hp fic: Office Space (part 2)

[xylodemon]

Office Space
{continued}

"Cannon's look good this year," Harry said, leaning back in his chair until it reared up on two legs.

Ron nodded and sipped his firewhiskey, which was on ice and in a tall glass. Harry frowned at it periodically, a silent reprimand Ron was choosing to ignore. By mixing liquor liberally with an empty stomach, he'd managed to reach that mythical place where everything was floaty and his life didn't suck, and he intended to stay there as long as possible.

"I'm glad they kept Hamilton," Harry continued. Their table was tucked into a far corner, which was what passed for secluded at the Three Broomsticks. Six months gone, Harry wasn't mobbed in the streets any more -- not very often, anyway -- but people would occasionally point and stare. Particularly when drunk. "With him, I'd say they've a fair chance against Montrose."

"You think?" Ron asked slowly, unable to decide if Harry was taking the piss. "Montrose flattened Puddlemere last week, four-ten to one-sixty, and Puddlemere caught the Snitch."

"Of course they did," Harry said. "Montrose's Seeker -- wossname -- Gilly? Gilbert?"

"Giles."

"Right, Giles. He wasn't the best idea they ever had," Harry said. "Five years they've had him, and they've been playing the same match since. They run out and make a load of goals in the first ten minutes -- get a bit of a lead -- then after that, they just sit on their brooms and help the Keeper mind the hoops. If Giles wakes up in time to catch the Snitch, great."

"And if he doesn't?" Ron asked.

"Well, they're still up by two hundred, so who cares, really?"

"True," Ron agreed. Rosmerta caught his eye, and he gestured for another.

"Now Hamilton, he's all right," Harry went on, picking at the label on his butterbeer. "The rest of the team is an even match with Montrose, if you ask me." Ron hadn't asked, but he found he had missed this. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sat around and listened to Harry rabbit on about nothing. "If he plays right, he'll have the Snitch before Montrose has a chance to pad the scoreboard, and Giles'll still be looking for his kit."

"Why am I not surprised? You two will never change. Holed up at the crappiest table, pissed to the gills and talking about Quidditch."

Ron froze. His happy place went south for the winter -- abruptly and without him -- and neglected to leave a forwarding address.

"Malfoy," Harry said. His tone was passing pleasant, and Ron silently ground his teeth. "Have a seat, won't you?"

"Only if your boyfriend won't mind," Malfoy replied. Ron rolled his eyes and sighed, but he flapped his hand toward an empty chair. Harry and Malfoy formed a strange sort of friendship during the war; Ron didn't like it, but for Harry's part, it was not open for discussion.

"How've you been?" Harry asked.

"Good," Malfoy replied, picking lint off a jumper the same grey as his eyes. His hair was shorter than Ron ever remembered it being, and he seemed to have regained some of the weight he lost during the war. "And you?"

"Good," Harry replied.

"Here we are, then," Rosmerta interrupted. "One triple firewhiskey, rocks."

"Good Lord, Weasley," Malfoy said, lifting an eyebrow. "Are you trying to forget something in particular, or just your life, in general?"

"Anything for you, love?" Rosmerta asked Malfoy.

"Mandrake vodka and pumpkin juice, please."

"At least I don't drink like a girl," Ron said. "What are you doing here, anyway? Are you back to stay, or are you just slithering through for a visit?"

"Let's see," Malfoy said slowly. "My father's dead, and my mother's in Azkaban. Who exactly would I be visiting?"

Harry cleared his throat.

"Sorry," Ron mumbled. He snatched his drink off the table and killed the first third in one go.

In school, Malfoy was the enemy. And he was meant to stay the enemy during the war, but that wasn't how things worked out. Instead, the three of them passed through Grimmauld Place on a rare visit to find Malfoy asleep on the drawing room couch. He was pale and thin, bruised like he'd picked a fight with a herd of centaurs, and recovering from a nasty gash on his side that he'd received courtesy of Fenrir Greyback. That night, as they stood in the entryway to a house that felt both dead and alive, Ron expected Harry to rail at Lupin and Tonks until the decaying walls came crumbling down. But he didn't; he cocked his head to the side, and after a strange, silent pause where Ron swore he could hear the house breathing, he sat down next to Malfoy and asked him how he was feeling.

