Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Depressing, but true.
A little more meat for you. It's Sunday night where I'm at - review like crazy, and I'll post the next chapter at this time tomorrow. Ready, set... GO! xo
There was a knock at the door.
Draco Malfoy looked up from his work and frowned. Blaise, his best friend and business partner, was on the other side... And Blaise only knocked when he had bad news.
Fuck. Draco put down his quill and bit his lip. They couldn't handle any more bad news. They were at the breaking point.
Their business, one that should be thriving by all accounts, was tanking faster than a broken Nimbus. They sold luxury broomsticks, some of the best and fastest in the world. This was a time of prosperity and investment - the War was over, jobs were plentiful, and success could be attained through a bit of luck and a lot of hard work.
But apparently that didn't apply to a Malfoy. Once rich and powerful, his family had become societal outcasts. Leered at by the masses, pushed out of public life, and spat on by the Ministry. It seemed everything they touched turned to dust.
He was amazed Blaise even stuck around at this point. Everyone else from the old social circle had either gone to jail or fled England altogether. The Manor was in ruins. Bearing the family name was tantamount to treason. He thought the War was hell, but now he was drowning in the fallout. The public hadn't forgotten over time. They'd simply gotten angrier.
He ran his hands through his hair and then clasped them on his lap so Blaise wouldn't see how jittery he had become. Draco played the part well in public, walking with a swagger he had perfected when he thought he was Merlin's second coming, but now it was all a façade. The fancy robes he wore had been mended several times over. His flat was furnished with a plain table, two chairs and a mattress. He was failing, and he knew it. He was nothing. He was nobody.
Perhaps most immediately, he was going broke.
His hands were still for two long seconds before he began shuffling his papers into a sloppy pile. It was just as well; he couldn't stand to look at the mess a moment longer. Merlin, the debt was suffocating. If he saw another bill he couldn't pay, he'd be tempted to burn the business to the ground. Unfortunately, his livelihood, Blaise's, and his parents' future was all tied up in this venture. If it failed, they would all go down with it. It looked like the world wasn't going to quit until the Malfoys were begging on the streets. Blaise was a different story - he had a new woman every other night and could probably live quite successfully in the beds of England's witches. Draco didn't have that option. His last name drove everyone away before he could even get past the introductions. The Zabinis had managed to stay neutral in the War. The Malfoys had stayed firmly on the wrong side right up until the end. They realized too late what everyone else had figured out.
Voldemort had fucked them all over and they had let it happen.
A brief fluttering at his window caused him to flinch. It was just a standard mail owl, but he'd grown to detest the sight of the birds. Once delightful and practical pets, they'd become nothing but harbingers of bad news. Bad press, bad debts, and rejection. By the time he looked over, the bird had gone.
Blaise knocked again.
"Come in," he called.
His friend walked in and nodded at Draco with a troubled smile. He plopped himself into the guest chair and fidgeted with the folder in his hands.
"Morning mate," he said, trying to sound cheerful.
"What's the damage?" Draco responded, heavily. "Don't sugarcoat it, please."
"We've lost our second last client," Blaise responded with a sigh. "Caved to pressure from lobbyists who say they shouldn't be selling products made by - "
"A Death Eater. Got it." Draco dropped his head into his hands. "How did they even know I was running the business? We were so careful this time..."
Blaise shrugged. "Sometimes I wonder if you've got someone tailing you. I can't believe how quickly the press finds out what you're doing."
"You know, nothing would surprise me anymore," Draco muttered. "Okay, so we have one last shop that is carrying our brooms. How much time does that buy us before the lobbyists get to them too?"
"Frommer's is owned by Harry Frommer, who I understand is an old acquaintance of your father's," Blaise said with a bit of hope. "I think he'll tell them to fuck right off, honestly. He knows our brooms are top of the line."
"And yet, we can't run a business like ours with only one client," said Draco, playing with the snow globe on his desk. It was a Hogwarts edition, bought for him by Pansy before she took off to Russia. Back when he could still get a date before referring to it as a "business merger."
