A Day's Work

Chapter 4 - - A Day's Work

- - -

Draco was in a quandary. He had one hour until he had to be in his office in another part of London, listening to a presentation on why investing in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes was a good financial venture. Though he was actually looking forward to the meeting, following his not-so-horrible interactions with both George and Ron the previous Saturday, he had several things he had to take care of, and he would he hard-pressed to make it on time.

First, he had to Floo to Gringotts for the daily deposit. Usually someone else went instead, but on the third Wednesday of every month, he was required in person to sign monthly statements and to compare his ledger with the bank's. With so much money being transacted, it took nearly fifteen minutes to complete the task, once he got in to speak with his liaison.

He checked his watch and scowled at the line in front of him. He kept glancing around the lobby, hoping to see one of the goblins with whom he was on slightly friendly terms so that he could be shuffled into the back room to complete his business.

With luck, he spotted Marmoot and gestured for his attention. Marmoot held a senior level position within Gringotts and often assisted Draco personally with anything he needed. The Malfoy name still held sway here, where Galleons, gold, and gems moved the world. Of course, Marmoot hadn't missed the steadily dwindling balance; he'd simply been too professional to mention it.

Marmoot shuffled across the lobby and stopped in front of Draco. "Mr. Malfoy. Follow me."

They entered a small room, and Draco set his briefcase on the table.

"I will be back with the necessary paperwork," said Marmoot. He returned in under five minutes, and they began the process of signing, initialing, checking and double-checking that everything was in order.

Twelve minutes later, Draco snapped his briefcase shut and shook hands with the goblin. He walked briskly across the lobby, his shoes click-clacking against the marble floor and his robes billowing out behind him. He checked his watch as he exited the bank. Forty-four minutes remained until his meeting.

Draco mentally went through his checklist and headed to the Apothecary, as it was nearest the bank. The Apothecary for Essence of Murlap, then Obscurus Books to pick up a book he had ordered, next the Quidditch shop for a new bottle of polishing oil, and finally, Twilfoot and Tattings to pick up a new shirt he had needed fitted.

He had very little time to run his errands and tried to get to them all during one trip. He usually wrote the shop ahead of time, asking that someone put his purchases to the side, so he would only have to go to the counter and pay.

The one place he didn't write ahead was the Apothecary, because the purveyor was disabled and had a hard time ambling through the narrow aisles. Draco knew exactly where the item was that he sought, which aisle, which shelf. He was still going through his list as he walked into the shop, turned right, found the third aisle, and headed for the second set of shelves. It would be on the top, third space from the left. He was so immersed in his routine that he didn't notice a young woman approaching his destination from the other end of the aisle. He didn't see her at all until his hand closed around her hand, which was also wrapped around the last bottle of Essence of Murlap.

Surprised at the unexpected contact, he looked down, without releasing his hand, into the questioning eyes of Hermione Granger.

As though a jolt of magic had touched his spine, Draco immediately jerked his hand away, but was unable to avert his eyes. Wordlessly, she pulled her hand away as well, leaving the bottle on the shelf.

"Granger," he said, stunned at seeing her.

"Hallo, Malfoy," she replied cheerfully.

Hermione was wearing a pair of jeans and a jumper, and her hair was pulled back with a purple ribbon. Even though they were in the middle of the most concentrated Wizarding area in all of England, next to her, he felt out of place in his stark black robes.

Draco glanced back at the bottle. "You take it," he said. "I can return in a few days when there's a new shipment."

"No, you take it," she said.

"Really, I insist." He picked up the bottle and extended it to her.

"I don't really need it," she said. "I've got a nearly full bottle at home. Whenever I open a new bottle, I like to buy another, to make sure I've always got plenty. Honest, I won't even touch it for weeks."

He hesitated. Courtesy dictated that he allow her to purchase the bottle.

Hermione smiled, and he saw again the beauty he had seen the previous Saturday. She gently pushed the bottle away, her fingers grazing his and sending nearly imperceptible waves of electricity through his hand.

"I mean it, Malfoy. I'm sure you need it more than I do."

