hp fic: Office Space (part 3)

[xylodemon]

Office Space
{still continued}

"Weasley."

Malfoy, much like Cadawaller, stopped by Ron's desk at mere seconds after nine to present him with the day's work. His suit was black today, and he'd paired it with a tie so bold and bright Ron secretly thought it would make Hagrid cry.

"Malfoy," Ron replied as shortly, in their normal manner of saying good morning.

His own suit was grey, a light grey that Melvin Tatting suggested would compliment his eyes, whatever that meant. He purchased two others; a black one, because Tatting had insisted a black suit was an absolute essential, and one that was a light brown bordering on tan -- he took a liking to the colour, despite Tatting's protestations that it was all wrong for his hair. He also picked up a few shirts -- all white, except the dark grey one Tatting wanted him to pair with the black suit, because all his dress shirts were leftover from Hogwarts -- and enough ties to make it look like he wasn't wearing the same two every other day.

On his way to the floo his mum said he looked nice, but Ron thought he looked bloody uncomfortable.

"Did you get the memo about parchment colours specific to request?" Malfoy asked. He moved to lean on Ron's desk, and held his teacup in front of his awful tie.

"I got it," Ron said. As it turned out, a suit-jacket was hotter than three sets of dress robes, and if Malfoy started in about something inane at this hour, Ron might have to put doxy eggs in his sugar bowl. Again.

"Blue parchment is for petitions regarding goblins under legal age," Malfoy droned in a tone that was frighteningly reminiscent of Professor Binns. "Green parchment is for petitions regarding goblins considered elderly, as elderly is outlined in Standards for Goblin Classification, Twenty-Second Edition, Annotated, which would be eighty-five. Yellow parchment is for petitions regarding goblins who are over legal age but not yet elderly, except for any petition regarding Heath and Safety. Pink parchment is for petitions regarding Health and Safety."

"Right," Ron said. Doxy eggs it was, then. "Blue, green, yellow, pink. I got it."

"But did you get the memo?" Malfoy asked, sipping his tea. He studied Ron over the rim of his cup in a manner that suggested he thought Ron was a rather boring exhibit at the zoo, and Ron's hand twitched for his letter-opener. It was silver and shiny, and most importantly, sharp. He doubted anyone would notice the blood if he Transfigured the carpet to black.

"I'm sure I did."

"Because I've a petition on my desk for Mwerla One Ell Zero Two Dash Tee Three Three Two, Twenty-Seven, requesting permission to test for her Goblin-Limited Apparation License," Malfoy said. "And she's only twenty-four, which makes her under legal age, yet the petition is on yellow parchment."

"Sorry," Ron mumbled. Just one swipe, right at the neck, and Malfoy would go down like a sack of rock-cakes. "I didn't realise. The form she submitted didn't mention her age, and it's impossible to tell by looking at them." After nearly a month in this office, Ron still couldn't sort a male goblin from a female on sight. They all looked exactly alike.

"I'll have Regulation and Control forward you another copy of the memo, just in case," Malfoy said, finally removing his arse from Ron's desk. "I need to speak with Cadawaller, so I'll be down the hall for a bit, but I'm expecting a Cthylion before ten. If I'm not back before he arrives, sit him down with a spot of tea." Speaking of tea; he set his teacup on Ron's desk. This behaviour was quickly becoming a habit, and he acted most put out if Ron neglected to return it to the sideboard. "Also, see if you can't find his file."

"What's the name, again?" Ron asked through gritted teeth. If he stashed Malfoy in the filing room, his body would be dust before anyone discovered it.

"Cthylion," Malfoy said.

"Does he have a number?" Ron asked. He was tempted just to cart the entire C drawer into their office and dump all its contents on Malfoy's desk.

"I'm sure he does," Malfoy said, as he started for the door. "I don't have it at the moment." He paused thoughtfully, and his lower lip crept under his teeth. "He works at Gringotts, if that helps."

"Grand," Ron snapped. They all worked at Gringotts, and Malfoy knew it. It was the only job the Ministry allowed goblins to take without filing a mountain of paperwork. "That narrows it down quite a bit."

"He works at the Diagon branch on weekdays, and has a part-time at the Tinderblast branch on weekends," Malfoy said. "His mum moved to Ireland after the hours and wages rebellion against the bank in 1984, so he's probably filed requests for Off-Island Visitations."

"What's he in for, anyway?" Ron asked. Malfoy took more represented petitions than Regulation and Control ever did, but few goblins requested a proper hearing. After filing the paperwork, most simply went home to wait for the almost inevitable refusal.

"Wants to marry a human," Malfoy said.

Ron blinked. "That's Ridiculous Notions," he said, after he recovered. "You don't have to hear it. I'll whip up a Absolutely Not packet for you to sign and send it out with tonight's owls."

"If only," Malfoy said. "I may have to let him, or the Coalition for Reasonable Treatment of Magical Creatures and Other Non-Human Entities will crawl right up my arse."

"What?" Ron asked.

"No choice," Malfoy said, sighing. "Under normal circumstances it would be Ridiculous Notions, but this isn't the one where she came in for a withdrawal and he fell helplessly in love at the sound of her voice after they exchanged all of ten words. This fellow cut right to the chase. He went and got her up the duff."

Ron swallowed harshly; this morning's scone was looking for the emergency exit. "What?" he asked again. It was all he had.

"She's Wizarding, thank God," Malfoy continued, as if this was perfectly normal. "We'd have a right mess if she wasn't. There'd be Obliviating to do, a cross-species adoption to arrange, and The Sun would be outside Royal London Hospital, wanting photos of the world's ugliest baby. The Prophet too, which would be a whole different mess. They simply refuse to behave properly around Muggles. That Skeeter woman, in particular."

