"If I pulled out this quill at Hogwarts, I'd probably get a lot of jealous looks."
Perhaps influenced by Narcissa, Malfoy stared at the Thunderbird quill, lost in thought.
Almost instinctively, he thought of that scar-headed boy with the Firebolt.
The Firebolt was right there in a shop window—anyone with enough money could buy it. But a Thunderbird quill was different. That kind of item had long been banned. Even if that Scarhead now had a wealthy godfather, there was no way he could get his hands on one of these.
And as for his tag-along, Weasley—he'd never be able to afford one in his entire life.
Wait, no.
Malfoy shook his head, suddenly remembering that he'd already been expelled from school. He probably wouldn't see that Scarhead or his sidekick ever again—and even if he did, it would be on a battlefield.
Good... Hopefully that day would come soon, so he could finally do what he'd been wanting to for so long... torment them to his heart's content.
"There's nothing good here. Let's go back," Malfoy said dully.
"Alright." Narcissa, of course, had no objection and reached out to take the Thunderbird quill.
"Mum, what are you doing?"
"Don't you want to buy it?" Narcissa asked.
"No," Malfoy blurted. "Why would I spend money on something I'll never use?"
"You'll find a use for it eventually," Narcissa said after a pause. "Even if it's just for writing…"
"You... whatever." As if in a daze, Malfoy didn't argue. He simply took the quill and walked quietly to the counter.
"How much is it?"
"Thirty Galleons," Kyle said with a smile.
"How much?" Malfoy's voice jumped. "Thirty Galleons? Are you mad? It's just a quill!
At the Quill Shop, even the finest Fwooper quills only cost one Galleon!"
"This is a Thunderbird feather," Kyle reminded him. "Even sold to an alchemist, it would fetch twenty Galleons."
"That still leaves ten."
"Craftsmanship," Kyle said calmly. "Handmade using an ancient technique passed down for over a century. It's nothing like the mass-produced ones on the market. This is a real mark of status."
"Madam..." Kyle looked at Narcissa and said mildly, "I'm sure you can tell."
Narcissa raised an eyebrow.
Could she? No, she couldn't. Honestly, who cared about the craftsmanship of a quill?
And she, too, thought thirty Galleons for a quill was a bit much.
But thinking of how Draco had just been staring at it so intently, she cleared her throat.
"The craftsmanship is... average, barely passable. We'll take it."
"Mum?" Malfoy turned, shocked.
The Malfoys had money, sure, but spending thirty Galleons on a quill still felt excessive to him.
Sure, a Thunderbird feather might be worth twenty Galleons, but that only applied to the best ones from the wings—not just any feather. And once it was made into a quill, it wouldn't resell for that kind of price anyway.
Besides, something about the shopkeeper's voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.
"It's alright, Draco. It's just thirty Galleons." Narcissa picked up a coral ornament and added haughtily, "With this too—how much altogether?"
"Two hundred Galleons," Kyle said with a grin. As Narcissa paid, he subtly flicked a torn piece of parchment into Malfoy's pocket with a light tap of his finger.
"Business can't be going well in here," Malfoy said snidely, unaware of Kyle's subtle move.
He still couldn't accept paying thirty Galleons for a quill.
Maybe a few years ago—before third year—he might have bought it. But now? He'd rather spend that money on a pure gold quill, and even that wouldn't cost thirty Galleons.
Faced with Malfoy's sarcasm, Kyle simply smiled and said nothing.
Narcissa, standing beside him, gently patted his shoulder.
"Don't say that, Draco." She poured a pile of Galleons onto the table, her smile oddly inscrutable. "We should admire the shopkeeper's courage—and his nerve."
"We'll be back."
"I look forward to your next visit, Madam."
Kyle smiled as he saw Narcissa and Draco out of the shop, then turned and gathered up the two hundred Galleons from the table.
It had to be the Malfoys. Maybe not as extravagant as he'd expected, but two hundred Galleons was still a lot—more than most shops made in a month.
But that wasn't the real gain. What really mattered was the secret intel Kyle had just gotten from Malfoy.
Lucius Malfoy was apparently heading to Cornwall soon with Barty Crouch Jr. and others, and had been told to bring a large sum of Galleons.
Now that was interesting. What would the Death Eaters be doing in Cornwall with that kind of money? They weren't going there to solve the housing crisis for wandering wizards, that's for sure.
