Chapter Text
The wind blew snow around in great waves of white. Christmas music blared from every street corner, despite the fact it was still November. Everyone rushed to and fro, eager to go about their business. Everyone except one young man, who wrapped the edges of his cloak close to him, trying to stave off hypothermia a little while longer.
Draco Malfoy had seen better days. His hair was shorter and ragged, he was skinnier than when he studied at Hogwarts, and his robe was failing to keep out the winter chill. Yet something still glinted in his eyes- Pride most likely. Or perhaps, given how he’d left the family home ill-prepared to endure the start of what promised to be a harsh winter, the beginnings of rebellion. Whatever it was, it drove him further into wizard London, despite the cold weather and suspicious glares sent his way.
Shivering, he glanced around in quick spurts, trying not to draw undue attention to himself as he searched for the right sign. He paused, his breath coming out in great foggy clouds. There it was: The Daily Prophet Headquarters. Now that he was there though, Draco felt something cold clutch at his heart that had nothing to do with the icy weather.
Having reached his destination, he could only stare at the entry way, not noticing that his feet were getting cold. Draco might have stood there like that all day if someone hadn’t shoved him from behind. He stumbled, and looked back, intending to give whoever the bungler was a thorough explanation of who they were dealing with. The words died in his mouth though, as he noticed that just a few people back was a man with red hair and freckles.
Draco’s head shot forward so fast the he practically gave himself whiplash. A thousand thoughts whirled through his head, most bloody. Not that he could act on them. It wouldn’t be wise on his part to start a fight with a ministry official in the middle of the street, with the family reputation in shambles. The sighting of a hated enemy was enough to push Draco from his earlier earlier wavering. With a deep breath Draco pushed open the doors, standing tall and ready to act as if he already owned the place like only a Malfoy could.
Draco was quickly dissuaded from this perspective as he entered the business. Inside was light, sound, and constant motion, and it was only years of practice that kept Draco from gaping at the sight. People were shouting to each other and the air was filled with thousands of papers. Some were actual newspapers, some were regular parchment sheets, and others were letters. There were dozens of pictures flying through the air, also marked in ink. Most figures in the pictures seemed unhappy about that, Draco noticed with a slight smirk.
People sat at tables with typewriters, unhappy and tense expressions on their faces. Draco’s smirk dropped in favor of a frown at the sight, wondering why they didn’t just use magic. He didn’t spend much time in thought though, for there were people behind him who had better and more important things to do than wait for him to finish his gawking. For the second time in the last ten minutes he was shoved out of the way to make room. He stumbled, caught himself and started forward, before pausing. It wouldn’t due to start a scene. His plan was to find the editor-and-chief and remind him of his days in Slughorn’s club with his father. A connection was a connection, no matter what Draco’s current feelings toward his father were. His family name might still have a use. Unconsciously he ran his hand through his badly cut hair, a habit he’d developed shortly after taking scissors to it himself. An effort to be less instantly recognizable.
Draco looked around and wandered through the crowded place, trying not to trip over anything, or get shoved out of the way yet again. He figured that most of the clean papers would be going to the editor and the papers with red ink would be coming from his office. His theory appeared to be correct, though the scene he came upon wasn’t anything like what he’d expected.
The editor-and-chief was a tall man who looked like he’d seen a lot of the sun in his life. He was also completely bald. And very angry. Standing, pointing, and almost yelling angry. Fortunately, it was not directed at him, but at the blonde woman in front of his desk.
“Tell me, are you completely incompetent? What is this thing you are trying to pass off as an acceptable article?"
The woman looked terrified, but despite her growing flush she pushed back.
“Sir, you said-“
“I said I wanted a news report on reconstruction efforts at Gringotts,” the angry man interrupted. He waved a paper in the reporter’s face. “This isn’t news report. This is an opinionated column. I have enough ‘column’ writers; too many in fact. What I need is a news reporter. If you can’t figure out the difference, then I’ll fire you like I’ve fired the other fifty plus gush writers who tried to pass themselves off as serious journalists.”
“It’s not a gush piece!” The reporter objected. Oh god, were those tears in her eyes. Draco wasn't sure what he would do if she started crying right now. Probably leave. “It’s an accurate report on how the goblins have rejected the ministry’s offer to help rebuild the infrastructure of the bank and improve the spells there.”
The editor seemed to glare harder, then looked at the paper and started reading in a wispy falsetto that had Draco’s resisting the urge to snicker.
