Another alarm clock had been destroyed at the end of his wand that morning. Its demise had been particularly clever and spectacular, if he did say so himself. As Draco pulled his aching body up for yet another sit-up, he replayed the happy thought, mostly because the somewhat violent memory seemed to make the pain lessen ever so slightly.
“Another ten sit-ups, Malfoy! Don't you dare stop now!” she barked cheerfully, sitting next to him and completing the same exercise with ease.
Draco groaned, glaring at her, and used his anger to ignore the burning pain in his midsection as he hauled his body upward. Usually, she would chatter on in a one-sided conversation about how strength in his abdomen improved his agility on the broom, but not today. Apparently, she felt she'd lectured him enough on the subject.
He wondered if his mother had already replaced his alarm clock that morning, as she'd done every other morning for the past four weeks since he started this “thing” with Weasley. He started to wonder if she merely ordered the clocks by the dozen, or if she bothered to buy a single one each time. He'd have to ask. He had been destroying the things rather regularly.
Now that he thought about it, he had to commend himself on his accuracy when it came to casting hexes immediately after being pulled out of a sound sleep. If there was a contest, he was certain he'd win. The hex he'd used to disintegrate the object in question had been particularly impressive this morning.
“Drop and give me ten push-ups,” Weasley ordered, pulling him from his happy thoughts.
He didn't question the order, just did it. Complaining did him no good. She didn't even have to yell at him. It was far worse. She had a way of looking at him with such disappointment if he didn't at least try that it made him feel like a naughty child. So, he kept moving, but that didn't stop him from muttering curses at her as he struggled along.
His thoughts then moved back to more practical matters. In fact, in the middle of his fifth push-up, it occurred to him, that a division of his company actually manufactured magical alarm clocks. Surely, they should be a bit more durable. He decided to send a memo to see if they might work on developing a better model. Perhaps he'd do that in a few weeks, after he was done with this training, of course.
“C'mon, Malfoy! You can do better than that!” she shouted encouragingly.
He hated her. Hated how she pushed him. He could be home in his nice, warm bed, but, no. He was here, for some godforsaken reason, doing every horrible thing she asked of him, because she willed him to do it. Yet, some part of him wanted to do it for her.
She finished her own set of ten, sat by his side, and said, almost conversationally. “I can't believe you let yourself go like this, Malfoy. When we were in school, I seem to recall you were rather fit. I can't believe you've gotten so lazy so quickly.”
He stopped, in the middle of his ninth push-up to glare at her. She'd gone far enough. He stood up. There was nothing accusing or taunting in her tone, but her words struck a powerful chord inside of him.
“You do not get to pick on me for that Weasley. You have no idea what you're talking about.”
He walked over to her, and looked down. He realized just how small she was, and was once again amazed at how intimidating she could be despite her tiny stature. That didn't stop him from being angry, however.
“You can call me anything you want, but I have to insist that you do not make implications that I'm lazy.”
She had the courtesy to at least look abashed. “I'm sorry,” she said, her eyes wide, all traces of her usual confidence gone. He almost felt bad. Almost.
He wanted, no, he needed her to understand, for some reason. Few, outside of Edwina and his mother, had any idea of the excessively long hours he'd worked over the past few years. He'd given up every spare moment of his life to succeed, and her insinuating that he had been lazy was simply unfair.
“I don't think you understand, Weasley. So, let me explain. I have been chained to my desk seven days a week for the better part of the last four years, trying to salvage an impossible situation. I know you think I'm lazy, but I dare you to have managed what I did with what was handed to me. So, you can yell at me all you like, but I'd prefer if you keep your opinions about why I ended up with this dilemma to yourself.”
For the first time since he'd hired her, she seemed dumbstruck. Her eyes widened, her mouth dropped open, and she immediately appeared contrite. “I'm sorry, Malfoy. I didn't know...”
“Forget it, Weasley,” he said, dropping back on the ground to complete his push-ups. “Just tell me what you want me to do next.”
He noticed, for the first time since he'd started, that she was completely at a loss for words. Then, as he worked to complete the push-ups, he was suddenly struck by her words and he smiled to himself. She said that she thought he'd been rather fit back in school.
She'd actually noticed.
He ducked his head, so she wouldn't catch him smiling. He'd prove to her that he could be that fit again. The challenge was on.
X - X - X
A week later, Draco found himself feeling almost chipper. He'd almost grown accustomed to his morning routine, and he'd been to the tailor's twice to readjust his rapidly loosening trousers. Unfortunately, his alarm clocks continued to have a notoriously short life span.
