"Draco, I'm serious! You need to explain to me what's going on with your family's contradictory attitude toward the Muggle world." Hermione frowned, looking a little troubled, and stirred the cream sauce and mussels on her plate with her fork. "I just can't make sense of the logic. You must be hiding something important from me."
The boy across from her was smiling faintly, his long fingers propped beneath his chin, watching her as though utterly absorbed.
Draco couldn't take his eyes off her—he was being drawn into some inexplicable reverie.
For instance, a small strand of her hair, stirred by the breeze, shimmered with scattered gold in the afternoon light.
For instance, her defiant eyes were fixed on him, his own reflection wavering in her warm, glistening gaze, as if she meant to study him.
For instance, the color of her lips was delicate, like a cherry not yet ripe. It seemed a single kiss would be enough to ripen them into the most beautiful shade.
He thought, vaguely, that only a truly gifted painter could ever mix such a color.
Everything felt languid and unhurried. The azure river flowed quietly beside them, as though afraid to disturb their peace.
They sat facing each other at a small red-and-white checkered table in the cool shade of a tree, at a little restaurant on the banks of the Rhône, having just finished squid-ink pasta with grilled cod.
Hermione poked at the strawberries on the fruit platter with her fork and asked, "Draco—what are you daydreaming about?"
His grey eyes, tinged with an abstract icy blue by the light, seemed to mirror the color of the river. He gazed at her as if trying to conjure a blush onto her face, and it very nearly worked—she felt suddenly breathless.
She looked at him, a flicker of unease stirring in her chest.
When she couldn't see him, she felt a persistent melancholy, a sense of loss no matter what she did. But when she did see him, the moment she settled enough to think of something serious, his eyes and his smile made it impossible to concentrate.
"You're beautiful," he murmured, sounding like a fool whose mind held nothing but love.
Something's really wrong with him, Hermione thought.
He'd been acting strangely ever since they got off the Ferris wheel, watching her without pause.
It was as if she were the only thing in his eyes. It wasn't that she minded his unwavering attention—it was just unbearably embarrassing.
His gaze was so direct. With every bite of food, he watched her intently, as if he were savoring her instead of his meal. And yet his eyes stayed clear and guileless, without a trace of impure thought.
Who would believe a boy with faintly reddened ears capable of any bad intentions? When he looked at her the way one admires a work of art, his heart seemed nothing but pure.
"Hey, answer my question!" Hermione's gaze dropped to the napkins on the table, avoiding his eyes.
She was certain that if she let her thoughts wander even a little, his gaze alone would set her blushing from head to toe.
"Oh... the Malfoys' attitude toward the Muggle world, was it?" Draco snapped out of his reverie and took a sip of sparkling water to cover himself.
He wasn't surprised she'd ask such a question.
He'd known that, given Hermione's insatiable curiosity and sharp mind, it was only a matter of time before she raised it herself.
Reborn, and no longer the vain, arrogant boy who cared only about being the center of the world, Draco finally had the energy to spare for the question of the Malfoy family's true relationship with Muggles.
In his previous life, he'd had neither the time nor the means to look closely into his family's dealings with Muggles. Back then his every thought had been consumed with saving his father and plotting some clever way to end Dumbledore's life—there had been no room left to puzzle over "the Malfoy family's strange connection to the Muggle world."
This time, over the past four years, he'd made a point of listening in on his parents' conversations at the dinner table, piecing together fragments of information, and combining them with memories from his previous life. Bit by bit, he'd worked out the trick of it, and had begun to form some initial ideas.
The picture was still incomplete—far from mature, even.
But it was progress, all the same.
"You're really determined to go after the Muggle question today, aren't you? This is a big, complicated subject—it can't be explained in a few words," Draco said thoughtfully, his expression faintly resistant.
He didn't actually mind telling her.
It was only that the subject ran broad and dark, and he worried she wouldn't be prepared for such a barrage all at once.
"I don't expect to understand it all right away. Just try to explain a little," Hermione said, her expression innocent and unsuspecting, still entirely unaware of the storm lurking behind her question.
"Do you realize what you're asking? You're making me cut myself open and show you my ugly side." Draco shook his head. "Such beautiful weather, such stunning scenery—we finally get some time alone, and you have to bring up something that'll ruin the mood."
"But I want to understand you a little better. And your family, too," Hermione said, offering him an encouraging smile.
"Hermione, you cruel girl. You know I can't refuse you." There was a thread of unease in Draco's voice. "I did promise to be honest with you."
"That's right. Exactly how it should be," she said, looking rather pleased with herself.
"To be honest, I'm almost afraid to tell you. Once you know, you might find yourself despising the Malfoys. It's nothing but endless scheming, cunning, and intrigue." He sighed. "You'll wish you'd never asked."
Hermione tilted her head and studied him closely. He looked genuinely troubled, his brow furrowed.
She blinked a few times and said lightly, "Then I'll just have to try my best to separate you from the rest of the Malfoy family, won't I?"
"But I am a Malfoy. You can't separate us—surname and bloodline are ties no one can sever," Draco reminded her, a faint, self-deprecating smile on his lips. "Hermione, you need to be prepared. I'm a Slytherin, through and through. I'll always have a selfish, ruthless side to me, and I'll never become a Gryffindor. As for the rest of my family, they can only be more selfish, more ruthless, and more Slytherin than I am."
