Springfic: "The Family Business" for turkeyish
Title: The Family Business
Author: r_becca
Recipient: turkeyish
Character: Draco Malfoy
Rating: G
Warnings (highlight to view): None
Summary: "Malfoys have always had a good head for business, they have. Recognize an opportunity when it presents itself."
Wordcount: 7,700
Author's Notes: turkeyish requested Draco making a name for himself in the Wizarding World, along with Slytherin friendship. I hope I hit the mark.
Beta: Lyras
Draco was poring over the classified ads in the Daily Prophet when he saw the notice, printed in tiny letters over to the side of the page:
POTTER DESIGNATED BLACK HEIR
Harry Potter, recent Hogwarts graduate,
will become Master of Number 12 Grimmauld
Place, which he inherited from his godfather
the accused murderer Sirius Black. The
home, which is valued at one million Galleons, is
protected by complex security spells so don't
even think about any funny business. Unless a
closer blood relation should come forward, in six
weeks' time the house will become forever the
property of Mr Potter and his descendants.
THIS NOTICE REQUIRED BY LAW.
That evening he brandished the page at Pansy and Blaise over drinks. They were sitting at a table in the lounge section of Parkinson's, a rather musty and dimly-lit restaurant owned by some relative or other of Pansy's. The place was dreary and unfashionable, and it smelled strongly of cigar smoke, but they often got their drinks for free due to Pansy's connection. Draco himself had very little money with which to buy his own drinks, so Parkinson's was a frequent destination. The downside was that the place was practically crawling with Parkinsons. There were entirely too many of them, rather like less-shabby Weasleys, although Draco never said so aloud because he knew he'd be hexed.
"Potter's living in my house!" Draco said, gesturing angrily with his drink and nearly spilling firewhiskey all over the table.
"No, you're living in my house," Blaise corrected him with one eyebrow raised. "Or have you forgotten sleeping on my sofa?"
"I have not forgotten," Draco said stiffly. In fact, that was the reason he'd been looking at the classified ads in the first place. Blaise's sofa was unbearably uncomfortable, and Draco needed a flat of his own rather desperately. What he was discovering, however, was that rents in London were high, and there was not much that his rapidly-dwindling savings could get him.
"Potter's at Malfoy Manor?" Pansy asked, making a grab for the newspaper clipping and missing. "I thought you had horrid French cousins living there."
Draco did not dignify this with an explanation, but handed over the bit of newsprint he'd been waving around for several minutes already.
"Well, this is nothing," Pansy said. "Just get your Mum to pay Potter a visit, and the house is hers. Isn't she the last Black standing?"
"She won't," Draco said. "She'd never come without Father." The rest of it went unsaid. The Auror Corps had standing orders to arrest Lucius Malfoy if he ever set foot in England again. Which was why he and Narcissa were ensconced in a country house in Provence, the loud and smelly Provençal Malfoys had taken over the Manor, and Draco was stuck with Blaise's doxy-infested sofa.
"You're still more a Black than Potter could ever dream of being," Blaise pointed out. "Just get yourself a million Galleons and show up, the place is yours."
"Brilliant plan, thanks." Draco toasted Blaise with his firewhiskey, then swallowed the contents of the glass in one gulp, thankful for the deep burn in his throat. He didn't have a million Galleons. In fact, he didn't have much money at all. Most of the Malfoy fortune had been spent during the war or seized immediately afterward, and Draco could not access his trust fund until he was twenty-five. He'd be forced into gainful employment well before then, a horror he didn't like to contemplate.
Quickly, he signaled for more whiskey. What he needed was a plan, and liquor always helped him think.
"What you need to do is invest," Pansy's white-haired uncle told Draco later that night, after three or four more strong drinks. The downside to this place was that it was always crawling with Pansy's relations, miscellaneous uncles and cousins and people that Draco could never keep track of, and who often insisted on talking to him. "Malfoys have always had a good head for business, they have. Recognize an opportunity when it presents itself."
Draco nodded, but didn't agree out loud. He didn't have money to invest in anything anyway, but nobody needed to know that. Even Blaise didn't know how badly off he was, and seemed to think he had some hidden cash reserves somewhere.
Parkinson must've taken the nod for encouragement, because he went right on talking. "Your grandfather, now, old Abraxas, he had people linin' up around the block wantin' to go into business with him, give him their money to invest. The man owned half of Diagon Alley at one time or 'nother."
"Really," Draco drawled, sipping his drink and trying to maintain a bland expression. The possibility that people might give him their own money to spend had not occurred to him.
"Oh, sure," the old man said. "Shame your father never tried his hand at it, but he was always one for politics I s'pose. Still, there's a lot of folks who reckon his father taught Lucius all about the business."
"Indeed," Draco said, trying to feign nonchalance. "They were very close, you know. Father is always imparting some insight he learned from the old man." In fact, nothing was farther from the truth. Draco knew that his father and grandfather hadn't gotten on at all well, and in fact he hardly knew anything about Abraxas Malfoy or how he'd achieved success in business.
But no one needed to know that. And if letting people believe otherwise could lead to profit for him, Draco was happy to blur the truth.
"Reee-ally?" asked the uncle-or-whatever. "You thinking of going into the family business, then?"
"Could be," Draco answered, making the decision on the spot. "Might just keep all the profits for myself, though."
"You change your mind, just say the word," Parkinson said, jingling the change in his pocket with what he probably thought was a meaningful glance, but which actually looked more like a leer.
Draco smiled in response and lifted his glass in a silent toast, making no promises.
Two days later, he spotted the sign posted in the window of a stately townhouse just off Diagon. Office to let, it said in small black letters. Inquire at Arbide's, 220 Diagon Alley. The building was red brick with tasteful black trim and wrought-iron railings, old enough to convey a sense of prosperity, but located just far enough out of the way that it would carry an affordable price tag.
He dressed carefully for his appointment at Arbide's, intending to communicate just the right impression of wealth and carelessness. His vault at Gringott's contained more spiderwebs than Galleons, his parents were in no position to help him even if they'd wanted to (they didn't), and he desperately needed this venture to be successful if he was going to make a name for himself in London. But no one else needed to know any of that. In fact, if this were to work he would have to give the impression of wealth and security, and make people believe that they needed him more than he needed them.
The first person he would have to convince waited behind the door at 220 Diagon Alley.
"Hello," said the woman behind the large wooden desk when Draco walked in. She was only a few years older than him, but gave off a polished, professional look that made Draco feel a bit like a schoolboy. Her desk was neat but not empty, the walls tastefully decorated with bookshelves and a few pictures of buildings and cityscapes, conveying quiet competence and urban bustle.
"Hello," Draco said, reminding himself why he was here. "Miss Bletchley? I believe we've exchanged owls."
"Mr. Malfoy, of course," she said, standing and crossing the room toward him, her hand outstretched. "A pleasure to meet you." Her eyes held a calculating gleam and an eagerness that she didn't bother to disguise. "And you're looking for..." She paused. "Office space?"
Draco smiled. This would be easier than he'd thought.
He allowed Miss Bletchley to take him around to several different offices that afternoon, most located a few discreet steps off Diagon Alley or its side streets, but all well within the range of prying eyes and wagging tongues. As they walked, Draco chatted amiably with his companion, explaining in response to her questions what uses he intended for the new office, and what sort of place he was looking for.
This estate agent had been a lucky stroke, Draco thought -- the Bletchleys were an old wizarding family, very well-established and connected. In fact, during the course of their conversation he discovered that Miss Bletchley herself ("Call me Hortensia.") had a second cousin who was a relative of his mother's on the Rosier side. He had no doubt that a detailed accounting of every place they visited and all the plans he described would be spread across the entire wizarding world by the end of the day. In fact, he was counting on it.
"So you're sure this is the place?" Hortensia asked as they stood in the small office that Draco had seen just a few days before. It was a simple layout: just two rooms and a large storage closet, but the building had a stately appeal that was not reflected in the low rental price. It was perfect.
"I'm certain," Draco agreed. "I'd like to move in immediately."
"Excellent," she said crisply, waving her wand to enlarge her small handbag into a full-size briefcase. "We can draw up the papers right away if you like."
"Wonderful," Draco said. "We're -- that is, I am eager to get started with the new venture as soon as possible."
"Of course." She turned away to conjure a writing desk in the corner of the room, but Draco knew she'd heard his intentional slip of the tongue when she asked her next question. "And shall we draw the rents from your Gringott's vault, or...?"
"You can direct it to the Malfoy vault at Gringotts in Paris," he said smoothly, leaning over the writing desk and inspecting the contract. The charge would simply be forwarded right back to the London bank, but the goblins would tell no tales, unlike young estate agents.
By the time he arrived at Parkinson's that night, his reputation preceded him.
"I heard you're going into business with your dad," Pansy said, before he'd even had a chance to sit down.
