From boy to man, Draco Malfoy had had to deal with a lot of shit. There was the overbearing family history and the deatheater father, the vulgar mother, the Slytherin professor, his downward spiraling career, a reputation of self-destruction, and then, there were the many violent ex-lovers. But this beat the Draco Malfoy list-of-shit hands-down.
He was disfigured by a Weasley.
Watching himself in the mirror, the permanent scowl that was the trademark on his face, he tried in vain to hide the bruise with his new Vesace hat, shifting it here and there.
“Fancy a cup of tea with your favourite professor when you are done hiding the purple continent on your face?”
“Enough!” he cried, throwing the hat hard on the floor before driving his fist into the mirror, shattering it. The broken pieces barely touched the ground before a twinkling flash sent the glasses back into its form again.
The professor stood at the door, unaffected by the familiar episode of adolescent spectacle that was beginning to unfold before him.
“Fortunately,” another voice begun, “the house elves had the Reparo charm in every inch of this manor. Wizard knows if there will be anything left the way you go through with them.”
Draco turned to greet his visitor, but not before he gave a satisfying kick at the antique griffin statue, sending it flying across the room to its inevitable fate. Draco, with his eyes closed, relished in the crack as the griffin statue hit the wall and fell into pieces, rolling on the marble floor.
The sound of his boots hitting the marble flooring echoed the room as he made his way towards the door. A flash of light appeared from where the broken pieces of griffin landed, and Draco walked through the halo, knowing that the griffin statue would be back where it belonged even before he made himself out of the door. The wonders of old magic his family had preached for centuries protected the Malfoy estate from any harm that might befall them. The very same magic that laid the path of self-destruction that was to be a trade characteristic of father and son, and that would eventually land the old family in dishonour, leaving none but one to shoulder the weight of its aftermath.
“Useless things,” he murmured under his breath and chuckled, without humour, at the workings of old magic.
Flint stole a look at the professor, tall and still as revered, with new specks of gray in his hair, leaning against the massive mahogany door, unperturbed by the lack of anger management of the young Malfoy. Perhaps, he thought, there was a reason why Professor Snape was the custodial guardian of Draco Malfoy.
The professor, having felt his eyes on him, merely shifted his weight from the door frame before turning, a billow of his robes behind him, making the skinny man larger than he seemed. And with a click of his wooden cane, he moved with the grace fitting of a Slytherin master, coming face to face with his old student.
“Cup of tea for you too, Mr Flint?”
Living in the clutch of a cruel family history had its perks, Draco decided. The image of a tortured heir at the aftermath of the war drew sympathy almost by its own, and everyone fell over themselves trying to fix him, and that very often included the trouble he sowed.
Except this time, he did not actually go looking for trouble.
Snape was flipping through copies of The Prophet with distaste, clucking his tongue as he leafed through a few more publications methodically, tossing them into the fireplace.
“Your father,” the professor drawled, “would roll in his grave, if he had any. And your mother would be most,” he paused, quite lost for words. “And I supposed you must be glad your parents are very dead at this moment, to spare you from any parental agony.”
“If you don’t mind, professor,” Draco said, a tension evident in his voice, “I had enough sarcasm for one day.”
“I supposed living together for a few years doesn’t make you immune to it,” Flint laughed uneasily, resting his cup on the table, avoiding the two men’s steely glare.
“And before he send anymore glassware into the air, Mr Flint,” Snape said, sending a warning stare at Draco, who released his grip on his cup almost immediately. “Your proposal, if you please.”
“Of course,” Flint replied as he produced a leather-bound organizer. “This matter has to be cleared up at once. Alicia Spinnet is going to get Ginny Weasley to release an explanation for the assault at a press conference. And you, Draco, are going to meet Weasley to finalise what is to be released to the press.”
“And that’s it?” Draco exclaimed, jumping from his chair. “That’s it?” he repeated, agitated.
“Yes,” Flint replied. “That’s it,” he said in a firm tone.