"I wouldn't think that's possible," Ron said. It was too early for this sort of thing.

Malfoy snorted. "Of course it's possible. Where do hobgoblins come from, otherwise? I don't care what your mother told you, they don't sprout up from toadstool rings."

"Cabbage patches," Ron mumbled. He buried his face in a folder to hide the blush creeping across his cheeks. "She said they came from cabbage patches -- you know, when they're left to rot. Festering leaves, and that."

"Not so much," Malfoy said. His lip was twitching, and Ron studied his letter-opener with renewed interest. "They come from goblins shagging human women and leaving a present behind."

"How did he--"

"--firewhiskey," Malfoy finished. "It's almost always firewhiskey."

"Bloody Hell." Ron swallowed again, in an attempt to convince his scone not to flee the scene. "I'm never drinking again."

:: :: ::

"Weasley, can you come in early this Friday?" Malfoy asked, materialising from behind the screens. "Half eight, maybe? I'm meeting with a delegation representing the goblins at Gringotts, and they'll be in right at nine."

"Yeah, all right."

"It's a hours and wages dispute, and I'd rather avoid another rebellion," Malfoy continued, hovering over Ron's shoulder. "Also, I got Cthlyion sorted."

"Oh?" Ron asked, pointing his wand at the parchment in front of him. "Textus Memori." He swished to a blank parchment next to it and took aim. "Textus Duplicato." According to Cadawaller, the photocopier was up to snuff, but Ron thought it was best to leave well enough alone. "How'd it go?"

"I agreed to a provisional marriage," Malfoy explained. "Consummation and cohabitation not required, and it's set to terminate twelve hours after the child is born. His representative from the Coalition was not best pleased, but it was the best solution. If they're married when it's born, it won't be considered illegitimate, and the poor girl's not stuck with a goblin husband. Considering the dubious conception, he's lucky he got that much. I wouldn't have agreed to anything, but the child's not at fault."

"Dubious how?" Ron asked, and regretted it immediately. He was almost sure he didn't want to know.

"Well, he said he didn't force her, and he was under Veritaserum, so I believe him, but he admitted she was incredibly drunk," Malfoy said. "Pissed, to be precise. She doesn't remember a bloody thing, but the booze didn't stop the bun from crawling in the oven, did it? I sent her to St Mungos for a pictogram spell, and according to the Mediwizard I spoke with, the foetus is certainly goblin stock. Nothing for it."

"Textus Memori," Ron replied. "Really, I'm never drinking again. Textus Duplicato."

"I'll remind you of that, the next time Potter floos you on office time to invite you to The Broomsticks," Malfoy said loftily.

"Textus Memori." Swish and flick. "Textus Duplicato." Ron frowned, as the text was fairly left of centre. "Bugger. I bollocksed another one. Why does it keep running off the page like that?"

"Dupli-caaah-to," Malfoy said. "You're cutting your A's too short." A considering paused followed, and Ron found himself growing anxious. Whenever Malfoy went silent like that, Ron was suddenly presented with a load of new work and a ridiculously tight deadline. "Care for a spot of lunch?"

"Sorry?" Ron asked. That was not what he was expecting.

"Lunch," Malfoy repeated, in a tone that suggested Ron was slow, possibly because he'd been dropped as a child. "I'm starved, and that stuff they call food at the cafeteria could choke a hippogriff. I was thinking of sending out for something."

"Yeah, all right," Ron said slowly. "I could eat."

"You'll have to wait for it at the Visitor's Entrance," Malfoy said. "They always hassle delivery men in the Atrium."

"They let Accio Pizza up," Ron offered, because this was the catch. Malfoy didn't want to buy Ron lunch, he wanted Ron to fetch his lunch. "Fiona and Myrtle order from there all the time."

"Pizza is vile," Malfoy said shortly. "I ate more pizza in America than I care to think about, and I don't intend to start again now."

"The Indian place in Whitechapel delivers by floo."

Malfoy lingered over this for a moment, then nodded. "Curry it is," he decided. "Chicken or beef?"

"I don't much care, really."

"Right," Malfoy said. "I'll just get both."

:: :: ::

The lift jangled in a manner that could only be considered threatening. It shuddered as it plummeted downward, and the gears made a sound that came as close to a wheeze as bits of metal could manage. Ron braced himself against the wall as it lurched, his fingers scrambling for the grilles at the feeling of the floor dropping out from under him. It stopped suddenly, and the doors opened to reveal a grey, pockmarked expanse of concrete. Ron slammed his fist into the grilles and punched desperately at the button for level four.

This was grand. Just grand, and an ending he certainly didn't deserve. He lived through a war, and survived dating Hermione and working for Draco Malfoy, only to be killed by a bloody lift.

"Level four." It gave another mighty jerk. "Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being, and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and the Pest Advisory Bureau."

"About bloody time," Ron snapped, leaping from the lift before the grilles were fully open. "Bloody fucking Finnigan," he continued, as he headed left. Seamus Finnigan worked upstairs in Games and Sports, and for reasons Ron could not fathom, Games and Sports had a photocopier, and like the photocopier from the Goblin Liasion office, it was temperamental, plagued by vapours, and at the mercy of wizarding ignorance. "Gormless bastards -- the lot -- flooing me every time they break one of their Muggle contraptions."

An inter-office memo zoomed past his head like an army of dementors was at its back, and a portrait of a hag hanging from the wall complained loudly about Ron's language.