"Where did you hear that?" he asked, signaling one of her relations for a drink.
"Tracey Davis's sister-in-law told me." Pansy paused to take a sip of her wine, then looked up at Draco in irritation when he didn't immediately begin telling the story. "So? Is it true?"
Lucius would have to be dumb as dirt to invest in Britain when any money he put up could be seized by the Ministry at any time and his very presence there could get him arrested, which Pansy already knew. Most of the Death Eaters had gotten off with a simple seizure of assets and a slap on the wrist, but the Malfoy name conferred certain rights and privileges, and one of them was being taken for a leader.
"Why?" Draco asked, instead of dignifying her idiotic question with a response. "You looking to invest, Pans?" She grimaced at the hated nickname, and Draco handed her one of the cards he'd had printed after leaving the estate agent's office.
The card was a thick white cardstock, smooth as silk, and engraved in charcoal-gray ink with the words:
Malfoy Investments
849 O'Fish Alley
"Of course not," Pansy said with a pronounced sniff. "I'm much too careful with my finances to let you anywhere near them." But she picked the card up from the table and slid it into her pocketbook anyway.
That night, Draco lay awake on Blaise's lumpy claw-footed sofa and hoped he was doing the right thing - the successful thing. He had charts and graphs and plans, and he understood that there was great potential in this idea. However, a lot depended on luck. Too much, really, to make it a plan fit for anyone with other options.
Draco's next best plan was to get some menial job working in a shop or mixing drinks at Parkinson's, a horribly tedious occupation that would force him to bow and scrape and leave him sweaty and dirty. It would be all well and good for a Weasley or a Brown, but a Malfoy should not have to stoop so low. He shuddered and pulled the blankets up to his chin.
This new venture could be the solution to all his problems -- it could provide him with an income, with a decent place to stay, with an occupation other than "impoverished dilettante," and with respect. It was a way to get Potter out of his ancestral home, and it could even be a way to follow in Malfoy footsteps without all that pureblood supremacy business which was so passé nowadays. Still, it would require every ounce of Slytherin cunning he had, along with a good bit of analytical thinking and some damn-the-curses-full-speed-ahead Gryffindor sensibilities as well.
A sofa spring dug into his hip as he shifted position, and Draco glared up at the ceiling and set his jaw. He needed to get out of this place and find a way to reclaim the house that was rightfully his. This plan of his might be more than a bit insane, but it was the only plan he had, and so he'd stick to it.
For better or for worse, he was committed to Malfoy Investments now.
The next day, he arrived at his new office promptly at eight o'clock in the morning, with his wand in hand. The two small rooms were in good shape, cleaned and polished, but entirely, completely empty. It would never do.
"Bitsy," he announced loudly to the empty room. "Bitsy!"
His elf appeared with a loud crack, clad in what seemed to be a silk and lace pillow sham. She blinked up at Draco, hesitating for just a moment before bowing so deeply that her nose nearly touched the floor. "Yes, Master? What can Bitsy be doing for Master today, after many months?"
"Bitsy, I am still your master, am I not?" Draco asked. Elves were damned expensive these days, and he had no idea what kind of deal his parents had struck with their French tenants.
"Yes, Master Draco, you is, of course," the elf babbled. "Bitsy has neglected you horribly, she has, should be punished--"
"No, no, not now," he interrupted hastily. If he let her start in punishing herself, they'd be here all day. "I ordered you to stay there and take care of the Manor, and you've done an excellent job of that."
Bitsy blushed, her gray skin turning an unpleasant shade of purple, and bowed again.
"I know you've been taking good care of my things at the Manor, Bitsy, but I'm going to need to have some of them moved here to my new office. Can you take care of that for me?"
"Certainly, Master Draco!" the elf exclaimed eagerly. "Which things is you needing today?"
"The Persian rug and the writing desk from my bedroom," Draco said. He knew that his cousins were not using his personal room because the disruption wards he'd set had not been triggered. "The console table from the back parlor, the chaise from Mother's lounge, one of the armchairs from the library. Oh, and anything else you think the place needs is all right too, but not too much." Give an elf free reign and he'd be crushed under a mountain of furniture.
"As you is wishing," Bitsy said. Her little face was twisted up into a manic smile at the prospect of all that work.
"And Bitsy?" Draco asked, thinking of the possible reaction if one of his French cousins caught on to what was happening. "Don't let anyone know, and don't let them see you."
"Of course not, Master Draco," she said, as if offended at the very idea, and then vanished with a bang.
By the time Draco returned, carrying a newspaper and a sticky bun, his empty room had been transformed into a posh office, with a carpet on the floor, an elegant desk in one corner and a comfortable armchair nearby for reading or client discussions. He walked through the room, admiring the little touches that Bitsy had chosen -- the Ming vase on the console table, the antique map framed on one wall. Even the Malfoy house-elves had good taste.
Peering through the door into the back room, he saw that she'd placed the chaise against one wall and hung curtains on the window which would ensure privacy. Just because his elf knew that he'd be sleeping in his office temporarily did not mean that the entire wizarding world need be aware of it, after all.
He heard a loud crack in the front room and turned to see the tiny elf levitating a wooden chair with arms carved in the shape of voluptuous mermaids into place behind the desk. Draco could clearly remember his father sitting in the study in this chair, a glass of firewhiskey in one hand and a book in the other. He'd seemed so wise then, so terribly important to a small boy, so busy and absorbed in his task that Draco would generally be scooped up by some domestic servant or house-elf and hustled away before he could interrupt. It had been a long time since then, and he saw his father somewhat differently now, holed up in a smelly house somewhere, exiled from his home country and his causes discredited. The chair, though, had not changed. It was still a very nice chair.
"Where did you find this, Bitsy? They'll notice it's missing."
"The attic, Master Draco," Bitsy told him, disapproval evident in her tone. "They is asking Bitsy to move it to the attic as soon as they comes. It was the old master's favorite." By that, Draco knew that she meant his grandfather, and he was obscurely pleased.
Bitsy levitated the chair into place behind the writing desk, and Draco sat down, propping his elbows on the back of the wooden mermaids and steepling his fingers. "Excellent work, Bitsy," he said.
"You is too kind, Master Draco," she said. "You is needing help here, yes? Bitsy can stay and be of assistance?"
"Not at the moment," Draco said firmly, watching her ears droop in disappointment. "Though I will need you to come and clean once a week."
This seemed to be the best news Bitsy had heard all week, and her great big ears perked up as if she were about to flap them a few times and fly away. "Thank you, Master, thank you!" she said, seemingly on the brink of tears, and disappeared with a loud bang.
Less than a week ago, Draco had been a homeless, jobless layabout. Today with an office, a plan, and a box of business cards he looked the part of a gentleman of commerce. To do more than play a role, he would need to acquire the final component: clients.
He sat back and waited, but no one arrived at his door. The bell did not ring; no knocks disturbed the silence. Draco read the business section of the Prophet, and no one came. He read the sports page and the society section, and no investors appeared. He read arts and human-interest and the classifieds and nobody knocked.
Halfway through the obituaries, Draco had a brainstorm. He folded up the newspaper and tucked it under his arm, locking the door carefully before he Apparated away.
"So sorry about your loss," Draco said smoothly to Bole, who'd hit him so hard with a bludger to the head once that it'd shattered his skull. "If there's anything I can do -- the apartment building and all that... just say the word."
"Bugger off, Malfoy," Bole said. "This is a funeral." But he smiled a little when he said it, and he tucked the plain white card in his pocket.
Back at the office, there were still no investors, which meant that Draco had no money to buy Grandfather Bole's apartment building. Still, he had no doubt that it was a solid investment, and that the Boles would be in the mood to sell as soon as the old man was in the ground, if not sooner. The Death Eater leadership had been made up of wealthy men with expensive tastes. When the Ministry of Magic seized their available funds after the defeat, many had been hard-pressed to maintain their lavish lifestyles. There were currently a number of interesting properties and highly intriguing artifacts making their way quietly to market. All of which meant that it was a good time to buy, if one had the cash.
At Parkinson's, Draco only had time to shrug off his cloak, signal for a drink, and exchange a few insults with Pansy before he was approached.
"I hear you're settin' up in investing," a man's voice said behind him. When Draco turned, he found himself facing a short, mousy-looking man about fifteen years his senior.
"I might be," he replied. "Draco Malfoy," he said, offering his hand.
"Octavius Rookwood," the man said, shaking tentatively. "I wanted to talk to you about investing some money."
"I'm not looking to take on many investors at this time, you see," Draco told him.
He took a sip of his drink to cover his nerves and tried to calm his pounding heart. This had to work, absolutely must work, or he was sunk.
"I see," Rookwood said, sounding disappointed.
"I'll see what I can do," Draco said, as if he had a line of potential investors reaching around the block. He produced one of the white cards from his pocket, and handed it over. "You can contact me at this address." He took another sip as Rookwood studied the card.
