Title: Stars, Hide Your Fires
Author: Aristide Cauquemaire
Pairing: HP/DM
Rating: M for grown-up language, some hotness and a sh*tload of drama
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"Bad" language ahead.
Happy New Year, everybody!
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-/Chapter 9/-
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The heel of his hand is beginning to hurt with every blow against Plutus' shop's door. He knows it is more than an hour after closing time, that it's rather pointless and that people are staring. But there is hardly a clear thought in his head and even the clearest ones are tinged with panic. Who is responsible for this? How many 'samples' are there and who got them? How many people know?
And – why? Why?
Between two blows of his fist, there is a series of loud clicks in the lock. Draco stops, thinking that he might have imagined it, and tries the doorknob.
The door yields. It is open.
Without another hesitation, he storms in, ready to attack.
However, he finds Plutus and Layla's replacement at the far end of the shop, behind the counter. Plutus is in conversation via his headset – there is a small black device in his left ear which he holds up with the left hand like a bodyguard in the films, while a cigarette is smoking in his right. Halsey seems to be counting some sort of grain from one glass into the other, picking them up delicately between his thumb and forefinger and transferring one after the other from the left to the right jar.
"Boothe!" Draco almost yells and tries not to look like he's running up to them. "I demand an explanation. Now!"
"Hmm," goes Plutus, then "hmmhmm," before he taps the ash off his cigarette and wipes the residues off the counter with the back of his hand. "Yes. Well. Listen, Marcus, I got a thing here, can you hold for a second?"
As Plutus' bored look finally focusses on him, Draco finds himself too angry to even speak. So he gets the empty vial out of his cloak pocket and slams it on the counter. The little crunch of glass is satisfying in the first moment, but his palm soon starts to throb.
"Explain," he says quietly, his jaw set.
"Hum," Plutus replies, eyebrows lifted theatrically, "I had assumed that the, well, audio-visuals are self-explanatory."
Draco feels his stomach lurch and grits his teeth. Theoretically, it had been clear to him that Plutus had watched- it, but practically, it was different. Much worse.
"Why did you send this? To me, to my wife?" It's an automatism to call Astoria 'my wife'. He fears he will never break that habit, no matter what happens.
"Why, they belong to you, no? You ordered the articles, you paid for them. We delivered." As Draco looks at him speechlessly, he adds with an exaggerated frown, "You're not contesting the authenticity of the product, are you?"
Funny, now that he says it, it occurs to Draco that he hasn't doubted that those thoughts were his. Not even for a second. He shakes the memories off violently and tries to blot them out for the moment lest they overpower him.
"But why did you do this?" Draco has found his voice again, even though it sounds thinner and decidedly more pitiful than before. "Why would you not contact me properly, so we could- discuss things and- This was a private matter. A sensitive matter, how could you-"
"Oh, but you don't seem to understand, Mr Malfoy," Plutus interrupts, "My company sticks to the rules set up in the contracts and abides by these rules. It is part of the philosophy to-"
"I don't give a fuck about your philosophy!"
This shuts him up and makes both Plutus and Halsey stare at him for a gratifying split-second. But then the stares give way to a rather smug simper, just as Draco feels something latching onto and crawling up his legs.
"Aggression is not tolerated by this shop, I'm afraid, Mr Malfoy," Plutus explains as some sort of a binding spell wraps around his entire body, immobilizing him completely within a heartbeat.
"Now, as I was saying, this company's philosophy is to stick to the contracts." His words ooze with the fake smile on his face. "And that is precisely what we did in your case." He crouches down, comes back up from behind the counter with two scrolls and lays them before him. Paralysed as Draco is, he can't move his head and look down on them properly, but he recognizes the tassels forming the knot. One of them is possibly the very same contract he signed several months ago, in a ceremony with Layla.
Signed without reading it properly, he suddenly remembers, and his stomach clenches as if squeezed by an ice-cold hand. Oh. Oh no.
Only a dimwit would...
"Just in case you had the idea of making demands for the morpheusphere in question – you never actually paid for it. We lent it to you, and you handed it back. It and the contents pertaining to it are company property as was contractually agreed."
Plutus lets that sink in and busies himself with stubbing out his cigarette into a marble ashtray, then quickly lights a new one.
"Naturally, we would never handle such property irresponsibly. Indeed, we did with it exactly what was specified," and as if to make clear what he is talking about, Plutus reaches for both scrolls and caresses them, "in the contracts."
"But-" Draco begins and is surprised that the ban actually lets him speak, even though he isn't really sure what to say. "I only made one contract with you. I don't- I don't understand."
"So much is clear," Halsey comments from the side. Draco just wants to take the heavy jar he has been putting flower seeds into these last two minutes and smash it into his handsome visage over and over until his nose caves in. Right on cue, the binding around his arms and upper body becomes so tight that breathing is suddenly an effort.
"When I say 'They belong to you' and 'you paid for it' and 'we made a contract with you', I mean 'you' in plural form. Despite the fact that both contracts explicitly state this, you seem to be unaware that we had agreements with you and with Astoria Malfoy, and this company has honoured both agreements to the letter."
