Title: Dance with the Devil
Author Name: Shy Unicorn
Rating:M
Genre: Romance/Friendship
Main Character(s): Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy
Ship(s): Astoria/Draco, Lucius/Narcissa, Narcissa/OC, Lucius/OC
Summary: Four years after Voldemort is vanquished Astoria Greengrass starts working for 'Witch Weekly' magazine as a feature writer. Her very first job is to interview Draco Malfoy who has just made his first million galleons without the aid of his rich parents. What happens when they meet?
Author's Note (A/N):I feel really out of writing practice, so to keep me in the habit I've started Dance with the Devil. I hope you like it.

Dance with the Devil

Chapter One: Fresh Blood

It's seven A.M, the first Monday in September, which also means it's my first day as an Assistant Feature Writer at the prestigious Witch Weekly magazine. It's my first grown-up, salary-paying, adult job after leaving Hogwarts and I am having some serious first day nerves. I am beyond excited, which is perhaps why it feels like there's a kitten in my stomach tugging at my insides like they're a ball of yarn.

I stand in the living room clutching my mug of tea and stare intently at my reflection in the mirror hanging above the fireplace. My blue eyes look speculatively back at me. My dark blonde hair is tied back in a neat ponytail and I've spent ages trying to get my make-up and my outfit just right.

I want it to say: I'm a serious writer. Take me seriously.

What I think my appearance actually says is: I've just finished a six-month unpaid internship at Whizz Hard books and I don't have any money to buy cool clothes right now.

I'm wearing a white short-sleeved oxford shirt (left over from my Hogwarts uniform) and a light blue skirt my older sister Daphne got me for my birthday back in May. I'm in my socks but I can see the brown suede brogues I'm going to wear to complete the outfit out of the corner of my eye.

I take a deep breath and give myself a stern look. You are a smart, capable woman and you can do this, I say in my mind while I squint at my face trying to work out if my eyeliner wings are level.

That sounds exactly like something my mum will say to me over dinner tonight. She's always talking about strong and empowered women, but that's because she is one. She's a Healer at St. Mungo's and runs a whole department by herself. It's easy for her to say that kind of thing, she's a certified badass.

"Hey, Astoria. Ready for your big day?" a familiar voice behind me says.

I turn around and see Xenia, my flatmate and best friend in the entire world zip into the kitchen to get her morning coffee fix. Our apartment is small and the kitchen, living room and dining room are all essentially one room with mismatched furniture.

Xenia's still in an oversized t-shirt and knee socks, her curly brown hair spiraling out around her like it's an aura. I know she has to Floo to work in the next 15 minutes. Time-keeping is not her strong suit.

"Erm, Xen, you do know it's 7:15, don't you?" I point out anxiously.

"Coffee first – that's my motto. I'm invincible after my first cup," she says, flicking her wand so cups and carafes whiz through the air. "You want some?"

"I'm good," I say and gesture to my cold half-drunk cup of tea. "I should probably go. I want to make a good impression."

"You will," Xenia says confidently, slouching back against the countertops and grinning at me. "They hired you, didn't they? How many people did you beat out for the position? You'll be great. You're an awesome writer."

"Thanks," I mumble, smiling a little. Xenia always knows just what to say to make me feel better.

There's a muffled crash and a door slamming and Pace appears, throwing his messenger bag over his shoulder. He grins at me as he comes down the hall. Pace is short and spry. He's Chinese and has these incredible almond shaped eyes that are honest and kind.

"Good Luck on your Big Day. Are you around tonight? I got a last minute DJ slot over at the Misty Moon, you fancy coming to support a brutha?"

Pace is always throwing out gangsta phrases even though he's the least intimidating person I know. He's very stylish, which can intimidate some people, but he works for Gringotts so he's not getting his gold nefariously.

"I can't. I'm having dinner with the fam," I tell him as he lines up slices of bread under the grill. "I could maybe come afterward, what time are you on?"

"Nah, I'm playing the early slot. Have fun with your family, enjoy your mum's cooking," he says slyly and winks at me. My mum has an interesting approach to cooking, let's put it that way. "What about you, Xen?"