Look at him, running himself down again, Hermione thought, a flicker of irritation rising in her.
He wasn't like that at all. He was the most likable boy she knew. He could be cunning, yes, but underneath it he had an honest, kind heart.
And yet he always refused to admit it—always insisting he was selfish, blind to every kindness he'd ever shown.
Draco really was impossible sometimes. He put on that aloof front and made himself sound thoroughly unpleasant. Hermione shook her head, wondering where this streak of self-deprecation kept coming from.
"I know what kind of person you are. I trust you. Give me some credit too. Yesterday you told me about your grandfather, and I took it well enough, didn't I?" Hermione put on her most sincere expression, trying to coax him along. "I might not agree with everything, but I still want to know what you think."
She took a breath and continued. "Draco, have you thought about this: even if you don't tell me, someone else will. I've already heard plenty from other people. Rather than sit with secondhand rumors and feel uneasy, I'd rather hear it from you. At least then there's no room for misunderstanding, right?"
Draco glanced at her sideways, his mind caught in hesitation.
She was so lovely just then—red lips, white teeth, bright and clever eyes. In the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves, she looked as pure as an untouched white daisy, as though none of the world's darker corners had anything to do with her.
Would she still want someone so bright, once she'd glimpsed the filth and shadow beneath it?
The longer he considered it, the more he sank into gloom, sitting motionless across from her like a statue carved of ice, immune to reason.
He didn't want to drive the conversation further off course.
His expression left Hermione a little unsettled. She watched him quietly for a moment before deciding to let him off the hook—better to proceed slowly, chipping a small hole in the ice first, rather than trying to shatter it all at once.
"Just a little, all right? I remember you said your family holds investments in the Muggle world, and that you don't mind acquiring wealth there. So tell me—why does the Malfoy family reject Muggles outwardly, and yet secretly invest in their world?" She asked it lightly, with an easy smile.
"You really remember everything I say?" Draco looked pleased, suddenly, and smiled.
She only smiled back, without answering, looking at him with something soft in her eyes.
Perhaps it was that look that moved him. Or perhaps it was her confession on the Ferris wheel, not long before, that had given him the confidence he needed.
Draco made up his mind, sighed, and met her eyes.
"You have to promise me—if anything I say makes you uncomfortable, or makes you start to dislike me, you'll tell me. And we'll stop there."
"I promise," Hermione agreed at once, looking back at him steadily, without fear.
She had her own plans, though—she had no intention of actually letting him stop.
She knew that Draco's willingness to share these secrets with her was an enormous show of trust.
It must have cost him a great deal.
She kept her expression sincere, but privately resolved to seize this chance and truly come to understand him.
She would not let him stop. Not for anything.
Draco thought for a moment, tapping his index finger lightly against the table a few times.
"If I'm going to explain this properly, I first have to explain something else—the current state of the Malfoy family's investments within the wizarding world."
"All right, go on." Hermione perked up at once, her eyes bright with anticipation. "I'm listening."
"You know the Malfoys have never been content to sit idle and live off inherited wealth. My father would certainly like to expand the family's holdings, or at the very least keep them from shrinking," Draco said slowly, trying to draw order out of the chaos in his head. "But in recent years, profitable investment opportunities within the wizarding world have grown increasingly scarce—almost artificially so. There's hardly anything new left that can turn a decent return."
"Artificially scarce?" Hermione couldn't help but ask. "Is it really that bad?"
"In the wizarding world, any large-scale investment or import-export trade requires permission and approval from the Ministry of Magic, and the Ministry tends to be very conservative about granting it."
He smiled at her puzzled look.
"Take the businessman I met in Austria the other day, Ali Bashir, for example. He's wanted to export flying carpets to Britain for years, but the British Ministry keeps blocking it, for reasons that don't hold up to scrutiny."
"What reason could they possibly give?"
"Officially, carpets are classified as banned Muggle handicrafts under the Register of Proscribed Magical Items."
"Well, if flying carpets aren't permitted under wizarding law, it's only natural they'd be banned," Hermione said matter-of-factly.
"Hermione, you can't just think in terms of following the rules. Rules don't spring out of thin air—people make them, and people can change them, too."
"You have to ask who made the rule, and why it changed," Draco said. "Let me give you some background. In my grandfather's day, wizards used flying carpets freely. I remember he had an Axminster velvet one that could seat twelve people."
"Wait—the rule against flying carpets was changed?" Hermione asked, surprised.
Draco nodded.
"I suppose as new problems come up, the rules get revised to account for them," she said, thinking it over. "Could the change have been for safety reasons—to lower the risk of a carpet suddenly appearing over Muggles' heads?"
"Then how do you explain broomsticks? Riding one carries the same risk of exposure above Muggles—if anything, a greater one," Draco said. "And I should mention, flying carpets can be made invisible."
Hermione looked puzzled. "Then why ban the carpet at all? At least it doesn't leave you covered in soot the way Floo powder does."
"I couldn't say. All I know is that afterward, cheap Floo powder became a household essential for travel, and every home had to register its fireplace with the Floo Network through the Ministry. As for Portkeys, you have to register with the Ministry in advance before you're even allowed to cast the spell—and the paperwork is a nightmare, even though the incantation itself, 'Portus,' is dead simple." A faint mockery flickered in Draco's eyes. "Smells a bit like power for power's sake, doesn't it?"