Cornwall, tucked in the southernmost corner of England, surrounded on three sides by sea, was far enough from the Ministry to attract wizards who preferred not to follow the usual rules—or who had more questionable motives.
Eighty percent of them were already on the wanted list, and the remaining nineteen percent just hadn't been caught yet.
But they were good at hiding. With years of experience dodging Aurors, they always managed to slip through the cracks, leaving the Ministry helpless.
Fortunately, to protect themselves, the local wizards had grown fierce and combative—ruthless even. In many cases, they were more brutal than the people hunting them, creating a kind of delicate balance between both sides.
It was a bit like the relationship between Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley. Same area, clearly divided. You mind your business, I'll mind mine. Occasional scuffles, but mostly, they stayed out of each other's way.
The Death Eaters setting their sights there was no coincidence.
Recruiting?
Very likely. They'd just lost a bunch of people and needed to rebuild. And Cornwall's "Knockturn Alley" crowd happened to be just what they needed. That would also explain why they were bringing Galleons.
Voldemort's name might carry weight in Britain and even intimidate some nearby countries, but not everyone was impressed—especially not foreign wizards. For them, Galleons spoke louder than a dark wizard's reputation.
Kyle tapped his fingers lightly on the table, considering whether he should go check things out himself. Honestly, he was rather curious about Cornwall. Even if he couldn't stop whatever the Death Eaters were planning, bringing back some local souvenirs wouldn't hurt.
Cornish Pixies were pretty famous in the wizarding world. Annoying little creatures, no real offensive power—but absolute experts at causing chaos.
"Sir…"
Just as Kyle was hesitating, Dobby crept in cautiously, his eyes darting nervously around the room. Only after confirming that Narcissa and Malfoy were truly gone did he finally breathe a sigh of relief.
It was clear he still hadn't recovered from the fright.
"No need to worry, Dobby. You're a free House-elf now," Kyle said, glancing at him. "Even if they had recognized you—which they didn't—so what? With me here, you've got nothing to fear from them."
"Yes, Dobby is a... free elf." Dobby puffed out his chest and marched forward with an air of pride.
Kyle looked past him and suddenly said, with all seriousness,
"Oh, Madam Narcissa. How lovely to see you again."
Dobby's knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor with a thud.
Instinctively, he scrambled up in a panic, spun around, and stammered, "Welcome... Welcome to... huh?"
When he stiffly raised his head, he saw only an empty doorway and a deserted street beyond. Not a soul in sight.
"Dobby, you still need a bit more practice," Kyle said with a laugh. "I should've left you out here just now. You'd have realized they're not nearly as scary as you think."
"Dobby... Dobby isn't afraid of them," the elf said stubbornly.
Kyle shrugged without commenting.
Though Dobby was certainly an oddity among House-elves, some things weren't so easily changed.
But there was no rush. One day, Dobby would be able to face the Malfoys without flinching.
First step...
"Dobby, next time Malfoy comes in, you'll be the one to serve him," Kyle said airily. "Whatever he buys, mark it up by at least thirty percent. You can go higher if you like. And whatever extra you make—that's your commission."
"N-No, I can't…" Dobby's legs went even weaker at that. But not because of Malfoy—because of the so-called commission.
Dobby knew these prices too well. Items started at ten Galleons, fifty wasn't uncommon, and some things sold for over a hundred. Even a tenth of that was too much for him—so much he didn't dare accept it.
He loved his current life. He liked the idea of being paid, but mostly for the experience. What scared him was taking too much and being sent away.
He didn't want to be sent away.
When he worked for Newt, he'd only asked for a single Galleon a week—and that was only because Tina insisted.
"It's fine. Trust me." Kyle looked him in the eye, his tone laced with quiet persuasion. "Just once—sell something to Malfoy at double the price. After that, you'll never be afraid of him again."
Dobby still shook his head, mumbling, "Sir, that… that's not right."
"It isn't," Kyle agreed with a smile, "but as long as no one finds out, there's no problem." He casually pulled out two Galleons and handed them over. "Almost forgot—this is your commission from earlier.
"Don't refuse. A free House-elf has to take his commission."
Dobby, who had been about to shake his head again, hesitated, then stepped forward and picked up the two heavy Galleons.
"There we go." Kyle nodded with a grin. "I'm not one of those shameless headmasters at Hogwarts."
Shameless? The headmasters at Hogwarts?
Dobby blinked in confusion. He had no idea what that meant.
