The end-of-term exam results were out, marking the true end of the semester.
In the Slytherin common room, the fireplace had long gone cold. Summer was approaching, and the air had grown too warm for fires. Crabbe and Goyle were clumsily complimenting Malfoy, whose grades were once again the best in the year. Yet, as usual, he didn't look remotely pleased.
"Crabbe, Goyle—enough," he said, lowering his hands in a gesture to stop. "These exams are meaningless. You don't need to waste time flattering me."
He glanced sideways at Goyle. "Your marks were probably thanks to our Head of House going easy on you. You won't be so lucky next time."
Goyle nodded eagerly, though whether he understood Malfoy's words was anyone's guess.
"What's the use of being top when we still lost the House Cup?" Pansy said with a bitter little huff, clearly still brooding over the loss.
"Look on the bright side," Malfoy said lightly. "Even if my results added twenty points, Dumbledore would just find another excuse to hand out more points to Gryffindor."
"That cunning old man," Pansy muttered darkly.
"All right, enough about that," Malfoy said, brushing the topic aside. "We should be planning how to enjoy the upcoming holiday."
"Shouldn't that be your line?" Pansy asked, raising an eyebrow.
"It's already planned," he replied after a moment's hesitation. "I'll have plenty of practical work to do this summer—both magical and mundane. You know how strict my father is."
He shrugged, adding casually, "I'm even considering sponsoring new brooms for the team next year. Maybe I'll take a part-time job this summer—prove my worth, you know?"
It was nonsense, of course, but sounded reasonable enough to silence further questions.
"So we won't see each other all holiday?" Pansy pressed, her voice tinged with disappointment.
"Of course you will," Malfoy said quickly. "Even adults get holidays—surely a child labourer like me will, too."
She nodded reluctantly. "Then bring me back a gift."
"Of course," he said smoothly.
The next morning, students boarded the train home. Trunks were packed, owls secured, and each pupil had received the familiar notice warning them not to use magic during the holidays.
Malfoy and his usual group sat together in one of the ordinary carriages. He didn't particularly enjoy solitude—he'd once heard a great man say, "We come from the masses and must return to the masses." Noise and company suited him better.
A few seats away sat the Golden Trio.
"You've got to come over this summer," Ron was saying enthusiastically. "Both of you. I'll send an owl to remind you."
"Thanks," said Harry. "I really need something to look forward to."
"Your relatives are awful," Ron muttered indignantly.
"I'm used to it," Harry said with a half-smile. "Who knows, maybe I'll have a decent holiday this year."
"What—have they suddenly turned nice?" Ron asked in disbelief.
Hermione, who had been quietly reading, finally looked up. "Actually, Harry, you haven't told them that students aren't allowed to use magic outside school, have you?"
Harry's lips twitched.
Ron's eyes lit up. "That's brilliant! Your cousin won't dare bully you again."
Then, noticing Hermione's magazine, Transfiguration Today, he groaned. "I can't believe you're studying on the train home! Who cares if your snuffbox still has a few stray hairs on it? Even if you were perfect, Gryffindor still wouldn't have won the House Cup."
"Ron, keep your voice down," Harry warned quietly.
Hermione closed the magazine and gave Ron a look. "The House Cup is a collective honour, but that doesn't mean I'll stop striving for what I can achieve personally. We wouldn't have earned so many points without everyone's help."
"All right, all right," Ron said. "Between Dumbledore, McGonagall, and that greasy old bat, we had plenty of help. Not that any Slytherin would ever lift a finger for us—ha!"
He laughed at his own joke. Hermione's eyes dimmed, and she went back to her reading.
"Oh, Ron," said Harry, sighing. "Sometimes you should just stop talking."
"I suppose so," Ron mumbled, realising too late he'd said something wrong again.
Meanwhile, Malfoy was passing time by playing cards with Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle. But the game bored him; winning every round quickly lost its charm. If they were gambling, Crabbe and Goyle would already have lost even their underwear.
"I see why you avoid them—they're hopelessly dull," Pansy said, tossing down the Queen of Hearts with a disdainful flick.
"I think it's time we played something different," Malfoy said, snapping his fingers. The cards vanished, replaced by a pile of small rectangular tiles made of a smooth, unknown material.
"What's this?" Pansy asked curiously.
"A game from a mysterious eastern country," he said, lips curling faintly. "The rules are simple enough."
It didn't take a genius to guess the game.
"Honestly, Draco, you and the East," Pansy said with a hint of jealousy. "All those stories you used to tell were from there, and now this game too."
Her next words confirmed his suspicion. "Is that why you're interested in that Ravenclaw girl? Because she's from the East? Was that whole damsel-in-distress scene planned from the start? You two must have so much in common."
Malfoy sighed. "Never underestimate a woman's ability to imagine connections," he said wearily. "Now—let's play."
The game's enduring popularity in the Far East proved well deserved. Before long, even Crabbe and Goyle were laughing, clattering tiles enthusiastically across the table. Pansy's jealousy faded as her competitive streak took over.
"This game is rubbish," she declared after losing several rounds.
"They lose and it's boring; they win and it's still boring," Malfoy muttered, rubbing his temples.
"Then you'll help me next round," Pansy demanded.
With Malfoy's discreet guidance, the balance swiftly shifted.
"I won again!" she cried, grinning triumphantly—until the tiles vanished beneath her hands.
"Dear Pansy," Malfoy said, clapping softly. "I hate to spoil your victory, but we've arrived."
The train had stopped.
Pansy pouted. "Fine," she said reluctantly, still flushed from her winning streak.
"Next time we meet," Malfoy promised, "I'll bring you something even more entertaining."
He reached out and ruffled her hair affectionately.
"Let go!" Pansy hissed, face turning pink. Such gestures were usually reserved for moments when no one else was watching.
Malfoy only chuckled and helped her lift her luggage from the rack. Though she said nothing, her eyes betrayed her reluctance to part.
I really am going to be busy this holiday, he thought, a flicker of guilt passing through him. Well—one step at a time.
As soon as he stepped onto the platform, Malfoy spotted his parents. Lucius and Narcissa were waiting with their usual elegance, waving him over.
"Pansy, you've grown taller this year," Narcissa said warmly, her eyes soft with approval. Her attention lingered on the girl beside her son. "Tell me, has Draco bullied you at school? If he has, you come straight to me—I'll set him right."
Malfoy's mother had always been eager to see him paired with Pansy. Pure-blood lineage, old family connections, obedient temperament—it was all ideal in her eyes.
"He's always been very good to me," Pansy said shyly, blushing.
"Of course," Lucius said smoothly. "A gentleman's manners are hereditary."
"Why don't you come to the manor as a guest, my dear?" Narcissa suggested.
"Thank you, Mrs Malfoy," Pansy said politely, "but my father's here to fetch me." She pointed to a tall man scanning the crowd.
"Ah, then I won't keep you," Narcissa said, smiling. "But there'll be plenty of time this summer. Go on, or your father might think someone's kidnapped his daughter."
Pansy laughed softly.
Soon, Hector Parkinson and Lucius Malfoy had exchanged formal greetings before taking their children home.
A dizzying whirl later, Malfoy stepped out of the green flames and into the familiar grandeur of Malfoy Manor. The marble floor gleamed beneath his shoes; the scent of polished wood and old parchment filled the air.
Home, he thought. The holidays begin.
He reached into his pocket, feeling the cool glass of a small bottle.
"The first task," he murmured to himself, gripping it tightly, "is you."
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