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n a secret cellar beneath Malfoy Manor, a boy of about twelve stood motionless before a simmering cauldron, holding his breath as though a single exhale might ruin everything. The square table beside him was cluttered with mysterious ingredients and delicate instruments. The potion within the cauldron bubbled gently, releasing a faintly intoxicating aroma.
Then, suddenly, the bubbling stopped. The liquid shifted from a pale gold to a brilliant, translucent yellow. Malfoy exhaled and allowed himself a rare smile—he had succeeded.
He had finally brewed Felix Felicis.
It was his first success after countless failures. The old cellar in Hogsmeade had been far too crude for such a complex potion. Felix Felicis—Liquid Luck—demanded near-perfect environmental conditions. A single speck of dust could doom an entire batch. In that dusty little hideout, success had been impossible.
And being so close to Hogwarts hadn't helped either. Malfoy could never fully concentrate there, always worrying whether someone might check the dorms. He'd also realized that some of the ingredients available at Hogwarts were intentionally diluted. After all, a school could hardly allow students access to the most dangerous, potent materials. Those limitations—along with his divided focus—had doomed his earlier attempts.
But now things were different.
He had access to Lucius's professional dark arts laboratory, equipped with high-grade tools and rare materials purchased at exorbitant prices. And perhaps most importantly, he had learned from every previous failure.
Malfoy's eyes drifted toward the most conspicuous bottle on the table. Most of its contents were gone, leaving only a thin residue at the bottom. A hint of heartache flickered across his face.
Dragon blood.
It was the same bottle he'd extorted last time—a treasure few could obtain.
Dragons had long symbolized power in myths. Some legends even claimed that bathing in dragon blood could grant immortality. Of course, that was an exaggeration. If that were true, Voldemort would never have bothered with Horcruxes; he'd simply taken a dragon bath instead.
Still, the dragons of this world were formidable enough. Their blood was invaluable in alchemy and potion-making. Dumbledore had famously listed its "Twelve Uses," but Malfoy had read obscure texts that mentioned another property:
"Dragon blood enhances the success rate and shortens the brewing time of Felix Felicis. The potent life force and magical energy it contains play a crucial role in the potion's completion."
"This," Malfoy murmured, sealing the bottle of golden liquid with care, "is something that can save a life."
He slipped the tiny bottle into his pocket, ensuring not a single drop was wasted.
"Luck is a part of strength too," he thought, recalling an old saying. "When fortune smiles, heaven and earth conspire; when luck departs, even heroes struggle."
There were always those—some more than others—who seemed born under fate's cruel hand.
Of course, Felix Felicis wasn't omnipotent. An ordinary wizard could drink a hundred bottles and still fall before Voldemort. But if a prime Dumbledore faced Voldemort after taking even a small sip? That might be another story entirely.
Malfoy smirked. "It still depends on your base stats."
He had learned to view things rationally. Felix Felicis amplified potential, but it couldn't create it. Only the strong could truly harness its effects.
As for the potion's side effects? That was a problem only for those who treated it like water. Malfoy never intended to abuse it. It was a tool—a means to an end.
Half the summer holiday had already passed. He hadn't stepped foot outside the manor in weeks, spending his days buried in books and experiments. Between brewing attempts, he kept up with his studies. The quality of the dragon blood, he mused, had exceeded expectations. It had even compressed the brewing time far beyond what the texts predicted.
"Time to contact Pansy," he murmured, stretching his stiff shoulders. "The holiday assignment's finished ahead of schedule anyway."
He tidied up the cluttered instruments and returned to his room, intending to write to her—only to find a letter already waiting on his desk.
Opening it, he couldn't help but smile helplessly.
Pansy's handwriting danced across the page, full of mock indignation:
"You haven't written to me in ages, so I've decided to abandon you! I'm in France now with my parents. The scenery is wonderful, and there are plenty of beautiful girls—but you won't get to see them, of course. To make you feel better, I might bring you a gift or two. You should be grateful!"
A mischievous little ghost face was doodled next to her words. Malfoy could easily imagine her expression as she wrote it—smug, teasing, yet faintly affectionate.
"So I'm alone now," he said dryly.
Aside from the servants, the manor was quiet. Lucius and Narcissa were both occupied with their own affairs. For all his privilege, Draco Malfoy was, at that moment, a lonely boy.
"Well then," he murmured, pulling a yellowed sheet of parchment from under his desk, "it's time to move on to the next plan."
