I tell Ilse to book a meeting with Blaise on my calendar to review the financials of the park. I have to return Dolohov's books by the day after tomorrow and we need to map things out. Dolohov is, as expected, not a bookkeeper.

I have no desire to do his accounting for him, but I do need to sort through what revenue comes from where, and what costs the park the most money.

Things like this should be basic, but apparently not to Dolohov and the more I dive in, the less surprised I am that he's in trouble. He should have hired someone for this a year ago, at least. That'll be one of my first tasks.

I need to be careful because I can't begin shirking my own job. I need this salary in a critical way like never before.

I worked for my own entertainment and mental gratification until two weeks ago, to give myself pocket money to buy pretty girls drinks and an occasional dinner without needing to collect an 'allowance' from my father as a grown man.

Now I'm working to keep this bloody park afloat until I can turn it around.

I'm ignoring Snape's advice for the present. I don't know why I'm working so hard at this; I just know that I am and Malfoys do not fail at things. Especially not business things.

So it's a point of pride; that's all.

When Blaise arrives, I've got a wall going with columns for revenue and expenditures.

Primary revenue drivers are the highest-earning companions, and as Snape said, the most popular five bring in as much as the next forty. I can see how selling or killing the worthless ones makes sense. No one typically wants the older captives; they're not good for sex or manual housework. The younger ones catch a decent price and it's usually an easy choice to offload them rather than continue to house and feed them.

The companion-less fics do bring in a good bit of money but it could be better. Designing a new fic location costs initial design fees and occasional land expansions, but once created, it's nothing but profit.

Dolohov's teams have been working diligently to create a deep inventory of simulated companions, and I make a note to tell him to continue expanding those options.

He's doing almost no advertising and that's a missing piece. Those fics cost him nothing and are much more affordable for the average wizard. We could increase business there easily.

They have hardly any recurring revenue, another massive opportunity for new growth.

Along with my idea for selling duelling practise to Hogwarts, I've realised they'd also have to purchase the fic location to hold them in. Now that I know the fic location is real, Hogwarts would require their own space, and each year of Dark Arts classes would have a different skill level of practise.

We could charge for access to the simulated companions each month of the school year.

Quidditch is another possibility.

Having a fic for Quidditch practice - or several, one for each House team, perhaps - could take a lot of the scheduling the field for practise sessions out of the equation. Younger players could be brought up to speed more quickly. Teams could practise in horrible weather conditions to test themselves and improve.

Access to simulated opponent players could be similarly 'rented' throughout the Quidditch season.

Blaise and I are well occupied with this, working late, and I realise suddenly we're about to miss our next double-date with Daphne and Eloise at the pub.

Our budgetary compromise was no dinner, which might fly for another time or two before we both have to cut things off entirely.

I notice a hilarious change in Blaise as he brags about his investment to Daphne, going so far as to tell her he can get her in anytime - presumably to see Neville Longbottom or maybe Oliver Wood. Maybe both of them.

No jealousy present at all this time, not here. Not from Blaise Zabini. I smother a little laugh to myself.

Both girls respond enthusiastically and it occurs to me that we should also be advertising to witches. I don't think Dolohov does any of that, at all. Talk about an untapped market.

Maybe I can write off the expense of nights like this as market research.

Given the current lack of underneath tension this time around, Blaise and I both lean back and have a good time. Let the girls have their fun. What do we care?

I decide I care a little bit after my third firewhisky, recognising a bit late that the fics are not in our minds, so Eloise would actually be fucking Potter.

I don't expect the girls I take home to be virgins, of course. I greatly prefer that they aren't. Virgins get… needy. Clingy. They don't take well to being taken home a few times and then ditched. If I find out a girl is a virgin, I usually don't let things get past dinner.

But I still don't like the idea of the girl I fuck having fucked Potter.

In this scenario with Eloise, I will have had her first, I remind myself. And anyway, Potter is probably still just losing his own virginity over and over. It would be rubbish sex.

Fine, then.

I know I'm not giving her rubbish sex, so let her be disappointed in Potter.

This exact same logic would work if the fic was in her mind and I try not to let myself get tangled up.

She's running her hand up and down my thigh as she leans into my neck, giggling, and I nudge her hair behind her ear with my nose so I can press a kiss there.

