Title: Dance with the Devil
Author Name: Shy Unicorn
Rating:M
Genre: Romance/Friendship
Main Character(s): Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy
Ship(s): Astoria/Draco, Lucius/Narcissa, Narcissa/OC, Lucius/OC
Summary: Four years after Voldemort is vanquished Astoria Greengrass starts working for 'Witch Weekly' magazine as a feature writer. Her very first job is to interview Draco Malfoy who has just made his first million galleons without the aid of his rich parents. What happens when they meet?
Author's Note (A/N):Here's the big meeting you've all been looking forward to. I'd love to hear what you think, especially as I've never written grown-up Draco before! Feedback, tips, constructive criticism and squeeing are always welcome.
Dance with the Devil
Chapter Two: The Heliotrope Hotel
The Heliotrope Hotel is a massive, gothic looking Victorian mansion in Tinworth, right on the cliff overlooking the black-grey Atlantic. It's the sort of place where rich European witches and wizards come to get a taste of Blighty and have all those weird stereotypes about British wizards confirmed.
Whenever me and my family visited Tinworth we'd stay at the cozy B&B in town, the one with talking mirrors and blankets that smelt of dust and lavender like my Granny's house.
I figure Draco Malfoy has picked the venue for the interview. It's quiet and out of the way, there will only be end of season stragglers booked in to the hotel and even then they're likely to be old money, pureblood types. His sort of people.
I've wracked my brains for memories of Draco Malfoy from our school days and I've come up with only fragments of memories all blurred, like looking through greasy glass. He left Hogwarts when I was fifteen and the war against Voldemort reached its crescendo. I remember him from afar as a tall boy with white-blond hair who played Quidditch on the House team.
The weird thing that keeps coming to mind is Daphne once had a picture of his mum, Narcissa Malfoy, on her bedroom wall. It was a cut-out, probably from Witch Weekly, now I think of it.
Daphne had this wall collage crammed with famous people and postcards she liked and I loved looking at it. During term-time before I went to Hogwarts, when I was bored or lonely I'd go sit on her bed and look at it and enjoy everywhere smelling like Daphne's perfume.
In the photo Narcissa has long, straight hair like Rapunzel and a book open in her lap. The expression on her face was hard to read, sometimes I thought she looked sad and other times she seemed smug, as if she had a secret she wasn't going to tell me. I remember I liked her picture because she wasn't smiling. Everyone else had these big fake grins but Narcissa didn't, she was totally different and I admired that.
When Daphne told me that Narcissa Malfoy was the mum of a boy she went to school with I didn't believe her at first. Narcissa Malfoy didn't look like any of the mums I knew – especially mine. This all comes back to me in a rush as I push through the heavy iron and stained glass front doors of The Heliotrope Hotel.
The entrance hall is bright and airy and it smells faintly of the sea and hot house flowers. The floor is white marble and there's a huge domed skylight overhead like an observatory that's flooding the room with pale grey light. The walls are paneled in blond wood which reminds me of being on a boat and a sweeping staircase curves like a wave up and out of sight. My shoes click on the marble as I edge into the lobby. I'm more than a little intimidated by the beauty and grandeur of the place but I try not to let it show.
I've dressed smartly for today's meeting. I'm wearing a floor-length gown (some witches and wizards in places like this are still scandalized by the sight of a witch's ankles). It seemed way too formal to wear my hair up, so I've left it down and headband braided the front section. I spot the dinning room and head on through without bothering the receptionist, a wizard in pristine white robes and an ocean blue admiral's hat.
The dinning room is a sumptuous rectangular room with a panoramic view of the ocean. Today the sky and the sea look like badly washed laundry, discolored and sad. Inside, it's warm like a lazy summer afternoon and candles and lamps have been lit to dispel the gloom; the little balls of golden flame make the crystal chandeliers and silver accoutrements glitter and gleam. White roses and sweet smelling lilies populate tabletops and explode from blue Persian vases the size of small children.
It's easy to spot Draco Malfoy. He's sat front and center in the quiet dining room with his back to the ocean. He's long and lithe, slouched in his seat, fiddling moodily with a tea-strainer. The light catches his platinum hair and makes it gold like galleons. I don't need to get any closer to know that he's bored and hostile.