"I don't want to keep you," Rookwood said, gesturing towards Pansy and Blaise, who were ignoring them entirely and seemed to be having a fine time without Draco. "But I suppose you'll be in your office tomorrow, eh?"
"That's right," Draco said, trying very hard to project an image of someone who was not at all desperate for cash. "Tomorrow, then." He offered his hand to shake in what was clearly a dismissal, and Rookwood took it before walking away.
"What was that?" Pansy asked, when he returned to the table, studying her nails with a small frown.
"Oh, nothing," Draco said. "Just had a question for me."
"Ah, yes, the mysterious business venture," Blaise said. "Everyone's talking about it, you know, and they all ask what I know and I have to tell them nothing." He turned to Pansy and said, as if Draco wasn't sitting right there, "He could be taming chimaera there for all we know."
Pansy nodded. "How could he keep such a thing from us? And all my life I've dreamed of a pet chimaera, too."
"To stomp on a little girl's dreams like that, it's appalling," Blaise agreed. "It really is true what they say about the Malfoys."
They turned toward him, one pale face and one dark face, each wearing identical smirks.
Draco sighed, as if resigned. "It's nothing, really. I'm just planning to buy a few buildings, you know, collect rents, that sort of thing."
"Does this mean you'll be off my sofa?" Blaise asked. "I should be collecting rent from you."
"You are," Draco pointed out. "Rather steep rent for such a lumpy bed, too."
"Oh yes, that's right," Blaise said as if he'd forgotten, his toothy smile very white against his dark skin. "One of my better ideas, wouldn't you say?"
"Inspired," Draco agreed. "Always providing for a friend in need, you are."
"What can I say, I'm a giver."
"Don't think you're avoiding this, Draco," Pansy said, interrupting Blaise's gloating. "You'll tell us about this or I'll cut you off at the bar."
"A fate worse than death," Blaise said solemnly.
"Well there's no need to play dirty," Draco said. "You know I was going to tell you anyway." He dug a few cards out of his pocket and handed each of them a couple. "You can give these to anyone who seems like they might be really interested in selling. Not just the gossip hounds, though."
"Just selling?" Pansy asked shrewdly.
"Well, perhaps I'd be willing to take on a few investors as well," Draco said, as if this were an enormous concession for him and not the basis of his entire business plan. "But not just anyone, you know. This is a business, not a charity fund."
"Of course not," Blaise said, in his mock-serious tone.
"Can't let the riff-raff in," Pansy agreed, tucking the cards away. "That's always been our policy here at Parkinson's as well." She waved one arm in a grand gesture to indicate the bar and restaurant, and all its patrons past and present.
Draco felt a laugh bubbling up inside of him despite the tension he was feeling. "And here I thought Parkinson's philosophy was 'window washing ruins the ambience.'"
"That's not right," Blaise said thoughtfully. "It's more like 'sticky tables make for better tips.'"
"I wasn't joking about that bar tab, either of you."
Draco was sitting in his armchair the next morning, reading the Prophet and finishing off his third cup of tea, when there was a knock at the door. It was, in fact, the first knock his door had received since he'd been there.
"Yes?" Draco called, hoping he didn't sound like a nervous kid in over his head.
The door opened and Octavius Rookwood appeared. "Ah, good morning, Mr. Malfoy," he said. "I wasn't sure if you'd be in."
"Mr. Rookwood," Draco said, rising to shake his hand. In the office now, in the company of a man who he hoped would hand over some money, this venture suddenly felt a lot more like work. For a moment, Draco was at a loss.
He thought of his mother, always poised and charming, even when faced with the most absurd scenarios. She'd offered tea and crumpets to Fenrir Greyback, for goodness' sake. Just treat this as a social call, he told himself.
"Can I get you a cup of tea?" he found himself asking.
"Oh, ah, no thank you," Rookwood answered.
"Please, have a seat," Draco offered, gesturing to the armchair he'd been in only a moment before. Rookwood sat uneasily, as Draco made his way behind the desk and seated himself in the mermaid chair.
Rookwood didn't speak for a minute or two, just sat twisting one hand in the other and staring down at his lap.
"Is there something I can help you with today?" Draco asked, finally breaking the silence. It was somewhat pathetic that this man actually seemed to be more nervous than Draco himself.
"About the investors," Rookwood began. "I know you said--"
"I'm not looking to take on a large number of clients at this time," Draco said smoothly.
"A -- a large number?" Rookwood repeated.
"Oh, no," Draco said. "But of course, if one of the old families were in need..." He trailed off, letting Rookwood jump to his own conclusion.
"We're in need, oh yes we are," Rookwood rushed to reassure him. "You know the Ministry seized the Gringotts accounts of all that were suspected of -- that is, my brother was accused--"
"I know," Draco said.
"Well, now that I've got a bit of money put aside, I just can't see puttin' it into Gringotts," Rookwood said. "I know it's stupid, but after what they did to Augustus--"
"It's not stupid at all," Draco assured him. "The entire experience, it was..." He shuddered at the memory.
"We weren't all of us lucky enough to have accounts overseas, either," Rookwood said darkly, and Draco realized that he was referring to the Malfoys. The truth was, the Malfoys didn't have much money left, either, and Lucius was worse off than many of the others due to his exile. However, it was the illusion of prosperity that he was depending on to make this venture a success, and so Draco said nothing.
"I may be able to help you with this, Mr. Rookwood," Draco said, as if he were doing the man an enormous favor by taking his money. "However, you must understand that your funds will be tied up in real estate and will not be as easily accessible as they would have been in a Gringotts vault."
"Yes, yes, I understand that," he said.
Draco opened the single drawer of his desk, and drew out a piece of parchment, which he handed across the desk to Rookwood. "These are our investment plans. I do require a minimum commitment of two hundred Galleons, and it will be six months before you're able to withdraw your funds."
Rookwood looked the document over. "There'll be a binding contract?" he asked.
"Of course," Draco replied. "An account summary will be owled to you each month, and a more detailed report is always available on request."
Tap, tap, tap. Draco looked up to see a brown barn owl on the windowsill. "Why don't you look that over for a minute, and let me know if you have any questions."
He stood and walked to the window, taking a couple of deep breaths to stop his hands from shaking. The man hadn't laughed in his face when he'd said "two hundred Galleons," so that was positive.
Draco unlatched the window and slid open the sash, allowing the owl to hop inside. He untied the parchment from the owl's leg, but then the owl did not immediately fly away, and Draco realized that he didn't have any treats to give in return. In fact, he didn't have a crumb of food in the entire place. He shooed the owl out of the window, receiving a sharp bite to the wrist in return, and tried not to cry out as he shut the window.
The message was from Bole, and it was short and to the point.
Ready to unload the place. Family will sell
for 250,000 if within 10 days. Price goes up later.
-- Bole
Draco rested his uninjured arm on the window for a moment, his face turned toward the glass but his eyes unfocused on anything beyond the room and the note in his hand. It was his first opportunity, but two hundred fifty thousand Galleons might as well be the moon for all he had at the moment. He didn't even know how he was going to pay the rent on his own office.
Rookwood coughed discreetly and Draco straightened, stuffing the note in his pocket and turning toward him. "Questions?"
"What sorts of properties would you be investing in?" Rookwood asked.
Nodding toward the window he'd just closed, Draco explained. "I plan to put in an offer on a building of flats that was owned by Tungsten Bole. His family is eager to sell after his recent passing."
"I know the place," Rookwood said, nodding. His face was thoughtful.
Draco felt a rush of gratitude that the owl had arrived when it did, and that this building had been the one he'd thought to ask about. There was no question that it was a good investment, a large building in a fashionable area, with the flats already rented and generating income. And though the price was much more than Draco had at the moment, it was a bargain in terms of the building's real worth, a price that would only be offered if the family was truly desperate for cash.
"You have a contract?" Rookwood asked.
"Uh, yes," Draco said, startled. He pulled one from the drawer and passed it over, watching as Rookwood filled in an amount and signed his name with a flourish.
"I'll have the money brought over today," Rookwood said. "Thanks for the help."
"Thank you, Sir," Draco said, forgetting his studied nonchalance in the excitement of finding his first investor.
The man smiled, shook Draco's hand, and left the office. It was not until Draco heard his footsteps on the stairs that he let out the breath he'd been holding and looked down at the number on the contract.
50,000
Octavius Rookwood had just given over fifty thousand Galleons to Draco's ridiculous scheme. He only needed another two hundred thousand to buy Bole's flats... or nine-hundred-fifty thousand for the Black estate on Grimmauld Place.
That night at Parkinson's, Draco was in the mood to celebrate. Pansy and Blaise watched like indulgent parents as he ordered a bottle of champagne for the table, then raised the first glass in a toast.