Ron never questioned Harry's anonymous owls; he didn't question why Harry knew things about the horcruxes that he hadn't before, or how he suddenly got the information Hermione needed to create the spell that would destroy them. They started coming about a month before Harry found the first one, and it never occurred to Ron that it was Malfoy passing Harry secrets from the other side. He never asked, but Harry never offered. It was a strange, dark time then, and secrets were being kept all around.

"He makes a point, though," Harry said. "You've been gone for months, now. I was starting to think you preferred being a Muggle."

"Hardly," Malfoy said. His drink arrived, and he paid Rosmerta with a handful of sickles and a leer. "Muggles are boring and horribly uncouth, and I can safely say that American Muggles are the worst of the lot." He sipped his drink, which was a lurid shade of orange. "I just needed to get away for a bit. At least until the Ministry was done auctioning off the house I grew up in and deciding if I could keep my father's money."

"You were in America?" Ron asked.

"Boston," Malfoy said, shrugging. "It was Zabini's idea. He's got a Squib cousin -- step-cousin, really, from his mother's fifth marriage. Or was it her sixth? Anyway, he moved to America for university, and decided to stay. Zabini owled him, and he got me a job at the firm he works for." He laughed stiffly. "If my father could have see it: his only son, filing paper and answering telephones for a Muggle solicitor. I bet he was rolling in his grave."

Ron retreated behind his firewhiskey. There wasn't much he could say to that.

"It wasn't bad, all things considered," Malfoy continued. "Muggle law is almost interesting, in its own way. You'd be surprised what Muggles think they need rules for. But the Muggle stock market -- that was almost worth staying for. If done right, it's a license to print money."

"What brings you back, then?" Harry asked.

"It was time I came home," Malfoy said. "Besides, I was offered a job." He paused, ostensibly for Harry or Ron to inquire about said job, but Harry was busy looking baffled, and Ron didn't care. Malfoy dove into his drink, sucking half of it down before coming up for air. "Where's your other third, then?"

"Bloody Hell, I've been wondering that, myself," Ron said sourly. Harry had said for them to meet at eight, and it was nearly ten.

"Running late, I guess," Harry said. "She was coming in from out of town."

"I'm here, I'm here." This from Hermione, who was suddenly standing behind Malfoy. Ron blinked at her; he hadn't seen her arrive.

"Well, I'll leave you to it," Malfoy said, rising. "I'm meant to be at the office by nine, and my life's still in boxes."

Sighing, Ron waved for another drink.

"What was that about, then?" Hermione asked, once Malfoy was out of earshot. Her hair was planning a coup -- ready to escape its hasty bun at any moment -- and she looked harassed. "Disappears for how long, and then decides to stop in for drinks?"

"Never mind him," Ron said. "How about you? We've been here hours."

"I was sleeping," Hermione said shortly.

"Sleeping?" Ron asked. "In the middle of the evening?"

"I just got in this afternoon, from Eastern Europe," Hermione said. "I'm portlagged. My brain thinks it's about half four."

"Eastern Europe?" Harry asked. "Visiting Viktor, were you?"

A growl formed in Ron's throat, and he drowned it with his drink. His glass was empty; he sucked an ice cube into his mouth and began mashing it with his teeth.

"I saw Viktor, but it wasn't a social call," Hermione said. Ron's new drink arrived; it was floated over, as Rosmerta was stuck at the bar, enduring what looked like a drunk attempting to chat her up. Ron smiled sympathetically, and with a flick of his wand, sent her enough to cover the drink and a healthy tip. "I met him in Bulgaria, but from there, we portkeyed to Durmstrang."

"Durmstrang?" Harry asked.

"What's it like?" Ron cut in.

"Like Hogwarts, really, only with more snow," Hermione replied, with a lazy wave. "And before you ask, I don't know where it is. Viktor's portkey took me straight to the Headmaster's office. Honestly, I didn't see much. I was only there a few hours."

"But why?" Harry asked.

"To take my NEWTs, of course," Hermione said sensibly. "Well, their equivalent of NEWTs. Same idea, really. Intensive tests in the core subjects." Harry pushed his half-finished butterbeer toward her; she paused for a moment before taking a small sip. "I plan to take proper NEWTs when Hogwarts reopens, but until then, this will suffice."

"Yes," Ron said shortly. His last drink had failed to take him back to his happy place; it had zoomed him past his happy place to a cold, temperamental location where his stomach was sour and his skin felt hot. "But why?"

"So I can get a job," she replied.

