Becoming Silhouettes

Chapter 2 – The Fine Art of Schmoozing

“What do you mean, ‘They have defaulted on our contract?’ We signed for three years!” Hermione snapped at her administrator, who favored her with a long-suffering look over the tops of his half-moon spectacles.

“They have defaulted on our contract,” he repeated. “Apparently, they can no longer handle our large orders and wish to concentrate on smaller clients.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Squeezing her eyes closed, she pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to will away her newly forming headache. “They’ve never had a problem before.” They would certainly have problems now. Oh, would they have problems. Hermione would see to it.

“Indeed,” Mr. Quince said priggishly and unrolled the bottom of his scroll a few more inches, allowing the top to curl over itself. “However, we are now short on Anti-Swelling Solution, Complexismooth, and Engorgement Elixir, to name a few.”

“Bugger.”

“Quite. I have taken the liberty to contact Brewer and Brewer, Slug and Jiggers, and Moonshadow Solutions, but none has the inventory or personnel to take our account at this time.”

Hermione winced and slouched deeper into her chair. Of all the things to happen now, she had to lose her Potions distributor. It wasn’t enough that she had droves of Aurors marching through her doors led by her best friends so that she could take a look at their rashes – for next to nothing. It also wasn’t enough that four sleepless nights of research and experimentation had not disclosed the nature of the rash, nor its origins, and for all their training in gathering and analyzing evidence, none of the Aurors had been able to give her enough information to draw any educated guesses. Yesterday, she had had to have security remove two Aurors from her clinic after they had started a brawl over the attentions of one of her staff. Deplorable behavior, honestly!

“However, you have an appointment with a Mr. Draco Malfoy, the representative from Wyrm and Prince Brewing and Distribution, to discuss a new contract.”

Groaning, Hermione let her head fall heavily to her desk. Of all the Potions distributors, it had to be him. Why hadn’t she burned that business card instead of handing it to Quince? Because Quince was her scheduler, organizer and overall enforcer of sanity now that A New You Cosmetic Transfigurations had become too impossibly big for one person to manage. Quince made it possible for Hermione to continue doing what it was that she loved: research, inventing, and the more difficult Transfigurations and Charms. After two years of a working relationship, it still didn’t cease to amaze her how effortlessly things were accomplished without her immediate supervision. Even had she cloned herself, she couldn’t have been happier.

“Wyrm and Prince?” Hermione mumbled, her voice muffled by the top of the desk and the locks of hair that had escaped from her fashionable twist. “What kind of a name is that?”

“You would have to ask Mr. Malfoy or Master Snape.”

Hermione took a long, exhausted moment to absorb that piece of information. She had forgotten that Malfoy represented Prof— Master Snape’s thriving Potions business. The last time she had seen him in the flesh had been when she thought he had died in a puddle of his own blood on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. The guilt of leaving him there for dead, only to learn later that he had taken a potion to preserve his life and was waiting for a Good Samaritan to help him, had haunted her for the first two years after the defeat of Voldemort. Oh, she had seen pictures of him in the Daily Prophet, The Quibbler, and countless tabloid rags, but she hadn’t ever worked up the courage to face him. To apologize.

“Will Master Snape be at the meeting?”

“Mr. Malfoy did not specify.”

Groaning, she thumped her forehead against the desk until the rest of her hair tumbled free.

---

Harry Apparated to the steps of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place with a sigh of relief, glad to be home after a long, tedious day at the Ministry. The Rash (and one could hear the capitalization of the word when it was spoken about the office) and accompanying fever had gotten so nasty that he had had to call in sick for several days, and his desk had become a veritable fortress of stacked papers as the work had piled. It hadn’t helped that half of the Auror department, including Ron, had also stayed home to nurse their purple hives, so that unfinished paperwork simply lingered instead of being addressed by one’s backup. He was just thankful that Ginny hadn’t managed to contract the Rash. Yet.