He was on his third lap around the Quidditch pitch, cursing Weasley with every heavy breath he exhaled.
They'd reached some sort of understanding, after he'd snapped at her. She continued to be just as hard on him as before, but, somewhere along the way, he'd also managed to earn her respect. It was a matter of principle. He knew that he had self-discipline, it was simply a matter of where he decided to focus his efforts, and right now, he was determined to prove that to her. He refused to allow her to think so little of him.
Everything she threw at him, he did willingly. In some cases, he'd even surpass her expectations, just to prove that he could. Like now. She'd only ordered him to run two laps around the pitch, yet he continued to do another.
Actually, it was purely selfish. He secretly loved seeing the shocked look on her face when he continued on for a third lap. Unfortunately, he was now regretting that decision, but he wasn't about to admit that to her.
He finished the lap, panting heavily. Six weeks. He had been doing this for six weeks. His clothing needed altering, and he felt better than he had in a year, but that wasn't why he did it.
He walked over to Weasley, who stood up to greet him, her grin brightening the overcast day.
“Great job, Draco. I knew you had one more lap in you.”
He did it for that. The genuine smile and compliment. He endured the physical pain because, in the end, she honestly seemed to care that he accomplished his task.
The next day, he wandered down Diagon Alley on his way to work, almost enjoying himself. Weasely had weighed him that morning and told him that he'd lost several more pounds. His vanity had returned as he got dressed that morning, and he'd even spent some time admiring how fit he looked in the mirror.
But more than that, for the first time, he'd actually beaten Weasley during their Quidditch practice that morning. He picked up his pace as he walked, smiling smugly again at the memory.
Granted, she'd been having an off day – something about a bachelorette party for her future sister-in-law, as he recalled her saying. But that didn't matter. He'd beaten the witch, and it felt remarkably good. So good, in fact, that he hardly minded his run after, even if Weasley did prattle on about her evening the entire time as she jogged by his side.
His walk took him past the Purple Raven Pub, which he recalled as the establishment where Weasley had mentioned spending her evening. It made him realize that he'd actually paid attention to her ramblings.
Actually, it was far worse. He'd come to realize that he listened to every sordid detail that Weasley told him. Including the description of the scandalous piece of lingerie she'd presented as a gift to the bride-to-be, although the thought of Granger wearing such a thing made him wince.
To distract himself from the unsavory thought, he pictured Weasley going to the shop to purchase such an item, and possibly her trying it on.
That had been the thought that had inspired him to run an extra lap around the pitch that morning.
With an almost morbid fascination, he was struck by the realization that he'd actually grown fond of the time he spent with the little Weasley. In a way, he was almost regretting when they would part company in a few weeks, after the tournament ended.
She was a colorful sort, if a bit obsessed with her own fitness level. He decided that, at some point, he would find out what was behind her motivation.
He caught himself humming as he stepped through the heavy glass doors of his second floor office. He reached for an apple from the table by the door, and turned to give Edwina a cheerful morning greeting.
That's when he noticed that something was different. Edwina didn't give her usual polite smile and nod back. In fact, she looked quite a bit more serious than was usual, even for her. After verifying the wary look in her eye as she acknowledged him, he turned to glance at the waiting area and saw a well-dressed man seated casually in one of the overstuffed chairs that decorated the area.
Draco attempted to remember his schedule for the morning. After careful recollection, he recalled that he had no meetings for at least another hour, which was partially why he had been in no hurry to enjoy his walk to the office. The fact that this man was in his office without a pre-scheduled appointment, and Edwina had not yet sent him away, indicated that the matter was likely serious and, more importantly, it ruined his good mood, which was not a good thing for the intruder.
The last of his good mood evaporated entirely as soon as the man rose from his chair, greeting him with an oily smile.
"Greetings, Mr. Malfoy, very nice to see you again," he stated, as Draco struggled to recall when and where he'd made the man's acquaintance. The face was familiar, but Draco only had a vague memory of him.
"Mr. Covingworth arrived a few minutes ago, Mr. Malfoy. He wanted to discuss his proposal to subcontract work in our Potions department," Edwina informed him smoothly.
He silently thanked his overwhelmingly professional assistant. Her smooth interruption saved him from showing that he'd forgotten meeting this person, which would have put him at a disadvantage. Her simple statement jogged his memory.
Synclair Covingworth's company manufactured cauldrons and tools for potions making. Typically not anything notable, except that he'd been introduced at the Ministry Christmas Ball last year. At the time, Draco had dismissed him, though had wondered how a low-end cauldron manufacturer had obtained the invitation to the gala. He'd tried to convince Draco to do business together at the time, but Draco had put him off, sensing something deeply disreputable.
