New chapter! Much thanks for all the reviews! Earlier I said I was probably going to introduce some OC's sooner or later… well let's say some unexpected plotbunnies paid me a visit and it turned out there were some OC's that wanted to take the stage sooner rather than later… And by sooner I mean now. All hail the plotbunnies.

(ps: I changed Draco's age to 21, which in hindsight fitter the story better. Also I spotted some grammar mistakes… damn the world for not speaking Dutch and forcing me to write in English to appeal to the general public)

Disclaimer: Still not owning anything but my imagination.

Chapter 2

Draco Malfoy had made many mistakes in his life. Taunting that ugly hippogriff in third year had been a mistake. Snogging the son of one his father's business associates in the Manor's library had been a big mistake. Taking the dark mark and throwing himself at the mercy of the biggest monster to have ever walked the earth… well, that had to be the deepest low, a mistake he was still paying for every hour of every day.

Draco was done with mistakes, done with humiliation, disappointment and defeat. He'd sworn he'd never make a mistake again, not ever. And he had been doing a great job, until he met Charlie Weasley. Instead of apologizing and disappearing off the reserve's territory, never to return again, he had befriended the red-haired tamer. Sort of. Draco wasn't sure, to be honest. He'd never been an expert in the field of making friends. His Slytherin friends had been handed to him on a silver platter; they had worshipped him from day one because of his name and his knack for well-formulated, razor-sharp barbs and graceful sneers.

But Charlie was a Weasley. And a Weasley who was under the assumption that his name was David Faith and that he was an Astronomy student, which he was not. When Draco had realized Weasley – no, Charlie – had no clue of who he was, he was faced with a familiar dilemma: to lie or not to lie. As usual, he had chosen the first option, though in hindsight that might have been a big, big mistake.

Draco knew Charlie would hate him when he'd discover the truth. Weasleys hated Malfoys. It was one of those universal truths that were comforting in their consistency, like the colour of grass, the lameless of Hufflepuffs and Potters hero-complex. It was a truth that raised a question though: why did Draco even care? Why did he lie in the first place? Why did it matter to him whether a Weasley liked him or not? Surely he wasn't this desperate for a friend? He had Pansy, and Blaise, and his mother (Vince – the bastard – died, Theo was in Azkaban and Greg had disappeared off the face of the earth after the battle so that led to a rather pathetically short list). Of course Pansy was in Germany and Blaise in Sicily with his new belle. And his mother… well she was his mother, and six months in Azkaban on top of the death of her beloved husband weighted on her. She had changed, and so had he.

Alright, so maybe he did want to be friends with Charlie. He was nice, intelligent, laid-back and had a sense of humor Draco could appreciate. Also he was more handsome than a Weasly should be. The red hair looked good on him; it complemented his tanned skin and bright blue eyes perfectly. And he was obviously in great shape… but that was not a train of thought Draco wanted to pursue. Charlie was still a Weasly, and sooner or later he'd discover the truth. Draco still bore the Dark Mark, which had faded a bit after the Dark Lord's death but unfortunately hadn't disappeared completely, and his face could be found in many old newspapers. It was only a matter of time before something would set Charlie off.

All in all, Draco found he had landed himself in an ambiguous situation. He liked Charlie and wanted to be friends with him, but he knew he would hurt in the end. Charlie was not likely to forgive him for lying and being a former Death Eater and a Malfoy to boot.

A feeling of dread and uncertainty crept over him like a legion of tiny spiders. He leaned against the stone balustrade and inhaled the thick summer air. The southern balcony afforded an entrenching view on the garden of Malfoy Manor. It was more alive than its owners. The fountains danced, bees and butterflies were lounging around lazily, leaves whispered in the wind and roses in all colours imaginable embraced it all.

"Oh, troubles, troubles," he hummed. He longed for a cool glass of white Romanée-Conti.

"Draco?" said his mother in a delicate voice.

Draco turned around and faced her. She looked beautiful in the kind summer sun, even though she was thinner than she should be and her long golden hair was slightly bland and invaded by strands of gray. She wore white robes that were too thick for the season. She smiled at him.

"Will you play me some music, sweetness?"

