Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Lifestyles of the Rich and the Famous. They belong respectively to J.K. Rowling and Good Charlotte. Shiloh and the Porlock Pub, however, are mine. I wrote this in about twenty minutes tonight as a challenge a friend issued me. So enjoy and please read and review. I recommend listening to the song while reading the fic, but it's not necessary.
Lesson One: Lifestyles of the Rich and the Famous- is it all that it's cracked up to be?
Draco Malfoy darted into Knockturn Alley, quickly flipping the hood of his robe up and over his distinctly pale features so as to avoid recognition. He pressed his sweaty back against the nearby wall and melted into the shadows just in time to watch Rita Skeeter and her flock of photography minions rush by the alleyway entrance, calling his name and chasing the poor sap he'd given five Galleons to in exchange for switching cloaks and pretending to be him. It would only fool the reporters for a minute or two, but that was more than enough time for him to make a quick escape. Releasing the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, Draco stepped away from the wall and headed towards the nearest Apparition point.
It'd been a hell of a day and all Draco wanted to do was go home and have a strong glass of Jack Daniel's Tennessee Whiskey, the only sort of Muggle invention his father allowed in Malfoy Manor. And with good reason. Even Lucius had to admit that Muggle alcohol was far stronger than the imitations wizards had come up with, which made perfect sense to the Malfoy family. After all, if they were born without magic, they'd probably drink themselves into oblivion too.
Of course, getting plastered probably wasn't the best idea, since that was what had started off this whole catastrophic day to begin with. Last night had been Draco's nineteenth birthday and he had celebrated the beginning of his last year as a teenager properly. His father had rented him out Diagon Alley's hottest club, Fortune's Fool, and had filled it the brim with Draco's best friends, beautiful women, and the best food and liquor money could buy. It was a night Bacchus himself would have envied.
And Draco, being the debonair bachelor that he was, brought the most beautiful girl at the party to a posh hotel room once the festivities were over to "properly" bring in the next year of his life. How was he supposed to know that she just so happened to have a sister who was an intern at the Daily Prophet? But, embarrassing as exiting the hotel to flashing bulbs and the leering of reporters was, that wasn't even half of what had made this day the worst one Draco had experienced since his father's incarceration at the end of his fifth year.
No, it was learning that his aunt had been murdered in her cell at Azkaban and his uncle had taken his own life a few hours later that had really made this day a tragedy. While it was true that Bellatrix Lestrange was no kind soul, she'd been his favorite aunt by far, having a sense of loyalty to family ties that could not be broken by Voldemort himself. Plus, she'd given birth to his best friend and sister in everything but name, Shiloh. And despite all the atrocities her parents had committed, Shiloh loved Bella and Rodolphus, and their deaths had caused her more grief than anyone outside of the tight nit Malfoy family would ever know.
Draco remembered rocking Shiloh's shaking body in his arms as his father comforted his shell-shocked mother then later traveling to Azkaban Prison to demand answers and calling in lawyers to sue the pathetic excuse of law enforcement that had been appointed as the new guardians of the eerie island. Between making funeral preparations, dodging the press, trying to ensure the Ministry would not get their grubby hands on any of the Lestrange's extensive possessions and properties, and incessantly worrying about his cousin and mother, Draco had his hands full. It was this preoccupation that kept his mind from concentrating on where he was walking and caused him to run head on into a much smaller figure and sent both unsuspecting victims careening to the ground.
"I'm so sorry! I wasn't paying-Malfoy?!"
Sitting up right, Draco eyed the woman he'd plowed into and was unsurprised to see Ginny Weasley gaping at him. Toppling over a Weasley was really just the proverbial cherry on top of this sundae of disaster that had been his day. In no mood to think up witty insults, Draco merely muttered, "excuse me" and made to leave. Weasley followed him as he stood, her eyes wide as saucers.
"Excuse me? Did you just say excuse me to a Weasley. Hold the press, I think the hell just froze over."
With a deep sigh, Draco continued walking, praying to whatever god that was listening that the youngest member of the Weasley clan would find it in her heart to leave him alone. "Well then, would you mind Flooing the Daily Prophet to let them know? Maybe then they'd leave me the fuck alone."
