Methinks this reads like an Asian drama screenplay,

with winks at the Wizarding World,

ready?

here goes.

L.

第一章

Draco Malfoy exited the MM building late in the afternoon. The slanting autumn sun reflected in his shades and defined his form as though he belonged in the bustle of the upscale business district.

He felt vaporous.

The press attach posted by the revolving door quickly pocketed his lighter and trailed after him.

'Ah—Mr. Malfoy, Daily Prophet 'ere, how would you feel about a quick inter—'

The invitation was left unredeemed as Draco climbed into the black Audi parked on-street for his convenience.

Dobbs, the family chauffeur, butler, and green tea aficionado, drove off immediately. Wrinkles accented his eyes as he smiled in the rear view mirror.

'Now there's a somber look on you, Young Master,' he said, 'what seems to be the matter?'

Dobbs was a permanent fixture in Draco's life; been there since his first memory. He was the kind of person who aged backwards—had a whisper of eternal youth about him. He was always there, a surrogate parent, carpooling him around and asking him about his day on the way back to their estate. Draco called him Dobby when he was a kid. He'd grown out of the habit. 'Wish you hadn't,' Dobbs told him.

But unlike Dobbs, Draco didn't keep up with the 'child within.' He went about his duties with comfortable detachment. It was the mindset that kept him lean on his feet.

He needed it now more than ever.

Just this morning, his father's execs had reached an agreement.

'Your youth is prejudicial, Mr. Malfoy, and competition is pushing on that. Why don't you push back with the stable heir brand? Settle down, father a tot or two, all that committal jazz. Marriage is good PR.'

Owing his fluency in business language to his father, Draco knew an ultimatum when he heard one.

Not that his father's shares were in minority, but when senior shareholders reached consensus, they always got what they wanted. His father would probably agree with them anyway.

After all, it wasn't like he was just filling in.

'That's where my work ends and yours begins, son,' Lucius had said. Post-op after a heart failure, his old man was unambiguous about his intention to make the responsibility handover permanent. Over an improvised family dinner at St. Mungo Hospital, he had reminded Draco's mother, Narcissa, that her son was perfectly capable after his last internship, that no, he was not too young, that he, Lucius Malfoy, was already rounding up investors at his age, and that he'd asked for her hand in marriage not long after that.

Draco should have been flattered by his father's trust. The CEO mystique had even tempted him before; he'd gotten so used to emulating his father's every action growing up that succeeding him had once seemed like the ultimate gratification.

That changed in his mid-teens; right about the time he'd found himself an entirely different vocation.

Writing.

He'd already kick-started his authorial career with a self-published novel, written under a penname to keep his own dissociated. Tasting recognition for doing something he loved had ruined him for the world of affairs. It hadn't been a surprise to Dobbs; he'd watched him read through the manor's library like a moth on gossamer before he began scribbling words on spare papers, printed emails, his father's old balance sheets. He didn't know why the words 'flowed' out of him like that; they just did, all at once, and the best way to exorcise them was with a pen. Dobbs would stack up the piles of miscellaneous writing surfaces Draco shed in his trail until he remarked one day, 'why there we have it. You've got yourself enough of these for a proper book.'

There was a suggestion there, one Draco accepted.

When he published his novel last spring with minimal marketing, the lack of publicity contrasted with the quality of the book attracted the curious. There were newspaper articles, author reviews, nominations to prizes, even countless theories about his identity. Some likened his pen to a blend of Grisham and Dumas. He'd received plenty of emails of people explicating why they thought he was this or that writer. Publication houses were contacting him. When is your second book coming out, mystery writer? They wanted to know. He wanted to deliver.

But taking over his father's chair had changed his plans.

The white collar job pushed onto him now felt more like a leash than a distinction. He felt like a circus act, juggling his engineering studies and Malfoy Motors' corporate buffoons.

'I'm driving you to campus, Young Master,' Dobbs sing-sang randomly, drawing Draco out of his thoughts with his thick English accent. 'Your university, Hogwarts. That is where we are headed now.'

Draco ran a careless hand through his hair. He needed a haircut.

