Fingers absently stroking his jaw, Draco took his time inspecting the contents of his wardrobe -- a veritable rainbow of hues ranging from dark green to black -- and picked out a few shirts for Elba to pack for him. He watched the elf speedily fold and arrange everything in his suitcase in the perfect show of happy efficiency. He'd definitely have to get an elf of his own once all his home ownership matters were in order, which, if all went according to plan, would be quite soon.
For now, though, he was putting real estate out of his mind, as his attention was needed on his job -- both of them. Officially, he was accompanying Cyrus Ogletree to the Belgian Ministerie van Magie for a few days for a standard visitation to ascertain whether the status quo could still be considered as such, in much the same way as nosy witches used to go around borrowing cups of sugar from their neighbours as an excuse to peek in their houses and make sure they hadn't upgraded their furniture sets. A discovery in the affirmative would set off a sudden and urgent demand for newer, grander furniture sets all down the row of houses in which sugar was regularly swapped, and an escalation of armchair races would go on until all parties came together to agree that they were being silly and everyone's sofas were equally lovely. The sentiment would last until someone next needed to borrow an egg. International Ministry relationships often operated on the same basic principles, if on a slightly larger scale.
Draco's primary purpose in being dispatched there, however, was to conduct Unit business. It was his first assignment, and although Williams had told him it wouldn't be anything particularly strenuous, and Dennis had assured him that he was ready to be set loose, Draco was feeling just a bit anxious. He wouldn't be getting the details of his assignment until he got there, and he hoped that whatever it was, he wouldn't cause an international incident. People tended not to look well upon those -- nor on him, come to think of it, and he couldn't imagine botching his very first mission would be very helpful in that regard.
Blaise sauntered in, casually throwing a disapproving look at the monochromatic theme of Draco's wardrobe before asking, "Will you be getting free time to explore the city or anything?"
"I'm not sure," said Draco slowly, trying to decide between two identical pairs of grey trousers.
"Well, if you do," said Blaise, holding up and rustling a piece of parchment to get his friend's attention, "I would appreciate it if you could purchase a few things for me."
Draco took the paper, an eyebrow lifting as he read the long list of renowned Belgian confections. "Oh, for Salazar's sake, Blaise. You and your -- I'm surprised your teeth haven't all rotted off yet." At this, Draco was treated with a dazzling grin. He rolled his eyes. "Why don't I just buy you a chocolate factory instead, then you could have your very own endless supply?"
"And eat all my profits? Are you mad? That's no way to run a business. Besides, I like this way better. It makes me feel as though I've worked a bit to deserve the chocolates you're buying me."
"Work? You're just standing there with your hands in your pockets, asking me to buy you seventeen different kinds of sweets."
"Yes, and have you any idea how difficult it is to get a favour out of you?"
"In fact, I do. I work very hard at crushing the dreams of those near and dear to me." He tossed several pairs of socks in the house elf's general direction.
"You're a monster," Blaise accused in a tone that wouldn't have been out of place in a conversation about the weather. "Shouldn't you be out menacing small children?"
"You know there aren't any in your building. Besides, they might ruin my robes. They're just so sticky, what with those tiny, grubby hands of theirs, the little buggers..." Draco trailed off, the beginnings of a frown forming on his face as the image filled his head, and he wondered just how people like the Weasleys managed to live with themselves.
A moment of silence passed as Blaise contemplated something of the same. Shaking the thought off, he asked bracingly, "So, you'll do it, then?"
"Was there ever any doubt?" asked Draco.
Draco had never had much opportunity to experience the flush of embarrassment; his lineage simply would not allow it. True to the long line of proud and distinguished Malfoys who had come, seen and conquered before him, Draco had brimmed with haughty confidence from the day he had managed to convey lordly self-satisfaction while simultaneously stuffing a chubby fist in his mouth. Surrounded by flunkies with a vested interest in remaining in the good favour of his family, what breaches of good social conduct he had committed were usually quickly and quietly swept under the rug or attributed to the fey, forgivable whims of the insanely wealthy. Of course, it helped that Draco had received a good amount of training from his parents so that such gaffes were few and far between, and rarely gave himself reason for discomfiture. That unfamiliar feeling was circling him now, however, searching for the perfect spot in which to settle, and he pressed his lips together, as Cyrus Ogletree's snores whistled across the room.