"Think I can sort things out, just because my dad's mad about Muggles," Ron continued, stomping through Regulation and Control. "Lifts bouncing me about like I'm a bloody ball, and both ways, thank you very much." He took the sharp right turn viciously, stormed straight through to his office, and banged the door open harder than was strictly necessary. "Next time one of them charms their telly black and white or sticks alfoil in their microwave, they can bloody well floo my dad."

"What's this now?" Malfoy asked, as he watered the potted plant on Ron's desk. Malfoy managed to convince Magical Maintenance that Ron's side of the office needed a window, and once it was put in, he decided Ron needed a bloody fern to go with it, a fern Ron mostly ignored. "Your dad's a bloody fool with alfoil on his head?"

"Don't you fucking start," Ron snapped.

"Right. I'll just leave you and your puss alone, then," Malfoy said, wandering toward the screens. "There's pizza, once you've calmed yourself."

Sighing, Ron threw himself into his chair. A stack of forms fluttered quietly in complaint, and the warm, friendly smell of pizza drifted through the office. Ron hadn't expected that Malfoy would actually send out for it, even when he said he'd consider it if Ron stopped whinging on like a spoilt, overgrown child.

"What kind of pizza?"

"Mine only has cheese, which is how pizza should be eaten, when it's eaten at all," came the waspish reply. "Yours has mushrooms, onions, and those vile little fish you're so fond of."

"You're all right, I suppose," Ron said. He almost meant it. "How'd it go with the Gringotts people? They still planning a coup?"

"I sent them packing," Malfoy replied from behind the screens. "I approved the raise they wanted -- three sickles an hour -- so they can have it if the bank is willing, but I put paid to bit about hours from the off. They can't complain about equal rights, then demand a six-hour work-day when wizards work eight. I told them if house-elves can work sixteen hours, and for free while they're at it, then goblins can bloody well work ten. Especially for an extra three sickles and hour."

The message indicator on Ron's floo flashed, winking like an eerie, red eye. He was tempted to ignore it for his own sanity, but the more the light blinked, the more he felt like he was being watched. Gritting his teeth, he pressed it.

"Weasley, this is Cadawaller." A wisp of green smoke curled around the disembodied threads of Cadawaller's voice. "I need a favour, when you get a minute. I'm looking for a petition I gave you a few weeks back -- Aormlerd 9K02-G434:18, wanting to move house from London to Manchester. I'm sure you'll find it faster than I will, and that filing room has spiders. I can't be having with spiders."

Beep

"Hey, Ron." It was Harry, who sounded extremely tired. "Just got in from Cornwall. Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner; things have been a right mess around here, what with Greyback's solicitor pushing for another appeal. If I don't catch you at home tonight, I'll try you at the office tomorrow."

Beep

"Ronald, it's Hermione." Ron froze. "I haven't heard from you since we went to The Broomsticks the other week. Hope you're all right. Floo back when you get a moment. I'll be at the lab until eight, latest."

"Is that Granger?" Malfoy asked.

"No," Ron replied. "She left a message, is all."

"Bugger." Ron turned, and found Malfoy had appeared at his desk out of nowhere. He had two plates in his hand. "Eat this before it kills me. I can't take the stench," he added, shoving one of the plates at Ron. There were three slices, heavily laden with anchovies. "She works at the spell research lab at St Mungos, right?"

"Yeah," Ron said, around a mouthful of pizza.

Malfoy paused, licking sauce off his finger. "Weasley, is that your Gryffindor tie?"

"I suppose it is," Ron said, glancing down at himself.

"With a brown suit?"

"It's tan, thank you," Ron corrected, "and yes."

"Whatever makes you happy," Malfoy said, sighing. "Anyway, if you floo her in the near future, I need a favour."

"Oh?" Ron asked. He didn't care what Malfoy thought; pizza was the best food ever invented.

"They created an improved Contraceptus Charm about a month back. Expanded it to work on creatures besides humans," Malfoy said. "This new one is good for anything -- humans, house-elves, a pet kneazle. It has warnings -- side effects may vary, and that -- but goblins seem to be getting the worst of it." He bit into his slice of pizza and perched on the edge of Ron's desk. "Migraines, stomach cramps, the whole bit. I was hoping she could have a look at it."

"You know something?" Ron asked, popping a piece of crust into his mouth. "You almost sound like you care."

"Yes, well," Malfoy said stiffly. "It's not like they'll stop using it, right? If she fixes it, I won't have to listen to them complain about it."

"I'll ask her," Ron said, and his stomach did that funny thing it tended to do when he thought too long and hard about Hermione. "Next time I talk to her."

Malfoy retreated behind his pizza for a moment, and the silence was strangely companionable. Then: "What happened with that, anyway?"

"With what?" Ron asked slowly.

"You. And Hermione."

More silence. It was long and stilted, and unable to avoid Malfoy's questioning gaze, Ron filled it with more pizza.

"It didn't work out," Ron said finally, rooting sauce out of the corner of his mouth with his tongue. "We weren't, you know, compatible and all that rot."

"Balls," Malfoy said. Ron suspected he was hiding a smile behind all that cheese. "How did it just 'not work out'? You'd been trying to get at each other since you first stepped off the Hogwarts Express. As a spectator, I can safely say it was ridiculous."

"It wasn't that long," Ron snapped. "And we weren't ridiculous."

"Third year, then. At least," Malfoy insisted. "And you were completely ridiculous. Hermione going to the Yule Ball with Krum because you couldn't be bothered to ask her, and you taking up with Brown because -- well, I still don't know what that was about -- and then what, she got in a strop and showed up to Sluggy's party with McLaggen, of all people, and meanwhile, you two were just--"

"--all right, all right. It was ridiculous," Ron admitted. "I didn't realise I liked her until that bit with Krum. And now, I honestly don't think she went with him to spite me, but then, I was bloody furious." He sighed, and he wondered why he was telling Malfoy this, when he wouldn't talk about it with Harry. "It was a tight spot, really. We were friends, and that, and if I said the wrong thing it might've bollocksed everything up, and there was Harry, you know, so I just didn't say anything."

