Presentation
Good grief, this mirror isn’t doing me any favors, Draco thought. The morning was bleak with the shine of cloud-cover that promised rain. Draco’s early routine (when he decided to actually get up at a reasonable time) usually consisted of ignoring his reflection as much as possible besides checking his outfit, but here he was, poking the dark smudges under his eyes, running a critical look at the thinner than average hair and sallow complexion.
Sighing to himself, he picked out a jar from one of the numerous bottles and containers arrayed in his master bathroom. Fitzie knew by now to keep his various poultices well stocked. With the right combination (and a bit of time) he could rid himself of the less appealing characteristics of his appearance—momentarily anyway.
He was going up to Yorkshire today. Checking off the list of those erstwhile friends of his he hoped to recapture. She would naturally be critical regardless of presentation, but if he looked terrible, she would be unbearable. Finally satisfied, he dressed smartly and apparated to the home office of Witch Weekly in Sheffield.
In a blink, he was on Church Street facing a building with a Corinthian façade. Draco cast a subtle notice-me-not charm on himself so his fashionable attire didn’t draw the gaze of the helplessly unfashionable muggles around. Ducking through a false window, much the same as at St. Mungo’s, he found himself in a buzzing office, the walls adorned with large-print copies of the past months’ additions. While there were a few courtesy fireplaces, Draco was in no way willing to connect Fairgate to the common Floo network so climbing through a window it was.
“Can I help you,” a harried assistant snapped, scribbling never ceasing.
“Yes, I was wondering if Miss Parkinson was in,” Draco replied smoothly.
Sharp eyes flicked up to him. “Do you have an appointment? Because Mrs. Parkinson is a very busy woman.”
“I am looking for Miss Pansy Parkinson,” Draco said congenially.
Quirking an eyebrow, the assistant pulled out a separate piece of parchment and scribbled a quick missive. “You better sit down.”
The parchment promptly folded itself up and flew off into the back of the office. Draco chose the least garish seat he could find in the lobby to make himself comfortable. He took in the bustle as he waited for Pansy, enjoying the people watching. There was constant hurrying about by staff, the occasional glad-handing of a minor celebrity by reporters looking for a column, even detachment of the odd fruit basket from what Draco could see. He was lost in his own entertainment when the call of his name rent the air.
Pansy’s dark bob framed a face no longer so pinched, her expression wide with surprise at her caller. Draco couldn’t help the grin that stole over him as she rushed over. “Draco!” She cried again and flung her arms around him. Just as he was about to reciprocate, she withdrew, promptly smacked him across the face, then returned her arms around him.
“Merlin, Pansy,” Draco said into her hair.
“Oh Draco, you idiot,” she sobbed. “How could you leave me like that?” Without waiting for him to stutter a response, she clamped a hand on his wrist and dragged him out of the lobby.
“Must you always be so dramatic?” he groused.
Instantly sober in the privacy of the hallway she chuckled lightly. “Darling, let me have my fun.”
“It’s your coworkers you’ve set gossiping you know.” Draco rubbed his cheek morosely. “I don’t have to see these people again.”
“Oh, whatever,” she dismissed. She ushered him into what was presumably her office and fluttered around examining him. “Have you been using glamours on your eyes again?” she accused.
“No,” he snapped, but then added, “I’ve been using a paste.”
“Hmm, you’ll have to give me the name, it’s working far better than it should.” Her hand strayed up through the strands of his hair, now hanging loose onto his forehead and close cropped on the sides. “You still have that house-elf, yes?” she demanded. “Have her serve more vegetables; fish maybe, try to get some stronger hair growth.”
“If you’re quite through,” he drawled, vaguely amused. He was getting pleasant flashbacks to similar conversations that used to occur in the Slytherin common room.
“Blaise told me you were back. I’ve been waiting around to see when you would take the time to call. I assume it’s not just a case of catching up.”
“Purely mercenary,” he smirked.
“I’m crushed,” she deadpanned.
“Naturally,” he responded. “I’ll need your help drumming up support for a little project of mine. I don’t trust the Prophet and I was hoping to avail myself of some pages in your magazine. Here or there.”
“Blaise told me you had something planned out.”
