- A.G. -

Draco Malfoy has always been a man of great pride.

I use the word "man," loosely, of course. While his face lost its roundness years ago, and I've grown accustomed to stubble along his chin, Draco's transition to adulthood has been anything but seamless. Though I can't – and don't – blame him for that. Maturity is a complex affair, and even more so during times of chaos.

War, as it turns out, is very chaotic.

Porcelain clinks as I set my teacup down, and let my eyes drift closed for a moment. It is silent, almost, and the lack of two senses heightens the fragrances that fill the dining hall. There are pastries within arm's reach, and they smell of butter and cinnamon; it is all I can do to keep from snatching one. The thought of a wedding dress contributes to my restraint.

My place in this manor is not traditional, but hell, these are not traditional times. Draco and I ought to have wed before I moved in. Really, we should have married by now regardless. But Narcissa and I both agreed it was best not to push Draco. The commitment makes him anxious, I suppose. It's hardly surprising: his last long term commitment, evidence of which is still seared into his forearm, ended horribly. I often tell myself that I find his hesitance refreshing, and that I will grow to value his caution. It's just that Draco is hardly cautious when it comes to anything else. Or it often seems that way.

Oxfords snap against the marble floor – I would recognize that tread anywhere.

"Draco!" My Draco. His posture is nearly perfect, though slightly skewed to the right. Pale blond hair smoothed into place, he's always been well groomed. He favors a dark collared shirt and black slacks, a wizard's cloak slung over his arm. His face is pallid, but it suits him.

I smile. "Did you sleep well?"

"I slept fine," he says. Gray eyes survey the table. "Is this breakfast?"

I shake my head. "Brunch," I tell him. He frowns. "Are you… Going out?"

Draco's in the investment business. This means long lunches at Britain's most extravagant restaurants. Three drinks minimum. He often returns home intoxicated; if it went well, the meeting was long, and they drank to celebrate. If it went poorly, he drowned his sorrows in firewhisky. Recently, failure has become the norm.

"Yeah. I'll be home—" he pauses, "later." Draco closes the distance between us, pressing his lips to my neck.

His movements are swift and definite, and he is out of the room before I can say goodbye. I wish him good luck just the same. My strained falsetto falls short in the stuffy atmosphere. The ventilation is awful.

"Kensy," I call for the house elf. "Open a window. I can hardly breathe in here."

- D.M. -

I was supposed to work at the Ministry. I stare at the building, now, and something that bears semblance to a sigh is building in my chest. But I don't care that much. In fact, this could be better; a future at the Ministry was always my family's plan. My father's plan. Astoria says – in that timid, artificial way, as if she'd only just thought of it – that I ought to be more involved in my own life.

At twenty-six-years-old, I guess it's not inaccurate. My position in the world bears little correlation to my intentions. Not that I was ever sure of what I intended, looking back. I wanted power and everything that came with it. It wasn't unfeasible. In fact, I'd say it was likely; I was the firstborn a Malfoy and a Black. Authority is in my blood and there has always been gold in my vault, and a lot of it.

Today, I'm not quite sure where I stand in the world. I know I'm not powerful, or not as powerful as I would like to be. But everyday people tell me that I'm fortunate. I could have been tossed into Azkaban with my dear old dad, and that thought should deter me, but it's too distant.

I am far more in tune with the grime of these streets. My lip curls at the smells, just as it has all my life, and I relish the degenerates around me.

I spot a boy – around the age of twelve and terribly sweaty. His gaze rises to meet mine; he seems uncertain. "Knockturn Alley," I drawl, "is not a place for children. You don't belong here."

He doesn't say anything, he only stares.

Rolling my eyes, I brush past him

I'm not sure where I'm headed because I'm not headed anywhere. I will walk until I'm tired of walking. (My schedule is horribly unpredictable. But Astoria is well aware of this. She wouldn't mind if I was late for supper.)

I'd been wandering along the cobblestone streets for a good half hour when a familiar voice exudes from the shadows. "Malfoy?" It says, tone incredulous. A dark figure follows suit.

I blink. "Zabini. I thought you'd moved to France."

"Temporarily," corrects Blaise, but he doesn't provide any further details. Silence hangs between us, and I regard him tiredly. He looks the same, and I wonder how that's possible. I'd envy it, If I allowed myself to dwell on the matter.

His grin is lopsided, as always, though this time it's too much. If I didn't know better I'd think he was sneering. However, my presence does seem to excite him, and I must admit that he otherwise looks happy to see me. His surprise, however, is oddly lacking.

After a while, he says, "I didn't think I'd see you strutting around down here."

My lips twitch, and perhaps my enunciation is overzealous as I tell him: "I was not strutting."

Blaise laughs. "Never change, Malfoy. Do you want to get a drink? Catch up. It's been a while, you know."

"It has," I agree, but my voice is still stiff. I search Blaise's face for discomfort – if I was the praying type, I'd beg to Merlin for it. I leave him suspended, for a moment, before I continue. "I've got plans. Maybe some other time."

"What plans?"

So he intends to challenge me. How adorable. "Work," I say. "I have a meeting."

"Oh, what do you do?"

"I'm looking for investments, currently."

He nods, and I can't tell if he believes me. "I guess that fits," Blaise says. "Maybe not what I expected, but it fits."

My brow furrows; I can't help but ask: "What did you expect?"

"I don't know." He's shrugging, and the curve of his smile tightens. "I thought you'd worm your way back into the system. Make use of whatever remaining connections there are..." He quirks a brow. "Maybe even become Harry Potter's best mate."

"You always were the most imaginative of our group."

"I prefer the term observant."

"Sure."

