Hermione Granger stood in the midst of Diagon Alley, scowling. She craned her neck painfully and squinted, getting a view of the new and irritatingly large building that towered above her. The building in itself was quite simple: its face a shiny metallic black, its shape plain and rectangular. It seemed to stretch for miles into the clear sky. There was no sign, no name, no title on the building.
But if one looked closely enough, stepped a few feet forward, they would see it, clear as day: the Malfoy family crest.
It taunted her from its location on the large, eloquent doors of the building's entrance. Its mere presence deepened her scowl.
It had taken several weeks to build, even at the hands of skilled wizards and witches, and finally appeared about ready for business. She had heard fleeting whispers, constant rumors circulating about the new Malfoy office location, which irritated Hermione to no end. She'd chosen to brush said rumors off, cross her fingers, and pray to Merlin the gossip was just gossip.
Clearly, Merlin was against her today.
She glanced to her left, to the infinitely smaller building neighboring Malfoy's, and felt her lips turn into a slight frown. This building looked pathetic contrasting to the immaculate and modern one beside it—it was terribly short and stout, its coloring old and peeling, the weakening frame looking mere seconds from deteriorating. Its name, once bold and gallant, now dismally displayed the title of her very own business: S.P.E.W.
Hermione sighed, allowing herself a second of self-pity at the sad sight. It wasn't as if she wanted her business to deteriorate before her very own eyes as she stood idly by. It was just that—unfortunately, for the time being—business wasn't going so well. Her time, energy, and money was spent directed at mistreated house elves and other impoverished magical beings, and the superficiality of the outward appearance of her business was the last item on her list of things to care about.
She still remained self-conscious of it, at the very least, and the sudden appearance of Malfoy's new business location—quite literally right beside hers—tripled that feeling ten-fold. As if she didn't already have enough reason to loathe the man.
It had been six years since the war, six years since the fall of Voldemort and those who followed him. Six years since the death of Malfoy's parents. Six years since their only son proclaimed neutrality, getting off scotch-free as an unfortunate bystander to a myriad of horrendous crimes.
Hermione scoffed to herself. Right. Bystander.
Somehow, someway, Malfoy had managed to convince the Wizarding society of his repentance and began clearing his name, which had been dragged through the mud for so long she was sure he'd never stand a chance. But he had worked, year after year and without fail, on creating his own successful line of businesses that eventually spread across Wizarding communities throughout Northern and Western Europe. It appeared he had saved the best location for last: magical London.
How Draco Malfoy had managed to usurp her over the years, she had no idea. And at such a young age, too. Because of what, a bunch of bloody little buildings? Okay, fine, they weren't exactly little. And she wasn't even sure what he did exactly, nor did she care to find out.
Regardless, it made her blood boil in the most retched way, and the tiniest hint of jealousy at his success seemed to surface from behind the thin veil of irritation. Hermione pushed it aside. No need to be jealous of the likes of him. At least she had upheld her morals, worked hard for a worthy cause, and didn't resort to a scummy, slimy corporal business in order to make a living for herself.
Deciding she had spent enough time fuming over a stupid building, and gaining strange looks from wizards and witches that passed around her, she huffed and finally stalked over to her own place of business. His first official day here and he had her quite riled up already, and she hadn't even seen him yet.
Hermione found herself praying to Merlin once more that it would remain that way.
But, in a dreadful state of foreboding, she sensed her prayers were futile.
"Quite an interesting location for your new division."
Draco Malfoy stood facing south wall of his office, elegant hands tucked away into the pockets of his crisp black trousers. The wall, made completely of thick glass, overlooked the bustling herds of shoppers below. He stared down at them from the highest floor of the building.
"Last time I checked, Blaise, Diagon Alley was far from interesting," Draco drawled impassively, not bothering to turn around and face the intruder.
Draco could practically feel Zabini rolling his eyes. "You know what I mean."
Draco turned then, hands still in his pockets, his expression unreadable as he glared at his fellow Slytherin. "No. I'm not quite sure I do."
Blaise's dark eyes assessed Draco, quite accustomed to his detached demeanor. A decade of friendship—if one could even call it that—did that to you. "I saw her today," Blaise continued without preamble.
"Saw whom, may I ask?" Draco drawled once more, managing to somehow sound bored with their conversation.
"Oh, come off it, will you?" Blaise snapped impatiently. "She was standing right outside, practically staring daggers at the place. But you knew that already, didn't you?"
Draco's expressionless mask slowly transformed into his signature smirk. He didn't respond, turning towards the window once more. Blaise frowned at his back.
"Hurting her won't help, you know," he tried wearily. He hesitated at his next statement. "It won't bring them back."
Blaise noticed Draco stiffen just slightly, but chose to ignore the several passing moments of heavy tension. "I've got work to do, Blaise," he replied eventually, his cold exterior appearing once more.
Blaise knew he was dismissed.