I smooth my hand reassuringly over the soft leather of my satchel. I've spent all morning refining my questions. I've read the small amount of information Bernice could gather about him and I feel about as prepared as it's possible to be when you're facing a mysterious wizard, but that doesn't stop a tide of anxiousness washing over me as I approach. I've never interviewed anyone before.
Malfoy looks up at me when I near the table and if looks could kill, I'd probably be a heap on the floor. A thrill goes through me like walking into an electric fence or catching a Banishing Spell.
His face is long and sharp; all of his features seem to have razor edges. I can imagine an architect drawing him, the lines of his jaw and cheekbones are so fine and precise. His eyes are light grey and fierce even though his body language is languid and careless. He reminds me of a startled arctic fox.
"I'm Astoria Greengrass," I tell him in a soft but firm voice, forcing myself to hold his gaze. "I'm from Witch Weekly."
I'm careful not to make any sudden movements as I hold out my hand to shake his. That steel gaze is still warily on me. It's like reaching out to pet a horse - I go slowly because I don't want to spook him.
The resulting handshake is firm and business-like. Malfoy's hand is cold and smooth and tells me he's never had to do a hard days work in his life. My dad taught me to always squeeze a little when shaking hands. Apparently it's a subtle sign that you don't take any crap.
As I take my seat I know that Malfoy's aware of this unspoken code.
"Greengrass?" he queries in a drawl that makes me think he's turning my name over in his mouth like a boiled sweet.
"I'm Daphne's sister, you were at sch-"
"I know who I was at school with."
Startled, I glance up from taking the parchment and brand new Quick Quotes Quill out of my bag. His smart foxy eyes are narrowed at me and I sense that he's weighing up if the Daphne connection is purely coincidence or if the magazine has sent me like some kind of Trojan Horse.
The other thing that I notice is entirely physical and completely unexpected. Draco Malfoy, with all of his point and pallor, is my idea of good-looking. Or, he would be if he wasn't glaring at me.
"She's doing okay – Daphne, I mean," I prattle, unable to hold up against his intensity. "She's, um, working as a, err, Astronomy Arithmancer at the Andromeda Institute – in case you were wondering."
I finish hunting around in my bag for the bit of parchment that's got my questions written on it and lay it on the table in front of me. My heart is racing and my nerves are making me breathless and jittery.
I am making such a mess of this, I think as I flatten the parchment just for something to do with my hands.
Malfoy doesn't respond, which forces me to look up.
He's leaning back, sipping his tea. One of his arms is draped casually over the round back of his chair like he's at home, not in some exclusive hotel. His body language and his attitude reek of entitlement. I squirm uncomfortably as I realize I'm so beneath his attention that I'm basically invisible to him. I feel simultaneously hurt and bloody minded. I want to show him I'm worth noticing.
"Have you already ordered?" I ask him with more force than I'd meant to.
I sound angry and that makes me angrier because what Draco Malfoy thinks of me really shouldn't matter so much.
"I wasn't going to eat anything but you go ahead," he says dismissively.
"We could share some chips," I suggest resentfully.
I'm starving and I can hear my mum's voice in my head telling me the best way to get even with a jerk is to kill them with kindness.
This seems to work because Draco Malfoy looks at me like a deer in headlights; for a second surprise flashes over his face and he doesn't know what to do. I find it sad that he doesn't know how to react to kindness. Eventually he gives a nonchalant shrug and I scrutinize the menu.
"Do whatever you like," he drawls, but I feel his eyes on me more interested than before. "I suppose Witch Weekly give you an expenses allowance? If I were you I'd go to town, order lobster or caviar – the lobster here is very good."
I peep up from the menu and give him a weak, acknowledging smile. I've never eaten a lobster before in my life and I'm not about to do it for the first time in front of him. Lobsters have always freaked me out a bit, they remind me of the Blast Ended Skrewts.
I look around and catch the eye of a waiter in blue and gold fez. I place my order and in seconds a glass of water and a plate of chips appear on the table out of nowhere.