“Griphook stood resolute in front of his fellow goblins, like a general leading an army. ‘We do not need nor want the help of wizards,’ he declared, eyes glinting sharply in the morning light. “Especially since you have yet to bring the thieves who wrecked havoc here to justice.” Griphook makes a strong case that there is a lack of trust between the wizarding community at large and the goblin people, who have been undermined for far too long. But his unyielding stance may prevent improved relations between…’” The editor looked away from the paper and back to the reporter. “Need I go on? You’re supposed to be writing a news article, not adding another chapter to your most recent novel. Take out the fluff and write the facts. What was the press conference about, what did Griphook say, what statements were made by the ministry. And for Merlin’s sake, keep your opinions to yourself. The news is supposed to be neutral, in case you forgot.”
“Since when?” The woman snapped back. Personally, Draco thought she had a point, but judging by the look on the editor’s face, he did not agree.
“Since I took over this rag of a paper. So take this crap, and turn it into gold in the next hour, or I will throw you out myself. Now get- No, I’ll go get him. You will fix this.” With that the paper was tossed to the startled reporter, who still looked to be on the verge of tears. Without another word of protest, she turned on her heel and dashed away.
The angry man sighed, and looked at Draco who’d been standing there watching the incident with a feeling of wariness he usually reserved for blast-ended skrewts. As the focus shifted to him, Draco wondered for a panic filled second if he was about to receive his own chewing out. Instead the man shook his head as if to clear it, and spoke in a slightly deflated tone.
“The sad thing is that she’s one of the better writers here. It's why I assigned her to that press meeting. I hope she can fix that story or else this paper will be stuck in a rather bad place.” The man informed him with exactly zero prompting. Draco wondered if he should say something, when the editor seemed to spring to life again.
“Walk with me,” he ordered and Draco did as he was told without a second thought. As they walked out of the office, he found himself staring at the man’s hairless head, noticing with a disturbing sense of fascination that light actually did reflect off of it. The editor noticed and grinned at Malfoy’s discomfort.
“It was starting to fall out, so I decided to save it the trouble.” He told him. Draco shook his head at the joke, running his hand through his still-there-hair. “Used to do that all the time too.” The taller man added. Draco shot him his angriest glare, but that just made him laugh.
“I’m going to assume you’re not-“
“If you say that insult’s name, I will throw you out as well.” He interrupted, all signs of good humor gone. Draco noticed the girl from before. She had been in earshot for the last comment. To her credit she just bit her lip and typed faster. “You can call me Anton- Fredrick, what the hell have you been trying to sell as work!”
It took a moment for Draco to figure out that only half of the sentence was addressed to him. Anton waved over a small balding man. The man, obviously Fredrick, had a paper in his hand.
“What-“
“Your report on the House Elf Rights Movement has errors in it a five-year-old would make. I could barely understand it in some parts.”
“If you would just let us put charms on-“
“No, I’m not paying machines or magic to write the bloody paper: I’m paying you. I won’t allow magic on those typewriters till you can actually write a report with your own hands. At least give me half-assed reports before you give me half-assed charms. Now start editing before I put you in the next wave of incompetents in the unemployment line.”
Before Fredrick could respond, another man was running up, a red head. Thankfully he shared no other Weasley like features, but the sight of him still set Draco’s pulse soaring. Thankfully the man didn’t spare a glance at the blonde. Instead, he waved a handful of paper’s at Anton.
“Sir, here’s the report on the dragons’ migrations being impacted by-“
“Give me that.”
Anton grabbed the paper and started reading it. For a moment Fredrick only stood, watching him with irritation clearly twisting on his face. The anxiety was familiar to Draco, as he watched the editor let his employee stew for a moment. Then…
“Anton, I need to start on the article regarding Ministry rebuilding the Department of Secrets, I don’t have time to edit the House Elf article. Can’t Agnes do it?”
“I’ll ask her, but she’s already knee deep in articles to review. If she can’t get to it today, it won’t go out tomorrow. And if it doesn’t go out tomorrow, you will have officially given me nothing I can print in nearly two weeks, which means I’m docking your pay. Is that a risk you want to take?”
Apparently it was, because the man nodded with a grimace. For a moment Anton stared at him, clearly wanting to argue. But with a shrug, he nodded and sent the other man on his way. Still unhappy with the outcome, Fredrick left muttering “Damn American.”