Malfoy nodded, and mumbled something agreeable through his pizza.

"She said it, finally. Well, she didn't say it." Ron continued. For some reason, he couldn't stop himself. "She kissed me. It was the middle of the night, and we were standing in this bloody sheep field, right, in the middle of nowhere; dead Death Eaters everywhere, and it still smelled like fucking dementors, and Harry was crying -- fucking crying -- over this bloody great pile of ashes," he said, with an odd, tight laugh. "She looked at the ashes, you know, really looked -- like she realised that mess was him and he was dead and it was over, and she pulled he around by the bloody hair."

"Right," Malfoy said.

"It was the waiting, I think," Ron said. He needed a drink. Desperately. "We messed each other about for a fair five years. Then when it finally happened, it wasn't what either of us expected. I mean, we've always fought, but that just made it worse. There came a point when we were fighting when we weren't shagging, and then we weren't really shagging either, because she'd stopped coming around because she was tired of fighting."

"You know what you are?" Malfoy asked. "Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless."

"I know."

"You ended it, or she did?"

"She did, but I might as well have," Ron said. "I was being an arse."

Malfoy laughed and set his plate aside. "Never."

"I was. We got into a fight -- shocking, that -- and I..." Ron trailed off, suddenly embarrassed.

"Oh, what?"

Ron sighed. He'd gone this far. "I may have said that I thought she was shagging Harry."

"Good Lord, Weasley, you really are hopeless," Malfoy said, and the git was still laughing. "Accio tea." Two cups flew over, and he handed one to Ron.

"Thanks," Ron said. "I told you, I was being an arse. And they had been spending a lot of time together. When she got mad at me, she'd go visit him and complain--"

"--about what an arse you were."

"Yes." The tea was a bit sour, and Ron Summoned the sugar bowl. "That was the end of that."

Malfoy shook his head. "And somehow, you failed to notice that Harry was shagging Longbottom the whole time?"

"I didn't know," Ron protested. "Really, I didn't," he added, when Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "It's not like he said anything. Apparently, they started shagging during the war, although I'll never figure out when they found the time. He really didn't say anything. He didn't want to make Neville a target, and then after, he was worried about my sister. He didn't want to have the 'right, I told you I was dumping you for your own good, but as it turns out, I'm a little gay' conversation with her right after she woke up from being deboned."

"Well," Malfoy said slowly. "He's got more tact that I've given him credit for."

"Looking back, I might have cottoned on if I'd paid more attention," Ron said. "I mean, I think Hermione knew; she just didn't say anything because it wasn't her business. But yeah. I should have seen it. Right before the end, McGonagall shipped Neville off somewhere, and Harry fretted for days. He showed up right before we marched, and Harry did his nut. Started shouting about how he'd told Neville to stay behind, and that." He sipped his tea. "What about you?"

"What about me?" Malfoy asked, and Ron replied with a pointed look. "Oh, right. Not much to tell, really. There was Parkinson, but that was more convenience than anything, and it ended when I got caught and she got herself blown up."

"Oh," Ron said. "Was that my side, or your side?"

"I never did find out," Malfoy said. "Of course, the way she was acting at the time, either side would've been within their rights," he added, tapping his finger against the rim of his teacup. "Oddly enough, it didn't hurt as much as it probably should have. Like I said, it was mostly convenience, and I'd always figured one of us would die. Although, I'd mostly expected it to be me. And after that, I was fairly busy until I took off for the colonies."

"No one in America, then?"

"Well, there was this one bloke," Malfoy started, and Ron choked on his tea. "All right, there?"

"Yeah," Ron said quickly. He certainly hadn't expected that. "Tea's hot, is all."

"Looked a little like Harry, really, only his hair wasn't such a loss," Malfoy continued. "I liked him, and that, but I got offered this job. We'd only been together a couple of months; too soon to tell him I was really a wizard and ask him how he felt about moving to London."

"Right."

"Christ, it's almost two," Malfoy said suddenly. "I've a pile of work, and I mean to knock off early tonight. Zabini's in town, and I'm meeting him for drinks at the Cauldron." He stood, and started for his half of the office. "When I finish writing out this raise agreement I'll need copies to send to the bank."

"Yeah," Ron said. "I'll be right here."

:: :: ::

If asked, in the mad, suspended moment before his brain shut off and the door creaked open, Ron would say he stopped by The Leaky Cauldron because he needed a drink.

And he did need one. Desperately. At the office, the rest of the afternoon was long, and after, Ron's mind was not the safest place to be.

The Cauldron was practically empty, and behind the bar, Tom was nearly asleep. The air was thick with strained music and muted conversation, a buzz punctuated by furniture groaning as the patrons moved and glasses clinking as they drowned away their day. Malfoy and Zabini sat across from each other at a cozy table away from the door. Malfoy gestured with a cigarette as he talked, and with each word, tendrils of smoke climbed away from his long fingers like vines.

Ron wasn't sure why he was here. He also wasn't sure why he didn't just leave. He considered it, as he watched Malfoy smile at something Zabini said, but by the time his mind was made up, it was too late.

"Weasley," Malfoy called. After a glance at Zabini, he waved. "Don't you get enough of me at the office?"

"I missed my grate," Ron mumbled, with a nod to Zabini. Zabini inclined his head in return, watching him openly. "I figured I'd stop in for a drink, since I was here." The silence was stiff, and Ron swallowed a sigh. "I'll leave you to it, then."

