Draco hated Tuesdays.
He reached for the wand on his bedside table, attempting to Silencio the banshee-esque screech which was currently emanating from his alarm clock.
6:00AM
Draco's eyes glowered at the clock. Just once.. Just once.. he'd like to sleep in past eight. He groaned as the sound grew louder.
It took a small battle of wits between his brain and his wrist.. but he eventually got the two to co-operate enough to turn the blasted thing off.
Tuesdays always started off the same as any other day. The Same sun peaking over the horizon, piercing its way into his bedroom window. The Same blasted alarm clock screeching and cursing at him, in that same god awful tone as the day before.
And...
The same 'rap tap tap' on his door as Fletcher, his butler/house elf, came in to rouse him from his slumber.
Every morning Fletcher stood there at the edge of Draco's bed, wished him a good morning, and listed off the days planned activities and events in monotone.
His life had become a barrage of board meetings, client meetings, garden outings, luncheons, cocktail events, contracts, and formalities. Fletcher's little morning routine had become a necessity to keep track of it all.
Fletcher was not your typical elf. He had a very sophisticated, no nonsense, and slightly snobbish air about him. Though never one to question his master's authority, his tone was on occasion condescending and oft laced with sarcasm. A copper monocle was perched upon his right eye, chest out, chin up, he was proud of his position as head elf at Malfoy Manor. A fine specimen of house elf indeed.
Draco rather liked the little bastard, despite himself.
He forced himself to sit up in bed as a second elf brought him his morning coffee: black, just as he preferred it.
Sipping at it slowly, he scratched at his bare chest. Several Scars apparent even 5 years after the war had ended. Some scars more visible than others.
After he grazed his chest with his left hand... the same fingers found themselves rummaging through his frosty blonde hair, which.. when not gelled back or painstakingly straightened, took on a much more natural appearance.
In fact, Draco appeared down-right rugged this morning.
So, there he sat, hair tousled, as a third elf entered the bed-chamber to hand him a copy of the daily prophet.
Skimming through the pages and catching up with the latest quiddich scores, Fletcher reminded him of the 5 various meetings he was to attend this morning, all before the clock struck noon.
Draco yawned.
"..then at 12:30pm you will be having Lunch with your mother in the Gardens, as promised by you yesterday.." the small elf quirked an eyebrow "this is of course after having 'forgotten' to attend her dinner party the night before" Fletcher paused and gave the young master a knowing look and coughed rather loudly.
Draco had most certainly not 'forgotten' about the party... he simply didn't wish to attend another one of his mother's boring matchmaking events. She threw a dinner at least twice a month, and... despite specifically pointing out that all of the woman she had tried to charm him with, were merely money-grubbing half-wits, with noticeable breast enhancement enchantments; she insisted that Draco was just being stubborn and needed to go on at least 1 date before casting complete judgment on the poor girls. She of course wanted grandchildren, and grandchildren did not simply pop out of thin air, as she took every possible opportunity on Earth to remind him.
'Sigh' Yes, he'd have to attend lunch today. Hopefully she would not have had enough time to invite another potential 'candidate' to join them since his dinner cancellation yesterday.
"Ahem... where was I?" Fletcher had obviously given the young master a moment to note the snide cough he had previously delivered.
Cheeky little thing.
"Oh yes, lunch...followed by your weekly meeting at the ministry at 1:30pm..."
Here it comes... the real reason why Tuesdays seemed to suck the joy from Draco's lungs like a bleeding Dementor's Kiss.
"This week's agenda features: A Possibly contaminated batch of Floo Powder shipped in from France last Saturday, Marlworfs and their potential for use in the medical field, another attempt on the ministry's part to tackle the ongoing drama revolving around the sale and acquisition of Unicorn hair, and lastly some nonsense about the recent attacks on muggle born citizens around the country, and whether or not you are involved."
Draco rolled his eyes. Being a former death-eater really had its down sides.
The Slytherin with-in him was a survivor, and immediately after the high courts had sentenced his father to death, and granted he and his mother full pardon, he took it upon himself to guarantee his family's survival.
Draco became the head of the family when his father died, and as such, inherited the Malfoy Family Fortune. The vast empire that was Malfoy, a network of companies and real estate within the wizarding world (worth more galleons than half the wizarding world made in a lifetime), was threatening to collapse. After the war, no one wanted to be associated with the Malfoy name. Not that this surprised Draco, but it was indeed a burden set upon his shoulders. One that Draco was determined to correct.
It was up to Draco to salvage his inheritance, swallow his pride, and re-invent himself ( at least from a PR standpoint ), in order to keep his family's name in power.
He donated to charity's helping the families of Muggle born witches and wizards that were injured or killed during the war.
His behavior at public events (which he forced himself to attend for good publicity...) was civil and courteous. "An absolute Gentlemen", as 'Business & Broomsticks' magazine had proclaimed. This was of course not long after he schmoozed with the editor-in-chief (a half blood herself), over tea and sandwiches
He was charming, and knew how to dazzle his way around a crowd. Slytherin's were after all known for their snake like charm and wit.
He openly apologized to the wizarding world at a press conference not long after the war had ended, and opened the door for the first time in Malfoy history to Muggle-born investors and business partners world-wide.
His father would have died, had he not been dead already.
It took years of humble humility, thousands of galleons in donations, a mountain of Slytherin ambition, and some serious ass-kissing to re-build his family fortune, but eventually he found success.
He was once again among the most powerful and influential wizards of his time, and it only took him 5 years to accomplish this.
Draco was a brilliant business-man, truly a genius. After the hell he caused in his youth, after all the suffering he played part to, he still managed to win over public opinion.
The only thorn in his side was that as part of his release from all charges brought against him during the war, he would be forced to attend weekly meetings at the ministry to insure that he and his companies ran smoothly, fairly, and complied with all current magical law practices in Britain.
Every single Tuesday for as long as he could remember, he'd been forced to attend these awful meetings. The ministry was really one hot gigantic bureaucratic mess... and despite his initial protest, it was considered a mandatory event on his calendar. If he wished to keep his company in fine and legal standing within ministry guidelines in acordinance with Wizard law sector: 346 Alpha 7 first paragraph B12. 'ugh'...anyway... it was non-negotiable, he would have to attend.
Draco's lip twitched at the thought, despite his efforts, he'd never be able to shake off his past.
"and lastly at 7pm: dinner with Whimbley and Chester Wintersbane, in an attempt to purchase their estate, and turn it into a bed and breakfast. I believe it notes here in your hand-scribble something about future site of Quiddich World Cup... and potential for great return".
Draco stood from his bed, his Coffee cup long since emptied and set on the bedside table.
He gave Fletcher a nod of dismissal and snapped his fingers twice.
Promptly, several elves apparated into the room with a popping sound. Each of them carrying articles of clothing for their handsome young master.
After a few pushups, a quick shower, and a moment in the mirror to slightly style his hair, he was ready to get dressed. Choosing to ignore his facial hair just this once in an attempt to further annoy his mother at lunch later in the day, he stepped out of the bathroom stark naked with all but a smirk on his face and began changing.
He put on a fine suit of darkest charcoal grey to give his eyes a powerful edge during today's business meetings. A crisp button up shirt of similar hue rested underneath the vest of his three piece suit. His tie was made of the finest silk money could buy, to both impress and intimidate his rivals, and his shoes pointed outward to accentuate the sharp angles of his face. He looked every bit the aristocrat he was raised to be. His nails were finely kept and trimmed, his hair immaculate, and his trademark smirk lined his face perfectly.
There was no stopping him today. He was oozing with confidence.
And with that, he apparated to his first appointment.
…...