"I have a hunch," Hermione said, trying to be charitable. "Maybe they're just tightening regulations on travel in general?"
"Maybe." Draco gave a short laugh but didn't argue the point.
He went on, "Let me give you another example. Do you remember the stadium for the Quidditch World Cup?"
"Of course! That venue was enormous—I heard it could seat a hundred thousand people, enough to fill ten cathedrals," Hermione said. "Mr. Weasley told us the Ministry spent an entire year preparing for it."
"Very good—you're quite sharp about noticing these details. That's a rare quality." Draco gave her an approving smile. "Now, use that clever brain of yours to think through a few questions, and answer just one of them for me."
"I'd like to hear them." She rested her chin on her hand, watching him closely.
"Consider this: how many magical building materials would a venue like that require? How many enchantments would go into it? The Ministry has barely five hundred staff—that might sound like a lot, but they'd also have to guard the grounds day and night, casting Muggle-Repelling Charms over every inch of land; and all the while, they'd need to coordinate with foreign Ministries and magical organizations, and countless international Quidditch teams, in dozens of languages, fielding questions before the teams even arrived, and sorting out all the trouble that comes from being unfamiliar with England once they did—"
As her eyes widened, he asked calmly, "So here's the question. Do you really think Ministry staff built that stadium themselves?"
"Oh—I hadn't even considered that," Hermione said, as if she'd just discovered something new. "I suppose it wouldn't be the Ministry doing the actual work."
Draco nodded slightly.
Watching her curious eyes, he went on, "Ministry officials only supervise the construction. They select contractors to do the real work."
"That sounds just like the Muggle world," Hermione said. "I suppose the Ministry would need a good budget, or a sponsor, for something on that scale."
"Exactly—you've got it right away. So you understand what that means?" he said cheerfully. "Get yourself a piece of that construction contract, and you'll make a fortune. My father bid on some of those projects himself. He spent quite a while cozying up to Fudge over it—even donated money to St. Mungo's to boost Fudge's charitable record from the year before. That's partly how he won a few of the bids."
"Oh—I never would have guessed that." Her expression turned faintly shocked. "So the reason your family got seats in the top box back then was because—"
"Because we'd donated enough, and earned enough of Fudge's goodwill, that he was willing to smooth the way for us." He said it plainly. "You didn't think just anyone could sit up there, did you? A hundred thousand spectators in that stadium, and how many can the top box actually hold?"
"Obviously not many," Hermione murmured.
"Back then, my father and Fudge were in the honeymoon phase of their arrangement, and a seat in the top box was one of the perks. Those tickets were nearly impossible to come by—even among Ministry officials, how many could get one without real connections?"
"I had no idea Mr. Weasley had that kind of pull," Hermione said, surprised.
He shook his head. "Oh, Mr. Weasley's resourceful enough, but that's not really why he got the ticket. A seat like that is an extreme symbol of favor, and I doubt he's climbed high enough in anyone's esteem for that."
"Then why?" she asked, unconvinced.
"Because of Harry," Draco said simply.
Hermione looked startled. "Harry?"
"To Fudge, it doesn't matter whether the Weasleys sit in the top box or not. But it matters a great deal whether Harry Potter does."
Hermione blinked, remembering how consistently dark Draco's opinions of Cornelius Fudge had always been.
"Oh, I see," she said. "I suppose Harry's something of a mascot to him—proof to the international guests that all is well in the wizarding world."
"Very clever." Draco looked pleased. "So Mr. Weasley got his tickets early, and the number was exact—not one more, not one fewer than needed for his family, plus Harry Potter."
He added, "Didn't you say Mrs. Weasley gave you her own ticket? If Mr. Weasley really had that much sway, why couldn't he simply get one more?"
"I thought—his connections—" Hermione fumbled for a reason and came up empty.
"It's not that he didn't want to. He simply didn't have the pull to secure even one extra seat in that box. The connection wasn't really his at all—it was Fudge's doing, and Fudge had no particular interest in hoarding every ticket meant for Ron's friends. Understand?"
"Yes, that makes sense," Hermione admitted, a little reluctantly. "Put that way, it all fits together. I really should thank Mrs. Weasley again."
Draco smiled faintly at her.
That was part of why, even with the ill will between the Malfoy and Weasley elders, Draco still let her spend time with the Weasleys now and then.
Even though Mrs. Weasley disliked the Malfoy name and eyed him the way one might eye a small viper, he had no right to keep Hermione from them.
They had, after all, shown her genuine care.
"But why didn't Fudge just hand the tickets straight to Harry and Sirius? Wouldn't that have been simpler?"
"This is only a guess, but I think Sirius wanted nothing to do with Fudge back then," Draco said. "I imagine Fudge wanted Sirius in that box. After Sirius was released, there were murmurs questioning how fair his sentencing had really been, and I'd guess Fudge, as Minister, felt the pressure of that."
He continued, thoughtfully, "If Sirius had agreed to sit beside Fudge, it would have signaled that Sirius—a wronged man who'd endured real humiliation—understood him, supported his government, and bore no grudge over his imprisonment."
"But Sirius wouldn't do that," Hermione said bluntly.
"No, he's far too proud a man to simply laugh off what he suffered," Draco said, with something like sympathy. "Not many people can truly move past that kind of treatment—the slander, the mockery, being kicked while you're down."
