hackthis_archive | Trade

TRADE

Chapter I
Chapter II

Draco was in bed with Brad Pitt -- who oddly enough, bore more than a passing resemblance to Blaise -- and Brad was attempting to convince Draco that his marriage to Jennifer Aniston was some sort of beard arrangement.

Draco was this close to believing him.

Brad Pitt could be very persuasive when he was done up in a nice Brioni suit, and his hair was in little spikes around his head, a bit like Blaise's hair, only blonde. Brad wasn't quite as fit as Blaise, but one didn't fuck one's friends; it was like fucking co-workers – it made things complicated.

Every time Brad opened his mouth, however, he spoke gibberish and there was a ringing noise in the background ruining the mood.

Draco reached back to turn off the ringing and promptly fell out of bed, hitting his head on a stack of magazines on the floor by his end table.

It took him several moments to locate the source of the ringing -- his phone -- and several more to locate the handset. In between rubbing the back of his head, his arse, and cursing loudly, he answered the phone quite abruptly. "Yes?"

"Is that any way to answer the phone?" his mother queried. Draco sighed.

"Good morning, Mother," he said, pulling an errant trainer out from underneath his bed, and looking over the top of the bed to make certain Brad Pitt wasn't actually waiting on him.

Sadly, there was no Brad, but an unkempt bed was still welcoming all the same. Climbing back onto the eggshell-coloured duvet cover, Draco tried to get under the bedclothes without actually moving any of his body parts.

"To what do I owe the honour at this ungodly hour?" he asked, scratching his bare chest absently.

"Good morning to you as well, progeny of my loins. Isn't it a brilliant day to be alive and self-employed?" Draco's smirk was softened by a yawn he couldn't contain. Narcissa Malfoy had an unspeakably dry wit, which she had passed on to her son, fully intact.

"If I'm being referred to as progeny, surely I've done something wrong," Draco said, stretching out lengthwise across the bed, and letting his head hang off the edge of the mattress. The window coverings weren't entirely closed, and from his upside-down vantage point, it still appeared to be raining.

"Tell me, Draco, dearest, is there any reason you know of that the 3am Girls would be referring to Terry Boot, by name, in The Mirror?"

Draco sat up quickly enough that his head swam, and he was forced to roll onto his side to keep from retching. He wasn't hungover inasmuch as he felt he was still slightly inebriated from having drinks with Crabbe and Goyle the night before. "Please tell me there were no police involved," he said.

Draco could just envision his mother's Cheshire cat grin on the other end. "No," she said, almost regretfully. "Clearly this was not like that incident with Warrington, The Sun and a certain strumpet from a certain nighttime TV programme."

Rubbing his hand through his bed-flattened blonde spikes, Draco slid to the edge of his mattress and got to his feet. His ankles looked rather bony from this particular angle and he sighed. "Mother, don't you think it's terribly early for you to be gloating because the press have a fondness for my escorts?"

"If your escorts are being splashed all over the tabloids, perhaps they're not consorting with the right type of clientele."

Draco rolled his eyes, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

Since taking over control of the family business, Draco had been pushing to broaden the client base with younger, trendier punters in an effort to make things livelier and more enjoyable for his escorts. His mother, however, was more of a traditionalist, who believed that escorting was simply a way to make a living. Enjoyment was secondary to the money, and every time one of Draco's escorts was caught enjoying him or herself a little too much, Draco inevitably received a phone call from his mother wherein she questioned the wisdom of actually taking pleasure your job.

"Darling, it's practically ten o'clock, and motherhood keeps no set hours," his mother reminded him. "When you and your brother were little, I used to wake up at four o'clock in the morning just to have a bath in peace."

Draco froze in the middle of his bedroom, phone held against his ear, but his mother carried on as though no three tonne elephant had just joined the conversation.

Shaking it off, Draco strode across the bedroom, opened the door to the toilet, and began his morning ablutions while his mother read the morning headlines aloud -- regaling him with tales of New Labour parties and Tory MPs caught with rentboys in Clapham Common.

