Business
Chapter 9: Business
Arithmancy was particularly vexing…mostly because he and Granger had just had a row less than ten minutes prior to being forced to sit next to each other in the class for the remainder of term. He did his best to ignore her completely, using his Occlumency shields to focus on the class materials instead of a pair of brown eyes trying to catch his gray ones every few minutes.
About halfway through Professor Vector’s lecture, he chanced a glance at the infuriating witch beside him. She was alternating between nibbling on the end of her quill and worrying her lip between her teeth—seriously, who does that? Draco couldn’t help but imagine the dressing down she would’ve gotten from his mother and any half-decent etiquette teacher in the country over her nasty habits. Yet he couldn’t look away once he’d begun to think about her.
With the floodgates open again, he lost track of what he had been taking notes on. When Professor Vector called on him to finish the arithmetic she had set up on the chalkboard, he’d been utterly lost—floundering to deduce the correct answer, or anything semi-close. Of course she knew. Granger’s hand shot up into the air, after only three to four seconds of his struggle—not even long enough for him to recover his dignity. He couldn’t help the sneer that crawled up his face at being embarrassed in front of the class, by her, no less. Her molten gaze turned hard, flat. His own turned to steel.
They didn’t look at each other the rest of the class period.
…
Draco had rushed back to his dormitory after that. He had nothing more to say than had already been said, and she clearly had made up her mind about him. He couldn’t risk running into her in the hallways or–Merlin help him–the library again. He had half a mind to write to Lucius about what his new extracurricular activities were doing to Draco’s love life—no. I don’t have a love life—exactly—oh, shut up!
As it just so happened, he found something waiting on his bed that gave him back his spring in his step. He knew exactly how to lighten his mood, and give his witch what she wanted all in one fell swoop. When did she become ‘his’ witch? With a mean smirk, Draco tucked the evening’s copy of The Daily Prophet under his arm and headed to dinner.
The Entrance Hall was full of students milling about as they queued up the Great Hall. The Slytherins were approaching the back of the room, when Draco spotted the shock of orange hair he had been searching for. For an added bonus, the entirety of the Gryffindor Golden Trio was accounted for and present.
Get ready, Granger. Be careful what you wish for.
“Weasley! Hey, Weasley!” Draco smirked, Greg, Theo and Blaise following behind him as they pushed through the crowd.
“What?” The Weasel said shortly.
“Your dad’s in the paper, Weasley!” Draco waved the evening copy of The Daily Prophet in his face before opening it up to read aloud.
FURTHER MISTAKES AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC
“It seems as though the Ministry of Magic’s troubles are not yet at an end, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondences. Recently under fire for its poor crowd control at the Quidditch World Cup, and still unable to account for the disappearances of one of its witches, the Ministry was plunged into fresh embarrassment yesterday by the antics of Arnold Weasley, of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.”
Draco looked up to see the ginger fuming. “Imagine not even getting his name right, Weasley. It’s almost as though he’s a nonentity, isn’t it?” He flourished the paper, once again straightening it.
“Arnold Weasley, who was charged with possession of a flying car two years ago, was yesterday involved in a tussle with several Muggle law-keepers (“policemen”) over a number of highly aggressive dustbins. Mr. Weasley appears to have come to the aid of “Mad-Eye” Moody, the aged ex-Auror who retired from the Ministry when he was no longer able to tell the difference between a handshake and attempted murder. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Weasley found, upon arrival at Mr. Moody’s heavily guarded house, that Mr. Moody had once again raised a false alarm. Mr. Weasley was forced to modify several memories before he could escape from the policemen, but refused to answer Daily Prophet questions about why he had involved the Ministry in such an undignified and potentially embarrassing scene.
“And there’s even a picture!” Draco said a bit gleefully as he held it up again for the purple-faced Weasel. “A picture of your parents outside of their house—if you can even call it a house! Your mother could stand with losing a bit of weight, couldn’t she?”
Ronald was shaking with rage now, and Draco couldn’t help but smile at what he’d created. A villain is what she wants, then a villain is what she’ll get. As you wish, he thought to himself, glancing at her reaction. She seemed less than perturbed, as though she expected this very interaction to happen.