“Harry!” Ginny exclaimed brightly as she entered the hallway, taking his Auror’s mantle as he shrugged it off and hanging it neatly on the polished oak coat rack. Ginny had moved in last year, following her retirement from the Holyhead Harpies. Immediately thereafter, Grimmauld Place, the dark, dirty London house left to him by his late godfather, had had a facelift. Being her mother’s daughter, Ginny had scoured the place, painted, redressed the windows, removed the house-elf heads (though he suspected that Hermione had had a hand in that), permanently silenced the vile portrait of Madam Black, and planted a small herb garden in the backyard. That’s not to say that he and Ron hadn’t touched the place while they had lived together as roommates, but Chudley Cannon posters a home does not make. “I’ve just put supper on the stove. We’re having stew.”

“Brilliant,” Harry said, inhaling the savory smell with relish. Ginny had an ingrained need to feed him, and for a man who had spent his childhood starving, that was just fine by him.

“How was work?”

Harry pulled a face. “I’m up to my bollocks in paperwork. And someone nicked a sample I had gathered in the Forbidden Forest.” He followed her into the basement kitchen, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck as he spoke.

“Oh? What was it?”

“Mushrooms.”

“Exciting.”

“That’s exactly what Ron said.” Watching as Ginny retrieved the ladle and gave the stew a stir, Harry leaned against the new granite countertop and crossed one foot over the other. “The funny thing was, the thief took the mushrooms and left the bag. Probably forgot his lunch.” Ginny scrunched her nose in distaste and Harry chuckled. There was very little about Ginny that he didn’t adore. “I accidentally dumped the leftover spores on my robes, too.”

“They will wash out.”

Nodding, Harry hummed in agreement. “Any news from the family?”

Ginny glanced up and grimaced, though her eyes twinkled through the red fringe that hung in her face. A spattering of freckles danced across her nose and cheeks, contrasting against skin that was as smooth and pale as fresh milk. “Dad has the Rash. It seems to be spreading through the rest of the Ministry now, though it seems contained within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

“Bloody hell,” Harry groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’ll have to tell Hermione if she doesn’t already know. Either way, it will hit the Daily Prophet any day.”

Shrugging, Ginny said, “It’s just a rash, and it starts to clear up eventually. Ron is almost pimple-free! At least the purple kind.” Harry chuckled and gave his five-o’clock shadow, which still had a spattering of purple Rash, a good scratch as he sniffed the stew. With a noise of protest, Ginny shoved him away and gave him a nudge toward the stairs that would take him to the living room, which contained the only fireplace still connected to the Floo network. “Go Floo Hermione and keep your purple beard germs out of my cooking.”

On his way out of the kitchen, Harry snagged a round of carrot from the cutting board and slouched up the stairs, still laughing. Ginny shook her head, smiling at his retreating back as she absently set down the ladle and scratched at her palm.

---

Hermione entered the trendy grille and bar named Liliput’s wearing a falsely confident smile (though no one but Harry or Ron would have guessed) and a suit as trendy as the restaurant. She found that the better she dressed, the more powerful she felt, and she needed a good dose of courage this evening. If it were just Malfoy, then this meeting would go smoothly. If Master Snape were there, however…

She ducked through the short doorway and glanced around the lobby of the restaurant, noting the small portal windows and child-sized plush sofas. A fancily dressed couple was seated awkwardly on one of the sofas, the wizard’s knees almost reaching his chin. The witch was fighting a loosing battle to keep her dress demurely covering her thighs. Hermione was very, very glad that her skirt reached past her knees.

She hated this place; she considered it a ridiculous, decadent waste of money, but it was a popular new spot in Diagon Alley and Malfoy was paying. Reservations were always required, even for lunch, and Hermione hoped that the novelty would wear off the wizarding population before she had to come here for another meeting.

The maitre d’, a man dressed in a blue satin tunic belted at the waist with a scarlet sash, waited behind a short podium crafted of oiled mahogany, a tiny book opened on its slanted surface. Being a scant three feet tall himself, the podium fitted him perfectly. He cleared his throat obsequiously and smiled when she glanced his way. “Madam has reservations?” he asked in voice that should have been an octave too high for a man.

