CHAPTER TITLE: Riches Are for Spending
WARNING: none, for this chapter
DISCLAIMER: The Harry Potter series, its corresponding films, characters, places, concepts, etc., are property of J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers Pictures.
SONG/S USED OR TO READ WITH: Dream a Little Dream, the version by She & Him.
Riches are for spending, and spending for honour and good actions; therefore extraordinary expense must be limited by the worth of the occasion. —Francis Bacon
"You have a lovely home, Draco. Tell me, who is the interior designer behind this beautiful space?" trilled Susan Merrell, the obsequious journalist from Habitable Art. "All of this is a brainchild of one of my schoolmates, Susan, by the name of Daphne Greengrass. She and her sister Astoria collaborated for this project," he gestured to the general area of his apartment with the hand that held a glass of Cynar from his personal stores. London Living had published an article about his apartment before, calling it 'homage to the old world gentleman's club, with the refreshing welcome twist of a modern colour palette.' He couldn't blame them: the hearth burned eternal, housed in a white marble fireplace. His couches and armchairs were varying shades of grey, his kitchen countertops gleaming black granite. Tables were of the darkest cherry wood, as if cut from stone. The Greengrass sisters had not forgotten about his past, of course; above the fireplace hung a portrait of a snake against an emerald velvet background, subtle accents of his favourite colour all over the place.
Susan wasn't the only member of the press present at the dinner party, it seemed—when he glanced around the room, almost all the guests had the look of overzealous curiosity on their faces particular to nearly every journalist he'd ever encountered. If he were to be honest, only he, the six music producers, Claudia, Lisa, and Lisa's fiancé were the only exceptions. Supper was exceptional, prepared by two Parisian house-elves who had previously been serving a chef in a particularly high-class French establishment. As he promised his guests, there would be after-dinner entertainment provided by one of his dearest friends. Of course the assembled reporters were all ears—he hardly mentioned his personal life, so the fact that he had more than one dear friend surprised and amused most of them. As soon as she had requested to attend and possibly play, he had the two house-elves build a platform for Claudia and whoever she was bringing along to perform upon, the white wooden makeshift stage modestly erected near the fireplace. She was predictably pleased.
"For tonight's entertainment," he said, his voice carrying all the way to the front door thanks to the silence that fell upon the room, "We shall all be granted the wondrous and rare occurrence of a live performance by a musician, before they are too famous to perform in apartments for friends. Tonight I present to you, fortunate guests, Claudia Brightfeld and her companions." Soft applause welcomed the three-woman group. Claudia had probably cast a charm to make her voice louder, because under regular circumstances, nobody would have heard her over the whispers in the crowd. "That was an unwarranted introduction, Draco," she drawled, unfazed by the fact that she was surrounded by people who would pick apart her comment and use it against her in the next day's papers, "but thank you. In any event, this trio is officially called The Hurricanes."
They were a peculiar trio to play in an apartment that looked like his, he realised. Claudia carried nothing, perhaps as to not spoil the effect of the cocktail dress and high heels she wore (he had told her to do so), her hair all curled and styled away from her face. One of her band mates, a petite woman whose ginger hair was in a cut that Muggles called a bob (clashing terribly with the slouchy tangerine turtleneck she had on with khaki cigarette trousers and rust-coloured penny loafers) had a guitar slung over one shoulder. The house-elves appeared to firmly plant three bar stools on the platform, disappearing with a faint pop, and the ginger-haired woman gave the audience a briefly horrified look, as if someone had urinated on the seat of humanity and justice. Claudia's other band mate, a tanned woman with wavy black hair wild around her face, carried a single drum (and a black leather jacket over one baseball shirt-covered shoulder—he didn't know whether to be slightly intimidated or highly amused). Yes, indeed, they were a rather peculiar-looking bunch of women.
"Usually we play rock songs in very grimy locations," Claudia informed the crowd, settling down on the bar stool in the middle, crossing her legs in a ladylike manner. The audience chuckled. "Seeing as we have a very welcome change in location, we're going to play something a little slower. Lena, if you will," she waved her hand, and the ginger-haired woman began to strum her instrument. "Stars shining bright above you, night breezes seem to whisper 'I love you,' birds singing in the sycamore tree—dream a little dream of me," as soon as her voice (which, he noted, happened to be ridiculous in how high and small it seemed) was heard, his guests began to sway. Some went so far as to invite someone to a dance. With a sigh inaudible to even the most eager ears, Draco resigned to one of the corners and sipped at his Cynar. There was no point in shifting awkwardly from foot to foot because nobody had struck him as the appropriate partner to a waltz. Besides, he didn't shift awkwardly from foot to foot. He couldn't recall when he'd done something remotely similar.
