Cassiopeia’s high heels stepped on the flagstones of the alchemy workshop corridor, clack, clack, clack, the rhythm even and unhurried.

Her right hand pinched a copy of the Daily Prophet that still smelled of ink. The newspaper was folded into quarters; the front-page headline was clearly legible under the glow of the corridor wall lamps...

"Hogwarts Governance Reform: An Institutional Awakening Thirty Years Late"

The subtitle was printed in a slightly smaller font: "Magical Education Committee Formally Proposes Establishment of School Board of Governors; Era of Headmaster Dictatorship May End"

Cassiopeia pushed open her office door; the hem of her dark green robe brushed past the edge of the doorframe with a soft rustle. She walked around the oak desk piled high with parchment files, sat down in the high-backed chair, and spread the newspaper flat on the desktop. The vertical slits of her snake eyes slowly scanned from the first line to the last.

The article was written with extreme ingenuity.

The content of yesterday’s internal meeting had been rearranged... the proposer’s arguments were placed in the most conspicuous position, corroborated by a large amount of data and historical cases. While the opposing side’s opinions were also mentioned, they were cleverly arranged in the middle-to-latter part of the article, sandwiched between two paragraphs of in-depth analysis on "the reasons for the failure of the 1722 Supervisory Committee." It read more like a self-dismantling of the opposing arguments rather than a fair presentation.

Cassiopeia’s snake tongue popped from her teeth, quivering in the air.

This wasn’t a news report.

This was an editorial.

An editorial that took a clear-cut, unequivocal stance on the side of the reformists.

And the Daily Prophet... the media outlet that had served as Dumbledore’s mouthpiece ever since Voldemort’s first downfall... actually published such an article.

Cassiopeia’s snake eyes narrowed, the vertical slits shrinking to their thinnest, sliding to the byline at the end of the article.

"Special Contributor: Rita Skeeter"

The arc at the corner of her mouth deepened half a fraction.

So that was it.

Rita Skeeter.

The most notorious journalist in the wizarding world, and also the most influential pen.

Her Quick-Quotes Quill could rewrite "nice weather today" into "a certain high official utters suspicious remarks suspected to be code words in public." Her articles could make an unknown little wizard famous overnight, and could also ruin the reputation of a high-ranking big shot.

And the relationship between Rita and Amelia Bones...

Cassiopeia flipped the newspaper back to the front page, her nail gently scratching across the line of fine print next to Rita’s byline.

That line of fine print read: "The views expressed in this article do not represent the stance of the Daily Prophet editorial board."... A standard disclaimer, but in this context, the very existence of this line explained everything.

The Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Prophet, Barnabas Cuffe, couldn’t possibly not know the stance of this article.

His choice to publish it, while simultaneously adding a disclaimer, meant he was betting on both sides... neither offending Dumbledore nor denying Amelia a favor.

And Rita’s willingness to write it personally only proved one thing.

Amelia had spoken.

That woman who had remained expressionless from start to finish during the meeting, merely scanning the entire venue with those cold eyes behind her monocle, had, at some point after the meeting ended, transmitted a signal to Rita Skeeter through some channel.

But what was said in this newspaper wasn’t important.

What was important was that Amelia Bones personally getting involved meant this reform was no longer the wishful thinking of the Magical Education Committee, but a signal flare for a reshuffling of the internal power structure of the Ministry of Magic.

And Fudge!

Cassiopeia’s nail tapped the newspaper with a clack.

Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge had not appeared during the entire meeting.

Nor was he mentioned in this report.

He was absent.

He chose to be absent.

This meant Fudge neither supported nor opposed it... or more accurately, he was waiting.

Waiting to see which side would win, and then standing with the winner. This was Fudge’s usual modus operandi, and also the reason he had been able to sit in the Minister’s seat for so long.

But Fudge didn’t show up; Amelia did, and Rita did!

Cassiopeia gave a light snort from her nose; the cold snort carried the hissing sound unique to snakes, echoing for a moment in the quiet office.

The referee had stepped onto the playing field.

She folded the newspaper neatly and placed it on the right side of the desk, the corner of her snake eyes sweeping over the stack of documents tied with a red ribbon in the center.

Her nail picked at a corner of the ribbon, popping open the bow with a snap.

On the cover of the top document, printed in gold lettering...

"Invitation for Bidding on Official Supplier Qualifications for the 422nd Quidditch World Cup"

The date column had today’s date.

The time column read... 10:00 AM.

Cassiopeia’s vertical pupils contracted abruptly.

"Tch."

An extremely short breath squeezed from between her teeth.

She stood up abruptly from the high-backed chair. The hem of her robes flew up in the hurried movement, sweeping an ink bottle off the corner of the desk.

The ink bottle rolled twice on the desktop, blocked by a stack of files, and didn’t fall.

The rhythm of her high heels stepping on the flagstone floor changed from unhurried to a rapid staccato.

Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack.

On the dark green vamp of her shoes, those fine scales usually hidden beneath the leather texture slightly curled up at the edges in her hurried steps, flashing with streaks of eerie green cold light under the glow of the wall lamps.

She yanked open the office door; before the hem of her robe had completely passed through the doorframe...

"Ouch!"

A short figure happened to rush over from the corner of the corridor, their head crashing straight into Cassiopeia’s abdomen.

