my eye.
The napkin rings.
They weren't just decorative. These things were solid gold, each one etched with a delicate silver filigree leaf pattern. Embedded at the tip of each leaf? A small emerald, polished to a mischievous little gleam.
I blinked. Then smiled.
As I made polite conversation, wandering between small groups and nodding along to posh nonsense about wand weight and ancestral goblet rights, I passed each table slowly—never staying too long, never drawing attention.
And one by one, the napkin rings vanished.
Not all at once, of course. That would've been suspicious. No, these were precision pickups. A hand on a table, a lean in to whisper something witty, and slip—one more ring gone. I'd done worse for less.
By the time I made it to the far end of the lounge, I had an entire miniature fortune tucked safely into my inventory. Not bad for a party.
Daphne Greengrass approached with a raised brow. "You were gone a while."
"Important documents," I said, swirling my drink like a Bond villain at brunch.
Tracey Davis leaned in. "There is a rumor going around that you talked to the Headmaster, the Minister, and Madam Marchbanks."
"Mm-hmm. All very serious. Lots of ink. Several sighs. A touch of regret."
Blaise appeared at my side with two fresh flutes of lemonade. "You're officially famous now. Also, Pansy's trying not to like you. She's failing."
"Good," I said. "She'll join the club."
I sipped the lemonade, crossed one leg over the other, and leaned back with the quiet satisfaction of someone who'd just sold the future to the past and made them say thank you.
Just as I was circling back toward the lemonade, the doors opened—dramatic as ever—and in walked Draco Malfoy.
He strutted in like he owned the manor—which, technically, he sort of did—but with the theatrical flair of someone who expected applause. Dressed in what had to be tailor-enchanted robes with silver threading and smugness woven into the seams, Draco Malfoy had returned to his court.
Crabbe and Goyle flanked him as usual, both looking like they hadn't blinked since last Tuesday. I swear they got bulked out more for symmetry than personality.
He spotted me instantly.
"Kingston," he drawled, like my name tasted bitter. "Back from rubbing elbows with the dusty elite?"
"Dusty? You mean the people who actually write the laws?" I said sweetly. "Yes. They were lovely. One even offered me tea. With lemon."
Draco's eyes narrowed. "What could someone like you possibly be discussing with the Minister?"
I tilted my head. "Probably the same things you would. Except without the tantrums."
That earned a few snorts from the surrounding students.
Draco's mouth twisted. "You're not even from a proper family. You don't belong in these conversations."
"And yet," I said, stepping just a little closer, "here I am. Speaking. Being heard. Changing things. Must be frustrating."
His eyes flicked to the small crowd that had gathered. Students weren't even pretending to be subtle anymore. They leaned in with popcorn-level attention.
"You think you're clever," he sneered.
"No, Draco," I said. "I know I'm clever. You just keep proving it."
The room went quiet—not because of anything Draco said, but because of who had just entered.
Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa had arrived silently through the far doors, the kind of entrance that didn't need to be announced. Every head subtly turned. Every voice dropped. Except Draco's, of course.
Lucius stood tall, his eyes sharp and unreadable. As the conversation between us continued, he remained just inside the room, watching. Observing. Not moving—only listening.
Draco crossed his arms. "You don't understand how things work. Blood matters. Name matters. You can't just charm your way into respect."
Lucius's eyes narrowed, just slightly.
I shrugged. "Yet here we are, and you're losing the room to someone with no last name worth bragging about."
Lucius's gaze flicked to me for half a second, then back to Draco. Still no reaction.
He flushed. "You think you're better than me?"
I leaned in, my voice smooth. "No, Draco. I don't think I'm better. I think I'm everything you pretend to be."
Lucius's mouth twitched. Was that… approval?
There was a stifled snort from somewhere near the back. Blaise, probably.
"You're just jealous," Draco snapped. "Jealous of real wizarding families. Of people with legacy."
"Legacy without substance is just an old bedtime story," I said. "Tell me, Draco—what have you done that wasn't handed to you?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I—"
"You've spent the evening hiding behind Crabbe and Goyle, recycling your father's opinions, and sneering at people who actually make moves. You're a caricature of aristocracy. If you didn't exist, satire would invent you."
The room exhaled. A few laughed. Even Pansy covered her mouth.
"You better watch your mouth, Kingston."
I smirked. "Why? Are you going to have Crabbe glare at me slightly harder?"
And then the words slipped out of Draco's mouth like an accidental curse.
"Wait till my father hears about this!"
He said it with every ounce of entitlement his bloodline could pump into a sentence.
And Lucius, still standing right behind him, finally moved.
He stepped forward, hand landing gently but firmly on Draco's shoulder.
I didn't miss a beat.
"You just did."
There was a sound—somewhere between a gasp and a choked laugh. Then a snort. Then someone dropped their glass.
Lucius didn't say a word. But his hand tightened ever so slightly on Draco's shoulder, and with a nod to the room, he turned and guided his son out like a disappointed monarch pulling his heir from a poorly handled duel.
Draco went pale. He didn't resist. He just walked.
Silence reigned for a few seconds longer.
Then, softly from the corner, Blaise whispered, "Brutal."
I returned to my lemonade like nothing had happened. The room buzzed with low laughter and side-eyes, the kind of energy that made even the enchanted lights glow a little warmer.
Blaise dropped into the seat next to me. "You just embarrassed him in front of his ancestral wallpaper."
I raised my glass. "To cultural enrichment."
Pansy walked by and gave me a look I couldn't quite place—half judgment, half admiration. I chose to take it as a compliment.
As the lounge returned to its usual rhythm, I let myself sink into the chair.
One duel won. One reputation cemented. All the napkin rings quietly tucked into my sleeve.
I smirked to myself and took another sip.
"If wit were a spell," I muttered, "I'd have blown up the room."