He was perfectly fine drinking his bitter liqueur by himself when all of a sudden a girlish voice on his right asked, "Isn't this your party?" he looked over and was momentarily caught off guard by the bluest eyes he'd seen in his entire lifetime. Her brownish-blond hair shone even in the low lighting. She wasn't too tall, comfortably petite. He was rather adept at reading people, and he knew right when he saw her that she was consistent and stable, but not uninteresting. "Yes, and it's also my house, but I think you've gathered that," he shrugged, taking a sip again. "Then you should be enjoying it, not watching from a corner with a drink in your hand like some pervert," she said plainly, as if she was so important to him. "Who are you, again?" he asked, mildly taken aback by her bluntness. "I'm Layla, Layla Grace," she extended a hand, her fingernails painted electric blue.
"Nice meeting you, Miss Grace. I'm Draco Malfoy," he shook the outstretched hand for the sake of courtesy. "I gathered that," Layla smiled—it was crooked, her smile, but it seemed to add to her charm; to Draco, anyway, it seemed so. He felt like Layla Grace was fun, something he hadn't experienced in a long while. Claudia appeared out of nowhere, it seemed, to speak with him. She too had been raised with the rigid rules of etiquette ingrained into her consciousness, so rather than dragging him away, she interjected in a genteel manner, "I'm sorry, am I interrupting you? I only need to speak with Draco here for a few minutes." Layla shook her head, "Oh, no, we're quite done talking. Your band is very good, by the way. Excuse me, Mister Malfoy." She left before he could respond, before he could ask if she was free, before they could talk for real.
So, to find out more about her without actually having to find her, he talked to the next best thing. "Have you heard of anyone named Layla Grace?" asked Draco. "I told you, Draco, if you're going to go into a gentleman's club, you can't count on me to remember the name of the wonderful bird you spent the night with, I'm not allowed in there," Claudia cracked, motioning for them to move to the balcony. They did, unable to speak to each other properly while making their way there because of the number of people who might hear them. "I'm serious, Claudia," he leaned on the railing of his balcony. "Oh, well, in that case, no. Layla Grace, you say? If I were you, I wouldn't trust a woman with a name like that," shrugged the brunette, who produced a slim cigarette and lit up. Draco narrowed his eyes at his friend, "Why shouldn't I do that, Claude?"
"I just wouldn't, Drake. My instincts are usually right with this sort of thing," she responded, exhaling a thin stream of smoke into the open air. He didn't want to believe her, but it was hard not to.
-:-|-:-
Layla Grace woke up the Monday morning of the following week at seven. Her body usually cooperated when she told herself she'd wake up at a certain hour. Like any other day, it began with her brushing the sand out of her eyes. When that was done, she'd brush the tangles out of her not quite blond, not quite brown shoulder-dusting hair. After that she would shower. She'd dry off, she'd dress for work, and Apparate to the office. The headquarters for The Borough Reporter were underground, like the Ministry, but their methods for entry weren't nearly as flashy or interesting as the latter. All they had to do was disappear into a certain alley, if they didn't Apparate or Floo there. Emily, the editor-in-chief, recommended against the alley method. Apparently Muggles enjoyed victimising unsuspecting Wizards by stealing from them and beating them to a pulp.
"Hey, Layla," said Maggie Stewart in a low voice when she arrived in the miniscule box of an office that they shared, "Gates wants you in her office." She felt herself swallowing nervously. It was about last Friday night's assignment, no doubt. Layla straightened out the white oxford shirt she'd chosen to wear that day with black cigarette trousers and pumps before she deposited her tote into the chair, walking out of her place to work and resolutely making her way to her boss' office. Some interns in the fashion department gave her a scandalised look as she brushed past, but there was no point in looking at them when they didn't really matter.
If offices were boxes, Gates' was a cargo container and hers was a matchbox. The amount of room in Miss Gates' office reminded her of how tiny the office she shared with Maggie was. "Go ahead and sit, Miss Grace," Emily Gates was a tall forty-something woman with straw-coloured hair and always had the sternest look in her eyes who had once been a top-ranking journalist at The Daily Prophet, then abruptly quit her job and started The Borough Reporter. Barnabas Cuffe was apparently disappointed when she left, or so the story went. "I want an update on the story we started on Draco Malfoy and Malfoy Industries," Miss Gates said, opening to a specific page in her journal. "Based on my research, Malfoy Industries has been around for thirty years; back when Lucius Malfoy started it, Malfoy Industries was primarily a manufacturer of supplies and fine clothing. During the War, it shut down temporarily on account of that Lucius was a Death Eater and those were busy times. After the War, the Malfoys fled England and temporarily settled down in Geneva. Lucius and Narcissa remained, while they sent Draco back to England with a document stating he now had full control of the company. Since then, Malfoy Industries has grown to be one of the leading retailers of luxury items, ranging from imported food and drink to designer clothing. According to my contacts within the staff, he strives for excellence in every field and if anyone gets in the way of that, he doesn't hesitate to eliminate them."