The impact wasn’t great, but the angle was tricky, hitting right below her stomach.

Cassiopeia’s body staggered back half a step, the heel of her high heel scraping a white mark on the flagstone with a screech.

The person who bumped into her was only as tall as Cassiopeia’s chest.

Platinum blonde curly hair was permed into stiff spirals, fitting seamlessly over a small head like a helmet cast from hairspray.

Behind the lenses was a pair of round, shrewdly shining eyes.

A bright green Quick-Quotes Quill was held in her mouth... that quill was currently bouncing up and down at the corner of her mouth due to the inertia of the collision. The ink on the tip flung out several tiny drops, splashing onto the front of Cassiopeia’s robes.

Rita Skeeter looked up, her eyes behind the scarlet glasses meeting Cassiopeia’s half-squinted snake eyes.

The gazes of the two clashed in the light of the corridor’s wall lamps.

The corner of Rita’s mouth... the one holding the Quick-Quotes Quill... curled up, and that bright green quill swayed along with it.

"Yo."

She hummed a syllable from her nose, her scarlet lips curving into an arc around the shaft of the quill.

"Director Cassiopeia!"

Her gaze slid down from Cassiopeia’s snake eyes, sweeping past those fresh ink spots on the front of her robes, then down to those dark green high heels with slightly curled scales on her feet, and finally lifted back up, landing on Cassiopeia’s expressionless face.

"In such a hurry?

Step on a snake’s tail?"

Cassiopeia saw Rita’s face painted with scarlet lipstick, and her snake eyes rolled.

She was no longer in a hurry.

Rita Skeeter’s appearance here was an item of information in itself.

Cassiopeia’s footsteps returned from a rapid staccato to an unhurried three-beat rhythm, clack... clack... clack. The curled scales on her heels also compliantly vanished back beneath the leather texture.

She looked down at the fresh ink spots on the front of her robes, flicked them with her nail; they didn’t come off.

"A reporter for the Daily Prophet, running to my territory to scrounge for ink?"

The Quick-Quotes Quill in Rita’s mouth swayed. The eyes behind her lenses darted around, rolling from Cassiopeia’s face to the half-open office door behind her, and back again.

"I don’t recall the Daily Prophet having bidding qualifications."

Cassiopeia’s snake tongue flicked, her tone lazy, like stating a fact unworthy of discussion.

Rita took the Quick-Quotes Quill from her mouth, the tip pointing upward, twirled it twice next to her temple, her scarlet lips splitting into a smile... That smile carried a street-smart slyness, as glaring as the acid-green mage robe covered in sequins she wore.

"We didn’t use to."

Rita tucked the Quick-Quotes Quill behind her ear; her platinum blonde curls were propped into a small arc by the shaft of the pen.

"But today is different, Director Cassiopeia."

Cassiopeia’s vertical pupils shrank a fraction.

"What do you mean? You’re planning to get involved too?"

Rita didn’t answer directly.

Her short body leaned half a step toward Cassiopeia, tilting her face up, the frame of her scarlet glasses almost pressing against Cassiopeia’s chest.

Her voice lowered, carrying a feigned intimacy, a tone like close friends sharing a secret...

"Then will you give this old friend of yours a hand?"

Cassiopeia retreated half a step, putting an arm’s length between herself and Rita. Her chin tilted up slightly, her snake eyes half-squinted, her mouth hanging with a business-like indifferent arc.

"I, Cassiopeia, cannot do things that bend the law for personal gain."

Rita’s scarlet lips pouted, exaggerating a hurt expression that lasted for about 0.3 seconds. Then, the grievance on that face disappeared like foam blown away by the wind, replaced by a knowing smile carrying a bit of triumph.

Cassiopeia watched that smile, her snake tongue flicking between her teeth.

The two women stared at each other for a second.

Then they stepped forward simultaneously.

Cassiopeia’s high heels and Rita’s low-heeled boots adorned with metal buckles stepped on the corridor flagstones. One high, one low; one deep, one crisp. Clack-click, clack-click, clack-click. The rhythm was surprisingly harmonious. The two walked one after another through the corridor, turned two corners, and pushed open the double copper doors leading to the bidding hall.

There were far more people in the hall than Cassiopeia had expected.

The bidding hall was a rectangular stone-built space. Three massive alchemical chandeliers hung from the dome, each as large as a round table. Hundreds of candles burned on brass branches, illuminating the entire hall brightly. In the center of the hall was a semi-circular bidding podium. On the podium sat a long table covered in dark red velvet, behind which sat three notary wizards in black mage robes, each with a thick stack of files spread before them.

Directly in front of the bidding podium were two rows of high-backed chairs arranged in an arc... those were the bidding seats. Embedded on the back of each chair was a brass plate engraved with the name of the corresponding family or institution. Cassiopeia glanced over; most of the chairs were already occupied... On the Malfoy family’s seat sat Lucius, his platinum blonde long hair hanging meticulously over his shoulders, twirling that snake-head cane in his hand. On the Nott family’s seat was Old Nott, no expression visible on his gaunt face. Greengrass family, Parkinson family, Flint family... the faces of pure-blood noble families were arranged one after another in the arced seats, like a string of gems embedded in a necklace of power.

And behind the bidding seats was an open audience area.

That was where it was truly lively.

At least a hundred people were squeezed onto the benches and in the aisles of the audience area; the buzzing of whispers was like a pot of boiling porridge.

