Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a very hot morning, even by June standards, as Blaise Zabini made his way towards 93 Diagon Alley. He was starting to sweat in his dark suit, but a business deal was a business deal and he would rather be caught dead than not dressed professionally when signing on a new acquisition. 

And what an acquisition it was, Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. This was the fourth company he had bought into in as many years, the other three much less successful when he acquired them. He had in fact made his name by bringing companies back from the brink of despair, Fortescue’s being the latest shop he saved.

Not that he was particularly interested in ice cream, or novelty products. He just knew what had the potential to sell well.

When the war ended, Blaise hadn’t returned to Hogwarts for the optional eight year for those who missed their seventh. His mother had sent him to Italy in July 1997, before things got really bad. Blaise had felt guilty about leaving his friends and his mother in England, but he had no say in the matter. When he returned, two months after what was now known as the Battle of Hogwarts, he had been given two options: back to school, or internship with his mother’s then - now dead ex - husband. Blaise chose the latter.

Lucrezia’s seventh husband was a ruthless, malevolent and uncharitable man. But he was undeniably good at business. Blaise had both learned what to do and what not to do in the world on commerce from him. How to handle partners, how to negotiate with competitors, how not to treat employees. That was the only big mistake his stepfather had made, mistreated the people he hired. Blaise spent four years working under the miserable bastard, until his untimely, tragic and oh so accidental death.

Blaise was aware that he had great business sense, his success was a mixture of natural talent and valuable lessons early in his career in the industry. He knew which moves to make and changes to implement to get a venture to thrive. And perhaps most crucially, unlike his stepfather, he knew who to hire to keep them succeeding; the importance of surrounding yourself with good people. Which is why he was comfortable letting his employees run things, so he could focus on future plans and expansions.

He could see the purple and orange exterior of WWW peering in the distance as he made his way down the cobblestone street. He had already met up with George multiple times, but always at his own office in muggle London. This would be their first meeting in the shop itself, and first time meeting both of the brothers at once. It would actually be the first time he had seen Ron Weasley since— well, the end of sixth year. A lot had changed since then.

They weren’t kids anymore, first and foremost. They weren’t house rivals with feuding best friends. They weren’t in mortal peril, or fighting against or reluctantly alongside dark wizards. They weren’t full of teenage angst and acne.

Thank Merlin for that.

He knew the Golden Trio frequented most newspaper’s headlines, but he had always tried to pay little attention to idle gossip. He didn’t want to probe his classmates’ personal lives, as quite a few of them had ended up more or less famous. Blaise and Draco had gotten their fair share of column coverage themselves. So he had seen some fleeting headlines about Ron Weasley, some blurry photos of him usually trying to get away from the cameras as quickly as possible. There had been a recent article about him hexing a reporter at the shop. Which Blaise secretly applauded, as the tabloid press were generally vultures and lowlives.

It didn’t take long for the Slytherin to reach the bright orange door of number 93 Diagon Alley. The shop wasn’t open yet, but George had said he’d leave the door unlocked for Blaise. He placed his hand on the wooden surface and pushed. It opened with a small, normal ding, which surprised Blaise. Surely the Weasleys would’ve preferred a horn or maybe a fart to announce the arrival of new customers? Isn’t that how these kind of shops worked? Horns and farts everywhere? Who even found horns and farts amusing at this day and age? Blaise had to admit that he had himself never really been one for practical jokes. 

A mop of auburn red hair appeared from behind one of the shelves.

”Blaise! Come on in, we’re just setting things up for today,” George said, rushing over to shake the Slytherin’s hand. ”I have the papers ready in the office, please,” he said, gesturing towards the door on the left from the check out, ”Ron is there doing our inventory, I’ll be another minute or so, just going to finish up here quickly.”

”Great, thank you George,” Blaise replied, walking towards the back. But he stopped before he grasped the doorknob, fingers hovering above the brass handle in hesitation. Maybe he should knock, not to startle the younger Weasley in the other room if he genuinely was there doing the inventory. Ronald Weasley had never been exactly known for his calmness. He gave the door two sharp taps with his knuckles before he pushed it open and stepped in.

His eyes immediately landed on a head of fiery red hair, more vivid and bright than his brother’s, with sun bleached tips. Ron was sat cross legged on the floor near the second door leading to what Blaise presumed was the storeroom - and or lab - surrounded by boxes and products. He was hunched over, sorting the packages in concentration, straining forward to reach some of them. There was a small pile of papers on the desk next to Ron.

”Weasley,” Blaise said with a polite nod, still standing in the doorway. Ron barely glanced his way.

”Zabini,” he mumbled quietly in response.

