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Empire	By : waymay & Alcoholic_Rootbeer Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 12288 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or the characters written in this story; everything belongs to the wonderful J.K. Rowling. I don't make any profit from these stories!

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
A/N: Hello, everyone! Welcome to my first ever Dramione FanFic! I'm super excited for you guys to read this, and I couldn't have done it without the wonderful, the amazing Mr. Benzedine to help me fill the gaps and insert hilarious quips. You are the best! Be sure to check out her awesome fics: How to Train Your Auror (1 and 2!), Sex Ed, and Bond.
Summary: Draco Malfoy hits an all-time low as his failing businesses go under. When he recieves a letter from an anonmyous source offering help, can he turn it all around and build his empire?

Prologue
The Fall of the Dark Lord; the day people cheered on the streets and kissed their loved ones, despite the death, destruction, and chaos. The day that the entire magical world breathed a sigh of relief. Well, perhaps not everyone. For Voldemort's followers, it would begin a changing of the tides. Now, they would be the ones on the run. Now, they would be the ones locked away in cells and judged on their upbringing. And no one, amongst the Death Eaters, felt this more than the Malfoys.
After Voldemort's fall from power, all Death Eaters were found guilty and rounded up, sent to Azkaban to live out their days without their magic and without their freedom- most notably, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. The Wizengamot took it as their personal vendetta to make an example of the family; their faces were posted in every news article, their trial a public spectacle of gossip and rumors. If there was a wizarding family living under a rock that had never heard of the Malfoys, they knew now.
Their son, Draco, as luck would have it, was acquitted of all charges, given he was raised under the influence of his parents, and as he was still underaged during the trial, he was the only Death Eater found not guilty.
Being a free man didn't make things easier for Draco. His entire life, he lived comfortably under the roof of the Malfoy Manor, with house elves to, happily, do his bidding. He never knew what it was like to want for anything; his parents had seen to that. With the snap of his fingers or a letter to his father, Draco held the world by a string. But after the Second Wizarding War ended, the string was severed. Families of the Death Eaters were forced to pay for the damages caused by the Dark Lord, and the Malfoy family took the biggest hit.
Not only did the Malfoys shelter other followers and Lord Voldemort, but their Manor served as headquarters for a great deal of Death Eaters' misdeeds. The cellar, alone, served as a prison which, at one point, held Garrick Ollivander, Luna Lovegood, Dean Thomas, and even the Gringotts goblin, Griphook. It was later confirmed Charity Burbage, the professor of Muggle Studies at Hogwarts, had been killed and fed to the Dark Lord's pet snake, Nagini. And these were only the tragedies that could be verified.
As a result, the Malfoy Manor was confiscated by the Ministry, pending further investigation.
With only a few thousand Galleons (which wasn't much by Malfoy standards) left in his vault, Draco sought any method to rebuild his family name and fortune.
Chapter 1 - It's All Business
In the light of a dimly lit café sat two very different men, situated as far away as possible from the curious eyes and whispering mouths. It wasn't always foolproof, however -gossip seemed to find its way to the papers, despite precautions.
The first man was rather plump; his sides spilled, uncomfortably, over the edge of the cushioned armchair he'd fashioned himself in as he sat facing towards the entryway and the shoppe's patrons. He looked rather uncomfortable, his belly smooshed against the coffee table. Beads of sweat trailed down his perfectly round, pudgy face. He wore a crown of black, thinning hair, which was combed over in an attempt to cast the illusion that there was more of it.
The second man, seated across from him, looked thoroughly exhausted. He was nearly half his partner's age and size, but the dark circles that hung under his eyes aged him considerably. Unlike his associate, he wore a full head of silver-blonde hair (a particular trait that stood out, whether he liked it or not), and he carried a certain aura -one that made others uneasy. His grey eyes burned into his partner's hazel ones as he watched him squirm uncomfortably in his seat.
"I em sorry to say, Monsieur Malfoy, zat 'Ze Ancient Quill' 'azn't made any money in ze past four monz!" The older man, feigning a terrible French accent, rasped towards his counterpart. Both men knew it was a sham but never made a comment on it. Draco figured it was probably out of fear his partner might be recognized and seen with a Malfoy, but he had no idea how people wouldn't figure out his identity by his belly alone. "And you 'aven't paid ze employees! Zey are all zreatening to leave!" He paused, waiting for the blonde to respond, but he didn't. "Pleez, zis is going to be your zird store clozing zis monz."