Obviously, his impression had been correct. He'd obviously said something to alarm Edwina, which put Draco on his guard.
"Shall we talk privately?" Covingworth asked, nodding his head in the direction of Draco's private office.
Courtesy demanded that he meet with the man, but he didn't have to like it. Draco only nodded, walking into his office and taking his chair, not bothering to look behind him as Covingworth followed him in. He fully expected the meeting to be quick.
"No need to close the door," Draco said, stopping the unwelcome visitor as he reached for the door handle.
Covingworth narrowed his eyes, looking out to see Edwina seated at her desk, presumably out of earshot. "Of course," he said, taking a seat.
"What is it that you wanted to meet with me about?" Draco asked, getting straight to the point.
"That's what I like about you, Malfoy," he replied with a toothy grin. "Just like your father, where you get straight to business, no small talk."
"So, talk."
"I've heard on good authority that your contract with Barrows will be up for renewal in three months."
"It might. I don't directly track dates for all my manufacturers."
"I'd like you to renew with me."
Draco leaned back in his chair, feigning disinterest. He rested his elbows on the armrest and tented his fingers as he studied the man. Something about his request was unusual.
"You are welcome to submit a proposal for consideration, but, as I recall, your supplies were a bit substandard when we evaluated them last year."
Covingworth smiled, and Draco didn't like it one bit. "I don't think that will be a problem."
"If it's no problem, as I said, you'll be welcome to submit a bid and you'll receive fair consideration."
The man across the desk merely shook his head, giving another oily smile. "You will give me the contract, Malfoy, or you'll be under investigation by the Ministry for fraudulent practices in your Potions manufacturing. You'll be investigated for Dark Magic."
Draco scowled. Part of the reason for his father stepping down from his role in the company was to ensure that their image remained as clean as possible during the post-Voldemort era.
"There's nothing to find," Draco stated firmly. “I run a clean company.”
Covingworth leaned forward, resting his hand on Draco's desk. "It doesn't matter. I have ways of making it look bad enough that you'll lose your St. Mungo's contract and your International sales for the next year. Not to mention the bad publicity that will ruin sales in your other departments during the course of the investigation."
He then pulled a thick roll of parchment from his briefcase and placed it carelessly on Draco's desk. "Here's a copy of the contract."
Draco stared at the offensive parchment in disdain. "You expect me to sign that?"
"You will, or I'll send word to the Ministry."
"I'd like a few days to read it over."
"Of course," Covingworth stated, the oily smile returning to his sharp-featured face. "I'm open to some negotiation."
He rose from his chair, nodding a mockingly courteous goodbye as he turned to leave the office. Draco didn't bother to make any motion in acknowledgment, glaring angrily at the man as he walked out of the reception area.
Covingworth was blackmailing him, shamelessly. Draco had spent four long, hard years working to clear his father's company of any hint of wrongdoing. He'd made certain that every area operated above reproach. There was little doubt that the vermin that had just exited his office had a high-ranking official in his pocket, just waiting for the opportunity to sully the Malfoy name, and likely gain a profit from the outcome.
Unfortunately, he had few friends at the Ministry these days. It was up to him to find a way around this dilemma. Once again, he cursed his father for leaving him in an impossible situation.
Draco sat for several minutes thinking. Then, his fingers absently reached for the tray of chocolates that once sat on his desk. It was an automatic gesture, a habit he'd fallen into over the past four years. It helped him think.
But his thoughts were rudely interrupted when he realized that the dish was annoyingly absent. He looked at the empty spot and frowned.
He suddenly felt like his best friend had abandoned him.
A few minutes later, he marched out of his office with solid determination. “'Dwina!” he shouted.
“Yes, Mr. Malfoy,” she said, snapping to business-like attention, as he marched up to her desk. She immediately grabbed a quill and notepad, making herself ready to move into action, as needed.
“Call the bakery. I want a tray in sight of me within ten minutes,” he ordered and began storming back into his office, but then stopped and turned back to her, correcting his previous statement, “Make that five.”
“But Mr. Malfoy...” she stammered. “You said under no circumstances...”
“By all that's holy, 'Dwina,” he snarled, his expression furious. “If I don't get a chocolate covered eclair immediately, you'll not only be out on the street but I'll make certain that nobody in the Wizarding World will ever hire you again!”
He did apologize to her, but only after he'd gotten his tray and devoured half the pastries it contained.
X – X – X -
When Weasley stormed into his bedroom the next morning, presumably to wake him up, he had just exited the shower, hair still wet, and was about to drop his towel to put on his trousers for the day.