"Actually, I was just on my way," Zabini said slowly. "I'm for Milan in the morning; I suppose I should get some sleep."

"Blaise is a buyer for Gladrags," Malfoy said, grinding his cigarette in the ashtray. "Lucky bastard. Travels all over the world on someone else's galleon."

"Compensatory damages. I'm constantly portlagged," Zabini said. He frowned at Malfoy quickly before turning to Ron. "Draco tells me your sister's finally up and about."

"Yeah," Ron said slowly. He didn't remember mentioning it to Malfoy. He supposed Harry could've told him, but why Malfoy was discussion Ginny with Zabini was another question, entirely. "She gets tired easily, but she's doing well."

"I need an assistant, if she's looking for work. Someone to mind the office when I'm away," Zabini said. He handed Ron a business card; it was white with embossed green lettering. "She wouldn't have to travel, or do anything physical. She'd mostly be sending owls and answering the floo."

Ron could only stare. "Thanks," he managed finally. "She just might -- she's nearly mad from being stuck in the house."

With that, Zabini was gone, and Ron ordered a drink -- triple firewhiskey; rocks.

"Malfoy."

"I had nothing to do with it."

Ron sipped his drink; the firewhiskey burned his tongue. "Liar."

"I refuse to take responsibility now just because you're pleased," Malfoy said, stabbing his drink with its cocktail straw. It was violently orange, which said it was a mandrake vodka and pumpkin juice. "That means I'll have to take responsibility if you suddenly decide you're not. If they start shagging, you'll blame me first."

"My sister does not shag," Ron said dangerously, and he believed that. He needed to believe that.

"Of course she doesn't," Malfoy said, smiling. "And Blaise hasn't be hot for her since his fifth year."

"Right, I'm off," Ron said, but Malfoy laughed, and Ron reached for his drink.

Malfoy pulled a cigarette from the pack resting on the table and lit it with his wand.

"I didn't know you smoked," Ron commented.

Malfoy shrugged. "Filthy Muggle habit. I've been meaning to stop. I'm sure I'll get around to it one of these days." Ron reached for the pack, and Malfoy waved him off. "You'll only cough."

"Nah," Ron replied. "I smoked for a bit, right after we left school. It drove Hermione mad."

"Which is precisely why you did it, I'm sure," Malfoy said. Ron reached for his wand, but Malfoy was quicker, and the tip of the cigarette sparked bright and orange.

"Probably," Ron admitted. "I stopped because I didn't have much choice. I ran out one day, and it's not like we had money. I was in fits for a couple of days, and Hermione said it was more than I deserved."

"Accio, Weasley, Accio," Malfoy chided. "It works wonders."

"That'd've been stealing," Ron said. The smoke was sharp and strong, and it scratched his throat.

"Bloody Gryffindors," Malfoy muttered. "They can't even have a bad habit like normal people."

"Bloody Slytherins," Ron replied. "They can't stay on their own side of the war like normal dark wizards." The firewhiskey suddenly ran heavy in his veins, and he laughed. "You never told me why you did it."

"I'm no hero, if that's what you mean," Malfoy said darkly, smoke curling around his face. "I nearly told Ploughshot to shove that Order of Merlin, after all the grief she gave me."

Malfoy's trial carried on for days, a circus played out in three acts -- the Wizengamot sitting on their bench like spiders, the press mobbing anyone and everyone, and Malfoy's mother weeping in the corner. Harry's testimony was met with lukewarm response and the occasional sigh, and The Prophet managed to mistranscribe every word. Dumbledore's letter was the killing stroke, and like everything Dumbledore ever did, it was meticulously planned and delivered with flawless presentation. The letter was charmed to read itself, and that was what tipped the scales, not the words, not the alibis, and not Narcissa Malfoy's tears. For three full minutes, Albus Dumbledore was alive again. His voice was hearty and familiar as it echoed off the courtroom walls, and that was what changed the Wizengamot's mind.

"Second Class," Ron recited, although he hadn't looked at it since his mum hung it over the mantle. "For defending the Wizarding World against the influence of evil and certain destruction, and protecting the Boy Who Lived."

"Third Class, for infiltrating the enemy and providing crucial information in a time of great need, at considerable personal risk." There was a pause, and Malfoy retreated behind his drink. "It wasn't like that. I was simply looking out for myself."

"You betrayed Voldemort," Ron said stubbornly.

"Yes, well. Voldemort winning wasn't in my best interest."

A girl walked in, and Ron watched her as she headed for the bar. She was tall, with brown hair that tumbled past her shoulders and faded jeans that hugged her arse, She glanced around as she waited for her drink, and she caught Ron studying her, blushing prettily before turning back to Tom. Malfoy snorted.

"Just like that?" Malfoy asked. "You're over Hermione, then?"

"I've been, really," Ron said honestly. "Our friendship suffered, and that's what bothers me." Malfoy seemed content with that, until Ron attacked in kind. "You're over Harry, then?"

Malfoy pushed his drink away. "What?"

"I know you guys--"

"--just the once," Malfoy said shortly. "And it was an accident, really."

"Oh?" Ron said.

He suspected, but he never really knew, mainly because he never stopped to think about it. He shifted in his seat, and buried himself in his drink. He wished he hadn't thought about it now, because the very idea was disturbing. Actually, it wasn't disturbing, in ways it probably should have been.