“So much for the element of surprise.”
“Don’t blame him too much, darling, you know he can’t resist me.” At Draco’s snort, she grinned. “Speaking of, have you seen his little boy-toy?”
“Hmm, met him last week.” At Pansy’s brow wiggling, Draco could only scoff. “Well, he seems more intelligent than the kind you would expect Blaise to go after.”
“Blaise won’t tell me any of gory details, the spoilsport.” Pansy sat up on her desk swinging her leg. “By the way, I heard what you did for Greg. That was very sweet.”
Draco flushed. “Good grief, do you know everything? Should I even bother going through my proposal?”
“Oh Draco, do get prissy! It’s been so long since I’ve seen it,” she practically cackled with joy. “Plus, it’s called writing a letter,” she enunciated. “Something you seem to have forgotten how to do.”
At Draco’s chagrined expression, she waived away her complaint. “I’m just saying you did well! Greg seems very happy being a—what was it?—member of the anti-poacher squad?”
“Yes,” Draco groaned. “He seemed very excited at the possibility of using lethal force against wizards looking to harm magical creatures.”
“Americans have all the fun,” Pansy said wistfully. Draco just rolled his eyes.
“Do I have the floor now?” he asked.
“Tell me all about your plotting,” she smiled indulgently. “Let’s see how clever you are.” Pansy watched his pacing as he ran through his idea for an additional large magical community in Middle Britain. Pansy always put up with his dramatics, and he felt himself gesturing wildly with insistence. Eventually, he had her nodding in tepid agreement, the wheels clearly turning in her head.
When she got up to start pacing, he stole her seat on the desktop and waited for her impressions. He idly picked up a book she abandoned—trashy romance, surprise, surprise Pansy—and flipped through it. “Does this author really think people say, ‘don’t you dare’ that much – or at all?” he muttered.
Her eyes jerked up at him breaking her concentration before she shook her head dismissively. “Please, you should see how many times the author writes that a character ‘made a rude gesture’ or some such nonsense,” she replied. “Totally devoid from reality but it makes a nice escape otherwise. The real issue is no one seems to be able to write a decent press scene, which as a reporter just insults me. Now put that down, we have work to do.”
They spent far longer than Draco was expecting talking about building out a marketing strategy with a few well-timed fluff pieces in Witch Weekly. Pansy was particularly enthusiastic about playing up the angle of possibilities for new stores and boutiques in the proposed district. She also agreed that it should be based somewhere outside of London or Scotland.
“I think you should look at Birmingham,” she said. “Adelaide Stoneleigh represents the city in the Wizengamot, we did a spread with her a few months ago on the 20 most powerful witches of the year. I think you’ll find her much easier to deal with than the MWs from Lancashire.”
“I need better information about where construction would be best,” Draco mused. “I’ll see if she’ll meet with me; give me a better understanding about feasibility.”
The two former Slytherins ended up abandoning the magazine office in favor of a small restaurant nearby. Popular with the staff at Witch Weekly, it was nearly the only establishment capable of catering to wizards in the area.
“Any other politicians you have to meet with coming up?” Pansy asked between sips of champagne (“we have to celebrate your return darling!”).
“More than you imagine,” he grimaced. “I want to talk with Gavin about scheduling, and when the best time to introduce my bill will be.”
“It better be soon,” Pansy said with a hand flitting through his hair. “I can’t wait to splash you across the cover: Malfoy Heir Returns! With some innuendos in the subtitles of course.” It was part of the strategy they agreed to, much to Draco’s chagrin. The magazine would use him as the vehicle to discuss his plan. This would involve interviews, potentially a spread on Fairgate, and then pieces speculating on what the new district would include. “Then, I want to put out feelers to some businesswomen and have them write guest columns on how they would contribute to the space and let our readers write in what they most look forward to,” Pansy reiterated.
She grew pensive, withdrawing a bit into her chair. “Listen Draco, I know you didn’t come to me for political advice, but one of the stops you have to make is with Marianne Clifford.”
“The advisor to the Minister?”
Pansy nodded seriously. “Nothing Gordon Pearson does happens without her input first; those are the rumors anyway. And anything you do will be much easier with the Minister’s support.”