“Malf...” she stopped short, noticing that the bed was empty, and seeing him standing off to the side.
He jumped about a foot in the air at the sight of her, nearly dropping his towel in the process.
“Crap Weasley! Don't you knock?”
“I... I...”
He adjusted his towel a bit more securely around himself, staring at the girl currently standing in his bedroom. He was seriously going to have a talk with his mother about this.
Unfortunately, the last time he tried to complain about her allowing Weasley in, she merely smiled at him indulgently. He had gotten the distinct feeling that she found it funny. Just his luck that his mother was developing a sense of humor after all these years.
And the Weasley seemed to be too stunned to turn and leave.
For lack of anything else to say in the awkward situation, he stated the first thing that came to mind. “You know, Weasley, I think you like barging in here.”
Well, if that didn't make it more awkward, nothing could.
She continued to gape, and he suddenly realized that he didn't mind in the least. He truly did enjoy those rare moments when he was able to render her speechless. He might have to start keeping a journal, just so he could commemorate those rare occasions.
“I thought you'd overslept again,” she stammered.
He grabbed his underwear, turning away from her, but turning his head to keep an eye on the intruder as he tugged the garment on under the towel. Her stunned expression was positively priceless and he didn't want to miss a moment.
“We had an appointment this morning. Edwina said you'd canceled.”
He said nothing. It would be a long time before he had another opportunity to sleep in again. As it was, he'd been up most of the night, trying to find out more about Synclair Covingworth and who might be his contact within the Ministry. He had precious little time to find a weakness, or he'd be trapped into doing business with the man.
The dreary thought took most of the fun out of the moment as he tugged on his trousers and socks. He glanced up at her again and saw her blushing furiously, yet standing her ground. The sight did make him feel a bit better.
“I canceled all of them, Weasley. I won't be requiring your services anymore,” he said flatly, as he picked up his shirt, tugging it on. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and was grateful that he'd trimmed down a bit, although he did find himself pulling in his stomach just a bit for Weasley's benefit.
“But...”
He buttoned the shirt quickly, not really wanting to continue this conversation. She actually looked hurt.
“I'm sorry, Weasley. If it means anything, you'll be paid for the duration of the contract,” he said, stepping into his shoes and grabbing his tie. He waved his wand, causing it to tie perfectly.
“You're welcome to stay,” he said, motioning toward the room, but I need to be going. I've a busy day ahead of me.”
He grabbed his jacket and moved to step out, unwilling to look at the unhappy witch any longer. Unfortunately, she blocked him from leaving the room.
“But you can't just quit! We're more than half way there. You're doing so well.”
He turned to her. She was persistent, he had to give her that. “Doesn't matter, Weasley."
"What do you mean, it doesn't matter? Of course it matters! You've lost half the weight you wanted to lose. You're at a healthy fitness level, and you're Quidditch skills are improving brilliantly for the tournament. How does it not matter?"
He looked up, and she noticed, despite his neat attire that his hair uncharacteristically mussed, dark circles showing under his eyes. "Because, I have a big problem, Weasley. And, if I don't find a way around it, I will likely be asked to not attend this match, therefore me being fit enough to compete won't matter."
She stared at him in amazement.
"What happened?" she asked, dropping her grasp on his arm, her voice softening in concern.
"Nothing you can help with, unless you have some advice on how to get out of a disreputable contract, or maybe you can tell me who happens to be corrupt in the Department of Corporate Investigations."
Her jaw dropped.
"Someone is investigating you?"
"Not yet," he said tiredly. "But, unless I find out who Synclair Covingworth has in his pocket, I can be sure that it will happen in a few days. It might be a good time for you to place a wager, if you're into that sort of thing.”
The look of indignation on her face was almost as funny as her blush earlier, unfortunately, it was far from a laughing matter. “Why would he do that? I thought you were working to make sure your company was above anything disreputable?”
“It's still too soon after the war. He can ruin me by initiating a false investigation, unless I'm willing to subcontract his company for Potions supplies."
"But that's... that's..."
"Blackmail."
"They can't do that!"
He looked at her in defeat. "It's what happens when your name is tarnished, Weasley. He's got someone in that department in his pocket, and I'm an easy target. They won't find anything in the investigation, but the bad publicity will be more than enough to destroy my reputation."
He gave a bitter laugh. "For the past four years, I've spent every day trying to make sure that something like this didn't happen. Now I've got no choice but to sign this and slip right back into the same trap that my father fell into."
She looked at him in alarm. "No! You can't do that."
"You have another solution?"