"It's better than nothing," said Blaise. "Have faith. We'll find new clients."
Draco looked up at his friend with a bewildered expression. "I honestly don't understand how you haven't walked out on me yet," he said. "I'm ruining your life."
Blaise waved his hand with a cheeky grin. "That's shite. I know you're a good bloke, and I'm not going to cut and run just because the rest of the world is ignorant."
"Be realistic, Blaise," he said, shaking his head sadly. "My name alone could drive us into bankruptcy."
"Could being the operative word," Blaise shrugged. "It's not a done deal, and to be perfectly honest, I think we both know how good our brooms are. I still believe in the product. The public will have to catch on eventually."
"Not with the constant assault the press is waging on me," Draco moaned. "It's been five years since the War, five years Blaise, and I actually think The Prophet has gotten worse."
"Don't let it get to you," said Blaise. "Fucked if I know why they're so fixated on your life, but they'll have to get bored with it some day."
"But it's not just that!" Draco said, exasperated. "Look at our competition. They stole our designs! We were the only ones working on flexible broomsticks. I refuse to believe that Stacey McLorrow thought of using charmed willow branches all by herself. She's a sodding bitch, not a bloody genius. It took us months of testing to perfect it. Right when we were about to announce it, she beats us to the punch. It's not a coincidence."
"Okay, I still don't know how she managed that, but our version is still better," Blaise said in a soothing voice. "Stacey is a spoiled girl with a trust fund. I think she went into the broom business just to piss you off. We make the best brooms, hands down."
Draco sighed heavily.
"It's true, mate," said Blaise. "You know it is."
A smirk crept across Draco's face. "I don't deserve you."
Blaise snorted with laughter. "Perhaps not. But it looks like we're not the only one's who have fallen on hard times," he said, throwing that morning's issue of The Prophet in front of Draco. "Now personally, I find the story really bloody sad, but you might get a kick out of it."
Draco looked at the cover with a frown. It featured a huge picture of Hermione Granger walking into a room to find Ron Weasley snogging some unknown blonde with nauseating enthusiasm. Hermione's hands went to her mouth, her ring glinting in the light, and he could see the beginnings of tears in her eyes right before the image repeated. WAR HEROES SPLIT AFTER DISCOVERY OF TORRID AFFAIR, screamed the title.
He scanned the article. "The headline says 'torrid affair' as though there was only one, but it looks like Weasley was fucking everything that moved."
"I know. Hard to say if Granger knew how bad it was. Engagement's off, as you can imagine. She's gone missing."
"Missing?" Draco said, looking up at his friend with distaste. "Christ, I'd be missing too if my fiance made a fool of me on the national stage. Right after I gutted him."
"Whoah whoah, are you actually feeling bad for Granger?" Blaise said, with a surprised chuckle. "I agree, of course. I barely know the girl, but there's no way she deserves to be crapped on by Weasley. Still, I thought you'd get at least a moment of smug satisfaction out of the article."
"What, because Miss Perfect finally has to deal with some bad press?" Draco said, still reading the article. "Yeah, I suppose." He flipped the page to where the story continued, but his eyes rested on a second picture of Hermione. Holding it up so Blaise could see, he pointed to her face. She was pushing her way through a crowd of reporters, trying to get past. A building loomed in the distance. She looked panicked.
"This must have been taken right before she ran off," he said. "That's my apartment building."
"I forgot you both lived in the same complex," Blaise said. "Bad luck for you. The press might as well just move in."
Draco didn't respond. He was oddly mesmerized by the second photo of Hermione. She looked completely destroyed, like she was barely holding it together. Practically unrecognisable without her usual energy.
"She looks miserable," he murmured.
Blaise frowned, leaned over and snatched the paper out of Draco's hands. "Enough of that. I was trying to cheer you up, not send you into some depressing spiral. As puzzled as I am by your sudden empathy, forget Granger for a moment and think about how miserable Weasley must be right now."
"That does cheer me up a bit," Draco said with a wry smile. "I still don't understand why you're friends with that tosser."
