"A man who tells lies may hide the truth, but he remembers it. A man who tells half-lies forgets the truth entirely." - Lucius Malfoy



December 22nd

"That's ... expensive," said Draco, then hastily appended "Not unreasonable, just quite expensive."

Griphook sat across from Draco, in the table set up inside the Malfoy vault. He stared at the small boy and screwed his face into his closest approximation of a pleasant smile. It came across as predatory.

"You want these things, and you want them quickly," said Griphook. His eyes were staring at the cane on the table, completely ignoring the quill recording their words into Draco's journal. When he'd first entered the vault Griphook had inspected the journal with some interest. It was clearly powerful, but not made by Goblins. Unlike that Sigil of House Malfoy. Draco, trained by history and knowledgeable about the Goblin revolutions, wasn't surprised by this.

"Perhaps instead of paying so much up front I could return the items earlier?" Draco offered.

Griphook shook his head, "To create these items quickly requires expensive components and crafting. My already generous terms are a token of esteem. Your House has never reneged on a deal and always returns our creations in a timely manner."

Draco nodded. All prior deals were studiously recorded in the family history. Griphook's price - though steep - fell well within the typical range.

"Very well. You may take payment from my vault as of next week." There were no handshakes or contracts. Goblins worked on their word, and were truthful to it, if you understood the nuances. Draco knew exactly how much House Malfoy had driven the subjugation of the Goblin race and he suspected Griphook knew it, too. Griphook didn't like him, but knew that powerful people - of all races - played both sides from time to time.

Personal feelings aside, Griphook would profit from this deal. They both knew it, that was all that mattered.

Griphook, now acting as an employee of Gringotts instead of a personal broker, gave a small bow as he stood up. "Will there be anything else?"

Draco made a gesture with his wand, and the quill dropped to the table, still. He picked up his journal and examined the record.

"I will be down here for a few hours conducting my inventory and writing correspondence," said Draco. Griphook nodded. Clients often wrote inside their vaults for security. "Please send someone down an hour before closing, I wish to discuss issues of security. No, I have no doubts about the security of my vault, I wish to see if I can acquire some similar security measures elsewhere."

Griphook's eyebrows raised. "That would also be expensive, if allowed."

"Well, in that case I will talk to you about it. Oh, and as for our … arrangement. Please do not discuss it with me at any point. Simply send a letter when the items are ready and I will arrange to have them delivered."

If Griphook thought this an odd request, he gave no indication of it and merely said "As you prefer." Draco nodded and Griphook showed himself out, closing the vault door securely behind him. Draco finished reading the transcript, then picked up the nearby quill and wrote out:

As before, conceal this information until the appropriate time.

He had barely finished writing when the words reformed.

I again counsel against this course of action. It is too dangerous.

Draco considered this, particularly the word 'again.' How many times had it been? He didn't know, of course. That was the entire point.

It is dangerous, but not too dangerous. "And there are too many Legilimens around," he mumbled to himself. Draco put down the quill and the book journal shut abruptly, a chiding gesture Draco had learned to recognize. A minor petulant tantrum. Draco pulled out his wand, and scanned the vault, as if some master thief could breach Gringott's security and follow him here but be foolish enough to stand in plain sight. Draco chuckled as he steadied his wand, laughed at his own instinct, the useless caution. He took several deep breaths and lowered his head to the table then pointed the wand at his forehead, concentrating and then casting his spell. He felt his panic rise, wondered if it happened every time then cast his spell:

Obliviate

Draco put aside the formal letters, and glanced at his watch. He'd fallen asleep during his inventory of magical items, so it had taken far longer than he'd expected. He barely had half an hour left to finish his letters, and he'd been putting off this last one. He quickly filled out the cover letter, instructing his solicitor for the conditions of delivery. That was the easy part. After he finished that Draco pulled out a formal scroll, elegant, and dipped his quill into the ink.

To my friend Harry Potter,

I write you this letter on Winter Break inside Malfoy Vault, safe from any scrying. Here it will stay, hopefully never to be read, because I have left my solicitor instructions to deliver this letter if I die betraying you. I hope it does not come to that.

Draco sighed, dipped his quill into the ink, then continued writing.

December 23rd



Mundungus Fletcher shifted nervously in his booth, both hands cupped around his firewhiskey as though it would keep him warm. And safe.

"Don't fink I don't know Armageddon Robes when I see 'em. Good quality, too. Iff'n you want to sell it at some point..."

The figure hidden inside the Armageddon Robes sat, unmoving. There was a face inside it, but Mundungus couldn't see it. He saw nothing but the outline of the cloak. Most wizards say Armageddon Robes were forged by the same dark magic that allowed Dementors into the world, for the cloaks hid their wearers not by illusion but by fear. You could easily find out who it was just by pulling back the hood.