"It was that one night, when you lot turned up at Grimmauld," Malfoy said quietly. "He sat up talking with me, and we said some things we likely shouldn't have." He ground out his cigarette with a sigh. "That house was very strange -- I often thought the walls were listening -- and he started staring, as if he'd never seen me before, and then all at once, he was in my lap." He smudged his thumb over the condensation blooming on his glass. "It probably needed to happen, since we've always driven each other to distraction, but it was... we never talked about it, and it's not happened since."

"He never told me," Ron said.

"Of course he didn't," Malfoy replied. "You were, well, excitable back then. You'd've only gone round the twist, and he had enough to be going on with." He shrugged, studying a point over Ron's shoulder. "I told you, it probably needed to happen. Best we got it out of the way, so we could get on with our lives."

"What you're saying is, I should stop being such a girl's blouse and floo Hermione," Ron muttered.

"I wish you would," Malfoy said seriously. "I really need her to look at that spell."

"Wanker," Ron said, pushing away from the table. "I'm for the gents'."

The door stuck in a way that could be out down to damp, and the air was humid, heavy with the sour and familiar odour of loos. Ron handled his business at once and quickly stepped to the sink to wash his hands. The pipes banged and groaned before spitting a feeble stream of water out of the tap, and when Ron looked up, he saw Malfoy behind in him the mirror. Malfoy's hair was almost white in the poor light, and he looked pale. In the reflection, Ron saw Malfoy curled under a blanket on the couch in Grimmauld Place. He saw the Malfoy he thought was going to betray them or kill them or -- at the very least -- steal his best friend away.

"Why are you here?" Malfoy asked quietly.

The question hung between them, twisting uncertainly around the dull throb of the pipes and the thick smell of stale water. Ron dried his hands carefully -- stalling, he was stalling and he knew it -- and turned. He rather didn't have an answer for that. Honestly, he rather didn't have an answer for anything. For his life. Water slid from the leaky tap, hitting the basin in slow, fat drops. Ron studied the cracked, blue tile stretching beneath his feet and thought about the time he spent hibernating on his mum's couch. He realised, as he listened to Malfoy breathe, that the only difference between then and now was that now, Ron had a paycheque.

"I missed... I needed," He paused, reaching mentally, but the only thing to be found in that loo was a handful of puddles, a toilet with a chipped tank, and Malfoy, who looked truly discomfited for the first time in Ron's memory. "I was here, yeah, so I thought--"

Malfoy kissed him then, and Ron decided this was a pretty good time to just stop talking.

:: :: ::

The sink dug into the small of Ron's back, cutting a wide stripe just above his arse, and one of Malfoy's hands was in his hair, fingers tangled and twisted. Malfoy's wrist brushed Ron's temple, and his heartbeat throbbed over Ron's skin and echoed in Ron's ears. Water dripped, splashing softly against the porcelain. Ron caught Malfoy by the waist and slid his hand behind Malfoy's neck, pulling him closer as Malfoy's tongue slipped over his. Malfoy made a noise, soft and strangely deep, and trapped Ron's lower lip between his teeth.

This was madness, and the pipes agreed with a knock and a bang as someone ran the water in the ladies'. Malfoy pressed Ron harder against the sink, and traced his cheek with the pad of his thumb. His fingers were parchment-rough and ink-stained, black spots threading through the lines in his skin. He tasted of pumpkin juice and tobacco, sticky sweet and darkly sour; Ron tilted his head back and sucked Malfoy's tongue into his mouth.

Malfoy's suit was a blue so dark it was almost black, and the soft material rasped under Ron's hands. Malfoy's teeth met Ron's skin, sharp where his jaw curved into his neck, and with the sink groaning as it tried to pull away from the wall, Ron found he was ridiculously hard. Malfoy pushed, nudging Ron's cock with his hip, and Ron hissed, snake-like and loud as it slithered around them and the loo's walls. Ron bit his lip as hard as Malfoy's teeth grazed his neck, until the tobacco and pumpkin juice was laced with copper, pulled at a button on Malfoy's jacket until it popped free and clattered to the tiles.

Ron expected words, but Malfoy didn't give them. He broke the stubborn, humid silence with sharp breaths that shivered over Ron's skin and thick murmurs that were mostly air as they whispered against his ears. Malfoy's hands were warm. Ron's tie slid away from his collar with a soft, sibilant noise, and Malfoy's cock pressed against his thigh. Ron liked the way it felt there; hard, heavy, hot through the material of their trousers, and Ron wrenched him closer, hands curving around Malfoy's arse. Malfoy voiced his approval with lips and teeth and tongue, and shifted in a way that granted them both heat and delicious friction.

The door creaked, sad and ancient. Ron stilled, waiting for it to bang open and half the pub to tumble inside, but Malfoy never faltered. He pulled Ron's shirt free of his trousers, and slid his long fingers over Ron's chest. Too many clothes, the door and the pub be damned. The sink bore into his back with the sort of sharp bite that said he'd have a bruise there in the morning. Let it. He dragged Malfoy's head up, heat flushing over his skin as Malfoy's tongue pushed into his mouth, and he rolled his hips, catching Malfoy's shaky rhythm: press, slide, press, slide.

Malfoy liked to bite. He snapped at Ron's neck, his jaw, and now that his shirt hung limp and half-open, his chest. His mouth met Ron's skin harder than had any right to feel good, but Ron arched into it. He moaned each time Malfoy's teeth pressed into his skin, each time he pictured how he'd look in the morning -- red and purple blooming between his freckles, dark and angry and tender. Malfoy came up for a kiss, his stubble rough against Ron's cheek and jaw. Press, slide; press, slide. Ron snagged his fingers in Malfoy's hair, and flicked his tongue over Malfoy's lips in time.