Reporters made up the majority of them... parchment, Quick-Quotes Quills, magical cameras—various equipment swayed up and down in the crowd. Several young reporters in colorful mage robes were standing on tiptoe, craning their necks toward the bidding seats, trying to identify the faces sitting in the high-backed chairs.

When Cassiopeia walked into the hall, a few reporters near the door noticed her first.

Their gazes swept past her face, then landed on the short figure with platinum blonde curly hair behind her...

Rita Skeeter.

The eyes of several reporters lit up simultaneously.

A middle-aged reporter with a full beard stood up from the bench, the Quick-Quotes Quill in his hand already starting to write automatically, squeezing toward Rita’s direction. His mouth opened, clearly ready to shout something... probably a question about the editorial this morning; the waves that article stirred up in the entire wizarding world were far from subsiding.

But his mouth had barely opened halfway when he saw Rita wasn’t heading toward the audience area, but walking straight through the center aisle toward the bidding seats.

The bearded reporter froze in place, his mouth maintaining its open posture.

Rita’s low-heeled boots stepped on the flagstones in front of the bidding podium, click, click, click, her pace as brisk as if going to an afternoon tea. She found a chair at the very end of the bidding seats... the brass plate on the back of that chair wasn’t engraved with the name of any family, but a line of new words that had just been magically etched on, the ink not even dry yet:

"Daily Prophet · Special Investment Department"

Rita plopped down, crossed her legs, took the Quick-Quotes Quill from behind her ear, twirled it twice between her fingers, and raised her chin toward her dumbfounded peers in the audience area.

Her scarlet lips curved into an arc.

The audience area exploded.

"The Daily Prophet? A bidding seat?"

"Since when? How come I didn’t know?"

"Isn’t Rita Skeeter a reporter? Why is she sitting over there?"

"Special Investment Department?

When did the Daily Prophet get this department?"

The buzzing swelled to a roar within three seconds. Several reporters had already started writing furiously, the flashes of magical cameras going snap-snap-snap repeatedly in Rita’s direction.

The bearded reporter finally closed his mouth, turned his head, and exchanged a "did you see that?" look with a female reporter wearing a pointed hat next to him.

His gray eyes swept past Rita, his eyebrows lifting imperceptibly, before restoring that perpetually arrogant face.

Cassiopeia walked to her own seat and sat down... the brass plate of the Black family glowed with a dull luster above her head. She adjusted the hem of her robes, crossed her legs, the tip of her high heel swaying gently in the air.

The corner of her snake eyes swept over Rita’s triumphant face; the arc at the corner of her mouth curved almost invisibly.

On the bidding podium, the notary wizard in the center cleared his throat and tapped the desktop with his wand.

Thump, thump, thump.

Three dull taps pierced through the noisy discussions. The clamor in the hall, like someone had turned down the volume knob, dropped to an acceptable decibel level within five seconds.

"The bidding for the official supplier qualifications for the 422nd Quidditch World Cup begins now."

In the first row of seats in the bidding hall, Madam Padma’s back was perfectly straight.

Her sitting posture was impeccable... knees together, ankles crossed, her deep purple sari draped from her left shoulder, spreading a small patch of silk folds on the chair seat. Her right hand rested on the armrest, her left hand pinching a bidding manual. The manual was open to the third page, but her gaze didn’t fall on the printed text at all.

Her thumb rubbed back and forth on the spine of the manual, the pad of her finger grinding against the rough edge of the parchment, over and over, the frequency getting faster and faster.

Madam Padma’s face maintained the dignity unique to a noblewoman... unmoving, her eyes calm as water, a faint smile even hanging at the corners of her mouth, as if she were just going through the motions and the result was already within her grasp.

But her left big toe, hidden by the sari, was curling uncontrollably.

The check still hadn’t arrived.

Starting three days ago, she had sent Jerry an owl every four hours. The first letter was worded politely, the second earnestly, the third anxiously. By the seventh... she practically jabbed the quill into the parchment... the wording was bordering on begging.

And Jerry’s reply was always only one line.

"Don’t panic."

Don’t panic?

Madam Padma’s thumb ground even faster on the spine of the manual. The rough edge of the parchment was rubbed into a small tuft of fiber dust by her, falling onto the knee of her deep purple sari like a pinch of fine snowflakes.

The bidding manual stated clearly in black and white... Every bidder must submit a deposit voucher to the notary wizard before the bidding begins, the amount not less than fifty thousand gold Galleons. Those who fail to submit a deposit will be disqualified from bidding.

Her deposit voucher was currently lying in the hidden pocket of her sari belt... a blank check issued by Gringotts, stamped with the goblin seal.

Blank.

Because the number that should be filled in had not yet materialized.

Madam Padma’s gaze calmly swept over the other faces in the bidding seats. Lucius Malfoy was using a handkerchief to wipe the silver head of his snake cane, his movements as leisurely as if killing time on an afternoon in his own living room; Old Nott was flipping through the bidding manual, his gaunt finger pausing on a page for two seconds before turning it; the head of the Greengrass family was conversing in a low voice with Mrs. Parkinson, both wearing expressions of calm determination to win.

The numbers lying in these people’s deposit accounts were probably enough to buy half of Diagon Alley.

And she...

Madam Padma’s teeth clenched quietly under the cover of her sari.