"Friends is a generous term," Blaise shrugged. "We play recreational Quidditch for fun. We grab the occasional Firewhiskey. He likes to talk brooms. He's just bored with Potter living off in France somewhere. It's nothing like the love you and I share, Draco."
Draco tossed the snow globe at Blaise's head and Blaise ducked, cackling.
"Well, thanks to your newspaper article, my opinion of the git is even lower, as if that were even possible," Draco said, noting with relief that the globe was still in one piece, rolling around in the corner of the room. "Now get your arse out of here. I've got to figure out if I've got anything left to sell so I can pay my fucking rent."
"You and me both, mate," Blaise sighed, standing up and walking towards the door. "How are the folks, by the way?"
"Worried they're going to be sleeping on the street," he answered. "Don't know how my mother's feeding that pet of hers."
"Queenie? I sort of thought she liked to eat the limbs of your enemies."
"Suppose we've got no shortage of those," Draco said with a wry smile.
Blaise gave him a sympathetic look and nodded before leaving the room.
Draco groaned and rested his head on the desk. "Not a word of a lie," he mumbled into the cool wooden surface.
Loud voices woke Draco up with a start, and he realized quickly that he must have fallen asleep at his desk.
"What the bloody hell..." he said, standing agitatedly and stalking over to the door. He opened it abruptly, eyes narrowing at what he saw.
"Get the fuck out of my office Weasley," he said to the red-headed man who had clearly worked himself into a state, pacing like a caged animal in front of Blaise's desk. Blaise was calmly reclined, listening to Ron's rant.
"Screw you Malfoy," Ron spat, his face screwed up with anger. "I'm here to see Blaise, not you."
"And yet here you are in my space, disturbing my work and annoying my dear business partner," Draco said coolly.
"Weasley here was just telling me about his current predicament," Blaise said with a wink so small Draco almost missed it.
"Which predicament is that? The one where you couldn't keep your dick in your pants and lost your girlfriend of five years?" Draco sneered.
"At least I can get a fucking lay, Malfoy," said Ron, drawing himself up to his full height. "And you don't know a bloody thing about my situation."
"I know what I've read," said Draco, ignoring the low blow about his love life. "Are you telling me you didn't sleep with six other women in the past three months while being engaged to Granger?"
"I don't owe you any explanations," Ron hissed, getting progressively redder.
"That's as good as an admission," Draco smirked. "You should really practice your comebacks if you want anyone to sympathise with you, Weasel."
"I'm not looking for sympathy you pathetic loser," Ron barked. "I'm worried about Hermione!"
"Oh, now you're worried about her? That's rich!" Draco replied, feeling himself getting worked up. He could care less about Granger, but this imbecile pretending to be concerned was beyond irritating.
"Come come Draco, Ron was about to explain before you barged in," Blaise said, trying hard to cover up his amusement. "Go on, Weasley."
Ron was panting now, his eyes red and watery, his hands twitching.
"Just breathe. Draco won't interrupt you again. Tell me why you came by," said Blaise in a soothing voice.
"She's missing," Ron said quietly with a shaky voice.
"So I read," said Blaise with a raised eyebrow.
"No, I mean, I don't think she ran away. I think she's in trouble."
"I don't understand," Blaise said, more serious now.
"Even in a full panic, even when everything falls apart, 'Mione checks in with someone," he said, wiping his eyes roughly with his arm. "Since the War, she always makes sure someone knows where she is. Harry, me, my mum... Anyone. But I went to her flat just now and all I found was a small pool of blood in her bathroom. Nothing else. Nobody's heard from her. She's been gone since last night without a word."
Draco and Blaise both frowned. There was no denying that the situation sounded a little less amusing now. Granger didn't seem like the type to run off without alerting any of her close friends. And a pool of blood? Disconcerting, to say the least.
"Is there anything we can do to help?" said Blaise.
"Don't get me wrapped up in this," said Draco, backing away with his hands raised. "You made your bed, Weasley. Call the authorities and get them to start searching, but frankly, even Granger deserves better than you. You'd better fucking hope she's alive."
Without warning, Ron launched himself at Draco with a growl. He was knocked sideways by Blaise before he even made contact.