Malfoy's shirt fell open, as crooked and disjointed as the jacket it peeked out from under. A dark flush spread over Malfoy's chest, smooth skin warming under the desperate slide of Ron's hands. The scar Greyback left him curved around his right side. Ron traced the raised line with the tip of a finger, and Malfoy moaned, a hitched breath tangling with broken words as they caught in the back of his throat. Malfoy pressed against him hard, fingers digging into Ron's hips as their kisses became sloppy and wet. The air was thick, and the walls were closing in. He was going to come in his pants like a bumbling fourth year if the heat didn't kill him first.

His belt unbuckled with a metallic ping, and the rasp of his zip was loud in the stilted quiet. The drip from the tap was as methodical as a clock. Malfoy's hand hovered just above his pants; Ron's hips hitched up at the thought of the touch, but Malfoy hesitated, pulled back.

"Who are you here with?" Malfoy asked. His fingers skittered up toward Ron's navel.

"You." Ron's voice was thick, hoarse. All he wanted was more of Malfoy's skin under his mouth.

"Good," Malfoy said. "I won't be someone else's ghost."

Ron breathed, closed his eyes. "You're not."

Malfoy kissed him again, his tongue rough and wet against Ron's lips as his fingers closed around Ron's cock. Ron's legs shuddered and he clutched at the sink; it dipped under Ron's weight, shrieking in protest, and a chunk of plaster flaked away from the wall. He couldn't breathe. Malfoy's lips were on his skin Malfoy's cock was tight against his hip. Malfoy rocked with his fist; press and slide as he twisted his wrist and pulled his hand up. Ron bit now, smoothing over the marks with the tip of his tongue, heat sparking under his skin at the way it made Malfoy shake.

He wanted to touch. Wanted to feel. Malfoy's cock slid perfectly against his thigh, but Ron wanted to have it in his hand, and Voldemort was over and done; he couldn't say it was the war talking any more. Malfoy's belt refused to yield because his hands were suddenly heavy, fumbling things, and he cursed it so roundly that Malfoy kissed him into silence. Press, slide, and the noise Malfoy made was dark and raw. Ron shoved down between their bodies, his stubborn, useless fingers catching on Malfoy's zip, and the heat that fell into his hands nearly swallowed him whole.

The door creaked again, with the slow, stretched groan that might come from someone hanging on the knob. Ron wondered if someone was outside, their fingers dancing over the wood as they pressed their ear against the door. Listening; and Ron moaned, a harsh breath curling around his tongue. Waiting; and Ron's hips inched forward, his body throbbing as Malfoy's hand paused at the base of his cock. Watching; and Ron's eyes snapped open. Malfoy breathed. The shadows twisted away and Malfoy was white and grey.

Malfoy's hips snapped sharply, fingers twisting in Ron's jacket as he pushed his cock into Ron's hand. His fingers dragged over Ron hard and fast, his wrist twisting and his fist curled tight, and Ron gasped, sucked helpless mouthfuls of the thick air at the sweet slide of skin against skin. Malfoy's kisses were dangerous now, as much teeth as lips and tongue. They crept up his neck, blazing a wet trail along Ron's jaw, and Ron's mouth fell open, coaxing Malfoy's tongue inside.

Malfoy's hand grew shaky, rhythm lost to need and want, fingers slip-sliding over Ron's skin and thumb brushing over the head. Ron shuddered, tried to keep Malfoy's cock in his grasp, tried to remember how to breathe. Malfoy stilled, his swollen-lips parting around a moan, and Ron watched as Malfoy came white and hot all over his hand. Malfoy leaned in, sought Ron's mouth with a tongue that was slow and sated.

"Bite."

And Malfoy did. His teeth caught Ron's skin just behind the ear, and he dragged Ron over the edge with the harsh, fast pull of his fingers.

:: :: ::

Ron arrived at four after nine, and his suit was grey. The door was open -- which should have been the first indication that something was wrong -- and Ron poked his head in, unsure of what he'd find.

The screens were folded back. Malfoy was nowhere in sight, and a blonde was sitting at Ron's desk. She was possibly twenty-five and dressed in the sort of skirt and matching suit-jacket favoured by Muggle business women. It was a shocking blue, and the sound of her quill grated Ron's ears as she scratched it over a sheet of yellow parchment.

"Hello," she said brightly. Her hair curled prettily over her shoulders. "You must be Mr Weasley. Mr Malfoy should be right in. I expect him presently."

The weekend felt long, but the slow minutes that followed felt strained and stretched and even longer. He didn't ask the blonde what she was doing at his desk, because he was fairly certain of the answer. He ignored the armchairs -- he refused to play the visitor in his own office, even if he now was one -- and he forced himself not to pace. He waited, listening as the clock ticked, and declined the blonde's over-solicitous offer of tea. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his Muggle suit.

He closed his eyes; cracked tiles squeaked under his feet, and Malfoy was white and grey.

"Weasley." Malfoy lingered in the doorway, sparing the blonde a brief nod. Instead of suit he wore a deep green jumper and simple, slate-grey trousers.

"Malfoy."

"Brenda, I'm taking the day off," Malfoy said lightly. "I trust you'll behave in my absence."

"Absolutely, Mr Malfoy." Her smile was sweet, and Ron thought -- not without malice -- reminiscent of a house-elf.

"If you manage to get through the work I left you, speak with Cadawaller down the hall. He knows my agenda." Malfoy slipped out into the hallway. Ron didn't follow, out of what he hoped was stubbornness, until: "Weasley."

Malfoy was down the hallway a bit when Ron stepped out of the office. Ron didn't hurry, but Malfoy seemed to be waiting, flitting toward Regulation and Control like a twisted inter-office memo. Ron passed the photocopier; it rattled and whirred sadly. Fiona and Myrtle were already ensconced in their office, and the buzz of their morning conversation was muted and familiar. Malfoy disappeared around the corner. Cadawaller's door was closed.