“Where is the justice?” Draco cried.
Snape cluck his tongue in distaste at the dramatic display.
“Ginny Weasley will apologise to you publicly, and you will accept it, Draco,” he said. “It’s for the best.”
“For her best’s more like it!” he cried on his foot, pacing in front of the fireplace. “This is criminal. I can sue.”
Flint sighed. This was going to be harder than he thought.
Usually, alcohol had no place at a press conference. But Ginny found them anyway, along with a Draco who was nearing drunken stupor, under the table.
“Weasley,” Draco hissed and lunged himself at her with a bottle in his hand. Ginny backed away by instinct, her dislike for the Malfoy evident on her face.
“Malfoy,” she said curtly, still on her knees, staring at him.
“Don’t think I’m going to let you off on this one,” he spat, with mania in his eyes. The tense atmosphere was broken when he hiccupped and fell backwards, losing his balance, and leaned against the wooden support heavily.
Ginny rolled her eyes. She paused, as if entertaining a thought, before she shifted her weight and joined Draco under the table. The table cloth she was holding to fell back in place like a stage curtain closing the night’s play, and the two old schoolmates sat crouched in the darkened space, squashed together. It reminded Ginny of the times she played hide and seek with her older brothers in the kitchen at Ottery St. Catchpole.
She cleared her throat before she spoke.
“Look Malfoy,” she started. “I’m sorry, all right. Didn’t mean to hit you.”
Draco chuckled without humour and sniffed as he took a swig of his whisky. Even in the dimmed space, Ginny could make out the darkened part of his face, the discolouration that was the bruise she had inflicted, unintended. And against her will, she felt a pang of guilt.
“Can’t you just say something?” she cried, uneasy in the silence as it stretched on.
And he was about to say something when an unexpected hustle and bustle broke out. From the small gap between the hem of the table cloth and the wooden stage flooring, shadows of shuffling steps appeared, accompanied by loud voices and sounds of furniture dragged across the ground and put in place. He could make out a faltering voice that sounded like his manager, moving about the room, and he sank further in his position, glaring into the floor.
Ginny contemplated getting out from under the table, but found herself short of explanation for the awkward questions that might arise. Just as she thought that she should get out from under the table anyway, since being found with Draco Malfoy under a table at a press conference would undoubtedly draw more tedious questions than any, two figures stopped at where they were hidden and started speaking in curt tones.
“That is out of question,” the female voice said. It was Alicia. Ginny wanted very much to ask what was out of question but her childhood instinct took over and she remained where she was, eavedropping. Draco, who had been ignoring her existence since she spoke, lifted an eyebrow and observed her through a sideway glance.
“It is a eight million galleon deal,” the male voice said. It was Flint. Draco found himself leaning forward at the voice, a strand of his hair falling forward.
“Ginny doesn’t need the money,” Alicia said, irritated, folding her arms in front of her chest. “And I’m sure Mr Malfoy doesn’t need that kind of money either. I don’t understand …”
“It’s a good opportunity for them both,” Flint interrupted firmly, staring hard at Alicia. “It is not often for this big advertiser to look for spokeperson. And this could lead to more future deals.”
Alicia laughed uneasily and stared at Flint as if he was mad.
“What makes you think that they would be willing?” she said, her voice getting evidently louder. “You are asking for a miracle of this century that is not going to happen.”
“All right,” Flint replied, taking on a defence. “What can I say to make you agree that this is a good deal?”
“Nothing.”
“On the contrary …”
“Please!” Alicia said. “Stop it this moment,” she demanded, stabbing her finger about the air in his face. “This has absolutely nothing to do with my client and everything to do with yours. You want to clean up the image of your client with this opportunity, you are free to do whatever it takes to get the deal. But you are not going to take advantage of my client.”
“Oh, spare me the drama, you Griff,” Flint replied, not about to admit that Alicia was right about his agenda. “You know that this can’t be done without Ginny Weasley. They specifically asked for them. And if they are not going to do it, some other couples will.”
