Author's Note: The chapters for this fic will likely be short and somewhat rapid. I churn 'em out quickly. And such. Copyrights are the usual...we L-O-V-E-S you, JKR.
xxx
CHAPTER ONE
Hermione tapped busily away at her computer. Her article was nearly done; she needed a few more adjustments before she would hand it in (a week early) to her boss. It was a long and detailed report on lipstick and hair colour, and how they could both mesh in the most attractive ways.
Hermione, at twenty-three, was the lead editor and writer for Yes!Glitter, the newest and hottest magazine for women aged eighteen to twenty-nine. Already it was rumoured that her promotion was drawing nearer and nearer, and time would only tell when she would inherit the company, as the owner (Cassandra Sorney, aged fifty-two) was childless and was planning on soon retiring to the Caribbean with her boyfriend (aged twenty-two).
In the cubicle across from her, her friend Sharon was chewing on her pen and staring thoughtfully at her screen, as if wondering what to write next. She probably was doing that, Hermione supposed, except not on an article but on a letter to her mother.
"Alright, then, Sharon?" Hermione asked.
Sharon looked up, flustered. "Yeah," she said. "I mean, what the hell do I tell my mom? I think she still thinks I'm a lesbian."
"Have you thought about telling her you're not?"
"Yes." Sharon sighed. "But then she asks why I don't have a boyfriend, which leads to all these awkward questions. Hermione, is there something wrong with me, or what?"
Sharon always fretted about boyfriends, which Hermione didn't really understand. Once she'd hit her, well, peak, so to say, she had had no end of attractive boys fawning over her. Hermione's chest had received more of a curve, her hair had smoothed out, her hips had taken on shape. She was quite pretty, and though not astonishingly beautiful she was outgoing enough to become attractive to most men.
The fact she had more than her share of money helped, too.
"No, Sharon," Hermione soothed. "You're fine. Let's go out for coffee at lunch, okay?"
Just then Candace, the head editor, bustled up. Candace was almost always so distracted it was if she had a very tender hold on the object RELAXATION, which she had tucked under her elbow and was continually letting slip to bounce on the floor.
"Granger!" she cried, hurriedly. "Are you done your article? Nearly? Good! Dragon's booking was cancelled and now we can interview him, thank God! We'll sell about a million copies with his face plastered on the cover!"
Hermione coughed and spat out the water she'd been drinking, which got on her keyboard. Panicky, she dabbed at it with a tissue. "I can't interview him!" she yelped, still sputtering and trying to soak up the water.
But Candace had already gone.
Dragon was really Draco Malfoy, her arch nemesis at Hermione's old school. After graduation he'd hit it big, digging right into the music industry. His father hadn't approved at first, but apparently Lucius Malfoy didn't approve of anything until he got a share of it. So once Draco began to forward ten percent of his profits to his beloved father, Lucius had been quite supportive.
Hermione hated Draco. A lot.
Sharon had a glazed look to her eyes. "You're so lucky," she sighed. "You get to talk to him."
"I'd let you do it if I could," Hermione grumbled, saving her document and sending it to the printers. She busied herself with retrieving it and sending it to Candace's office, still hot from the press, while she thought.
Draco… the last time he'd seen her, she'd still been awkward, stifled into a sort of shyness by her two best friends, who were boys. It was hard to be attractive to any boy when almost everyone thought you were the stern property of two others who had been like brothers to her. (Well, she'd had a fling with Ron, but they had both been as suited to each other as a nail and a stag. The only time they went together was when the stag was beheaded and its antlers mounted on the wall.) Draco had been very mocking of Hermione when she was younger.
She could fix herself up, that's what she could do. Maybe she'd be able to shock him enough to get the upper hand. Hermione smiled to herself as she sat back down at her desk. If she could make him feel foolish, that would be fantastic. And that would make a fantastic story for the article, too. The Dragon: Not As Cool As You Might Think.
Perfect. She'd start tonight.
xxx
Hermione had gone home and taken a long bath, using her favourite raspberry bubbles. She went through all the usual beauty treatments; facial masks and lotions, herbal hair rinses and teeth whiteners. She even waxed her legs.
Hermione usually went for a natural look, which was little makeup and mostly just her personality, but since this was Draco, the next morning she added some more to it. She didn't load on the makeup, however - she just put on enough to look glamorous. She was a writer for a beauty magazine, after all - she knew how to look gorgeous. So when she got to work, she was positively glowing.
She'd also gotten a lot of sleep beforehand, as well, and was free of dark, unattractive half circles beneath her eyes. Draco wasn't due until after lunch, however, so Hermione spent her time coaching her friend Alison (tearful after her fifth break-up with her lazy, good-for-nothing boyfriend) and talking animatedly to Ginny Weasley on the phone.
Ginny preferred to be called Ginevra these days; it was so much more attractive, apparently. Ginny was in the business industry, having also fled the wizarding world to the more attractive challenges of the muggle world. Ginny was an business advisor, and was one of those rich bitch ladies that wore slimming clothes of dark colour, and intimidated men.
By the time noon came around, Hermione ate a carrot, then checked to make sure no ugly orange bits were stuck in her teeth. Then, at around one in the afternoon, she floated towards the makeup and change rooms, where all the interviewed celebrities got done up before their interviews.
She could hear the strains of a guitar, then a female voice shrieking something about angst. Someone had cranked up the stereo. Hermione peeked into the room, where a group of women were clustered around a tall, slender man, whose hair was so pale it flashed silver in the bright light bulbs fixated along the tops of the mirrors, which ran from wall to wall.
Draco Malfoy.
Draco was smiling, and waving the girls off. He was wearing a rumpled pair of jeans and a tight shirt with artistic text splattered all over it. Hermione managed to read the words 'cut to the core' before Draco looked over his shoulder to see her.
He was beautiful. He was dazzling. He was amazing. Anyone who was anybody was his friend, and anyone who breathed had seen his face on the front of endless magazines. Draco Malfoy was, many said, a musical genius, surpassing Reznor and Cobain with his skills and creativity. Hermione crudely suspected other people were paid to do all of the work and Draco merely took all the credit.
Still, Hermione had to hand it to him - he was lovely. He was aristocratically pale, and charming, and he didn't even seem to recognise her. In fact, when he rose to say hello and to shake her hand, not even a little bit of surprise flickered in his ice grey eyes. Hermione felt incredibly pleased.
Unfortunately, when she turned on her heel to beckon him out of the room towards a more reasonable place for the interview, Draco said to her, "Nice ass, Granger."