"You have a job," Ron reminded.

Her eyes narrowed, and her fingers tightened around Harry's butterbeer. "Pardon me if I don't want to work the till at Flourish and Blotts for the rest of my life." Ron looked away, and she sighed heavily. "Neville owled me last week. The research lab at St Mungos is looking for someone. I'd be perfect for it, really, and from what Neville said, the senior researcher agrees, based on the work I did for the horcruxes, and the improvements McGonagall and I made on the Patronous, but St Mungos has rules. I can't even apply without NEWTs. It could be another year before McGonagall gets Hogwarts open, and I can't wait that long." She paused, fiddling with one of the empty crisp packets sitting on the table. "I think I can get by with these Durmstrang tests. Neville said there's a girl from Beauxbatons in his department, and they didn't give her any trouble. I don't think it's the tests so much, but the idea that I stayed in school long enough to take them."

"Right," Ron said.

He pushed his drink away. Nine o'clock would be coming all too soon.

:: :: ::

Ron's arse hit his chair at fifteen after nine, and the first thing he saw was a singed note from Harry and a bottle of Pepperup in his floo. The second thing he saw was Fiona-and-Myrtle's picture of Oliver Wood. Wood still hadn't found his kit, and when Ron mentioned it, he was greeted with a rude gesture.

"Good morning, Ronnie," Fiona chirped. Ron mumbled something he hoped was agreeable and seized the Pepperup with both hands. She smiled archly. "Long night?"

"Short," Ron groused. His head was throbbing like the drum solo from a Weird Sisters song. "But we made up for lost time."

"Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence," Myrtle said, swooping in like a great, bespectacled bat. She had a large scone in one hand and a larger tea in the other, and Ron's stomach began planning an insurrection.

"Fresh in," Fiona said conspiratorially. "Worse for wear, I think. Dragged himself in like a wet cat."

"New bloke's here," Myrtle offered, when met with Ron's growl. "Not bad looking, if you like them skinny and blond."

Fiona laughed. "Oh, I like them however they come."

Wood winked in her general direction. It dissolved into a scowl when Ron's quill hit him in the face.

"Don't you know him?" Fiona asked, pointing at Wood with the stapler.

"We were at Hogwarts together, for a bit," Ron replied, wincing as the Pepperup kicked in. It zapped his exhaustion, but that was about it. It didn't remove the wool that had been packed inside his head overnight, and he still felt like he'd been run over by a Muggle lorry. He traded it in for his tea and tried not to swallow his tongue.

"Oooh, did you play Quidditch with him?" Myrtle asked. She sat down at her desk, but between the tea, the scone, and the twinkle in her eyes, Ron suspected it would be another hour before she managed to do some work.

"No," Ron replied. Blinking, he noticed his own desk for the first time. More correctly, he noticed the stack of parchment and scrolls so tall it was threatening to topple onto the floor. Apparently, Cadawaller had already been by. "I didn't go out for Quidditch until my fifth year, and Wood was well gone by then."

"How about Cormac McLaggen?" Fiona asked. McLaggen's picture was also on the wall, but thankfully, it was positioned so that Ron was spared looking at it. "His bio in Quidditch Hunks Monthly says he played for Gryffindor his last year at Hogwarts."

"He did," Ron said. "I suppose," he added quietly. The mess that had been the Gryffindor Quidditch team during his sixth year was not something he cared to explain while he was having difficulty sorting his right hand from his left. "You should talk to Harry; he played with them both."

"Harry Potter," Fiona said, sighing. "I always figured he'd play professionally, once he got that nastiness sorted out. He was quite the talent, and Quidditch certainly pays better than the Ministry. I'm sure he had offers."

"The Harpies, the Tornados, and the Kestrals," Ron muttered. He was secretly glad the Cannons never entertained Harry; Ron would have been hurt when Harry refused. "And Puddlemere, just last season."

"Cor, why didn't he go?" Fiona asked. "I can't imagine passing up Quidditch to root dark wizards out of their hidey-holes. Didn't he get his fill during the war?"

"I once read in Witch Weekly that he didn't want to play professionally because of his relationship," Myrtle said. Witch Weekly featured a Harry-centric article in almost every issue, which was often based on the same kind of truth and hard facts generally found in The Quibbler. "He's in love, and was pained by the idea of being away for long periods of time."

