I had a great time writing this – a lot of that was due to my fantastic beta Híril who made the beta process a lot of fun. Thank you very much! This was originally written for the "If The Prompt Fits" fest on Hawthorn & Vine. With apologies for Dale Carnegie for borrowing his title.

Chapter One

Ferrets, Otters and Other Critters

-oOo-

"Weasley, will you stop messing around and get those wards up? Some of us would like to keep all our limbs."

"If you could ever stop talking, I would have a chance to get something done here." Weasley was sticking his tongue out in an attempt to concentrate on the task at hand. Draco looked at the pink specimen with revolted fascination before he turned away. He preferred not to speculate on where it had been; people had Obliviated themselves for less.

The door shook under another barrage of spells, and Draco took refuge behind the desk.

"Any time now would be fine," he shouted over the flapping of what he could have sworn were wings outside. Despite its many natural advantages, the Ministry of Magic was not a common habitat for birds, so he could only deduce they had been conjured to wreak vengeance upon himself and Weasley.

"I'm doing it, I'm doing it!" Weasley seemed to have realised his usual glacial speed was not an option. Instead, he cast the incantations with hitherto unsuspected flair. "If you hadn't abandoned your wand, you might have been useful rather than annoying. I'm trying to work here, you know."

"Speaking of which, shouldn't you be focusing on what you're doing?"

Both men winced as a particularly vicious shriek announced a fresh attack.

"I might," Weasley said. "If you ever shut up. Do you ever stop talking?" He finally hit the last part of the protection spells, and there was silence at last.

Draco was stung. "You're obviously not used to people attending to what you say. When I speak, people listen. Frequently with awe, I might add."

"I think you confuse the glazed expression in their eyes with actual interest." Weasley clearly had no idea what passed for conversation among intelligent people, so Draco ignored him. However, he did consider a clarification to be in order:

"I did not abandon my wand. I simply decided it was more important to relocate to a place of relative safety."

"Yeah, yeah. The end result is the same, though: you're as much use as a Doxy in a thunderstorm." Weasley moved around Hermione's office in what Draco had to concede was a purposeful manner, looking for weak spots or potential defensive weapons. He pocketed something Muggle-looking, made of metal. Draco would have liked to get a closer look, but he refused to lower himself by asking. Besides, Weasley likely didn't know what it was either.

"Au contraire." Draco wasn't sure whether Weasley understood French, but he could hardly be expected to reign in his eloquence to cater to the dull-witted. "I'm clearly here to provide the brains of the operation."

There was a choking sound from the corner, and Weasley emerged, spluttering with laughter. "That's a good one, I needed that!"

Draco drew himself up to full height, which irritatingly still left him an inch shorter than Weasley. "I hardly think –"

"Listen, Malfoy. Even you have to admit Hermione is much smarter than you. Were you the one who figured out how to get Muggle electronics to work with magic?"

Regrettably, it hadn't been him, and Draco was forced to concede to Weasley.

"Exactly," the latter replied to his own question. "We all know that you provide the money, Hermione the brains, and me –"

"Do remind me what your contribution is again – I never can remember."

As expected, the sarcasm flew straight over Weasley's head. "I'm here to give you lot some business savvy. Neither of you have any idea how to run a business, let alone a successful one."

Unfortunately, it was true – somehow, Draco's business ventures always seemed to fail, and he could never figure out why. It wasn't until Hermione and Weasley had approached him a year ago, their distaste barely hidden as they went cap in hand to their erstwhile foe, offering him a stake in their joint venture, that things had changed.

At the time, Draco had been torn: on one hand, he had been pleased it had finally dawned on them that the House of Malfoy was (again) a power to be reckoned with in the Wizarding world. On the other hand, he had been itching to pay them back in kind for years of sneering. He had been forced to admit, albeit reluctantly, that Weasley and Granger had got things right where he had got them completely wrong most of the time after fourth year.

That didn't absolve them from being absolute pricks before, though.

"Why don't you ask Potter? He's loaded," Draco had asked instead.

"Harry is a bit busy getting married at the moment," Granger had explained. "He doesn't really have time to start up a company too, in between chasing Dark wizards and choosing thank you cards."

"Also, in case we lose the money, we'd rather it didn't belong to someone we actually care about." Weasley had earned himself an elbow in the ribs for that.

"As I was saying," Granger had continued, glaring daggers at Weasley, "we are looking for a third partner. Ronald will provide the business know-how and I the magical expertise. Also, much as it pains me to admit, you might be helpful in reaching our target market."