"What?" he wheezes after a moment's pause. Nothing makes sense. "This- can't be right. There must be some sort of mistake." Astoria would never... could never-
The people. The people in grey, in his drawing room.
Her stony stare. "I want a divorce."
"Oh, but it is very right, I assure you. It was contractually stipulated in the paragraphs seventeen and twenty-one that this company would disclose and deliver to both parties in due time any information and-or material gleaned during counselling appointments, given that said information or material can be deemed relevant to the contractors' relationship and-or their shared, legally effective prenuptial agreement. I do believe we can both concur that the material in question did meet this requirement."
He is suddenly quite thankful for the continuing paralysis that keeps his feet glued to the floor. He feels like fainting.
Like every single traditional prenuptial agreement between wizards in history, his and Astoria's states quite clearly that rights and benefits should be taken away from the party who broke the rules stipulated in the agreement and instead be given to the aggrieved party.
Rules, such as a prohibition of harbouring unacceptable sexual tendencies.
Rights, such as custody for joint children.
What about Scorpius?
"In short, Mr Malfoy, we did strictly what we were obligated to do, so you have no right whatsoever to come stomping in here making irrational demands. Is that understood?" He doesn't wait for a reaction and wouldn't have got one had he waited. "Good. Now, I assume you would like to dissolve the contract and discontinue your sessions? Very well." He makes a show of untying the knot on the left-hand scroll.
A moment passes by, then Plutus leans towards him. "If I may be so frank, Draco – and this is just my personal opinion," he murmurs, close enough now that Draco can taste his horrid cologne again underneath a thick cloud of cold tobacco smoke, and gives him a conspiratorial look. "I believe that you need therapy. Quite a lot of... radical and aggressive – therapy." And then he winks.
Draco wants claw his eyes out.
Plutus actually seems to flinch back as he sees his body tense with overwhelming hatred. The moment quickly passes, however, and the aloof attitude snaps back into place. "Halsey, would you please escort Mr Malfoy out? I am sure he has a lot to talk about with his wife, and my collocutor is still holding the line here, too. I can take care of this dissolution myself. I will send the papers to you in the coming days, Mr Malfoy. Kindly don't come near this property again, or I will have to inform the authorities."
With that, he is dismissed. Halsey steps around the counter, takes a hold of his upper arm and bodily drags him to the front door. The touch of the assistant loosens the ban's clutches around his legs so he at least doesn't have to fall onto his face. Which, in turn, stays frozen and immobile until the moment he crosses the threshold.
"I want to speak with Layla," he blurts out once his lower jaw unsnaps. Layla who has been with him ever since he fleetingly laid eyes on her in this very shop, once a wonderful dream in bronze and emerald, then scourger of all his thoughts. He knows that he needs her by his side more than he has ever needed anyone. He knows that she could tell him what to do and make everything all right again.
The next moment, memories of three days ago pass through him like a shower of ice. The way she didn't look at him, and didn't talk to him, and didn't answer his owls. Like puzzle pieces, everything falls into place and makes an appalling picture. How else would they have got-
Moreover, Miss Na'amah will certainly oversee the process as well; she will be responsible for the evaluation.
"That may well be, Mr Malfoy," Halsey comments with a distinct tone of condescension, "but she sure as hell doesn't want to speak with you. She also doesn't want you to speak with her. I know for a fact that she never wants to see or hear anything from you ever again."
"But she is my counsellor," Draco presses urgently, grasping at straws. She is my counsellor, she extracted the dreams first, she must have know, must have- seen- "I," he starts, suddenly out of air as if he were having an asthma attack, "I have a right-"
"Listen." The shop assistant steps forward and grabs him by the collar. The physical contact works a lot like the binding spell in the shop. Draco remembers red hot that he has never been any good at close combat.
Halsey hisses at him through his teeth. "You have a right to shit. Layla was your counsellor until the moment she realized what she was counselling exactly. So you will not attempt to make contact with her any further, or you will be very sorry."
Draco is unhanded. He stumbles on the pavement and fights for balance. Before he can actually find it again, Halsey steps forward once more and grabs him again, by the shoulder this time, then pulls him close roughly. When he is close enough, he quietly says, "Let me tell you. Layla - she comes from a good home. A good family, with values. She and her people, they still abide by their religion, like everybody should."
Draco tries to wind himself out of the grip, but to no avail. Halsey's thumb is boring into the hollow of his clavicle and it hurts.
"You know, their religion basically tells us that the likes of you..." He trails off, readjusting his painful clutch so Draco ends up looking up to him. Once their eyes lock, he finishes, "Your kind should be ground up and fed to the pigs. That's how it should be."
After another moment, he lets Draco go, even straightens the cloak where his clutch messed it up, then turns and closes the door behind him. Several clicks of the lock follow.
Draco finds that he can't stop shaking. He walks two paces and then heavily sits down on the curb. People switch to the other side of the street to avoid walking by him.
The sun has gone down when he dares to get up and apparate home.
/ TBC