The Lab
There was a town car outside Draco’s building. Black, very black, with impenetrable tinted windows. There were two people likely to be in that car, neither of whom Draco wanted to see now, as he stumbled out of his apartment in the heavy late-morning light, sex-addled and seeking brunch. But of the two possibilities, his father was by far the worse prospect.
So it was that he had to stop himself from smiling when the window rolled down to reveal one of his least favorite faces in London.
“Pettigrew,” Draco greeted him. “What a surprise.”
Pettigrew smiled filthily. “Is it? I only wanted a word.”
“Did you.” Draco looked up conspicuously, taking in the winter sun as it limned the city rooftops. “Lovely day. Crisp.”
“Cold as a witch’s tit,” Pettigrew revised in his charmless manner. “Come on, we’ll give you a ride wherever you’re going.”
“We?”
“Me and Dolohov,” Pettigrew clarified, gesturing to the driver’s seat, where Tom’s inveterately shady driver surely lurked. “
Ah. Thanks, but I rather fancy a walk today.”
“I rather fancy a talk,” Pettigrew countered.
Draco sighed. “Well, I’m headed to Nina’s for a nibble, if you’d like to meet me there.”
So Draco walked to his corner brunch spot while Pettigrew’s car crawled along beside him, dark and skulking as a low-hanging cloud. To Draco’s great relief, Pettigrew ordered nothing but coffee. When it arrived--along with Draco’s desperately needed mimosa--Pettigrew slithered into the conversation indelicately.
“This is a business matter, I’m afraid to say, not a social call. I was not perhaps very straightforward on that matter.”
“No harm done,” said Draco. “I had suspected as much.”
“Yes, well.” Pettigrew slurped his coffee, apparently trying to increase the drama of the moment. “As you know, the research interests of the Malfoy Corporation and of Death Eater Pharmaceuticals are closely tied. A mutually beneficial state of affairs.”
“Certainly,” said Draco, who had at best only a vague awareness of such a thing, and then only because he had encouraged the connection as a way of keeping himself in bed with Tom, both metaphorically and literally.
“There is a Concern,” Pettigrew announced, followed by another dramatic pause. Draco waved him on carelessly, and he deflated just a bit. “About a Conflict of Interest,” he continued.
Draco snorted. “That’s a first.”
“Yes, well.” Pettigrew smiled nastily. “It wasn’t a Concern before now.”
“Get to the point,” Draco demanded, “and leave me to my croissant.”
“The Concern is that you have been associating with a gentleman who has Competing Interests.”
“Have I?” Draco was nonplussed. He’d thought this meeting was about Harry, but apparently not. Apparently it was about someone with Competing Interests. Which, on the one hand, could be almost anyone he knew (except Harry). But on the other hand, it depended on what one meant by “associating.” While he spent a lot of time socializing, Draco wasn’t one for close friends, and aside from Tom, he rarely even fucked the same person twice.
Maybe that was about to change. But not because of anyone with Competing Interests.
“I’m afraid I’ve no idea who you mean,” Draco admitted at last, “but if you inform me, I’m sure the Concern can be addressed.”
“Excellent.” Pettigrew slurped more coffee. “After all, I’m sure you can imagine how dangerous it would be to have a social worker within spitting distance of our operation. Especially one as high-profile as Potter.”
Draco had begun comportment lessons at the age of four, and had been practicing emotional repression since birth. Thus, he did not splutter. Pettigrew seemed to be imagining the splutter nonetheless. He drained his coffee blissfully, set it down with a smile, and left without paying.
Draco ordered another drink and thought furiously. How was Potter an Interest in any business endeavour of his or Tom’s? Was that just an incredibly oblique threat? Couldn’t be. Tom never made entirely empty threats, even on the rare occasions when he was forced into bluffing. There probably was some venture afoot that would be hindered by Harry’s virtuous scrutiny. And Tom, he supposed, was using that as a wedge to drive between them.
In all honesty, Draco was flattered. Tom had overestimated him by a great deal. Pettigrew’s message implied a certain depth of understanding of the shadier aspects of their corporations’ mutual dealings--an understanding that, shallow or no, Draco did not actually have. Tom, one of the few people in Draco’s orbit who had made his way there mainly on merit, had once again forgotten about the anesthetizing effect that growing up wealthy had had on most of his peers. Which meant that, through no effort of his own, the advantage was once again Draco’s.
Ill-gotten gains or no, Draco was willing to press that advantage. Which was, in a word: at present Tom would not be able to predict Draco’s actions, for he assumed Draco actually had a vested financial interest in a deal that he had, in truth, only arranged to guarantee himself a shag.
“I’m a loose cannon,” he muttered, earning a disapproving look from the dignified elderly waiter who was at that moment bringing his food. He merely nodded to his empty glass and dug in.