"Rubbish," Ron said. Last time he checked, Aurors were away for long periods of time. Harry was not-home so constantly Ron often wondered why he bothered letting a flat. "Harry didn't play Quidditch because he enjoys it too much. He was afraid he'd stop enjoying it if he did it for a living. His relationship has nothing to do with it."

"So, he's still attached?" Fiona asked. Cadawaller walked past the open door, apparently intent on speaking with the new bloke; she made a show of fussing with the papers on her desk, and charmed her quill to look like it was writing. "The last Witch Weekly said there was trouble in paradise."

"Witch Weekly is ten gallons of doxy-piss in a five-gallon cauldron," Ron snapped. "He's quite attached, and I should know. I see them both regularly."

"What about you, then?" Myrtle asked, and Ron supposed she fancied herself sly, but she lost points for subtlety in all categories.

Last Friday -- just as Ron was out the door -- Myrtle cornered Ron in the kitchen, and to Ron's horror, mentioned that Fiona was looking for a reason to leave her boyfriend, and that Ron could well be that reason, if he could be bothered to show a little interest. Ron could not think of anything he could be less bothered to show interest in, except possibly redoing the war, or hanging out with Malfoy, so he did the sensible thing: he politely pretended to have no idea what Myrtle was talking about. Myrtle, of course, decided Ron was just playing hard-to-get, and seemed to be regrouping in a way that suggested she would shortly be redoubling her efforts.

"What about me?" Ron asked suspiciously. Cadawaller walked by again, making the return-trip to his office. Ron waved a scroll around with heroic effort.

"Are you seeing anyone?" Myrtle prodded.

Ron hummed tunelessly and feigned interest in Finglaud 5K11-G088:31's request for permission to take a night job as a janitor at the Time-Turner. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday only, and he'd be back in a goblin-approved residential area by curfew.

"What about that one girl?" Fiona asked. "The one with the hair?"

"I'm not talking about this," Ron said. He stood, with vague plans to disappear into the supply cupboard that was now the filing room until Merlin came back from the grave. Spiders had not been on the itinerary when he woke up, but really, spiders were preferable to this. "We're not talking about this."

"Touched a nerve, I guess."

"Quite."

"I heard she cheated."

"With his brother."

"Brothers." Emphasis on the plural. "The twins, wasn't it? And at the same time."

"SHE DID NOT CHEAT," Ron shouted. Loudly. Cadawaller probably heard that. "She never really liked my brothers," he added, in Hermione's defence and in a tone of voice that hopefully couldn't be heard down at the Atrium. "Well, she got on all right with Percy, before he went round the twist, but never mind the rest. She saw Bill and Charlie all but twice before the war started, and as for the twins, she once told me -- and I quote -- 'those two are hopelessly juvenile and utterly unsafe'."

Fiona and Myrtle exchanged a look. The clock ticked. On the wall, Wood was suddenly enraptured with his broom. The silence stretched on for a full minute, until it was rudely interrupted by a flash of lightning, a clap of thunder, and rain sheeting against the window like it meant business.

"Bloody Hell," Ron said, startled. "What's that about?"

"Conrad from Magical Maintenance is in a snit," Fiona explained, sipping her tea. "I heard his wife left him."

"I heard he left her."

"Enough," Ron said. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, an attack it probably didn't deserve. "How about we..." He almost said not talk, but around here, that was foolishness. "Right. Let's just talk about Quidditch, then."

"Well, that would be a change, you talking about Quidditch."

Thunder rolled by again, rattling the windows with homicidal tendencies. Ron blinked. In the slow, suspended moment that followed, Ron tried desperately to tell himself he was hallucinating.

Firewhiskey poisoning. That was the only explanation.

:: :: ::

Ron's after had always been fuzzier than Harry or Hermione's, even when people started to die and they hadn't seen anyone but each other in weeks and after was all they had to cling to. When after came up, as it often had, Harry and Hermione talked in specifics. They had plans. They had goals. They had detailed lists of things they wanted to do and places they wanted to see and feats they wanted to accomplish. Ron, who spent most of the war with the single-minded focus of simply surviving, thought of his after in generalisations. He would work -- though he wasn't exactly sure where -- and he would have a girlfriend -- though he wasn't exactly sure who -- and maybe, if having a place to live didn't include the Burrow or any of its side-structures, he would have a dog. Beyond that, after was just a place where Voldemort was dead and he was happy, and most importantly, alive.