The smell of cooking rashers greeted him when he went back into his bedroom, and following the enticing aroma, Draco opened the door to his bedroom and walked towards the lounge. The hardwood flooring was cold against the soles of his bare feet, and Draco paused at the kitchen entrance, pressing mute on the phone, to take in the scene before him.

The television was on to ITV1 and some sad bastard was spilling his guts to Trisha Goddard, while Blaise leaned against the counter, one eye on the rashers and one on the telly. Blaise's arms were crossed across his chest, pulling at his jumper and exposing a stretch of gold skin that made Draco's teeth hurt.

Draco was pale year round, except for the two months of the year that he vacationed in the Maldives; Blaise, however, went from gold tan to bronze tan, back to gold tan. It was that damn mixed parentage of Blaise's: dark hair, gold skin, piercing eyes -- not that Draco fancied Blaise, but he was in the business of appreciation, and he appreciated Blaise quite a bit.

Draco cleared his throat, and Blaise looked over at him with a wry smile. "Mother, I have to ring off now," Draco announced, releasing the mute button, "Blaise is trying to burn down my flat."

"I expect I'll be speaking to you later then, and do give Blaise my love," Narcissa said.

Ducking a flying spatula, Draco turned off the handset. "Good morning to you too," he said as Blaise busied himself with finding something else to turn the rashers over. "My mother said to send her love, but that was before you threw a deadly device at my head, so I'll have to pretend she ignored you."

Leaning against the wall next to the stove, he watched passively as Blaise moved around his kitchen with ease. Even at this time of the morning Blaise seemed to ooze sex, and it was the last thing Draco needed before some sort of fry-up. His dick stirred with interest, and he shifted the phone in front of his groin.

"So you were the one banging down the door this morning?" Draco asked, attempting to keep his eyes away from Blaise's arse.

When he'd first hired his best mate it had seemed like a brilliant idea. They had attended school together, and Blaise had attended Oxford while Draco was at Cambridge; the distance had meant nothing to their friendship. But as the head of Malfoy Escorts, Draco was required to set a sterling example, which included not lusting after his second-in-command.

When Draco had announced he was gay, Blaise had been the second person he told, and his entire response had been, "I thought you were going to tell me something I didn't know."

In short, there was no one Draco trusted more than Blaise –- and he didn't want that all mucked up by hormones.

"Yes, well, I tried to have some manners and wait for someone to actually open the door, but the lazy sod who lives here couldn't be arsed to get out of bed." Blaise didn't glance up from where he was crouched on the floor, looking through Draco's crockery.

"That's why you have a key –- so that this lazy sod, who pays your rent, can get some sleep."

"Were you out again, you old slapper?" Eventually, Blaise settled for a fork and went to work on the rashers.

"Drinking with Vincent and Gregory doesn't count," Draco began, "but I did meet someone."

"You met someone?" This time Blaise looked over, eyes bright and sharp.

"Outside Waitrose. It was raining."

Draco attempted to shrug indifferently, however, he had little experience with shrugging.

Blaise tilted his head to the side curiously. "How very romantic comedy of you -- does this Romeo have a name?"

"Potter, Harry Potter –- he's an accountant."

Blaise wrinkled his nose in distaste. It was horribly endearing. "We can't all date various pop stars -- or have Dolores Umbridge propositioning us," Draco said rubbing the tiny snake tattoo coiled near his hipbone, and attempting not to think about Blaise bent over the kitchen counter.

"Yes, well, thank God for that." Draco almost dropped the handset when Blaise flung a tea towel at him. "Go put some clothing on," Blaise ordered. "You're scaring the children."

"Yes, well the children shouldn't be in my flat anyway. No one under eighteen is allowed."

"We run a respectable business around here," Blaise mocked.

"That's right," Draco said, turning back towards his bedroom. "We don't ask, you don't tell, and everyone stays out of the paper."

"Except for Terry Boot," Blaise called down the hall.

"Piss off!" Draco hollered back good-naturedly as he opened the doors of his wardrobe. "You're going to clean up that mess, Blaise."

"Over my dead body!" Blaise shouted.