However loose his cannonballs, it was clear enough that there was a natural first step: he would need to find the what of it all before he could decide how to proceed. As Draco paid his bill, he nodded to himself with all the bourgeois determination he could muster (though, admittedly, that was little enough). He was in a desperate situation, so he would do that which was, generally speaking, anathema to him.
He was going to work.
~
Three hours of arduous research--aided by a baffled Gerta--had yielded a disturbing result, though one that Draco, on consideration, should probably have expected. It was Death Eater Pharmaceuticals, after all. When one pursued a project in that industry, science was bound to happen at some point.
He was going to have to find the lab.
Thus, he burst into Theo Nott’s office (two floors below his own) at around the time most Malfoy Industries employees were going home for the day.
“Theo!” he greeted without so much as clearing his throat first, “How’s my favorite swot?”
Theo reluctantly looked up from his computer, where he appeared, alarmingly, to be doing actual work.
“Draco. What do you want?”
“Can’t a man visit an old school chum?” Draco demanded.
“I suppose he can,” said Theo in a tone that cast great doubt on whether one ought to.
“Come on, Theo. You work too hard. Take a walk with me.”
Theo stood, resigned, and smoothed the legs of his brown suit. “What do you want, Draco?”
“I need to see the labs,” Draco admitted with little shame. “I’ve no idea where they are, but I know you have something to do with them."
“Draco,” said Theo with great disappointment, “of course I do. I run them.”
“Hmm. I thought that was your father?”
Theo shrugged. “In name, yes. In practice, I’ve the head for management, and he prefers to slum it with the lab technicians. So we reached an accord. Your father seems satisfied, to my knowledge.”
“Interesting,” said Draco, following Theo to an out-of-the-way elevator. “Rather the opposite of the arrangement between my father and I.”
“Rather,” Theo agreed, rolling his eyes. He pressed an unlabeled button and they began to descend. “So what brings you down here? You’ve never expressed an interest before.”
“I never had an interest before.” Draco examined his ghostly reflection in the sleek black elevator ceiling. “I’ve made a grave mistake, Theo. I involved myself in a venture, and now I find myself in need of content knowledge. And you know how I feel about that.”
Finally, Theo cracked a smile. “McGonagall could never give you full marks. Conjugate adverbs? Of course, Professor. Tell me Julius Caesar’s birth date? Why, Professor? Is there going to be a party?”
“One of my better moments,” said Draco, “but you can see my dilemma.”
“Sure.” Theo paused; the elevator was slowing, but he held the doors closed for a moment. “What exactly have you involved yourself in, Draco?”
“A collaboration with Death Eater Pharmaceuticals.”
“Ah.” Theo furrowed his brow and let the doors open. He led Draco into a brightly lit, sterile hallway that heavily featured concrete in its design concept. “A lot of work we’re doing with D.E.P. is happening in their labs, or in the field. I can show you around a bit, but ultimately I think the records room will be the most help in bringing you up to speed.”
Draco curled his lip. “We have a recordsroom? What millennium is this?”
“It’s sensitive information,” Theo chided. “Trade secrets and ongoing projects. Can’t have cloud storage with that sort of thing. Not secure enough.”
“I’m fairly certain most corporations use some form of cloud storage,” said Draco drily. “Even I have noticed that trend.”
“Their funeral,” said Theo with a shrug. “Not a risk we’re willing to take.”
Draco frowned. His father might talk a big game about the Gentleman’s Life of Leisure, but it was never, he had long since realized, the pursuit of ease that motivated Lucius. Rather, it was the pursuit of power. It never made much sense to Draco. Enough power to ensure one’s safety and comfort--that was a desirable thing, if one didn’t have it to start out with. But when one was born a multi-millionaire, the pursuit of further clout quickly became a laborious game of diminishing returns. But Draco’s father seemed incapable of staying on the sidelines. It seemed that Theo Nott Jr. was much the same way.
Draco shrugged. “Can I take pictures with my phone?”
“No. But considering the number of shares you own, I’m sure not even Dr. Pince could object to your taking notes--” Theo looked at him sternly-- “on paper.”
Draco groaned, but followed Theo through a long room lined with rat cages willingly enough. The rats were sad-looking things, slender, albino, most of them huddled tearfully in corners. Draco made the mistake of making eye contact with one, and cringed.
“Christ,” he muttered, “this is dreadful.”
“Actually,” said Theo with grim humor, “it’s progress.”
“Progress would be giving them a wheel to run on.”
Theo stopped and looked at him. “What’s got into you? You don’t even like animals, not even dogs.”
“I don’t like children, either,” said Draco. “Doesn’t mean they don’t deserve to run about and play, or whatever it is they do.”
Theo shook his head. “Next you’ll be voting Liberal Democrat.”
Draco cringed, because he had a firm notion that he was supposed to do so. It wasn’t because of any genuine reaction--far from it. Just a reflex born of years spent hiding the fact that he didn’t vote.