If you could overcome your fear.

It wasn't even that gripping of a fear. Nothing nearly as powerful as a Dementor. Just a cold chill. Most people could gather their resolve and pull back the hood. Few, except Aurors, would risk it in any case because wearing an Armageddon Robe advertised that you were up to no good and didn't want to be recognized. Armageddon Robers weren't a concealment, they were a threat. The real fear the robes inspired were that if you pulled them back, you'd face the wrath of a powerful wizard who may kill you on the spot. The figure in the robes slowly raised his right hand, wand pointing at Mundungus.

"Look, mate. No need fer all that. I ain't gassed nobody yet and you don't want me to know who you 'ar then I don't want to know. Mum didn't raise no fools."

The wand slowly lowered and the other hand slid a sheet of paper across. Mundungus picked it up, read it and blanched.

"I don' know who told you what, but I don't associate with those types. I just buy and sell. Them? They've no respect for the working stiffs like me. They'd as like to kill me iff'n I actually found them. Murderers. Wanted murderers, not just those who you hear rumours about. I just buy and sell." He gulped down his firewhiskey.

The figure slowly pushed across a sealed letter then placed a bag of Galleons on top of it. Mundungus stared at the bag greedily. "I'm not promising nuffin," he said as he picked them up and they disappeared into his sleeves.

Draco Malfoy, hidden by the Armageddon Robes he'd found during his inventory, smiled to himself and got up from the table.

Dec 26th, Boxing Day

Harry, Vince and Gregory all unwrapped their boxes and opened them. The remnants of their late lunch were still spread across the table.

"I got us all an identical set of dress robes," Draco said. He'd considered getting Harry some Noble robes as well, but that would leave Vincent and Gregory out. They all pulled on the robes. "These all have the extra enchantments that House Malfoy gets for their robes, to prevent staining, ripping or shredding. Basically, if these robes show any sign of damage, you probably won't be in any condition to care."

Vincent and Gregory saw Draco's small shudder.

"And they'll adjust in size as we do, of course. Very important for wizards our age."

Hermione opened the letter that had been left on her windowsill. The elegant writing, the red wax seal on the envelope, and the overall style marked the writer. Nobody else put much effort into their letters. Hermione looked around but didn't see Draco's owl on any of the nearby rooftops. She leaned out her window and whistled, and an answering hoot came. Hermione craned her head up and saw Tanaxu standing on the chimney. Owls apparently don't like sharing a room with a Phoenix. She pulled herself back into her bedroom and turned to Xare, "When did this letter arrive?"

"CAW!" Xare said, mixing the screech with the audio equivalent of a shrug. Phoenixes were wonderful, Hermione thought as she broke the seal, but didn't have any sense of time. Probably a side-effect of being immortal. Will I be the same, after a few hundred or thousand years, if I live that long? She looked inside the envelope. There was a card, and a small parchment poking out behind it. She pulled the card out and read it.

From Draco, son of Lucius, son also of Narcissa, scion and heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy:

To Hermione, daughter of Leo, daughter also of Roberta, Lady of the Noble House of Granger

I would be honoured if you would join me for a viewing of The Tragedy of Light at the Globe Theater on the evening of Tuesday, December 29th.

Draco

Hermione read the card several times. She thrilled at the thought of being invited on a formal date (instead of having to trick a boy into it). On the third reading she noticed that Draco had omitted most of his title, shortening it so that it matched Hermione's title in length. He'd also dropped most of the flourishes he used in formal correspondence. She wasn't sure, but she thought that Draco had used the bare minimum for politeness, trying to keep the tone informal and pleasant instead of stuffily aristocratic.

She put the card aside and read the parchment.

Hermione,

Please excuse the form of the invitation. There is a production of The Tragedy of Light I had been hoping to attend, and I though you would like to join me. I've enjoyed Muggle Movie Night and thought you might enjoy seeing a wizard's play, although I'll warn you not many Griffyndors like it. Some mild chaperoning will be involved, but it should be discrete. Please let me know by owl at your earliest convenience.

Draco

PS I'm embarrassed to admit that it would be easiest to travel by Phoenix, but I can make other arrangements if you prefer.

December 27th

Draco rounded the corner, jacket tightly wrapped about him against the winter cold. It was a touch under ten degrees, despite the sun shining brightly this afternoon, for once.

"Hey guys," he said. There was a small crowd of teenagers, mostly fifteen and sixteen years old, smoking in the alley off Picadilly Circus. They wore jackets, some leather but some just plain old winter coats. Underneath, Draco knew they'd be wearing T-shirts for various bands, but it was too cold.

"Tom!" said a Roger, a husky guy with black hair in small ringlets whose stubble of several days didn't make him look nearly as rough as he imagined. He tossed his cigarette down on the ground and came over and grabbed Draco in a bear hug. "They let you out of St. Brutus after all!" he said, laughing.