"Very thorough research, Miss Grace, well done," Miss Gates nodded, her Quick-Quotes Quill scratching across the surface of the page. "What about Malfoy's personal life?" she cringed inwardly. She hadn't done much research on that, she felt like she was prying. "He isn't seeing anyone right now," she managed to respond, reporting only what she'd gathered from the moment's correspondence. "What else?" asked her employer anxiously. "Well, er, that's it," she admitted. "Layla," Miss Gates leaned over her desk slightly, using her first name, "if you're going to do a complete inquisition into a person and his occupation, you have to know and understand all aspects of their life." OK, will I really tell her how I feel about where this assignment is leading? "Miss Gates, if I may," she cleared her throat to get rid of at least a little nervous tension, "I just don't want to pry into his personal life. I think that's why it's called his personal life, Miss Gates, it's not meant to be written about and broadcasted." For a moment Miss Gates' gaze softened, "I understand that you feel this way, Layla, but people don't want to know about steely Draco Malfoy, Chief Executive Officer of Malfoy Industries. They want to know about charming Draco Malfoy, who is a wizard before anything. The public wants to know that the man who gives them all access to the finer things in life is human, that he too is capable of emotion. I need you to get tangled up in his crosshairs, Layla, because he is clever. He hides what we wish to see."
Something in how Miss Gates said it made her want to believe in what she was saying. "What will I have to do to get tangled in his crosshairs?" she asked instead. Miss Gates cracked a smile, "Interest him. Have him go out with you. Get to know him, his family, and his friends." I'm not all for this, but I don't want to get fired, either, so I'll just do what she says. "I won't tell him what I'm really getting to know him for, am I?" the blonde woman nodded, "Good of you to gather that. I recommend you keep a journal—find a Quick-Quotes Quill and a notebook, then after every meeting pour out what happened and how you feel to the air. Are we clear, Miss Grace?" it was her turn to agree, "Crystal, Miss Gates. Interdepartmental memos will be sent to your office as soon as we have a major development." The blonde nodded, "I'll expect them. You are dismissed."
She got up from the chair, opened the door, and made her way back to her matchbox office at the other end of the hall. Maggie was talking to the miniscule window, her quill moving across the page with each word that came out of her mouth. They were in the business and finance department, so more often than not they interviewed aged CEOs and got friendly with secretaries; they didn't go on writing about twenty-something tycoons and they certainly didn't go out with them. Layla sat down morosely at her desk, only a few inches larger than a schoolgirl's table, and found her Quick-Quotes Quill. She hadn't used it in a while, honestly. She preferred writing everything by hand, feeling the quill between her fingers. "What did Gates want?" asked Maggie once the quill had been retired to her desk drawer. Maggie Stewart was a petite, olive-skinned, black-haired woman; her almond-shaped eyes were the colour of chocolate, her nose a pert button, her mouth small and rosy. She'd gone to a Wizarding school in Liverpool, tiny by comparison to Layla's native Hogwarts.
"An update for the Malfoy story she asked me to do," she replied, "she wants me to 'get tangled up in his crosshairs,' for it." Maggie raised one well-groomed brow, "What did she mean by that?" she let out a blast of air. It is the inevitable. "She wants me to interest him so he'll ask me out." At this her friend and co-worker laughed, "I don't mean to discourage you, but Malfoy is so uptight you'd think had more than his wand in a knot, if you know what I mean." She rolled her eyes, "It's not funny, Maggie. Besides, he wasn't like that when we were at school." Maggie displayed her enviable talent and quirked her other brow, "You were schoolmates?" she nodded, "Yeah, we were even in the same house. He was a big deal then—all the girls liked him, wanted to shag him, or already did." Her friend's conclusion was the very accurate, "So he was a playboy, you mean?"
Layla shrugged, "I guess, if that's what you call boys who shag and skedaddle." Maggie giggled at her use of words, "Shag and skedaddle. I like that. So, how do you plan to 'interest,' this Draco Malfoy?" there lies the problem, or haven't you gathered that, Maggie? "I have no idea, Mag. I mean, I haven't liked anybody enough to work for them to like me since... Wow, since I was fifteen!" her friend palmed her face, "Oh, Merlin." At this she was puzzled, "What do you mean, 'oh, Merlin'?" Maggie sighed, "At the rate you're going, making someone gain interest in you is going to be harder than you think it is." She added, "I think it already is hard!"
"Then I wish you the best of luck, Layla."