"That can be arranged too," Draco answered.

Image was everything, and in a business that was all about looks, Draco was, admittedly, something of a clotheshorse. Closing the passenger side door of Blaise's BMW behind him, he paused and considered his reflection on the window -- steel grey D&G suit with a lilac-coloured shirt and slightly darker, almost violet, tie.

As Dean was apt to say, he looked the business, which was really what he was selling:

Presentation.

Draco was Malfoy Escorts, and as such, needed to look the part at all times. Except for when he got out of bed in the morning.

Blaise interrupted his meditation. "Any time you want to stop preening, your highness, and actually go to work..."

Draco made a face across the roof of the car; Blaise chuckled and straightened the collar of his dark grey jacket. The navy colour of his jumper was extraordinarily fetching, and -- Draco shook his head to clear it of foolish thoughts.

He fell into cadence with Blaise as they left the car park on Old Brompton Road, turned down Onslow Gardens, and walked up a side street of identical, white row houses. Running a business in South Kensington wasn't cheap, but location was important. M.E. Ltd., had been in the same offices for almost fifteen years, thanks in no small part to its point of being extremely low-key and innocuous. The escorts were always impeccably dressed, nothing flashy, too loud or too fashionable to draw attention to their comings and goings.

There was also the occasional visit from a client, which was why the escorts were 'encouraged' to look their best if they were stopping by -– something else Blaise and Pansy endorsed on a fairly regular basis.

As businessmen -- and women -- Blaise, Draco and Pansy understood that it was easier to keep up with their escorts if they were involved in their everyday lives. Weekly dinners and lunches, outings to concerts, the theatre and various other interactions offered by M.E., Ltd., were heavily promoted. This was why Draco thought nothing of it when he walked through the front doors and found Theodore Nott hovering around the large steel and glass reception desk that Neville Longbottom and Angelina Johnson shared.

His attention, instead, was captured by Terry Boot and James Warrington indolently lazing about on the leather chaises. It wasn't the indolence as much as Boot's rumpled clothing and the smell of stale cigarettes permeating the air five feet away.

Draco frowned at the proximity of Warrington's cigarette to the leather upholstery. "You burn it, you buy it," he said, pointing to Warrington. "And good morning to everyone who wasn't in the paper this morning," he added as Blaise checked the messages and post piled on the reception desk.

Draco glanced over at Theodore when he snickered and was soundly whapped on the back by Neville.

"Morning, Draco -- Blaise," Angelina said.

"Good morning," Neville chimed, promptly handing over several phone messages. "Severus rang about the audit; Tim Westwood rang about getting some of the escorts to come to a party he's throwing –"

"I'm not going," Warrington announced loudly, stubbing out his cigarette in the Conran ashtray on the coffee table.

"You'll go if you want those Aston Villa tickets for next Sunday," Blaise answered back.

Draco wrinkled his nose –- Aston Villa were shit, but he didn't even have to glance at Warrington to see him sulking. Naturally, everyone was entitled to support whatever football club they chose, but all the teams besides Chelsea were shit in Draco's estimation -- which was the only opinion that mattered.

Neville carried on. "Padma rang and said she can't see you this afternoon, but she'll make a point of popping around tomorrow and you're not to have a wobbler until then."

"Bugger," Draco muttered, glaring at Blaise when he glanced up with a smirk on his lips. "And don’t you start either," he said, pointing at Blaise.

"I haven't said anything," Blaise protested.

"But you were thinking it," Draco countered.

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," Angelina chimed in.

"Don't you start as well," he warned, running his fingers through his hair and trying to take a moment the way his masseuse had taught him.

Padma Patil worked for The Dorchester Spa as a trained massage therapist; she was also the sister of one of Pansy's girls, and Blaise had hired her in a last ditch effort to keep Draco from going insane at work.

It had not been a completely flawless transition when his mother had first turned over control of the company, and Draco had tried to bear the brunt of that without asking for assistance. He always excelled at everything he'd done; it was a family trait. He worked terribly hard when required, but otherwise couldn't be bothered, until one day he was the one in charge and forced to look after twenty-five escorts, not to mention hundreds of thousands of pounds and euros worth of clothing and finance.