Meanwhile.

On the east side of the bidding hall, behind an inconspicuous oak door, was a storage room originally used to store auction items. Right now, the shelves in the storage room had been pushed to the corner. In the freed-up space sat two chairs and a low table, upon which rested two bottles of Butterbeer and a plate of pumpkin pasties.

Jerry sat cross-legged on one of the chairs, the hem of his school robes piled on the seat. He held a bottle of Butterbeer; the foam from the rim left a white mustache on his upper lip. He didn’t wipe it, just kept that cream mustache, tilting his head to stare at a mirror on the wall that had been cast with a Scrying Charm... the mirror reflected the real-time image of the bidding hall.

Draco Malfoy sat in the other chair, his posture far less relaxed than Jerry’s. His butt only touched the front third of the seat, his upper body leaning forward, his gray eyes staring intently at the figures in the bidding seats in the mirror. His platinum blonde hair fell over his forehead due to the angle of his lowered head; he irritably pushed it behind his ear, only for it to slip down again, and he pushed it back up.

"That one wearing the brown mage robe, from the Flint family."

Draco’s finger poked at a certain spot in the mirror.

"Their family has three broomstick factories in Ireland. Just the broom maintenance kits alone bring in over eighty thousand gold Galleons a year. And the Greengrasses... their family monopolizes the entire potions ingredients supply chain in southern England. Do you know how massive the consumption of healing ointments alone is during the Quidditch World Cup?"

He picked up his Butterbeer and took a swig. When he put the bottle down, the bottom made a dull thud on the low table.

"All I see are guys from incredibly rich families."

Jerry took a sip of Butterbeer; the foam added another layer to the corner of his mouth.

"Madam Padma is not completely under control yet."

Draco’s hand stopped in mid-air, his gray eyes moving from the mirror to Jerry.

"What do you mean?"

Jerry’s eyes stared at Madam Padma’s dignified face in the mirror; his pupils reflected her thumb constantly rubbing the spine of the manual.

"She came to bid using the Patil family’s seat. The Patil family does have a foundation in textiles and magical dyes, but that bit of family wealth can’t support the volume of a Quidditch World Cup supplier. She needs outside funding."

He placed the Butterbeer bottle on his knee; the bottle left a cold, round watermark on the fabric of his school trousers.

"When she came to me, her opening demand was a credit line of five hundred thousand gold Galleons. I asked her what she was using as collateral, and she said she would use the Patil family’s three magical textile workshops in Mumbai."

Jerry’s mouth curved, that cream mustache changing shape along with it.

"I had someone look into it. Of those three workshops, two have already been mortgaged to the Mumbai branch of Gringotts, and the property rights for the remaining one are still under her ex-husband’s name; the transfer procedures haven’t even been completed yet."

Draco’s brows furrowed.

"Empty-handed wolfing?"

"Not entirely." Jerry used his thumb to scrape the cream off his upper lip and wiped it on his school trousers. "She indeed has the channels, and indeed has the ability to secure the supplier qualifications... The Patil family has a wide network in the magical textile circles of South Asia. Peripheral merchandise, commemorative flags, team scarves for the World Cup—her workshops can produce them at the lowest cost."

He raised a finger.

"But she lacks money. The cards in her hand are good enough to play a good game, but she can’t even scrape together the chips to sit at the table."

Draco leaned back against his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his gray eyes narrowing.

"So you withholding the check from her is intentional."

Jerry did not deny it.

Jerry’s eyes stared at Madam Padma’s dignified profile in the mirror; the foam from the bottle rim slowly dissipated between his fingers.

"This woman is far more shrewd than you think."

Draco’s fingers stopped on the Butterbeer bottle, his gray eyes rolling over.

"Afraid of what?

Both her daughters are at Hogwarts."

Jerry snorted from his nasal cavity. The cold snort was brief and crisp, carrying a seasoned sharpness completely out of tune with his youthful face.

He slammed the Butterbeer bottle onto the low table. The bottom made a sharp clack; foam overflowed from the rim, sliding down the glass wall, spreading a small wet mark on the desktop.

"Draco."

He turned his head, his eyes meeting Malfoy’s gray eyes directly.

"These guys from pure-blood families are all like little piglets; they have at least seven or eight sons and daughters.

You think everyone is an only child like you and me? 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

Besides, if it weren’t for back then... never mind."

Draco’s mouth twitched.

Jerry held up two fingers, waving them in the air.

"Parvati and Padma, the twins, are at Hogwarts.

But the Patil family has three more sons in Mumbai. The oldest is twenty-two this year and has already landed a small position in the Asian Indian Ministry of Magic.

The second oldest is a Muggle in his sixth year at Durmstrang. The third is in Castelobruxo in Brazil, a guy with decent talent; he didn’t study at the magical school but was taken in as an apprentice by an alchemy master."

He withdrew his fingers, resting them on his knee, his fingertips unconsciously tapping the material of his school trousers.

"With her two daughters in my hands, she will indeed be cautious.

But if you think you can handle a woman who has crawled her way through the magical textile circles of Europe and South Asia for fifteen years just with this..."

The corner of his mouth curved, but there was no smile in the arc.

"Then you underestimate her too much."

Draco’s brows furrowed; a strand of platinum blonde hair slipped from behind his ear, hanging by his cheekbone. He didn’t bother with it.

