Draco Malfoy had never been the sort to bury his nose in books for long. At Malfoy Manor, studying had always been about pride and appearances. "Do it for the Malfoy name," Lucius would remind him, pacing the library like a general surveying his troops. And Draco obeyed, though without heart. He studied just enough to satisfy expectations, never because he wanted to.
But now things had changed.
The dream of building a magical television network—one that would bring moving pictures, storytelling, and news into every wizarding home—had sunk its claws deep into him. It wasn't about superiority anymore. It wasn't even about the Malfoy name. It was about a vision. He wanted to create something the wizarding world had never seen.
And so, when he sat at his desk now, bent over a tome of Ancient Runes and Their Practical Application, he did so willingly. His quill scratched feverishly across parchment, his pale face creased with concentration.
From the doorway, Narcissa Malfoy watched him quietly. Her son, who had once scoffed at homework, now sat absorbed, muttering rune equations under his breath. Her heart softened at the sight. She stepped closer, her heels clicking lightly against the polished stone floor.
"Draco," she said softly, almost afraid to disturb him.
He looked up, blinking. "Mother?"
"You've been at this for hours." She reached out, gently moving a strand of hair from his forehead. "I don't think I've ever seen you study this hard—not even before your father pushed you to impress his colleagues."
Draco straightened a little, pride flickering in his gray eyes. "It's different now. I'm not doing it for him. Or for the family name. I'm doing it for me. For… something bigger."
Narcissa tilted her head. "Bigger?"
He hesitated, but then his determination returned. "I'm going to change how the wizarding world sees itself. Muggleborns, half-bloods, purebloods—it doesn't matter. Imagine, Mother: a magical network, programs broadcast to every wizarding home. Stories, news, entertainment—all ours. Why should Muggles have it and not us?"
Narcissa was quiet, but her lips curved into a faint smile. "You sound like your aunt Andromeda when she was young—always speaking of change, of breaking old traditions. I never thought I'd hear something similar from you."
Draco flushed slightly but said nothing.
At Highlands Manor, Draco's resolve was put to the test daily. Hermione Granger was there often, and she was a force of nature.
In the massive library, she spread her books across a long oak table, parchment scattered everywhere. Draco sat opposite her, chin propped on one hand, pretending not to be frustrated as she breezed through a complicated Arithmancy problem.
"See?" Hermione said, turning her parchment toward him. "If you align the runes like this, the enchantment amplifies itself without breaking. It's basic symmetry."
Draco groaned. "Basic? Merlin's beard, Granger, you make everything sound like a nursery rhyme."
She smirked. "Well, if you studied more—"
"I am studying!" Draco interrupted, waving his quill dramatically. "More than I ever have in my entire life. And still, you're miles ahead of me."
From a nearby armchair, Harry chuckled. He had his own stack of books, though his were less about runes and more about weapon forging and enchanting metals. "She's been like this since I met her," he said, his green eyes glinting behind his glasses. "Get used to it, Malfoy. Hermione doesn't do 'bare minimum.'"
Hermione preened at the compliment, and Draco scowled. But deep down, he felt something new—respect. Grudging at first, but real. She was better than him in nearly every subject, and that shattered years of lessons drilled into him about pureblood superiority.
Meanwhile, Harry had his own pursuits.
In a corner of the library, he had set up a small workbench enchanted to resemble a smithy. Sparks flew as he carefully tested an Asgardian forging technique on wizarding steel. The sound of hammering echoed faintly, though softened by wards to protect the books around him.
Draco glanced over, curious. "You know, Potter, you could help us with runes and Arithmancy instead of playing blacksmith."
Harry grinned, not looking up from his work. "I am helping. One day, you'll need enchanted tools, frames, maybe even a broadcasting device for your magical network. Who do you think will make them? Besides, smithing feels… right. Like I'm shaping more than metal."
Hermione leaned forward, fascinated. "Asgardian methods must be incredible. Does your forge let you weave spells into the metal itself?"
Harry nodded. "Exactly. Every strike of the hammer pushes magic deeper. Weapons, armor, even simple objects—they last centuries. I want to bring that here."
Draco scoffed, though not unkindly. "So, Granger and I will bring the stories, and you'll bring the swords. Typical."
Harry smirked. "Every team needs balance."
Later that evening, after hours of study, Hermione stretched and yawned. "I should go home soon. Mum and Dad will worry."