Ogletree appeared to have embraced ignominy as a bosom friend. He wore robes so traditional that the Museum of Magical History would have fallen over itself to procure and display them; the worn cloth -- a patterned silk -- probably boasted much richer colours about five hundred years prior. An incongruous plaid trilby hanging precariously on the corner of his chair provided the only indication that he had partaken in relatively modern times. He snored lightly at the head of the table where representatives of the Belgian Ministry had laid out a full meal of local culinary delicacies for him. Ogletree was bent in the usual geriatric way, his spine curved to approximately the same degree as the handle of the cane that aided his perambulation. His waxy, bald head, with its half-crown of tufty, snow-white hair, hung low enough to be in danger of being frosted with strawberry mousse.
Draco, subordinate and seated to his right, grimaced in chagrin as proxy, feeling the mortification the old man should have, were he not contentedly and obliviously slumbering in front of a dozen robust Ministry men. A furtive nudge of Draco's elbow only caused Ogletree to snort and mumble, bristling his thick, white moustache, and slip a fraction of an inch further down.
The others didn't seem to mind, as Ogletree was cut from the cloth of old men who got away with all manner of bad behaviour simply by dint of being so ancient that everything they did was perceived as harmless, and, often, entertaining.
There were a few chuckles around the table, and the Belgian seated next to Draco leaned over with a knowing smile. "Never mind," he said in lightly accented English. "Let him rest; men of his age tire easily. Tomorrow we can get to work, but tonight let us have a good time."
The pronouncement was met with cheers from all corners of the table, the convivial clamour failing still to penetrate Ogletree's ears, from which white hair sprouted like spider chrysanthemums. As the evening wore on, Draco watched the other men consume bottle after bottle of wine, segue shoptalk into comparisons of the sizes of their secretaries' bums, trade dirty limericks and turn many interesting shades of red, and he wondered if he just might have the most ridiculous fake profession on earth.
By the end of the dinner, while Ogletree continued to content himself with his hours-long nap and Draco had moved dessert away from the old man's gradual downward trajectory, the others were sufficiently inebriated enough that they didn't notice that Draco remained sober as ever, even though he'd exchanged many a "Salut!" with them throughout the evening.
It had been one of those unsanctioned skills he'd honed in school, when a group of them would get together with bottles of contraband and toast the worst possible things they could think of, just to be contrary, like everyone thought Slytherins were supposed to be. And Draco, who fulfilled somebody's idea of a big brother whether he wanted to or not, usually ended up being the one stepping over prone bodies and cleaning up the sick before the house elves got wind of the mess and reported them. He wasn't a caretaker by nature, but with everyone else drinking themselves to oblivion, the burden of being responsible had to fall on someone's shoulders, and Draco had taken it up without much argument. Truth was, he just didn't like drinking all that much -- at least, not to the point of forgetting himself. His life had been out of control in so many ways -- having to assassinate his headmaster, for one -- that whatever tenuous grasp he had on himself he wasn't willing to give up.
The chief representative of the Belgian Ministry staggered to his feet and managed to close the evening without stumbling over his words or himself. Draco took his cue, and roused Ogletree in time to shake hands with everyone and make as though he'd been awake all the while, spouting things like, "That's an interesting stain on your shirt, my dear Lambert; was it from the third course?"
When goodbyes had been repeated to everyone's satisfaction, Draco and Ogletree Portkeyed back to their hotel, the old ambassador smacking his lips softly.
"Nice chaps," said Ogletree, as he shuffled and Draco walked through the corridor towards their rooms. "They do a good mousse. Wish it had been chocolate, though. Give my right eye for good Belgian chocolate." He pointed exaggeratedly to the eye that cataracts hadn't laid siege to years ago.
"I know someone who'd get along famously with you," Draco said, deciding that when he had time to run out for Blaise's shopping, he'd get an extra box for Ogletree.
"Is it a lovely young lady?" the old man asked hopefully, coming to a halt in the middle of the hallway.
Draco shook his head.
"Then I don't think I'm interested," Ogletree said, and fumbled in his pockets for his room key, producing it after a few false starts of butterscotches, coins and a paper clip.
After making sure Ogletree was safely ensconced in his room, Draco walked on to his own. Upon opening the door, the crunch of paper met his ears as he trod on something that hadn't previously been present in his hotel room. Stooping, Draco picked up a slim parcel from the floor; it was unmarked save for his footprint. Unknotting the twine, Draco discovered a thin, clear plastic case containing a disc that caught the lights at every angle, and two pieces of paper with ragged edges, as though they'd been torn out from a book, were attached, small typeface featuring two characters called Beatrice and Benedick trading barbs. Draco had been in this business long enough not to waste time and effort wondering just what this snippet of a play had to do with him, and tapped his wand on the pages, turning the words into the details of his assignment.
