Chapter 221 – I Bought It
The Malfoy family lived up to their name: always choosing whichever side promised the greatest benefit, keeping themselves far from danger and blame. They were born opportunists, never bound to a single belief or loyalty.
So it was with the divide between pure-bloods and Muggle-borns.
The first Malfoy, Armand Malfoy, had arrived in England with William the Conqueror as part of the invading Norman army.
Though his descendants later preached "pure blood," Armand himself had courted Muggles. For unknown services rendered to William, he received a grand estate in Wiltshire. There he built Malfoy Manor, shortly after 1066.
Generation after generation followed his example. Using magic to seize land from neighboring Muggles, flattering the crown with treasures and art, they expanded their wealth and their influence. By the late 1600s, the Malfoys had become fixtures not only in wizarding circles, but also in Britain's Muggle aristocracy. They speculated in the money markets, trading assets like any other noble house.
In those years, the Malfoys were both wizard and Muggle.
But with the passage of the International Statute of Secrecy in 1692, all such ties were severed. The Malfoys abandoned their Muggle façades and adopted the anti-Muggle mask they wear to this day.
From that moment they learned: money alone was not enough. Power mattered more.
So they turned their wealth toward politics. By the time of Septimus Malfoy, their efforts bore fruit. In the late 18th century, his puppet, Angus Osbert, even rose to become Minister for Magic. Later, it was Abraxas Malfoy—Draco's grandfather—who maneuvered the resignation of Nobby Leach, the first Muggle-born Minister in history.
But by the time of Lucius Malfoy, the family's fortunes had begun to decline. Their gamble on Voldemort left them fined heavily in gold, their influence cut short, and the Ministry's highest seat went instead to Cornelius Fudge—a sycophant of Dumbledore.
Fudge's election was hardly surprising. The public clamored for Dumbledore himself to take the post, but he had refused. During his campaign, Fudge pledged over and over that he would consult Dumbledore on every decision. And he did. Letters to Dumbledore became the backbone of his entire administration.
The Malfoys could only swallow their humiliation.
And yet—even in disgrace—they had never stooped so low as to wear Muggle clothes and wait outside King's Cross Station like ordinary families. The Malfoys always used Portkeys, avoiding the Muggle side entirely.
So when Lucius Malfoy and his wife appeared outside the barrier that day, standing beside their old enemies the Weasleys, the sight stunned every wizard disguised as a Muggle nearby.
It all traced back to two days before.
In her private room, Rita Skeeter had been trembling with excitement as she held a stack of newly developed photographs from her crocodile-skin handbag. Her jeweled glasses flashed as she grinned. Not even Dumbledore can stop me this time!
Once, Skeeter might have hesitated—back when the Malfoy family's name commanded real fear. But now? With Voldemort gone and Septimus long dead? Readers demanded proof, and nothing sold like scandal in pictures.
Unlike junior reporters chained to their desks at the Daily Prophet, Skeeter lived in luxury. She sprawled across her dragon-skin sofa, surrounded by preserved pineapple sweets and bottles of sherry hidden beneath the table. Her treasured enchanted quill—a magnificent peacock feather—took down her thoughts as she dictated.
At the moment, she had a long, glittering green quill pen in her thick fingers. She pressed its tip to her lips, savoring the taste, as though it were a lover's kiss. Then she laid the photographs before her, and the peacock quill danced furiously across the parchment in time with the soft music she had conjured.
"The entire wizarding world will soon know Harry Potter's little secret with his two friends," Skeeter whispered gleefully. "And when it does, so too will it know the name Rita Skeeter!"
Satisfied, she stood and stretched, sipping from her sherry glass. But just as she reached for the photos again, a voice interrupted.
"I'm sorry, Rita. I'm afraid we can't run this article."
A portly bald wizard held out the photographs nervously.
Her eyes narrowed. "Fudge? Is he trying to curry favor with Dumbledore again?"
The wizard shook his head.
Another voice cut in, smooth and calm:
"No. I think not."
A long, slender hand plucked the photos from the table.
Skeeter froze. "Sirius Black? What are you doing here—at the Prophet?"
The haunted grin she remembered from his escape flickered across his face.
"I bought it."
Sirius crossed to the wine cabinet and pulled out a bottle of red, pouring himself a glass as if he owned the place.
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