"Pure-bloods with more money than sense," Weasley had explained for Draco's benefit.

Draco could see why they needed him; despite his blood status, Weasley still looked like he didn't have two Galleons to rub together. "What is it you're proposing to sell, exactly? I must warn you, Granger – there's not a huge market for house-elf lib merchandise out there. Not even if you knitted it yourself."

Granger had waited patiently until he had finished talking, the expression on her face suggesting she was pandering to a young child who had a bee in its bonnet about something.

"We are offering something unique: Muggle technology carefully adapted to the Wizarding world," she had said, as if that would have made Draco write a cheque right away.

"We're wizards, Granger," he had explained. "We don't need Muggle technology. That is why we have magic."

"Really? Allow me to demonstrate. When you are writing a letter, what do you use to write?"

"A quill?" He did use a quill, didn't he? Having Granger in full crusader mode bearing down upon one was almost as terrifying as being singled out in class by McGonagall.

"That's what I thought. I, on the other hand, use this nifty contraption." She had held up something small and transparent, featuring a blue section in the middle. "This is what we call a 'biro'. Notice how it doesn't require any separate ink: it's all contained inside. Now, watch me write." Conjuring a piece of flimsy-looking paper, she had proceeded to sign her name with flourish. Afterwards, she had pressed the side of her hand against the writing, showing it to Draco. "No smudges, no spillages, and no problem for those allergic to feathers."

"Very good, Granger." Draco had been impressed despite himself. He had rallied, however: "I will tell all my friends. They will be very excited for about 10.4 seconds, before they remember they're not at school anymore and don't have to write three foot essays every week."

"I'm not proposing we start selling biros. It was merely a demonstration that you're completely unaware of an item that is omnipresent in the Muggle world. Doesn't it make you wonder what else you don't know about?"

It did, blast her. Granger must have deduced as much from his expression, because she had ploughed on.

"What we want to do initially is to offer a select, bespoke service, helping wizards and witches access the best Muggle innovations of the past thirty years. The first customers will effectively pay for our research and development. Once we have fine-tuned the products, we can offer them on the open market."

"We'll make a killing," Weasley had added.

Draco had stared at the biro: for some reason he was itching to pick it up and chew on it while he weighed up his decision.

The Malfoys were still wealthy, but considerably less so than they had been before the war. His parents were living in semi-retirement at the Manor while Draco tried to restore the family name (not to mention their erstwhile influence). All of it had required money, however, and so far Draco had proven more adept at spending it than amassing it.

Draco had been forced to admit there was some logic to Granger's plan. He knew exactly the type of people willing to part with a huge pile of Galleons to acquire cutting-edge magic. The Muggle connection would work in their favour – most pure-bloods had a healthy sense of self-preservation, and showing one was at ease with the non-magical population did an awful lot to convince people one truly had left the war behind.

By all accounts, Weasley had been a successful partner in his brother's shop – presumably this was his chance to show he could accomplish something on his own.

Granger was probably content with a chance to show her cleverness. The last Draco had heard, she had been slaving away at the Ministry, insisting on working her way up. Apparently, she hadn't realised that the problem with such an approach was that you actually had to work.

"All right," Draco had said, against his better judgement. "I'm in."

What had escaped Draco at the time was how the endeavour fit into Granger's wider plans. He had learnt since then that she was almost entirely unmotivated by money, or indeed recognition (she had certainly chosen her Ministry career well); the reasons she did anything were usually as difficult to unravel as any of his Slytherin schemes.

It all made sense once Draco figured that for Hermione Granger, the whole world was a Project, to be improved upon until it reached the state of goodwill to all men and critters she mistakenly believed were on par with humans.

No prejudice was too unimportant, no perceived injustice too small: she wasn't going to rest until she had everything arranged to her satisfaction.

Somewhat frighteningly, neither public scorn, set-backs, nor even basic human nature seemed to deter Granger from her relentless campaign. Sometimes, Draco actually believed she would succeed. If she did, he would be partly responsible. Before their little enterprise took off, she had been constrained by whatever paltry donations she could bully her friends – Potter, really – into and her tiny Ministry stipend.

As co-founder of FOWL, she had become a wealthy woman, able to finance anything from Centaur habitats to lobbying campaigns.

"I don't think naming our company 'foul' is the way to win business, Weasley. Although, 'fair' wouldn't be much better," Draco had said when they were trying to pick a name.

"Fair or foul, perhaps? FOF, for short." Hermione had kept her gaze steady, but there was an infinitesimal suggestion of a blush on her cheek as the other two had stared at her in unison.