His target location was, fortunately, quite a short walk from the hotel. Shrugging out of his business robes and into clothing that would blend in well among Muggles, Draco slipped out of his room, and into the street, drenched in the orange-yellow haze of streetlamps trying to ward off the dark of night.
He wended his way along the road, the hard macadam pounding the city's heartbeat through his soles. The Muggles paid him no heed, each with only a destination on their minds as the temperature dipped and settled in for a frost.
Having made sure to acquaint himself with the area upon arrival, the map in Draco's head served him well as he rounded corners and glided over zebra crossings with ease, reaching his target location without any trouble. He purposely walked past it first at a leisurely stroll, studying the place out of the corner of his eye. To his benefit, the little boutique hotel was fitted in the front with a large glass pane, and he could see directly into the reception area, where a young woman was seated behind a counter of wood and frosted glass. Estimating the night receptionist's age in the early- to-mid-20s range, Draco quickly formulated a plan to glean information from her that she was not allowed to give.
His hand slid into his right pocket, feeling around for both his wand and the mock mobile phone Dennis had given him, and stealthily transfigured the hand-phone into a small velvet box. Drawing the box out to check that its contents had been changed correctly, Draco slipped it back in his pocket, and pushed the front door open, approaching the reception counter with a friendly smile.
"Bon soir, madamoiselle. Er, parlez-vous anglais?" he asked, allowing a smidgen of hesitation to creep into his voice. If he were being modest, Draco would have rated his French-speaking skills somewhere between flawless and impeccable, but for the moment, being a hapless yet charming Englishman would probably work better in his favour.
"Yes, how can I help you?" the receptionist asked in thickly accented English, her smile and demeanour the perfect mix of deference and proficiency.
"Well, you see, er, it's a bit embarrassing," Draco said, a self-deprecating and winsome flush colouring his cheeks as he leaned forward, resting his arms on the counter. "My girlfriend is staying here for a bit, and I wanted to pop in and surprise her, but I've gone and forgotten her room number. Would you be so kind as to look it up for me? Her surname's Martin. Sarah Martin."
Thankfully, the name listed on his assignment sheet was an easy one to remember, and he didn't have to worry about mispronouncing his fake paramour's name. What Sarah Martin looked like, however, he wasn't completely sure, having only been given a short, written description, nor did he know if that was even her real name or just an alias. He was even further at a loss as to how his handlers had known to send him to this particular area, at the precise time she was there. He had a vague idea of the Unit having a massive research team sequestered somewhere out on the wild moors or in underground caverns, scores of bespectacled men hunching over gas lamps and furiously deciphering code after code. He'd asked Dennis once how Williams and Webb seemed to know so much about everything, and in his usual gentle and amiable way, Dennis had pointed out that Draco wasn't being paid to ask questions.
The receptionist glanced at her computer and hesitated. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's against hotel policy," she said apologetically, her fingers hovering above the keyboard.
His face fell. "Oh, no. Oh, god, of course, of course. Hotel policy, right," Draco said, nodding in disappointment.
She gave him a sympathetic half-smile, the ends of her eyebrows pulling downward as he slumped slightly against the counter, momentarily stymied. "I'm very sorry," she added.
"Well, I -- of course I don't want to put you in a tight spot, but -- Well, could you just this once? Normally, I wouldn't dream of asking, it's just that --" He leaned forward, eyes shining with hope, and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial level. "See, I was planning to propose tomorrow, and it would just be beyond fantastic of you if you could..."
She bit her lip, her eyes darting around the lobby. "I don't know..."
His eyes flickered to her nametag. His tone lightly cajoling and just dipping an experimental toe into flirty, Draco pushed forward. "Please, Annemarie, you could make or break what could be the happiest day of my life. Look, I have the ring with me and everything." He fished the ring box out of his pocket and popped it open, the fake diamond glinting madly under the fluorescent lights. Draco tried not to look smug at the results of his transfiguration skills, and kept the shiny, hopeful look on his face instead.
"Ohh," the receptionist breathed.
"Think she'll like it?" he asked, as though he genuinely cared about her opinion.
Her mouth widened in a smile, and she turned to her computer, her fingers flying over the keys. "Room 231," she said quickly. "But I did not tell you, yes?"
"Of course, of course," Draco said, beaming as warmly as he could without making himself ill. "Thank you. Annemarie, you are absolutely brilliant."