Hermione studied his face as it slowly turned somber, and felt a small pang of unease.
He seemed to feel a rare depth of empathy for Sirius's situation.
There was even a moment when it seemed he understood that suffering far too well.
"Draco, are you all right?" she asked softly, watching him closely.
Her worried look seemed to pull Draco back to himself.
He composed his expression quickly, trading the somber look for something lighter.
"I'm fine," he said. "Go on."
She watched his face clear and said, hesitantly, "So—Sirius didn't go to the World Cup at all. Not just because he had things to do, but because his pride wouldn't let him near Fudge."
"I suspect that's around when Fudge started resenting Sirius a little," Draco said, offhand. "After hitting that wall, Fudge had to try a roundabout approach—see if he could get Harry there without making a fuss. That's where our not-especially-politically-minded Mr. Weasley came in handy. He'd never turn down a ticket to the top box, and certainly not one for his son's best friend."
"Didn't Sirius notice anything was off? He didn't stop Harry from going," Hermione said, puzzled.
"He could choose not to go himself, but he couldn't very well tell his Quidditch-mad godson to stay home too," Draco said. "Those are two different things. He probably didn't want to explain all the maneuvering behind it so soon—didn't want to rob Harry of the simple joy of watching the Cup with his friends."
"Sirius really loves Harry, doesn't he?" she said quietly. "God, I never imagined there was so much going on behind a single ticket."
"It was never just a ticket. It was a stamp of approval for Fudge—a vote of confidence from the Boy Who Lived himself," Draco said.
"Draco Malfoy, you've shattered my entire worldview," Hermione said, sulking.
"My pleasure." He looked at her, calm and composed.
Hermione fell silent, stabbing angrily at the blueberries on her plate.
"Wait—weren't we talking about the Malfoy family's investments in the wizarding world?" After skewering a few blueberries, she suddenly realized. "Where did this conversation wander off to?"
"Ah, caught me." Draco raised an eyebrow at her, looking rather pleased with himself. "Still sharp, I see."
"Get us back on track, you cunning Slytherin. So—the Malfoys took on part of the stadium construction, in exchange for the donation?"
The boy shrugged.
Hermione frowned. "Then what's the point of bidding at all? Shouldn't it come down to proposals—whoever offers the best plan? How can you treat something like that so lightly—"
"It's always been this way. Before you can make money, you have to offer something first. It's a win-win, really. Besides, if I'm honest, every family's proposal ends up looking about the same, and the execution's nearly identical too." His tone carried a note of admiration for his father's cunning. "My father's just especially good at finding the shortcut."
Hermione's expression turned distinctly disapproving.
Draco studied her and caught the dangerous glint building in her eyes—the prelude to real anger—and hurried to add a few more words of explanation.
"We only handled a small part of the project. The lion's share didn't go to the Malfoys at all. Most of it went to Fudge's brother-in-law, who's a complete fool."
"A fool?"
"His useless brother-in-law was just a front. In reality, he was a mouthpiece for the interest group standing behind Fudge. My father wasn't thrilled about it, but he still had to keep up appearances of friendliness."
Hermione's expression turned to disbelief once more.
"That's not fair competition at all. It's unfair to everyone else who prepared honestly," she said, indignant. "It's just too much—"
"That's the reality of the wizarding world. It's a marriage of power and wealth. And not everyone can afford to pay upfront and earn the profit later—that's exactly why the gap between rich and poor keeps widening," Draco said lazily.
Hermione frowned and fell silent, staring dejectedly at the shimmering Rhône for a while.
Even the river had lost its charm now, her mind full of thoughts of corruption and backroom deals.
"Want to hear more, or is this already too much?" Draco watched his girlfriend's dejected expression and felt a sudden urge to stop there.
She was so young—perhaps she shouldn't have to think about such dark things this early.
The truth behind all of it was far from glamorous, and even Draco himself had needed a long time to understand and, however reluctantly, accept it.
"Tell me more. Something worse, even." Hermione turned to him, glaring. "I'd rather be painfully clear-eyed than comfortably ignorant."
"Well said, girl," Draco told her, giving her an approving look.
He liked that defiant look on her. He always had.
He liked how, even with her worldview cracking apart, she stubbornly insisted on learning more.
"Given how things stand, in the wizarding world, 'honesty and fairness' alone won't get you far. Take the flying carpet again—its entry was blocked by rules that were quietly rewritten, wasn't it?"
He tried to lighten his tone, hoping to soften her anger. "And even with all my father's maneuvering inside the Ministry, he still can't guarantee he'll land the projects he wants. It's not just construction contracts, either—the same is true of wizarding trade."
"Why?" she asked, her curiosity rekindled. "Trade doesn't need bidding."
"You're forgetting the approval process." He said it calmly, his expression suddenly older than his years. "A small stamp of approval from the Ministry carries enormous weight. Especially in international trade, you need the endorsement and protection of the British Ministry—otherwise your goods might be detained somewhere along the way, for one manufactured reason or another."
Hermione had already started rubbing her temples.
"Right, of course they would," she said, resigned.
"Can you imagine? Without proper coordination between Ministries, some potion ingredients with very narrow time windows could lose their potency—or worse—if held up too long at a checkpoint."
"How bad could it get?"
"Take Fire Ash Serpent Eggs, for example," he said lazily. "Do you know how many times a shipment's lost its Freezing Charm from being held too long, only for the crate to burst into flame minutes later and burn down to ash?"