"You're sure?" he said, holding the bottle as though it might bite him.

"Quite. Take it." She nodded and smiled.

"All right." He decided to write the Potions firm that afternoon and have them send a bottle to her, on him. Draco nodded and was about to wish her a good day when he remembered his pledge to speak with her the next chance he had. This was a perfect opportunity, as she was alone. The only potential complication was his meeting in thirty-six minutes.

"Er, Hermione?" he said, tasting the sound of her name on his tongue.

She looked up from a piece of paper in her hands, obviously surprised at hearing her given name. "Yes?"

"Could ... we go somewhere and ... talk?"

Hermione stared at him for a moment, searching his face. "Well, all right." Her tone was wary.

He let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding and gave her a small grin. "I'll go purchase this and join you outside."

Soon they were walking together toward the nearest café, neither speaking, not knowing what to say.

While Draco was well-known in the Wizarding world, and received his share of odd looks whenever he went out, Hermione was a celebrity. Even seven years after the war, she still turned heads, especially those of witches and wizards who didn't live in London or Hogsmeade and, therefore, didn't see her often.

The two of them walking together drew more looks than either alone had received, combined. For Draco, interest was generated by his being seen with not only a Muggle-born, but the most famous and memorable Muggle-born witch of their time. He knew that Hermione was getting looks, not only because he'd been a Death Eater but also because of his name. He had been in the paper a lot in the weeks leading up to, and the days following, his father's release from Azkaban.

When the unlikely pair arrived at the café, they were asked if they preferred a table in or out of doors.

Both Draco and Hermione said, "Inside," at the exact same moment. They looked at each other and Hermione blushed, then quickly they nervously averted their eyes elsewhere.

Once seated across from each other at a quaint table near the back, Draco ordered a cup of tea and Hermione a glass of water.

"Have something else," Draco told her after the waiter left.

"I'm fine, really. Just finished lunch."

"There were some incredible looking pastries under the glass," he said.

She smiled shyly. "No, really. Thank you, though."

Draco nodded and attended to his tea, adding two sugar cubes and stirring, concentrating on not thinking about what he was about to do.

"Do you always do that?" Hermione asked, drawing his attention.

"Do I always do what?"

"Stir your tea that way. Three turns clockwise, one counter."

He stopped and looked at his hand, then back at her, and resumed stirring. "I suppose I do, unconsciously."

"It's like Pepper-Up Potion," she remarked, taking a sip of water.

Draco chuckled. "You're right. Merlin knows I've brewed that potion more times than I can count."

"Oh?" she asked.

"During the most hectic business seasons, I practically live off of a modified Pepper-Up...essentially a stimulant...and coffee. It's terrible, I know, but I do what I must."

"How often do you have busy seasons?" Hermione asked.

"Well, September through December, small break for a few weeks in January, then the end of January through June." It struck Draco that she was genuinely interested, not just asking questions to fill the silence. Her manner was easy, and they more they spoke, the more relaxed he became.

"Then this is a slow period?"

"Yes, though things will pick up soon. After school starts again, people will be focused on business once more."

"Ah." She glanced toward the counter as she took another drink.

"Order something," Draco said, guessing that her gaze had landed on something sweet. "It's on me, might as well take advantage."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely." He motioned for the waiter, and Hermione ordered a chocolate-filled croissant.

After she took her first bite, her eyes fluttering as she tasted the pastry, he decided he'd best get on with things.

"So, Potter wants to be friends." She nodded and immediately he saw skepticism in her eyes. "That's what I suspected," he said.

"Don't get me wrong," she said after swallowing. "I have nothing against the idea of being friends, I just haven't really worked out how it's supposed to happen yet. I've tried thinking about it, picturing you in the group whenever we're together."

"Doesn't really work, does it?" His smirk was teasing.

"No," she said, smiling. "But then, we don't know you at all. It will take some time, and I'm sure it will be awkward at first. Are you coming out this weekend for Quidditch?"

"I haven't decided yet." He paused to carefully consider his next words. "Regardless of what I choose, I wanted to speak with you."