Because of Malfoy's leisurely pace, Ron caught up with him just outside the door that led to the Spirit Division. Malfoy lingered over a framed sketch of a dementor, falling in step with Ron as Ron continued on.

"As you may have noticed, you also have the day off," Malfoy said.

"If you're sacking me, just say so," Ron replied quietly. "I'd rather just take my box and go."

"You're not being sacked," Malfoy said.

He pushed the button for the lift, and it jerked into view with the usual clangs and bangs. The grilles shuddered open; Malfoy stepped inside, and gestured for Ron to join him. Ron hesitated, but Malfoy reached out and pulled him inside by the sleeve. Malfoy studied the panel for a moment before pressing the button for level eight.

The grilles slid shut. Malfoy didn't kiss him, and Ron was mostly sure he didn't want him to.

"You're being transferred," Malfoy said suddenly.

"Where?" Ron asked.

Malfoy smiled. "Auror Headquarters. Effective tomorrow morning."

"Grand," Ron muttered.

"Level six. Department of Magical Transport, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparation Test Centre."

The grilles shook open to admit a handful of inter-office memos. A young man clutching what was probably his new Apparation License appeared when the flock of paper cleared. He made an abortive motion for the lift; after glancing at Ron's stony face he wisely decided to wait for the next one.

"I thought you'd be pleased," Malfoy said shortly.

"Oh, I'm well thrilled," Ron ground out. "They won't let me work with them, but they'll bloody well let me work for them. What's the job, then? Filing their sodding paperwork?"

"I spoke with Moody yesterday afternoon by floo," Malfoy said. "He really is the most disturbing man, and not just for that eye. I half expected him to turn me into something unnatural."

"That wasn't him, you know, with the ferret," Ron said shortly.

"I know," Malfoy replied. "Doesn't mean I can just forget it happened." The lift lurched to a halt, depositing them in the Atrium. Malfoy caught his fingers in Ron's sleeve; he started threading his way through the crowd, and Ron was forced to follow. "Anyway, he's managed to talk the admissions board around. Your application for Auror training has been approved, pending you sit your NEWTs as soon as Hogwarts is able to have them."

"What?" Ron froze; Malfoy -- who was still clutching his sleeve -- was jerked to short and sudden stop.

"Moody expects you in at eight sharp," Malfoy continued smoothly, as if he didn't just bang into Ron and almost fall over. "You will have a brief orientation, followed by your first set of training exercises. Training is twelve hours a day, over the course of sixteen weeks, and during those sixteen weeks, you will eat and sleep in the training barracks, except on weekends. On weekends, you are allowed to do as you please, as long as you see fit to stay out of trouble. Moody bored me with an extensive lecture on what he considers trouble, and believe me, I mean to bore you with it, too. He also owled me a detailed list of the things you will need."

"Malfoy."

"I refuse to take responsibility now just because you're pleased," Malfoy said, just as he had the other night. "That means I'll have to take responsibility if you suddenly decide you're not. If you dislike it, or find it dreadfully boring, you'll blame me first."

Ron paused. This really was too much. "And I have the day off?"

"Moody insisted," Malfoy said. "He wanted you to have time to purchase the things on his bloody list. It's the usual fare: toiletries, clean pants, jolly boring textbooks, horribly naff pyjamas. I already sent out for the lot, over-night delivery. I expect most of it at my flat with tonight's owls."

"Your flat."

"Yes, my flat," Malfoy repeated. "Where I'm hoping we'll spend the rest of the day. I like drunken gropes in a public toilet as much as the next bloke, but I rather fancy a proper shag." His lip twitched at Ron's baffled expression. "If we get hungry, we can send out for something."

"Pizza?" Ron asked, smiling.

"Done."

"Fine."

Malfoy laughed. "Christ, you're easy."

"So I've been told," Ron replied. "Why? The transfer, I mean?"

"Because this isn't a bad Muggle film," Malfoy replied. "I refuse to be shagging my secretary."

"Assistant," Ron corrected. Malfoy's hand slid down his sleeve, catching his wrist. His fingers were warm. "Is this the one where we're getting it out of our system so we can get on with our lives?"

Malfoy's pause was slightly painful and -- Ron suspected -- mostly deliberate.

"Probably not," he drawled. "You're a much better kisser than Potter."

:: :: ::

"Did you see the paper Sunday?"

Frowning, Fiona set her tea aside. "Which paper? The Prophet?" She glanced at it over yesterday's breakfast, but the offered fare was not to her tastes. Apprehended Death Eaters, a Ministry press conference hosted so Ploughshot could announced the new Under-Secretary, goblins picketing outside the bank. The weekly coupons were unfortunate, and the Shopping section only boasted one decent sale. "The Quibbler?"

"Witch Weekly," Myrtle said, fiddling with her scone.

"No," Fiona said, sighing. "You nicked it right off, remember? Hogged the bloody thing all weekend, you did."

Myrtle produced it from under a stack of parchments and tossed it on Fiona's side of their collective desk. "Have a look at that, then."

"Cor," Fiona muttered. "Doesn't he look dreadful?"

"It's the freckles," Myrtle said. "Makes him look spotty in black and white."

"I heard he was transferred," Fiona said. "You know Finnigan from Games and Sports? And isn't he a bit of all right? Anyway, he filled me in on the lift up." She paused, scanning the page. "Snogging? You don't say."

"In the middle of Flourish and Blotts, no less," Myrtle said.

"I'm not surprised, really," Fiona said loftily. "I told you he was gay."

FIN