“Yes, under Malfoy or Wyrm and Prince, I’m not sure which.”

“Ah, of course,” he said, bowing slightly at the waist. Hermione had to resist the urge to sigh. “Your party is waiting for you.” He turned smartly on the heels of his polished black boots and goose-stepped her through the restaurant, his yellow satin trousers blousing and swishing as he moved. She rolled her eyes. This was just silly. Leave it to a git like Malfoy to choose this restaurant.

The entire restaurant was furnished with pieces too small for the average witch or wizard. Mixed and matched formal dining sets, only slightly larger than one would buy for a child, were scattered randomly about the room. The bone china place settings and silver cutlery were also miniaturized, and wealthy witches and wizards laughed as they struggled to get comfortable in their too-short chairs and sipped from tiny martini glasses.

She spotted Draco from halfway across the restaurant, his blond hair gleaming like spun gold in the semi-dark of the restaurant. He made sitting in a miniature chair look easy and elegant with one gray wool-covered leg sprawled at an angle to the table and the other crossed casually over it. Wearing a creamy colored shirt that utterly failed to wash out his pale skin, he looked comfortable and smug. Hermione drew herself up straighter and lifted her chin.

It was then that she noticed his dinner companion, but it took her a moment to recognize him. His hair was pulled away from his face in a long queue down his back and shone blue-black in the candlelight, his skin glowed olive with health, and his features were severe, but regal and relatively unlined. Ultimately, it was his scowl and solid black wardrobe that identified him. Though he was shorter than Malfoy, his ramrod-straight back, upward pointing knees, and vicious, black glare spoke neither of ease nor elegance. In fact, he looked right furious to be seated there, a feeling with which Hermione would have commiserated if she could have swallowed the nervous lump in her throat. She blinked away the image of his thin frame crumpled on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, blood pumping from two holes in his neck and his eyes uncharacteristically blank.

As they approached the table and the maitre d’ pulled her chair out for her, those glittering eyes turned unpleasantly on her. This was going to be a lousy meeting; she could feel it in the roiling of her stomach.

“Ms. Granger, so glad you could make it,” Malfoy said solicitously, extending his hand as he rose smoothly from his chair. She shook it and smiled venom at him, earning her a smart wink. “Another round of Firewhiskies,” he told the waitress, a tiny witch, perhaps an inch shorter than the maitre d’, in a tight bodice and full skirt. She bobbed a curtsey and scurried away. Hermione resignedly took her seat, folding her legs to the side as comfortably as possible.

Snape spoke next, his words clipped and angry, not even giving her time to work up a good fit of guilt. “I must enquire, Miss Granger—”

“Ms.,” Hermione interrupted him. She wanted to establish her role as a professional as quickly as possible in this conversation. “Or Healer, whichever you prefer.”

“Fine. I must—”

Malfoy interrupted him this time, sending him an irritated glance as he said, “Of course, he didn’t mean any offense. Old habits, you know.” Snape looked very much like he did mean offense. As Malfoy was speaking, the waitress arrived with their drinks and a tiny platter of escargot in what smelled like a garlic-butter sauce. She served them each several shells and disappeared without a word.

“Ms. Granger,” Snape growled slowly, and Malfoy shot him another glance. Hermione wondered what was wrong with these two; this certainly wasn’t like any other business dinner that she had attended. Malfoy was every bit the fawning Marketing rep (though the haughty lift of his nose never faltered) and seemed to be stepping it up with every unpleasantry that Snape uttered, but Snape… didn’t seem to appreciate her presence. Odd, for someone who wanted her money. “What are you doing here?”

She blinked at him and took a burning sip of Firewhisky. Though she didn’t care for the stuff, most wizards and witches in the business world drank it, so she, too, had learned to drink it. “I am here to discuss the terms of a Potions distributions contract between A New You Cosmetic Transfigurations and Wyrm and Prince Brewing and Distribution,” she said finally and cocked her head as she gave Draco a questioning stare.