She nodded, chewing, her expression full of curiosity and skepticism.

Draco took a deep breath and continued. "With Potter and Weasley, I can dismiss my past actions as those of childhood. Potter refused my friendship, so I didn't like him. Weasley was Potter's friend, so I didn't like him either. Children don't always get along; they get into fights, call names, make fun. Curse each other in the hallways. They were just as guilty as I was."

"You have no idea," she agreed.

"The same cannot be said for the way I treated you. The way I spoke to you, the names I called you, were drawn from an inherited well of hate and intolerance. I simply repeated what I learned at home. By the time I was forced to think for myself, I didn't spare any thought about you or any wrongs I had committed. I was focused on not getting killed."

He chanced a glance at her. She had put down the croissant, half eaten, and was watching him with a slight frown on her face. He returned to watching the steam rise off his untouched cup of tea.

"I realize that apologizing for my actions means very little. I can't change the past, and in this situation, my words have little meaning to you, I'm sure." He paused. "Therefore, in addition to my apology, I ... I want you to know ..." Now he met her gaze, an action he hadn't been sure he would be able to accomplish.

She returned it, her eyes full of questions and searching his.

"I know I was wrong," he said, feeling his chest tighten from stretched nerves. "It was wrong to hate you for something over which you had no control. To ridicule and belittle you at every turn for it." Now he couldn't look away, even if he tried. She didn't seem to be breathing, either. He swallowed hard.

"And, lastly, I was wrong not to help you that day, during the war. In my ... with my aunt."

Hermione inhaled sharply and bit her lip, her brown eyes now shining.

"I'm not saying that my sixteen-year-old self would have done any differently, but I knew, that day, that it was wrong to just stand there, yet I was too afraid to interfere. I would like to think that the man I am today would have tried to help you."

He let out his breath, feeling lighter than he had in years. No matter what her response, he had done what he could to make it better.

When he looked at her again, she was staring at her hands, folded in her lap.

"I should have apologized much sooner, but ... suffice it to say that my life has not exactly been mine. I've tried very hard not to think too much about the war and hadn't thought much about that day until I saw you on Saturday." There; he'd done it. He was finished.

They didn't speak for a few minutes, and then Hermione looked at him, her eyes brimming with tears but a smile on her face.

"Thank you. Draco."

He returned her smile with an even bigger one, feeling oddly at peace and almost ... happy.

"You're right, a simple, 'I'm sorry,' wouldn't have meant a lot, but to know you've grown up from that boy in school means a great deal."

"Have you ... Did you have any lasting effects of the curse?" he asked tentatively.

"No," she said quickly, looking at her pastry.

Draco's watch beeped at that moment, indicating that he had five minutes to get across London to make his meeting. He turned it off and took a sip from his now tepid tea.

"Do you need to go?" she asked.

"Yes. But if I'm late, it's not the end of the world."

"Are you sure?"

He shrugged. "It's not as if they can start without me." He took two more quick swallows of tea before he'd had enough. "Would you like to take your pastry with you?"

"I would; it's delicious."

Draco again called the waiter, threw down a few Galleons to pay for their snack, and requested a bag for Hermione.

She took it and wrapped up her croissant. "Thank you again, for this."

"It's not a problem." He stood and brushed off his robes. "Thank you for agreeing to speak with me."

For some reason, she broke into a smile, and it set his heart pounding. "You should come on Saturday. They're expecting you."

"Maybe," he said, knowing he probably would go. Draco led Hermione out and held the door for her. They stood facing each other on the sidewalk, people once again staring.

"See you, then," she said, giving him a small wave before turning around and walking into the busy lunchtime crowd.

ooo

Draco was, in fact, late for his meeting. As soon as Hermione had disappeared from his sight, he Disapparated, appearing seconds later inside the lobby of the Malfoy Inc. Caleb, his personal assistant, looked frantic for an instant before recognizing his employer and relaxing significantly.

"Are they here?" Draco asked, accepting a folio from Caleb.

"They arrived ten minutes ago," Caleb replied, his tone clipped. "I've offered beverages and biscuits, which neither Weasley accepted."