“Get stuffed, Malfoy,” Potter spat. “C’mon, Ron…”
“Oh yeah, you were staying with them this summer, weren’t you, Potter?” he plastered on his grimiest sneer. “So tell me, is his mother really that porky, or is it just the picture?”
“You know your mother, Malfoy?” said Harry—both he and Granger were holding the Weasel back by his robes. Draco was moderately impressed the tosser hadn’t gotten a single insult in yet. “—that expression she’s got like she’s got dung under her nose? Has she always looked like that? Or was it just because you were with her?”
Draco felt his cheeks flush as he tried not to laugh. It was a poor excuse for an insult, and honestly, all of the aristocratic class of purebloods looked like that. He knew the exact face they each made when having to sit through some boring event or meeting they’d rather not be in…which for his mother, was quidditch.
“Don’t you dare insult my mother, Potter.” He said half-heartedly, if only to keep the fight going. Someone would break soon and he’d probably end up with a broken nose, but maybe then again, one of them may end up with detention or expelled. It would be worth it.
“Keep your fat mouth shut then,” Potter snarked before turning away.
Oh, no, Scarhead, don’t leave so soon! We were just getting started…
Draco raised his wand, whispering the first spell that came to mind—a Bat-Bogey Hex. A bit basic, but it would allow for Potter and Weasel to continue fighting.
BANG!
He missed.
BANG!
“OH NO YOU DON’T, LADDIE!” A voice boomed and Draco was seeing stars. His body violently cracked and crumbled—bones wretched from their sockets, broken and twisted, then shoved back in again. His skin burned white hot as hair erupted out of every inch. The world was falling away, everything and everyone were growing larger and larger, while he got further and further away.
He was shivering. The stone beneath him was cold at best, and he was suddenly laying across it. He realized, to his horror, everyone else hadn’t grown, but he’d gotten smaller. Much smaller. He tried to call out to Theo, but only a high pitched squeal squeaked out.
Everyone in the hall had frozen. Not a single soul stepped forward to help him. It was no wonder when Mad-Eye Moody clunked forward on his wooden leg to address Potter. The man was clearly unhinged and paranoid. Why would anyone else get involved, they would be painting a ridiculously large target on their backs.
There would be a whole…gang…of ferrets. What was a group of ferrets called anyway?
Draco’s heart was pounding a million miles a minute. His tiny, shrunken chest felt like it might either explode or cave in at any second. The adrenaline coursing through his body pushed away any truly rational thoughts, and he focused all of his energy on how he would typically transform out of his animagus form. Nothing happened. He tried again, envisioning his human form more clearly than he ever thought he could. Nothing.
“Did he get you?” Moody growled in a gravelly voice.
“No,” Potter answered, “missed.”
No shit, Pothead. Not that it would matter if I had. It would’ve been a bloody nose and a nuisance at best. If ferrets could roll their eyes, Draco would have certainly done so.
Crabbe lunged toward him in an attempt to catch the wild animal he’d suddenly become.
“LEAVE IT!” Moody shouted.
“Leave—what?” Potter, ever the dunderhead, asked.
“Not you—him!” Moody growled again, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at Crabbe, who had just frozen, about to pick Draco up. So it would appear Moody’s whizzing eye could see through the back of his skull, as he was facing away from the Slytherins.
Moody started to limp his way toward Crabbe, and now Greg who had come for him as well. Draco decided to take this opening to escape. Surely someone could put him right in this castle. He jumped into a sprint, a high pitched squeak escaping his tiny body.
“I don’t think so!” Moody roared. He aimed his wand at Draco again—his body flipping and twisting through the air again. He fell to the stone floor with a sickening crunch of several ribs and a shoulder. Pain radiated through his entire left side, searing every nerve. He unintentionally shrieked again upon impact. The first image that came to his mind was of the Muggle family being tossed high overhead at the Quidditch World Cup. Was this what they had felt? Were they in pain the entire time…even the little boy spinning…spinning like a top…
His body bounced back up, as Moody shouted in disgust, “I don’t like people who attack when their opponent’s back’s turned.” Draco bounced higher and higher with the flicks of Moody’s unwavering wand. “Stinking, cowardly, scummy thing to do…”
Draco’s torture intensified as every broken bone was shifting with the movements, jabbing and stabbing him from the inside. He went flying through the air, and felt his spine become disjointed. Moody’s transfiguration had been lacking—while he had made Draco a convincing white ferret, the human-turned-animal had none of the flexibility or elasticity necessary to move as one would.
