Draco started at Muggle communication with a mixture of distaste and interest. He had bought what Muggles called a 'mobile phone' to see if there was anything he could do with them, even asking Kevin to research them over the weekend by dressing as a Muggle and investigating a company called 'Nokia'. He'd returned with lots of paperwork and leaflets, informing Draco that Nokia had made millions in profit on telephone sales alone. Kevin had then been sent to the headquarters of another company called Orange, which gave the phones 'credits' that could be spent on talking wirelessly or writing a message called a 'text'. Frankly, Draco thought it was a brilliant concept: a way for wizards around the world to communicate with each other without relying on an owl or finding a fireplace if international Apparition couldn't be granted. Of course, it wasn't quite as straightforward as simply manufacturing the telephones. Draco had to think of how to make them magical, get the money to produce and advertise them and to actually sell them to the sceptical public. However, this stage of the process was Draco's favourite: imagining new possibilities, developing ideas… he revelled in it.
This product was different from the others he'd sold. He could feel something somewhere between his heart and his navel that told him that if he got this right, he could bring in the customers and money that Malfoy Incorporated most definitely needed. Although he didn't like to admit it, the entire organisation was losing profits. After the war, the Malfoys donated large amounts of money to the clean-up efforts, charities and institutions to make sure they were seen to be truly reconciled for their actions during the years that led to Voldemort's death. Even after that, no one wanted to be associated with anything remotely linked to Voldemort and Malfoy Incorporated's sales plummeted. Five years after the end of the war, the wizarding community were reluctant to trust the once-respected Malfoy family. A new product that changed the way witches and wizards communicated could, in theory, alter their perceptions of the family for the better.
Draco tucked the compact gadget into his inside jacket pocket and stood up, ready for his appointment at the Ministry to seek help from the smallest department. He quickly scrawled a note to Emma explaining where he'd gone before stepping into the fireplace and reaching for the Floo powder.
Shifting his weight awkwardly from left to right, Draco frowned as he prepared for the sensation he was about to endure and half-shouted, "Ministry of Magic!" Draco felt himself being pulled through a network of Floo-connected tunnels before landing neatly in the tiled Ministry-official fireplace. He swiftly left before the next visitor landed on top of him, brushing his suit down and making a mental note to Apparate on his return journey.
The fountain that had once housed a large anti-Muggle monument that had been destroyed the day after the final battle had now been replaced with a moving statue of Albus Dumbledore, holding a sign telling Draco that money tossed into the fountain will be donated to St Mungo's. He thrust his hand into his trouser pocket, pulled out two Sickles and flicked them into the running water as he walked past towards the lifts. He noticed stranger's eyes on his back; he was a well-known man after all, and often wished he had an invisibility cloak.
He stepped in the centre lift and a nervous man in uniform addressed him.
"W-What department, sir?" he asked, hands shaking.
Draco looked at the quivering figure in amusement. He couldn't have been long out of Hogwarts. Eighteen, nineteen at most, still very young. But old enough to have seen the war, to have known what Draco was like back then. Draco's amusement shifted to mild horror. This man is scared of me, he thought. Absolutely terrified.
"Um, sorry." Draco cleared his throat. "Department of the Misuse of Magical Artefacts, please."
Hermione waved automatically at Justin as she entered the office on Monday morning, nodding politely when he asked if she was feeling better. Her meeting with Ron on Friday evening went better than she had anticipated. He had actually taken most of the blame and had understood what she was feeling, which was completely unlike him. She smiled when she remembered the arguments in their third year about Crookshanks and Scabbers; how stubborn they'd both been, defending their pets. That was until Scabbers had turned out to be Peter Pettrigrew, of course. This time, Ron had just held her hands loosely and kept saying I don't ever want to lose you before knocking the breath out of her in a surprisingly strong hug. Hermione had to admit that she felt safe in his arms, and she wondered why Ron could stand her. She was lucky really, she told herself on a regular basis, lucky to find someone as kind and sweet as Ron. Everyone who'd met them said how they fit together perfectly, and Hermione didn't think anyone could love her as much as Ron did.
As she settled into her worn leather desk chair and took the paperwork from her in-tray, she realised she hadn't had a call-out in over three weeks. According to Arthur, there was a call-out every week when he was in the office, but now, when everyone was less anti-Muggle, she was lucky to get one once a month. All there was to do was file reports from a while back and meet with her eleven o'clock appointment, whoever he or she was according to the note on her desk from Hannah. She checked her diary, which updated itself with appointments and reminders and noted the meeting had only been booked an hour previously. This meant it was either very urgent, or her guest was very influential. Hermione had met with many powerful wizards and witches, especially after the war, but she had never heard of or seen anyone important coming to her tiny office. As it was considered to be the least important department in the Ministry, this meant there were fewer visitors that came there.
Truthfully, Hermione hoped for an emergency. It felt like a long time since she'd actually been out in the field. Twenty-two days ago, a group of three sixth-years on their summer holidays had just come of age and decided an acceptable celebration would be to cause an innocent social worker's possessions to enlarge, causing no end of trouble for Hermione, Justin and Hannah. However, the Wizengamot had let the boys off with a mere warning. Justin later found out that one of the boy's fathers had donated a generous sum of money to the Ministry. It showed Hermione that even though so much had changed over the past five years, some things had stayed exactly the same. For that reason, Hermione desperately wanted to leave.
Half an hour passed, and Hermione had checked the clock every minute since she arrived. It was now ten-fifty, and she was nervous but slightly excited at the same time; her legs were shaking with anticipation, and her bottom lip was red raw from anxious biting.
After a particularly violent shiver, Justin had noticed her fidgeting and frowned at his colleague.
"Hermione, is anything the matter?" he asked after finishing a mouthful of toast and jam.
"Nothing, Justin, I'm just intrigued to find out what my eleven o'clock wants. We've never had a meeting with someone this last-minute before," Hermione replied thoughtfully.
"We used to, before you came here. Roger used to meet with someone regularly to discuss his business ideas, or something," Justin told her, his nose crinkling.
"But who was –" Hermione started, but she was interrupted by a sharp knocking on the door.
"I suppose you'll be finding out in a minute." Justin smiled knowingly as Hermione rose.
She inhaled deeply whilst checking her reflection in the tinted windows that had been charmed into place by her request, after she noticed it was really rather gloomy in the already dingy office. She wasn't dressed for running after petty criminals today, having resigned to the fact she wouldn't even be standing up very often, let alone get a call-out, having donned a pair of fitted high-waisted black trousers with a silky pink blouse. She was also wearing her only pair of heels, but she always kept a pair of comfortable and practical flat shoes in her bottom drawer, just in case.
Hermione edged around her desk, exhaled and reached for the door handle. The silhouette of the person – man – standing on the other side of the bubbled glass looked strangely familiar.
With another deep breath, Hermione pulled the door open and then froze. Draco Malfoy was leaning against the doorframe.