“Do you think he’ll go for it?” Draco asked suspiciously. “Or they, more appropriately.”
“I really don’t know,” came the reply. “Possibly, but if they think it is too tied to dark forces, or purebloods or some rubbish like that, it could be extremely difficult.”
Draco was still pondering this when she cut in as if it were the simplest thing in the world, “If you think it’s going to end very close, you can just bring someone on to the hereditary bench.”
Draco found himself blinking in rapid succession, the worm of an idea generating from the spark of genius of Pansy’s. He immediately whipped out a piece of parchment and self-inking quill, writing notes down furiously.
“Oh Draco, at the table?” Pansy despaired.
“Propriety, my dear, must give way to brilliance,” he reached over a kissed her cheek. “And you are brilliant.”
Pansy blushed slightly, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. “Say it again.” Draco rolled his eyes but indulged her.
“Further,” Pansy preened. “I have the perfect suggestion!”
“Well?” Draco burst out in agitation at the harpy who was too busy looking at her nails to continue a thought. A brilliant harpy, but a harpy nonetheless.
“The Black seat has remained unclaimed for quite some time,” she suggested.
His brow furrowed. “They won’t let me claim both seats, it would be against the rule prohibiting block voting.” At her silent prodding, he hesitantly asked, “Mother?”
“No, you imbecile, a certain four-eyed scarhead!” she exclaimed and swatted him.
“Potter?” he sputtered. Then flushed because of course she meant Potter. That delinquent cousin of his . . . well that’s not specific. That escapee relation of his . . . no that’s too vague. That blasted Sirius Black would have bequeathed his claim on the Black seat to the Merlin-forsaken Boy-Who-Lived-for-Longer-than-the-World-Could-Stand (and yes Draco was the world in this scenario).
“You want me to go crawling to Potter for help?” he sneered.
“Draco, have you followed anything that’s happened in Britain since you left?”
“I strive to ignore anything to do with Him,” Draco sniffed.
Pansy’s gaze softened, she reached out and gently grasped his arm. “I know you have complicated history sweetie, but do you really think he would say no to you asking for help?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he raged. “Potter goes out of his way to make my life difficult; he would probably relish the role of my denouncer.” Except he did get you out of the Room of Hidden Things, his brain traitorously added. And it was incredibly likely the Chosen One was involved in getting his charges dismissed. “Besides,” he mumbled. “He’s probably too busy with that ginger harlot and his career—”
“Draco are you willfully blind, or just that misinformed,” an unamused Pany interrupted. At his startled look, she threw her hands up in annoyance. “Potter has essentially been a recluse for the past five years. He’s barely been seen or heard from.”
And that, Draco just could not process. The Golden Boy had a perfect life, didn’t he?
“Before you even attempt to doubt my access to gossip, our photographers would have a field day if he so much as stuck his head out of whatever door he’s hiding behind.”
“Wasn’t he going to be an Auror,” Draco inquired softly. “I would’ve thought he’d be halfway to Head by now.”
“The Department was shockingly tight-lipped about the whole thing, but there were rumors of him bucking authority,” Pansy said with the gleam that always came to her eye when expounding on someone else’s life. “Few tips from people at St. Mungo’s about accidents, and then suddenly a notice out from the DMLE that Harry Potter had resigned from the Auror’s effective immediately. After that, no appearances – not at commemorations, social gatherings, fundraisers. Poof. Gone from view.”
Draco began absentmindedly tearing at his cuticles, gazing unfocused at a spot beyond Pansy’s head. She reached over and forcibly separated his hands. “Stop that. You’ll throw a fit later if you ruin your nail beds.”
“You know, I may have changed in these past years away from you,” Draco bit out indignantly.
“You may have,” she acceded evenly. “But still, I know you Draco, and I know the parts that aren’t likely to change.”
“We’re changing the subject,” he declared, but kept his hands away from each other. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of acknowledging her point. But he didn’t want to end up doing something he would regret . . . like ruin his nails. And he didn’t have the headspace to digest The Chosen One’s chosen solitude. “Now don’t think we can escape talking about you, was that a picture of an unfamiliar gentleman I saw on your desk?”