“Never—do—that—again—,” said Moody, accentuating each word with Draco’s mangled body smacking against the stones again and again.
“Professor Moody!” said a shocked voice—the last voice Draco ever expected to defend him.
Professor McGonagall, an armload of books in tow, came running down the marble staircase.
“Hello, Professor McGonagall,” Moody acknowledged her calmly as he continued to bounce his plaything higher still.
“What—what are you doing?” she asked, her gaze growing more worried as her eyes followed Draco’s path of motion.
“Teaching.”
“Teach—Moody, is that a student?” Professor McGonagall screamed shrilly as she loudly dropped the books to the floor.
“Yep,” said Moody coolly.
“No!” cried the Transfiguration teacher, as she drew her wand from her robes. Draco fell to the floor with another loud crack, and he was human again—the return to his body slightly less painful, but jarring nevertheless.
Draco tried to push his skewed hair from his eyes, panting to catch his ragged breath through crashing waves of pain. He didn’t dare try to move his left arm, holding it close to his body instead. Greg offered him a hand to help him to his feet.
“Moody, we never use Transfiguration as a punishment! Surely, Professor Dumbledore told you that?” she scolded.
Moody scratched as his stubble, unconcerned with the deputy headmistress’s complaint. “He might’ve mentioned it, yeah…but I thought a good sharp shock—“
“We give detentions, Moody! Or speak to the offender’s Head of House!”
“I’ll do that, then” Moody said as he stared at Draco with pure loathing.
Draco blinked back the tears rimming his pale eyes, threatening to roll down his face in front of nearly the whole school. He’d had worse—and at the hands of his Head of House, no less. He certainly wouldn’t let this be the moment he cries about a few broken bones.
He took solace in the fleeting look of shock that crossed Moody’s face when he scowled up at Moody malevolently and mumbled, “Just wait ‘til my father hears about this…”
“Oh yeah?” Moody whispered quietly; menacingly. “Well, I know your father of old, boy…You tell him Moody’s keeping a close eye on his son…you tell him that from me…Now your Head of House’ll be Snape, will it?”
“Yes,” Draco sneered resentfully.
“Another old friend,” Moody snarled. “I’ve been looking forward to a chat with old Snape…Come on, you…”
The grotesque man grabbed Draco by his left shoulder, marching him in the direction of the dungeons. It took all the strength Draco had left not to cry out as his shoulder crunched further beneath the other man’s purposefully tight grip. He waited for Professor McGonagall to protest, or even accompany them to the dungeons, but she did not. Why would she ever stick up for a Slytherin? She probably would have ignored the whole situation if she had known exactly which student it was that had been transfigured.
“Not so proud and cocky now, are you?” Moody hissed as he continually yanked on Draco’s shoulder with the rhythm of his hobbling down the great many steps. When they reached the second to last landing, the mangled man whipped out his small silver flask and took a deep swig before tucking it back into his pocket. “Get a move on,” he growled as though Draco was the one holding up their progress.
Professor Snape swept around the corner, black robes fluttering behind him as he came to meet them at the bottom of the steps. “I’ve been informed there was an incident,” he drawled plainly.
“Well, well, well, Snape. They not only let you evade capture, but you get to mold the minds of wizarding Britain's future? How exactly did you manage that?” Moody snarled. “Should’ve been locked up with the rest of ‘em with how highly you ranked! But you weren’t loyal enough, even for that…always a traitor.”
“Moody,” Severus sneered at the ex-Auror, casting his shadow down onto the gnarled wizard. “I see you haven’t changed.”
“Surely, neither have you. Meant to intimidate me, then?” Moody sized up the taller, dark figure of Snape.
