Chapter 62 .
"I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse."
— The Godfather
In his previous life, Malfoy had daydreamed about one day earning the right to say that legendary line.
He imagined it happening in a gleaming business conference room when he was older—leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled, knowing his opponent's bottom line and presenting a contract so irresistible it forced surrender.
Or perhaps whispering it after confessing to the girl he liked—having already transformed himself into the ideal version of her dreams.
Of course, all of that had remained nothing more than childish fantasies.
He never expected the first time he actually used the line would be here.
Today.
In a damp, miserable room.
And the target wasn't a business titan or a goddess of his youth—but a revolting goblin.
"I can offer you a deal you can't possibly refuse," he said calmly.
"Impossible. A goblin's honor cannot be shaken by a few gold coins."
The room was gloomy and wet—humid enough that every breath felt like drinking lukewarm water.
A battered wooden table sat crookedly in the center, its legs splitting with tiny cracks. On top were a few empty liquor bottles and a plate of stale, unappetizing sweets.
If someone walked in, they would first see a pale blond boy sitting on the left side of the table, a plain leather bag slung across his body. And across from him, perched stiffly on a stool, sat a "person" whose appearance was anything but human.
Anyone with the slightest knowledge would recognize him instantly: an ugly, sharp-featured creature with large ears and a hooked nose—
A goblin.
The goblin continued in a raspy voice,
"Young Master Malfoy, we at Gringotts were… pleased that you deigned to intern with us this year. However, what you're doing now deviates dangerously close to criminal activity. Even if you are underage, I doubt your esteemed father would wish to see his proud heir violating wizarding law."
He paused, his small eyes narrowing.
"With the Malfoy family's wealth—and your father's affection—there's virtually nothing you cannot obtain. Why covet what belongs to others? If you leave now, I can still pretend this never happened."
"Oh, Mr pulring," Malfoy replied lightly, "goblin honor? You really say that so easily."
He raised an eyebrow in mock surprise.
"Yet Father's old account books show you weren't always so… spotless."
"He burned those in front of me!" Pulring screeched.
His face twisted like a kicked stray cat, wrinkles folding over his already bulging eyes. It somehow made him even uglier.
"So there was something," Malfoy murmured, stroking his chin, amusement flickering in his eyes.
Pulring's composure cracked. His arrogance evaporated. All polite titles disappeared from his voice, replaced with blunt hostility.
"What are you trying to do?" he demanded. There was no more attempt to flatter him—only sharp suspicion. If earlier the goblin had pretended to treat Malfoy with respect, now he was assessing him as a threat.
"I already told you," Malfoy said, tapping his knuckles lightly against the grimy table. "This is just a transaction. I'm offering a condition you cannot refuse."
"Oh?"
Pulring's curiosity slipped past his caution.
As a Gringotts employee—and one working for a monopolistic bank—his official benefits were already excellent. And the "unofficial" ones were even better.
Gold was always welcome, but no pile of coins was enough to make him risk Azkaban.
Not unless the stakes were extraordinary.
Which was exactly why he wanted to know what gave this boy such confidence.
"I think," Malfoy said smoothly, "you should inspect the merchandise first."
He took the leather bag from his shoulder and slid it across the table toward the goblin.
Pulring prided himself on being unshakeable. He had spent years in Gringotts, surrounded by treasures and rare magical artifacts that could make even seasoned wizards tremble. The Philosopher's Stone itself had once rested within these vaults. He thought he'd grown numb to astonishment.
But when he opened the bag—
His breath caught.
Inside lay Gryffindor's Sword.
His red eyes ignited instantly with an old, dangerous greed. If he could, he would have knocked the boy unconscious and reclaimed the priceless masterpiece forged by legendary goblin smiths.
Goblins crafted silverwork that could repel dust on its own, and the centuries-old blade gleamed as though freshly made—silver light dancing along its surface, a massive ruby crowning the hilt above intricate engravings.
When Pulring lifted it fully, the dim room seemed to flare alive, as if opening a bright, ancient eye.
"Lo—"
Pulring's excitement tripped over itself, but before he could form words, Malfoy cut him off.
"Despicable human wizards," Malfoy sneered, imitating the goblin tone perfectly.
"This sword was clearly loaned to you by our ancestors, and yet you shamelessly kept it. Centuries have passed—it is time to return it to its rightful owners."
Malfoy gave him a look dripping with contempt.
"I'm pretty sure I've expressed everything you wanted to say."
Then—before Pulring could blink—Malfoy snatched the sword back, slid it smoothly into the bag, and closed it.
The goblin froze.
His anger surged—red face, trembling hands—but the verbal assault had taken the words from his mouth.
Helpless fury.
The kind that came when one could not change reality.
Silence thickened like wet cloth.
Finally, Pulring rasped out a hoarse question—his voice like a rusty saw grinding through rotten wood.
"Fine. What do you want? Whose vault are you after? I can cover your tracks… but prepare to be caught. If you fall, I fall. Azkaban for both of us."
His tone was unexpectedly level now.
To reclaim the sword, he was willing to bend.
Because this was, indeed, a condition he couldn't refuse.
Not that he didn't consider taking it by force. But decades of office life had weakened him; he no longer had the sharp strength of his youth.
He couldn't take the risk.
Malfoy looked at the humbled goblin and laughed softly.
"Who said I'm interested in petty riches?" he asked. His pale eyes bored directly into Tab's.
"My goal…"
He paused, leaning forward, voice cold and precise.
"…is revenge."