Weasley snorted. "Oh woe is to Malfoy, the poor little rich kid. What, did you run out of designer clothes and get caught wearing a common, off-the-rack robe?"
Stopping so abruptly that Ginny Weasley nearly ran into him, Draco whipped around, his gray-blue eyes glaring icily at the pestering witch. "Clearly you're either too poor or too stupid to read the newspapers or you'd know that my aunt was murdered today."
Draco watched, satisfied, as Weasley's face went stark white and her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, gods, I'm so sorry Malfoy. I had no idea."
"You're not sorry," he laughed bitterly before turning back around and continuing on to the Apparition point. "Aunt Bella was responsible for more than a dozen deaths of your people."
Rolling her eyes, the redhead replied, "They're your people too, Malfoy. Or don't you remember that you joined the Order the last year of the war?"
"Of course I remember, Weasley. Without the information my father and I provided, your side never would have won."
"And your father never would have evaded Azkaban," she snapped with a scowl.
Draco stopped again and he pinned Weasley with a fierce look. "Watch what you say, Weasel. You'll find I'm not in the mood."
"Well excuse me for not exactly fawning over the spawn of Satan who tried to kill me my first year."
Subconsciously, Draco's hand flew to his wand at the insult and Weasley, who had reflexes fast enough to rival and seeker's, did the same. "Weasel, I've warned you once. I won't give you the same courtesy again."
"Excuse me if I'm less than impressed, but I can't seem to get that girlish squeal of yours out of my head from the last time I cast the Bat Bogey Hex on you."
"That was years ago, Weasley, and you'll find that war does a lot to a man. I've come face to face with Voldemort himself. There's nothing you could say or do that would frighten me anymore."
To prove his point, Draco pocketed his wand and gave Ginny Weasley his back, keeping his eyes firmly planted on his goal fifty yards ahead. He was not more than five steps away when he heard Weasley grumble the words "spoiled prat." In hindsight, Draco would be unable to explain why the words had evoked such rage within him, causing him to whirl around and forcefully drag a shocked Ginny Weasley into the nearest Apothecary. Perhaps he was just sick and tired of everyone assuming the life of the rich and famous was as easy as the paparazzi made it out to be, or maybe he just wanted someone else to be as miserable as he was, even if it was only for an hour. Whatever it was, Draco found himself slamming twelve Galleons on the counter and demanding a bottle of Polyjuice potion.
"Malfoy!" Weasley exclaimed, wrenching her wrist from his grasp and throwing him a disgusted look, "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"
"You think my life's so damned easy? You think being rich is all fancy clothes and getting laid? Well then you try it, just for an hour, and then tell me how lucky I am, how I never have to worry about anything."
Ginny Weasley was stunned and stared at him in disbelief for a minute before shaking her head and realizing just what he was saying. "Are you serious? You want me to be you? That's crazy!"
"Why so hesitant, Weaselette? Scared I might be right, that being rich and famous isn't all that you think it is?"
"I'm not scared," Weasley huffed. "And there's no way you're life is all that difficult. What could you possibly do all day? Spend money on robes that could feed a third world country for an entire year?"
When the apothecary had finally returned with the potion, Draco plucked one of his own hairs and dumped it into the mix, smirking as it turned a silver-green mixture. He handed the concoction to the perturbed redhead before him.
"Drink up, Weasel. Time's wasting."
"And what exactly do I get if I go through with this?"
Draco shrugged. "What do you want?"
"A hundred Galleons if I'm right and your life is as easy as I think it is."
"Done. I'll see you in an hour Weasley." Draco walked out of the Apothecary and towards the unseen entrance of the Porlock Pub.
"Wait," Weasley cried and chased after him. "What are you getting out of this?"
"Suspicious. How very Slytherin of you."
"It's not Slytherin, it's smart. Malfoys never do anything that doesn't benefit themselves somehow."
At this, Draco rolled his eyes and faced the young woman before him. "And I'm sure you got that enlightening bit of information from one of your many dunderhead brothers, who obviously know me so well." He smirked as his statement was rewarded with a slight flush rushing to the youngest Weasley's cheeks. "But, since you asked, upon the realization that I am right and you are wrong, I would like a sincere apology."