“You may notice a great many things, if you care to look around while you snoop. It would appear that I am already short on supplies for my N.E.W.T classes, and have ingredients to collect. It’s rather time-sensitive, so if we could deal with this matter quickly, it would be much…appreciated.” Severus’s tone brokered no argument. He would be leaving with or without handing Draco a punishment if Moody didn’t get to the point.
The new professor snarled before shoving Draco toward his Head of House by the shoulder, and Draco winced as he felt another popping sound come from the injured joint. “Caught one of yours trying to attack Potter while his back was turned. Clearly, Slytherin House needs a reminder on proper dueling etiquette, if they were ever educated on it in the first place.”
“Surely, Potter did something to elicit this attack on himself? He does have a penchant for causing trouble, especially where Mr. Malfoy is involved,” Snape commented indifferently.
Moody’s eyes tightened at the insinuation. “Potter is not the student being discussed!”
“Ah, of course. Mr. Malfoy, have you been properly punished for your crimes against Potter?” Snape addressed him, holding up a hand to silence Moody’s attempt to intervene.
Draco glanced down to his clearly broken and dislocated arm hanging limply at an odd angle, before looking back up at Snape’s black eyes. “Yes.”
“You are dismissed. See that Madam Pomfrey tends to your injuries,” Snape waved him away, eyes never leaving Moody’s enraged face.
…
It took Madam Pomfrey three hours to set all the shards of bone that were viable back into place, vanishing the fragments that were too small to mend. Draco watched the diagnostics floating above him, rather than have any visual of the actual procedure. He’d glimpsed it once she had cut his robe and jumper off at the sleeve, and nearly vomited. Theo, Blaise and Greg arrived shortly after he was put in one of the beds.
“So, are you going to be my detention buddy this week?” Theo winked, earning a small smile from his friend.
“Nah, Snape set Moody right, though they seem to have a rather unfriendly past,” Draco mentioned as an afterthought. “Some of the things Moody said, just didn’t seem like they would come from an Auror…ex-Auror…he said Snape wasn’t loyal enough to end up in Azkaban with the rest of the ‘real’ Death Eaters.”
“Well, he’s a nutter, isn’t he?” Greg said, “Everyone says he’s off his rocker, seein’ things that aren’t there; always paranoid?”
Draco envisioned the swirling blue eye, seeing Greg and Crabbe through the back of Moody’s own skull. “Maybe…”
Madam Pomfrey shuffled over, wiping her hands on her skirts before shooing the boys away, muttering along the lines of, “Oh, he’ll be right as rain soon enough! It’s not like he’s dying!” With a final glance, and a heaping dose of Skelegro, Greg, Theo, and Blaise waved their goodbyes with promises to meet him for breakfast in the morning. Draco groaned as the pain in his shoulder increased a fraction, the bone-regrowing potion starting to regenerate the shards Madam Pomfrey had had to vanish. He didn’t want to sleep through it, though. He wanted to feel every ounce of pain he was given. Granger wanted him to be the villain in her story, and he had been. It was what she wanted. She wanted him to feel pain; to feel alone; it was simply what the villain in every story deserved.
As though summoned by his thoughts, the witch slipped through the door of the now-darkened infirmary.
“What do you want, Granger?” he scowled at the girl hovering near the end of his sick bed.
She stared at him for a moment, thinking. “You did that for me.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact. She really was quite perceptive when she wanted to be.
“Five points to Gryffindor, well done, Granger. Though, I have to admit, even a first-year could’ve sorted that out.” His words dripped with sarcasm, but she didn’t shy away from him. She inched closer to the head of the bed.
“I know.” She was quiet for several minutes, and Draco was nearly ready to tell her to just leave already when she finally spoke again. “There’s too much history…too much people have seen happen between us. We could never even be friendly in public. It would break both of our worlds.”
He knew she wasn’t wrong. While most of his friends were open to Granger, or at worst, indifferent, Crabbe was only one example of the kind of push back they would get. He didn’t even want to envision Weasley or Potter finding out about their little moments away from the world.
“You’re right–” he looked away from the golden eyes, practically glowing in the moonlight filtering in through the windows. “--but that doesn’t mean we can’t still keep it our secret.”
“I don’t want you to be the villain, Draco.”