Draco nodded and headed for the conference room with Caleb trailing behind. "Thank you. Let's hope we don't run over time."

The conference room in Malfoy Inc. offices was the third door down a hallway of twelve doors. Inside, a long, black table seated twelve, and there was a display screen on one end of the room. On a small table near the door was a fresh pot of coffee and small snacks: fruit, crackers and biscuits. One wall was made of glass and looked onto the hallway. On the opposite wall were generic paintings of country scenes. Butterflies flitted through the air, birds chirped occasionally, and in one, the faint sound of running water could be heard.

"Sorry I'm late," said Draco, removing his outer cloak and setting his briefcase on the ground near his chair. "Let's get started, shall we?"

Seated around the table were three of Lucius's...and therefore Draco's...most trusted advisors, an accountant, and George and Ron Weasley. Caleb took the seat to Draco's right. Ron looked as though he might be ill, but George seemed completely relaxed.

He stood and waved his wand at the projector. A picture of his shop in Diagon Alley appeared on the screen. "Thank you, Mr. Malfoy, for meeting with us." When he said Draco's name, the right side of his mouth curved up in amusement. How strange it must be for George and Ron, making a formal presentation to the bloke they'd played Quidditch with a few days before.

An image popped up on the screen of a bar graph, with arrows representing sales for each year growing from the x-axis, each getting progressively taller. "As you can see, since the war, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes has managed to turn a sizable profit which grows with each year that passes. In 2001, with the opening of our Hogsmeade branch, profits nearly doubled. We believe this trend will continue ..."

Another image, showing projected earning, appeared next. "And, by expanding into the greater European market, we predict a sevenfold increase in profits over the next decade. We believe that now is the time to get on board with Weasley's Wizard Wheezes."

Next up were rendered pictures of the shop in Paris, Rome, Prague, and Madrid.

"We've done extensive field testing in Paris, and many of our items are already available to the continent through mail order."

"The European Union has different standards for wizarding establishments," Draco said. "Will you be able to meet their requirements in a timely, efficient manner, and at minimal cost?"

Ron stood then, his knuckles white as he gripped a stack of portfolios. "Yes, we will." He passed out the portfolios. "Enclosed you'll find our business plan for adapting our current methods to meet the EU's requirements."

Draco thumbed through the portfolio, aware that he had the power to make Weasley squirm. He wondered if Ron would have been more, or less, nervous about this meeting had Draco not attended the Quidditch match. The information presented was good, detailed, and thorough.

There was obviously a great deal more to the presentation, but Draco was hoping to end things early. "Thank you, Mr. Weasley, and Mr. Weasley. If you don't mind waiting in the hall, we'll have an answer for you shortly."

George and Ron exchanged a look. George said, "Don't you want to hear the rest?"

"I've seen enough."

Exchanging unsure glances, the two brothers left the room.

"Well?" Draco said, closing the portfolio. "Thoughts?"

Chambers, an old, fragile wizard who had been old when Lucius had first hired him, spoke first. "Those lads have very red hair."

Next to speak was Dodd, another of Lucius's contemporaries. "My grandchildren love the Weasley products. George Weasley was only seventeen when he and his brother opened their shop. Nearly ten years later, he shows no signs of slowing down. I'm in favor of supporting their expansion."

Lucy Davenport, the first woman Lucius had hired, spoke last. "George Weasley has been featured in numerous journals for his innovations in spell and potion work. I heard he never took a single N.E.W.T., and barely passed any of his O.W.L. exams, yet it's obvious the man has a brain for business and magic."

"Excellent," said Draco, turning to his secretary. "Caleb, would you ask the Weasleys to join us?"

Draco watched interestedly as George and Ron returned to the room. Ron was clearly still nervous, and for the first time, George didn't look so sure of himself.

Draco stood, looking at both men, two people he might soon consider friends. "Congratulations. I look forward to the opening of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes in Paris."

Ron let out a tremendous sigh of relief, and Draco thought he might collapse. George grinned widely and held his hand out to Draco, who accepted it.