Six months of trying to do it all himself had reduced him to sleeping three hours a night, drinking eight cups of coffee a day, yelling at everyone, and his hair had started to fall out.

After losing three escorts in succession, Blaise and his brother had kidnapped him in an intervention worthy of Jerry Springer, and taken him to Scotland for a week to force him to sleep and pull himself together.

Upon returning, Draco had made Blaise his proxy, and had divided up the escorts, giving Pansy Parkinson control of the girls.

He slept a lot better now.

"You can't fault someone for merely having a thought, Draco," Pansy chimed in, her impossibly tall heels clacking against the floorboards as she descended from the upstairs offices. "Heaven knows, you could probably use a spare one or two."

Draco frowned as Pansy crossed over to the reception desk wrapped in a cloud of Chanel perfume, Benson and Hedges, and Gucci. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe chignon, and she looked much older than her 26 years of age.

She had come to work for Draco's mother at seventeen after receiving five A-Levels, being admitted to Oxford, and then deciding that school was boring and plebeian.

Narcissa had taken her on instantly, and Pansy had steadily climbed up the ladder from escort to booker to agent before Draco had put her in charge.

"Ha bloody ha," was all Draco said. "No message from Mr Creevey?" he asked, attempting to keep the peevishness out of his voice and pointedly staring at Theodore leaning against the side of Neville's desk until Theodore got the hint and stepped away.

"No, nothing from Mr Creevey," Neville began apologetically, flipping through pages of phone messages. "A Mr Potter phoned your private line earlier, however -- he asked that you ring him when you get a chance."

Draco could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks, but he said nothing when Blaise looked over at him inquisitively. "Did he leave a number?"

"Of course," Neville said, copying the number on a piece of paper and handing it off to Draco.

"Lovely," he said, plucking the paper free and walking towards the stairs. "I'll be in my office if anyone needs me," he said.

Draco paused with his foot on the bottom step to take in the way Neville and Angelina were ignoring Theodore practically crawling over the reception desk. "Theodore, if you're going to loiter about, do something useful and make everyone some tea."

"I'll take mine white with two," Terry called over the series of orders.

"You'll do nothing of the sort," Blaise announced taking several pieces of post and following on Draco's heels. "Right now, you're going to explain to me why you smell like the floor of a pub and why I shouldn't have Kingsley toss you on your rear for appearing in The Mirror of all places."

"The least you could've done is appear in a respectable paper," Pansy scolded.

"We can't all be a blind item in Popbitch," Terry muttered, getting to his feet and ducking as a large catalogue was flung at his head.

"Children," Angelina said mockingly. "No fighting in the house."

Shaking his head, Draco glanced back at Blaise and made his way upstairs.

The Malfoy Limited offices had been decorated many years ago by Narcissa Malfoy in a minimalist style that gave an appearance of cleanliness and efficiency, while employing just enough leather, steel and glass to keep people slightly off kilter. Every April Narcissa came by with her favourite decorator, Madam Malkin, to update the look, which Blaise often referred to as The S&M Shagging Effect. Everything was just comfortable enough to promise sex, but just proper enough to maintain the Malfoy hard-line of propriety and restraint.

M.E. Ltd., made a point of reminding its clients that this was a business, not a bordello, and the astronomical fees were being paid for companionship –- nothing more. The unspoken motto being if the escort was up for it, they were more than welcome to do whatever they wanted. The clients, however, were not entitled to anything but a beautiful escort on their arm for the duration of their booking.

The clients were paying primarily for a cocktease –- and Draco made certain his escorts delivered. Judging by the booking schedule, which stretched well into the next year, the business wasn't suffering for a lack of people interested in a little sadism. Judging by the massive amount of emails in his inbox, there was practically a surplus of interest. There were several emails from Severus and several more from Pansy. There was also one from Marcus Flint wanting to know if there was a company policy on snowboarding while pissed in Gstaad that Draco almost prayed was a hoax. He forwarded it on to Blaise with the note:

If he's not joking; he'll wish he were. I'm not paying to have his teeth sorted out again.

