Monday once more had the two men at the breakfast table. Lucius was just considering the wisdom of a lightly poached egg, and one of the dogs was starting to have designs on the plate of bacon Draco had made his father, when an exclamation by Draco caught his attention.

"Father! It looks like you're not the only one with a hatred of the current fashions!"

"Oh?" The eyebrow raised in what Lucius hoped was a suitably nonchalant inquiry.

"Listen to this - Dear sir, I am so horrified by the thought that the scandalous images in this week's Prophet might truly be considered the epitome of style that I am compelled to write and let you know their effect upon 'normal' readers. … 'normal' being in inverted commas. I wonder what he means."

"Do go on, Draco." Lucius sat back with a small smile of satisfaction. "It amuses me to hear some sanity." It also amuses me to hear my own words being quoted. He relaxed further into his chair and closed his eyes, the better to concentrate on Draco's voice.

"Not since the Muggle-inspired 'hippie' days have such disparate and discordant concepts come together in the name of 'fashion'. I understand that skirt-hoops have made a reappearance after a century, but they add nothing to the grace and beauty of a female form and detract severely when united with undersized bolero jackets and psychedelically swirled hose. 'Hose'? Oh – those stockings." Draco winced at the memory of the particular photograph which had shown a certain ex-schoolmate of his with her legs clad in something that hurt the eyes just to glimpse them. "You know, I do believe this writer has a point."

"Who is it?" asked Lucius, almost too casually.

"Bernard Grey of Pewseyvale. Not a name I recognise." Draco searched his mind for a moment until the sun struck the table and reflected off the milk jug into his eyes. "Merlin's Balls! I'm late!"

He almost threw the paper at his father, grabbed a handful of floo powder, then turned back for a moment. "I shan't be home for dinner, Father. I'll see you later tonight." Lucius nodded in acknowledgement, and took up the paper as his son disappeared in a flash of flame.

It took him only a moment to turn back to the relevant page, and he re-read his own words in print with great satisfaction. His pleasure was not dimmed at all by the arrival of an unexpected owl, which flew in the side window and sat hooting on the chair beside his. He removed the professional-looking double-roll of parchment from its leg, and absentmindedly gave it the bacon from his plate while he unrolled the missive and read the first page, oblivious to the disappointed looks from the patient wolfhound who had had designs upon that rind.

Dear Mr Grey

We are about to launch a "Wizards and Witches Home and Life" section in this publication, and, desirous of some male views to provide a balance, we would welcome your input in the form of a 400-500 word column twice weekly. Our usual rate per column is 20 Galleons, and we would appreciate your signature on the enclosed contract."

Years of wheeling and dealing had given Lucius a great deal of experience in this, and he promptly replied suggesting a figure ten times that which was offered, and a re-working of the terms. The owl left with no idea of the ruckus its cargo was going to cause...

The poor owl that brought the next offer from the Prophet's contracting team was looking rather frazzled, as if it had had to listen whilst waiting to a fair stream of invective. It hooted nervously and was more than a little relieved when Lucius read the terms being offered once more and only released a derisive snort at their contents.

"Four columns for less per word than they originally offered – they must think I'm Barnabas the Barmy. I'll teach their trolls to dance..." and, muttering as he went, he composed a final offer that left no doubt as to his expectations and remunerations. The owl, rested, took the weight of the parchment and was surprised by a gentle pat to the head.

"Do not take their words to heart, little one. I've merely given them the best fight they've had in aeons, and they will not take defeat lightly." This, alas, did nothing to calm the owl, and it hit the sill and the window sash twice before it headed off into the late afternoon.

It was only then that Lucius remembered that his son would not be home for dinner. Mrs Harris had bustled around effectively during one of his contract-perusing periods, and had left him a cottage pie for lunch which he had completely forgotten. This, together with a bread roll, made a satisfactory early dinner, and better than dessert was the sight of the exhausted owl falling over the window sill, the words Very well then written in rather grumpy letters showing on the edge of the parchment.

The final contract was all that Lucius had wished for: the original two columns per week, plus the additional joy of previewing the week's social pictures and choosing one to critique in his own style. Rita Skeeter had never had it so good, and Lucius would write all his own copy. He signed the final agreement and sent it back promptly, complete with a column he had prepared earlier after the arrival of the first owl.