“Well, good heavens then, let them do it. Draco Malfoy and Ginny Weasley are not a couple!”
“Yes, they are not, but people think they are!” Flint shouted back and then reasoned more calmly. “Think of the commission, Spinnet.”
“Ginny Weasley is my friend,” she replied, grinding her teeth.
“And Draco is mine, too,” Flint said.
“And it is just so Slytherin to do your friend in for money,” she spat.
Flint ignored the comment and continued.
“You have to agree that the deal would do them no harm and only good. Think of the publicity,” he said, “and how it would turn all this mess around with just a flick of the wand.”
“It will make this mess messier more like it!” she said in a tone that suggested the discussion was closed. She turned, avoiding eye contact with Flint as she absent-mindedly rearranged the name tags on the table, shifting them about. A silence pursued as she moved along the length of the table and kicked something.
“Honestly, I don’t see how it’s so bad for them to act a couple in an advertisement,” Flint said. “Draco gets to clean up his image being paired with goody two shoes Ginny Weasley, and you can spare Ginny Weasley another heartbreak seeing pictures of Corner and his new blonde plastered all over town. Answer me honestly, Spinnet, would you rather them, or our clients benefiting from this publicity? I know the Gryffindor sensibility probably doesn’t allow it, but really, letting this eight million galleon deal to a dastardly ex-boyfriend is the last thing any decent Slytherin women would do.”
Draco had been an immature prat in the past. Now he was a slighter cleverer immature prat of the present.
That was to say, he knew a good point when he saw one.
It wasn’t that his reputation hadn’t been a mess since his birth that marked him a Malfoy. But it was substantially messier when he finally got to hold destiny in his own hands. It was his father’s prophecy came true. He couldn’t hold his life together when given a chance.
And when truth be told, the only thing that he did right for himself, he wagered, was becoming Seeker for the Falmouth Falcons.
Draco loved Quidditch. He always had. And when Professor Snape said that he had lost himself ever since the war, he had always counted on the game to convince himself that he hadn’t.
In short, Quidditch defined him. And he knew he was closed to losing it these days.
Ouch! Ginny thought.
Michael Corner and that bitch?
She rubbed her knee absent-mindedly before picking up a bottle and taking a swig herself. And another.
It didn’t take long before she found herself thinking that, sometimes, the Slytherins do make compelling propositions.
She wondered if she would have to kiss Draco Malfoy for this.
She hoped not.
Armed with his father’s sense of business acumen, Draco came to a painful conclusion.
He cleared his throat before he spoke.
“He had a point, you know,” he said, admiring the bottle in his hand, as if addressing no one in particular.
Ginny glanced at him suspiciously. She took another agitated swig, unaware that she had almost polished off an entire bottle of Firewhisky.
“Glaring at me doesn’t do anything to me, you know,” Draco said and took a calculated glance at her. “And I wasn’t the one who dumped you.”
Ginny shot him a deadly stare. If deadly stares came in physical forms, Draco was sure that he would be stabbed to death by now.
“Men,” she hissed at him. “You and Michael are just the same, don’t think I don’t know it.”
Draco smirked.
“Still,” he replied, “at least I didn’t mess with you.”
“Why,” she asked, her voice slightly slurred, but her vigilance no less pronounced, “do you want to do this?”
“Money runs out eventually, you know?”
“Even for you?” she asked in disbelief.
Draco nodded.
“Even for me.”
“It’s eight million galleons,” she said in a slightly dreamy voice.
“Four million galleons for you and me.”
“Better me than him, I suppose.”
“Better me than him.”
And in what Ginny thought would never have been possible in her life time, she raised her bottle to his, and with a clink, a deal was sealed.
To Be Continued.
Karen Noelle is the author of 3 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 8 members. Members who liked Punch Drunk Love also liked 416 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 8 members. Members who liked Punch Drunk Love also liked 416 other stories.
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