After another moment of unbearable silence, Draco sighed and slouched back in his armchair; something rather uncharacteristic of him. He'd been taught never to slump, as it procured an air of bad upbringing. Not that it mattered much anymore. Everyone had already formed opinions on how he must have been brought up as a child. His foot bumped against the leg of the coffee table, disturbing the lattes, which remained untouched.
"Let them go," He responded, tersely, "They're not worth keeping if they're zreatening to leave after a month of working."
"Oui, Monsieur, but-"
"Listen, Burbage. Frankly, I don't give a flying fuck what their excuse is," Draco seethed through his teeth, trying his best to keep his voice low. The man was tired -tired of his businesses closing, tired of people leaving, and all-in-all, just tired of working. Who knew it would be this difficult? "I don't need useless worms who- this damned bug!" He snapped at the black beetle that continued to buzz around his head and swatted the diseased creature away, "-who flail around all day doing nothing but complain." His ears perked and, for a second, he swore the bug screamed as it was sent flying away from the duo.
"Oui,fa but I 'aven't been paid, too, and it's been 'alf a year," Burbage pulled out an already damp handkerchief from his breast pocket and patted his sweat-drenched face, wiping away the perspiration from his oddly thick brows, "I em your inveztor, Monsieur Malfoy." He tucked the piece of cloth back inside, "I 'ave been supporting your beezniz since the last inveztor left. Your businesses are...défaillant."
"What are you saying?"
"I-I em saying zat..." Burbage paused, looking around to see if there were any eavesdroppers. When he was sure no one was listening in, the man leaned in closer towards Draco. The armchair groaned under the shifting weight. "...I-I don't zink I can... can be your partner, anymore."
Draco blinked, his face void of any emotion as he fell back into silence, absorbing the news just delivered. Another business gone under. He should have felt something more than empty, but there had been so many in the last two years, it was hard to be disappointed when it was all he knew. He only wished something would take root before he went completely bankrupt and had to live in a cardboard box on the streets of Diagon Alley.
"Désolé," Burbage shrugged, looking apologetic, "I em not making any money, and ze wife zreatens to leave me if I dun get zings togehzer."
"You're married?" The disgust in his voice rang loud and clear. For a moment, Draco regretted saying those two words, but the coward wanted to back out of their partnership, so to hell with it, "So, tell me, is it customary for ze French to arrange marriages?" He gave one of his most dastardly smirks.
"What? What does zat mean?"
"Are the French that desperate for marriage that they'd stoop so low as to wed a perspiring, lice infested, wallowing-in-the-mud pig?"
It took a moment for his comment to sink in, but when it did, Burbage's plump face turned cherry red, as did the three rolls around his neck. Draco thought the man had already been sweating profusely, but this certainly took the cake. If he hadn't been sitting in front of the man for the past hour, he would have thought someone pushed him into the ocean. "Of all the insufferable, intolerable, incorrigible…" He put his hand to his chest, insulted, but to Draco it looked as if he were cupping his beefy breast.
"Aha!" Draco slammed his hand down on the table. It took all he had not to jump out of his seat and laughingly point at the man. "I knew you were putting it on! Burbage is, most definitely, British. Did you really think you were fooling anyone with that atrocious accent?"
"I… I am not Britishzz!" Burbage exclaimed, still attempting to feign his French heritage. "'Ow dare you! You zhall rue ze day you crossed me! Mark my wordz! You will nevah find a partner in zis city again!"
The blonde stood, shoving his chair back, and glowered at the man, "So be it, Monsieur Burbage..." He shoved a hand down his pants pocket, pulled out a few sickles, and tossed it onto the table, "Since you're in need of money, be sure to keep the change." Draco stormed out of the establishment, his cold latte left behind in his wake.
Finding Hermione hidden behind a mountain of paper wasn't anything new; in fact, she quite liked being out of sight. It was a pleasure she didn't often receive since the war ended four years ago. However, as much she enjoyed the solidarity, it was usually short lived.
"'Mione!" The door to her office swung open as a couple of freckled face redheads popped through the frame. What was once her self-proclaimed palace was now overrun by the Weasleys.
"You've got to come out here and look at what George just conjured up!" Ron exclaimed.
The older Weasley, George, piped up, "You're gonna love it!" A grin stretching from ear-to-ear.
At that moment, a very literal firefly- a dazzling display of fire dressed with flaming wings that buzzed around the room- came zooming in, scorching the edges of some of Hermione's extremely important documents.