"All right, I understand. But is the approval process really that complicated?" Hermione asked. "I always thought Mr. Weasley was quite efficient—he handles things the moment they come up."
"I'll say this much objectively—the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office isn't nearly bureaucratic enough to matter," Draco said, unconcerned. "Mr. Weasley's put his effort in the wrong place, which is why he's never been promoted. He's managed to offend most of the people who could have helped his career, and he has a particular talent for befriending people who can't do him any good."
He glanced at Hermione, noticed her serious expression, and hurried to add, "I'm only stating a fact. Don't be cross with me."
"I know. I'm not," Hermione said, pouting.
She remembered, suddenly, how Mrs. Weasley had once complained—gently—that her husband wasn't valued by his superiors. In a strange way, Draco's words might have hit on the truth.
"Approval is an extremely 'flexible' part of the process. It has nothing to do with emergencies, and none of the urgency Mr. Weasley's job usually demands," Draco said, as though it were common knowledge. "Which means there's a great deal of room to maneuver. The same kind of approval might take half a day at best—or drag on for a year with no progress at all."
He asked, with real interest, "Can you guess what the key factor is?"
"Some interest group again?" Hermione asked, troubled.
She hadn't wanted to say it aloud, but she couldn't ignore the possibility.
"Exactly right—sharp as ever." Draco chuckled, looking at her admiringly. "In the course of trade, you're bound to step on someone else's interests eventually. If the Ministry official handling your approval answers to a group running the same business as my father, do you think they'd be pleased to let him profit for nothing?"
His tone turned faintly sarcastic. "If even one small approval document gets stuck, every bit of preparation and investment beforehand goes to waste."
"Surely it can't be that bad—" she said, unconvinced.
"There have been cases exactly like that. My father learned it the hard way—plenty of good ideas of his died before they were ever born, for reasons just like this. And what can you do about it?" Draco said lightly. "You join the interest group, or you get nothing done at all."
"That's the ugliest thing I've ever heard, and it's genuinely sad." Hermione frowned. "Isn't anyone supervising this? Don't his superiors care? Isn't there some oversight body? At the very least, couldn't you report it to the Minister himself? Isn't your father on good terms with him?"
"Oh dear, already angry? Smile, sweet girl. If you get angry at all of them, you'll be angry for three days and three nights straight." Draco laughed, trying to coax her.
Hermione ignored the advice and kept frowning.
"Explain that, then—"
"Have you forgotten there are interest groups behind the Minister of Magic too? How do you know they're not all in league together? Sometimes different groups even collude with each other. In short, the whole system, top to bottom, is riddled with backroom deals between officials and businessmen." Draco's sarcasm deepened. "Rotten to the core."
"Oh, for heaven's sake. What if there were a different Minister? Would that improve anything?" Hermione rubbed her temples again.
"That would just be a different interest group rising to the top," Draco said, expressionless. "Essentially no different. There are no permanent friends, no permanent enemies—only permanent interests. Remember that."
Hermione seized on the point immediately.
"So your father chose to follow the money and side with them—even after being treated unfairly himself?"
"Exactly. He chose to align himself with Fudge, because that was the easiest path to profit," the boy said frankly. "The Malfoy philosophy has never been to stand in the spotlight, take risks, or try to reshape the world. They simply want to act according to circumstance and preserve the family's status, wealth, and reputation. He did exactly what any Malfoy would do—nothing more."
Draco's expression stayed calm. "But I suspect my father wasn't entirely satisfied, either. He's had his low points, and he's only just gotten past them—dealing with those interest groups is never easy."
She asked, bewildered, "If he wasn't satisfied, couldn't he have found another way? Did he have to go into wizarding trade at all?"
"There aren't many ways to make money in the wizarding world—nothing compares to the Muggle world," he said matter-of-factly. "Growth in the established wizarding industries has stalled. Some haven't seen real innovation in decades. Trade is one of the only avenues left."
"How can that be?" Hermione asked, bewildered. "Isn't Diagon Alley thriving? And Hogsmeade—"
"That's only surface-level prosperity. Think about it—how old are those shops, really? Aside from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, have you ever seen a single new shop open?"
"Oh." She considered it. "It does seem that way, actually—"
Draco's expression turned weary. "Ollivanders has been in business for centuries—every wizard in Britain buys their wand there. Flourish and Blotts has been the only source for Hogwarts textbooks for as long as anyone can remember. FlooBoom is the sole producer of Floo powder. Gringotts is the only wizarding bank. Do I need to keep going?"
"You mean—monopolies?" Hermione recalled some terms from her Muggle economics reading.
"Yes, that's exactly the word. Complete monopolies. Do you remember the knowledge barrier we talked about before?" He brought it up cautiously, watching to see if she was about to cry.
Hermione nodded, keeping her expression steady—thankfully she didn't cry this time—and Draco breathed a small sigh of relief.
He went on quickly. "Under those barriers, certain family secrets get passed down only by word of mouth and never written down. Some genuinely brilliant ideas stay unknown, unable to reach wizards without the right connections. When academic exchange is that restricted, innovation becomes nearly impossible."
Hermione wrinkled her nose, realizing there was sense in what he said.
"Take potions, for example. There hasn't been a real breakthrough in the wizarding world in years, has there?"