Amongst all the names filling his inbox Draco noticed two distinct holes, and picking up the phone he rang a number he'd learned by rote.

"Creevey Investigations..."

"Mr. Creevey, this is Draco Malfoy…"

"...we are unable to take your call right now as we are most likely in the field, however, your call is important to us..."

"Out spending your advance is more like it, you useless little shits!" Draco shouted down the line, slamming the receiver angrily and scowling at it. He had hired the Creevey brothers to find someone, and after ten months on the job, they still had nothing.

They claimed Julian had just disappeared –- but no one just disappeared. Even people like Julian.

Draco's head snapped up when someone knocked on the door. "What?" he said by way of greeting as Kingsley Shacklebolt, the company security man, opened the door.

"Having a good day already are we?" Kingsley asked, pausing in the doorway, his smile all white teeth. Draco fought to keep the scowl on his face even as Kingsley crossed into his office, nattily attired in a sharp pinstripe suit, and set down a packet of McVities Jaffa cakes.

"You've brought biscuits," Draco said, leaning forward, mindful of his tie, and making short work of the packaging. "Either you want a raise or there are dead people involved."

Kingsley laughed as Draco offered him a biscuit before bringing the rest of the packet over to his side of the desk. "I wouldn't say no to a raise," Kingsley hedged, "but Blaise asked me to bring these over before I left."

"Because he can't walk the seven steps from his office?" Draco shouted loudly enough to be heard down in reception, and there was a thud against the common wall Blaise and Draco shared.

"I was already on my way out –- Luna, Justin, and Cho are accompanying the irrepressible Mr Nott to the premiere of the new Ewan MacGregor film tonight."

When multiple escorts were working the same booking, it was Kingsley's job to make certain that everyone arrived on time. He also occasionally accompanied escorts to first bookings, drove Draco to appointments, and worked as a jack-of-all-trades for the company. Draco couldn't recall his mother hiring Kingsley; he had just appeared one day and become indispensable to the business.

"I don't know how Theodore does it," Draco said good-naturedly, unable to sulk with a mouth full of Jaffa cake. "You give one dodgy Irishman a blow job and suddenly everyone's willing to sell their mum to get in."

Some work days were longer than others -– and some just felt longer than others.

It had taken Draco a while to realise that running a business was a fine juggling act, which might've been all right if he juggled, but, as he didn't, it helped that he had Blaise and Pansy... and Neville and Angelina and Kingsley. If nothing else they kept him from going insane by himself, and he chuckled to himself as he heard Pansy shouting down the line at some poor bastard who, apparently, was responsible for Susan Bones' wardrobe not being up to snuff.

There was no point in being the boss if you couldn't take a tea break every few hours, or few minutes, or go shoe shopping online, or wander about the office and bother other people. Realising that he'd never taken off his jacket, Draco pushed back from his desk and got to his feet. Unbuttoning the three-buttons, Draco slipped his suit jacket off and walked around the desk towards the closet. After hanging up the jacket he walked out of his office, made a sharp left, and found himself standing in Blaise's doorway.

Leaning against the doorway, Draco studied Blaise's profile as he walked back and forth in front of his office window, gesturing with his hands as he talked into the earpiece of his headset. From what Draco could gather of the conversation, Blaise was trying to convince one of the Weasley boys that he did need an escort for the opening night of the RSC's run at the Barbican.

Watching Blaise in action always amused Draco, and he took great entertainment in Blaise's subtle hand gestures and the faces he made depending on the client he was conferring with.

Draco blinked when he realised that Blaise had noticed his arrival and was giving him the wrapping up sign, which, depending on the client, either looked like a spinning top or someone having a wank -- this seemed to be the latter. Unable to contain a snicker, Draco only looked up again when Blaise cleared his throat.

"Something funny?" Blaise asked, removing his headset and coming around to the front of his desk.

Draco smirked as Blaise leaned against the front of his desk and crossed his legs at the ankles. "I'm thinking that perhaps the best way to dissuade people like Dolores Umbridge is to have your bum tattooed."