"What exactly are you concerned about?"

Jerry didn’t answer immediately. His eyes returned to the Scrying Mirror on the wall. In the mirror, Madam Padma was currently closing the bidding manual, placing it on her lap, and crossing her hands over the cover. Her sitting posture remained perfect, her back still straight, but Jerry noticed a detail... the ruby ring on her right ring finger was being slowly and repeatedly turned by her left thumb.

Clockwise, half a turn. Counterclockwise, half a turn. Clockwise, half a turn.

"When she came to me asking for a five hundred thousand Galleon credit line," Jerry’s voice slowed down, "she brought a business plan. It was written beautifully—detailed data, self-consistent logic; she even did a three-year cash flow forecast."

His index finger tapped his knee.

"But there was one number in that plan that was wrong."

Draco’s gray eyes flashed.

"The annual production capacity of her thirteen workshops in Mumbai; she wrote one hundred and twenty thousand bolts of magical fabric. But I had someone go look on site... seven of them are already mortgaged to Gringotts, half the equipment was seized. The actual capacity is fifty thousand bolts at most.

She included production capacity that no longer belongs to her in the plan."

Jerry’s fingers stopped tapping; his palm covered his knee, the five fingers closing slightly.

"A woman who has mingled in the business world for fifteen years couldn’t possibly make such a rookie mistake."

Draco’s back left the backrest, his upper body leaning forward, his gray eyes narrowing into two slits.

"You mean... she did it on purpose?"

"She was testing me." Jerry’s tone was as flat as a rippless lake. "She wanted to see if I would check, to what extent I would check, and whether I would flat-out refuse or continue negotiating after checking.

If I didn’t find out and gave her the money, it would show I’m an easily fooled brat; she could take the money and do as she pleased.

If I found out but still gave her the money, it would show I urgently need her channels, giving her a bargaining chip."

He picked up the Butterbeer and took a swig, his Adam’s apple rolling.

"If I found out and didn’t give her the money..."

He put the bottle down, wiping the foam from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

"She would know I’m not an easy person to deal with, and the subsequent negotiations would get serious."

Draco leaned back against his chair, crossing his arms over his chest again, his thumbs rubbing back and forth on his upper arms.

"So you withholding the check now isn’t just to make her owe you a favor."

"Favors are the most worthless things." Jerry’s eyes gleamed with a cold luster in the reflection of the mirror. "A favor owed to you today can be paid back with an excuse tomorrow.

I don’t want favors."

Jerry leaned back against the chair, his school robe opening slightly with the movement, revealing his white shirt collar and thin, pale neck.

"What I want is her."

Draco’s eyebrows shot up.

"The Patil family’s channels, connections, and workshops—those can be acquired by replacing her.

It might be more expensive or slower, but they aren’t irreplaceable." Jerry traced a circle on the Butterbeer bottle. "But Madam Padma herself... the reputation she’s built over fifteen years in the South Asian magical textile world, her network, and that mind of hers, which is more precise than a Gringotts vault... those things can’t be bought."

His finger stopped on the bottle, his nail scratching the glass with a faint skritch.

"But we can’t be in a hurry."

His voice dropped, carrying a patience that was entirely mismatched with his eleven years of age.

"With a woman like that, the more you rush, the more slippery she becomes.

If you chase her, she knows you need her, and the leverage goes to her.

It has to be the other way around... make her chase you.

Make her panic, make her anxious, make her almost lose face in front of everyone, and then pull her up at the very last second."

His eyes finally moved away from the mirror, turning toward Draco.

"Once you pull her up, she’ll be grateful.

But gratitude isn’t enough.

Gratitude fades."

The corners of his mouth curled into a shallow, icy arc.

"It has to be done bit by bit.

First the money, then the business, then the secrets, and finally..."

He didn’t finish.

In the mirror, the Notary Wizard had reached the third seat in the first row, verifying the Nott family’s deposit voucher.

At this rate, there were about six to seven minutes before it reached the Patil family seat.

Madam Padma’s right ring finger turned the ruby ring even faster.

Jerry stood up from the chair, the hem of his robe sliding off the seat and swaying around his calves.

He walked to the mirror, raised his hand, and pressed his fingertip against the forehead of Madam Padma’s dignified face in the reflection...

"Before this woman brings more to the table,"

His fingertip rubbed the glass, leaving a small patch of mist from his body heat, "she won’t get a single bronze Nut from me."

Draco held his Butterbeer, watching Jerry—a boy only half the height of a normal adult—standing before the mirror, pressing a finger between the brows of a thirty-year-old woman and speaking those words.

He took a swig of beer; the foam went up his nose, making him sneeze.

In the mirror, the Notary turned past the Nott voucher and moved toward the next seat.

Madam Padma’s ring stopped turning.

Her fingers gripped the bidding manual on her lap, her knuckles turning white. A flash of extreme, near-untraceable panic crossed her eyes... before being suppressed and replaced by that impenetrable dignity.

Jerry withdrew his finger, leaving a blurred print on the mirror.

He turned and walked toward the storage room door.

"Let’s go."

Draco stood up, brushing non-existent creases from his robe.

"Where to?"

Jerry pulled the door open, the wall lamps in the corridor casting shadows across half his face.

"To watch the show."

In the bidding hall corridor, Jerry and Draco walked side-by-side, their shadows stretching to different lengths under the lamps.