She lifted her chin and gave him a bright smile. "Not about the contract, but I do happen to know a few people in the Auror Department who might be able to help."
“Another ten sit-ups, Malfoy! Don't you dare stop now!” she barked cheerfully, sitting next to him and completing the same exercise with ease.
Draco groaned, glaring at her, and used his anger to ignore the burning pain in his midsection as he hauled his body upward. Usually, she would chatter on in a one-sided conversation about how strength in his abdomen improved his agility on the broom, but not today. Apparently, she felt she'd lectured him enough on the subject.
He wondered if his mother had already replaced his alarm clock that morning, as she'd done every other morning for the past four weeks since he started this “thing” with Weasley. He started to wonder if she merely ordered the clocks by the dozen, or if she bothered to buy a single one each time. He'd have to ask. He had been destroying the things rather regularly.
Now that he thought about it, he had to commend himself on his accuracy when it came to casting hexes immediately after being pulled out of a sound sleep. If there was a contest, he was certain he'd win. The hex he'd used to disintegrate the object in question had been particularly impressive this morning.
“Drop and give me ten push-ups,” Weasley ordered, pulling him from his happy thoughts.
He didn't question the order, just did it. Complaining did him no good. She didn't even have to yell at him. It was far worse. She had a way of looking at him with such disappointment if he didn't at least try that it made him feel like a naughty child. So, he kept moving, but that didn't stop him from muttering curses at her as he struggled along.
His thoughts then moved back to more practical matters. In fact, in the middle of his fifth push-up, it occurred to him, that a division of his company actually manufactured magical alarm clocks. Surely, they should be a bit more durable. He decided to send a memo to see if they might work on developing a better model. Perhaps he'd do that in a few weeks, after he was done with this training, of course.
“C'mon, Malfoy! You can do better than that!” she shouted encouragingly.
He hated her. Hated how she pushed him. He could be home in his nice, warm bed, but, no. He was here, for some godforsaken reason, doing every horrible thing she asked of him, because she willed him to do it. Yet, some part of him wanted to do it for her.
She finished her own set of ten, sat by his side, and said, almost conversationally. “I can't believe you let yourself go like this, Malfoy. When we were in school, I seem to recall you were rather fit. I can't believe you've gotten so lazy so quickly.”
He stopped, in the middle of his ninth push-up to glare at her. She'd gone far enough. He stood up. There was nothing accusing or taunting in her tone, but her words struck a powerful chord inside of him.
“You do not get to pick on me for that Weasley. You have no idea what you're talking about.”
He walked over to her, and looked down. He realized just how small she was, and was once again amazed at how intimidating she could be despite her tiny stature. That didn't stop him from being angry, however.
“You can call me anything you want, but I have to insist that you do not make implications that I'm lazy.”
She had the courtesy to at least look abashed. “I'm sorry,” she said, her eyes wide, all traces of her usual confidence gone. He almost felt bad. Almost.
He wanted, no, he needed her to understand, for some reason. Few, outside of Edwina and his mother, had any idea of the excessively long hours he'd worked over the past few years. He'd given up every spare moment of his life to succeed, and her insinuating that he had been lazy was simply unfair.
“I don't think you understand, Weasley. So, let me explain. I have been chained to my desk seven days a week for the better part of the last four years, trying to salvage an impossible situation. I know you think I'm lazy, but I dare you to have managed what I did with what was handed to me. So, you can yell at me all you like, but I'd prefer if you keep your opinions about why I ended up with this dilemma to yourself.”
For the first time since he'd hired her, she seemed dumbstruck. Her eyes widened, her mouth dropped open, and she immediately appeared contrite. “I'm sorry, Malfoy. I didn't know...”
“Forget it, Weasley,” he said, dropping back on the ground to complete his push-ups. “Just tell me what you want me to do next.”
He noticed, for the first time since he'd started, that she was completely at a loss for words. Then, as he worked to complete the push-ups, he was suddenly struck by her words and he smiled to himself. She said that she thought he'd been rather fit back in school.
She'd actually noticed.
He ducked his head, so she wouldn't catch him smiling. He'd prove to her that he could be that fit again. The challenge was on.
X - X - X
A week later, Draco found himself feeling almost chipper. He'd almost grown accustomed to his morning routine, and he'd been to the tailor's twice to readjust his rapidly loosening trousers. Unfortunately, his alarm clocks continued to have a notoriously short life span.
He was on his third lap around the Quidditch pitch, cursing Weasley with every heavy breath he exhaled.