"Here's to me," he said, "and my many achievements: past, present, and future."
"That's a little bit much, even for you," Pansy commented.
Draco did not even get a chance to respond before he was interrupted by her gruff old uncle.
"I see that you're followin' my advice, young man," he said, clapping Draco on the shoulder. "Your grandfather would be proud."
Draco had never known his father's father, but he felt a warm glow of pride at the words anyway. "Thank you," he told the old man, before reaching for his champagne flute again, thinking that Parkinson was done.
"My Pansy tells me that you might be willing to invest money for a few others as well as your own," he said, and Draco turned his focus back to the conversation.
"I might," he said coolly, pulling a card from his pocket. "Why don't you stop by that address in the morning and we can talk about it?"
"Nah," the old man said, after studying the card for a moment. "I'd rather take care of this now, if you don't mind."
"Mind?" repeated Draco. "Not at all."
He followed Parkinson down a dark hallway away from the chattering crowds of diners and into a small office. Parkinson took a seat behind a cluttered desk, leaving Draco to perch on the edge of a rickety chair.
"Why don't you tell me the basics of this deal, then?"
Draco told him about the investment concept, the rules and reports that he'd explained for the first time just that afternoon. He didn't have his printed parchment to use as a guide, but the description seemed easier to give this time, as if it were becoming more and more natural.
"...And so I could send a contract around for you to look over tomorrow," Draco said, finishing up his presentation.
"Nah, I told you I want to take care of this tonight," Parkinson said, waving one hand in an irritated gesture, as if he were swatting a fly. He pulled out a ragged slip of parchment and scribbled something on it, then passed it across the desktop and turned away.
While the old man busied himself with something on the floor, Draco looked down at the scrap of paper in his hand, which said simply:
Draco Malfoy,
invest 10,000 Galleons in my name.
Signed, Pernicious Parkinson
"But," Draco said, at a loss for words. "The contract--"
"If you insist, boy, you bring it around tomorrow night and I'll sign it at the bar. This is my place of business, and it's where I'll do my transactions." With that, he set a heavy bag down on the desk with a dull sound halfway between a thud and a jingle.
"Is that--?"
Ten thousand Galleons, take 'em or leave 'em."
"I'll take them," Draco said. He made his way back to the table by the bar carrying the heavy sack, somewhat shell-shocked.
"I-- I think I have to leave," he told his friends. "I need to take my money home now."
Pansy laughed. "You'd better give us a few more of your cards first, we'll be needing them."
"What--"
"Excuse me, Mr. Malfoy?"
Over the next week, it seemed to Draco that a steady stream of prospective investors visited his small office and approached him around town wherever he might be, from the bar at Parkinson's to the cafe where he bought his sticky buns in the morning or the queue at Gringotts, where he was becoming a frequent visitor.
With each prospective client he told them the same thing, that he would only accept a few investors, and yet each of them seemed to believe it. A few did turn away after learning of the minimum investment, and some took his parchments home to think over or discuss with their wives, but by the end of the week Draco had acquired several new clients.
Pansy and Blaise each put up five hundred Galleons, to Draco's surprise. Besides them, an Avery, a Turpin, two Crabbes and a whole handful of Parkinsons all made their way to Draco's office and signed his contract. In addition, he was offered a chance to buy a building in a prime location on Diagon Alley by a desperate Urquhart Mulciber.
Draco awoke early on Saturday morning, changed into a fresh set of robes, and walked the few steps into his office. Account books lay open on his desk, numbers and figures marching down the page.
Arithmancy had always been Draco's favorite subject in school, because it had a purity and a logic to it that other subjects lacked. The runes and numbers flowed together beautifully when they were drawn correctly, and made sense of the world at a time when the rest of Draco's life seemed to make no sense at all.
These numbers, too, had an internal logic that seemed to speak to Draco. They were not just numbers; each told its own story, from Blaise's five hundred Galleons ("That's the money I charged you in rent, Malfoy. Hard-earned.") to Rookwood's fifty thousand ("After what they did to my brother, I don't trust the Goblins anymore.")
The one note which jarred the arithmantic harmony of his balance sheet, however, was the other half of the books. Although he had collected well over a half-million Galleons, Malfoy Investments had yet to actually invest a single knut.
On the right half of the desk lay three pieces of paper. There were no neat columns of numbers, no harmonious arithmantic equation to describe the possibilities, but Draco knew them well nonetheless.
Bole's note about his grandfather's apartment building was first, its creases smoothed flat by Draco's hands. It was a fine building in a nice residential neighborhood, and the family was motivated to sell. Within, the building was divided into six flats, each occupied by a tenant who was already paying rent.
Next was the offer from Mulciber, a lengthy letter detailing everything about his building and his own need to sell and move to Australia. The building contained two shops and three large luxury flats, and the location on Diagon Alley was unbeatable. Mulciber was desperate to sell and ready to make a very favorable deal. With his current balance sheet, Draco knew, he could probably buy both properties if Mulciber would be willing to take half the cash up front and half within six months.
The last slip of paper on the desktop was the one that had started Draco on this crazy plan: the Prophet notice about the old Black estate on Grimmauld Place.
Just the thought of the golden boy of Gryffindor becoming the lord and master of that bastion of Slytherin, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, made Draco's fists clench and his stomach burn. It was an abomination, an affront. His great-aunt Walburga would roll over in her grave. Potter would have no idea what to do with a home like that, practically a monument to pureblood history. He, Draco Malfoy, would treat it right, would be able to cherish and nurture the estate back to its former glory. But to do so required money, and there was only so much of that to go around.
Draco looked at the listings, and then back at the balance sheets. To have the remotest chance of buying the Black estate, he would have to pass on the Bole and Mulciber properties. To buy the Bole and Mulciber properties would, in all likelihood, be to give up hope of raising a million Galleons in time to buy out Potter before the binding took effect and the house passed into his domain.
Draco sighed and picked up his cloak before Apparating away.
Draco hadn't been to his mother's family home since he was a small child. He remembered it as an adult place, dark and solemn, where he did not speak unless spoken to. Visits there had not been particularly enjoyable, but the house had taken on a profound meaning for the young boy anyway, as an important place, one that deserved respect and deference.
As the only young child in the house, Draco had imagined that he might live there one day, might hold court in the elaborately decorated parlor, sit in the selkie-hide chair and smoke a cigar while faceless family members surrounded him and admired the grandeur of the place as he had for so many years.
It had been a long time, but he Apparated into the small square that fronted on Grimmauld Place without pause, sure of his destination. Despite his initial certainty, at first he thought he might have arrived at the wrong place. The square was dirty and unkempt, scattered with Muggle trash and full of weeds. An overflowing rubbish bin stood at the corner. This could not be right -- could it?
As soon as he raised his eyes beyond the limits of the square, though, he knew he had not made a mistake. Number twelve was unmistakable -- tall and stately in a row of narrow houses it nonetheless stood out to Draco as clearly as if a beacon shone from the rooftop.
He walked slowly across the square to stand on the curb opposite number twelve. The windows of the house were dark, and no signs of life showed within.
It was a bright and sunny day, and he was in the midst of a neighborhood where many Muggles lived, which was distressing in and of itself, but Draco withdrew his wand and cast a spell.
"Inveo," he whispered.
The front facade of the house before him shimmered for a few moments and then grew transparent. It was as if Draco were looking through a thin curtain instead of a solid brick building, and everything inside was exposed.
He'd spent so much time here as a boy, and remembered the place so vividly, that a part of him expected it to remain the same even now, ten years after his last visit. However, the passage of time and the ravages of war had touched the homes of everyone Draco knew -- and number twelve, Grimmauld Place was no exception.
Inside, the house looked vacant and nearly abandoned. The library where he'd wandered for hours, marveling at the volumes of dark arts and pureblood history was stripped, only rows of empty shelves remaining. The luxurious guest rooms where he'd slept were completely empty, not even a ball of dust to occupy a corner. The parlor where he'd pictured spending his old age contained only a few pieces of furniture, each covered with a soft white sheet, making it look like a room of ghosts. The only thing that proved the house was still occupied was one small bedroom on the second floor, where an unmade bed rested in the corner and clothes spilled out of an open wardrobe onto the floor. A small red and gold pennant was tacked to the wall above the bed.
Draco slipped his wand out of sight, but he stood and watched the house for a while longer, studying each empty room and thinking of the time he'd spent there in years gone by. With each memory, he thought of people who were now dead or gone, of a place which was no longer the same as it had once been.
The home he'd loved, the one he'd hoped to make his own one day, was gone now. There would be other houses, he knew, and other dreams. But the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was no more.
Draco tucked his hands in his pockets, turned and walked away.
When he reached his office, he sat down and wrote a note to Bole, asking him to come by on Monday morning to sign the sales documents. Then he locked the door carefully behind him and headed off to Parkinson's for a drink and the company of friends.