Blaise blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"It would be fantastic for business," Draco continued, warming to the plan. "This arse belongs to Malfoy Escorts, Limited. We could get them for everyone."

Blaise made a dismissive noise as he leaned back and scrounged around on his desk. "This arse does not belong to Malfoy Escorts," he said. "You just wish it did."

"You'd make a killing," Draco admitted.

"You couldn't afford me," Blaise said, sitting up, holding a few yellow post-its.

"I'd certainly try."

Blaise's grin was all white teeth -- he could be incredibly predatory when he wanted to be, which excited Draco entirely too much and was obviously another reason why they worked so well.

Draco shifted in the doorway, crossing his arms as Blaise watched him with a smug look on his face. "You seem entirely too pleased with yourself," Draco remarked.

"Well, someone has to be -– would you like to hear about The Great Adventures of Terry Boot and a certain ITV1 presenter at Yauatcha?"

Draco answering smile was all white teeth as well. "I think that's an excellent idea -- you get the tea and I'll bring the biscuits," he said, going back to his office as he talked. "I hope it's a sordid tale," he called out. "I'd hate for it to be anything chaste and boring."

"It is indeed many things," Blaise's voice answered from the kitchen. "Chaste is not one of them."

Draco grabbed the box of McVities Jaffa and opened his mouth to reply, but the phone rang. Leaning over, he hit the intercom. "Neville?"

"Sorry to disturb you, but Mr. Potter's on the phone again, and I thought you-–"

Draco chucked the biscuits back in one of the guest chairs. "Put him through."

"Of course."

Leaning across the desk, Draco grabbed the receiver. "Mr. Potter," he said by way of greeting.

"Mr. Malfoy."

It took Draco a moment to realise he was splayed across his desk like a wanton secretary, and he pushed himself upright.

"And how are you today, keeping dry?" Harry's voice was warm and welcoming, and Draco slipped around his desk and sat in his chair to get comfortable.

"It helps that it's not raining anymore," Draco pointed out.

"Yes, I suppose it does."

"And you, did you get home all right?"

"Yes, strangely enough Battersea still hasn't been washed away by the rain after all these years."

"Is that where you live? Battersea? Born and raised?" Draco leaned back in his chair and wondered if Harry was at his office. He wondered what it looked like, and if Harry was sitting in front of his desk. He tried to picture it and kept coming up with Flitwick's oppressive tomb of leather and pipe smoke.

"Born in Surrey, raised in Islington -– I moved to Battersea after university."

"Ah, a New Labour baby," Draco said with a laugh.

"Not everyone from Islington votes Labour," Harry protested good-naturedly -- at least he didn't sound particularly offended, which Draco found to be an interesting quality. Someone he couldn't easily offend could potentially be a great asset –- Blaise certainly was.

"Are you saying you’re a Conservative, Mr. Potter? You didn't seem terribly conservative when you picked me up off the street yesterday."

"I'm not saying that either," Harry amended.

Draco laughed.

"And you?" Harry asked. "What's your story Mr. Draco Malfoy?"

Harry actually sounded interested in the answer, which was rather novel in Draco's experience. The majority of people in Draco's acquaintance simply inquired about opinions as a matter of politeness –- no one actually listened to the answer.

"There's nothing to tell," Draco said. "I was born. I suffered through school and university. I live in Hampstead -- close enough to walk to the Heath, the pubs and the market, but not close enough to have Swiss Cottage in my backyard. And after twenty-five years I'm still alive -- although I did almost drown yesterday, but this dodgy bloke picked me up outside Waitrose."

Harry's laughter made something flutter in Draco's stomach, and he looked up when there was a noise at the door. Blaise was standing there, tea mugs in hand, giving him an expectant look.

Draco held up a finger, and Blaise rolled his eyes before going next door. Harry was talking now. "I hope you got out of those wet clothes after I dropped you off."

"Would you have preferred for me to take them off before you dropped me off?" Draco paused after the words escaped his mouth just to make certain he had said what he thought he had said.

He hadn't tried to chat anyone up in ages.