“And I’ve got the contract right here,” Draco said as he patted a scroll that was resting on the table. “I had the solicitor draw it up yesterday; I’m sure you’ll find everything in order.”

“Right,” Hermione drawled. “I’ll want my own solicitor to examine that before I sign anything.”

Draco saluted her with his drink and gave her a rakish grin, as if they were great friends and sharing an inside joke. “As any good businesswoman would, though I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the generosity of the terms.” Hermione was beginning to suspect Polyjuice – this wasn’t the Malfoy she knew. “Though perhaps you might throw in a free nose job for the good Master.” Snape emitted a strangled, gasping sound, then immediately dissolved into a fit of coughing. “I said ‘nose job’, not ‘blow job’,” Draco said with another grin and a sideways glance at Hermione.

She rolled her eyes. If Draco thought to unsettle her and gain an advantage by talking dirty at the dinner table, then he had another thing coming. When Harry and Ron weren’t discussing their own tadgers and their adventures, then they were discussing their co-workers’, and no occasion was sacrosanct.

“How about neither,” she said irritably, and Draco’s grin wilted slightly. “What, did you think that a little sexual innuendo or discussion of the male anatomy would embarrass me? Do you know how many penises I have Enlarged? Testicles I’ve Tightened? Oh yes, quite the rage. No one likes a saggy sac.” Draco was beginning to look uncomfortable. Snape had turned beet red and was still trying to catch his breath. “You don’t get those procedures for free, either.”

Not to be outdone, Draco said casually, “No need for them! Though I’m sure you haven’t done as many Penis Enlargements as Breast Augmentations.”

“Well, of course not,” Hermione said just as casually. “The Breast Aug was the first popular Transfiguration, starting with the Muggle-borns. Then Breast Lifts, with or without Nipple Relocations.” She gestured over her own bosom (which was not insignificant if Draco’s – and yes, she had caught Snape looking as well, though it had been quick and surreptitious – attention was any indication) with her fingers circled, demonstrating the relocation of said nipples.

Malfoy’s gaze lingered on her generous cleavage longer than necessary before returning to her face. He nodded sagely while Snape sent furtive glances to the restaurant’s exit. “I’ve seen your boob work – very nice, if I may say so myself.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said primly, awkwardly crossing one leg over the other. This was beginning to be fun.

“If we could move on to the matter at hand…” Snape growled through clenched teeth. Obviously, he wasn’t having any fun at all.

“Excellent feel, as well,” Draco cupped his hands and made a massaging motion.

“For which a critical potion is necessary, in conjunction with one of my Charms.” Feeling somewhat sorry for her ex-professor, Hermione took mercy on him and steered the conversation back on topic.

From the corners of his eyes, Draco watched his godfather shift in his seat and settle in relief that the conversation had strayed back to safer waters. His scheme was going much better than he could have ever imagined. Uncle Sev had never been easily embarrassed by crass discussion, so his discomfort was an unexpected delight. That Granger was entertaining company was just as surprising, and he certainly couldn’t complain about the view. For such a frumpy thing in school, she had matured admirably. He had little doubt that she would sign with Wyrm and Prince Brewing and Distribution, proving dear old Uncle Sev irrevocably wrong: Hermione Granger, best friend of Harry Potter and defeater of the Dark Lord, would willingly do business with two ex-Death Eaters. Blaise Zabini didn’t think so either. He had bet one hundred Galleons that Granger would spit in Draco’s face before signing the contract and one hundred Galleons that Voldemort would be resurrected before Severus Snape admitted to fallacy.

“A critical potion that we cannot supply,” Snape stated firmly. “That, or any other.”

It was Draco’s turn to choke. Hermione’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline, and Draco caught her quick glance between the two of them through his spluttering.

“Excuse me?” she asked politely, but in disbelief.

“Are you deaf, girl? I plainly said that we aren’t interested in being your supplier.”

