Bellatrix frowned at him, but decided to drop it. "Someone ought to sneak my cousin and that Potter brat a dose of that," she told him, changing the subject, herself. "They'd never be able to look at Polyjuice the same way again."
She eyed him curiously. In the few days since she'd seen him he had clammed up - whether it was because something significant had happened, or because he'd simply wizened up, it didn't matter, but she realized that pushing him for more information before he was ready to give it up would merely alienate him. No, the way to extract information from this enigmatic young man was through subterfuge and reading between the lines. She did keep up her questioning, although with a lot less luster than before, just in case. This was too valuable an opportunity to be wasted by careless planning or sloppy execution, traits that were not acceptable for any Black.
"Well, if there aren't any openings at Hogwarts, what about close around? Some place in Hogsmeade?"
Bellatrix eyed him curiously. He had seemed reluctant to draw attention to himself earlier, so the sudden change caught her by surprise. "There are a few potential listings there. As soon as you're finished we can go."
Harry smirked; he just couldn't help it at the eager tone she was trying - and failing - to hide. Despite her vehement declarations to the contrary and threats to walk away, he now knew he had her hooked, at least for a while. She was interested, and her upbringing to always seek out the best advantage for herself would keep her interested at least until she had more informtion on what he had to offer. She wouldn't walk away or jeopardize her chances with him until she knew what she was throwing away. Of course she would probably try to double-cross him later on, or maybe even play both sides of the conflict, but for now he wasn't going to worry about that. With any luck, there wouldn't be another side in this conflict.
Although he really didn't want her around for now, it would probably be a good opportunity to find out more about the way business was done by the pureblood families, before Voldemort's xenophobia had transformed them into a group of self-absorbed, egocentrical rich bastards. He glanced down at his now cold food.
"I think I'm done."
.....
Romulus Malfoy was the patriarch of the Malfoy family, father of Lucius Malfoy, and heir to one of the oldest wizarding families in Britain. The Malfoy family had been one of many who had seen a radical decline of their wealth and power in the aftermath of two world wars that had left much of the wizarding world in ruins. Years of frittering away their family fortune had left them ill prepared for the toll the reconstruction would take on their coffers - but Romulus Malfoy prided himself on having almost single-handedly re-established the Malfoys as one of the leading families of the wizarding world in Britain, both financially and politically. Much of that was due to his personal connections, and his innate brilliance in using those connections. By all rights, he was a man who knew an opportunity when it came his way. He knew how and when to take it to maximize its benefit to himself, and how to come off clean afterwards.
That kind of finesse and aptitude was what had earned him the attention of a family even older, nobler, and wealthier than his own - the Blacks. Unlike the Malfoys, the Blacks hadn't been as badly affected by the cost of the reconstruction, so much so that it had actually resurrected rumors that they were in possession of a version of the philosopher's stone - the ancient, fabled dream of alchemists that would turn lead into gold. Their seemingly bottomless coffers certainly seemed to support that rumor.
In an ironic turn of events, though, the man who was destined to be Draco Malfoy's grandfather was an avid admirer of Muggles. That wasn't born of any tolerance or kind feelings on his part, though, nor was it due to any sympathies he held for Muggleborn witches and wizards. Like most purebloods, Romulus Malfoy believed himself to be something better than the average wizard and certainly of more value than a mere Muggle - he was just better at hiding it his feelings, because, unlike most of the youth Harry would encounter in his time, he had mastered this simple thing called "tact." No, his admiration for Muggles had an entirely different reason, one he wasn't afraid to admit: their capacity for inventing tools of destruction despite the absence of any magic whatsoever.
As he walked through the lobby of Gringotts, negligently returning the greetings of various acquaintances and goblins he passed, he took a little time to admire the architecture and lavish design of the goblin bank. It was pristine now, as it had been for hundreds of years before, and it was hard to imagine now that, only some thirty years before, the place had been in shambles, littered with debris and bodies of dead goblins and wizards - an unfortunate side-effect of a German bomb that had hit the heart of London. Being invisible hadn't done much for Diagon Alley.
Malfoy loved money and power. The bank and the Malfoy fortune represented the wealth he wanted for himself, but the power… he had to give that to the Muggles, however grudgingly. Despite any feelings of superiority, the effects of World War II, which he'd witnessed as a younger man, had left him with the sober realization that Muggles were in the very real position of being able to wipe out the wizarding world. In fact, the Muggles by now were very much capable of wiping themselves off the face of the planet, with the wizarding world an unfortunate piece of collateral damage.
Walking past the lobby filled with goblin tellers and wizards and witches conducting their business, he made his way into a sideroom that was kept in a separate part of the bank for the convenience of the more important customers. Malfoy was no stranger to the conference rooms, but today was the first time he had been summoned to this special lounge for a private meeting with the Black patriarch.
Upon stepping into the lounge, he discovered it to be crowded, much more so than he was accustomed to. A man was seated behind a newspaper in a chair that had been wedged into a corner, while a mother - he suspected she might be one of those lousy Parkinsons - was busy distributing little bottles of pumpkin juice provided by the bank to each of her children. Malfoy cringed. This was a less than ideal setting for the private meeting he supposed Orion Black had in mind. Trying to avoid looking suspicious, he coolly walked over to a rack of magazines, grabbed the first one he could find, and sat down, hoping that the commotion would be over soon.
It didn't take long, but it seemed to him like an eternity until the mother had left, taking her gaggle of chilren with her. Carefully eyeing the room over the top of his magazine, Malfoy glanced at the man in the corner who steadfastly refused to leave. When the room was quiet, leaving the two of them alone, the door clanged shut, and Malfoy could hear the clicks and whirrs of the locks as they snapped into place. Then the man in the corner lowered the newspaper he had been reading.
It was Orion Black.
"The price of discretion can be rather high sometimes," the old man commented, a twisted smile on his lips.
Malfoy was content to nod and return a similar smile. The Black patriarch had always been nearly impossible for him to read, probably the produce of decades of experience playing the games of politics, intrigue, and war. He did like to think, though, that his friendship with the older man went deeply enough that he knew what Orion Black was thinking about current affairs, but deep down he always held himself back. Playing the games of the old families was not something to be taken lightly, but at the very least he was secure in the knowledge that, unlike most others in his position, Orion Black was, above all, an honest man. He was honorable, and Malfoy respected that.
"It would appear that, yet again, a group of our own youth has been involved in another disturbance," the ancient Black family head commented, with a note of resignation in his tone. He passed over the paper he had been reading. "I am not pleased, but most especially, I am worried about their defense of their actions."
Malfoy nodded and skimmed through the copy of the Daily Prophet of two days ago. The front page held a brief article about a fight that had broken out at a wizarding pub in Cardiff. Apparently, a group of young pureblood wizards and witches, mostly fresh out of Hogwarts, had engaged a group of Muggleborn in a fight that had some semi-serious results-a few of the combatants ending up in the hospital. It reeked of people getting drunk and stupid, Malfoy thought to himself, and he voiced that thought.
....
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