They'd reached some sort of understanding, after he'd snapped at her. She continued to be just as hard on him as before, but, somewhere along the way, he'd also managed to earn her respect. It was a matter of principle. He knew that he had self-discipline, it was simply a matter of where he decided to focus his efforts, and right now, he was determined to prove that to her. He refused to allow her to think so little of him.
Everything she threw at him, he did willingly. In some cases, he'd even surpass her expectations, just to prove that he could. Like now. She'd only ordered him to run two laps around the pitch, yet he continued to do another.
Actually, it was purely selfish. He secretly loved seeing the shocked look on her face when he continued on for a third lap. Unfortunately, he was now regretting that decision, but he wasn't about to admit that to her.
He finished the lap, panting heavily. Six weeks. He had been doing this for six weeks. His clothing needed altering, and he felt better than he had in a year, but that wasn't why he did it.
He walked over to Weasley, who stood up to greet him, her grin brightening the overcast day.
“Great job, Draco. I knew you had one more lap in you.”
He did it for that. The genuine smile and compliment. He endured the physical pain because, in the end, she honestly seemed to care that he accomplished his task.
The next day, he wandered down Diagon Alley on his way to work, almost enjoying himself. Weasely had weighed him that morning and told him that he'd lost several more pounds. His vanity had returned as he got dressed that morning, and he'd even spent some time admiring how fit he looked in the mirror.
But more than that, for the first time, he'd actually beaten Weasley during their Quidditch practice that morning. He picked up his pace as he walked, smiling smugly again at the memory.
Granted, she'd been having an off day – something about a bachelorette party for her future sister-in-law, as he recalled her saying. But that didn't matter. He'd beaten the witch, and it felt remarkably good. So good, in fact, that he hardly minded his run after, even if Weasley did prattle on about her evening the entire time as she jogged by his side.
His walk took him past the Purple Raven Pub, which he recalled as the establishment where Weasley had mentioned spending her evening. It made him realize that he'd actually paid attention to her ramblings.
Actually, it was far worse. He'd come to realize that he listened to every sordid detail that Weasley told him. Including the description of the scandalous piece of lingerie she'd presented as a gift to the bride-to-be, although the thought of Granger wearing such a thing made him wince.
To distract himself from the unsavory thought, he pictured Weasley going to the shop to purchase such an item, and possibly her trying it on.
That had been the thought that had inspired him to run an extra lap around the pitch that morning.
With an almost morbid fascination, he was struck by the realization that he'd actually grown fond of the time he spent with the little Weasley. In a way, he was almost regretting when they would part company in a few weeks, after the tournament ended.
She was a colorful sort, if a bit obsessed with her own fitness level. He decided that, at some point, he would find out what was behind her motivation.
He caught himself humming as he stepped through the heavy glass doors of his second floor office. He reached for an apple from the table by the door, and turned to give Edwina a cheerful morning greeting.
That's when he noticed that something was different. Edwina didn't give her usual polite smile and nod back. In fact, she looked quite a bit more serious than was usual, even for her. After verifying the wary look in her eye as she acknowledged him, he turned to glance at the waiting area and saw a well-dressed man seated casually in one of the overstuffed chairs that decorated the area.
Draco attempted to remember his schedule for the morning. After careful recollection, he recalled that he had no meetings for at least another hour, which was partially why he had been in no hurry to enjoy his walk to the office. The fact that this man was in his office without a pre-scheduled appointment, and Edwina had not yet sent him away, indicated that the matter was likely serious and, more importantly, it ruined his good mood, which was not a good thing for the intruder.
The last of his good mood evaporated entirely as soon as the man rose from his chair, greeting him with an oily smile.
"Greetings, Mr. Malfoy, very nice to see you again," he stated, as Draco struggled to recall when and where he'd made the man's acquaintance. The face was familiar, but Draco only had a vague memory of him.
"Mr. Covingworth arrived a few minutes ago, Mr. Malfoy. He wanted to discuss his proposal to subcontract work in our Potions department," Edwina informed him smoothly.
He silently thanked his overwhelmingly professional assistant. Her smooth interruption saved him from showing that he'd forgotten meeting this person, which would have put him at a disadvantage. Her simple statement jogged his memory.
Synclair Covingworth's company manufactured cauldrons and tools for potions making. Typically not anything notable, except that he'd been introduced at the Ministry Christmas Ball last year. At the time, Draco had dismissed him, though had wondered how a low-end cauldron manufacturer had obtained the invitation to the gala. He'd tried to convince Draco to do business together at the time, but Draco had put him off, sensing something deeply disreputable.
Obviously, his impression had been correct. He'd obviously said something to alarm Edwina, which put Draco on his guard.