The wine would have to wait. "Of course mother," Draco said and he followed her inside, to the music room. In the center of the room was grand piano, black with silver accents. His mother sat down on the burgundy sofa and listened with closed eyes while he played all her favorite songs.

Exactly two years ago, on the seventh of June, two days after his nineteenth birthday, his mother had stood to trial. The day after that he had found himself on the exact same spot: shackled to a chair in front of the Wizengamot and dozens of reporters and other interested parties. Harry Potter had spoken in both their defense, much to Draco's surprise. He hadn't known Potter's hero-complex and sense of justice stretched this far. Potter saved both him and his mother from life-long sentence Draco knew they did not deserve.

Still, they had been charged with an imprisonment of six months and a sizable monetary penalty. Because despite the fact that he hadn't killed Dumbledore, hadn't identified Potter that horrible night at the Manor, and had tried to save the golden trio from Vince in the Room of Requirement, he was still a Death Eater. The mark could not be taken unwillingly – a measure the Dark Lord had taken to assure the loyalty of his followers – and Draco had used unforgivables. He hadn't used the killing curse – thank Melin he'd never got the hang of that, otherwise even Potter wouldn't have been able to help him – but he had used the Cruciatus, Imperio and a fair amount of other dark curses. It didn't matter that he'd been at the receiving end of the Crucio more often than the giving, or that the Dark Lord had threatened to kill both him and his parents if he didn't do as told. It didn't matter that he truthfully and wholeheartedly regretted everything that had happened. Draco had shown too little defiance and too much cowardice to be completely excused of his crimes. And that was all right. He got what he deserved, he understood that now. Even his father, who had received the kiss and was now as good as dead – no, worse than dead – got what he deserved, no matter much it pained Draco and his mother.

The six months at Azkaban had been the longest of Draco's life, though now, one and a half year later, it felt like nothing more than the memory of an uncannily lively and horrible nightmare. A nightmare that walked the fine line between absolute agony and mind-numbing monotony. That was what made Azkaban so cruel: it wasn't just agony you felt, your worst memories and greatest fears attacking every corner of your mind, it was the monotony of that agony, and the habituation that slowly crept in. If he had stayed there much longer, Draco was sure he'd gone mad. The agony would have become his world, the very foundation of his mind, and he would have lost every trace of himself.

"Why did you stop playing?" his mother asked.

Draco blinked. He hadn't even noticed he'd stopped. Damned memories.

"I'm sorry mother, I'm a bit tired I think."

"Oh, well then you should rest."

Draco sat down next to his mother and laid his hand on hers. "Are you hungry? Shall I call for Marianne?"

She shook her head. "I'm not hungry. I've eaten a few hours ago."

A few hours according to Narcissa could equal half a day in real life. Azkaban had somehow managed to mess up his mother's sense of time. Sometimes she thought he was still sixteen, sometimes that he was as old as his father. "Where has the time gone?" she'd ask then. "How did you grow up this fast? If only your father were here to see you…"

"You should eat. I'll ask Marianne to bring you some sandwiches."

She pursed her lips but nodded. Draco smiled gently. Marianne knew what to do; she'd make sure his mother would eat.

He took a little silver bell out of his pocket and rang it. The sound was soft and melodious but carried far and could be heard throughout the entire manor. Marianne apparated in front of him soundlessly. "Lord Malfoy, how can I help you?" a small woman with a very straight back and short, impeccable grey curls asked.

"Could you make my mother some sandwiches and fresh orange juice?"

"With pleasure," Marianne said with a nod, and she disappeared.

Marianne and her husband Adhelm were a godsend. Among a ridiculous amount of gold and all their dark artifacts, the ministry had also seized their house-elves after the war. Draco had been forced to search for a human servant, since he and his mother couldn't possibly take care of the entire household by himself. Hell, he didn't know a single household charm and neither did his mother. Sadly, there proved to be very little people willing to serve ex-Death Eaters – especially not in a house that was once inhabited by the fearful Dark Lord himself. Only Marianne and her husband were able to brush those issues away like dust on a shelf.