"Nonsense—I've seen how the magazines have gone mad over that improved potion you and Professor Snape developed together," she countered. "Isn't that exactly a sensation?"
"Perhaps," Draco allowed, "but consider how rare a Potions Master like Professor Snape actually is, and how many rare ingredients I used just to verify those proportions. Not every wizard can afford to experiment without counting the cost. In the end, it comes down to a deep combination of talent and capital."
He continued, "And after you develop an improved potion, you still need the credentials, the connections, and the influence to catch the attention of other Potions Masters, get them interested enough to replicate and verify your formula, and win their public endorsement. Otherwise, how do you think 'Practical Potions Master'—the most authoritative journal in the field—decides what to publish so confidently?"
"I assumed submitting the paper would be enough—" Hermione admitted.
"You're welcome to try," Draco said, with a scoff. "Do you honestly think no one else has submitted improved recipes to 'Practical Potions Master'? I promise you they have. Without the endorsement of a well-known Potions Master behind them, those recipes just gather dust on some editor's desk. You don't imagine those Potions Masters have so much spare time and material to waste verifying every strange recipe some unknown wizard sends in, do you?"
"Obviously not," Hermione muttered.
"There are a few areas outside our family's usual reach, where the barriers might be lower—but those have already been claimed by other pureblood families, who've monopolized them and want no one else involved. One of my ancestors, Brutus Malfoy, was once an editor for a magazine called 'War of the Wizards.' He'd wanted to use that position as a springboard into publishing, to gain a voice in shaping public opinion," Draco said.
"You've actually tried that? The news and publishing world? I can hardly believe it," Hermione said, surprised.
"I'll admit, that magazine wasn't exactly honorable—you'd probably hate it. It was virulently anti-Muggle. He used it as a stepping stone toward power, and said plenty of extreme things to fit its tone."
"Can I say I'm not that surprised?" Hermione said, pouting stubbornly. "At least it wasn't you saying those things."
Draco found a measure of comfort in her stubborn little frown and went on.
"He was a deeply ambitious man. In truth, he didn't want to spend his career stirring up petty gossip and bloodline squabbles forever. He believed that once he'd reached the center of power, he could do something with real substance—maybe even shape public opinion for the better."
He said, offhand, "But it took him years to realize the final word never belonged to the editor-in-chief—it belonged to the shareholders behind the scenes. Certain pureblood families, in other words."
"Surely that's not an isolated case?" Hermione asked, without much hope.
"Not remotely. The Daily Prophet, for instance—the paper with the widest readership today—is backed by certain pureblood families, families closely tied to particular factions within the Ministry. That's just another form of controlling public opinion."
"I'm getting a bit lost," Hermione admitted, troubled. "So you're saying certain pureblood families can shape what the Daily Prophet prints, and by extension, shape public opinion across the whole wizarding world?"
"More or less. I like the way you think this through." Draco couldn't help giving her that admiring look again.
Though troubled, Hermione couldn't help feeling a small flush of pleasure at it.
She took a breath and said, with sudden energy, "I always did have my suspicions about Rita Skeeter. She must have had some way of getting close to Fudge to manage what she managed."
Draco nodded in agreement.
"The Minister may change, and the interest groups behind him rise and fall with each shift in power. What never changes is that they'll always belong, in some form, to the alliance of pureblood families."
He let himself drift further into darker thoughts. "The old families compete fiercely with one another over their own interests, but they share one thing in common—an unwavering commitment to the pureblood ideal. Doesn't that sound exactly like the attitude of the Ministry, and of the Daily Prophet?"
Hermione's amusement faded entirely.
"I don't think the Ministry endorses pureblood ideology. Fudge seems fairly neutral on the subject."
"That's only the surface," Draco said calmly. "If you ever get the chance, watch more closely. Think it through further. You might start noticing the small details."
Hermione had begun tearing the napkin on the table into pieces, without quite realizing it, looking thoroughly out of sorts.
"In the end, it doesn't matter what the Malfoys truly feel about Muggles, or whether they secretly invest in the Muggle world," Draco said, watching her closely. "What matters is that outwardly, they appear to be devoted supporters of the International Statute of Secrecy, firmly loyal to the alliance of pureblood families—because that's what preserves their status and wealth."
She looked a little downcast.
Draco wasn't sure whether to keep going—had he already said too much?
"You haven't changed your mind about me, have you?" He poured her some peach juice, sounding anxious. "I haven't scared you off—made you want to leave the wizarding world, or something?"
"No. I'm just a bit shocked," she said stubbornly, sipping her juice thoughtfully. "Go on."
"All right—but if you want me to stop, or if you're angry with me, tell me. Any time." He studied her for a moment, and seeing her expression still fairly steady, continued.
"The Malfoys have never had any real objection to acquiring wealth in the Muggle world—but they have to project an image of rejecting Muggles outright, because that's the tone the interest groups behind the Ministry expect. We're wizards, after all. We have to live within the wizarding world—we can't exist as islands unto ourselves. To thrive there, we have no choice but to follow the authority in charge—the Ministry, and the interests behind it—and to uphold the ideals the pureblood families hold dear."
Hermione glared at him, looking ready to explode all over again.
To save himself, Draco quickly added one more thing.
"But before the Statute of Secrecy was enacted, the head of the Malfoy family at the time fought fiercely against it."