"Hey Roger," Draco said, "I brought my cousin. Hope that's ok?" Draco motioned back to the corner, and Robert nodded at them all. The groups joviality dropped slightly, which Draco had expected. After all, they had several years and half a foot on him, but Jugson was even older. "This is Robert."

Robert nodded curtly and said "Hi," while Draco went around the group. "Roger, Samantha but everyone calls her Sam, Dave, Mike." They all nodded, but Sam, the short red-head, seemed taken with Robert, which caused some hidden scowls.

"You a Felton, too, Robert?" Sam asked, blushing slightly.

Jugson wasn't comfortable around Muggles, and his discomfort showed, but he'd agreed to play along with Draco and his brief time spent in Professor Asimov's class had shown him the 'Draco Malfoy' was a name that would stand out in a crowd. Still, he'd quickly grasped the implication …. Draco had invented his Muggle persona before taking Muggle Studies. This had been part of Draco's test: to see if Robert Jugson would actually treat Muggles as equal and bite his tongue. Robert was of age, having turned seventeen last month, if he wanted to stun and obliviate this lot of Muggles there was nothing Draco could do about it.

"I'm a Jugson. My mum and Tom's mum are sisters." Robert shook hands and tried bumming a cigarette from Mike, a wiry lad who actually looked dangerous and had a spiderweb tattoo creeping up his neck. Mike just looked at Robert's outstretched fingers and raised eyebrow, then sighed and shook out a cigarette.

"You at St. Brutus' as well," asked Mike. Robert just laughed once and took a drag on the cigarette – a lighter had appeared in Sam's hands the instant he put it in his mouth."

"I'm thinking of not going back," Robert said. He didn't cough, just held the smoke and then released it. Draco wondered if that were a spell or if Robert actually smoked. Most of the older wizards had at least tried it. There was some small talk and Draco shucked off his jacket.

The small talk died as the group of Muggle watched Draco's shirt. It was a plain white tee shirt, with an outline of an Aztec sun, but as the watched the fabric changed colours to sparkling yellow and a rainbow background. There were gasps.

"How does it do that?" Roger asked.

"What am I, some egghead?" answered Draco lightly, then chuckled. "It's some chemical, reacts to sunlight. One of my relatives, he gave me this at Christmas." Draco's shirt brightened in the sunlight, and Draco tried not act cold. It actually wasn't that bad, but the wind was picking up. The glamour was a relatively minor one, the type that would be applied to robes, but the novel approach was mixing it with a sunlight trigger. Draco had gotten the idea from Harry's sunlight-capturing potion. Grindelwald – a master of Transfiguration – had been intrigued by the idea of robes that changed color in sunlight and had helped work out the formula.

"Wow!" said Mike, looking more interested than dangerous. "Where'd he buy it at?"

"They're pretty expensive," Draco said, "and I don't think you can buy them in London yet. Apparently the company mainly sells them on nice beach islands. My uncle knows a guy thinking of importing them. They'd be pretty pricey, maybe sixty pounds each."

"Oh, I'd definitely buy one," said Sam, "or nick one at least."

"Oh yeah," said Roger. "Definitely cool."

Draco stood in front of his fireplace, warming up.

"You see?" he said to Jugson. "They'd be popular."

"Yes, but it's violating the magical secrecy act," Robert said, but Draco could tell from his tone it wasn't a serious objection, just stating a fact.

"Well, we'll produce them in the Caribbean. They have the same laws, but are a bit more …. open to interpretation. Besides, these will sell much better in a beach climate. How often could you really wear sunlight powered shirts in this weather? But I don't think there's a serious risk. Those muggle's just think it's chemistry – which really is just another version of potions and Transfiguration – and for all we know Muggles may be able to do this. We'll do it magically at first, hire a few local wizards. Then we'll figure out a Muggle way later to increase production. We'll make these shirts and sell them for an obscene amount of money to tourists."

"Muggle money, but yeah. So what do you need me for?"

"I'm going to stay in school, but I want to start this right away. You go out to the Caribbean handle day-to-day operations and also be the muggle expert in the company."

"What, me?" said Robert.

"We're going to have to hire a lot of Muggle bankers and lawyers to make sure that nobody catches on. I'll assist with that as best I can, I can do that while at school. And someone has to be the public face of the company. Between the two of you, you are most up to date on Muggles."

"Two," said Robert blankly as the footsteps started coming down the stairs.

"Yes. Our third partner. Robert Jugson, I'd like you to meet Gellert Grindelwald."

Author's Note – The quote from Lucius is a modification of the famous quote from Lawrence of Arabia (the movie).

Del Sol was publicly founded in 1994, according to the Muggle Wikipedia.