Xenia nods enthusiastically but is too busy gulping down coffee to make a verbal reply.

"Okay, well, I'd better go," I broadcast, glancing at the clock. "Have fun tonight, guys. I expect a full report of the night's antics tomorrow morning."

"Are you reporting on us now?" Xenia teases as I go out into the hall to put on my shoes and pick up my satchel.

"Yes!" I yell, my voice echoing playfully in the narrow space, as I wiggle on my shoes. "You'd better watch what you do and say around me because you'll end up as Witch Weekly fodder if you aren't careful."

"Okay! We've been warned," Pace replies patiently.

"CRAP!" Xenia exclaims and streaks into her bedroom.

The door crashes shut behind her. She has maybe five minutes to spare before she needs to be in her office in the heart of the Ministry of Magic.

"Bye!" I call, opening the door to leave. "Be good!"

My journey to work is simple – go down five flights of stairs and Apparate beneath the apple tree in the back garden.

We live on the sixth floor of an old London townhouse that's been converted into apartments. From the street it looks like this beautiful old Victorian house, from the inside you really get a crash course in dilapidation. This morning the weather is warm outside so it smells particularly mildewy as I descend the stairs.

Once out in the garden I check that none of the neighbors are looking my way and in one turn I'm gone.

My ears pop as I appear in Diagon Alley. I straighten myself out and poke at my right ear trying to get the ringing to stop. I've materialized outside Eeylop's Owl Emporium like always. It's been the standard meeting place for me and my friends since we were first allowed to buy our school supplies without parents. It's become my default Apparition spot.

This morning the air smells sweet and promising, it's a warm morning that's probably going to turn into a scorching hot day. There are very few people out as I make my way towards the tall stone building that houses The Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly's headquarters.

I was here a month ago when I came for the job interview and strangely, I was less nervous then than I am now. At the time I didn't think I'd get the job. I knew the only reason I even had an interview was because Pansy Parkinson, one of my sister's friends, works in Witch Weekly's Fashion department. She got me the interview as a favor to my sister.

The interview really swung my way when I got chatting with Bernice Mills, Witch Weekly's feature writer. She was a famous war reporter back in the day during the first of You Know Who's uprisings. She's a big deal in the world of journalism and she took a shine to me, so she employed me and I was spared having to work as Pansy Parkinson's underling.

I guess that's why I'm so nervous. Bernice is taking a big chance on me. I don't have a background in journalism, apart from occasionally writing for the Hogwarts school paper. My internship with Whizz Hard was in editing and I really want to be a novelist. However, I'm over the moon at having an actual paid writing job. I really don't want to mess it up.

As I approach the doors to The Daily Prophet I see a girl who's been loitering nearby lock her attention on me. She's got incredible blue-black skin and long, raven black hair. Her outfit is the epitome of Wizard street style from her high-low skirt to her 50 pence piece necklace. I know she's going to speak to me before she says a word.

"Hi, do you work here?" Her voice is direct just like her words.

"Um, yeah, I guess I do." This earns me a questioning look. "I'm about to start my first day," I admit.

The girl visibly relaxes a little. "Me too. I saw you Apparate and I just knew by the way you're dressed you were coming here too."

Her validation of my outfit feels like eating chocolate after Dementors have attacked.

"Where are you starting?" I think I already know the answer but it's the obvious thing to ask.

"Fashion," the girl says proudly. "You?"

"Features," I say and she looks surprised. "Shall we go up to the office?" I ask and begin to lead the way.

It feels so much less scary now that I'm not going to have to walk in alone.

"Wow, you must be a really good writer. They never take feature writers straight out of Hogwarts."

I don't know whether to be flattered or upset by this remark, so it's a good job we're walking single file up the stairs so my new colleague can't see my face. I graduated from Hogwarts two years ago. I'm probably older than her. Now I wonder if my outfit looks too juvenile or she just assumed we're the same age.

"What House were you in at Hogwarts?" I ask, more because we have Hogwarts in common than because I really care about her answer.

