Lucius Malfoy, my father, walked slightly ahead but beside me, leaning on a black cane adorned with noble silver woven into intricate patterns. His steps echoed clearly on the stone floor of the gallery leading to the large open courtyard.
"We have arrived," Father said, and the huge double-leaf doors, decorated with bas-reliefs of hippogriffs, swung open before us. We were greeted by workers: they gave a short bow and silently led us inside.
Beyond the gates, a panorama of the family estate unfolded before me. The hippogriff farm bore no resemblance to an ordinary farm — everything here looked both austere and majestic. Low stone buildings with steep, dark-tiled roofs lined the road. Protective enchantments shimmered softly over the walls — a blue glimmer, like morning frost, shielding the structures from claws and beaks, though in reality, they were designed primarily against people who might consider robbing one of the wealthiest families in magical Britain. The narrow windows resembled arrow slits and let in almost no light.
The central tower — the manager's house — rose above it all. Not too tall, but sturdy, as if built not for beauty but to withstand a siege. A black-and-green crest of my family fluttered on the spire. From the tower's height, the entire territory of the hippogriff farm, spanning many acres, was visible.
To the left stretched rows of enclosures. Each was separated from the next by massive cast-iron grates. The ground inside varied: somewhere it was an even, trimmed carpet of grass, somewhere there were patches of tall grass left, and in some enclosures, the surface more resembled a training field, dotted with deep claw marks.
In the distant meadows, hippogriffs moved in groups, but they were always accompanied by a group of wizard overseers. Some calmly grazed, looking for beetles, others fought — sharp beak strikes, leaps with spread wings. A natural process in a group of beasts. A natural order in a small community. In the wild, hippogriffs lived alone, but here, like lions in prides, they formed temporary herds. The silhouettes of the beasts against the sky seemed almost mythical: wings, powerful and gleaming, heads held high, with burning eyes.
The air was saturated with smells: freshly cut grass, dust, and the slight bitterness of potions used to rub the animals against parasites. Sometimes the sharp, metallic smell of blood broke through. I noticed a worker carrying a basket where freshly trimmed claws glistened — they were carefully removed from adults every few months. This was done not only for safety.
"Hippogriff breeding, Arcturus," Lucius began, and pride seeped into his voice. "One of our family's oldest businesses. These creatures are too valuable to leave them wild. Their feathers are used for wands, artifacts, and talismans. Blood — the strongest component for resistance and restoration potions. Claws and beaks, after processing, are used in alchemy and rituals as catalysts."
He spoke calmly, coldly, but here he felt like the master.
"Furthermore," he added, shifting his gaze to a field where two young males were locked in combat, measuring each other with their beaks, "trained specimens are worth a fortune. In the past, many aristocrats kept them in personal stables — like the latest broomstick models today. We try to preserve the tradition."
I peered at this mixture of eagle and horse, amazed by its strength and grace. But risk lay beneath the beauty. A hippogriff could recognize a human as an equal… or tear them apart in a second. By danger classification, it was only level three, but for an ordinary person, it was more terrifying than any predator. Even experienced wizards had plenty of trouble with them.
"And how do they obey?" I asked as we passed an enclosure. A worker — a broad-shouldered wizard in thick leather armor — cautiously approached a dark giant, bowed to it, and only then began feeding it.
Lucius smirked with the corner of his lips.
"They don't obey. It's — respect. A hippogriff will not tolerate disrespect. If you don't bow in response to its bow — it will consider you an enemy. Respect, Arcturus," — he said, his voice cold and measured, — "is the first rule when working with them. These creatures are intelligent and often don't even try to escape, understanding that it's impossible from here anyway."
We walked along the fences, and Father showed me the sectors. In one enclosure — the young: clumsy creatures with disproportionate wings stumbled, tried to fly, and fell, raising clouds of dust. In others — adults, well-groomed and powerful. All of them bore a magical brand. Further away were aviaries with pedigreed specimens — the best of the best.
"For hundreds of years, our family has been supplying all of Britain and parts of Europe with hippogriff ingredients," Lucius continued. "Magic can do much, but discipline and system — more. Our family has dozens of business directions, and they all rely on us not allowing chaos. Without a system, even several Malfoys couldn't keep track of all affairs. Remember that. For the future."
He spoke as always: not narrating, but cutting his words with a metallically cold voice. And I understood — this wasn't just a tour, but a lesson. An introduction to the family business.
"The central building," Father pointed to the stone tower with a silver crest on the spire, "serves both for management and storage. They keep registries of bloodlines, breeding books, and transaction documents there. Slightly lower, in the warehouses — ingredients that are sorted and sent either to our shops or directly to client stores."