"So, I have a few questions to ask you. Do you mind if I use a Quick Quotes Quill?"
"If you must." Draco eyes my brand new quill with distrust.
It's a brown and cream Honey Buzzard feather quill and I've been breaking it in all morning. I shyly suck the quill and put it to a blank piece of parchment where it hovers, ready to go.
"I'll, um, get started. So, the first question is: Did you plan on being a millionaire at 23?"
Having that list gives me something to look at and that anchors me, my confidence returns.
"Yes actually, I did," Draco says, watching the quill intently as it copies his words onto the page.
He pauses to see if the quill adds anything after it's quoted him directly but it doesn't.
"You have to plan if you want to be successful in anything, especially business."
I take a chip and give Malfoy an encouraging look. He takes one too but doesn't seem at all comfortable eating with his fingers. It probably isn't something he's familiar with. I bet he knows the difference between a table fork and a fish fork. I wonder if there's such thing as a chip fork, exclusively for the use of chip eating?
"What was your plan?" I ask, nibbling self consciously on a chip.
"It was a very simple one," he says, sitting forward and taking another chip. "Start saving early, invest, set goals, budget well."
"So you think anyone can become a millionaire?" I ask doubtfully.
"Of course not, but it's only because most people are morons," Malfoy says contemptuously. "Logically if you save a little every month and live long enough you'll get there eventually, but that's not what people want to do. They want to live it up while they can, so they don't save and they live beyond their means. Those sorts of people won't be millionaires or if they are they won't stay that way."
He looks unhappy as he says this and I wonder if he's speaking from an emotional perspective or if he just hates poor people.
"Not everyone has the luxury of saving money," I tell him sharply, surprised once again that he's managed to get beneath my skin. I suppose he did inadvertently call me a moron – which I'm not! "Some people have to live month by month from wage to wage. What do you suggest for those people?"
I'm thinking of myself as I point this out to him. My wages cover my rent and after paying my parents back for floating me for six months during my internship that leaves me hardly anything.
"The same thing. Look, it's not easy but it is simple, if that makes sense. If it was easy everyone would be a millionaire and there'd be nothing special about my finances."
"How did you get your financial start?" I ask pointedly, folding my arms across my chest. I've got him now.
Everyone knows the Malfoys have a vault loaded with gold. It's common knowledge. Not to mention their Manor house that's rumored to be packed to the rafters with antiques and heirlooms galore. People say You Know Who lived there for a time during the war so who knows what dark artifacts he left behind.
Even though Draco Malfoy's been in hiding for the last four years his parents definitely haven't. It took all of ten minutes this morning leafing through recent copies of Witch Weekly to see that both of his parents aren't short on anything, except for subtlety. Narcissa Malfoy has recently given an exorbitant amount of money to a Unicorn Sanctuary and Lucius Malfoy was all over the society pages living it up.
"I invested 10 galleons my Grandfather gave me for Christmas when I was 11," Malfoy drawls.
There's a honey-like quality to the sound of his voice, I can almost see the words dripping off a spoon.
"Not everyone has rich Grandparents," I say and I know I'm pushing my luck even before he raises an eyebrow and gives me a quizzical look.
"Oh, come on! It was ten galleons," he says, pulling a face like ten galleons is no big deal. "I could've spent that money on some stupid toy that I wanted, or sweets or whatever, but I didn't. I invested it, and you know how much it'd made by the time I was 19?"
"How much?" I humor him, because I know it's going to be a lot and he seems proud to tell me. It's the first glimmer of emotion I've managed to get out of him.
"I'd made almost a thousand galleons, which is what I used to start my own business, which is how I started making the big money."
He allows himself a self-congratulatory smile and it brightens up his entire face. He has just one dimple and his mouth looks so soft and pretty all upturned and smug.
He catches me looking at him a moment too long and I panic and look away feeling all tingly and hot in the face. It takes me a second to read my next question.
"So, you first invested in the beauty potion boutique, Selwyn's Salves, and then went into growing and selling potion ingredients. What is it about that industry that you like so much?"
"It's a shrewd move," Malfoy says flippantly and takes another chip. "People are always going to need potions. It makes business sense."