They never used first names. It just simply was the foundation of their rulebook for whatever twisted game they’d been playing the last few years. He felt himself melting back into her trap. She was sunshine, and warmth, and honey, and everything good about the world.
“Then don’t make me one, Hermione.”
Two could play at this game. In fact, they were the only two in this game. It was made solely for them, and he hoped it never changed. Status quo. If this was all he got–stolen little moments between classes, hidden library meetings, bedside visits in the Hospital Wing–he’d take that over losing her completely.
She blushed at his use of her first name. She understood, then.
“But, I still need you to be.”
…
They had remained in silence after that. She stayed for another six or seven minutes–he lost count after a while–then scurried off to the library or her golden tower he assumed. When he woke up, his shoulder was a bit stiff, but fully functional, and Madam Pomfrey released him with strict orders to eat a full breakfast.
“So, back to the land of the able, then?” Blaise smiled genuinely over his plate of eggs and sausages.
“It would appear so,” he stretched his shoulders out for the hundredth time in the short walk down to the Great Hall.
Pansy was all smiles as well, finishing off a full strip of bacon, which was the most Draco had actually seen her eat in at least a week.
“What’s got you in such a chipper mood?” Theo groaned at her, his own piss poor attitude radiating out. He wasn’t a morning person, and he’d been up all night with Snape, cleaning cauldrons by hand for detention.
She ignored his attempt to bring them all down to his level, “We’ve got Herbology this morning!”
“Ah, that’ll do it,” Greg and Millie chuckled together.
After breakfast, the Slytherins slushed through the still-wet grounds, skirting around the sodden vegetable patch to get to greenhouse three. Professor Sprout welcomed them all hurriedly, rushing them to settle down only to begin showing them the ugliest plants they’d ever seen. They looked less like plants than thick, black, giant slugs, protruding vertically out of the soil. Each was squirming slightly and had a number of large, shiny swellings upon it, which appeared to be full of liquid. Theo pushed against one, watching it squish and spring back at his touch.
“Bubotubers,” Professor Sprout told them briskly. “They need squeezing. You will collect the pus—,”
“The what?” Theo sputtered, disgusted. He quickly retracted his hand, holding them away protectively.
“Pus, Nott, puss,” said Professor Sprout in annoyance, “and it’s extremely valuable, so don’t waste it. You will collect the pus, in these bottles. Wear your dragon-hide gloves; it can do funny things to the skin when undiluted, bubotuber pus.”
Squeezing the bubotubers was disgusting, but oddly satisfying. As each swelling was popped, a large amount of thick yellowish-green liquid burst forth, which smelled strongly of petrol. They caught it in the bottles as Professor Sprout had indicated, and by the end of the lesson, had collected several pints. Theo had barely touched his, frowning at the repugnant plants.
“This’ll keep Madam Pomfrey happy,” said Professor Sprout, stoppering the last bottle with a cork. “An excellent remedy for the more stubborn forms of acne, bubotuber pus. Should stop students resorting to desperate measures to rid themselves of pimples.”
Pansy was collecting the samples to bring up to the front for Professor Sprout. “Eloise Midgen tried to curse hers off last year, but Madam Pomfrey fixed her nose back on in the end. Poor dear, she really should’ve just practiced some glamour charms like the rest of us…”
“Oh, don’t act like you didn’t laugh at her pimples same as half the school did,” Blaise rolled his eyes at her good naturedly.
“Yes, well,” she huffed indignantly, “ people change!” She stamped her foot, before stalking away, the bottles clinking together at her side.
They collected their belongings and started heading back to the castle. Lunch was a quick affair, Pansy barely picked at what little food she had on her plate, and Draco shared her sentiment. After fighting with Granger, on top of just having squeezed buckets of pus, he didn’t have much of an appetite. They would have Potions with the Gryffindors after lunch, and it was best to arrive early anyway if they didn’t want to miss all the entertainment.
“Two galleons Finnegan blows something up,” Blaise whispered to Draco, Theo, and Greg.
“No bet,” Draco shook his head, “Finnegan always blows something up. It would be like betting you were going to take a piss at some point today. It’s inevitable.”
Theo watched Snape write the instructions for the potion they were to brew for that class–an aging potion–then eyed the Gryffindors in all their miserable glory. “Two galleons Longbottom melts his cauldron.”