Author: r_becca
Recipient: turkeyish
Character: Draco Malfoy
Rating: G
Warnings (highlight to view): None
Summary: "Malfoys have always had a good head for business, they have. Recognize an opportunity when it presents itself."
Wordcount: 7,700
Author's Notes: turkeyish requested Draco making a name for himself in the Wizarding World, along with Slytherin friendship. I hope I hit the mark.
Beta: Lyras
Draco was poring over the classified ads in the Daily Prophet when he saw the notice, printed in tiny letters over to the side of the page:
POTTER DESIGNATED BLACK HEIR
Harry Potter, recent Hogwarts graduate,
will become Master of Number 12 Grimmauld
Place, which he inherited from his godfather
the accused murderer Sirius Black. The
home, which is valued at one million Galleons, is
protected by complex security spells so don't
even think about any funny business. Unless a
closer blood relation should come forward, in six
weeks' time the house will become forever the
property of Mr Potter and his descendants.
THIS NOTICE REQUIRED BY LAW.
That evening he brandished the page at Pansy and Blaise over drinks. They were sitting at a table in the lounge section of Parkinson's, a rather musty and dimly-lit restaurant owned by some relative or other of Pansy's. The place was dreary and unfashionable, and it smelled strongly of cigar smoke, but they often got their drinks for free due to Pansy's connection. Draco himself had very little money with which to buy his own drinks, so Parkinson's was a frequent destination. The downside was that the place was practically crawling with Parkinsons. There were entirely too many of them, rather like less-shabby Weasleys, although Draco never said so aloud because he knew he'd be hexed.
"Potter's living in my house!" Draco said, gesturing angrily with his drink and nearly spilling firewhiskey all over the table.
"No, you're living in my house," Blaise corrected him with one eyebrow raised. "Or have you forgotten sleeping on my sofa?"
"I have not forgotten," Draco said stiffly. In fact, that was the reason he'd been looking at the classified ads in the first place. Blaise's sofa was unbearably uncomfortable, and Draco needed a flat of his own rather desperately. What he was discovering, however, was that rents in London were high, and there was not much that his rapidly-dwindling savings could get him.
"Potter's at Malfoy Manor?" Pansy asked, making a grab for the newspaper clipping and missing. "I thought you had horrid French cousins living there."
Draco did not dignify this with an explanation, but handed over the bit of newsprint he'd been waving around for several minutes already.
"Well, this is nothing," Pansy said. "Just get your Mum to pay Potter a visit, and the house is hers. Isn't she the last Black standing?"
"She won't," Draco said. "She'd never come without Father." The rest of it went unsaid. The Auror Corps had standing orders to arrest Lucius Malfoy if he ever set foot in England again. Which was why he and Narcissa were ensconced in a country house in Provence, the loud and smelly Provençal Malfoys had taken over the Manor, and Draco was stuck with Blaise's doxy-infested sofa.
"You're still more a Black than Potter could ever dream of being," Blaise pointed out. "Just get yourself a million Galleons and show up, the place is yours."
"Brilliant plan, thanks." Draco toasted Blaise with his firewhiskey, then swallowed the contents of the glass in one gulp, thankful for the deep burn in his throat. He didn't have a million Galleons. In fact, he didn't have much money at all. Most of the Malfoy fortune had been spent during the war or seized immediately afterward, and Draco could not access his trust fund until he was twenty-five. He'd be forced into gainful employment well before then, a horror he didn't like to contemplate.
Quickly, he signaled for more whiskey. What he needed was a plan, and liquor always helped him think.
"What you need to do is invest," Pansy's white-haired uncle told Draco later that night, after three or four more strong drinks. The downside to this place was that it was always crawling with Pansy's relations, miscellaneous uncles and cousins and people that Draco could never keep track of, and who often insisted on talking to him. "Malfoys have always had a good head for business, they have. Recognize an opportunity when it presents itself."
Draco nodded, but didn't agree out loud. He didn't have money to invest in anything anyway, but nobody needed to know that. Even Blaise didn't know how badly off he was, and seemed to think he had some hidden cash reserves somewhere.
Parkinson must've taken the nod for encouragement, because he went right on talking. "Your grandfather, now, old Abraxas, he had people linin' up around the block wantin' to go into business with him, give him their money to invest. The man owned half of Diagon Alley at one time or 'nother."
"Really," Draco drawled, sipping his drink and trying to maintain a bland expression. The possibility that people might give him their own money to spend had not occurred to him.
"Oh, sure," the old man said. "Shame your father never tried his hand at it, but he was always one for politics I s'pose. Still, there's a lot of folks who reckon his father taught Lucius all about the business."
"Indeed," Draco said, trying to feign nonchalance. "They were very close, you know. Father is always imparting some insight he learned from the old man." In fact, nothing was farther from the truth. Draco knew that his father and grandfather hadn't gotten on at all well, and in fact he hardly knew anything about Abraxas Malfoy or how he'd achieved success in business.
But no one needed to know that. And if letting people believe otherwise could lead to profit for him, Draco was happy to blur the truth.
"Reee-ally?" asked the uncle-or-whatever. "You thinking of going into the family business, then?"
"Could be," Draco answered, making the decision on the spot. "Might just keep all the profits for myself, though."
"You change your mind, just say the word," Parkinson said, jingling the change in his pocket with what he probably thought was a meaningful glance, but which actually looked more like a leer.
Draco smiled in response and lifted his glass in a silent toast, making no promises.
Two days later, he spotted the sign posted in the window of a stately townhouse just off Diagon. Office to let, it said in small black letters. Inquire at Arbide's, 220 Diagon Alley. The building was red brick with tasteful black trim and wrought-iron railings, old enough to convey a sense of prosperity, but located just far enough out of the way that it would carry an affordable price tag.
He dressed carefully for his appointment at Arbide's, intending to communicate just the right impression of wealth and carelessness. His vault at Gringott's contained more spiderwebs than Galleons, his parents were in no position to help him even if they'd wanted to (they didn't), and he desperately needed this venture to be successful if he was going to make a name for himself in London. But no one else needed to know any of that. In fact, if this were to work he would have to give the impression of wealth and security, and make people believe that they needed him more than he needed them.
The first person he would have to convince waited behind the door at 220 Diagon Alley.
"Hello," said the woman behind the large wooden desk when Draco walked in. She was only a few years older than him, but gave off a polished, professional look that made Draco feel a bit like a schoolboy. Her desk was neat but not empty, the walls tastefully decorated with bookshelves and a few pictures of buildings and cityscapes, conveying quiet competence and urban bustle.
"Hello," Draco said, reminding himself why he was here. "Miss Bletchley? I believe we've exchanged owls."
"Mr. Malfoy, of course," she said, standing and crossing the room toward him, her hand outstretched. "A pleasure to meet you." Her eyes held a calculating gleam and an eagerness that she didn't bother to disguise. "And you're looking for..." She paused. "Office space?"
Draco smiled. This would be easier than he'd thought.
He allowed Miss Bletchley to take him around to several different offices that afternoon, most located a few discreet steps off Diagon Alley or its side streets, but all well within the range of prying eyes and wagging tongues. As they walked, Draco chatted amiably with his companion, explaining in response to her questions what uses he intended for the new office, and what sort of place he was looking for.
This estate agent had been a lucky stroke, Draco thought -- the Bletchleys were an old wizarding family, very well-established and connected. In fact, during the course of their conversation he discovered that Miss Bletchley herself ("Call me Hortensia.") had a second cousin who was a relative of his mother's on the Rosier side. He had no doubt that a detailed accounting of every place they visited and all the plans he described would be spread across the entire wizarding world by the end of the day. In fact, he was counting on it.
"So you're sure this is the place?" Hortensia asked as they stood in the small office that Draco had seen just a few days before. It was a simple layout: just two rooms and a large storage closet, but the building had a stately appeal that was not reflected in the low rental price. It was perfect.
"I'm certain," Draco agreed. "I'd like to move in immediately."
"Excellent," she said crisply, waving her wand to enlarge her small handbag into a full-size briefcase. "We can draw up the papers right away if you like."
"Wonderful," Draco said. "We're -- that is, I am eager to get started with the new venture as soon as possible."
"Of course." She turned away to conjure a writing desk in the corner of the room, but Draco knew she'd heard his intentional slip of the tongue when she asked her next question. "And shall we draw the rents from your Gringott's vault, or...?"
"You can direct it to the Malfoy vault at Gringotts in Paris," he said smoothly, leaning over the writing desk and inspecting the contract. The charge would simply be forwarded right back to the London bank, but the goblins would tell no tales, unlike young estate agents.
By the time he arrived at Parkinson's that night, his reputation preceded him.
"I heard you're going into business with your dad," Pansy said, before he'd even had a chance to sit down.