"So there's no emotional or intellectual attachment, it's just all money to you?" I clarify because to me that doesn't entirely make sense.
"I suppose potions are interesting if you like that sort of thing," Malfoy admits, but his tone implies he's not one of them. "I'm only interested in them for business purposes, as a means to an end."
I don't believe him. It's too cold, too clinical. If he wanted to make a quick million he could have gone into broom development, that's where the instant cash is. For some reason I don't push it.
I'm starting to worry this article isn't going to have enough of a personal angle, enough heart. What the Witch Weekly readership really likes is a good sob story.
"How far would you say the war influenced your decision to distinguish yourself from the rest of your family?" I read off, and the second I've finished I know I've made a huge mistake.
The air seems to chill and Malfoy's mouth thins to a pale line.
"I don't talk about the war," he tells me shortly, bowing his head and inspecting his fingernails closely. "I told your boss or whoever it was who answered my owls that I don't talk about it."
He keeps on angrily looking down, picking and rubbing at invisible dirt on his lovely, long fingered hands. The tension in the air is almost audible as a background thrum.
I feel stupid for asking him. Now that I've done it I realize my error. I lost people in the war, some of our family friends died. Their daughter, Polly, was the same age as me. We used to make 'potions' out of garden plants when we were little. I know for sure that Malfoy's aunt and cousin died in battle.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly, and I am. "I didn't know."
"Yeah, well, you should have," he broods.
I feel like this interview has hit rock bottom. Last night I should have studied some of the articles Bernice gave me rather than sitting up with Xen and Pace when they got in from their party.
Malfoy glances up at me and I know I'm looking as wretched as I feel because he shifts uncomfortably and says, "What's next on your list?"
"Okay," I mumble, grateful that he hasn't just walked out on me and left me hanging. "There are just a couple left now."
Malfoy reaches over the table to pull my list of questions towards him at the same moment I push them towards him. Our fingers stroke together and it's like touching a live wire. My heart does a double beat in my chest.
For the briefest of seconds we lock eyes and participating in that look is the most intense thing that's ever happened to me.
When I look away there's that thrum again, only it's like a swarm of bees in my head. I'm still crackling with heat from his touch. It's working its way into every part of my body. My face gets hot and I shift in my seat.
"What do you like doing with all the gold you've earned? What are your hobbies?" Malfoy reads. "Your questions are a bit presumptuous, aren't they?"
There's a wry smile curling his lip. And is it me, or is there a little more color in his face too?
"The funny thing is people expect millionaires' lives to be all champagne and caviar, but for most of us it isn't," he tells me almost proudly. "My biggest hobby right now is micro-financing, which means I'm putting most of my money back into new businesses and helping them get off the ground."
"That sounds risky," I say finding my voice again. I pick up a chip but they've gone cold by now.
"They're informed risks," Malfoy tells me knowledgably. "I'm not the gambling type. What do you do in your spare time?"
"It doesn't matter about me." I shrug.
"No, please, I'm interested. What does Astoria Greengrass like to do at the weekend?"
He looks like he's genuinely interested and for some reason the thought of Draco Malfoy being interested in any part of me makes me shy. I shake my head and wave him off but he keeps on looking at me expectantly.
Anything I tell him will probably sound lame. I mean, micro-financing, as a hobby, really? That sounds so benevolent and smart next to anything I do.
"I like music and writing… obviously, I work for a magazine after all – but I'm working on a novel in my spare time. That's what I really want to do, eventually."
I don't know why I tell him all that. I guess I'm still smarting from the moron comment he made at the beginning of the interview. I want him to know I have a brain and ambitions too.
"What's it about?"
"It's complicated to explain." That's an excuse, I just don't want to talk about it. "I guess we're done here," I say taking a deep breath. "If you have any questions or anything about the article you can write to me at the office."
"Oh, alright. Is that all?" Malfoy sounds disappointed.
I look up from packing away my belongings. Something about him has changed, like the position of the sun changes the length of a shadow. He seems different to me in some indefinable way. His sharp, solemn face is the same but perhaps I see the person beneath the mask a little differently and somehow that makes all the difference.