“American?” Draco echoed, feeling disgust at the idea of a foreigner being in charge of such an important institution as the Daily Prophet. He’d certainly noticed the accent, but hadn’t been able to place it. Anton glanced over at Draco, eyebrow raised in muted rebuke and curiosity.
“Canadian actually, though I spent a lot of time in South America. Haven’t actually bothered with the States though. That a problem for you kid?”
“…no?”
Anton was already in motion though, apparently not really caring about the answer, leaving Draco to play tag along some more. He tossed the red headed man’s paper on a desk where a brunette witch was using a red pen to highlight and correct changes.
“Check that for any errors. It looks worth printing, but I don’t have the time to fact check it and make sure it adheres to the normal rules of grammar,” Anton instructed her. “Remind me, how many people do I have working on ads?”
“Three,” the woman replied, not bothering to look up as she shifted the paper onto one of the many piles in front of her.
“Then Fredrick’s livelihood depends on you.”
“Don’t undersell it,” the woman retorted. “Everyone’s livelihood is dependent on me.”
Anton let out a barking laugh at that.
"Fredrick asked if you could look over his House Elf Article."
"I thought the reason you forbid anyone from coming up to me while I was editing was so they couldn't bother me about jumping the queue." Never once did she look up from marking the articles. She was incredibly fast at it as well, and Draco watched as she completed one set of articles and sent them flying off to some unknown destination.
"I don't actually enjoy docking people's pay Agnes," Anton informed her with a grimace. "I will if I have to, but I'd rather not."
"I'll send him a note of where he is in the lineup, and he can make an appropriate choice like the adult he is." This seemed as far as the woman was willing to capitulate. "Now go, you're putting me behind and we can't afford for these articles to go out late. I still haven't seen any worthy of the front page."
"Let me worry about the front page," Anton told her before stepping away from the desk. He turned and seemed to register that Draco was still there. For a moment he looked like he was going to say something, but his attention shifted. Instead of saying whatever it was he was going to say, he reached up and grabbed one of the newspapers flying through the air. He started off again, testing the paper’s edge and eyeing it critically.
“I need to talk to the Stephens about the layout,” he muttered, turning suddenly to walk toward the back of the building. People practically threw themselves out of the way, and Draco found it easy to follow in his wake. They reached the back wall and the door that opened into a back stairwell.
“Stephens, where are you two?” Anton yelled as they walked into the basement level. Draco was used to the older man’s yelling by now, and ignored it in favor of looking at the machines. The room he stood in held some of the most remarkable devices in the world; The Daily Prophet’s printing presses: A combination of magic and machine. The charms were so numerous and powerful, that Draco could see them shimmering like spider silk from where he stood. He glanced back at Anton, intent on asking some questions, when he noticed an elderly couple standing next to him.
“Mr. and Mrs. Stephens, glad I caught you.” For once Anton sounded civil. Draco looked at him in surprise, wondering vaguely if the angry editor he arrived with had been replaced while his back was turned. Anton was still there though, as bald and tan as before. He was just less irked it seemed.
“I have some ideas about the template I’d like you to see. We can save paper if we do away with the multi-page format and make it like a booklet instead. We’d have to layer the two pages with a shifting spell. See, back in Toronto, we had these tabs that changed the entire paper to certain sections instead of turning pages…”
Draco listened with only mild interest as Anton talked with the old couple. A first they mostly argued, but after a few minutes one drew up a template that they messed with every so often, voices becoming softer and more inquisitive. After a good ten minutes they seemed to agree on a certain design. Stevens said he’d run it by some bloke named “Brutus.”
It was during this time that Malfoy came to the realization that this place was not for him. He’d have to extract himself from this situation as soon as possible and go….
Go where?
“Come on Kid,” the bald man shouted, breaking Draco away from the beginnings of a very uncomfortable line of thought. He jumped slightly at the intrusion, but quickly recovered and glared at the man.
“Kid?”
“Give my best to the elves and your family!” Anton told the Stevens, ignoring Draco’s look.
“Elves?” Draco asked, and this time Anton deigned to answer.
“News elves. Don’t ask- I don’t get it. They are only friendly like with the Stephens, and I’m lucky if I get the cold business side of things. But then, they’ve only known me a couple weeks, maybe a month… or has it only been days…” Anton trailed off thoughtfully as they made their way back up the stairs. “Either way, don’t mention them to anyone. I’d rather not deal with any organizations getting up in arms about the rights of magical creatures, especially since I’m paying them. And definitely don’t mention them getting paid to the reporters or they’ll all be wanting raises which none of them deserve yet…”
Draco felt his head beginning to spin.