"You won't regret this," said George enthusiastically. Then he turned and thanked each of Draco's advisors, plus his accountant and even Caleb. He gathered his presentation items and then he and Ron left.

Draco thanked Chambers, Dodd and Lucy for their time and bid them good fortune until he saw them again.

"You've got a meeting at two, Mr. Malfoy, and then a rescheduled appointment from last week with the Head of WhizzHard Books."

"Followed by the usual tedious paperwork and answering mail. Thank you, Caleb. I'll be in my office until two."

ooo

Draco arrived home at quarter to six. He stepped out of the fireplace into what was called a Travel Room. While most wizarding homes had one primary fireplace, those of the upper class usually had several. A special room was built solely for the purpose of traveling. There was always an ample supply of Floo powder, extra cloaks for keeping one's clothing clean of soot, and a place to wipe one's shoes. There were also hooks for each member of the family. Draco placed his outer cloak on the hook, to be picked up by the house-elf and laundered. When he needed it again, it would be right where he left it.

"Chippy!" Draco called once he'd left the Travel Room.

The house-elf popped in next to him and did his best to keep up with his master.

Draco was in an exceptionally good mood. He had seen Hermione, had completed his task where she was concerned. His meeting with George and Ron had gone well, and he'd felt a strange sense of satisfaction from approving their request. The rest of his day had gone quickly and without incident, and he had even stopped into the Quidditch shop on his way home for the polishing oil he needed. He was looking forward to Saturday's game of Quidditch.

"Anything of note happen while I was away?"

"No, Master."

"Good. What's for dinner?"

"I thought, perhaps, a brisket."

"Excellent. I'll have a bottle of wine with that, the '97 Chardonnay. Is there any mail?"

"Yes, Master, it is being on your desk, sir."

"Thank you, Chippy. Let me know when dinner is ready. I'll be taking it in the dining room tonight."

Chippy nodded and disappeared just as Draco reached the staircase to the second floor. He took them two at a time.

ooo

The evening did not go as Draco planned. He did not take his dinner in the dining room, and he changed his mind about what he wanted four times, finally canceling the whole thing. He drank no wine, only his father's best bottle of cognac that he had been saving for the birth of Draco's first child. Draco didn't think he would ever have children...never find a witch he wanted, never have a moment for himself...and so selected the vintage bottle.

He sat slumped in his office chair, facing the double French doors behind the desk that opened onto a small balcony overlooking the grounds. The doors were open and the cool night air blew through his hair. All the lights in the office were off save one candle on the desk that was almost completely gutted. The only sounds were those of the garden: crickets chirping, wind blowing, the occasional squawk of a peafowl.

Draco's mind was spinning, and there was a piece of parchment sitting open on the desk beside a small stack of photographs.

He had truly believed it would end with his father's release. After all, how could it possibly continue?

He knew he needed a plan, and he was in no mood to bother coming up with one. He took another sip of the alcohol and sighed, shutting his eyes and leaning back in the chair. The wind blowing through his hair reminded him of flying and he thought of the coming Saturday, and the Quidditch game. He could scarcely believe he'd played that one game, that he'd smiled, laughed, felt almost happy. The worst part, the part he wanted to beat his head against a wall for, was that he'd believed it could last. He had thought his life might finally begin.

A plan. He mulled over the words, hoping something would come to him. In order to form a plan, he would need details, information. He needed to find the wanker and hex his bits off, then cut his fingers off one by one and stick his bleeding hands into a hot, boiling cauldron of acid. Then ...

Draco finished his glass and Summoned the bottle. It wouldn't do to dwell on all the unpleasant things he wanted to do to the fool once he found him. He needed to focus on the plan.

He was alone, which made things infinitely difficult. If he had someone...just one person...off whom he could bounce ideas, someone to brainstorm with him, he would feel better. That person would have to be told his secret, then. His chest tightened at the thought of telling someone. It wasn't that he wanted to bring another person into his mess, but the thought of unburdening himself was exquisite.