His hereditary peerage in the House of Lords, Draco figured, was subject to a vote amongst the other peers, so if he disgraced himself enough by the time his father passed it on, he could conceivably be voted out. That, along with excessive martini consumption and the occasional bon mot recorded in the tabloids, was Draco’s entire ambition in life.
And now, he supposed, he had another ambition to hide: the ambition to have repeated liaisons with a man who, he was absolutely certain, voted Labour.
“Here we are,” said Theo, bringing him around the corner to a heavy, cramped little door straight off Guillermo del Toro’s cutting room floor. When Theo opened the door, Draco was assaulted with a buzzing gray light and a smell of manila.
“I’ll have a chat with Dr. Pince,” Theo announced, seemingly immune to the oppressive miasma. “We’ll get the proposals, prospectus, all of that. Even the data, such as it is.” He gave Draco a sympathetic look. “You’ll have a pass to stay as late as you need.”
“Will he?” wondered a raspy Scottish voice from the shadows. There were footsteps, and a face emerged. Draco barely restrained his shock. With her tight bun, tweed suit, rigid posture, and strong accent, this woman could be Professor McGonagall’s maiden aunt.
“He will,” said Theo firmly. “Dr. Pince, meet Draco Malfoy. Draco will require all of the files on the D.E.P. collaboration, a notepad, a pen, and a good deal of time. In return, Draco, Dr. Pince will require absolute silence and a great deal of care to be taken not to muss the papers.”
“I understand,” said Draco politely, though inwardly he bristled at Dr. Pince’s attitude, which seemed rather to demand deference than offer it.
“Hmph,” said Dr. Pince. But she started to gather boxes.
~
When Draco emerged from the records room, it was late, the time of night when he was usually about two and a half sheets to the wind (or--and he’d kill anyone who witnessed this--curled up with a mug of tea and a cashmere blanket, watching a Monty Don gardening show). Dr. Pince had seemed unbothered by the late hour. Draco wondered if she slept here--or, come to that, if she slept at all. She seemed perfectly alert, and had continued to watch Draco like a hawk until he closed the door behind him.
Her attention was probably the only reason he hadn’t had any sort of mental breakdown (born of fear or frustration) amidst his research. He had a distressing inkling that something criminal was afoot, but unfortunately, the style of the project notes was utterly incomprehensible to anyone without a Ph.D. in chemistry.
Well, not anyone. He knew one or two people who could probably tease some actual information out of this jargon.
Well, one, anyway. Granger.
Perhaps he would think of something--someone--else. In the meantime, he’d take his extensive notes home with him and try to get some sleep. He couldn’t help but clutch his bag to his side as he stood just inside the door, waiting for Dobby. With that notepad nestled inside, the whole thing felt unstable. Just because he didn’t know exactly what his notes contained, didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous.
And, beyond that, it felt like a betrayal as well. Because he knew he had likely opened Pandora’s box, and that this would end with him firmly pitted against Tom. And all due to his own thoughtlessness, too. All due to his not caring what deal he was making as long as it kept Tom around. He’d never been all that bothered by his own reckless behavior, but it seemed it had finally come back to bite him in the--
His mobile buzzed. He reached for it hungrily, having been isolated from all cellular service in that steel trap of a records room.
Five messages from Pansy. He ignored those. There was another--just one--from his newest contact. Draco smiled as he remembered a smug, rumpled Harry typing it in that morning.
Scarhead
Ginny and Luna are home. Friends showed to drag me to dinner. Recovering well. Hope you got a full English in.
Well, Draco thought wryly, at least someone is having a good day. Perhaps responding would brighten things up.
Breakfast was sufficient, but lacked of good company.
Dobby pulled up and let Draco in the car, avoiding eye contact. He snickered, and watched his mobile.
Scarhead
“Lacked of” lol
Miss u too
Draco
...drunk?
Scarhead
What’s it to you?
Draco
Nothing.
Scarhead
?
Draco
Nothing’s wrong.
Scarhead
Methinks the lxaihwe;
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
Sorry Hermione stole my phone
Her eye starts to twitch when someone tries to misquote Shakespeare
Draco
And how is Granger?
Scarhead
Draco you’re being rEALLY WEIRD
what’s wrong
Draco
I’m ok. Can I call you tomorrow?
Scarhead
U ok 2nite?
Draco
Please type like a human.
Scarhead
Srry just took a shot.
How Doeth Thou This Eve?
Draco
*dost
Scarhead
Fuck off
Draco
;)
Scarhead
Yes u can call me tomorrow
Draco
Ok.
Potter didn’t seem inclined to continue the conversation further. That was all right; neither was Draco. He had some thinking to do.
And by ‘thinking,’ he meant ‘watching reruns of Big Dreams, Small Spaces.’