"No, Hermione," Weasley had said eventually. "You're banned from ever naming any of our products, as well."

"I concur," Draco slipped in before she had time to say anything. "Two to one – you're outvoted."

"Good. Now we can talk about my suggestion. FOWL stands for Ferret, Otter and Weasel Limited, of course," Weasley explained.

"Absolutely not!" Draco said at the same time as Hermione asked:

"But won't that make it obvious who we are? I'd rather keep it quiet for now."

"Anyone who's willing to spend ten Sickles, two Knut at the Company Registration Office will be able to find out for themselves who owns the company, so I would expect us to appear in the Daily Prophet in about a fortnight. Free publicity, though." Weasley looked a bit more cheerful at the prospect.

"Excuse me, I think you have temporarily gone deaf. Both of you. There is no way we'll be naming this venture FOWL or any variation thereof." Draco was glad the coffee shop they had selected for their meeting was deserted; he didn't want anyone to bandy around Weasley's harebrained suggestions.

"Why not? I think it's an excellent idea," said Granger. She would, of course, being the otter in the equation.

"No, it's not. Next," Draco said, debating whether Unicorn Utilities was too esoteric, or if it hit the right note of almost unobtainable luxury.

"Hang on, Malfoy. You can only veto major financial decisions, you don't get to vote down the name." Weasley was leafing through the newly approved Articles of Association, and Draco realised with a sinking feeling that he was right. It had seemed of utmost importance to safeguard his investment; Draco had failed to consider what running a company with two Gryffindors would entail in practice.

Granger, damn her, had almost certainly drafted the insidious clause 13. "I concur. I also concur with your suggestion: FOWL it is." She patted Draco on the shoulder, which failed to provide him with any consolation whatsoever. "No one has to find out that the 'F' stands for ferret. And Ron did call himself a weasel, so I think that's fair."

"Funny when you think about it," Weasley said. "Otters, weasels and ferrets aren't exactly a million miles from each other. Small, furry, and with sharp teeth."

"Weasels and ferrets are quite closely related," Granger, the walking textbook, informed them. "Otters are mainly aquatic, but they're still members of the same family."

"There you are, then. Only, my Patronus happens to be a terrier, so it's the two of you that are spiritually linked."

Draco's ability to speak had finally returned. "I do not have a special affinity with ferrets!"

"I don't know, it looked like a natural transition to me. What's your Patronus, then?"

It was always galling to admit his limitations, but Weasley mastering an advanced form of magic, where Draco had failed despite all his efforts, made it sting even worse. "I don't know," he mumbled.

"Ron," Granger said, elbowing him in a would-be discreet manner. Granger being considerate was the final nail in the coffin.

"I don't know how to cast a bloody Patronus because I was a bit preoccupied making sure my family survived the war, all right? They weren't exactly part of the Death Eater curriculum."

"That's fi–" Granger tried to say, but Draco wasn't anywhere near done yet.

"No, it's not fucking fine, is it? I still can't work for the Ministry of Magic or run for public office ever, and little kids actually run and hide if they catch a glimpse of my ever so tasteful tattoo. The only reason I even agreed to meet with the two of you in the first place was that you're war heroes. If you fought on the wrong side, people would rather spit at you than give you as much as a Knut, not matter how good your products."

Draco wasn't exactly on the breadline, but Theo and some other friends had doggedly tried and failed to make a living since their abrupt exit from Hogwarts.

"I'm not saying that's how it should be." Weasley had clearly nominated Granger to respond on his behalf, and she picked her words carefully. "I do think there should be a statute of limitations on the restrictions for Ministry employment, especially for people who were underage when they took the Dark Mark. But do you really think we would be having this discussion if your side had won?"

"Well, I don't think there would have been any demand for adapted Muggle products," Draco replied without thinking, and got a look from Granger in return that should have scorched his eyebrows off.

"I'm trying very hard not to ask what you thought would happen after the war – did you expect an Order of Merlin? Your situation might be less than ideal, but you survived. Your family survived. Thanks to Harry, you're at liberty and still have your fortune. I don't think I would have been in the same position if Dumbledore had got even one of his wild guesses wrong, do you?"

"No," Draco admitted. He usually avoided thinking about what would have happened if the other side had won the war, except when he was waking up from a nightmare.

"I'll teach you," Weasley said, and the other two looked at him as if he had two heads. "I'll teach you how to cast a Patronus, if you want. And if it actually is a ferret, you have to take out a full-page ad in the Daily Prophet saying 'Weasley is our king'."

This story is complete in five chapters and will be updated every Saturday(ish).