Jerry pushed open the small side door to the audience area. The noise rushing through the crack was like a faucet turned on full blast, instantly filling the corridor.

They slipped into the back row corner of the audience area, squeezing between a group of reporters in gaudy robes.

Draco tucked his platinum hair into his hat and pulled the brim low... the Malfoy face was too conspicuous here, and his father was sitting in the front row.

Jerry didn’t care; his height was perfectly hidden by the standing reporters in front.

The view in the mirror had been top-down, but from here, the pure-blood elite were only a dozen paces away, every expression clear.

The Notary had reached the fifth seat.

The Flint family.

Old Flint—a middle-aged wizard with a broad jaw and prominent brow—pulled a neatly folded parchment from his robes and handed it over. The Notary opened it and tapped the seal with his wand.

The seal glowed.

Golden light rose from the goblin stamp, spinning twice in the air before turning into a string of numbers... only visible to the Notary and Flint. Judging by the Notary’s nod, the amount was sufficient.

"Flint family, deposit verified."

The Notary’s voice was not loud, but the hall’s acoustics carried every word clearly to the audience.

Next.

The Notary moved to the sixth seat.

The plate on the chair bore a name Jerry wasn’t familiar with... "Selwyn." An old man with a gray goatee sat there. His robes were expensive but the style was twenty years out of date, the embroidery frayed.

The old man fished a parchment from his breast pocket, his fingers trembling as he handed it over.

The Notary took it, opened it, and tapped the seal.

The seal didn’t light up.

The Notary frowned and tapped it again.

Still nothing.

The murmurs in the hall dropped an octave.

Reporters stopped chatting and turned in unison toward the podium.

The Notary flipped the parchment over, checked the back, then laid it on the table and drew a detection ring around the seal with his wand.

The ring lit up... red.

"Mr. Selwyn." The Notary’s voice remained professionally steady, but that steadiness was a signal in itself. "The Gringotts account associated with your voucher currently lacks the funds to cover the minimum deposit requirement."

The hall fell silent for a heartbeat.

Then the buzzing exploded like a kicked hornet’s nest.

"The Selwyns are broke?"

"No way, don’t they own a whole mountain in Wales?"

"They sold that to the goblins three years ago. Your news is lagging..."

Reporters in the audience were like sharks smelling blood, their Quick-Quotes Quills dancing frantically across parchment, ink splashing everywhere.

Old Selwyn’s face turned from ash-gray to livid.

His goatee twitched. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. His fingers gripped the armrests so hard the skin on his knuckles shone.

"This... this must be a mistake by Gringotts... I confirmed it yesterday..."

"Mr. Selwyn." The Notary folded the parchment and handed it back. "According to Article 7 of the bidding rules, those who fail the deposit check are disqualified. Please move to the audience area."

The old man’s hand shook even harder as he took the paper.

His lips trembled as if he wanted to speak, but the gazes of the pure-bloods around him hit him from every angle... some sympathetic, some mocking, some indifferent. Not one gaze offered help.

Old Selwyn stood up, the hem of his robe brushing the floor with a hiss in his stiff stride.

His head was low, his goatee almost poking his chest. As he walked through the aisle, the reporters’ quills scribbled furiously behind him, and magical cameras flashed in rounds.

Jerry stood in the corner, his eyes over the reporters’ shoulders, watching the hunched figure of Old Selwyn disappear through the side door.

Then his gaze shifted a few inches to Madam Padma’s profile.

Her expression hadn’t changed.

Her hands were still crossed over the bidding manual on her lap, as dignified as a statue.

But Jerry noticed.

The Notary had reached the seventh seat. The Patil family was eleventh... separated by Greengrass, Parkinson, and a small family Jerry didn’t recognize.

Four seats.

At an average of a minute and a half per seat, there were about six minutes left.

Jerry’s hand was in his robe pocket, pinching something between his thumb and index finger... a piece of parchment folded into quarters, the size of a palm.

The parchment was twice as thick as normal, the edges pressed with a Gringotts gold-leaf watermark. The ink on the surface was goblin-made contract ink, which seeped deep into the fibers and was impossible to alter.

A check.

The amount column was blank.

Jerry’s thumb rubbed the creases of the check, feeling the rough texture and the raised gold-leaf watermark.

Draco leaned in and whispered.

"When are you going to give it to her?"

Jerry didn’t answer.

His eyes were locked on Madam Padma’s right hand... the ruby ring was turning again. Clockwise, half-turn; counter-clockwise, half-turn. The frequency was nearly double what it was before.

The eighth seat verified.

The ninth seat... Parkinson family... verified.

The tenth seat, that small family Jerry didn’t know.

The Notary took the parchment and tapped the seal.

The seal lit up. But the light wasn’t gold; it was a dim, flickering orange.

The Notary frowned again.

He laid it on the desk and drew a detection ring.

The ring lit up... yellow.

"Mr. Aberdeen." The Notary’s voice held a subtle hesitation. "Your account balance is 49,800 Galleons. It fails the 50,000 minimum. The shortfall is..."

"Two hundred Galleons! Only two hundred!"

The middle-aged wizard in the tenth seat lunged up, his robes flying open to reveal a faded shirt beneath.

His face was flushed red, sweat shining on his forehead.

"Two hundred Galleons! Can’t you just let it slide?!"

