aaaaand this somehow ended up with george the private investigator but I TRIED
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Draco hasn’t an inkling of what he’s signed himself up to until the car comes rumbling up to the pavement besides Malfoy Manor; it’s a battered red BMW E30 that looks as if it had seen better days before it had even left the factory, and he swallows his crushed pride as he slams into the passenger seat next to George, sucking a lollipop like there’s something cool about it, like it’s a cigar and he’s living in the era of The Sopranos – though, Draco thinks with a vague hint of amusement, he hits the same mark of cool as the novel rather than the series.
“Been a while, Malfoy,” George croons as he presses his foot on the gas, the car rolling smoothly out and along the cobbled roads, rumbling unhealthily. “I’m hoping you read up on all the case files?”
“The fuck’s got you working as a PI, Weasley?” Draco asks, folding his arms, the folder of his case files strewn over his lap – of course he’s fucking read them; what’s George expecting, a level of expertise to match his own thick brother Ron? Draco is better than that – not enough so as to expect a better job than trailing people in ancient boxes that call themselves cars, but he’s better, and that’s clear, to be expected. “I was under the impression you were running a joke shop.”
“You were a fan of our products, or so I’ve heard,” George replies, though he sounds ambivalent about the whole affair, which surprises Draco – he appears to have mellowed out somewhat, despite the clear aesthetic he runs with, old car and lollipop and thick sunglasses like he’s in a B-movie. He feels vaguely like he ought to check that there’s not a gun in the car door. “Lee runs it on the off-season, so I can do this.”
“Let me repeat the question: why the hell are you wasting your time with this, when you have a perfectly successful business enterprise?” Draco says, making sure to speak slowly, stressing word after word in case George doesn’t understand him this time – stupid, really, for a PI. He answers questions like a politician, another Cornelius Fudge.
“Cause it’s fun,” George says with a shrug. Draco doesn’t believe him for a moment, but as he turns off and out of the collection of streets surrounding the Manor, George takes a turn in the conversation, too, and chasing it seems pointless. “So, we’re on the Finch-Fletchley case today – the plan is to speak to him, re-evaluate our position and, if he wants us to go forward, we’ll stakeout at Flourish and Blotts tomorrow and see what we can see. Any objections?”
“Apart from working this job, no,” Draco says, leaning his head back. George snorts, leaning forward and switching the radio on; The Hindu Times rocks the car, and becomes the opening symphony for a new day.