The awkward greetings were followed by a long, tense pause. Weasley kept moving around the products in front of him, occasionally writing things down in a notebook that laid on the floor beside him.

”How are you?” Blaise asked when he couldn’t bear the deafening silence any longer, but Ron only replied with a scoff and a shrug. 

Lovely, the attitude of an angry hippogriff.  

Not knowing what else to do, the Slytherin walked over to the desk and chair, sitting down, quietly observing the man he hadn’t seen in just under eight years. 

The Gryffindor was just as ginger as when they were at school, but Ron had grown beautifully into his then-awkward frame. He used to be lanky but now he was slender, he was wearing stone washed jeans and a moss green t-shirt with yellow contrast trim lining the hem, collar and sleeves. The colours reminded Blaise of sunflowers. The shirt itself seemed like it was too short, but in a fashionable kind of way, like it was designed to show skin if the wearer lifted their arms even a little. Maybe if the redhead stood up to reach for the products on the upper shelves…

“What the hell are you looking at?”

Blaise snapped his eyes to meet the other wizard’s stormy gaze.

Ron’s irises were strikingly blue - there was something rather unnerving about their shade, it reminded Blaise of the sea in Italy - and their contrast with the redness of his hair and the paleness of his skin somehow highlighted all of his features. He almost looked ethereal. The Slytherin felt an inexplicable need to trace his finger down Ron’s long nose, to his bow shaped upper lip. And Merlin, that plump upper lip; pink and dusted with the same freckles that danced across his cheeks and nose. 

Huh. Who would’ve guessed that Ron Weasley grew up to be this gorgeous. Not that he had ever been bad looking, when they were in school. But now, now there was something bewitching about him.

Before Blaise could let his mind (and eyes) wander any more, and before he even managed to reply to Ron’s confrontational question, George walked into the room with a brown file in his grasp.

”Ignore him, he’s hungover,” the older Weasley said, gesturing towards his brother on the floor.

”Well aren’t you a delight,” Blaise chided sarcastically, letting his gaze linger a little bit longer on the defiant redhead glaring at him with fire in his eyes. Blaise was quite certain Ron wouldn’t reply to the comment - he hadn’t exactly been talkative thus far, unless you counted his singular attempt to pick a fight - so hearing his voice just as Blaise started turning around caught the Slytherin slightly off guard.

”Fuck. off.” Ron stressed each syllable, the consonants harsh on his tongue. Blaise turned back to face him, locking eyes with the redhead again, flashing a hostile smile. The Slytherin couldn’t explain why, but he wanted a reaction. His heartbeat sped up.

”Charming. I can only hope this isn’t how you treat the customers, but with your grace and manners I won’t hold my breath.”

That made Ron finally jump up from the floor.

”Ha! Look who’s talking about grace or manners! You obnoxious prick, when’s the last time you’ve met up with your so called friends?”

Blaise knew Ron was close with Theo and Pansy nowadays, even more so now that Pansy was dating Ron's longest and best friend. And there might have been a ring of truth to the redhead’s accusation, Blaise had been exceptionally busy for the past few years and he hadn’t seen his friends and family half as much as he would’ve liked. Maybe that’s why the words struck a chord in him. But he had been making a name for himself, proving his worth to a world that had not seen him as much else than the golden spoon fed only heir of a filthy rich socialite, who had bagged the inheritance and status of no less than seven ex-husbands. And Blaise had proved himself, he had gained the respect of the people he worked with, did business with, the people he employed. He treated every person well but he didn’t take bullshit from anyone. Blaise was good at what he did, and he had not needed a single galleon, sickle or knut from his mother to make his own way in the world. So yes, maybe he had been somewhat more absent from his friends’ lives, but it wasn’t because he didn’t care.

And perhaps he did, on occasion, prioritise going out looking for some late night company, the kind his friends simply could not offer him. He had needs though, needs he needed to fulfil, especially when his day-to-day life was as demanding and busy as it tended to be.

What did Weasley know about anything anyway?

”I can see that the Daily Prophet hasn’t been lying about your temper, if anything galvanic was too kind of an adjective,” Blaise retorted, ignoring the redhead’s question altogether in order to provoke, again. Which worked, probably too well, because Ron started practically stalking towards the Slytherin, stopping only when he had invaded Blaise’s personal space, one index finger in the air between their heads, now separated by two feet. The Slytherin noticed faint, light scars wrapping around the redhead’s raised left arm.

But before he could pay the swirling patterns any closer attention, Blaise was distracted by an aromatic scent that made his eyes flutter as he inhaled. Like a mix of fresh rosemary and some sweet gourmand pie he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Merlin, even Ron’s scent was enchanting.