She smiled again, blushing slightly, and Draco took his leave, his first objective accomplished.
For now, though, he was putting real estate out of his mind, as his attention was needed on his job -- both of them. Officially, he was accompanying Cyrus Ogletree to the Belgian Ministerie van Magie for a few days for a standard visitation to ascertain whether the status quo could still be considered as such, in much the same way as nosy witches used to go around borrowing cups of sugar from their neighbours as an excuse to peek in their houses and make sure they hadn't upgraded their furniture sets. A discovery in the affirmative would set off a sudden and urgent demand for newer, grander furniture sets all down the row of houses in which sugar was regularly swapped, and an escalation of armchair races would go on until all parties came together to agree that they were being silly and everyone's sofas were equally lovely. The sentiment would last until someone next needed to borrow an egg. International Ministry relationships often operated on the same basic principles, if on a slightly larger scale.
Draco's primary purpose in being dispatched there, however, was to conduct Unit business. It was his first assignment, and although Williams had told him it wouldn't be anything particularly strenuous, and Dennis had assured him that he was ready to be set loose, Draco was feeling just a bit anxious. He wouldn't be getting the details of his assignment until he got there, and he hoped that whatever it was, he wouldn't cause an international incident. People tended not to look well upon those -- nor on him, come to think of it, and he couldn't imagine botching his very first mission would be very helpful in that regard.
Blaise sauntered in, casually throwing a disapproving look at the monochromatic theme of Draco's wardrobe before asking, "Will you be getting free time to explore the city or anything?"
"I'm not sure," said Draco slowly, trying to decide between two identical pairs of grey trousers.
"Well, if you do," said Blaise, holding up and rustling a piece of parchment to get his friend's attention, "I would appreciate it if you could purchase a few things for me."
Draco took the paper, an eyebrow lifting as he read the long list of renowned Belgian confections. "Oh, for Salazar's sake, Blaise. You and your -- I'm surprised your teeth haven't all rotted off yet." At this, Draco was treated with a dazzling grin. He rolled his eyes. "Why don't I just buy you a chocolate factory instead, then you could have your very own endless supply?"
"And eat all my profits? Are you mad? That's no way to run a business. Besides, I like this way better. It makes me feel as though I've worked a bit to deserve the chocolates you're buying me."
"Work? You're just standing there with your hands in your pockets, asking me to buy you seventeen different kinds of sweets."
"Yes, and have you any idea how difficult it is to get a favour out of you?"
"In fact, I do. I work very hard at crushing the dreams of those near and dear to me." He tossed several pairs of socks in the house elf's general direction.
"You're a monster," Blaise accused in a tone that wouldn't have been out of place in a conversation about the weather. "Shouldn't you be out menacing small children?"
"You know there aren't any in your building. Besides, they might ruin my robes. They're just so sticky, what with those tiny, grubby hands of theirs, the little buggers..." Draco trailed off, the beginnings of a frown forming on his face as the image filled his head, and he wondered just how people like the Weasleys managed to live with themselves.
A moment of silence passed as Blaise contemplated something of the same. Shaking the thought off, he asked bracingly, "So, you'll do it, then?"
"Was there ever any doubt?" asked Draco.
Draco had never had much opportunity to experience the flush of embarrassment; his lineage simply would not allow it. True to the long line of proud and distinguished Malfoys who had come, seen and conquered before him, Draco had brimmed with haughty confidence from the day he had managed to convey lordly self-satisfaction while simultaneously stuffing a chubby fist in his mouth. Surrounded by flunkies with a vested interest in remaining in the good favour of his family, what breaches of good social conduct he had committed were usually quickly and quietly swept under the rug or attributed to the fey, forgivable whims of the insanely wealthy. Of course, it helped that Draco had received a good amount of training from his parents so that such gaffes were few and far between, and rarely gave himself reason for discomfiture. That unfamiliar feeling was circling him now, however, searching for the perfect spot in which to settle, and he pressed his lips together, as Cyrus Ogletree's snores whistled across the room.
Ogletree appeared to have embraced ignominy as a bosom friend. He wore robes so traditional that the Museum of Magical History would have fallen over itself to procure and display them; the worn cloth -- a patterned silk -- probably boasted much richer colours about five hundred years prior. An incongruous plaid trilby hanging precariously on the corner of his chair provided the only indication that he had partaken in relatively modern times. He snored lightly at the head of the table where representatives of the Belgian Ministry had laid out a full meal of local culinary delicacies for him. Ogletree was bent in the usual geriatric way, his spine curved to approximately the same degree as the handle of the cane that aided his perambulation. His waxy, bald head, with its half-crown of tufty, snow-white hair, hung low enough to be in danger of being frosted with strawberry mousse.