There weren't a lot of options for people he could tell. His father, once he returned the signet ring, but that would be another two months, and Draco had to take action before his parents came back. He couldn't tell anyone else in his family, none of his acquaintances. There were deep and Dark spells cast on every parchment he had received, binding his tongue. The only person Draco trusted enough to even consider telling was Greg, but he was pure-blooded, bound by ancient magic as well. Even if he weren't, Draco couldn't be sure he would confide in him. They were friends, true, probably the closest friend Draco had ever had, but he'd never been one to share much about himself.

He was a private man, who had never felt the need to express his musings, thoughts, or feelings to another. As a child, he had come to learn that 'friend' meant anyone who would watch his back if given enough sweets or another payoff. He had marveled at the closeness between others, wondered why they opened themselves so much, gave other people so much power over them.

Something clicked in Draco's mind.

You may not need friends right now, this moment, but you might, someday.

Potter ... was it possible he knew? Draco sat up in his chair, his brow furrowed. How would Potter know? He'd been sure Harry had been referring to the box he'd held for Lucius, but now he couldn't be too sure.

He stood and went onto the balcony and started pacing. After a few moments, he stopped and leaned against the railing. There was no way Potter knew anything about the letter Draco had received. Surely he would have mentioned it, not withheld that information, especially considering his offer of friendship. Draco didn't know a lot about Harry Potter, but he was certain that if Harry considered him a friend, he would tell him any news he had about Draco's troubles. He also knew that Potter was the kind of person who would help Draco, even if they weren't friends.

The wind picked up again and whipped around Draco, tousling his hair. It carried a sweet scene, of jasmine and gardenia from his mother's garden.

You may not need friends right now, this moment, but you might, someday.

Draco was considering telling Potter when it occurred to him that he didn't trust anyone. If he couldn't trust his closest friend with his problem, how could he expect to trust a near-stranger? And what could Potter do that Draco couldn't? He wasn't sure if he was any good at brainstorming, or research. He would probably tell Draco he felt really bad for him, spend a few minutes pretending to think, and then say he was sorry that he couldn't help.

He didn't need to consider Weasley; Draco trusted him less than Potter.

Inevitably, his thoughts fell to Hermione. She was the last person he wanted to involve, only because he'd already been the cause of too much misfortune in her life. Moreover, if he did find the bastard, he or she could be dangerous. Hermione owed him nothing; there was no reason to ask her.

Yet the more he thought of all the reasons why he didn't want to tell her, his mind conjured that many convincing arguments of why she was the perfect person to aid him. For the strangest reason, he thought he could trust her. Maybe it was what happened between them that afternoon over cold tea and half a chocolate croissant, but he felt a connection with her. She, like Potter, was the kind of person who would do anything for a friend, and even though they weren't exactly friends yet, he knew that with the proper persuasion, she would help even him. At least, he hoped.

Still, he didn't want to ask her. He had just put an ending on their past, and he hated the thought of intruding, asking for her participation in his future. On the other hand, she would be ideal for brainstorming and research; so far as he knew, anyway. She'd always been exceptionally bright, and people still talked about her prowess with the wand.

The main reason Draco wanted to talk to Hermione, however, was because he suspected that he would be able to tell her everything. He would look through all the letters he had received and check, but he thought that she might be exempt from all of the dark and dangerous spells and curses put on those letters.

It occurred to him that Draco couldn't simply walk up to Hermione and ask for her help. He didn't even know what she did for a living, where he could find her. He would have to find out, and then come up with a way to make his proposition of helping him benefit her, as well. He could always offer to pay her, but he doubted that would be the proper motivator.

Draco felt himself relax for the first time all evening. He had a plan or, rather, a plan before the actual plan could take place. Step one: recruit Hermione Granger. Step two: come up with a plan. He chuckled at his list and ran a hand through his hair.

He returned to his chair and sank into it. He felt old, too old for his twenty-five years. More than anything, he wanted this mess dealt with. It couldn't continue, it simply couldn't. Ideally, he would like to resolve it before Lucius found out, but he wasn't counting on it. He'd been putting up with it for seven years; he didn't think he'd solve it in two months.