The Notary’s expression was motionless.

"Article 7. Insufficient deposit, disqualified. There is no room for negotiation."

Mr. Aberdeen’s mouth opened and closed before he let out a long sigh. His shoulders slumped, and he fell back into his chair like a boneless puppet before standing up and wobbling toward the audience.

Two hundred Galleons.

Disqualified in public for two hundred Galleons.

The audience’s murmurs turned into sighs and snickers.

Jerry’s gaze was still pinned on Madam Padma.

Her ring stopped.

Not because she was calm, but because her entire right hand was shaking... a tiny, almost invisible tremor that spread from her fingers to her wrist, making the ruby ring refract light in broken patterns.

She was next.

The Notary closed Aberdeen’s file and stepped toward the eleventh seat.

Madam Padma’s back straightened further... to an unnatural degree, like a bowstring pulled to its limit. Her chin tilted up, eyes fixed forward, that phantom smile still hanging there, though the edges were stiffening.

Jerry’s thumb stopped on the crease of the check in his pocket.

Madam Padma’s fingers moved from the manual to the armrests.

She stood up.

The movement was measured. The folds of her sari slid from her knees as she rose, the deep purple silk falling back to her ankles with a faint swish.

Her back was straight, her chin high, but when she turned to the Notary, the smile she had held all morning finally vanished.

"Apologies."

Her voice was steady, with the soft lilt of a South Asian accent, every syllable articulated perfectly.

"I am feeling a bit unwell and need to use the washroom. Might you wait a moment?"

The Notary stopped two paces from the eleventh seat, the file open to the Patil family page.

He looked up at her, then at his two colleagues. They exchanged a look.

"Fifteen minutes."

The Notary closed the file and moved toward the seats further down.

"We will verify the others first and come back to you."

Madam Padma nodded and turned toward the side corridor.

Her stride was composed, her waist swaying beneath the sari. Her high-heeled sandals clicked against the flagstones—clack, clack, clack—a rhythm as steady as a metronome.

Jerry’s mouth twitched.

He slid off the audience bench, the hem of his robe brushing a reporter’s leg. The reporter looked down only to see a small silhouette already weaving through the crowd.

Draco reached for his sleeve but caught only air.

"Hey..."

Jerry had already disappeared behind the small door leading to the side hall.

The washroom was at the end of the east corridor.

An arched wooden door with a silhouette of a witch carved into it.

When Madam Padma pushed the door open and stepped inside, her clenched fist finally opened.

Five nails had pressed five deep crimson crescents into her palm.

She walked to the sink, hands bracing against the rim, her knuckles white.

She lowered her head, her long hair falling from her shoulders, the tips almost touching the water in the basin.

Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

The snake-head faucet dripped water... drip, drop, again and again.

Then the door opened.

No knock, no warning footsteps. The door was simply pushed open from the outside. The hinge gave a short creak, and the light from the corridor lamps cut into the room, casting a narrow beam across the stone floor.

Jerry stood in the doorway.

He was only as tall as Madam Padma’s chest. His green school robe billowed slightly in the draft; his hair was messy over his forehead. His eyes looked through the gaps in his hair, landing on Madam Padma’s face in the copper mirror—a face that had lost all its disguise.

Madam Padma’s body went stiff for a second.

Her fingers tightened on the sink rim, her nails scraping the copper with a sharp screech. Then she straightened her back and turned to face the short figure.

The folds of her sari swung with her turn, the deep purple silk clinging to her thighs before bouncing away.

"Jerry."

Her voice regained that unique South Asian nobility and composure, but the end of her words trembled like a bowstring vibrating in the wind.

"You shouldn’t be in the ladies’ washroom."

Jerry didn’t answer.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, the lock clicking into place.

His eyes slid down her face, over her neck, her collarbones, the sari-covered chest, all the way to her hands on the sink... the five crescent nail marks were clearly visible.

"The check."

Madam Padma’s Adam’s apple rolled.

"You promised me."

"I said ’don’t panic’."

Jerry’s steps made no sound on the stones. He walked to the side of the sink, less than two feet from her. "I never said I’d definitely give it."

Madam Padma’s eyelashes fluttered.

She looked down at the boy who only reached her chest.

Silence lasted for three seconds.

The snake-head faucet continued to drip.

Madam Padma’s hands released the sink.

She raised her right hand, her fingers reaching for the golden pin on her left shoulder that held her sari.

The tip of the pin pricked her finger pad slightly. She didn’t hesitate; she pinched the head of the pin and gave it a twist.

Click.

The pin popped open.

Without its anchor, the sari slid from her left shoulder. The deep purple silk was like a freed snake, winding its way down her body.

The sari fell to her waist, piling above her belt, revealing her upper body... a deep crimson tight-fitting choli. The fabric was so thin it was almost transparent, outlining every curve from her collarbone to her waistline.

Madam Padma’s fingers moved to the ties at the back of the top.

"What leverage do you want?"

Her voice dropped, her breath spilling from between parted lips to brush the hair on Jerry’s head. "I’ll give it to you."

The ties were pulled free.

The fabric of the choli lost its restraint and loosened from her body, sliding down her arms. It hung for a moment at her elbows before falling to the floor.

Her upper body was completely bare.

Bare skin extended from her collarbone to her waist, with no obstruction.