Draco, subordinate and seated to his right, grimaced in chagrin as proxy, feeling the mortification the old man should have, were he not contentedly and obliviously slumbering in front of a dozen robust Ministry men. A furtive nudge of Draco's elbow only caused Ogletree to snort and mumble, bristling his thick, white moustache, and slip a fraction of an inch further down.
The others didn't seem to mind, as Ogletree was cut from the cloth of old men who got away with all manner of bad behaviour simply by dint of being so ancient that everything they did was perceived as harmless, and, often, entertaining.
There were a few chuckles around the table, and the Belgian seated next to Draco leaned over with a knowing smile. "Never mind," he said in lightly accented English. "Let him rest; men of his age tire easily. Tomorrow we can get to work, but tonight let us have a good time."
The pronouncement was met with cheers from all corners of the table, the convivial clamour failing still to penetrate Ogletree's ears, from which white hair sprouted like spider chrysanthemums. As the evening wore on, Draco watched the other men consume bottle after bottle of wine, segue shoptalk into comparisons of the sizes of their secretaries' bums, trade dirty limericks and turn many interesting shades of red, and he wondered if he just might have the most ridiculous fake profession on earth.
By the end of the dinner, while Ogletree continued to content himself with his hours-long nap and Draco had moved dessert away from the old man's gradual downward trajectory, the others were sufficiently inebriated enough that they didn't notice that Draco remained sober as ever, even though he'd exchanged many a "Salut!" with them throughout the evening.
It had been one of those unsanctioned skills he'd honed in school, when a group of them would get together with bottles of contraband and toast the worst possible things they could think of, just to be contrary, like everyone thought Slytherins were supposed to be. And Draco, who fulfilled somebody's idea of a big brother whether he wanted to or not, usually ended up being the one stepping over prone bodies and cleaning up the sick before the house elves got wind of the mess and reported them. He wasn't a caretaker by nature, but with everyone else drinking themselves to oblivion, the burden of being responsible had to fall on someone's shoulders, and Draco had taken it up without much argument. Truth was, he just didn't like drinking all that much -- at least, not to the point of forgetting himself. His life had been out of control in so many ways -- having to assassinate his headmaster, for one -- that whatever tenuous grasp he had on himself he wasn't willing to give up.
The chief representative of the Belgian Ministry staggered to his feet and managed to close the evening without stumbling over his words or himself. Draco took his cue, and roused Ogletree in time to shake hands with everyone and make as though he'd been awake all the while, spouting things like, "That's an interesting stain on your shirt, my dear Lambert; was it from the third course?"
When goodbyes had been repeated to everyone's satisfaction, Draco and Ogletree Portkeyed back to their hotel, the old ambassador smacking his lips softly.
"Nice chaps," said Ogletree, as he shuffled and Draco walked through the corridor towards their rooms. "They do a good mousse. Wish it had been chocolate, though. Give my right eye for good Belgian chocolate." He pointed exaggeratedly to the eye that cataracts hadn't laid siege to years ago.
"I know someone who'd get along famously with you," Draco said, deciding that when he had time to run out for Blaise's shopping, he'd get an extra box for Ogletree.
"Is it a lovely young lady?" the old man asked hopefully, coming to a halt in the middle of the hallway.
Draco shook his head.
"Then I don't think I'm interested," Ogletree said, and fumbled in his pockets for his room key, producing it after a few false starts of butterscotches, coins and a paper clip.
After making sure Ogletree was safely ensconced in his room, Draco walked on to his own. Upon opening the door, the crunch of paper met his ears as he trod on something that hadn't previously been present in his hotel room. Stooping, Draco picked up a slim parcel from the floor; it was unmarked save for his footprint. Unknotting the twine, Draco discovered a thin, clear plastic case containing a disc that caught the lights at every angle, and two pieces of paper with ragged edges, as though they'd been torn out from a book, were attached, small typeface featuring two characters called Beatrice and Benedick trading barbs. Draco had been in this business long enough not to waste time and effort wondering just what this snippet of a play had to do with him, and tapped his wand on the pages, turning the words into the details of his assignment.