"Weasley!" Blaise snapped as Ron hit the ground. "Don't waste time trying to fight Draco if Granger's hurt somewhere. I don't even know why you came here before going to the Ministry. This is serious. We need to go - I'll take you there myself."
He pulled Ron up with a huff and started to push him out the door. Ron stumbled, openly sobbing now. "Harry's going to kill me," he cried. "He's never going to forgive me!"
"We'll talk about it on the way," said Blaise, tersely, pulling Ron along by his coat. "Evening Draco."
"Good riddance," Draco spat, still unnerved by Ron's attempted attack. He turned abruptly on his heel and accidentally knocked over a plastic monkey toy sitting on the edge of Blaise's desk. He picked it up with a snarl. The hideous thing had been a joke gift from Weasley to Blaise years ago - it had eyes that spun around and it was holding a multi-coloured lolly in its hand. "You're a sucker!" came the sing-song robotic voice "You're a sucker!"
"Fuck you!" Draco screamed at the toy, chucking it at Blaise's office chair and storming back to his desk. Stupid trinket. He was tired of being told what he already knew.
Not wanting to spend another minute in an office that was about to be declared bankrupt, he grabbed his briefcase and apparated home.
After a cup of tea and a quick dinner of leftovers, Draco felt considerably calmer, and decided to take a walk down by the river near his flat. It was a chilly evening, with the ground slick with a recent rain. The sun was just barely lighting the overcast sky, not quite black enough to be night, but not quite bright enough to be day. He wrapped his scarf around his neck and pulled his jacket tightly shut. This was the sort of chill that could seep into your bones. His breath hung in the air.
Once well along the trail, he glanced back over his shoulder at his building. It was an ugly old clunker of a structure, and the flats were modest at best. It's what he could afford. Perhaps not even, at this point.
Apparently it was also good enough for Granger.
Granger. The memory of her face in the newspaper article floated back into his mind. Something was bothering him. And the fact that he was bothered by anything Granger-related bothered him even more. They had probably said all of five words to one another since the War, most of which when they bumped into each other near the lift when Draco first moved in.
"You live here?" he had said.
"I do," she had responded.
After that, it was all passing glances and the occasional nod. She had even smiled at him once, humming to herself as she popped a well-worn book in her purse and wandered out of the building.
He had gotten used to seeing her around. They weren't outwardly friendly with each other, but they weren't openly hostile either. It was a funny truce, and one he didn't think of much until just now. Until she went missing. Until her life as she knew it exploded.
It was a feeling he understood.
He also really didn't want to explain it to Blaise. What would he say... That contrary to popular belief, he'd become comfortably indifferent to her? That when he caught her eye, he didn't immediately have the urge to sneer? That he sometimes appreciated having a familiar face around when everyone else shunned him? No. That sounded stupid.
And yet, her disappearance still grated on him. So she had a perfect life. That didn't mean that she deserved to be publicly flayed like that. Nobody did. Weasley. What a waste of skin.
Deviating from the path, Draco began to walk through the brush towards the river bank. Sitting and watching the water rush along was one of his favourite pastimes, and Merlin knew he could use a bit of reflection after his mind-fuck of a day. Impending bankruptcy weighed heavily on him. He didn't want to lose the business, he loved the business, but he was being forced out by faceless lobbyists and rabid reporters who couldn't let him move on with his life. Yes, he had been a Death Eater. No, he didn't want it to define him forever. Apparently he wasn't being given a choice.
Draco wandered by a bush and saw something pale out of the corner of his eye, but continued walking, assuming it was an old pop bottle or a plastic bag. A few seconds later, he stopped.
Now that he thought about it, the pale thing on the ground had looked vaguely human. Like a hand.
With a lurch in his stomach, he turned back and broke into a jog. There it was. A hand, attached to an arm, attached to a body... With a mess of curly brown hair he recognized all too well. She was lying face down in the leaves. Panicked, he threw himself onto the ground and turned the body over.
There was Granger, eyes closed, cold as the river, and dark blood leaking out of her mouth.