Wispy hair. Light.

"Hello, Granger."

We're in the library and I'm resting against a desk, watching her not watch me.

I've been doing this for some time, easily, because she's completely absorbed in the library. I wonder how long it's been since she's been in one, then stop. She doesn't think it's been more than a day or two.

That is not stopping her complete and total immersion in it. She'd gone straight for the Restricted Section, clearly looking for research on something in particular since she believes the war isn't over yet.

I've been sitting here trying to parse out exactly what is driving this stupid infatuation of mine, now that Blaise has pointed it out and Snape essentially confirmed it.

I don't see it.

Her hair is less wild, true. It's longer from her captivity and the weight of it must be helping it hang down instead of up and around her head.

Her face is slimmer, more adult, an odd contrast with the filling out she's done. Even though she thinks the war is ongoing, her body is undoubtedly better rested and fed than she's been in years.

I'd forgotten over the past year how short she is. I've grown a bit more, I think, and she might actually have to stretch to her tiptoes to slap me today. I'm sure she'll manage.

I scare the bloody hell out of her by speaking and she jumps, nearly dropping the gigantic book in her arm. That's a good start.

"You!" She seethes, whirling on me.

But what I initially took as anger - anger at me for being me, anger for startling her, both - is replaced by a quick current of fear. She backs up a step, then two, clutching the book to her chest as if it's protection.

Well, that's no fun. She won't hit me if she's afraid of me.

Why is this time different? Is it like how Potter was faster in his reaction times? Is there somehow… more of them there in the fics, now?

"Me," I say casually. I want to step towards her but I don't. I put my hands in my pockets and rock back and forth on my heels. This is peculiar.

Of course, she should be afraid of me. That's fair. I killed Dumbledore, after all. I was the youngest person to take the Mark in Dark history. She was tortured in my drawing room, and my eyes flicker down to the thin white scarring on her arm.

I don't like it, though.

In all of our previous fics, she went straight on the offence, glorious in her righteous outrage, how dare I?

"Why are you here?" she whispers, brown eyes wide and fearful, and I'm too surprised to say anything but repeat it back to her.

"Why are you here?"

Her eyes glance around the overstuffed shelves rapidly. "I'm trying to find anything I can on… on Horcruxes for Harry."

Ah, yes. The thing that very nearly won the war for them. The Dark Lord was incensed that they knew. The cognitive disconnect here is amusing. If she thinks the war is still on, she should never mention Horcruxes to a Death Eater, but I can work with this.

"You know Dumbledore would have never allowed anything like that to be kept here. Stupid old man."

Now she'll fly into a rage. Come on, Granger. Come play.

But her eyes fill with tears at the mention of his name. It's a shine I could have missed if she'd turned her back on me at once, but why would she do that? She's afraid of me.

She grips the book tighter to her chest and her knuckles are white. I think if they weren't holding onto something, they might be trembling.

No, this isn't right. This isn't how it goes.

"Well, carry on, then," I wave a hand at her dismissively, annoyed. "I'm sure if there's something to be found here, you'll find it. Go on, off with you."

Giving me a baffled look, she's not dumb enough to ignore an opportunity to escape my presence.

She scurries back into the shelving, keeping me well within her field of vision and I settle into the chair at my table, thoroughly perplexed.

To put her more at ease, I grab a book off the rack closest to me and open it flat on the desk. I do my best to look absorbed in it, as if I'm ignoring her entirely, and then I wonder if this is how I always seemed back at school - before I knew how I looked at her, pretending she wasn't here at all or that her very presence grated my nerves.

How many other people saw through my constant presence in the library?

Did she see through it?

The book I chose offhand was one on Ashwinders and the use of their eggs in potion-making and it doesn't take me long to work my way through it, even with half-hearted attention. I finally get bored of staring at the same pages and stand to find something else.

There's a sharp clatter from behind me as I startle her again by standing, and I try not to smile. She's been circling around my table at a distance, always keeping me in sight.

With a spark of irritation, this feels oddly opposite to our time spent in the actual Hogwarts library during school.

This recognition annoys me so much I grab another book at random. Knarls, this time. Useless.