However, and despite its vagueness and utter lack of direction, there were some things Ron's after never included, and one of those things was working with Draco Malfoy.

"All you did was change locations," Malfoy said. "Crappiest table and talking about Quidditch. I bet you're wearing last night's trousers under that robe." From the doorway, he peered at Ron like Ron was an insect pinned to a felt board. "Are you still pissed to the gills?"

Malfoy smirked. The cruel and familiar curl to his lips was as good as a time-turner, and Ron was suddenly fourteen again. He was awkward and too-long-limbed and angry, and he bolted from his desk, pushing past Malfoy in hopes of catching Cadawaller in his office. He caught Cadawaller in the hallway instead, and he didn't look back once he opened his mouth. He started shouting about ferrets and hands of glory and runaway Death Eaters, and he didn't stop until half of Regulation and Control wandered down the hallway to see what the fuss was about.

"I've heard about this," Cadawaller said slowly, after a long pause during which Ron realised -- a bit belatedly -- that he'd been raving like a madman. "They call it postal traumatic distress syndrome. Comes from the war. All that killing addles the brain. Makes a fellow run mad. They shout at the walls and take funny turns everywhere."

"Perhaps we should have him locked up," Malfoy said serenely. He was dressed in a Muggle business suit; it was charcoal grey and Ron wondered if it was flammable. "Might be safer for us all."

"I haven't run mad," Ron insisted. A quiet murmur to his right suggested Regulation and Control was still in debate. "The war did not addle my brain."

"I have to agree there. His brain was addled long before the war," Malfoy said. "Possibly since birth." He inched toward his office. "I'll just owl St Mungos. Keep him calm, and don't make any sudden movements."

"I'll give you sudden movements," Ron warned. His hand twitched for his wand, but he apparently left it behind when he fled his office. This was probably for the best, since Cadawaller's face could have been carved from stone.

"Enough," Cadawaller barked. "I raised my children -- nine of them, mind -- and I don't intend to start over today. Go back to your offices, the lot of you."

Cadawaller stumped away, muttering about how young people these days had no manners and no sense of propriety. Ron paused, closing his eyes, and shook himself. This was a dream. Just a horrible and awful dream. When he opened his eyes, he'd find he had nodded off at his desk. Fiona and Myrtle would be gossiping and debating the recent news from the latest Witch Weekly, and Finglaud 5K11-G088:31's request to take a second job would be spotted with drool.

Fuck.

Malfoy was smiling.

"Weasley," he said, pushing folder at Ron as Ron tried to slink past him. "I need fifty copies of this before lunch. Collated and stapled."

"Collated," Ron repeated slowly. Malfoy was out of his mind.

"Yes," Malfoy said. "That would be when you put the pages in order."

"The photocopier's broken."

"Textus Duplicato, Weasley," Malfoy replied. "Works every time."

:: :: ::

"Bloody Hell," Ron snapped, struggling with the stapler as it tried to escape his grasp. In pursuit of their endless quest to not do work at work, Fiona-and-Myrtle -- and since they probably had the idea together, it was safest to just blame them both -- charmed it to operate of its own volition. The plan worked well enough for the first fifteen minutes, but the thing was rapidly developing a mind of its own. Just now, it tried to staple Ron's finger to a stack of unsigned petitions.

"It can't be that bad," Neville said, in a tone that was far too matter-of-fact for Ron's tastes. That was easy for Neville to say; Malfoy hadn't shown up at St Mungos and started ordering him around, and Neville wasn't under attack by a stapler possessed by some underworld demon still undiscovered by humankind.

"It is," Ron insisted. "Why didn't he just stay in America?" He pinned the stapler to the desk with one hand and reached for his teacup with the other. It was empty, of course; it had been that sort of morning. "It's not like we wanted him back, or anything."

Neville's head wobbled disconcertingly; he was probably shrugging. "Harry gets on with him all right," he said carefully.

"Yes, well. Harry's as daft as they come," Ron snapped. After a full minute of playing dead, the stapler gave a mighty jerk. It twitched away from Ron's hand, but Ron caught it before it could dive off the desk.

"Did you try a Finite?" Neville asked. He frowned at the stapler in concern.

"I can't," Ron said. "Not in here." There was magic in everything inside the Ministry -- from the memos to the lifts to the charm that kept the teapot hot, even the Fountain of the Magical Brethren and the badly-panelled walls. A blanket Finite Incantatem could bring the whole place down around everyone's ears. Unless he fancied crawling out of a pile of rubble on his way to lunch, he needed to append Finite with the spell Fiona-and-Myrtle used. "Not until I figure out what they did to it."