His target location was, fortunately, quite a short walk from the hotel. Shrugging out of his business robes and into clothing that would blend in well among Muggles, Draco slipped out of his room, and into the street, drenched in the orange-yellow haze of streetlamps trying to ward off the dark of night.
He wended his way along the road, the hard macadam pounding the city's heartbeat through his soles. The Muggles paid him no heed, each with only a destination on their minds as the temperature dipped and settled in for a frost.
Having made sure to acquaint himself with the area upon arrival, the map in Draco's head served him well as he rounded corners and glided over zebra crossings with ease, reaching his target location without any trouble. He purposely walked past it first at a leisurely stroll, studying the place out of the corner of his eye. To his benefit, the little boutique hotel was fitted in the front with a large glass pane, and he could see directly into the reception area, where a young woman was seated behind a counter of wood and frosted glass. Estimating the night receptionist's age in the early- to-mid-20s range, Draco quickly formulated a plan to glean information from her that she was not allowed to give.
His hand slid into his right pocket, feeling around for both his wand and the mock mobile phone Dennis had given him, and stealthily transfigured the hand-phone into a small velvet box. Drawing the box out to check that its contents had been changed correctly, Draco slipped it back in his pocket, and pushed the front door open, approaching the reception counter with a friendly smile.
"Bon soir, madamoiselle. Er, parlez-vous anglais?" he asked, allowing a smidgen of hesitation to creep into his voice. If he were being modest, Draco would have rated his French-speaking skills somewhere between flawless and impeccable, but for the moment, being a hapless yet charming Englishman would probably work better in his favour.
"Yes, how can I help you?" the receptionist asked in thickly accented English, her smile and demeanour the perfect mix of deference and proficiency.
"Well, you see, er, it's a bit embarrassing," Draco said, a self-deprecating and winsome flush colouring his cheeks as he leaned forward, resting his arms on the counter. "My girlfriend is staying here for a bit, and I wanted to pop in and surprise her, but I've gone and forgotten her room number. Would you be so kind as to look it up for me? Her surname's Martin. Sarah Martin."
Thankfully, the name listed on his assignment sheet was an easy one to remember, and he didn't have to worry about mispronouncing his fake paramour's name. What Sarah Martin looked like, however, he wasn't completely sure, having only been given a short, written description, nor did he know if that was even her real name or just an alias. He was even further at a loss as to how his handlers had known to send him to this particular area, at the precise time she was there. He had a vague idea of the Unit having a massive research team sequestered somewhere out on the wild moors or in underground caverns, scores of bespectacled men hunching over gas lamps and furiously deciphering code after code. He'd asked Dennis once how Williams and Webb seemed to know so much about everything, and in his usual gentle and amiable way, Dennis had pointed out that Draco wasn't being paid to ask questions.
The receptionist glanced at her computer and hesitated. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's against hotel policy," she said apologetically, her fingers hovering above the keyboard.
His face fell. "Oh, no. Oh, god, of course, of course. Hotel policy, right," Draco said, nodding in disappointment.
She gave him a sympathetic half-smile, the ends of her eyebrows pulling downward as he slumped slightly against the counter, momentarily stymied. "I'm very sorry," she added.
"Well, I -- of course I don't want to put you in a tight spot, but -- Well, could you just this once? Normally, I wouldn't dream of asking, it's just that --" He leaned forward, eyes shining with hope, and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial level. "See, I was planning to propose tomorrow, and it would just be beyond fantastic of you if you could..."
She bit her lip, her eyes darting around the lobby. "I don't know..."
His eyes flickered to her nametag. His tone lightly cajoling and just dipping an experimental toe into flirty, Draco pushed forward. "Please, Annemarie, you could make or break what could be the happiest day of my life. Look, I have the ring with me and everything." He fished the ring box out of his pocket and popped it open, the fake diamond glinting madly under the fluorescent lights. Draco tried not to look smug at the results of his transfiguration skills, and kept the shiny, hopeful look on his face instead.
"Ohh," the receptionist breathed.
"Think she'll like it?" he asked, as though he genuinely cared about her opinion.
Her mouth widened in a smile, and she turned to her computer, her fingers flying over the keys. "Room 231," she said quickly. "But I did not tell you, yes?"
"Of course, of course," Draco said, beaming as warmly as he could without making himself ill. "Thank you. Annemarie, you are absolutely brilliant."
She smiled again, blushing slightly, and Draco took his leave, his first objective accomplished.
Author notes: Beatrice and Benedick are from the Shakespearean play Much Ado About Nothing. They bicker incessantly until they realise they're actually in love with each other. :)
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