I shove it back and force myself to look more closely. Ah, there's one on XXXXX-rated beasts. Chimaeras and Manticores. Lethifolds. Now we're into something that might hold my interest.

Still acting as if she isn't even here, I sit back down and start to peruse it studiously. I think 'parchment and quill, please,' and they appear beside me. I start taking notes like a good little boy and let the minutes pass.

She's creeping closer now. She must be curious.

I start muttering under my breath as I write, as if talking to myself. "Yes, Manticores could be useful. If we could keep them from stinging people to death immediately, they like to croon to their prey as they eat them. That's only fun if the prey is still alive, of course. Maybe MacNair can obtain one. Have to ask him."

Silence around me. No more creeping. Is she listening? I want to look around but I know better. It'll break the spell.

"Lethifolds, Lethifolds… could be used. Prefer to eat people while they're sleeping, so not as good for scare tactics, but -"

"A Patronus still chases off a Lethifold."

There she is.

Her high, thin, tentative voice is nothing like what it should be, but I'll take it. There's a shadow of that indignant swottiness in there, as if I should know this already and I'm a disappointing waste of a wizard that I don't. I allow myself a private grin before turning around, looking annoyed.

"Not if the person is asleep, Granger. Can't cast a Patronus asleep."

I turn my back on her again, bending over my parchment, scribbling away.

She lets this rebuke go without her own retort and I'll need to keep trying, but she hasn't moved away.

I write for a few more moments before saying absently over my shoulder, as if I'd forgotten she was there, "As you're such an expert, which would you think is best: a Manticore or a Chimaera?"

"... Best for what, Malfoy?" The suspicion in her voice is beginning to sound much more like Granger.

"For eating people, of course." I let a frustrated irritation bleed into my voice as if she's the idiot. "For the war effort."

I hear her suck in a breath, and I twist in my chair to roll my eyes in exaggerated weariness. "Obviously. You've been listening, haven't you?"

This traps her somewhat and I enjoy her hesitation, her clear mental wrestling with 'Yes, of course I was listening in, I always listen, I can't help it because I'm an insufferable swot,' and 'Why would I ever pay any attention to what you're doing, you stupid prat?' and 'Please don't imply you'll actually use a Chimaera on the field of battle, that isn't funny, you're evil.'

"If you're going to eavesdrop, Granger, you might as well help." I shove a chair in her general direction and turn back to my parchment, flipping a page in the book. "I prefer the Manticore option. I think singing your prey softly to death while devouring them is… poetic. The Chimaera just goes right for it."

Glancing from the corner of my eye, she's sitting gingerly down, perching herself on the very edge of the chair. Poised for flight. "I suppose it will come down to which one MacNair can find for you. Might as well not get attached to one option over the other."

Her stiffly dignified tone is sounding more familiar and now we're getting somewhere.

"Mm, you're probably right," I say, my quill between my teeth as I flip to the index of the book to find the page number of something else. "Nundu, Nundu…"

My next intended target brings Granger fully to focus. She tries to get my attention away from the index, using her best bossy voice. "Also, as you'd have to keep it caged, maybe it's best not to have the Manticore. They're considered sentient, of course. So perhaps the Chimaera after all."

"So you're perfectly alright with us caging a non-sentient beast?" Quill still between my teeth, I raise my eyebrows at her in mock horror.

"Of course not, you bloody arsehole, but it's less terrible. Caging something sentient is abominable. But I don't know why I'm surprised, if anyone would do it -"

"- I would?" I finish for her. "Yes, you're probably right. I see no problem keeping sentient beings in cages, especially if they're useful to me."

"You'd mind if it was you," she huffs in disbelief. She crosses her arms firmly over her chest. Her legs are also crossed and she's so tightly compressed it could be funny.

"It might depend on who my jailer was," I say silkily, and wait for the moment her eyes meet mine in disgust.

I've never taken our verbal engagements to a flirtatious level; not on purpose, anyway. I'm a little surprised I did so now, but the subtext of this conversation couldn't have been more clear to me, even if she's constantly Obliviated back into the dark.

She's sentient. And she's in a cage.

And now that I'm keeping this park afloat, I am her jailer.

I'm not disappointed.

"You're revolting," she hisses at me. "Of course you'd have some sick fantasy about your guard lording over you. Perfect, rich, powerful Malfoy, always in charge, until his sexy little guard shows up to put him in his place."