Her breasts were full and heavy. Because she had given birth, the shape wasn’t the high-pointed cone of a young girl, but a more mature, naturally teardrop shape.

The color of her nipples was two shades darker than the surrounding skin—a rich dark brown, larger than average, the edges slightly blurred as if painted with watercolor.

The nipples stood erect in the cool air of the washroom, darkening into the color of polished ebony beads.

Madam Padma’s abdomen was flat but not tight; there were faint, nearly invisible stretch marks on her waist that only caught the light at certain angles.

Her fingers continued downward, reaching for the belt buckle holding the lower half of the sari.

The metal buckle popped open with a click.

The rest of the sari slid from her hips, the silk piling around her ankles like a deep purple puddle.

"The check!"

Madam Padma stood there almost entirely naked, her pale skin glowing with a warm honey luster in the lamp light.

Her arms hung at her sides without covering her body, her fingers slightly curled, the tips touching the skin of her outer thighs.

She looked down at Jerry.

In her eyes, anxiety and fear still churned, but at the bottom was something more resolute, something desperate.

"My channels, my connections, my workshops... I need the check."

Her knees bent.

She knelt down.

The deep purple sari beneath her knees acted as a soft cushion.

From the kneeling position, her eyes were level with Jerry’s.

Her face was less than a foot from his, her warm, hurried breath spraying his chin.

"...and myself."

Her fingers reached for the belt of Jerry’s school robe.

Her fingertips paused on the buckle for a second before her thumb found the metal edge and pressed.

Click.

The buckle popped open.

Her fingers reached into the gap between his robe and trousers, her finger pads touching the metal tab of the zipper.

The sound of the zipper being pulled down was exceptionally clear in the silent room... zip... inch by inch, the metal teeth separated under her touch.

The front of his trousers opened.

Madam Padma’s fingers hooked the waistband of his underwear and pulled it down.

Then, her fingers stopped.

Her Adam’s apple rolled.

Her fingers circled the middle of the meat-pillar... or tried to.

Her fingers were long and slender, but even when she closed them, there was nearly an inch of a gap between her fingertips and thumb; she couldn’t grip it completely.

The temperature from his skin was as scalding as a hot iron rod. The veins beneath were throbbing against her palm, pulse after pulse, making the meat-pillar swell in her hand with every beat.

It was still getting harder.

Madam Padma’s fingers tightened, her finger pads sinking into the elastic skin of the shaft, feeling the engorgement of the cavernous tissue within... that unstoppable force of expansion pushed her fingers apart bit by bit.

Her hand began to move.

Her palm slid down from the middle of the shaft. When she reached the base, her fingertips touched the sparse, newly growing downy hair above the pubic bone.

The hair was soft and short, creating a subtle itch against her fingers.

Her palm paused at the base for a second, then pushed up... grinding over every bulging vein, over the slightly narrowed neck below the coronal ridge, all the way to the tip.

The foreskin was pulled back completely by the pressure of her palm, revealing the entire head... full, rounded, its surface glowing with a thin mucosal luster.

A tiny drop of transparent pre-cum seeped from the slit at the tip, refracting a tiny point of light under the lamps.

Madam Padma’s thumb pressed into that drop of fluid.

The pad of her finger ground into the slit, spreading the transparent liquid across the entire surface of the tip. Once lubricated, the head became slippery, every friction producing a faint, wet squish.

Her hand accelerated.

Squish, squish, squish...

The meat-pillar achieved a full erection in her hand.

The engorged size was a full grade larger than its semi-hard state; the veins on the shaft stood out even more prominently. The entire pillar curved slightly upward, the tip swollen into a deep red bordering on purple, the slit stretched open by the internal pressure.

Her fingers were soaked with pre-cum. Every time she tightened her grip, tiny droplets were squeezed out from between her fingers, landing with a splat on the sari she was kneeling on, spreading dark dots across the deep purple silk.

Madam Padma’s breathing became heavy.

Her hand stopped.

Her fingers released the shaft, her hand covered in transparent pre-cum. When she opened her palm, the liquid pulled several glistening threads between her fingers before snapping and falling onto her thighs.

She looked up, her eyes meeting Jerry’s.

Then she stood up.

When her knees left the sari, the dark spots soaked with pre-cum shimmered in the light.

Her fingers hooked the waistband of her own panties and pulled... the cotton fabric slid past her hips, thighs, and knees to her ankles. She stepped out, kicking the underwear into the pile of silk.

She turned around, facing the sink, hands bracing on the copper rim.

From behind, her waistline narrowed from below the ribs before flaring out at the hips, forming the smooth hourglass curve of a mature woman. Her buttocks were full and rounded; in her slightly bent posture, the two cheeks were pulled apart to reveal a gap, where the skin was a shade darker.

Her feet were a step apart, her high-heeled sandals making a click on the stone.

This posture made her back arch down and her butt tilt up. The soft skin of her inner thighs was completely exposed to Jerry’s view.

Her flower slit was revealed from the bottom of her buttocks... the outer lips were slightly closed, a deep brown darker than the rest of her skin, with a thin glisten of moisture along the centerline.

She didn’t look back.

Her fingers gripped the sink rim so hard her nails scraped the copper with a sharp skritch.

The snake-head faucet continued to drip, drip, drop. The sound of the water hitting the basin mingled with her rapid breath.

"The check!"