'They want me to get hitched,' he said tonelessly. 'The 'dissipated celibacy' is a kill-brand for investors, it would seem.'

'Dissipated?' Dobbs chuckled. 'Young Master, this qualifier does not fit you.'

'Tell that to the newspaper scandals messing with my public image.'

The old man sighed. Taking advantage of Draco's succession, competition had been sending paid actors to testify against the young heir; mostly women, and justice didn't have an answer for defamation when the allegations could be neither proven nor disproven. It was a loophole used by the underhanded world of business; and all was fair in the image war. Bad PR meant less consumers aligning with the brand, and more profit for the competitors. Draco couldn't help thinking what a bloody brilliant novel his life would make.

'You've barely cracked your twenties and you've already got a hefty lot on your plate,' Dobbs consoled, 'you'll have to take it in your stride. It'll forge your character; it's never good when life is too predictable.'

'And this is not?' Draco scoffed. 'This is exactly predictable, Dobbs, me taking on the business and throwing away writing.'

'Ahem,' Dobbs cleared his throat as was his habit before pronouncing wisdoms, 'if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours. Henry David Thoreau.'

Draco crossed his arms. Thoreau's philosophy would tell him to dump this job and move into the nearest forest. At least he could write in peace if he did.

'You're going to have to move out of campus, Draco.' Dobbs said.

'Yeah, I know.'

'I shall start looking for a condo near the headquarters next week. And for the marriage question,' Dobbs began hesitatingly, 'it will be my pleasure to look into it. Do I have your permission?'

'I suppose it doesn't matter if you do it now or later,' Draco mused, 'I'd be only delaying the inevitable.'

'Have no worries.' Dobbs said, parking in front of the university gates where an ornate H was embossed in gold, 'I know your character well, so I daresay I will have a good nose with it.'

Draco nodded. He frankly didn't care. He exited the car and stepped inside Hogwarts University. He marched through the prestigious grounds, passing a group of gardeners trimming flowers, technicians installing the latest attraction, and rich students whispering in his perimeter.

He'd already missed his classes for the day, so he made straight for the student residence and climbed to the flat he shared with Hogwarts' Geek Extraordinaire; Blaise Zabini.

His flat mate was a data scientist—part-time hacker. He collected funky figurines of anime characters, frequently sparred with 'luddites' on the importance of artificial intelligence, and spoke fluent Elvish. 'Good looks? Added bonus' read the T-shirt he owned in different colors.

Zabini was the only person beside his family to know that Slyther Rynn, the writer of The Hallow Sinner of Azkaban; a Count-of-Monte-Cristo-type justice novel, was Draco Malfoy, the harried heir who flew off from country to country and couldn't catch sleep when he tried.

'Hey beautiful,' Zabini smirked, watching Draco pop his collar open and chuck his vest on the nearest chair. 'Beautiful' served him a silent glare.

'Aw, look at you in that dapper suit and tie,' Zabini cooed, looking up from his complicated jumble of cords, computer screens, and self-devised technology, 'getting that bread for your unborn kids. You missed every single class this week; some professors have been throwing some subtle shade. 'Course, I defended you. I said you're not the rake they think you are, told 'em square in the face. I'm the Gimli to your Legolas after all.'

'Let them think what they like, Pain to my Neck.'

'That's not the nickname we agreed on! Come on, Master Rynn, admit that I have my uses, hmm?' Or does our friendship mean so little to you?'

'How many Red Bulls have you downed?'

Zabini smiled stupidly.

'I've lost count.'

'Still working on your little project?'

'Yep,' he pulled his headset down to rest around his neck. 'What about you? Exams start in two weeks. I know you always manage to get better grades than me, but the project is not going to make itself, and you know how Professor Snape is a nightmare to deal with. Not to mention you chose to work alone.'

'My only project right now is sleep.'

'Did you see those guys out there?' Blaise nodded toward the window. 'They're installing some fancy lights for a little in-campus show tonight. Not a clue what's celebrated, but I love me some fiesta.'

'You're going?'

'You bet your sweet bippy I am. Wanna come with? You need to loosen up.'

'I need to rest.'

'You need to stop being such a prude and mingle.'