Draco glanced at her, reluctant. "Same time tomorrow?"
Hermione nodded eagerly. "Of course. I think we're close to a breakthrough with the broadcasting charm."
As she packed her books, Draco lingered, tapping his quill against his parchment. He finally blurted, "Granger… don't tell anyone about this.."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Afraid your old friends make fun of you, working with muggleborn?"
Draco flushed. "It's not that. This… project, it's ours. I don't want anyone ruining it before we even start."
Hermione studied him for a moment, then softened. "All right. But you'd better keep up with me, Malfoy. No slacking."
Draco smirked, though his eyes were serious. "I'll keep up. I promise."
From his workbench, Harry watched them with quiet satisfaction. His plan was working. Draco was no longer just a Malfoy clinging to old prejudices. He was becoming something else—something better.
Narcissa Malfoy stood frozen at the neat little gate, staring at the modest Tonks household. It wasn't like the sprawling Malfoy Manor, with peacocks on the lawn and wards humming in the air. This was simpler, warmer, and somehow more intimidating. She smoothed her elegant robes for the fifth time, but her hands still trembled.
It was Sirius who had convinced her: "You can't hide behind Lucius forever. Andy's your sister. You loved her once. Stop letting pride keep you apart."
Now, with Lucius gone and her political allies evaporating, she had no excuses left. But fear gnawed at her. What if Andromeda slammed the door in her face? What if she refused to listen?
"Mother," Draco muttered impatiently, clutching a book under his arm. His gray eyes darted around the quiet street. "Are we going in or standing here all day? I was in the middle of something important when you dragged me here."
Narcissa gave him a sharp look. "Manners, Draco. This isn't about you. This is about family."
Draco huffed but knocked on the door when his mother hesitated.
Moments later, the door swung open. Andromeda Tonks stood framed in the doorway, her dark hair streaked with silver, her eyes widening in surprise. For a long moment, silence hung between the sisters.
Then Andromeda's lips curved into the smallest, warmest smile. "Cissy," she said softly, her voice carrying both disbelief and warmth.
Narcissa's composure cracked; her eyes filled with tears she hadn't allowed herself to shed in decades. "Andy…"
Andromeda stepped aside. "Come in. Both of you."
Draco blinked. He hadn't expected such a warm welcome after all the stories of family estrangement. But he followed his mother inside, glancing curiously at the cozy home filled with strange trinkets and books. It was nothing like the Malfoy Manor—but it felt lived in, real.
The sitting room was modest, with floral curtains and a faint scent of tea and herbs. On the mantel sat family photographs: Andromeda, her husband Ted Tonks, and their daughter Nymphadora in various stages of childhood. One picture showed Nymphadora waving proudly in Auror robes.
Narcissa's throat tightened. She lowered herself into an armchair, smoothing her robes again. "It's been… far too long."
Andromeda poured tea with calm grace. "It has. But you came, and that means something." She set a cup in front of her sister. "Lucius would never have allowed this, would he?"
Narcissa's voice faltered. "No. He wouldn't. But Lucius… isn't here anymore." She glanced down at her hands, then met her sister's gaze. "I've missed you, Andy. More than I can say."
Andromeda studied her carefully. "You always cared for appearances, Cissy. And yet, here you are. What's changed?"
Before Narcissa could answer, Draco shifted in his seat. "Father's disappearance changed everything. No one wants to talk to us anymore. Even at the Ministry's ball, no one would come near me unless it was to whisper." He scowled, then added, "And Mother says… family matters again."
Andromeda raised a brow. "And do you believe that, Draco?"
Draco looked away, uncomfortable. "…I'm trying to."
The sisters shared a long look, and for the first time in decades, there was understanding rather than distance between them.
Draco Malfoy sat stiffly at first on the couch in Andromeda's modest sitting room, his pale eyes darting about the décor with the mixture of curiosity and disdain typical of a pureblood boy raised in wealth. The thing that really caught his attention, however, was the black box against the wall with its glass front.
Andromeda followed his gaze and smiled knowingly. "That's called a television, Draco. A Muggle device. It shows you moving pictures and stories. Quite clever, really. Let me show you—"?"