"Ron!" She shouted suddenly, jumping out of her seat as she frantically put out the mini-fire with the sleeves of her robe. So much for appearing professional, the robe's sleeve was definitely beyond repair. Hermione glared at him. "I am quite busy right n-" A few more of the fireflies came soaring into her office, threatening to light the room up like a bonfire on a hot summer night, "-close the door!"
After the war had ended and the trials completed, the Golden Trio traveled all over the world meeting witches and wizards alike. It was finally a time of peace, and, for once, the three could enjoy what was left of their youth. They attended conventions and conferences and even held their own little workshops, teaching others how to defend themselves from other users of the Dark Arts. Hermione's personal favorite had been teaching others the complex Patronus charm and seeing their eyes light up as their guardians flew out of their wands.
By the time Harry, Ron, and Hermione were set to return home, they were approaching their twenties. London changed a great deal during their two-year absence. Harry and Ron took their Auror exams and passed. While Harry continued living out his dreams, Ron eventually stepped down after putting in two years of successful Death Eater capturing and pursued a new career; he became co-manager, with George, at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.
Surprisingly, it took Hermione tad bit longer than the other two to figure out what she wanted to pursue. She continued to spend a substantial amount of her time researching magical creature rights, but as she realized her attempts at achieving equal rights for the house-elves had yet to be taken seriously, she placed the project on hiatus and started a new one.
The timing couldn't have been more perfect. Ron's lack of experience as a manager showed. Things weren't quite the same without Fred around. Before, the twins were able to capture the attention of passer-bys with just their hilarious personalities, but with Ron in the picture, floundering over his speeches with less than enthusiastic flare, he seemed more like a (dead) fish out of water. That's seriously how George described his personality. Hermione would later (silently) agree.
The bushy haired brunette groaned as she pulled a stack of burnt paper from the pile. "This, Ron," she gestured towards the mess, "is why you always close the door! Now I have to start all over!"
Since her (literal) take over at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, she managed to increase their revenue by a whopping twenty percent, making the joke shoppe one of the most profitable companies in modern times. Hermione was even able to franchise the joke shoppe and open several stores in other wizarding communities throughout the country. Needless to say, she was an essential asset to the company, and the Weasleys knew it. Not that it stopped Ron from forgetting to show her the proper amount of respect sometimes.
And though she'd never admit it, Hermione did have a hand or two in creating some of the wackiest trinkets around, such as the Horse Head Hat, where the wearer's head literally turned into a horse when they wore it, and not to mention the Teeth Terminating Taffy (oh, her parents would have killed her!). While the consumer munched on the chewy sweet, their teeth would fall right out of their gums for as long as they're chewing the candy. The only downfall came from those who didn't read the fine print; it was all an illusion of Hermione's own design.
Ron held his hands up in defeat as he kicked the door shut behind him. "We were excited, is all. Don't get your knickers all up in a twist." He took a few cautious steps towards her desk as she continued to glower at him, "Plus -you can redo all of this in a day, right? It doesn't look that difficult."
She narrowed her eyes as she grabbed several of the folders and flipped through them, double checking its damages. "Luckily, the more important documents are unsinged. Seriously Ron, these files are going to the patent office," She waved the forms in front of him, "This makes it so others can't copy your products and ruin your business, otherwise Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes would have taken a pretty big hit!"
The redhead shrugged nonchalantly, scratching the back of his head, as if the warning, lectured by Hermione, didn't sink in, "Blimey, Hermione, what's gotten you all worked up? It's just paper…"
"Just paper? And I suppose the money you pocket at the end of the day is just weighted metal? I don't hear you complaining when these paperworks fills your coin purse."
"All I mean is you can always write up another, can't you?"
"Ronald, do you have any idea what goes into filling out a monthly projected earnings form?"
"No, not really, no. But it couldn't be that difficult, could it? You think that's hard- you should try peeling rainbow vomit off the ceiling."
Sighing, she whispered, "You can be a real git sometimes, you know that?" Hermione clenched her jaw, pulling stacks of paperwork from her table and roughly shoving them into her charmed handbag. "I'm going home!" She moved past Ron, purposefully shoving her shoulders against his, walked out the room, and loudly slammed the door shut behind her. "The nerve of him sometimes!" She muttered under her breath, dodging a Fanged Frisbee that whizzed past her head.