"That's it? An apology?" she asked skeptically.
"Sometimes, Weasley, having your opponent admit you're right can be more satisfying than all the gold in the world. I'll meet you back here in an hour."
And with that, Draco walked straight up to what appeared to be an ordinary wall, whispered "templum" and was gone before Ginny Weasley could speak another word. With nothing left to do, the courageous Gryffindor graduate drank the foul-smelling potion, transfigured the black robes she was wearing to properly fit her new body, and headed towards Diagon Alley to see what life was like as England's richest bachelor.
The Porlock Pub was less of a bar and more of a reprieve for England's wizarding elite. It was open only to a select clientele, but its customers were rich enough to see that it remained the most lavish hideaway the wizarding world had to offer. With it's teak furniture and floors, beautiful servers of both genders, and don't-ask-don't-tell policy, it was no wonder why it was Draco's favorite getaway. Sliding into one of the many velvet-cushioned booths, Draco ordered a glass of brandy from the brunette that took his order and spent the next hour nursing the drink and wondering what in the name of the gods he'd been thinking.
Father is going to skin me alive.
But for some reason, Draco didn't regret his decision. For once, he wanted someone to know just how impossible it was like always being in the limelight, having to watch every little thing you said and did, never being able to just walk down the street without being accosted by someone with an ulterior motive, even if it was Ginny Weasley.
She sure has developed nicely, he mused, thinking of the vivacious vixen he'd stumbled into. She wasn't as voluptuous as Pansy or as thin and wiry as Tracey Davis. Actually, she was shaped a bit like his cousin, though her hips were a bit bigger and her frame a bit shorter, but she had grown into a lovely creature. Her freckles were splashed against her creamy skin like cinnamon sprinkled over whip cream and her hair was the color of scarlet silk, and twice as thick. Her dark brown eyes had flashed dangerously, but still managed to hold a twinkle of innocence that most everyone else had lost during the war. She was a conundrum, though, lacking both the girlish tendencies of his mother and the oafishness of Millicent Bulstrode, somehow managing to fall in between the two categories, much like his cousin. Neither a prissy woman nor a tomboy.
Of course, if Draco ever mentioned this fact to Shiloh, she'd probably skin him alive for relating her to someone as common and everyday as Ginny Weasley. Being raised with the Malfoys, her own parents having been imprisoned in Azkaban less than a year after her birth, Shiloh grew up with the same hatred of anything associated with the name Weasley. Though, if Draco were to be honest with himself, Ginny Weasley wasn't nearly as bad as the rest of the hoard. In fact, she was the only one who hadn't treated him with hostility when he'd first joined the Order. She hadn't attempted to befriend him either, but at least she hadn't hated him.
The hour passed quickly and, before he knew it, Draco was back where he started and looking quite amused at the frazzled witch in front of him. Ginny's chest was rising up and down rapidly and seemed as twitchy as a house elf. When she finally composed herself, she locked her dark eyes onto his lighter ones and began to speak.
"I don't know how you do it, Malfoy. The second I stepped out into Diagon Alley, those reporters were on me like a pack of hounds! It took me fifteen minutes to shake them. I kept having to dart in and out of stores to keep them off my back and even then I had to avoid the salespeople trying to suck up to me and to get me to buy the most ridiculous things. Oh, and I never knew just how many tarts there were in London! I think I was hit on at least three times and one of those was a man." Here Weasley leaned back against the alleyway wall and buried her face in her hands. "I admit defeat, Malfoy. You were right and I was wrong and I'm sorry."
And by some odd twist of fate, Draco Malfoy found himself being invited to Floo the youngest Weasley should he ever need to "vent," as she so eloquently put it. Later that night, after he'd returned home and was attempting to fall asleep, Draco thought about Ginny Weasley's offer and wondered if he'd ever take her up on it. He didn't know if actually trusted the witch, or if he even liked her, but the prospect of annoying Potter and the Weasel was too good of an opportunity to pass up. So, the Malfoy heir made himself a mental note to Floo over for tea in a week.
His life would never be the same.