"Shall we talk privately?" Covingworth asked, nodding his head in the direction of Draco's private office.
Courtesy demanded that he meet with the man, but he didn't have to like it. Draco only nodded, walking into his office and taking his chair, not bothering to look behind him as Covingworth followed him in. He fully expected the meeting to be quick.
"No need to close the door," Draco said, stopping the unwelcome visitor as he reached for the door handle.
Covingworth narrowed his eyes, looking out to see Edwina seated at her desk, presumably out of earshot. "Of course," he said, taking a seat.
"What is it that you wanted to meet with me about?" Draco asked, getting straight to the point.
"That's what I like about you, Malfoy," he replied with a toothy grin. "Just like your father, where you get straight to business, no small talk."
"So, talk."
"I've heard on good authority that your contract with Barrows will be up for renewal in three months."
"It might. I don't directly track dates for all my manufacturers."
"I'd like you to renew with me."
Draco leaned back in his chair, feigning disinterest. He rested his elbows on the armrest and tented his fingers as he studied the man. Something about his request was unusual.
"You are welcome to submit a proposal for consideration, but, as I recall, your supplies were a bit substandard when we evaluated them last year."
Covingworth smiled, and Draco didn't like it one bit. "I don't think that will be a problem."
"If it's no problem, as I said, you'll be welcome to submit a bid and you'll receive fair consideration."
The man across the desk merely shook his head, giving another oily smile. "You will give me the contract, Malfoy, or you'll be under investigation by the Ministry for fraudulent practices in your Potions manufacturing. You'll be investigated for Dark Magic."
Draco scowled. Part of the reason for his father stepping down from his role in the company was to ensure that their image remained as clean as possible during the post-Voldemort era.
"There's nothing to find," Draco stated firmly. “I run a clean company.”
Covingworth leaned forward, resting his hand on Draco's desk. "It doesn't matter. I have ways of making it look bad enough that you'll lose your St. Mungo's contract and your International sales for the next year. Not to mention the bad publicity that will ruin sales in your other departments during the course of the investigation."
He then pulled a thick roll of parchment from his briefcase and placed it carelessly on Draco's desk. "Here's a copy of the contract."
Draco stared at the offensive parchment in disdain. "You expect me to sign that?"
"You will, or I'll send word to the Ministry."
"I'd like a few days to read it over."
"Of course," Covingworth stated, the oily smile returning to his sharp-featured face. "I'm open to some negotiation."
He rose from his chair, nodding a mockingly courteous goodbye as he turned to leave the office. Draco didn't bother to make any motion in acknowledgment, glaring angrily at the man as he walked out of the reception area.
Covingworth was blackmailing him, shamelessly. Draco had spent four long, hard years working to clear his father's company of any hint of wrongdoing. He'd made certain that every area operated above reproach. There was little doubt that the vermin that had just exited his office had a high-ranking official in his pocket, just waiting for the opportunity to sully the Malfoy name, and likely gain a profit from the outcome.
Unfortunately, he had few friends at the Ministry these days. It was up to him to find a way around this dilemma. Once again, he cursed his father for leaving him in an impossible situation.
Draco sat for several minutes thinking. Then, his fingers absently reached for the tray of chocolates that once sat on his desk. It was an automatic gesture, a habit he'd fallen into over the past four years. It helped him think.
But his thoughts were rudely interrupted when he realized that the dish was annoyingly absent. He looked at the empty spot and frowned.
He suddenly felt like his best friend had abandoned him.
A few minutes later, he marched out of his office with solid determination. “'Dwina!” he shouted.
“Yes, Mr. Malfoy,” she said, snapping to business-like attention, as he marched up to her desk. She immediately grabbed a quill and notepad, making herself ready to move into action, as needed.
“Call the bakery. I want a tray in sight of me within ten minutes,” he ordered and began storming back into his office, but then stopped and turned back to her, correcting his previous statement, “Make that five.”
“But Mr. Malfoy...” she stammered. “You said under no circumstances...”
“By all that's holy, 'Dwina,” he snarled, his expression furious. “If I don't get a chocolate covered eclair immediately, you'll not only be out on the street but I'll make certain that nobody in the Wizarding World will ever hire you again!”
He did apologize to her, but only after he'd gotten his tray and devoured half the pastries it contained.
X – X – X -
When Weasley stormed into his bedroom the next morning, presumably to wake him up, he had just exited the shower, hair still wet, and was about to drop his towel to put on his trousers for the day.
“Malf...” she stopped short, noticing that the bed was empty, and seeing him standing off to the side.
He jumped about a foot in the air at the sight of her, nearly dropping his towel in the process.