"Scoff all you want. Now come on. Drinks. I'll buy."

"Enticing, but, like I said, I've already made plans. Maybe some other time." I wasn't lying about the meeting – I do have one. Before running into Blaise, I didn't think I would go. A charity organization regarding the rights of humanoid creatures doesn't interest me much, but I'd much sooner sit through a boring meeting than endure "catch up" with Blaise.

"I'll hold you to that," he says.

I give a curt nod, turn on my heel, and leave Blaise behind in the shadows.

The café is quaint, clean, and brightly lit. Some would call it charming – and, in fact, there is a certain elegance to it. But it's an upper middle class establishment, and that fact is irrefutable. It's strange to think this place could reside within the same city as Knockturn. I push the door open; a bell chimes.

For a moment, I completely forget about the damp, gloomy weather of London. Several customers are basking in the sunlight, most enjoying incredibly small portions on broad-iron tables. I turn to peer out of a tall window, the glass warped with age, only to see a clear blue sky. I chalk it up to magic and carry on.

There is no definite scent, but I know the cafe smells good. There is a low growl from my gut, Maybe I should have had more than a scone for breakfast.

I step over toward the counter where a petite blonde woman is sorting a handful of coins. "Excuse me," I say.

"Hello sir! Welcome to Le Café du Soleil! How may I help you?"

"I'm here for a meeting with, uhm..." I struggle to remember exactly what my mother had told me. "The head of a Being's rights charity?"

She nods, and steps out. "Right this way, sir."

I follow her toward the back of the café, where she directs me to my seat. "I'll return soon. There are menus at the table. Let me know if you need anything!" I nod and proceed forward. There is a skylight above the table. A woman sits there, the abundance of illumination casting a golden corona upon her brunette waves. There is something familiar about the way she sits: legs crossed, right hand propping up her head, left hand clasping a purple mug.

Stepping closer, I swallow. Her head turns forty-five degrees to the right and her brown eyes meet mine.

"Malfoy?!"

- H.G. -

I cannot believe I cleared my schedule for this.

Serious candidates only, I'd told Mathias.

He then reminded me we didn't have the luxury of being choosey with our investors. If we want to make any difference at all, we need money, he said. And a lot of it. I thought that with being The Hermione Granger, member of the Golden Trio, attracting interest would be easy. Securing right for House Elves would be nothing like it was at Hogwarts. People would listen to me. My input would be respected.

Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to be the case.

But resorting to asking former Death Eaters for money? Surely I'm above that.

"Of course," he says, shaking his head. "I'm ashamed to admit it, Granger, but you actually surprised me. I didn't expect you."

I set down my coffee. "You're the wealthy pureblood looking to branch into philanthropy? I didn't know you were altruistic." I have half a mind to walk away now. I've had little to do with Draco Malfoy since our Hogwarts years. Come to think of it, I've been blissfully forgetful of his existence for quite some time. The man is only associated with the most foul of memories. For how much he's truly to blame, I'm not sure. But it feels like enough.

"I was actually looking for something a bit more profitable." He takes the seat across from me. I'm not sure what to say. It doesn't matter yet, though, because he isn't finished. He says, "But charity is respectable. Your cause is stupid, obviously, but it's sell-able. Market it right, and I'm sure the public will commit."

I decide to entertain him for the time being. I'm hardly in the place to turn down a potential donation, and I am nothing if not professional. "You make it sound so simple."

Draco leans back in his seat. "Isn't it?"

I don't understand why he's here, if only partially. I don't have his full attention, and any formal demeanor on his part eroded the moment he recognized me. What's more curious, though, is that Draco seems consumed with the skylight above us. Cold eyes incessantly flitting upwards. His long fingers move to stifle a yawn, though I'm sure that action was intended.

I take a breath. "It would be, maybe, if marketing were simple."

At this he smiles. "You just don't have the knack for it."

"You do?"

"I have people."

Draco waves a hand and I struggle not to roll my eyes. "So could I, Malfoy."

"Then why are you taking meetings for investors?"

I purse my lips. Taking a moment to pull a folder from my attaché, I offer it to him. "I've clearly mapped out our mission statement, along with our hopeful trajectory over the next year. It's very thorough, I assure you."

"I don't doubt it." His hands remain folded together.

"You aren't interested?" It's silly to be bothered by his actions, let alone his presence. If Draco has proven anything over the years, it is that he's unimportant. More to the point, he is a waste of my time.

"Am I interested in rights for half-breeds? No. Am I interested in investing? Very."

"They're classified as Beings. And it would be more of a donation, ideally."

"No, I'd much rather invest. If I'm going to give you my money, I'll have to be involved. After all, the Malfoy name will be associated."

My lips thin. "It doesn't have to be. Your donation wouldn't need to be public."

Draco's eyes narrow. He's finally taken the folder and has flipped it open. But his line of vision hasn't shifted. "It definitely needs to be public."

"Charity won't erase what your family has done. It will hardly compensate for what you alone have done."

His voice is clipped when he says: "I wouldn't expect it to, Granger. But who says I'm looking for redemption? Perhaps I have nothing better to do." He stands, smoothing out his robes. "I'll contact my attorneys to sort out the paperwork, then, if we have a deal."

He stretches out his hand; my gaze doesn't waver from it. I wish I didn't want this, but that's not true. I wanted almost exactly this – the only problem is it's Draco Malfoy. And should that really even matter?

So, soon enough, I rise too. My fingers close around his palm, my grip a bit too tight. "Thank you," I say.

His mien is no longer stoic, but rather riddled with disgust, amusement, and a seemingly genuine indifference. I do my best to return the smile when Draco attempts the gesture. "My pleasure," he says.