Swallowing the rasp in his throat and the spasm in his chest with hot tears in his eyes, Draco jumped back into the conversation. “Now, wait!” he half rose in his seat as Granger began to stand indignantly, placing one of his hands over hers to stop her.

Glaring at him with narrowed brown eyes that were darkening in anger, she sat back down. “If this was some kind of sick joke, Malfoy, then rest assured, I am not amused. Remember, you approached me first.”

Like the promise of a mangled leg from the closed mouth of a shark, Draco heard the threat in her voice. Unspoken, but real nonetheless. This wasn’t Granger the swot with a mean slap, sidekick of a celebrity freak. This was Granger the President and Founder of one of the fastest growing niche-market businesses in wizarding Britain, who could turn the tables of the market against him so fast that it would make his little Potions distributor prank look like a minor inconvenience. She reminded him of his father, powerful and dangerous, and it sent a delicious shiver down his spine. He had to stuff a sock in Severus.

“Just a slight misunderstanding,” he said conciliatorily, giving her hand a small pat and noticing that her fingers were as well manicured as his own, though her right index finger had a splotch of ink on it. Protest almost seemed to boil out of his godfather, so he cast a quick Muffliato to deal with the man who had suddenly become self-destructive.

“There is no need for this nonsense, Draco. Send her away so that we can leave. And from now on, I want to know all the names of potential clients before they sign.” He was glaring as hard as Granger, but Draco wasn’t nearly as impressed. For one thing, he didn’t have the knockers for it. There was something about powerful women with brilliant racks…

“Uncle! I am the representative for this venture. You make the potions; I acquire the clients, right? Because you,” he said, emphasizing the word with a jab of his finger, “couldn’t sell Sheppard’s Pie to the starving. What you are doing is anti-selling. Alienating a client who would not only increase our revenues by twenty percent, but put us on the cutting edge of medicinal-cosmetic brewing!”

“I’ll have no part in this ridiculous Cosmetic Transfiguration business!”

Draco was struck by a sudden thought. “Is this because of the nose comment? It was just a joke.”

“That has nothing to do with it! I simply will not—”

“Splendid,” Draco interrupted before his dear old Uncle Sev could work up a true fury. “Then stick to brewing and leave the Marketing to those of who can!”

Snape shut his mouth with a snap and sprang to his feet, knocking his tiny chair backward with a noisy clatter, which attracted the attention of most of the restaurant’s patrons. Without acknowledging either Draco or Granger, he swept toward the exit with long, angry strides.

Many years working with his godfather had taught Draco an interesting lesson: Severus Snape was used to obeying orders. Having lived under a master (or two) for most of his life, he tended to do what he was told if the command was properly delivered. That wasn’t to say that he was gracious about it. Severus Snape was at his most foul-tempered when carrying out an order if it was something that he did not want to do. The point, however, was that he did it, regardless. Draco only hoped that he had gotten Snape and his unreasonable objections out of the picture before he lost Granger’s account.

Canceling the spell, Draco turned a particularly charming smile (usually only reserved for potential bedmates and the editor for Witch Weekly) onto his would-be client. “Ms. Granger, please allow me to apologize on Severus’ behalf. He is a difficult man, but an excellent Potions master, as you well know.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Granger spat between her teeth, her face hard and her eyes snapping. “Perhaps you should reconsider bringing your associate to business meetings if he cannot employ a civil tongue.” Climbing to her feet, in the process flashing him a tantalizing view of the tops of her stockings through the slit in her skirt, she sent him a final, glacial glare and then stormed out of the restaurant, her hips swaying with every step.

Draco took a thoughtful sip of Firewhisky, already planning damage control and his next meeting with the fierce Ms. Granger.

---

A/N: Huge thanks to my betas ann1982 and thyme_is_a_cat – you guys are the best!

A note regarding my take on Snape’s stature: he is short, guys. Tall!Snape is fanon. He’s shorter than Sirius by almost a head and has been described as weedy and malnourished as a teenager. His looming and such at Hogwarts was from the POV of a child. That is last I have to say about his stature.