'With angsty college kids who spend their time blogging rot about me? Let me think. No.'

'That's a fan blog, let me assure you. I admin, correcting the facts and all.'

'I'm not surprised.'

'Seriously, Drake. You're a college kid too, remember? Granted, you're running your father's business in your third year of uni. And you write like the…what did Shakespeare say again? The thing with the summer day? Or was it night?'

'I'm going to bed.'

'I mean it. You should live a little.'

'You should stop the caffeine.'

Draco shut the door of his room behind him.

'Sleep tight, beautiful!' Blaise called.

Draco threw on comfortable clothes before flopping onto his bed, his arm screening his eyes against the daylight. His phone vibrated a couple of times on his nightstand. He picked it up with a growl.

Father (4:46 p.m.) Dinner soon. Much to discuss.

Mother (4:40 p.m.) I've spoken to Dobbs, let us meet as soon as I come back from the Paris art exhibition xo.

-Stocks Alert-

Malfoy Motors +0.15%

The last notification made him smile.

YouTube (20 minutes ago)

Dream Moon uploaded "Norse Lullabies and Mythology, Part 1."

He'd stumbled upon this channel over the summer, just as his father's sickness and his forced succession were taking place. The video "The Hallow Sinner of Azkaban: Soft-spoken Analysis" had popped into his recommendations.

The format threw him off. It was a girl. He couldn't see her face, just her dim bluish set up, but he could hear her voice. Quiet, sweet, like a mother putting her child to sleep. It made him frown. Reading the description box, he understood that the format was designed to be 'relaxing.' No matter, he only cared for the criticism. Hers wasn't thorough in the scholastic sense, it was fragmented, whimsical, and ran curiously deep; picking up on symbols he'd inserted in the plot for his entertainment alone. Her observations ended up being some of the most interesting he'd heard, and combined with her disarming voice, he'd unwittingly relaxed. It was purely accidental that her video had lulled him to sleep, he thought. Once, twice, thrice.

Practically every night.

Her channel was new; small but growing. Her videos involved telling stories, anecdotal or made up, her strangely imaginative way of phrasing things immediately translating into character ideas in Draco's authorial mind. Others were showcasing some of her sketches, explaining their specificities with unhurried grace. There was poetry in her work. The set up, the voice, the diction, all of it. Draco subscribed before long. It was some sort of therapy he hadn't known he needed. Not his biological clock. Not his curiosity. Not the fact that he'd wanted to ask Blaise to locate her with his technological hoodoo.

He put on his headphones and opened the new video by Dream Moon. A piano keyboard flashed into life. When her small hands began to play, he noticed the pink ring on her finger, her fingernails painted with flowers. She was her own universe. Her own novel. He itched to write it all.

可爱

A couple of hours later, Draco, fully dressed, walked into the flat's living room to find Blaise cussing at a mess of wires with a screwdriver in hand.

'Heya Drake. Going somewhere?'

'The lab. Gonna try to get some work done.'

'What about the garden fiesta?'

'No thanks.' Draco picked up his keys, lab coat slung over his arm. He was about to leave when he stopped, turning to Blaise.

'Hey Blaise.'

'What's up?'

'I'm moving out.'

Blaise looked up from his handiwork.

'Out? Like out out? From the campus?'

'Yes.'

'But—that's not a good idea. You're already super absent as it is. If you move out you might end up missing more classes.'

'This degree was just a prep for my takeover, which was supposed to happen much later.'

'Oh. Right. Man. I don't know what to say. As long as I can drop by from time to time I guess it'll be the same...'

'Sure, as long as you don't move in.'

'Why? You don't think I'd make a good wifey?'

'On the contrary, I've seen how your lab partner bosses you around.'

'You know I'm living for Granger's Tsundere attitude. I'm so blessed she accepted to work with me at all. I'll win her over with insistent gratitude.'

Draco shook his head. They stood in silence for a moment.

'I'll see you when I do, Zabini.' Draco said, throwing his friend a single nod before he left the flat.

You see what I mean with the Asian Drama vibe? Campus, young CEO, fan blogs, newspaper scandals? Hehe. Would you like to see this story continue? Let me know :-)