“Crap Weasley! Don't you knock?”
“I... I...”
He adjusted his towel a bit more securely around himself, staring at the girl currently standing in his bedroom. He was seriously going to have a talk with his mother about this.
Unfortunately, the last time he tried to complain about her allowing Weasley in, she merely smiled at him indulgently. He had gotten the distinct feeling that she found it funny. Just his luck that his mother was developing a sense of humor after all these years.
And the Weasley seemed to be too stunned to turn and leave.
For lack of anything else to say in the awkward situation, he stated the first thing that came to mind. “You know, Weasley, I think you like barging in here.”
Well, if that didn't make it more awkward, nothing could.
She continued to gape, and he suddenly realized that he didn't mind in the least. He truly did enjoy those rare moments when he was able to render her speechless. He might have to start keeping a journal, just so he could commemorate those rare occasions.
“I thought you'd overslept again,” she stammered.
He grabbed his underwear, turning away from her, but turning his head to keep an eye on the intruder as he tugged the garment on under the towel. Her stunned expression was positively priceless and he didn't want to miss a moment.
“We had an appointment this morning. Edwina said you'd canceled.”
He said nothing. It would be a long time before he had another opportunity to sleep in again. As it was, he'd been up most of the night, trying to find out more about Synclair Covingworth and who might be his contact within the Ministry. He had precious little time to find a weakness, or he'd be trapped into doing business with the man.
The dreary thought took most of the fun out of the moment as he tugged on his trousers and socks. He glanced up at her again and saw her blushing furiously, yet standing her ground. The sight did make him feel a bit better.
“I canceled all of them, Weasley. I won't be requiring your services anymore,” he said flatly, as he picked up his shirt, tugging it on. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and was grateful that he'd trimmed down a bit, although he did find himself pulling in his stomach just a bit for Weasley's benefit.
“But...”
He buttoned the shirt quickly, not really wanting to continue this conversation. She actually looked hurt.
“I'm sorry, Weasley. If it means anything, you'll be paid for the duration of the contract,” he said, stepping into his shoes and grabbing his tie. He waved his wand, causing it to tie perfectly.
“You're welcome to stay,” he said, motioning toward the room, but I need to be going. I've a busy day ahead of me.”
He grabbed his jacket and moved to step out, unwilling to look at the unhappy witch any longer. Unfortunately, she blocked him from leaving the room.
“But you can't just quit! We're more than half way there. You're doing so well.”
He turned to her. She was persistent, he had to give her that. “Doesn't matter, Weasley."
"What do you mean, it doesn't matter? Of course it matters! You've lost half the weight you wanted to lose. You're at a healthy fitness level, and you're Quidditch skills are improving brilliantly for the tournament. How does it not matter?"
He looked up, and she noticed, despite his neat attire that his hair uncharacteristically mussed, dark circles showing under his eyes. "Because, I have a big problem, Weasley. And, if I don't find a way around it, I will likely be asked to not attend this match, therefore me being fit enough to compete won't matter."
She stared at him in amazement.
"What happened?" she asked, dropping her grasp on his arm, her voice softening in concern.
"Nothing you can help with, unless you have some advice on how to get out of a disreputable contract, or maybe you can tell me who happens to be corrupt in the Department of Corporate Investigations."
Her jaw dropped.
"Someone is investigating you?"
"Not yet," he said tiredly. "But, unless I find out who Synclair Covingworth has in his pocket, I can be sure that it will happen in a few days. It might be a good time for you to place a wager, if you're into that sort of thing.”
The look of indignation on her face was almost as funny as her blush earlier, unfortunately, it was far from a laughing matter. “Why would he do that? I thought you were working to make sure your company was above anything disreputable?”
“It's still too soon after the war. He can ruin me by initiating a false investigation, unless I'm willing to subcontract his company for Potions supplies."
"But that's... that's..."
"Blackmail."
"They can't do that!"
He looked at her in defeat. "It's what happens when your name is tarnished, Weasley. He's got someone in that department in his pocket, and I'm an easy target. They won't find anything in the investigation, but the bad publicity will be more than enough to destroy my reputation."
He gave a bitter laugh. "For the past four years, I've spent every day trying to make sure that something like this didn't happen. Now I've got no choice but to sign this and slip right back into the same trap that my father fell into."
She looked at him in alarm. "No! You can't do that."
"You have another solution?"
She lifted her chin and gave him a bright smile. "Not about the contract, but I do happen to know a few people in the Auror Department who might be able to help."
Author notes: Sorry for the slightly less humorous chapter, but twas necessary to move the plot forward. Back to fun next time.
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