His words, however, were not.

”The Daily fucking Prophet knows nothing about me so don’t you fucking dar—”

George clapped loudly, startling the two men standing face to face in the middle of the room. Blaise clenched his hands. They felt clammy.

”Both of you, shut up! We’re not bloody teenagers anymore!” He said, frustrated eyes shifting from Ron to Blaise and back to Ron. “We’re about to become business partners, and I would like very much for this dynamic to work, so please, can you both make an effort to get along?” 

George was now looking at his brother rather than Blaise, but the Slytherin felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him. He never let his emotions get the best of him at work, he wasn’t snarky or sarcastic when it came to business. He was known for not losing his composure, for fuck’s sake. Ron was just— being annoying, and the redhead had unknowingly pushed one of his very few buttons. Blaise bowed his head is acknowledgement.

”I apologise, that was a lapse in judgement on my part. It won’t happen again.”

George gave him a professional but grateful smile. Then he turned his gaze to the other redhead in the room, crossing his arms across his chest.

”Ron?”

The wizard in question narrowed his eyes challengingly as he turned to look at his brother, mirroring George’s body language.

”I’ll make an effort when he makes an effort,” Ron sneered, nudging his head towards the taller man standing beside him.

“Ron,” George repeated, but it sounded more like a warning. Blaise could practically feel the sibling dynamics radiating off the pair. The two Weasleys held each other’s gaze for a long moment, one pair of eyes stubborn and the other stern. 

Ron backed down first, with a huff. 

“Alright fine, whatever,” he mumbled before adding a hasty ’sorry’.

”Good. Let’s talk shop then, shall we?” George replied, voice significantly cheerier as he clapped his hands together again, this time signifying agreement. ”You both already know the plan; expand by opening a shop in Hogsmeade. We already have enough stock to do it, we just need to lock down a location and get it sorted.”

Blaise nodded.

”Great, I’ll happily start looking for one as soon as possible,” he replied. Ron scoffed loudly, so the Slytherin turned to him with a raised brow, as if to ask what now?

”I actually live in Hogsmeade, I think I should be the one who scouts out the new location,” the redhead retorted. 

I didn’t realise he lives there. I would’ve thought London for sure.

George stepped up to the desk, placing down the brown file he was holding next to the papers already sitting on the tabletop.

”Fantastic, you two can start looking for the new venue together while I keep things running here,” he stated, smiling rather cunningly. Both men opened their mouths to protest but George beat them to it. ”That won’t be a problem, will it?”

Blaise and Ron both grumbled a reluctant ‘no’. George only smiled wider.

“We just need to narrow down what we are looking for and what the budget is. Let’s have a few meetings over the next couple of weeks to suss out the details and then maybe last week of June you guys can get going. Until then you’re welcome to join us at the shop Blaise, office work or sales, whatever’s the most beneficial. I can even show you what we do in the lab so you’ll know your way around the basics. That sound good?”

Blaise nodded but his face was twisted into an uncertain frown.

”Are you sure it’s a good idea to have us both doing the scouting? You don’t need help with the shop here? I can absolutely handle it on my own too,” he suggested, attempting to sound as diplomatic as possible. What he really wanted to say was that is the single worst idea I have ever heard in my entire life. George shook his head.

”No no, I’ll be absolutely fine. I’ll get Lee or Percy to come in to help if I need it."

Ron crossed his arms across his chest and turned to face Blaise once more. His nose seemed to be in a permanent scrunch.

“And why should I be the one that stays helping here if only one of us scouts?” He asked, rather uncooperatively.

“Well, in addition to the fact that you’ve already been working in this shop for years and know your way around, it is also my expertise to make a business bigger and better,” Blaise stated in response, his voice calm. He was adamant not to let irritation take over again. The redhead’s expression filled with rebellion.

“Well, my expertise is to shove it up your—“

But George managed to cover Ron’s mouth with his hand.

“That is quite enough Ronniekins,” the older Weasley said through gritted teeth, “I recon this hangover of yours requires a sick day, alas home time for you, right now.”

George started practically dragging his brother towards the door leading to the shop floor, while Ron fought against the palm pressed against his face.

“The papers are on the table Blaise, I’ve marked the places that you need to sign and then it’s all official,” George instructed over his shoulder. “Welcome to the team, mate!”

The office door closed with a thud. 

Blaise turned to the papers waiting on the desk, a quill lying next to the brown file. He walked over and grabbed the feather end, leaning against the table as he flipped through the pages, finding the sheets that required his signature. 

His fingers tingled each time he wrote his name.

Strange.