"Hufflepuff. What about you?"

"My parents were both in Hufflepuff," I say brightly and to soften the blow of what comes next. "I was in Slytherin."

"Slytherin, really?" the girl says and I notice she's become a little cool with me.

We've reached the top of the stairs and are on the landing outside the main doors of the Witch Weekly office. I catch her giving me an assessing once over as if she's checking me for concealed weapons.

I open my mouth to reassure her that I'm beyond house rivalries but the office doors open and the Editor in Chief, a truly terrifying witch named Ottoline Higgs-Misslethorpe appears. Even the air seems to freeze.

Higgs is in her sixties or seventies, with short iron grey hair, an austere mouth and a huge hooked nose like Professor Snape used to have. She's skeletally thin so that her fashionable robes hang artfully from her clothes horse frame. She's slightly jowly and the skin of her decolletage is crepey from years of exotic holidays.

Essentially she looks like most Pureblood witches who have spent their lives as socialites baking in the sun, with one exception – she's my boss. To be specific she's my boss's boss. She owns Witch Weekly.

"You must be the Fresh Blood," she drawls, turning her heavy lidded eyes on us. Her voice is very deep for a woman and cold like the bottom of a well.

Me and Hufflepuff Girl find ourselves nodding.

My mouth feels oddly dry and sandpapery. The ambitious part of my brain tells me I should introduce myself, make myself known to her but my survival instinct tells me better not.

"Come inside," Higgs says, opening the door a fraction wider.

The moment I step into the Witch Weekly office I feel a wave of pleasure and awe that I get to work in such a place.

No one else is around and the office is calm and quiet. Golden sunlight falls on shiny walnut desks in huge shafts through the skylights and the windows. The floor is varnished oak beams, the walls washed white except for one at the head of the room. It's papered in a purple William Morris inspired design with vines that move and flowers that seem to track the movement of the sun. Adorning this wall are covers from famous issues dating back to when the magazine was founded in the 1860's.

I stand uncertainly in the middle of the room between lines of desks. Pansy Parkinson's domain is clearly at the back end of the office. There's a large mood board propped against the wall with everything from fabric samples to photographs of models tacked to it.

Beside the small kitchenette is a desk with tissues, tea bags and a little postcard that reads 'Smile it could be worse: you could be a Squib!' which strikes me as being more than a little prejudiced. I still have it pegged as the desk belonging to the Agony Aunt whose name I've forgotten. I probably won't learn it, much less take her advice.

Sounds of approaching people draw mine and the other girls' attention. There's puffing and laughing and the general chatter of several women in one place. Bernice, my boss, is the first through the door. She's short and plump, probably in her fifties, with an open, pretty face and stunning green eyes. She reminds me of a Siamese cat with those eyes, bright and intelligent.

"Morning, Astoria," she says to me at once.

I feel a wave of warmth towards her when she a) remembers my name, and b) pronounces it correctly.

"Want a tea?" she asks me, rummaging through her bag and making her way to her desk. She produces a sweet looking little cupcake that's slightly lopsided from being in her bag.

"For you," she says handing it to me, looking as proud as if she'd produced a rabbit from inside her bag.

"Why? I mean, thank you," I add, taking the cake in both hands is if it were a precious gift from a deity.

"You're going to need it come this afternoon," Bernice says without a trace of humor. "We've a lot to get through today. Slurp while we work, eh?"

She drops her bag down on her chair because there's not a single bit of space on her desk and strides purposefully towards the kitchenette. Her desk is completely obscured. One trough of scrolls, a wooden tray of envelopes and a tottering tower of parchment occupy the center. Photographs of family and writing paraphernalia crowd the edges.

I spot the empty desk opposite hers and I run my hand lovingly over the shiny surface. This is my very own desk, I think delightedly. I sort of want to hug it.

"Hi, A, how's it going?"

Pansy Parkinson has a big fake smile plastered over her face. She pulls me into an unexpected embrace and air kisses either side of my face; the over familiarity of it rattles all of my British sensibilities.