"I still can't believe he was in America," Neville said. "And a Muggle."

"I can't believe he came back," Ron said, forcing the stapler closed around copied-and-collated set number forty-nine. "And here I thought we were well shut of him."

"Maybe if you didn't provoke him," Neville offered.

"Provoke him?" Ron asked dangerously. With copied-and-collated set number fifty done and dusted, he walked the stapler over to Fiona's desk and shoved it in the top drawer, officially making it her problem. And good riddance, he thought savagely. "I don't provoke him."

"Of course you do," Neville said; matter-of-fact again, and Ron twitched.

During the war, Neville lost most of the shy nervousness that plagued him in school, but he gained a strange sort of bluntness that Ron often found uncomfortable. He didn't do it to hurt people; he simply told the truth without thinking, and Ron mostly blamed Loony Lovegood. Near the final stretch, McGonagall shacked the two up on some long term assignment of which Ron still didn't know the details -- all he knew was Neville came back missing the filter between his mouth and his brain, and believing in things like nargles.

"How, exactly, do I provoke him, then?" Ron asked.

Ron heard a commotion near the doorway that sounded suspiciously like Fiona and Myrtle, and he quickly waved Neville into silence. Fiona and Myrtle were in love with Malfoy -- collectively and as a unit -- in the same way eleven year-old girls were in love with Stubby Boardman and Martin the Mad Muggle. Ron found it increasingly irritating, mainly because if he so much as looked at Malfoy cross-eyed, the two would nag him within an inch of his life. The commotion was rounded off by a fit of school-girl giggles; Ron looked up and found, to his horror, that Fiona and Myrtle had continued on to the kitchen, leaving Malfoy in the doorway. He seemed strangely tall at that distance, and he lingered in the hallway shadows like a bad dream.

"Personal floos on company time?" Malfoy drawled, stepping inside. "Not on, Weasley. Not on."

Ron searched for a reasonable explanation, but found nothing. He was quite obviously on the Ministry's sickle, and Neville was quite obviously in his floo.

"Longbottom," Malfoy continued, slithering close enough to set his tea on Ron's desk -- right on top of the papers Ron just copied, collated, and stapled. "How've you been? What do you do, now that you can't explode cauldrons and set Potions classrooms on fire?"

Neville smiled. "I work at the Pharmaceuticals Greenhouse at St Mungos."

"Right," Malfoy said. Neville's head started to flicker and fade; Malfoy tossed another pinch of powder into the floo. "You explode plants, then."

"None yet," Neville said honestly. "I almost set the greenhouse on fire, though. Just last week. The cocoa plants needed more heat, but I forgot to define my Aestius. Made the whole place into an oven." Malfoy snorted, which Neville abided with his usual good humour. "Turned out all right, I suppose. Doctor Sprout -- that's Professor Sprout's husband -- he got it sorted before anything important burned up."

"Well, Longbottom, fascinating as this has been, teatime is over," Malfoy said. "Weasley has work to do, and I highly doubt he'll see to it if he's chatting with you."

"Sorry," Neville said. "And we did get to chatting, but he didn't floo me. I flooed him." Malfoy's expression said that as far as explanations went, he found Neville's sorely lacking. "Well, I didn't so much floo him directly as get sent to him. I wanted to talk to you, really, but the lady at your main switchboard said your floo wasn't squared away yet. Something about a Conrad from Magical Maintenance -- I guess his wife threw him over. Anyway--"

"She sure did," Myrtle confided, heading for her desk with a folder in each hand and a floating box of scrolls hard on her heels. Ron was confused; to the casual observer, it might look like she was doing her job. "Took up with someone else."

"Another woman," Fiona supplied helpfully, bringing up the rear with a stack of parchment as tall as a small child. A cup of tea hovered quietly at her elbow, and Ron goggled at this sudden display of industriousness. Something was very, horribly wrong. "And half Conrad's age, while she was at it."

"Anyway," Neville continued. "She put me through to your secretary, which is how I ended up here."

"Hang on," Ron said, harnessing all the dignity he could muster with Malfoy's arse on his desk and Malfoy's tea sitting on a stack of paperwork that Malfoy had assigned him to do. "I am not this sod's secretary!"

