Draco shoved his coat over his shoulders violently and stepped out into the surprisingly chilly Friday evening. The weather reflected his mood: he had been frosty with everyone all day. Another ninety interviews with eighty-nine ditsy girls and one very feminine man left him grumpy and a very difficult person to work with. Kevin, Malcolm and Emma had almost completely ignored him for the ten-hour day, speaking to him only when they asked for a lunch break away from the interviewees. None of the applicants they had interviewed had come close to the job requirements, and Draco was beginning to lose hope in ever finding someone who fit the description. The only person who had the qualifications and experience to even be considered was Hermione Granger, and there was more chance of English National Quidditch Team winning the World Cup next year than that happening.
Draco walked a few feet before Apparating straight to Blaise's flat in Middlesex.
"Pour me a firewhisky," Draco demanded, nodding at his surprised friend as he passed him in the kitchen.
"Malfoy? What are you doing here?" Blaise asked curiously, watching the blond slumping down into an armchair.
"Getting drunk," Draco replied, shutting his eyes as he relaxed for the first time that day.
"No luck with finding a Creative Director, then?" Blaise asked as he poured a generous amount of alcohol into two glasses and walked into his living room.
"You could say that."
Blaise paused before handing Draco the drink. "Tell me about it, mate."
"Between Malcolm, Kevin and me, we've interviewed around two hundred applicants in two days. Not one of them was serious. I really need the staff, Zabini, what do I do?" Draco took a sip of his whisky and felt some of the tension in his shoulders drift out of his body and through the open window. So this is why people become alcoholics.
"Malfoy, as your advisor, I suggest finding the most intelligent, least repulsive one and hiring them," Blaise chortled, sipping his own drink liberally.
"The most intelligent interviewee was the most repulsive…" Draco muttered darkly.
"It's always the way," Blaise commented wisely. "What was their name?"
"Granger."
Blaise spluttered and almost spilt his drink. "Granger?"
"That's what I said," Draco replied calmly.
"But… why the fuck did she want the job?" Blaise asked, moving a chair and sitting opposite Draco.
"She didn't."
"Then why…?" Blaise said, speechless.
"She told me she did it because she wanted to prove me wrong," Draco said through gritted teeth, "but I think she didn't realise I was head of the company."
Blaise let out a long breath and raised his eyebrows. "Well, at least she can be an option."
Now it was Draco's turn to spit his drink out. "What?"
"Well, think about it, she's Muggle-born, she's clever, and she's got experience."
"Yes, but she's… Granger!" Draco said, trying to comprehend what his friend was saying.
"If you could just put up with her for a few meetings, it could really help your business, not to mention your reputation, with Golden Girl Granger as part of your staff," Blaise replied.
"That's all very well, Zabini," Draco sighed, "but since I called her a Mudblood and told her I wouldn't want her working for me, I doubt she'd be ready to accept an offer anytime soon."
Blaise was silent for a few moments before draining his glass and standing up. "You probably shouldn't have said that."
"She was being annoying!" Draco defended sulkily.
"She's a Gryffindor, what do you expect?" Blaise snorted as he strode over to the kitchen and poured himself another drink.
"Maybe I'll just work overtime instead," Draco suggested, his eyes concentrating on the bottom of his glass. "Maybe I can start to work on weekends."
"No, you work too much as it is," Blaise said firmly. "You'll have to apologise to Granger and beg her to take the job."
"No, that won't be necessary," Draco replied instantly. "Can we not talk about work now? It's the weekend."
Blaise sighed and raised his eyebrows but didn't comment on the situation any further.
"I – fuck!"
"Okay, that's it, stand up."
"You're a great friend."
"Yes, I am, Malfoy," Blaise muttered. "Hold my arm, don't let go."
"Okay, Zabeefi, whatever you say," Draco slurred, gripping Blaise's extended arm tightly and hauling himself to a standing position.
"Zabini."
"No, I'm Malfoy, you're Zabini," Draco said with a snort.
Blaise sighed as they Apparated to Draco's flat. Half-dragging Draco to his room, he decided that next time he wouldn't let Draco near the rum.
"Where am I?" Draco asked, squinting his eyes in drunken concentration.
"Your bedroom, Malfoy. Now I'm going home." Blaise pushed Draco off his arm and watched as he crashed onto his bed and groaned.
"Zabini…" Draco started, his eyes closing.
"Think about what I said earlier, Malfoy," Blaise interrupted tiredly. He walked out of his room before Draco could reply.
"Ugh," Draco groaned as he woke. His head was pounding and his vision was blurred around the edge when he forced his sore eyes open. As he regained consciousness, he noticed he was fully dressed and curled up like a child at the foot of his bed. He groaned again as he sat up and caught sight of himself in the mirror. He looked like a ghost: his skin was a few shades lighter than usual, and the black bags under his eyes made him look much older than his twenty-three years.
Wearily, he stood, staggered over to the bathroom and stripped to his underwear, where he relieved himself, had a quick wash, brushed his teeth and combed his hair.
"Crap," he muttered as he realised the time. Eleven-twenty. Ten minutes to get dressed before his brunch at the Manor with his mother. He almost tripped as he thrust his leg into a clean pair of trousers, waving his arms wildly for balance.
At eleven twenty-nine, he Apparated outside the gates of Malfoy Manor, preferring it to Floo travel, and tapped his wand on the steel. After a few moments, the solid metal turned translucent, and Draco strode through it, avoiding the pheasants as he followed the gravel path towards the Manor.