I don't dislike Pansy but then I don't exactly like her either. She was Daphne's best friend in school but on the flip side she was also Daphne's worst enemy, if you get what I mean. They don't really talk anymore. It's awkward because in some ways I owe Pansy big time for helping me land this job.

"Hi, how're you?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she says in that vague airy way that could mean anything from 'I'm dying inside' to 'I'm having the best day of my life.' "Have you seen my new girl, Fabiola Deng?" she adds in a dramatic undertone that smacks of disapproval.

"Yeah, I did. She seems cool," I say, because I feel some kind of solidarity with Fabiola.

Pansy gives me a hard look, as if she's shocked that I don't agree with her. We don't have time to say any more because Bernice is back.

"Morning, Pansy. Come on, Astoria, let's get down to business. We've got an exciting day ahead of us."

I pull up a chair and sit at Bernice's desk with her. She hands me a flora print mug that's chipped a little at the rim. Her cup is equally beaten up and I'm not surprised when I realize it's from the Irish Quidditch World Cup several years back.

"Right," she says, settling back into her chair, which she transfigures into a leather wing-back armchair.

"This is going to be Features 101, I'm afraid. The holiday's over and we've got the Autumn Quarter to plan. We work in quarters, three months to a quarter, four quarters to a year, yadda-yadda-yadda." Bernice gestures dismissively and I sip my tea.

I wonder fleetingly if I should make notes. I grab a quill from my satchel and Bernice passes me a sheet of parchment as she starts talking again.

"This is how we're going to work. You become a good writer by being the student of good writers. I want you to read widely, I want you to think about what makes a piece of journalism resonate. Yes?"

I nodded furtively, jotting her words down in a strange shorthand I use for last minute exam revision.

"You only get good at something by doing it often, so I want you to write a couple of pieces over the next month. If you have any ideas you can pitch them, we'll see if they fit with the magazine's style. If they do, great, we'll run them, if not, well… maybe we'll see what the Prophet downstairs has to say. If they don't fit there, hey, it was practice. Sound good?"

"Yeah!" I say, not able to keep the delight from my voice.

I thought I'd be scampering around getting people's lunches and twiddling with my quill the first couple of months. Bernice's faith in me is such a rush.

"I've set a couple of things aside for you," Bernice tells me while I'm scribbling away.

"Your first gig is a piece we're doing on Draco Malfoy. He's just made his first million galleons independent of his family fortune. Apparently he's a self-made man these days. It's just a simple Q&A type thing. He's very private and wary of reporters. The meeting's set up for tomorrow lunch at The Heliotrope Hotel."

"Tomorrow?" Wow, she's really not waiting around, is she?

"Is that a problem?" Bernice asks me kindly but fixes her cat-like eyes on me.

"Uh, no, it's no problem. I just don't know much about him," I admit awkwardly. "If you were hoping my Slytherin connection was going to help get the dirt on him it won't."

Bernice looks thoughtfully at me. My mind makes the obvious leap that she thinks because I'm a Slytherin I'm not being honest with her, that I'm lying to protect my own kind. That is how we Slytherins work.

"I just thought two young people might have more to talk about than an old fuddy-duddy like me. That's all," she says lightly and shrugs.

I believe her and relax. Clearly Fabiola's reaction got under my skin and has made me edgy. I want people to like me.

"No, you're right, that does sound like a good idea."

"No one knows much about Draco Malfoy, my dear. He's a peculiar young man, especially when one thinks who is parents are." Bernice gives me a look that tells me she clearly thinks very little of the elder Malfoys. "No one has heard a peep from him in four long years, not since Harry Potter vanquished…"

Bernice can't quite bring herself to fill in this blank and she doesn't need to. It's been four years and people are still uncomfortable saying You Know Who or Lord Voldemort or the Dark Lord, any of his old names. It's still too fresh.

Even on this sunny morning in the Witch Weekly office an icy chill has come over me. My arms have goosebumps and the little hairs on the back of my neck are standing up.

I shiver hard.

What has Draco Malfoy been doing in secret for the last four years?