Malfoy favoured Ron with the universal shut-the-fuck-up gesture commonly used by parents, professors, and Ministry officials and motioned for Neville to continue.

Neville obliged. "I've a Gutrund here. Well, not here, precisely; she's downstairs at the apothecary, and she wants five ounces of canibis," he explained. "She's not best pleased that I wanted to speak with you first. She says she has a prescription from her doctor, but hospital-grade canibis is very potent. I rather think five ounces is a bit much for a goblin."

"Five ounces is a bit much for anyone," Malfoy muttered.

"Hagrid could get it done, I think," Ron offered. "But other than that--"

"Put her off, Longbottom," Malfoy said, as if Ron hadn't bothered with an opinion. "I'll bet my boots that prescription is not from a proper doctor." He was wearing boots; dragonhide polished to a shine, that somehow managed not to look completely ridiculous with his Muggle suit. "From her great-aunt Wicklow, more like. Old bat probably dealt in herbs before healing and cures was reclassified as operating a business from home."

"Right. I'll just send her your way if she gets stroppy," Neville said, and Ron sighed. The last thing he needed was a goblin throwing a wobbler in his floo. He'd be blowing ashes out of his quills for the next week. "I'm off, then," Neville added, disappearing in a puff of olive-tinged smoke.

"Longbottom, you said?" Myrtle asked, not bothering to wait until Neville had properly dissolved. She had that face -- the one that said there was gossiping to be done. "Neville Longbottom? Is that--"

"-- no," Ron cut in, just as Malfoy said "Yes."

"Looks different in the papers," Fiona commented from behind her tea. Ron was tempted to remind her that in the papers, Neville wasn't shrunken and green. "He's a bit of all right, I suppose. I expected him to be cuter."

"Neville's cute enough," Ron snapped, common sense flying right out the window. Malfoy lifted an eyebrow, which prompted Fiona and Myrtle into another fit of giggles. "I mean... what I'm trying to say is..." His frustrated hands crept upward, intent on abusing his defenceless hair. He needed to get away from these mad women before he really did his nut. "Oh, bugger this." And Malfoy. Malfoy. "I don't much care what you think of Neville."

The three exchanged a look over Ron's head that said the jury was still out.

Wonderful. Now they thought he was gay. Myrtle probably did anyway, since he stubbornly refused to show interest in Fiona, but he wasn't. Gay. There was a time when he thought he might be interested in blokes, but he eventually decided that was just the war talking. It was a Harry-thing, because he had to look at Harry every day, and not a bloke-thing, because he didn't look at other blokes, at all.

Much.

"And another thing," Ron continued, rounding on Malfoy. "I am not your bloody secretary."

"Of course you are," Malfoy said. "Speaking of which, I need you to move your desk."

"Where?"

"Into my office, obviously. I don't fancy coming in here every time I need you."

:: :: ::

Ron was appalled. That was the only word for it -- appalled. He was also slightly impressed, on some secret, hidden level he didn't wish to examine to closely, but mostly, he was appalled.

Malfoy turning up in this office was the sort of cruel and unusual punishment that Ron wouldn't wish on his worst enemy -- except, possibly, Malfoy himself. And despite the vague horrors that lurked in his mind in regard to what could possibly come from continuing to work in an office where Malfoy was also employed, and apparently somewhat important while he was at it -- Azkaban was at the top of that list, as was a complete and utter dependence on firewhiskey -- Ron mollified himself with the idea that accommodations-wise, Malfoy was getting what he deserved. When Malfoy looked to be getting uppity, Ron reminded himself of two things before he reached for his wand: first, if he lost this job because he hexed Malfoy with boils his mum's couch was the only thing in his future; and second, Malfoy's office was Ron's old office, which was still, technically, Eugene Cadawaller's box room.

At least, that's what he wanted to think. And he was happy thinking that, until Malfoy shoved him through the door.

It was larger than Ron remembered. Considerably larger. The selfish part of Ron's brain insisted this was simply an optical illusion created by Malfoy doing something clever with the boxes -- namely, making them disappear -- but really, it actually was just larger. And apparently, Malfoy also did something clever with the peeling paint and any evidence of damp, because it was gone. In its place was textured wallpaper in a mauve pinstripe, met waist-high by dark and well-polished wood that looked nothing like the crap panelling the Ministry had slapped on the hallway walls. Potted palms guarded the doorway, set in the type of vases his mother would sigh over at Cauldrons & Things and flanked by fluffy armchairs that looked like they could comfortably seat two.