It wasn't a matter of getting a leg over; he'd never had a problem pulling, but this was flirting. He didn't know if he knew how to do such a thing; it was almost like making an effort, and Malfoys didn't make efforts.

"I wouldn't have minded," Harry said after a long pause. "But I think the taxi driver might've had a word or two to say about the naked man in the back of his cab."

Draco made a dismissive noise. "His loss."

"But not mine, I hope."

The butterflies in Draco's stomach began to move in formation. The sort of formation that made his palms feel slightly clammy. Tucking the phone between his shoulder and his ear, Draco searched his desk drawers for a handkerchief. He could hear Harry's even breathing, only instead of reminding him of an obscene caller, it was strangely erotic.

"I don't suppose I could interest you in dinner tomorrow night?" Harry said.

Draco sat up too fast in his chair, and it made his head spin. He didn't suffer from high blood pressure, but his GP, Dr. Poppy Pomfrey, was forever after him to relax more. "What makes you think I would be free -- or even willing to accompany you anywhere?" he asked, stalling for time.

"It was just a suggestion."

"You're quite bold Mr. Potter -- I thought accountants were quiet, introverted-types."

"Only the ones in films. You've obviously never been in a pub full of pissed accountants."

"No, I can't say that I have." Draco had, however, been in a room full of drunken Treasury officials, but that wasn't the sort of thing one discussed before the first date.

"Maybe we'll leave that for the second date," Harry said.

Draco could feel his eyebrows arching dramatically although there was no one around to notice the effect. "You're presuming that we're even going to have a first date," he said.

"My godfather used to say 'You don't know if you don't ask'."

"Yes, well, my mother says 'Don't ask questions you don’t know the answer to'."

Harry was quiet for several seconds; Draco was mentally planning his outfit. "I'm not supposed to ask you questions I don’t know the answer to?" Harry asked.

"Exactly."

"So what time am I picking you up?"

"Seven o'clock -- you know that."

"Of course," Harry said.

"I have to go," Draco said, suddenly anxious to be off the phone before it all got bollixed up.

"Tea's getting cold?"

"Yes, something like that -- so tomorrow then, at seven."

"At least I already know where you live," Harry said cheerfully.

"Yes, quite," Draco said before hanging up.

Setting the phone back down, Draco looked at his desk full of papers and then at his computer screen, overloaded with emails and appointments and Instant Messages from his escorts.

What was he thinking? He didn't date; he ran a fucking escort service for fuck's sake. How was that supposed to be brought up in conversation? Could you pass the salt, and by the way, I run an escort service?

A loud thud came from Blaise's office, pulling Draco out of his reverie. "That better not have been my tea," he called out.

Blaise's undoubtedly scathing reply was muffled by the intercom going off again. "Neville, when did you become British Telecom?" Draco asked, the butterflies in his stomach having now settled into something warm and relaxing, and thus making his question much more cheerful than it might otherwise have been.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but it's just -- you've got a phone call, sir."

Neville only called Draco 'sir' when there was a client in reception or -- Draco couldn't think of an or.

"Yes, and that's why I have you, to answer my phone calls. Did you not read the job description when you applied?"

Draco could practically hear Neville's fidgeting down the line. He was a good man, very loyal, but not terribly bright. "Neville, some time today would be nice," he prodded.

"Yes, right, of course, it's just that, well, the caller rang on the private line, and he said --"

"He said what exactly?" Draco prompted. "Are Vincent's clients ringing the wrong number again? I told him about those obscene calls at work."

Neville coughed. "No, sorry, it's just that the caller said that -- he said --" Neville mumbled something that Draco couldn't hear, which made a muscle in Draco's right knee twitch. While Neville was many things, he didn't tend to prevaricate.

"What did he say, Neville?"

"I -– I think it's Julian."

The butterflies reappeared in the form of small birds. "You think it's Julian," Draco repeated, doing his best not to shout. Reaching under his desk, Draco felt about for the button that automatically shut his office door.

Once the door was closed, Draco spoke again, his tone sharp and his enunciation crisp. "Do you know for a fact, Neville, that this is Julian? Do not think -- know."