"Yes, I'm sure the Manticore would feel similarly. Perhaps you could be its jailer, Granger. Maybe it would even cooperate when presented with your unique sort of… charm." I smirk as the outrage on her face almost overtakes her.

"Now, Nundus. If we were going for a higher body count faster, clearly a Nundu would be the way to go. Their breath can take out an entire village." I bend back to the book, flipping to the correct page and picking up my quill to write some more.

"Isn't that a bit high-risk for you and your Death Eater mates? You'd all be breathing the same air, after all."

She tosses her hair over her shoulder, a move Pansy - or Daphne, or Eloise - would do in a sort of flirtation but Granger is just doing it to move it out of her way. "No, on second thought - go for the Nundu. I think we'd take mass casualties if it meant you incurred an equal amount."

This takes me aback. This is not the Granger I thought I knew. She'd accept the loss of life as long as it wasn't one-sided?

My openly stunned, gleeful expression at this comment makes her backtrack wildly. If she'd been on her feet she'd have fallen over, I think, trying not to laugh. "I didn't mean - of course I wouldn't, but -"

"Let me guess, Granger, as long as I was on that battlefield, you'd take it. Am I right?" I'm not offended in the slightest. This is delightful.

She continues to sputter, red in the face, and I can't help teasing her, just a bit. "There's nothing wrong with being a bit morally… grey, Granger."

"I am not 'morally grey'!" she shrieks. She's leaning forward in her chair, eyes flashing. "Fine, just because I wouldn't mind you dying, doesn't mean -"

I place a hand over my heart. "I'm touched. Truly. So if it were the Dark Lord and myself on the battlefield, how many Resistance fighters would you trade for the win?"

Her mouth opens and closes several times. I love rendering her speechless, but I love it more when she isn't.

I stand to place my book back on the shelf. She stands likewise, probably mitigating the massive height difference between us if she's sitting, and I just can't help myself.

I lean down towards her slightly, trying to judge if she still feels that current of fear. I don't sense it now; only self-righteous fury.

This is when I'd land whatever parting shot I could think of to make her hit me.

This is the time. I open my mouth to start and what comes out is not what I'd ever thought of.

"If it were just you and me on that battlefield, Granger - would you kill me?"

I may not have expected to say that but I hold her eyes intensely, not letting her look away. Her brown eyes don't flinch. They narrow, but she doesn't flinch a bit.

I lean in a little closer over her and her chin lifts, her mouth pressed into a flat line as she glares at me defiantly.

Then her eyes seem to… darken, just slightly. Just a flicker and it's gone. I might have imagined it. But I don't expect what she says, either. Her eyes dart down to the side and her brow furrows slightly.

In the barest confused whisper, she says, "Why do you use my name so much?"

Caught off guard, I stand up abruptly, tall over her.

I take a step back. Recovering, I say, "Would you prefer I used 'Mudblood'?"

There's the slap.

Blaise is on another 'date' with Ginny Weasley and I wonder how he ever plans to make any progress, or if he even cares.

I cancelled an actual date with Eloise tonight, so I'm stuck sitting around the Manor waiting to hear from Blaise tomorrow morning. With Blaise otherwise occupied, it would have been my first one-on-one outing with Eloise and I found I just couldn't be bothered.

I need to be saving money anyway. That should be a little easier now, as Eloise was quite offended at my late cancellation and lack of attempted raincheck.

With a full evening to kill, I'm laying on my back on top of my bed, tossing the Snitch from hand to hand idly.

I'm working on meditation, clearing my mind. I was pleased with how I held up against Snape a few days ago, but he was able to get in once and that's not good enough.

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap, goes the Snitch, hand to hand.

It's rhythmic and makes the occlumency practice easier. Keeping my hands busy helps prevent me from falling asleep, a real danger when your mind is clear and empty.

I've been able to shove out everything, everything except one thing, just

('Perfect, rich, powerful Malfoy, always in charge')

one thing, a throwaway line, really. It shouldn't be burrowing in the way it is.

'Rich' is definable, a fact. A numerical quantity.

'Powerful' is factual too. Not as easy to measure, but I think anybody would agree it's true.

'Perfect' is an opinion.