Marianne had been the housekeeper of the Parkinsons before they permanently moved to Germany, and Adhelm had been their gardener. The Parkinsons were relatively poor for a pureblood family as old as theirs, due to some bad investments and tension between family members, and had lost their house-elves a long time ago. It was Pansy who had recommended Marianne and Adhelm to him when she heard of his problem, and for that, Draco was eternally grateful to her.

During the job interview Marianne had claimed her household charms were the best in the whole of the British Isles. Draco had no way to test the validity of that claim, but was inclined to believe her since the manor looked as immaculate as it ever had when the house-elves were still there.

Adhelm in his turn did a great job with the forty acres of land that were attached to the Manor. There was not even the slightest trace of weed to be found around the gardens and the lawns always looked freshly mowed.

Draco left his mother behind in the music room with a book and walked to his study. He took a bottle of wine from the liquor cabinet, together with a crystal glass that cost more than the entire tableware of most households. He sat down, poured himself a big glass and lit a cigarette. With the glass in his one hand and a cigarette in the other he leaned back in his chair – a green leather one that was once his fathers, as was the entire study. This study – the largest one in the entire estate – had always belonged to the Lord of the manor; a title that had been his for two years now, though it still felt odd sometimes.

Draco took a drag of his cigarette and tried to empty his mind. He had an important decision to make.

To go or not to go.

Draco wasn't a heavy smoker. He only did it at parties and when he was stressed, like he was now.

To go or not to go.

Yesterday, Charlie had told him he could come over whenever he'd like. Just apparate, he'd said.

Draco wanted to see him, he really did. And Lara as well – though he refused to call her Lara. It was no respectable name for a dragon.

He hadn't been lying to Charlie when he said he'd visited the dragons a couple of times before. He had only made it sound like three of four times, while in reality it had been at least a dozen. The first time he went was about four months ago. He'd been contemplating paying a visit to the reserve for quite some time then, and on one bright night when he was sitting alone in his study he just decided to go. It might've had something to do with the fact he was mildly intoxicated at the time. Alright, perhaps he had been a bit more than just a little bit intoxicated, because no matter how you looked at it, flying on your broom through a reserve inhabited by huge, full-grown, fire-breathing reptiles with wings and big sharp teeth wasn't the most brilliant idea of the century.

Draco had been incredibly lucky. Instead of a disturbing the sleep of an adult Hebridean Black, which was a particularly nasty breed, he'd found a young Green Welsch. Green Welsch were as curious as dragons got, and in their teenage months they were quite tolerant of humans.

Draco had been mesmerized by the beauty and power of the small creature. The dragon wasn't much bigger than himself, with golden eyes and a shiny skin of the deepest green. He didn't dare to touch her that night – not a chance in hell she would have let him and Draco was very keen on keeping all his body parts – but the more often he visited, the more accustomed to him the dragon got. Eventually they got to the point where Draco collected all his courage and touched her. And to his immense joy, she allowed it. He had started with her wing, taking a bit further every time visited her until she allowed him to touch her neck.

That was when Charlie had caught him in the act. Up until then, Draco had been extremely careful not to get caught. He didn't fancy facing an army of angry dragon-tamers. He always paid much attention to his surroundings, and if he sensed the magic of another wizard (a useful trait that ran in the Malfoy family) he disapparated immediately. He knew the area where the teenage Green Welsch lived well enough to apparate in and out without trouble.

Draco startled slightly when an owl landed on his desk. It was huge grey owl with a complex and very beautiful pattern on his feathers. The owl practically screamed importance and Draco recognized it immediately.

He gritted his teeth. Quintrell Bellard D'Ancelet. Oh, how he loathed that French bastard.

Dear Lord Malfoy,

I hope that you and your lovely mother are well. I am writing to you concerning the take-over of Honeykettle Industries. Some complications regarding the replacement of the chief company director have reached my ear, together with some other issues I'd like to discuss with you in person, preferably over a fine glass of wine from your cellar. I hope we can put our petty disagreement over your flawed credibility as head of Malfoy Holding Corporation behind us and meet eye to eye like civilized adults.

I suggest a meeting next Monday at one o'clock, if it's convenient.