"Where did you hear that?" he asked, signaling one of her relations for a drink.
"Tracey Davis's sister-in-law told me." Pansy paused to take a sip of her wine, then looked up at Draco in irritation when he didn't immediately begin telling the story. "So? Is it true?"
Lucius would have to be dumb as dirt to invest in Britain when any money he put up could be seized by the Ministry at any time and his very presence there could get him arrested, which Pansy already knew. Most of the Death Eaters had gotten off with a simple seizure of assets and a slap on the wrist, but the Malfoy name conferred certain rights and privileges, and one of them was being taken for a leader.
"Why?" Draco asked, instead of dignifying her idiotic question with a response. "You looking to invest, Pans?" She grimaced at the hated nickname, and Draco handed her one of the cards he'd had printed after leaving the estate agent's office.
The card was a thick white cardstock, smooth as silk, and engraved in charcoal-gray ink with the words:
Malfoy Investments
849 O'Fish Alley
"Of course not," Pansy said with a pronounced sniff. "I'm much too careful with my finances to let you anywhere near them." But she picked the card up from the table and slid it into her pocketbook anyway.
That night, Draco lay awake on Blaise's lumpy claw-footed sofa and hoped he was doing the right thing - the successful thing. He had charts and graphs and plans, and he understood that there was great potential in this idea. However, a lot depended on luck. Too much, really, to make it a plan fit for anyone with other options.
Draco's next best plan was to get some menial job working in a shop or mixing drinks at Parkinson's, a horribly tedious occupation that would force him to bow and scrape and leave him sweaty and dirty. It would be all well and good for a Weasley or a Brown, but a Malfoy should not have to stoop so low. He shuddered and pulled the blankets up to his chin.
This new venture could be the solution to all his problems -- it could provide him with an income, with a decent place to stay, with an occupation other than "impoverished dilettante," and with respect. It was a way to get Potter out of his ancestral home, and it could even be a way to follow in Malfoy footsteps without all that pureblood supremacy business which was so passé nowadays. Still, it would require every ounce of Slytherin cunning he had, along with a good bit of analytical thinking and some damn-the-curses-full-speed-ahead Gryffindor sensibilities as well.
A sofa spring dug into his hip as he shifted position, and Draco glared up at the ceiling and set his jaw. He needed to get out of this place and find a way to reclaim the house that was rightfully his. This plan of his might be more than a bit insane, but it was the only plan he had, and so he'd stick to it.
For better or for worse, he was committed to Malfoy Investments now.
The next day, he arrived at his new office promptly at eight o'clock in the morning, with his wand in hand. The two small rooms were in good shape, cleaned and polished, but entirely, completely empty. It would never do.
"Bitsy," he announced loudly to the empty room. "Bitsy!"
His elf appeared with a loud crack, clad in what seemed to be a silk and lace pillow sham. She blinked up at Draco, hesitating for just a moment before bowing so deeply that her nose nearly touched the floor. "Yes, Master? What can Bitsy be doing for Master today, after many months?"
"Bitsy, I am still your master, am I not?" Draco asked. Elves were damned expensive these days, and he had no idea what kind of deal his parents had struck with their French tenants.
"Yes, Master Draco, you is, of course," the elf babbled. "Bitsy has neglected you horribly, she has, should be punished--"
"No, no, not now," he interrupted hastily. If he let her start in punishing herself, they'd be here all day. "I ordered you to stay there and take care of the Manor, and you've done an excellent job of that."
Bitsy blushed, her gray skin turning an unpleasant shade of purple, and bowed again.
"I know you've been taking good care of my things at the Manor, Bitsy, but I'm going to need to have some of them moved here to my new office. Can you take care of that for me?"
"Certainly, Master Draco!" the elf exclaimed eagerly. "Which things is you needing today?"
"The Persian rug and the writing desk from my bedroom," Draco said. He knew that his cousins were not using his personal room because the disruption wards he'd set had not been triggered. "The console table from the back parlor, the chaise from Mother's lounge, one of the armchairs from the library. Oh, and anything else you think the place needs is all right too, but not too much." Give an elf free reign and he'd be crushed under a mountain of furniture.
"As you is wishing," Bitsy said. Her little face was twisted up into a manic smile at the prospect of all that work.
"And Bitsy?" Draco asked, thinking of the possible reaction if one of his French cousins caught on to what was happening. "Don't let anyone know, and don't let them see you."
"Of course not, Master Draco," she said, as if offended at the very idea, and then vanished with a bang.
By the time Draco returned, carrying a newspaper and a sticky bun, his empty room had been transformed into a posh office, with a carpet on the floor, an elegant desk in one corner and a comfortable armchair nearby for reading or client discussions. He walked through the room, admiring the little touches that Bitsy had chosen -- the Ming vase on the console table, the antique map framed on one wall. Even the Malfoy house-elves had good taste.
Peering through the door into the back room, he saw that she'd placed the chaise against one wall and hung curtains on the window which would ensure privacy. Just because his elf knew that he'd be sleeping in his office temporarily did not mean that the entire wizarding world need be aware of it, after all.
He heard a loud crack in the front room and turned to see the tiny elf levitating a wooden chair with arms carved in the shape of voluptuous mermaids into place behind the desk. Draco could clearly remember his father sitting in the study in this chair, a glass of firewhiskey in one hand and a book in the other. He'd seemed so wise then, so terribly important to a small boy, so busy and absorbed in his task that Draco would generally be scooped up by some domestic servant or house-elf and hustled away before he could interrupt. It had been a long time since then, and he saw his father somewhat differently now, holed up in a smelly house somewhere, exiled from his home country and his causes discredited. The chair, though, had not changed. It was still a very nice chair.
"Where did you find this, Bitsy? They'll notice it's missing."
"The attic, Master Draco," Bitsy told him, disapproval evident in her tone. "They is asking Bitsy to move it to the attic as soon as they comes. It was the old master's favorite." By that, Draco knew that she meant his grandfather, and he was obscurely pleased.
Bitsy levitated the chair into place behind the writing desk, and Draco sat down, propping his elbows on the back of the wooden mermaids and steepling his fingers. "Excellent work, Bitsy," he said.
"You is too kind, Master Draco," she said. "You is needing help here, yes? Bitsy can stay and be of assistance?"
"Not at the moment," Draco said firmly, watching her ears droop in disappointment. "Though I will need you to come and clean once a week."
This seemed to be the best news Bitsy had heard all week, and her great big ears perked up as if she were about to flap them a few times and fly away. "Thank you, Master, thank you!" she said, seemingly on the brink of tears, and disappeared with a loud bang.
Less than a week ago, Draco had been a homeless, jobless layabout. Today with an office, a plan, and a box of business cards he looked the part of a gentleman of commerce. To do more than play a role, he would need to acquire the final component: clients.
He sat back and waited, but no one arrived at his door. The bell did not ring; no knocks disturbed the silence. Draco read the business section of the Prophet, and no one came. He read the sports page and the society section, and no investors appeared. He read arts and human-interest and the classifieds and nobody knocked.
Halfway through the obituaries, Draco had a brainstorm. He folded up the newspaper and tucked it under his arm, locking the door carefully before he Apparated away.
"So sorry about your loss," Draco said smoothly to Bole, who'd hit him so hard with a bludger to the head once that it'd shattered his skull. "If there's anything I can do -- the apartment building and all that... just say the word."
"Bugger off, Malfoy," Bole said. "This is a funeral." But he smiled a little when he said it, and he tucked the plain white card in his pocket.
Back at the office, there were still no investors, which meant that Draco had no money to buy Grandfather Bole's apartment building. Still, he had no doubt that it was a solid investment, and that the Boles would be in the mood to sell as soon as the old man was in the ground, if not sooner. The Death Eater leadership had been made up of wealthy men with expensive tastes. When the Ministry of Magic seized their available funds after the defeat, many had been hard-pressed to maintain their lavish lifestyles. There were currently a number of interesting properties and highly intriguing artifacts making their way quietly to market. All of which meant that it was a good time to buy, if one had the cash.
At Parkinson's, Draco only had time to shrug off his cloak, signal for a drink, and exchange a few insults with Pansy before he was approached.
"I hear you're settin' up in investing," a man's voice said behind him. When Draco turned, he found himself facing a short, mousy-looking man about fifteen years his senior.
"I might be," he replied. "Draco Malfoy," he said, offering his hand.
"Octavius Rookwood," the man said, shaking tentatively. "I wanted to talk to you about investing some money."
"I'm not looking to take on many investors at this time, you see," Draco told him.
He took a sip of his drink to cover his nerves and tried to calm his pounding heart. This had to work, absolutely must work, or he was sunk.
"I see," Rookwood said, sounding disappointed.
"I'll see what I can do," Draco said, as if he had a line of potential investors reaching around the block. He produced one of the white cards from his pocket, and handed it over. "You can contact me at this address." He took another sip as Rookwood studied the card.