Narcissa was waiting outside the main entrance hall, a stern expression planted firmly on her already-lined face, next to a house-elf Draco didn't recognise. "You're late."
Draco checked his watch. "By one minute."
"Good timekeeping is what makes a successful man, Draco," Narcissa said reproachfully.
"And here I was, assuming it was ambition and good business skills," Draco replied sarcastically.
Narcissa frowned. "No need to be rude, Draco. Your father would never think about turning up late, and he's very successful in his line of work."
"Yes, very successful in his line of work, which is why he's rotting in a cell in Azkaban," Draco spat.
"Draco!" Narcissa raised her hand to her mouth in shock.
"It's the truth."
"Barclay, take Draco's coat for him. We'll be heading to the dining room for brunch; I trust everything is set up?"
"Y-Yes, mistress," the tiny elf squeaked, and Draco handed him his jacket.
"Good. Follow me, Draco."
Draco followed his mother into the once-grand dining room. The dining table that had once been the entire length of the room and had sat Voldemort and his inner circle of Death Eaters had been conjured into a small, square one. Draco didn't know if it had been done specially for his visit or if his mother had made it smaller when Draco moved out and she had began to eat alone. The whole prospect made him feel uneasy.
"Take a seat," Narcissa demanded.
Draco sat down and eyed the muffins hungrily.
"So, Draco," Narcissa started, pouring strong tea into a delicate china cup, "have you filled the Creative Director position at your company yet?"
Draco paused on his way to pick up an apple muffin. "How did you know I was recruiting?"
Narcissa pursed her lips. "I have a lot of contacts, Draco."
"Are you spying on me, Mother?" Draco asked accusingly.
"Don't be so silly, Draco. I'm your mother."
"Well," Draco sighed, "I didn't find anyone worth hiring."
"Not anyone?" Narcissa pressed. "I heard Orla Quirke applied. I know her mother, Cathleen, who told me Orla is a lovely, hardworking girl."
"Well, she would say that, wouldn't she," Draco muttered, remembering Orla and her bra vividly.
"I also heard from Cathleen that Hermione Granger was interviewed, but I told her she was mistaken," Narcissa scoffed, buttering a croissant and taking a bite.
"Actually, Mother, your friend Cathleen may have heard correctly," Draco told her as he broke a piece of muffin off and put it in his mouth.
Narcissa set down her brunch and stared at Draco in either shock or horror; Draco couldn't tell. "Are you… are you being serious?"
"Yes, Mother," Draco snapped.
"Hermione Granger…" Narcissa murmured thoughtfully. "Why would she apply to a job where you'd be her boss?"
Draco told her about his interaction with Hermione a week previously. His lip curled at the memory, and his fist clenched, crumbling his muffin over the tablecloth.
"I suppose she is Muggle-born," Narcissa reasoned, "but being as clever as she is, and with her involvement with the war, she could probably have any job she wanted. Maybe that's what she's trying to show you."
"Yeah," Draco replied dully.
"She wouldn't need to waste her time and skills on such a… small company."
"Yeah," Draco repeated.
"Plus, with your history together, it would probably end with a duel."
"Yeah," Draco said again.
"Stupid girl. Don't hire her, Draco."
"I wasn't going to, Mother."
Narcissa smiled at her son and ate her croissant in silence.
"Isn't it lonely, living here?" Draco said suddenly.
Narcissa frowned and sipped her tea slowly. "What makes you say that?"
"Well, you're on your own –"
"No, I'm not, I have the house-elves to keep me company," Narcissa interrupted.
"Let me finish," Draco said. "You live on your own, in a mansion. There are six bedrooms, yet you sleep in just one of them. Why don't you move somewhere smaller?"
Narcissa dropped her gaze and focused on her tea. "I – I couldn't sell the Manor, Draco, your father –"
"– Is in Azkaban," Draco finished, "but I'm not asking you to sell it. Just for you to move into one of our other properties. Something smaller."
"Well, I was thinking of spending some time in the Paris property whilst – whilst it isn't being lived in," Narcissa rushed.
"Good idea, you should."
"Yes, well, I'll think about it."
They spent the rest of their brunch making polite conversation, neither one of them mentioning Draco's job or Narcissa's Paris plan again until it was time for Draco to leave.
"Don't worry about your company, Draco," Narcissa said reassuringly. "I suppose you could always employ Miss Granger!" She laughed at the hilarity of the notion.
"Yeah, I could," Draco replied, smirking. "Think about what I said, about moving out, Mother."
"Of course." Narcissa smiled and pulled her son in for a stiff hug. "I'll see you soon."
"Goodbye, Mother." Draco walked back down the path and Apparated to his flat, feeling the hair on the back of his neck tingle as his wards verified who he was. He sat on his favourite seat at the dining table and reached behind to pull open the drawer he used for work. On top of the top-ten candidates' paperwork, a note had been left, presumably by Blaise the previous night.
Think about what's best for the world, not what's best for you.
Underneath, he had placed the records of Hermione's interview. Thinking about how Blaise had managed to prise them from Whitby's hands, he scanned the parchment and put his head in his hands. On paper, Hermione looked like the perfect person for the job, but even hearing her name made him want to spit.
But it would be beneficial to your company, a voice in the back of his head told him.
"Yes, but how can I work with her?" Draco argued.
You are a professional; you'll be able to work something out.
"But she'd never agree to it!"
You won't know until you ask.
How would I even go about asking her?
You know how.
Draco sighed and then groaned loudly. He was going to have to apologise to Hermione Granger.