"You did that? Before?" Hermione's near-explosion dissolved instantly into surprise. "You actually opposed it?"
"Yes—long ago, the Malfoys kept close ties with Muggle nobility and royalty. The manor we live in now was a gift from the Muggle royal family," Draco said, smiling. "In fact, some of my ancestors even married into Muggle families."
"Intermarried with Muggles—or not even wizards at all?" She caught the subtle distinction at once and looked at him, wide-eyed.
"A full Muggle. Yes," Draco said, watching her closely.
Her startled expression, just then, was rather endearing. Her whole face seemed to light up.
"It's hard to imagine," Hermione said, looking at him with bright eyes, and found he was looking right back at her.
Neither of them could quite suppress a smile, though neither knew exactly why.
"Do you want to hear more?" he asked, once they'd looked at each other for a while.
"Yes." She held his gaze, firm. "I haven't heard nearly enough."
"If you look through our family's genealogy, you'll find plenty of stories involving Muggles. But as you can see, our ancestors' opposition to the Statute of Secrecy went nowhere."
Draco gathered his thoughts, trying to help her understand the Malfoy family's reasoning.
"After the Statute passed, the Malfoy family's convictions put them at odds with the Ministry and the pureblood factions behind it, and their position grew steadily more precarious. Keep resisting, and the family would only be pushed further to the margins—which was against their own interests."
"So you changed course?"
"We had no choice but to change course quickly—and to prove our loyalty, we became some of the most fervent pureblood advocates around, trying to work our way back into the wizarding world's power structure as fast as we could. To avoid suspicion, we even publicly announced we'd given up our Muggle holdings."
"And in reality?" Hermione looked him over. "I don't believe your family actually gave anything up."
"No, you know a Malfoy quite well by now, don't you?" Draco looked pleased. "In truth, we simply hid our investments in the Muggle world instead."
"So your family's still deeply tied to the Muggle world. Doesn't that mean the Malfoys don't actually reject Muggles at all? Were your parents just putting on an act?" Hermione asked.
"You asked earlier why the family rejects Muggles publicly while investing in their world in secret—now I can answer half of that. The Malfoys never truly rejected Muggles to begin with. Our family's real philosophy has never had anything to do with 'Muggle or not'—it's always been about profit."
Draco decided to be blunt and see whether it frightened her off. "I won't pretend my parents, or some of my ancestors, were only pretending to reject Muggles. Whenever rejecting them served the family's interests, we chose to reject them wholeheartedly. Don't you think genuine belief is easier to maintain than a constant act?"
He went on, calm. "If the founding head of the family was only performing for profit at first, then after hundreds of years of inheritance, the Malfoys have become true believers. For generations, the family's stopped weighing the rights and wrongs of the matter at all. Based purely on 'family interest,' they've carried on their ancestors' ideals without hesitation, and rejected Muggles in earnest."
Hermione raised her eyebrows, showing no sign of fear.
"The most complete deception is the one you tell yourself," she observed. "It's not hard to understand—it makes everything so much simpler."
"Yes—simple in the short term. Not so much in the long run. Our family's grown a bit too devoted to certain ideas. The real problem is how tightly we've bound ourselves to particular factions in the Ministry, and how attached my parents have become to the conveniences Fudge has offered them," Draco said, expressionless. "They've tasted enough of that power to grow arrogant, complacent, and short-sighted."
Hearing this, Hermione felt something between amusement and exasperation.
"Draco, I've noticed you're remarkably blunt when it comes to judging your own family—your parents, your elders."
"Do you think I'd be this honest with just anyone—say things this harsh to their face? I'm only telling you. This is the greatest sincerity I have to offer." Draco tried to stay composed, but a flicker of self-loathing crossed his face regardless.
"Thank you for your honesty. It means a great deal to me," Hermione said softly, then reached across the table and took his hand.
She thought he must feel dreadful, saying things that sounded almost self-destructive.
Draco gripped her hand, looking into her eyes, half-afraid he'd find some trace of retreat there.
But there was none. If anything, her grip tightened.
Finding a sliver of courage in that, he forced himself to continue.
"So you see, changing their minds won't happen overnight. It's nowhere near easy. And my father was once a Death Eater—he still fears the Dark Lord, even now. He's overconfident in his own ability to navigate power, and he holds firmly to pureblood ideology on top of it all—"
"Oh, Draco—" she said softly, a flicker of worry in her eyes.
He looked into her eyes, something bitter rising in him. "What they believe in, what they support—it's the exact opposite of what we're trying to do. And the hardest part is that they're prouder, more stubborn, and more set in their opinions than I am. I have to be endlessly careful—testing them again and again, trying to gently guide their understanding, all while never being fully honest with them, in case they learn too much and try to undermine what we're doing."
Hermione looked at his troubled face and murmured, "I knew you were under pressure, but I never imagined it was this complicated. This summer must have been terribly hard for you."
She could hear the struggle and the disgust threaded through his words.
To deny his own parents, to work against his family's traditions, to try to change everything, to stand against the Dark Lord—Draco seemed to be carrying an enormous weight, and she genuinely didn't know how he managed to breathe under it.
Meeting her steady, sympathetic gaze, he felt a little better.
He decided to shift to something lighter.
"Don't look so discouraged. I actually believe that if the Ministry passed a law favoring Muggles tomorrow, my parents would come around fairly quickly, after some initial resistance. They've always had a good nose for these things." He forced a smile, his tone easing. "Everything comes down to profit, in the end. Everything's an investment. Everything's a business."