As she stood outside her office, fuming, she took a moment to observe the store. Since her arrival, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes stayed consistently packed. Customers, from knee high to elderly, could be seen shopping and testing out products. Their line of products extended from generic joke products, to explosives (for the mischievous boys), to love potions (for the heartstruck girls), and many more in between. Her foul mood quickly lifted as she watched the patrons laugh and enjoy themselves.
Maybe Ron was right; perhaps she was just a bit stressed out from all the work she'd been subjecting herself to. Well, whether he was right or not, he was still a ninny.
She waved to George, who had moved outside of the shop while Hermione and Ron were having their spat, and now entertained a crowd of young children. He held a lit firecracker between his thumb and pointer and warned the children not to approach the dangerous product (something Hermione enforced at the shop in case a child were to get injured onsite) as he immediately dropped it; the lit fuse disappearing within the cannister.
George clipped his nostrils shut with a clothespin, and a few of the kids giggled in confusion. The air grew thick with anticipation as they waited for what was to come next. The firecracker fizzled, and nothing. The look of disappointment began to emerge over the children's faces, until one of them shouted, "Ewwww! What is that smell?" The boy pinched his nose, scrunched up his face, and blanched at the foul odor.
Hermione laughed, emulating the boy's reaction. The firecracker popped with red and yellow sparks, and with each explosion, the smell grew worse. Some of the younger girls screamed, running off to their parents and hiding their faces in their robes to avoid the stench.
"Daddy! It smells like doodie!"
"Fart!"
"Oh man, who did that?!"
A group of boys broke out in laughter as they tried to bat away the smell, wafting it towards each other. George stood at the front with his usual grin painted across his face. Another successful show-and-smell!
With an approving smile, Hermione bid the older Weasley farewell and went off on her own.
Like clockwork, she made her way to Flourish and Blotts bookshoppe a few blocks down, purchased a copy of The Daily Prophet from the counter, and Apparated home.
"Mrow."
She glanced down, chocolate eyes meeting amber. Her furry best friend since Hogwarts greeted her arrival home. "Hello Crookshanks." She bent down to pat her moggie. "Catch any bad guys?" He purred, approving her affections.
Hermione made her way into the living room, and, with a sigh, she fell back onto her comfy couch, tossing her bag onto the ottoman next to her. Crookshanks followed suit, leaning against her side, purring once more. "It's been quite the day, I must say, Crooksy," she cooed as he sought her attention, hinting for more pets. Hermione ignored his demands and grabbed the newspaper she purchased moments before.
'TROLLS TRAVERSES THROUGH TOWN'
'NEW VIBRATING NIMBUS: BEST SELLER WITH WOMEN'
'HUFFLEPUFF POMPION POTION PREDICAMENT'
'WIZARD GIVES BIRTH TO A BABY AFTER CONTRACEPTION SPELL BACKFIRES'
'MALFOY FORTUNE TURNS TO MISFORTUNE AS BLUEBLOOD'S BUSINESS BLUNDERS'
Her eyes lingered on the headline, letting the title sink in. It wasn't the first time she'd seen an article on Malfoy; it certainly wouldn't be the last. The Daily Prophet, or any publication, in fact, loved gossiping about the Malfoy family and their affliction. It must have been hard for him, now that his parents were out of the picture. Things had turned completely sideways for the Malfoys, and she couldn't help but feel a sharp pang in her chest as curiosity got the best of her, and she read the article:
Malfoy Fortune turns to Misfortune as Blueblood's Business Blunders
By Rita Skeeter
(Hermione rolled her eyes, Of course.)
Four years have passed since the fall of the Dark Lord, and three years since His followers were found guilty of conspiracy, murder and dastardly mayhem. However, as many of you readers know, one Death Eater managed to escape without suffering the consequences of his actions: Draco Lucius Malfoy.
While Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, among the array of Death Eaters arrested in the aftermath of the War, were quickly taken into custody by officials and sent to Azkaban, Draco lived a free and comfortable life, despite his parents' incarceration. In comparison to his fellow criminal counterparts, of course.
But, as with all of those with a silver spoon placed in their mouth since birth, the young Malfoy hit a spot of luck, his parents setting aside several vaults filled to the brim with galleons for him to live out the rest of his days in peace. The Ministry, however, wouldn't let the young Death Eater leave without, at least, a slap on the wrist. His fine, for aligning himself with criminals, was to assist in the reconstruction of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and other locations damaged during Voldemort's wrathful onslaught. Rumor has it that the reconstruction cost the young Malfoy nearly 4 million galleons!