"Don't bother," Draco interrupted with sudden confidence, standing up. He reached behind the set, found the power cable, and slotted it into the plug with ease. The machine hummed to life, startling Andromeda. She blinked in shock as Draco picked up the remote control, flicked through the buttons until the screen lit up, and began changing channels like he had done it for years.
"What on earth—?" Andromeda turned to Narcissa, who was equally surprised.
Narcissa gave a small, resigned sigh. "Draco is… different now. Ever since we reconnected with Sirius, he's been running about the Muggle world. He even has a—" She stopped herself, but the word slipped out anyway, "—a Mudblood friend."
"Mother!" Draco shouted indignantly, not even taking his eyes off the flashing screen. "Don't call Hermione that!."
Narcissa looked abashed, muttering, "Old habits…" and shook her head.
Andromeda's lips twitched with approval as she guided her sister out of the room. "Come, Cissy. We have things to talk about."
Left alone, Draco sank into the couch, utterly absorbed. The television was showing a football match—two Muggle teams racing across a grassy pitch, kicking a ball while the crowd roared. The energy of it stunned him.
His mind began racing. If Muggles can broadcast this to thousands of homes at once… why not Quidditch?
He pictured it: families gathered in their sitting rooms with butterbeer and snacks, cheering for their favorite teams as the Chasers sped after the Quaffle, zooming in on the Seeker's tense chase, replays of Bludgers slamming into Beaters, commentary woven into the air itself.
Not everyone can get World Cup tickets. But what if everyone could see it, live, from home?
The idea planted itself firmly. Draco Malfoy began to imagine himself not as a politician like his father, but as the founder of something revolutionary—magical television.
"Legendary…" he whispered under his breath, eyes alight as the crowd on the screen cheered.
Draco's eyes caught on the many framed photographs scattered across the walls and shelves. They were all of the same girl—Nymphadora Tonks. Some showed her as a little child with crooked pigtails, others as a teenager pulling faces, her features shifting as if the picture itself couldn't settle on one form. One moment she had bubblegum-pink hair, the next jet black; sometimes her nose stretched long and sharp like a hawk's beak, sometimes her chin jutted comically.
Draco tilted his head, fascinated. He had heard of Harry's friend "Tonks"—the clumsy but cheerful girl who came to his birthday celebration—but seeing these images was something else entirely.
"That's… metamorphmagus ability," he murmured. He had studied enough of his family's history to know what it meant. It was a Black family trait, rare and coveted, passed down in the blood centuries ago. But it hadn't appeared in generations. Not in his line, not in Bellatrix's, not even in his own mother's. Five generations without a spark. Yet here was Aunt Andromeda's daughter, born of a Black mother and a Muggle-born father, casually bending her features as though it were nothing.
Later, when Draco shared what he'd seen with Harry at Highlands Manor, Harry leaned back in his chair, thinking deeply.
"So let me get this straight," Harry said, twirling a quill in his fingers. "No pure-blood Black in five generations showed that ability, but Andromeda—who married a Muggle-born—has a daughter who does?"
"Yes," Draco admitted, though he sounded reluctant, like the words tasted sour in his mouth. "And everyone in my family used to say Andromeda was a disgrace. A traitor. But if she's the only one whose child inherited a family gift… what does that make the rest of us?"
Harry smirked faintly. "Maybe it means your whole obsession with pure bloodlines is wrong. Think of it like… batteries."
Draco blinked. "Batteries?"
"Yes," Harry continued, eyes gleaming with amusement. "If you keep using the same old battery over and over, it runs down. No power. But if you put in a fresh one, suddenly the remote works again. Maybe bloodlines are like that. Too much inbreeding makes the magic weaker. Add in someone new, someone different, and the old abilities spark back to life."
Draco frowned, but he couldn't shake the logic. "You're saying… marrying other pure-bloods might actually be killing our old gifts?"
Harry shrugged. "You saw Tonks in those pictures, didn't you? She's proof enough. A Muggle-born father gave her more magic than five generations of pure-blood breeding."
Draco didn't argue further, but he mulled it over long into the night. His father had always lectured him on the superiority of pure blood, on how Muggle-borns weakened the magical world. But if that were true, why was Tonks stronger in a Black family ability than any of the so-called "superior" pure-bloods?
It unsettled him, but it also lit a spark. Perhaps the foundations of pure-blood ideology weren't as unshakable as he'd been told. And for Draco Malfoy, heir to a name built on that very ideology, such a realization could change everything.
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