"So I think I understand their attitude now—profit above everything?" Hermione asked.
"Exactly. You've summed it up perfectly—profit first, always."
There was real warmth in Draco's smile now. "Hermione, you understand the essence of the Malfoy family."
An understanding only a Malfoy is meant to have.
Hermione studied his sincere, faintly smug expression, her face full of unanswered questions.
"But why, then? Why do you still secretly invest in the Muggle world? Why is your family so fixated on Muggle wealth? Why go to such lengths, risking a violation of the Statute of Secrecy just to make money there, when you could focus entirely on wizarding wealth instead?"
She was thoroughly bewildered. "Aren't you supposed to hate risk above everything? Isn't this the greatest risk of all? If you were caught, wouldn't the pureblood families cast you out? Why act as though not making this particular money would ruin you?"
Draco smiled at her, admiration nearly spilling from his eyes.
"Hermione, you're very sharp. You've nearly touched on a truth most wizards will never see in their entire lives."
"What did I even say? I don't understand it myself," Hermione said, a little lost, unsure she deserved the admiration.
"There's something here I'm afraid will make you despise me. At the very least, you'll despise the Malfoy family for it. I imagine you'll despise us to the end of your days, and I won't argue against it. It's simply how the Malfoys make money—not something we share with outsiders." Draco studied her. "Can you still handle it?"
"Just tell me. I can handle it," Hermione said, defiant, chin lifted.
"Do you remember, back in second year, when I helped you exchange Muggle currency with the goblins at Gringotts?" Draco's mouth twitched as he gave her a strange look.
"Of course. My parents were very impressed when they heard about it," Hermione said warmly. "They already thought quite highly of you back then."
"Good to know." Draco smiled again.
Her warmth made him think it might not hurt to tell her after all.
"Guess why a pureblood wizard my age would know how to exchange Muggle currency—know the exchange rates that well?" Draco asked, half-smiling. "Or better yet—guess whose name is behind most of the Muggle currency that passes through Gringotts?"
"Malfoy?" Hermione asked, uncertain.
Draco chuckled softly.
He ran his thumb along her wrist, satisfied, and gave her an approving look.
"Ninety percent of the Muggle currency Gringotts handles comes from the Malfoys—though the goblins have no idea. We launder it through certain methods first, until it's cleaner than the walls of the bank itself," he said, a sly glint in his eye.
"I still don't understand. Don't you have enough Galleons? Has all your wizarding trade actually lost money?" Hermione asked, confused.
They'd been exchanging Muggle currency for Galleons all this time—had things really gotten that dire?
"No, wizarding trade has always turned a profit. My father's done quite well over the years," Draco said softly. "It's simply that the market's limited, demand is limited, and the wizarding world's been closed off for so long that no one can see beyond it—"
Dusk was falling, the sun beginning to set, its color shifting from tangerine satin to deep crimson.
Just then, something stirred faintly inside his storage bag.
Draco glanced down and saw his grandfather's two-way mirror glowing.
A message shimmered across its surface: Back now. We need to leave.
His grandfather seemed to be in a hurry to pull him out of Avignon.
It was sudden—too sudden.
"I have to go, Hermione. Grandfather wants me back—it must be urgent." Draco frowned.
He hurriedly tucked a wad of Muggle currency into his billfold and pressed it into the hands of a passing waiter to settle the bill, then borrowed a pen from him and scrawled a few words on a clean napkin.
As he wrote, he said to Hermione, who was still trying to process everything, "I'm honestly a little ashamed to admit this part. It isn't honorable. But here are a few key words—think them over carefully. Knowing you, you'll work it out eventually."
He folded the napkin in half and crossed to her side of the table.
"You mean you're leaving now? Will I even see you again?" Hermione asked, suddenly anxious.
The abruptness of it caught her completely off guard. She rose to her feet without meaning to, struck by a sudden wave of loss.
Only now did the regret set in.
Why had she chosen to bring up something so heavy, during time this precious?
And now he was leaving—so suddenly, so unexpectedly.
She threw herself into his arms and whispered against his neck, "I don't want you to go."
He held her back, breathing in her scent, feeling just as reluctant to part.
She felt him gently press the folded napkin into her hand.
She heard him sigh. "Hermione, I'll miss you too. I'll find a way to see you again. Until then—when you miss me, work on this homework I've left you."
"I will," she whispered.
"Please don't hate me for the answers," Draco said, sounding worried.
"Never. I'll always love you." Hermione looked up into his grey eyes and kissed him gently.
He gave her a pale, loving smile, then kissed her deeply until she was breathless, before finally, reluctantly, letting her go.
"I can't walk you home. Be careful. I'll see you soon." He touched her cheek, pressed a kiss to her hair, smiled once more, and ran off into the fading light.
She stayed there, legs weak from the kiss, sinking back into her chair, staring after him until he vanished entirely.
Only the last of the sunset remained, glowing softly over the Rhône.
He'd arrived as suddenly as a dream, and left the same way.
Already, she found herself missing him.
And when she missed him, she turned to the homework he'd left behind.
She sighed, unfolded the napkin, and found only three words written there: "exchange rate," "gold," and "anchor."
What could it possibly mean?
She stared at the words for a long while, lost in thought.