"I don't want to keep you," Rookwood said, gesturing towards Pansy and Blaise, who were ignoring them entirely and seemed to be having a fine time without Draco. "But I suppose you'll be in your office tomorrow, eh?"
"That's right," Draco said, trying very hard to project an image of someone who was not at all desperate for cash. "Tomorrow, then." He offered his hand to shake in what was clearly a dismissal, and Rookwood took it before walking away.
"What was that?" Pansy asked, when he returned to the table, studying her nails with a small frown.
"Oh, nothing," Draco said. "Just had a question for me."
"Ah, yes, the mysterious business venture," Blaise said. "Everyone's talking about it, you know, and they all ask what I know and I have to tell them nothing." He turned to Pansy and said, as if Draco wasn't sitting right there, "He could be taming chimaera there for all we know."
Pansy nodded. "How could he keep such a thing from us? And all my life I've dreamed of a pet chimaera, too."
"To stomp on a little girl's dreams like that, it's appalling," Blaise agreed. "It really is true what they say about the Malfoys."
They turned toward him, one pale face and one dark face, each wearing identical smirks.
Draco sighed, as if resigned. "It's nothing, really. I'm just planning to buy a few buildings, you know, collect rents, that sort of thing."
"Does this mean you'll be off my sofa?" Blaise asked. "I should be collecting rent from you."
"You are," Draco pointed out. "Rather steep rent for such a lumpy bed, too."
"Oh yes, that's right," Blaise said as if he'd forgotten, his toothy smile very white against his dark skin. "One of my better ideas, wouldn't you say?"
"Inspired," Draco agreed. "Always providing for a friend in need, you are."
"What can I say, I'm a giver."
"Don't think you're avoiding this, Draco," Pansy said, interrupting Blaise's gloating. "You'll tell us about this or I'll cut you off at the bar."
"A fate worse than death," Blaise said solemnly.
"Well there's no need to play dirty," Draco said. "You know I was going to tell you anyway." He dug a few cards out of his pocket and handed each of them a couple. "You can give these to anyone who seems like they might be really interested in selling. Not just the gossip hounds, though."
"Just selling?" Pansy asked shrewdly.
"Well, perhaps I'd be willing to take on a few investors as well," Draco said, as if this were an enormous concession for him and not the basis of his entire business plan. "But not just anyone, you know. This is a business, not a charity fund."
"Of course not," Blaise said, in his mock-serious tone.
"Can't let the riff-raff in," Pansy agreed, tucking the cards away. "That's always been our policy here at Parkinson's as well." She waved one arm in a grand gesture to indicate the bar and restaurant, and all its patrons past and present.
Draco felt a laugh bubbling up inside of him despite the tension he was feeling. "And here I thought Parkinson's philosophy was 'window washing ruins the ambience.'"
"That's not right," Blaise said thoughtfully. "It's more like 'sticky tables make for better tips.'"
"I wasn't joking about that bar tab, either of you."
Draco was sitting in his armchair the next morning, reading the Prophet and finishing off his third cup of tea, when there was a knock at the door. It was, in fact, the first knock his door had received since he'd been there.
"Yes?" Draco called, hoping he didn't sound like a nervous kid in over his head.
The door opened and Octavius Rookwood appeared. "Ah, good morning, Mr. Malfoy," he said. "I wasn't sure if you'd be in."
"Mr. Rookwood," Draco said, rising to shake his hand. In the office now, in the company of a man who he hoped would hand over some money, this venture suddenly felt a lot more like work. For a moment, Draco was at a loss.
He thought of his mother, always poised and charming, even when faced with the most absurd scenarios. She'd offered tea and crumpets to Fenrir Greyback, for goodness' sake. Just treat this as a social call, he told himself.
"Can I get you a cup of tea?" he found himself asking.
"Oh, ah, no thank you," Rookwood answered.
"Please, have a seat," Draco offered, gesturing to the armchair he'd been in only a moment before. Rookwood sat uneasily, as Draco made his way behind the desk and seated himself in the mermaid chair.
Rookwood didn't speak for a minute or two, just sat twisting one hand in the other and staring down at his lap.
"Is there something I can help you with today?" Draco asked, finally breaking the silence. It was somewhat pathetic that this man actually seemed to be more nervous than Draco himself.
"About the investors," Rookwood began. "I know you said--"
"I'm not looking to take on a large number of clients at this time," Draco said smoothly.
"A -- a large number?" Rookwood repeated.
"Oh, no," Draco said. "But of course, if one of the old families were in need..." He trailed off, letting Rookwood jump to his own conclusion.
"We're in need, oh yes we are," Rookwood rushed to reassure him. "You know the Ministry seized the Gringotts accounts of all that were suspected of -- that is, my brother was accused--"
"I know," Draco said.
"Well, now that I've got a bit of money put aside, I just can't see puttin' it into Gringotts," Rookwood said. "I know it's stupid, but after what they did to Augustus--"
"It's not stupid at all," Draco assured him. "The entire experience, it was..." He shuddered at the memory.
"We weren't all of us lucky enough to have accounts overseas, either," Rookwood said darkly, and Draco realized that he was referring to the Malfoys. The truth was, the Malfoys didn't have much money left, either, and Lucius was worse off than many of the others due to his exile. However, it was the illusion of prosperity that he was depending on to make this venture a success, and so Draco said nothing.
"I may be able to help you with this, Mr. Rookwood," Draco said, as if he were doing the man an enormous favor by taking his money. "However, you must understand that your funds will be tied up in real estate and will not be as easily accessible as they would have been in a Gringotts vault."
"Yes, yes, I understand that," he said.
Draco opened the single drawer of his desk, and drew out a piece of parchment, which he handed across the desk to Rookwood. "These are our investment plans. I do require a minimum commitment of two hundred Galleons, and it will be six months before you're able to withdraw your funds."
Rookwood looked the document over. "There'll be a binding contract?" he asked.
"Of course," Draco replied. "An account summary will be owled to you each month, and a more detailed report is always available on request."
Tap, tap, tap. Draco looked up to see a brown barn owl on the windowsill. "Why don't you look that over for a minute, and let me know if you have any questions."
He stood and walked to the window, taking a couple of deep breaths to stop his hands from shaking. The man hadn't laughed in his face when he'd said "two hundred Galleons," so that was positive.
Draco unlatched the window and slid open the sash, allowing the owl to hop inside. He untied the parchment from the owl's leg, but then the owl did not immediately fly away, and Draco realized that he didn't have any treats to give in return. In fact, he didn't have a crumb of food in the entire place. He shooed the owl out of the window, receiving a sharp bite to the wrist in return, and tried not to cry out as he shut the window.
The message was from Bole, and it was short and to the point.
Ready to unload the place. Family will sell
for 250,000 if within 10 days. Price goes up later.
-- Bole
Draco rested his uninjured arm on the window for a moment, his face turned toward the glass but his eyes unfocused on anything beyond the room and the note in his hand. It was his first opportunity, but two hundred fifty thousand Galleons might as well be the moon for all he had at the moment. He didn't even know how he was going to pay the rent on his own office.
Rookwood coughed discreetly and Draco straightened, stuffing the note in his pocket and turning toward him. "Questions?"
"What sorts of properties would you be investing in?" Rookwood asked.
Nodding toward the window he'd just closed, Draco explained. "I plan to put in an offer on a building of flats that was owned by Tungsten Bole. His family is eager to sell after his recent passing."
"I know the place," Rookwood said, nodding. His face was thoughtful.
Draco felt a rush of gratitude that the owl had arrived when it did, and that this building had been the one he'd thought to ask about. There was no question that it was a good investment, a large building in a fashionable area, with the flats already rented and generating income. And though the price was much more than Draco had at the moment, it was a bargain in terms of the building's real worth, a price that would only be offered if the family was truly desperate for cash.
"You have a contract?" Rookwood asked.
"Uh, yes," Draco said, startled. He pulled one from the drawer and passed it over, watching as Rookwood filled in an amount and signed his name with a flourish.
"I'll have the money brought over today," Rookwood said. "Thanks for the help."
"Thank you, Sir," Draco said, forgetting his studied nonchalance in the excitement of finding his first investor.
The man smiled, shook Draco's hand, and left the office. It was not until Draco heard his footsteps on the stairs that he let out the breath he'd been holding and looked down at the number on the contract.
50,000
Octavius Rookwood had just given over fifty thousand Galleons to Draco's ridiculous scheme. He only needed another two hundred thousand to buy Bole's flats... or nine-hundred-fifty thousand for the Black estate on Grimmauld Place.
That night at Parkinson's, Draco was in the mood to celebrate. Pansy and Blaise watched like indulgent parents as he ordered a bottle of champagne for the table, then raised the first glass in a toast.
"Here's to me," he said, "and my many achievements: past, present, and future."