Neville cleared his throat, and Draco thought that perhaps what he really needed was a lie-down. A good, old-fashioned lie-down, with a large G&T – all G and no T.

"It is Julian, Draco," Neville said. "I'd put money on it."

As Neville didn't even like walking past the betting shop, this was good enough for Draco. "Put him on at once."

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

"And Neville?"

"Yes?"

"We never had this conversation, did we?"

"What conversation, sir?"

Draco's mouth went dry after Neville rang off, and he cleared his throat over a cavernous silence when he picked up the phone.

"Draco Malfoy."

"Haven't you had that looked at yet?" a droll, male voice. "I would think, after all these years, that you would've had that looked at. How can you run an elite escort agency sounding like Prince Phillip?"

Draco's heart missed several beats, but his voice remained steady, even as his foot began tapping on the floor. "This from a boy who's sounded like the Queen Mum in drag his entire life?"

Draco could practically hear Julian's smirk down the line. "It's not nice to insult family."

"Yes, well, it's also not nice to disappear for months on end without so much as a by-your-leave, but that didn't stop you." Draco took a deep breath; it wouldn't help matters to attack Julian on the phone -- he needed to do it in person.

"I was tied up," Julian said.

"Tied up where?" Draco shot back. "In Siberia? How many times have I told you about those risqué games of yours?"

It was hard for Draco to remain vexed with Julian's chuckling in his ear. "I assure you the game got old for me long ago," Julian said. "My hosts, however, insisted on my sticking around; it was somewhat difficult for me to extricate myself from their hospitality."

For all of the amused certainty of Julian's tone, there was something off -- more off than Julian being out of touch for an entire year. "Where were you?" Draco inquired. "Am I allowed to ask such a thing considering that I used to wipe your snotty nose?"

Julian chuckled again. "As I did the same for you, I think, perhaps, I will let you live. I was in gaol –- in America."

Draco's first instinct was to throw something; instead he inhaled sharply through his nose. He supposed the gaol thing explained why the Creeveys had been unable to find Julian. "So you were in Siberia, after all. I hope you're bringing me something when you come home -– you are coming home."

What should have been a question, Draco very deftly turned into a statement. If he had to go and retrieve Julian himself, he would bring him home.

"Yes, well, obviously that's why I rang," Julian's tone was all dry Malfoy wit. "If you could get someone to meet my train, perhaps Angelina, that might make me more amenable to trial-by-mother."

Draco couldn't help the chuckle that escaped. "You leave Angelina out of this –- you know as well as I do that there is to be no fraternisation between employees and employers; and yes, I believe mother does have one or two things to discuss with you. She tends to get somewhat vexed when her offspring go missing."

They laughed together for a moment as Draco scrounged on his desk for a bit of paper and a pen to take down Julian's details. "Will the delightful Miss Reed be accompanying you?" Draco asked, cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence before Julian answered. "No, no she won't."

Draco worried his bottom lip for a moment, before pushing onward. "Ah, well, you can tell your big brother all about it when you get in."

"Being born three minutes before I was does not make you my big brother."

Draco couldn't help himself. "Of course it does, don't be thick."

--Chapter III--

Author's Notes:

+ In a nutshell, Trisha Goddard is the UK's Oprah and Tim Westwood is a radio presenter for Radio 1. He's also a tosser. Popbitch can be found and loved here.

+ Much thanks to

serialkarma (technical and story),

oxoniensis (brit-pick and technical), and

ethrosdemon (story) for beta duty. Remaining fuck-ups are all mine.

+ For your pimping pleasure I give you James Brown 'The Boss' -- and Harry Potter's business card*. (Art provided by

oxoniensis)

+ There had been a question about Cho Chang's listing in the M.E roster, namely that it should have been the other way around, but generally the Chinese place surname before first name, hence, she's 'Chang Cho' or 'Cho, Chang'.

+ Also a bit of trivia for you, one street east of Onslow Gardens is Neville Street.

Current Mood: busy
Current Music: James Brown 'The Boss'