We turned right, and a small amphitheater opened before us. Stone steps embraced a spacious enclosure in a semicircle. Everything looked well-thought-out: the amphitheater resembled a miniature arena, only instead of gladiators, hippogriffs performed here. Father explained that demonstrations were held here. Training of the young, flights, showcase performances. Wealthy clients like to see with their own eyes what they are buying. And only then do they discuss the price.
I let my gaze linger: I imagined how prim ladies in hats and men in strict robes would sit on these steps, how a perfectly trained young hippogriff would be shown below — and how after a short demonstration, deals would be closed right here, in front of everyone. Nonsense, of course, but… no, definitely nonsense.
We walked further. Residential blocks for the workers stretched before us. The houses were low, with stone stoves and tiny gardens, but well-kept. Here everything looked modest, without excessive shine, but practical. At night, the blocks were illuminated by lanterns with Eternal Flame charms — even now, a weak light flickered atop them.
Lucius stopped, his gaze lingering on the management tower. A man stood near the entrance, waiting for him. Tall, in a strict dark robe, with a stony face.
"Hello, Hector. This is the manager, Hector Straub," Father said calmly. There was less of his usual coldness in his voice: he acknowledged this man's significance. "Straub, let's go upstairs and call your deputy. Let him show my son the farm from the inside."
"As you say, Mr. Malfoy."
The manager nodded, and they disappeared into the tower after a couple of parting words from Father. A minute later, another man appeared. He wore a long green robe, a leather bandolier was slung over his shoulder, and a knife of an intricate shape with a silver blade hung on his belt — a tool clearly used here more often than one might think. His face was weathered, tanned, with sharp features, and his eyes resembled those of a hunter — attentive, cold, accustomed to working near predators.
"Mr. Malfoy," — he bowed not deeply, but respectfully. — "My name is Matthias Grün, I am the deputy manager. Your father wishes me to show you the farm."
"Very well, Mr. Matthias," I nodded. "Lead the way."
We moved along the enclosures. Inside, the animals behaved differently: some grazed, some, pacing the ground, nervously tapped their claws on the stone. One of the males sharply spread his wings and with a deafening roar pushed away a rival. Dust rose in clouds, and even through the barriers, the power of that blow was felt.
Matthias spoke quietly but confidently:
"I'll note right away, sir: we never kill the young. That's our rule. We only take from them what causes no harm — feathers, blood, claws, and claw filings."
"Filings?" I asked.
"Precisely. When claws are trimmed, shavings remain. For potions, they are weaker than a whole claw, but there are infusions where that's sufficient. And for the end buyer — it's cheaper."
We approached an enclosure where two workers were doing something to the wing of a dark hippogriff. The beast lay still, as if bewitched. Blue charms flickered over its feathers, calming and lulling it. Moving closer, I saw what they were doing. The men deftly, almost habitually, plucked feathers and placed them in an enchanted chest.
"Feathers are our gold," Matthias said. "The young yield particularly flexible and durable ones. They are used in amulets against curses, in quills for runic scripture, and as stabilizers in potions. But the main thing — wands. Entire wand series on the continent are made based on hippogriff feathers. Of course, not as prestigious and powerful as with phoenix or dragon, but due to their cheapness — they are bought by the thousands."
I nodded, and he led on:
"We draw blood using a magical method. The procedure is completely painless: the beast doesn't even feel it. Done every few months. This blood is used in regeneration and resistance potions. In rituals, it serves as a binding component. Alchemists especially value it for its versatility."
We approached a massive stone building with an iron door. The air around was heavier, and I already guessed what kind of place this was.
"This is the processing room," Matthias's voice became quieter. "Old specimens that can neither fly nor reproduce are brought here. Their death becomes part of the cycle. We don't keep useless beasts. I think it's better for you not to enter for now."
"Mr. Matthias," I said firmly. "Father would want me to understand the entire farm's operation. Fully."
He frowned slightly but nodded:
"If you insist…"
"I insist."
I stepped inside, and the smell of blood, heavy and metallic, mixed with the aroma of potions and dried herbs, hit my nose. On stone tables lay a carcass being worked on by two men. One — with a wand, the other — without. A Squib, I understood from the sensation. It also felt like Filch, or almost like him.
Filch had more magic, and although I couldn't yet sense others' magical channels, I intuitively understood the difference. Thoughts aside, it was worth noting how these two acted quickly and harmoniously. Every organ was a treasure, so they took everything carefully. One was currently extracting the eyes and placing them in crystal vessels. The other was opening the skull and removing the brain into a silver bowl.