The page was covered with cramped, intentionally distorted handwriting. He drew a neat checkmark beside one line—"Felix Felicis: complete"—and circled another, marking his next goal.
"The evil capitalist must experience the life of the proletariat," he said with a smirk. "Re-education by the poor and lower-middle classes is essential."
Even he chuckled at his own joke.
After reading for a while, he noticed the sunset bleeding through his window, bathing the sky in soft gold. Outside, several large owls glided toward the manor, their wings catching the fading light. Their low "coo coo" calls echoed faintly—it was nearly dinner time.
At the dining table, Narcissa sighed, shaking her head. "Darling, why do you always have such strange ideas?"
Lucius, sipping his tea, looked equally baffled. "If you wish to gain experience, I could easily arrange a visit to the Ministry of Magic. But those goblins at Gringotts are notoriously difficult to deal with."
"I want real training," Draco replied earnestly. "If I go to the Ministry, it'll just be full of Father's acquaintances. How is that training?"
Lucius's pale brow furrowed. "Very well. But understand this—Gringotts isn't a place for… menial work. If they assign you to guard a vault, we're leaving immediately."
"Please, Father," Draco said with mock offense. "Even if I wanted to, the goblins wouldn't allow it. Do you think I can outmatch their dragons?"
Lucius paused, then nodded slightly. "Good point."
The next morning, the Malfoys arrived at Diagon Alley via the Floo Network.
The cobblestone street was bustling as always. Vendors shouted over one another, hawking goods of dubious authenticity. One stall claimed to sell "fresh phoenix eggs"—cracked and obviously fake. Bargaining wizards argued over a handful of Knuts, red-faced and waving their wands dramatically.
When they passed Slug & Jiggers Apothecary, both father and son instinctively covered their noses. The stench—somewhere between rotting vegetables and sulfur—was unbearable even from the street.
Other shops looked half-deserted. Flourish and Blotts, for instance, was nearly empty save for a few listless browsers. The clerk yawned behind the counter. Still, Lucius noted, in a few days the store would be packed—either with students buying textbooks or with fans attending a certain peacock's book signing.
After a leisurely walk, the towering white building of Gringotts Bank came into view.
"Son," Lucius said gravely as they reached the marble steps, "remember—no Malfoy lowers himself to menial labor. If they try to put you in a storage room, we're leaving."
"Of course, Father. Besides," Draco replied with a smirk, "I doubt the goblins would even let me. I can't exactly fight a dragon, can I?"
Lucius's stern expression softened into a rare smile. "Indeed."
They ascended the steps and passed through a gleaming bronze door guarded by goblins in red and gold uniforms. The goblins bowed stiffly as they entered.
Beyond lay a second door of solid silver, engraved with the famous warning:
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed.
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn.
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.
Passing through it, they entered the grand marble hall. Dozens of goblins sat behind long counters, scribbling in ledgers, weighing coins, and inspecting gems through tiny eyepieces.
One goblin approached them—a sharp-eyed creature with a gleaming bald head and a long, hooked nose.
"Lucius Malfoy," he said in a shrill voice, "it's been a long time. Your son's idea is… unusual. Coming here to work, of all things."
"That's none of your concern," Lucius said coolly.
The goblin grinned, revealing sharp teeth. "Perhaps. Still, Gringotts doesn't hire the useless. Though, given my relationship with your family, I might overlook a few things." He straightened his collar self-importantly. "I am Griphook, by the way. You may call me Mr. Griphook."
Draco inclined his head slightly, then—seemingly out of nowhere—recited a few lines of arithmetic.
Griphook blinked. "That proves you can calculate quickly. But our employees can do that too, given time," he said, trying to hide his surprise.
Draco merely smiled and strolled over to a nearby counter, where a goblin clerk was bent over a ledger. Glancing at the page, Draco said casually, "There's a missing decimal on the fifth line, last entry."
The goblin adjusted his glasses, checked, and quickly corrected the number—then looked around nervously, hoping no one had seen his mistake.
As a former finance major in another life, Draco found the wizards' bookkeeping almost laughably primitive.
Griphook's expression shifted. "Lucius, your son is… impressive. Most wizards are hopelessly illogical. He's clearly an exception."
Lucius's pale face glowed with pride. "Naturally."
Griphook extended a small hand toward Draco. "Then allow me to welcome our newest temporary employee, Mr. Draco. May your time here be… enlightening."
Draco bent slightly to shake the goblin's hand.
And so, his peculiar working life began.
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