Malfoy had partitioned himself away from the rest of the room, and not with a wall or a doorway as a normal person would -- which Ron put down to Malfoy's chronic inability to do things normally -- but by way of two large Oriental screens. The screens were currently folded back in a way that framed Malfoy's desk; it was a large and flashy expanse of dark wood, and the floo perched at the edge was hammered pewter with a stained-glass hatch. An assortment of quills fanned out from a cup like a feathery flower arrangement, and Ron was in the position to notice that Malfoy had requested and received two windows, a large one across the back wall and a smaller one along the side. At the moment, they displayed the same doom and gloom Conrad was inflicting on the entire building, but the point remained, and Ron was not best pleased.

"It looks..." He almost said nice, but he'd sooner cut of his foot than pay Malfoy something close to a compliment. "Different."

"I should hope," Malfoy said shortly. He ushered Ron further inside, and Ron saw that against the third wall, Malfoy had created a miniature sideboard, complete with a water-pitcher and a teapot on a hot-plate. "It was an absolute pit."

"Right," Ron grumbled, studying the carpet. To Ron's further disgruntlement, it was no longer balding and seemed to match the wallpaper.

"You can set up here," Malfoy said, gesturing to a stretch of empty space in front of the screens.

"Hang on," Ron said. "I haven't agreed to this."

"Just in the centre, I suppose," Malfoy continued, ignoring Ron completely. "Let's have your desk, then." After a rather forceful Minimus, Ron's table was resting in the palm of his hand; Malfoy plucked it away gingerly and set in on the floor. "Engorgio."

"Malfoy."

"Good Lord, that's awful," Malfoy said, as the table returned to its normal size. Malfoy approached it, and muttering, tapped it in several places with his wand. It shifted into a desk -- a proper desk, with drawers and such -- which looked a good deal like Malfoy's own, only smaller. After a moment of consideration, he conjured a chair with wood that matched the desk and a cushion the same colour as the armchairs in the corner. "Much better."

"Look, Malfoy, I think you're the one with the addled brain," Ron said. "I'm not about to be your bloody secretary."

"What if I call you my assistant?" Malfoy offered, removing his suit-jacket and hanging it on the a coat-rack next to the sideboard. His shirt was overly-white against his red and grey striped tie.

"No," Ron said, but it lacked conviction. This new and improved office was rather nice. It was also quiet.

Malfoy sighed. "I'm fairly certain my assistant would be paid more than Cadawaller's paper-boy."

Ron's resolve was melting faster than one of Neville's old cauldrons. But. But.

"Why me?" Ron asked suspiciously. Malfoy was almost being nice -- well, what passed for nice in the land of allegedly-reformed dark wizards, and Ron was quite sure he had something other than his Dark Mark up his sleeve. "It's not like we get on, or anything."

"Because you're already here," Malfoy said impatiently. "I can't abide the other two; they talk too much, and they'd probably insist I take them both, since they can't seem to breathe without each other. If I take you on, it saves me having to find someone else. I won't have to run an advert in The Prophet and wait for Wizarding Resources to send me the first imbecile who applies."

Mentally, Ron waffled. This was a horrifically bad idea. This was probably one of the worst ideas in the history of bad ideas. It was right up there with sales-tax and Voldemort learning how to make a horcrux.

"You won't have to listen to those two harpies gossip all afternoon," Malfoy said.

"I'll want my own stapler."

"Done."

"Fine."

"Christ, you're easy," Malfoy said with a laugh. "Who'd have thought? That Brown girl could've done more snogging and less pining if she'd known you could be bribed with office supplies."

"Sod you."

"Language, Weasley," Malfoy chided. "Also." He eyed Ron up and down, frowning at Ron's Ministry-issue robes, which sported a mustard stain from yesterday's lunch and spilled over his shoes because he never bothered with a shortening charm. "Stop by Twilfitt and Tattings when you're done here. Melvin Tatting can stitch a fair suit, when he's of the mind. Tell him to make you presentable, or he'll have me to deal with."

"Oh, no," Ron said. He knew it. "Absolutely not."

"Back to the harpies, then," Malfoy said, straightening his tie. "Tell me, Weasley, is that a picture of Oliver Wood pinned above your table?"

"All right, all right," Ron mumbled. "I'll get my box."

still continued