"Hippogriff eyes," Matthias explained. "One of the most expensive components in these creatures' bodies. They are used in clairvoyance artifacts and far-sight potions. The brain — in memory rituals and concentration potions. The heart — a powerful catalyst in combat elixirs. The liver goes into blood purification potions."
He approached a separate table where white bones with scarlet traces on them already lay aside.
"And the bones are especially interesting. Sets for ornithomancy — divination by cracks — are made from them. An ancient practice, but still in demand. Some of our clients buy them ready-made specifically for this practice, bones exclusively for these purposes. Other clients use bones to create artifacts, sometimes even to enhance runic weavings."
We went back outside. The air seemed cleaner, but the scent of iron and blood still lingered. I took a deeper breath, dispelling the heaviness of the smell.
Matthias stopped, looked directly into my eyes:
"Understand, Mr. Malfoy. Here we don't just kill these creatures for no reason; like true hunters, we use every part of the slain body. Every claw, every feather, every drop of blood has a price. We don't keep a beast for a whim. Everything — for utility. This is what makes our Hippogriff Farm so valuable for your highly respected family. This is precisely why the hippogriff farm is one of the most reliable pillars and will remain so."
From the moment we entered the processing room until we exited, Matthias spoke as if he were justifying himself. He seemed to be testing me: whether I could handle it, whether I'd get scared, whether I'd start asking uncomfortable questions about morality. But although I preferred seeing these proud creatures alive, no resentment towards the family business or urges to free the hippogriffs came to me. It was all expected.
We are wizards, after all, meant to stand at the top of the food chain. In my previous world, I didn't become a vegan for the sake of "poor little cows," and I certainly wasn't going to play the humanist here. If the animals were tortured, I would have thought twice. But here, everything was set up to minimize suffering and extract benefit. In such matters, I am chillingly cold-blooded.
I met his gaze and nodded:
"I understand. It's all obvious. If the hippogriffs' bodies are so valuable, then there's no issue with this."
Matthias squinted, but respect flickered in his eyes. He finally stopped being nervous.
"Exactly! Mr. Malfoy, you are judicious even at such a young age."
By the end of the tour, I realized that more than two hours had passed. At the beginning, it seemed trivial: walk through the enclosures, listen to explanations. But time had flown by unnoticed. We went up to the tower, to the manager's office.
The room greeted us with the smell of parchment, wax, and old wood. Everything looked solid: heavy oak cabinets were bursting with journals and reports, diagrams and maps with marks of enclosures and warehouses hung on the walls. Above the manager's chair hung the family crest, embroidered in silver.
Father sat at the head of the table, a neat stack of parchments before him. Next to him, Straub, a thin wizard with a thin mustache, nervously sorted through scrolls.
"…supply from the Rhine is delayed," he spoke disjointedly. "And the blood in the last batch was a third less than expected. I suspect… dishonesty."
"Tighten control," Lucius interrupted calmly. His voice was even, but metal rang in it. "And double the checks. I do not intend to tolerate theft."
I sat a little to the side and did not interfere. In such moments, Father resembled a predator tearing its victim without haste but leaving it no chance. He gave orders, he did not discuss. Every word sounded like a decision, not a possibility.
I listened and understood: power rests not on shouting and threats, but on cold calculation and the confidence that you will be obeyed.
When the conversation about supplies and numbers had finally turned into a long list of problems, I decided to speak:
"Father," I said calmly but distinctly. "May I ride a hippogriff?"
He shifted his gaze to me. A second of silence. I saw how habit and reason argued within him. Under normal circumstances, he would have refused: too dangerous, too early. But it seemed he appreciated that I had been listening silently and patiently for two hours, without a single childish whim.
Lucius slightly raised his chin:
"Very well. But only under supervision."
I nodded, trying not to betray my joy with too wide a smile. Father had done me a small favor — and I intended to use it to the fullest. No matter how much I tried to deceive myself that I was no longer a child inside, in such moments I couldn't suppress childish desires and joy.
He leaned back in his chair and slowly ran his fingers over the silver handle of his cane, as if summing up:
"Straub," he said, his tone now heavy. "I leave my son in the care of your deputy. Let him help him mount a hippogriff. If the animal is calm and accepts him, I permit a short flight. But mind you: if anything happens to him… you will both answer. And you will not like the punishment."
The deputy noticeably paled and inclined his head slightly lower than a usual bow:
"Of course, sir. Everything will be fine."
"Oh, I am sure of it." Father cut him off and returned to the scrolls, as if already forgetting our conversation.