Kyle didn't explain. He stood up and said, "I'm heading out for a bit. The shop's yours. Doesn't matter if you get any customers. Keep whatever commission you make… And as for Mr. Scamander, I'll talk to him."
"Yes, sir," Dobby replied.
Kyle left the shop.
According to Malfoy's memories, Lucius and Barty Crouch Jr. were set to leave for Cornwall the next day. But he didn't know the exact route or time.
No matter. He knew someone who might.
Kyle stepped into the Leaky Cauldron's fireplace, grabbed a handful of Floo Powder, threw it down, and called out, "Ministry of Magic!"
...
"Kyle, what brings you here?"
In the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, Mr. Weasley looked up in surprise as Kyle suddenly appeared. "Didn't Chris say you were traveling in France?"
"I was," Kyle replied. "But something came up, so I came back."
"But that's not important." He waved it off. "Mr. Weasley, I want to know what the Death Eaters have been up to lately."
"Death Eaters…" Mr. Weasley's expression turned serious. He quickly went to the door, peeked outside, and then shut it firmly.
"Why are you asking all of a sudden?"
"I've learned they might be planning something in Cornwall soon," Kyle said.
"Cornwall…" Mr. Weasley frowned slightly. "Are you sure?"
"Seventy percent," Kyle said after a pause.
After all, the information came from Draco—a peripheral figure—so he couldn't be certain of its accuracy.
"Where did you get this information?"
"From a Death Eater who hasn't completely gone bad," Kyle replied. "Whether or not his name can be revealed is up to Professor Dumbledore."
"Professor Dumbledore? I see." Mr. Weasley nodded knowingly at the name. "So he sent you, then?"
"Uh… more or less." Kyle gave a vague nod.
Dumbledore and Ariana had told him to act freely before they left. So in a way, it wasn't a lie... probably.
"If it's Death Eater activity you're after, I only know the basics. Alastor is the one who's got the real details," Mr. Weasley said, setting a gyroscope-like Sneakoscope on the desk before lowering his voice.
"All I know is that he's been tracking and watching Moben and Gillman. They've gone south."
"Moben? Gillman?"
"Also Death Eaters," Mr. Weasley explained. "They were active over ten years ago but slipped through a loophole in the trials. Now they've rejoined You-Know-Who's ranks."
"Alastor's been tailing them and has picked up quite a bit. But you know how he is—he won't tell us much. So we don't have the full picture."
"Any idea where they're headed?"
"Not exactly, but…" Mr. Weasley paused suddenly. "Kyle, you're not planning to cause trouble for the Death Eaters, are you?"
"Of course not…" Kyle waved it off. "I'm on holiday. Once I pass on the message, I'm off to France."
"Good." Mr. Weasley nodded, then continued, "The Whirlpool Lighthouse—that's what Alastor reported. We originally thought their target was in Devon."
…
The next morning was bright and sunny, with a hint of salt carried on the coastal breeze.
On a cluster of seaside rocks stood a long-faded lighthouse. Beneath it, two figures in black hoods waited anxiously.
Before long, the air shimmered, and several similarly dressed figures appeared out of thin air nearby.
"Moben," the lead figure said in a low voice, "how did it go?"
"Don't worry, Barty. Gillman is still keeping that Auror busy, leading him in circles around Devon. Those filthy Order of the Phoenix bugs would never suspect that our real target is the wizards in Cornwall."
"It had better be... just like that." The speaker pulled back his hood, revealing a youthful yet unnaturally pale face.
As he spoke, he kept flicking out his tongue, like a snake tasting the air.
But for a wizard, such a habit looked not only bizarre, but faintly repulsive.
Still, no one present seemed the least bit surprised. Even if someone found it unsettling, none dared to show it.
"Moben, you've already disappointed the Dark Lord once," said Barty Crouch Jr., fixing his gaze on the Death Eater. "I trust you won't do so a second time—will you?"
"Of course not. Never again," Moben replied quickly, wiping the cold sweat from his brow.
"Good. Let's move out," Barty Crouch Jr. said.
Two Death Eaters immediately stepped forward and raised their wands toward the lighthouse.
No one could say what spell they cast, but the lighthouse suddenly cracked open down the middle, revealing a dark, deep passage beneath it.
Barty Crouch Jr. was the first to descend, followed by Moben and the others.
As the last Death Eater stepped into the tunnel, a faint footprint appeared behind him. But his attention was fixed on the black void ahead, and he didn't notice a thing.
Moments later, the passage sealed shut, and the lighthouse returned to its original form.