With the highest regards,

Quintrell Bellard D'Ancelet

Draco growled and tore the parchment in two. "My lovely mother… flawed credibility… civilized adults… that fucker!" He lit the parchment on fire with a flick of his wand.

He hated D'Ancelet with an intensity that made the hate he once harbored towards The Boy Who Refused To Roll Over And Die seem cute – and that was saying a lot. Only the Dark Lord had ever made it higher on his List Of People He Would Gladly Suffocate With Their Own Intestines.

Quintrell Bellard D'Ancelet had been his father's greatest business rival. But where the rivalry of D'Ancelet and his father had been based on a reluctant mutual respect, the one between Draco and the Frenchman was one of disdain on D'Ancelet's part, and utter frustration on Draco's. D'Ancelet had made it very clear that he thought Draco too young, too inexperience and generally unfit to take over his father's position.

It was utterly frustrating because Draco'd had an incredibly difficult time making things right again after his father's 'death' and the general chaos the war had caused. It was only thanks to the family's accountant, Henry McGrath, and the solicitor, Wayne Witte, who had been Lucius' right hand for as long as Draco could remember, that the Malfoy Corporation was still up and running.

Draco had been groomed from birth to eventually take over his father's position. Lucius had told him all the do's and don'ts, and had sometimes even taken him to business meetings so he could see with his own eyes how the game was played. Business meetings were not unlike a fight, a wizarding duel to the death, though his father had always compared it to dancing. You should never lose your focus, never underestimate your opponent and never show uncertainty, unless it is part of a ploy. What you should do is find out everything there is to know about both your friends and enemies, and always keep in mind what their goal is.

"Everybody wants something," Draco remembered his father telling him. "The trick is to make what they want compatible with what you want."

Draco had tried to be like his father, had tried to become the marble statue that was Lucius in business-mode. His face a mask of carefully calculated expressions; his voice authoritative and all-knowing; his manner the epitome of confidence; his decisions absolute and never wrong.

It had been hard – the hardest thing he'd ever done. After his first true meeting, he drunk a whole bottle Firewishkey and cried himself to sleep. Behind closed doors, where he had no need for masks and could be the child he still was somewhere deep inside, he screamed and shouted, hexed innocent objects and cursed everything and everybody – the Dark Lord for being an evil monster; his father for choosing the wrong side and leaving him behind all alone; the entire Malfoy Holding Corporation and all its partners and enemies for being a pain in the arse.

Over the months, Draco anger had subdued and he had adapted to the role of Lord Malfoy. He was getting better and better at it, and sometimes it was even fun. But he was still insecure, still overwhelmed, still missing a lot of experience and knowledge. D'Ancelet could smell that like a bloodhound – and made no secret of it. Draco suspected the man would gladly ruin him and take over everything the Malfoy family company had.

And they still had a lot, despite the heavy blows they had received over the past few years. In the business world, it's gold that talks. And gold the Malfoy family still had in large amounts. Draco had found that in the business world, it didn't matter whether you were a former Death Eater or not.

They had lost all ties to the ministry though, but Draco thought that a blessing rather than a loss. Unlike his father, he wanted nothing to do with politics. He was also very careful to not mingle with any shady business. He stayed as far away as possible from everything that could potentially land him in prison. He couldn't go back to that place - never again. It would be the end of him.

Another difference between his own policy and that of his father were his donations to charity, which he had doubled. Draco knew he and his mother would never have to fear to receive anything but the best treatment at St. Mungo's. He practically owned half of the place.

Draco rubbed his face tiredly and sat down again. The smoke of his cigarette made him nauseous and he put it out. He emptied his glass and banned D'Ancelet from his mind. He still had a decision to make.

To go or not to go.

It wasn't such a hard decision anymore.

-TBC-

Next chapter: Charlie and Draco meet for the second time. Is it a date? I think it is, though the boys don't seem to realize it. At first. Anyway, troubles emerge. Because what is story without troubles? Bo-ring.

I'm very interested in what you think of Draco's position as high-and-mighty company boss. I know that in many other stories it isn't clear exactly how the Malfoys got this rich (and stayed it) and what Lucius was doing all day besides hanging around the ministry and bribe people. This seemed like the most logical explanation to me.