Closest To Heaven That I'll Ever Be

12. Why?

I kept staring at the folder. That was probably the problem. The longer I looked at it, the more real everything became.

The figures. The properties. The projections.

St Mungo's. Hogsmeade. The warehouse.

The idea of seeing my products stocked across the country instead of sitting neatly on shelves I had personally dusted that morning.

It was exciting. Terrifying. Completely overwhelming. And underneath all of it, there was one question I hadn't properly asked.

Not once.

I reached for the Firewhisky and drained what was left in my glass.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "That seems ominous."

"It might be." I poured myself another, then held the bottle towards him.

He lifted his glass.

"Why do you want to do this?"

His hand stopped. Just slightly. Enough that I noticed.

I poured his drink anyway.

Draco looked down at the amber liquid for a moment before taking a fairly generous mouthful.

Interesting.

He'd answered every financial question I'd thrown at him without blinking. Apparently that one required Firewhisky.

I sat back. "Well?"

"I'm thinking."

"That's never reassuring."

He gave me a look. "I could give you the business answer."

"I've had several hours of the business answer."

"True."

"You think the shop is profitable. You think it can expand. You think there is a gap in the market."

"All true."

"And I understand why your company would want to invest."

I tilted my head. "But I'm asking why you want to." Draco was quiet. I watched him take another drink. "There has to be more to it."

His eyebrows lifted. "Does there?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because this is a lot."

I gestured towards the folder. "This isn't you putting a few Galleons into a shop and hoping you make a return."

"No."

"You've spent weeks researching me."

"Your business."

"Still creepy." He smiled faintly.

"You've had people survey customers. You've looked at competitors. You've found buildings. You've spoken to people connected to St Mungo's. You've commissioned logos."

"Draft logos."

"You made a catalogue."

"A prototype."

"Draco." He stopped. I held his gaze. "You've put an absurd amount of work into this."

"I wanted the proposal to be thorough."

"I know." I softened slightly. "And I appreciate that." I did. More than I had probably made clear. "But why?"

He looked down at his glass again. I had the strangest feeling that he had spent weeks preparing answers to every possible question except this one.