“No way, even he couldn’t mess this up that badly!” Greg commented, although he seemed to be reassuring himself that he wouldn’t melt his own cauldron during the lesson.
“I’ll take your bet,” Draco said, laughing.
Unfortunately for Neville Longbottom, about fifteen minutes into the class’s brewing portion, his cauldron bottom did, indeed, melt through when he let his potion simmer for three minutes too long, forgetting to stir in the newt spleens. Professor Snape was none too pleased, sneering down at the poor Gryffindor, shaking in front of him.
“Well, Mr. Longbottom, while I cannot say I am surprised at this turn of events, I must admit, you made it several steps farther into your potion than I expected. It’s too bad you couldn’t follow the directions adequately–even Mr. Weasley has outperformed you this time, though that doesn’t say much for his potion either,” Snape drawled as he peeked into the Weasel’s cauldron bubbling over with purple, instead of the characteristic green potion. “Perhaps, detention will clear your mind enough to focus on simple tasks in my classroom.”
Draco passed two galleons into Blaise’s outstretched hand.
“Think I can use this for the Tournament?” Theo whispered, but Draco could see the dark cloaked figure approaching behind his friend. He tried to signal silently to table the conversation for later, but apparently he and Theo needed to work on their non-verbal discussion techniques because Snape leaned over both their shoulders.
“Mister Nott,” he drawled quietly. From the outside, it would just appear he was inspecting their cauldrons. “Interrupting my class? Do you enjoy detentions with just me, or is it all your professors?”
Theo sighed. “No, sir.”
“Detention, tonight.” Snape quietly demanded before sweeping to the next table.
Theo hung his head low, “Dammit.”
Snape walked around the classroom casually, inspecting the cauldrons of the other students and practically scowling at his findings. Naturally Granger got the least offensive look of the Gryffindors, but when she looked up at the Potions Professor hoping for any kind of positive comment or praise, his face curdled with revulsion. She returned to her stirring, and Draco made it a point to not look in her direction for the remainder of the class.
His potion sample, was of course, more than satisfactory, earning him an acknowledging nod as he set the labeled vials on Snape’s desk. Theo and Blaise followed him promptly out of the dungeons, and Greg and Crabbe, followed by the girls, caught up about fifteen minutes later. Reunited, the Slytherins all strolled toward their next classes, split between Ancient Runes and Muggle Studies.
“Wait, I don’t think Muggle Studies is even on my course list this term,” Theo noted as Daphne, Millie, Tracey, and Blaise were about to leave for the class.
Draco scanned his own timestable, “Surely were just scheduled for a different time due to a conflict.” He read over the parchment several times, his brows furrowing further and further until they threatened to attach into a unibrow forever. “I don’t see it anywhere. I know for a fact that I registered for it again this year…”
“I don’t have it either,” Pansy said glaring at the paper in her hands, willing it to change to her expectations.
Greg flipped his parchment over as though he might find an alternative schedule hidden on the back, but it was only blank. “I don’t have it either.”
“Well, I dropped it the minute I could. Useless class that is, Muggle Studies. That Professor Burbage should be in Azkaban for the reckless nonsense she’s been spoutin’ about Muggles bein’ worth the same as us!” Crabbe snorted. “I got a free period, I’m off to write Marcus back.” They all turned to face one another as he stalked off.
“Wait,” Daphne looked around their little circle, “does anyone else see a pattern as to who was removed from the class?”
Draco saw it then. Everyone of them were the children of marked Death Eaters…loyal, marked Death Eaters. “Lucius,” he glowered.
Pansy put her hand on his shoulder, “We don’t know that for sure.”
“I do. Mother would have never interfered with any of our studies. Father–of course–father would think any of us taking Muggle Studies would make us look weak. Vulnerable. Sympathetic to the opposition.” Draco was furious.
“So what do we do?” Theo asked nervously. “This means they’re watching us, doesn’t it?”
“We do nothing,” Draco said, strangely calm. “We let them think we’re along for the ride. Keep our heads down, and try to stay out of it as long as we can.”
Pansy sighed, “Business as usual, then.”