"That's a little bit much, even for you," Pansy commented.
Draco did not even get a chance to respond before he was interrupted by her gruff old uncle.
"I see that you're followin' my advice, young man," he said, clapping Draco on the shoulder. "Your grandfather would be proud."
Draco had never known his father's father, but he felt a warm glow of pride at the words anyway. "Thank you," he told the old man, before reaching for his champagne flute again, thinking that Parkinson was done.
"My Pansy tells me that you might be willing to invest money for a few others as well as your own," he said, and Draco turned his focus back to the conversation.
"I might," he said coolly, pulling a card from his pocket. "Why don't you stop by that address in the morning and we can talk about it?"
"Nah," the old man said, after studying the card for a moment. "I'd rather take care of this now, if you don't mind."
"Mind?" repeated Draco. "Not at all."
He followed Parkinson down a dark hallway away from the chattering crowds of diners and into a small office. Parkinson took a seat behind a cluttered desk, leaving Draco to perch on the edge of a rickety chair.
"Why don't you tell me the basics of this deal, then?"
Draco told him about the investment concept, the rules and reports that he'd explained for the first time just that afternoon. He didn't have his printed parchment to use as a guide, but the description seemed easier to give this time, as if it were becoming more and more natural.
"...And so I could send a contract around for you to look over tomorrow," Draco said, finishing up his presentation.
"Nah, I told you I want to take care of this tonight," Parkinson said, waving one hand in an irritated gesture, as if he were swatting a fly. He pulled out a ragged slip of parchment and scribbled something on it, then passed it across the desktop and turned away.
While the old man busied himself with something on the floor, Draco looked down at the scrap of paper in his hand, which said simply:
Draco Malfoy,
invest 10,000 Galleons in my name.
Signed, Pernicious Parkinson
"But," Draco said, at a loss for words. "The contract--"
"If you insist, boy, you bring it around tomorrow night and I'll sign it at the bar. This is my place of business, and it's where I'll do my transactions." With that, he set a heavy bag down on the desk with a dull sound halfway between a thud and a jingle.
"Is that--?"
Ten thousand Galleons, take 'em or leave 'em."
"I'll take them," Draco said. He made his way back to the table by the bar carrying the heavy sack, somewhat shell-shocked.
"I-- I think I have to leave," he told his friends. "I need to take my money home now."
Pansy laughed. "You'd better give us a few more of your cards first, we'll be needing them."
"What--"
"Excuse me, Mr. Malfoy?"
Over the next week, it seemed to Draco that a steady stream of prospective investors visited his small office and approached him around town wherever he might be, from the bar at Parkinson's to the cafe where he bought his sticky buns in the morning or the queue at Gringotts, where he was becoming a frequent visitor.
With each prospective client he told them the same thing, that he would only accept a few investors, and yet each of them seemed to believe it. A few did turn away after learning of the minimum investment, and some took his parchments home to think over or discuss with their wives, but by the end of the week Draco had acquired several new clients.
Pansy and Blaise each put up five hundred Galleons, to Draco's surprise. Besides them, an Avery, a Turpin, two Crabbes and a whole handful of Parkinsons all made their way to Draco's office and signed his contract. In addition, he was offered a chance to buy a building in a prime location on Diagon Alley by a desperate Urquhart Mulciber.
Draco awoke early on Saturday morning, changed into a fresh set of robes, and walked the few steps into his office. Account books lay open on his desk, numbers and figures marching down the page.
Arithmancy had always been Draco's favorite subject in school, because it had a purity and a logic to it that other subjects lacked. The runes and numbers flowed together beautifully when they were drawn correctly, and made sense of the world at a time when the rest of Draco's life seemed to make no sense at all.
These numbers, too, had an internal logic that seemed to speak to Draco. They were not just numbers; each told its own story, from Blaise's five hundred Galleons ("That's the money I charged you in rent, Malfoy. Hard-earned.") to Rookwood's fifty thousand ("After what they did to my brother, I don't trust the Goblins anymore.")
The one note which jarred the arithmantic harmony of his balance sheet, however, was the other half of the books. Although he had collected well over a half-million Galleons, Malfoy Investments had yet to actually invest a single knut.
On the right half of the desk lay three pieces of paper. There were no neat columns of numbers, no harmonious arithmantic equation to describe the possibilities, but Draco knew them well nonetheless.
Bole's note about his grandfather's apartment building was first, its creases smoothed flat by Draco's hands. It was a fine building in a nice residential neighborhood, and the family was motivated to sell. Within, the building was divided into six flats, each occupied by a tenant who was already paying rent.
Next was the offer from Mulciber, a lengthy letter detailing everything about his building and his own need to sell and move to Australia. The building contained two shops and three large luxury flats, and the location on Diagon Alley was unbeatable. Mulciber was desperate to sell and ready to make a very favorable deal. With his current balance sheet, Draco knew, he could probably buy both properties if Mulciber would be willing to take half the cash up front and half within six months.
The last slip of paper on the desktop was the one that had started Draco on this crazy plan: the Prophet notice about the old Black estate on Grimmauld Place.
Just the thought of the golden boy of Gryffindor becoming the lord and master of that bastion of Slytherin, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, made Draco's fists clench and his stomach burn. It was an abomination, an affront. His great-aunt Walburga would roll over in her grave. Potter would have no idea what to do with a home like that, practically a monument to pureblood history. He, Draco Malfoy, would treat it right, would be able to cherish and nurture the estate back to its former glory. But to do so required money, and there was only so much of that to go around.
Draco looked at the listings, and then back at the balance sheets. To have the remotest chance of buying the Black estate, he would have to pass on the Bole and Mulciber properties. To buy the Bole and Mulciber properties would, in all likelihood, be to give up hope of raising a million Galleons in time to buy out Potter before the binding took effect and the house passed into his domain.
Draco sighed and picked up his cloak before Apparating away.
Draco hadn't been to his mother's family home since he was a small child. He remembered it as an adult place, dark and solemn, where he did not speak unless spoken to. Visits there had not been particularly enjoyable, but the house had taken on a profound meaning for the young boy anyway, as an important place, one that deserved respect and deference.
As the only young child in the house, Draco had imagined that he might live there one day, might hold court in the elaborately decorated parlor, sit in the selkie-hide chair and smoke a cigar while faceless family members surrounded him and admired the grandeur of the place as he had for so many years.
It had been a long time, but he Apparated into the small square that fronted on Grimmauld Place without pause, sure of his destination. Despite his initial certainty, at first he thought he might have arrived at the wrong place. The square was dirty and unkempt, scattered with Muggle trash and full of weeds. An overflowing rubbish bin stood at the corner. This could not be right -- could it?
As soon as he raised his eyes beyond the limits of the square, though, he knew he had not made a mistake. Number twelve was unmistakable -- tall and stately in a row of narrow houses it nonetheless stood out to Draco as clearly as if a beacon shone from the rooftop.
He walked slowly across the square to stand on the curb opposite number twelve. The windows of the house were dark, and no signs of life showed within.
It was a bright and sunny day, and he was in the midst of a neighborhood where many Muggles lived, which was distressing in and of itself, but Draco withdrew his wand and cast a spell.
"Inveo," he whispered.
The front facade of the house before him shimmered for a few moments and then grew transparent. It was as if Draco were looking through a thin curtain instead of a solid brick building, and everything inside was exposed.
He'd spent so much time here as a boy, and remembered the place so vividly, that a part of him expected it to remain the same even now, ten years after his last visit. However, the passage of time and the ravages of war had touched the homes of everyone Draco knew -- and number twelve, Grimmauld Place was no exception.
Inside, the house looked vacant and nearly abandoned. The library where he'd wandered for hours, marveling at the volumes of dark arts and pureblood history was stripped, only rows of empty shelves remaining. The luxurious guest rooms where he'd slept were completely empty, not even a ball of dust to occupy a corner. The parlor where he'd pictured spending his old age contained only a few pieces of furniture, each covered with a soft white sheet, making it look like a room of ghosts. The only thing that proved the house was still occupied was one small bedroom on the second floor, where an unmade bed rested in the corner and clothes spilled out of an open wardrobe onto the floor. A small red and gold pennant was tacked to the wall above the bed.
Draco slipped his wand out of sight, but he stood and watched the house for a while longer, studying each empty room and thinking of the time he'd spent there in years gone by. With each memory, he thought of people who were now dead or gone, of a place which was no longer the same as it had once been.
The home he'd loved, the one he'd hoped to make his own one day, was gone now. There would be other houses, he knew, and other dreams. But the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was no more.
Draco tucked his hands in his pockets, turned and walked away.
When he reached his office, he sat down and wrote a note to Bole, asking him to come by on Monday morning to sign the sales documents. Then he locked the door carefully behind him and headed off to Parkinson's for a drink and the company of friends.