Through these past several years, myself and readers watched the fallen aristocrat at his highest high, and now as he reaches his lowest low.
In the span of two years, the young heir has managed to run a total of no less than ten businesses into the ground. Much to this writer's dismay, today's story is only a continuation of his failure:
The Ancient Quill, opened just short of a month and costing a whomping total of 60 thousand galleons to start, closed its doors today. The business was best known (if that) for distributing quills and ink for writing enthusiasts and students, providing lavish and high quality writing utensils. Rumor has it, some feathers used for products were plucked from a phoenix! What a rare commodity! And perhaps, it is for reasons like the bizarre display of high end merchandise that Draco Malfoy was unable to maintain the business. It is obvious to this reporter that, while Draco Malfoy believes himself in touch with today's working wizard, he has no clue how to begin to relate to those of us not blessed with golden diapers from birth.
"'E duzzen' know ze first zing about running a beezniz," an anonymous source claimed, "All 'e duz ez jus' spend, spend, an' spend! 'E dun care about 'is employeez. 'E's rood, duz not think before 'e speeks end jus' screems at you all ze time! Iz all about him -Draco Malfoy end nobody else!"
With his most recent partner out of the picture, Draco Malfoy will now attempt to run his fiasco of an empire on his own.
Businesses, left and right, closed up shop as the night sky curtained over Diagon Alley; yet, the Leaky Cauldron remained open, loud with laughter and music as patrons enjoyed what was left of the evening.
Well, everyone except for Draco, of course.
With his house confiscated, he sought shelter at the inn above Leaky, buying out, indefinitely, the entire floor space. The living condition was less than ideal and far from his standards, but with no mansion to go back home to at the end of the day, this was his best bet.
To avoid being cooped up in his dinky shelter, Draco spent most of his time downstairs at the pub. He was usually found sitting at the bar with a shot of fire whiskey in his hand. Tonight was no exception.
He stared at the newspaper in front of him, a frown carved into his face as he struggled to focus his eyes on the blurred photo of himself. Well, maybe it wasn't blurry, but his vision certainly was. Merlin, that last shot burned so good hitting the back of his throat. He recognized the scene from the photograph immediately: sitting at the cafe in deep conversation with his ex-partner. When did they snap this photo? He didn't remember a flash going off at all. The big, bold words of the article laughed mockingly in his face. Gossip always found its way to the papers.
"Did you see today's article about Draco Malfoy?" whispered a man not too far away, rubbing the tip of his curled mustache. "What a failure."
"I read somewhere that he deals in dark artifacts just to make ends meet," said the woman next to him, her plump cheeks darkened with blood, no doubt from far too much alcohol.
"I put nothin' past a Malfoy," exclaimed a drunken Irishman at the bar, narrowing his eyes as he pointed down at the photo in his paper. "They're da worst of da worst, in my opinion. Far as I'm concerned, I'm glad his business is goin' down the shitter."
"That so?" Draco slammed his shot glass to the table, flickering his eyes up to meet the imprudent git. "I dare you to say that to my face."
"I thought I smelled somethin' rotten," said the man, turning the corners of his lips upwards to bare his yellow, crooked teeth. "And lookie what I find. A Malfoy, stinkin' up ta place. Tell me, boyo, how does it feel ta know you'll be livin' offa owl droppin's for da rest of yer days?"
"That's interesting. I wonder how you'll like eating through a straw?" Draco stumbled forward, alcohol's kiss taking hold of him as he clambered over towards the man. In a sluggish, yet quick, decision, he drew his fist back and slugged the Irishman clear across the jaw. It contacted with a resounding 'smack.' The bar hushed. All eyes fell on the two men, and then on Draco as the patrons soon realized who had thrown the punch.
"That's him, isn't it? Draco Malfoy?"
"Look at him. Shite faced in a bar. The papers must be true."
The Irishman rubbed at his already swollen jaw, flexing it this way and that to pop the joints. He glared daggers at Draco, fisted his beer, downed the lot, and slammed his mug onto the bar top. "You'll be regretin' tha', boyo." It happened in a blur -or again, that could have been his vision- as a hand reached out, fisted his robes, and yanked him forward at the same time that knuckles connected with Draco's nose.
Draco fell backwards, stumbling over his two feel and a stool, onto the dirty tavern floor. His head slammed against the ground, and he stared at the lamp, posted above him, spinning around in circles as the light grew dimmer until it turned back and sent him into nothingness.