As they exited the stairwell, the blonde reporter from earlier ran up to them.
“Here’s your gold!” She declared, brandishing a paper. Seeing Anton’s face, she quickly tacked on a “Sir.”
Draco watched Anton’s face as he began to read, noting the sharp grey eyes as they flit from word to word. A feeling of wariness crept up his spine, despite his attempts to repress it. A year wasn’t long enough to put aside fear at the idea of judgement, even when it wasn’t his head on the chopping block.
“My dear Miss Renald…” Anton started, looking up from the report. “If it weren’t for some very strict company regulations, I’d kiss you for restoring my faith that this paper can be saved.”
The young reporter smiled and gave a short watery laugh. Draco felt an odd mix of jealousy and relief, that he unsuccessfully tried to repress along with his earlier sense of fear. All he got for his troubles was a vaguely upset stomach. He glanced at Anton, who was now staring at him with a quizzical expression.
“What?” Draco snapped irritably.
“I’m just waiting for you to tell me why you’re here.” Anton replied with more calm and patience than he’d exhibited all day. Draco’s stomach flipped as he remembered his original plan and his determination not to follow through with it. He hadn’t come up with another reason for being here though. Still, Anton was waiting for an answer, and by now Draco knew he wasn’t a man to be kept waiting.
“I-er- I wanted a job but-“ Draco started. Anton stopped him mid-sentence with a raised hand. For a moment, Draco thought he saw something flicker in the man’s eyes.
“Say no more,” he instructed him before turning and barking out a sharp command. “Fieldsman, get over here!”
A scruffy man suddenly appeared beside them, fiddling with a large camera hanging from a strap across his neck.
“Sorry sir, I know you were expecting me to be on my way-“
“Nonsense Fieldsman, I know you still have plenty of time to get going on that.” Anton interrupted. Draco was feeling certain at this point that Anton couldn’t let anyone finish what they were saying before jumping in. “I wanted to introduce you to the kid, who still hasn’t given me his name. The kid’s thinking about being interested in a job here and being a genuine reporter. I want you to take him out on assignment, show him what’s what. If he shows up again tomorrow, I’ll care about what his name might be. Savvy?”
“Sir…” Fieldsman looked pained for a moment, though if it was at the word choice or the assignment Draco didn’t know. It was gone in a moment though as the photographer gave up on the mental debate and shook off his sense of impropriety. “Right sir.”
It was then that he looked at Draco. There was a moment where Draco thought that he might get away without being recognized. After all, no one had said anything all day. But then, those dark eyes widened with realization.
“Sir this is-“
“Don’t care Fieldsman.”
“But-“
“Anton, wait-“ Draco started, but it was to open air. Anton had already moved on, the strain of having to stay in a place longer than a minute having grown too much for him. Draco watched as he approached another wizard, who looked torn between standing still and fleeing for his life. It was like watching a hawk swoop down on a bunny. Draco looked away from the inevitable onslaught, to see Fieldsman staring at him like he was a poisonous species of slug. It was a look Draco was getting used to seeing.
“Look Fieldsman-“
“No you look, kid,” Fieldman practically growled. “I know you’re thinkin' you’ll slip out now. Let me dissuade you from that notion. I will not be losing that man’s trust just because you got bored with career day. I’m the best photographer in this bloody place, an’ Anton sees that an’ respects that. Kept me and shoved out all the pretenders we had runnin’ around here. That you and your lot put here to ruin everythin’ I've spent my life building. He’s trustin’ me to put aside whatever ill will I got toward you- and believe you me I got some ill will- to show you what news reporting is about. And I’ll show you what it means to look for the truth instead of shoveling lies like you’re used to. Do you see that, kid?”
Draco stared in dumb shock. He was expecting an unceremonious booting, not… whatever that speech had been. Fieldsman rolled his eyes at Draco’s gob smacked expression, grabbing his arm and practically dragging him outside.
“Come on, assignment is at Sanctuary Theater, and you aren’t making me late.”
With this proclamation, Fieldsman grabbed Draco by the arm and pulled him out of the Daily Prophet and back on to the street he'd left what had to have been only fifteen minutes prior.