He thought about his mother, her life over these seven years. They'd grown closer, developed the kind of friendship where they talked about their activities, their preferences on certain things...food, décor, wine...and other people. They never delved deeply into the other's life, perfectly satisfied to watch as though inspecting a painting. It was interesting, beautiful and tragic at times, but it wouldn't do to touch.

Draco didn't want her involved at all. He loved his mother, loved the sacrifices she had made for him, loved her for helping Harry Potter on the day of the final battle. She had been through so much, had never asked for her life to be caught up in war, for her son to pledge loyalty to the man who had robbed her of her husband those many years before. She didn't need to suffer any more. Draco wished she could remain forever unaffected by anything ugly or unpleasant. He knew it wasn't possible, but if he could do something to prevent her pain, he would do it.

What he wanted most was the normal life of someone his age. He had missed out on the extra training that most of his peers went for and hadn't even taken his N.E.W.T.s. He barely remembered the seventh year or the last half of his sixth at school. He'd been forced into the role of businessman and had learned that trade as a result. It was some comfort, he supposed, to know that he would always have a place in his father's company if he wanted it, regardless of how little he wanted it.

Yet many of the witches and wizards he had gone to school with were now married, some even had children. There had been a tremendous boom in couplings and weddings following the resolution of the war. Of all those in his house, who weren't dead or in prison, only he, Pansy, Greg, Theo and Daphne Greengrass were yet to be joined in marriage.

Pansy, because apparently, she'd been in love with him since they were teenagers and had been waiting and hoping that he would suddenly wake up and feel the same way. Greg hadn't married because he had been forced to focus on helping to provide for his family. Now he was crazy about Pansy, whom Draco didn't think would ever look at his friend as anything other than 'that guy that's always around.' Theo stayed busy with the antique shop, but had been seen with a witch every now and then. Draco had always had the suspicion that Theo preferred blokes, but was always careful to be seen just enough with women that no one thought anything of his chronically single status. Draco and Daphne had dated briefly right after the war, but the strain of his job quickly got in the way. Then she had dated Blaise Zabini for three years before she found him cheating on her. Now she was seeing a man from a powerful Dutch family.

As for Draco, he had been too busy to have time for properly courting a woman. Besides that, he had never come across anyone he would like to court. He kept himself occupied, however, and was never in want of female company. He had a list of women he could call if he needed a date for an event, and they were usually willing to attend to him afterwards.

None of it really meant anything to him, and he made sure the women knew his heart was not available. A few of them hadn't taken him seriously, had caused scenes, and he had been forced to remind them that they had been warned.

In the seven years his father was in prison, Draco had never really allowed himself to think about what he was missing. During the five days since his father's release, he had savored the idea of what life would be like after he returned the business to his father. He hadn't gotten close to making plans, and had only formed a few generic thoughts. He wanted to travel, to answer to no one, and to experience life. Draco knew his mother, especially, wanted him to find a nice witch and settle down, but his father had seemed to indicate that he could do as he pleased. It was a stark contrast from their conversation before Lucius had been sentenced.

Regardless, Draco wasn't even close to thinking about marriage. He wanted freedom before he thought about anything else.

Draco sighed, feeling tired. He glanced at the clock inside the office and saw that it was nearly one. He had to be in his office at eight the next morning, but he still wasn't motivated to go to bed. He knew he had to though and hoped that lying there would encourage his body to respond appropriately.

He stood and closed the doors, then snuffed what was left of the candle. He picked up his book and left the study.

The moon was bright that night, and it shone through the glass of the French doors, falling on the piece of parchment that lay, still visible, on Draco's desk.

ooo

A/N: Thank you for reading! The plot thickens... From this point on, I hope to hear your theories on WHO is doing this to Draco. I'll be collecting names based on the responses I get in the coming 3 weeks. After I get a pool of names, I'll post a poll on here and you can vote every week about who you think the blackmailer is. I hope it'll be fun!

Art Credit: The fabulous manip for this chapter was done by pink_martini2 of LiveJournal. Isn't it amazing??

Don't forget to check out the music! Playlist by inadaze22.