Hermione sat at her desk, a quill in her hand and a blank parchment in front of her. Next to the paper, was the article on Draco Malfoy. Her attention kept going back to the photo of him sitting in the cafe. He still looked very much like how she remembered, though older. Malfoy kept his stylishness about, always well dressed, and not a single hair out of place. And from the looks of it, not only was he taller, but he was leaner. His shoulders were filled out and his jaw was more defined. She found herself wishing the photo was clearer, so she could get a better look at his face.
"Mrow."
She snapped her head up from the newspaper, her nose nearly touching the print, and glanced shyly over at her companion, "Not a word to about this to anyone." She booped his nose as he stared at the photo. Hermione could almost see the disgust in his face as he looked at the man in the moving picture.
"It'd be weird just to reach out to him out of the blue, wouldn't it?" She spoke more to herself than Crookshanks, "I haven't spoken or seen him since the battle at Hogwarts." A pause, "Four years..."
Hermione laced her quill through her fingers as her eyes trailed back down to the picture. "Must've been a difficult four years for you." Malfoy leaned back in his chair, his foot bumping against the coffee table while his companion wiped his brow, looking around suspiciously.
"How do I reach out to you?"
"What in the-" Draco groaned as a trembling hand raised towards his face and gingerly touched his nose, "Fuck!" He slowly opened his eyes, his vision slowly adjusting to the dark room. His head throbbed terribly from dehydration. It was, yet another, hangover.
Where am I? His hands felt around for what he was lying upon -a soft and warm comforter, filled with his own body heat. It smelled of booze and his cologne. His head pounded in protest to the new scent.
Confusion (and pain) filled his thoughts as he pushed himself up; a finger lightly rubbing against his broken nose. How the Hell did this happen? "Damn," He muttered, feeling dried blood caked under his nostrils, "Damn it."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Draco winced, focusing his attention towards the overpowering rapping sound coming from the curtained window. His head throbbed yet again. While he had no real sense of the current time, he surmised it was still dark outside given no light was shining through the drapery. He could have had a few more hours of sleep instead of dealing with his condition now. Who would be sending an owl at this time?
He reached out for his wand, lying conveniently next to him, "Lumos." A (superbly) bright orb gathered energy and formed at the tip of his wand, forcing Draco to turn away, shutting his eyes. "Damn it all to Hell."
He made his way slowly to the wall and drew back the screen. Draco was greeted by an especially small tawny owl with an oversized scroll attached to its leg. It hooted, relieved someone answered its call. The poor thing, exhausted from its journey, flailed about helplessly as it tried to maintain its balance. Draco pushed the window open, allowing the bird to enter.
As he went to close the window, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection. Draco leaned in, positioning his wand to get a better view of his damaged beautiful face. Not only did he fashion a wicked broken nose, he also wore a black eye. Did he get into a fight of some sort? When? With whom? How?
His head thumped, exhausted from all the thinking, already. The blonde sighed and turned away from his reflection and towards the owl. "What have you there, boy?" The bird stuck a leg out and gave him a sarcastic (at least, it's what Draco imagined) hoot. He reached forward with his free hand and untied the note, relieving the owl of its heavy burden. "Thank you."
Though Draco wasn't in the best state of mind to read the letter, curiosity did get the best of him. It'd been some time since he received an actual letter. When the public found out Draco had been acquitted of all crimes, the letters began to pour in, sometimes hundreds of Howlers each day. Most of the time the voices were concealed, hiding their identity, as they screamed in his face how he deserved to die and rot in Azkaban. One Howler went as far to threaten his life, stating, 'Magic's too good for someone like you. If I find you in a dark alleyway, I'll slit your throat and dump your body in the ocean to let the fish have their way with you.' Ever since then, he didn't trust the post.
'Dear Mr. Malfoy,
I am a wealthy, independent entrepreneur who, by word of mouth, has heard of your promising business, The Ancient Quill. It is my desire to discuss possible business endeavours with you at your earliest convenience. I will be at The Three Broomsticks Thursday evening at precisely 6PM. If interested, please bring a copy of your projected earnings for the year, as well as a can-do attitude!
Sincerely,
An Interested Party'
An interested party? -An interested party! Draco read and re-read the letter, sure that he'd skipped over some verbal abuse or how it was all some sick joke. When he decided this was, indeed, the actual message that 'an interested party' meant to send (they'd written his name, so they knew who they wrote to, and they even named the business that just tanked…) he shot his fist up into the air and shouted, "Yes!"
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