Feelings and Other Atrocities

Sweat glistens on his shoulder blades, rivulets trickling down the slopes to pool in the dip between them. A twist of hips, a thrust, and the length of his torso jerks forward, the motion sending the shallow gathering of sweatheat rolling down along the spine. It looks oh-so-inviting, and Draco has never been one to pass up an invitation such as this. Lips curvingtwisting with devilish delight, Draco lowers his head to lave up his prize and he is rewarded with a keening moan that amuses. Laughing, his hands slide up over expanse of hot flesh to wind in hair dark and messy and yes.

"Harder," Nigel pants.

"No." As if Draco would take requests. If anyone should be taking requests, it is the bloke with the cock up his arse.

Though a familiar tightening sensation begins to coil in his stomach, Draco slows down his ministrations, softening them almost. Inhaling deeply, he withdraws a few centimetres at a time, nails raking down either side of Nigel's spine.

"P-please." Nigel's voice is heady with want, though it isn't heady enough for Draco's liking.

"Please what?" His tone is cool, detached, and not even the desperate clenching of muscles against the head of his cock as it lingers in Nigel disturb him.

"I want you. I want you inside me," Nigel gasps, and the raw roughness in his words is enough for Draco to relent.

"Roll over." Pulling out, he scoots back to watch Nigel flip onto his back. The fellow is a pleasing sight; pale skin flushed all over (even in places Draco has yet to claim), thighs spread for him. Nigel watches Draco through heavy-lidded eyes, biting his lower lip in a way that reminds Draco of an innocent lamb awaiting slaughter, and he is more than willing to act the wolf.

"Spread yourself."

It amuses him how quickly Nigel complies, drawing his knees up to his chest and pushing them out, putting himself on display. Draco likes to look at window dressings.

"Now prepare yourself." Oh, Draco had done that already, but what does that matter? It is a thing of beauty, the way Nigel writhes and trembles and sighs. "More."

He uses more fingers now, and Draco licks his lips as tips, knuckles, and then whole digits disappear, as his wrist begins to rotate. "Oh-oh-OH–"

The springs groan as Draco shifts, sliding a hand under Nigel's arse, elevating him. "Don't stop," Draco murmurs, his cock sliding under fingers and into velvety, greedy heat.

"CHRIST," Nigel chokes, and by God and Merlin the pressure around Draco's cock is needy and hot and aches so, so good.

"Fuck." Draco groans, propelling himself forward so his cock stabs inside Nigel's tight hole, Nigel's fingers twisting atop his cock as it moves inoutinoutinout– "Nigel–"

"Nathan."

Draco speaks with his lips pressed against Nigel's nipple, hips pistoning all the while. Nathan's. Nathan's. "That's what I said."

Hands push at his shoulders, and Draco lifts his head up, scowl already in place. All this talk is doing is dampening his libido, which was more than fine only moments ago. It is most vexing, and he is inclined to threaten to hex him. Barely slowing down his pace, Draco flings one arm out to retrieve his wand. Fingers clench around the hilt as his other hand grips Nigel's hip.

"No it isn't. You said Nigel. My name is Nathan."

Well, really. The way Nathan looks at him, you'd think Draco just killed his puppy.

"I got the 'N'." That is an accomplishment in itself. So many people to shag, so little time to do insignificant things like catch a proper name.

"But you–"

"You have a Malfoy cock up your arse. Not many have been in your position before, so I suggest you shut your trap and enjoy it, N." Even if N doesn't shut his gob about it, Draco will enjoy it. What he doesn't do for some people. Really, he's practically a bloody Gryffindor.

N's face scrunches up in a somewhat unattractive manner as he considers this. Fortunately for Draco's eyesight, the consideration doesn't last for long. "I am enjoying it," N says quietly.

"Of course you are," Draco says impatiently, and then thwaps N's cock with his wand. A slow smile curves his mouth as N groans and his muscles flex around Draco. "That's it."

Thwap! Thwap! Thwap!

With each strike of his wand, N's muscles convulse around Draco, and his cock begins to throb.

"Christing– Merlin– Circe–"

Out of seemingly nowhere, a cool, annoying female voice speaks. "This is the Department of Wizarding Affairs. Draco Abraxas Malfoy, Department of Magical Law–"

Damn, Draco thinks, gritting his teeth, his wand a hairs-breadth away from thwapping N's cock again. The red Ministry fellytone is annoying and has no sense of timing. In fact, it's affecting his timing, and that simply will not do. One hand grabs at N, pinning his wrists above his head while Draco angles the other at the stupid Ministry Muggle-like device on the nightstand. Pressure building up at a dizzying rate, he cants his hips forward hard, grunting a hex or two.

"–Enforcement," the cool female voice continues. "Employee, please cease and desist all vandalism, mayhem, and destruction of property belonging to Ministry of Magic. Any damage inflicted can and will be taken from personal Gringotts vaults now and in–"

"Cease and desist Nigel's arse," Draco glowers, blue sparks erupting from the tip of his wand as he spills inside Nigel, his cock spurting and his body convulsing.

"Nathan!"

"Whatever."

"–The time is now ten-oh-five. Total tardies: eleven. Penalty phase, as per Department Head, begins now. Demotion and loss of pay to be implemented in ten minutes if employee does not report to the Ministry immediately."

Draco doesn't think he can sink any lower at the Ministry than he already has, but the hag bellowing out of the speekher on the fellytone sounds rather serious. If he isn't careful, he could be licking floors in the loos, a job only befitting a half-witted former Hufflepuff.

"Nimrah. Out." To the fellytone, he adds, "I'm on my way." Mercifully, it stops threatening him.

"Nath–"

"You say Levio-SAH, I say Levi-OH-sa. OUT." Rolling out of bed, Draco begins waving his wand about, Summoning work robes while pulling his trousers on.

A few green sparks and a puff of smoke later, Draco is left alone with his work robes and a sour mood. No doubt his mood will worsen when he gets to the Ministry. Breathing the same air as the Weasel would have that affect on any sane man.

*****

Brushing a bit of ash from his shoulders, Draco steps out of the fireplace and heads down the hall toward the garish fountain. He can barely hear the splashhiss of falling water for all the noises from Apparators and witches and wizards falling into step beside him, noses buried in reports or Daily Prophets as they head to the golden gates.

"Good morning, Draco," calls the badly-shorn wizard at the desk labelled Security, his peacock blue robes and garish purple mantle an assault on Draco's senses.

"What's so good about it?" Draco demands, pausing near the desk.

The bloke's face goes blank for a moment. "Nothing," he says finally, sounding unsurprised to reach such a conclusion.

"Precisely. And it's Mister Malfoy. Perhaps when you've learned the art of colour co-ordination you may call me Draco." Which will be never.

Whitcombe from Ludicrous Patents jostles Draco just then as he passes, and Draco falls into step behind him, contemplating hexing his trousers off in retaliation. Unfortunately, Whitcombe doesn't get on the same lift, so his plans are, for the moment, spoiled. Pity. Draco will have to catch him some other time.

Standing with his back against the wall, Draco defiantly glares at those who dare to look at him. The lift ascends so slowly Draco is sure half the witches in the confined space will have grey hairs by the time they reach their floor. Chains rattle above the lift, and the same hag from the fellytone begins announcing the floors as they approach.

"Level Seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club and Ludicrous Patents Office."

The lift doors open, and the two closest wizards to Draco, both wrestling misshapen Bludgers that closely resemble overgrown potatoes against their chests, stumble out and teeter down the narrow corridor, several paper aeroplanes swooping out behind them. The doors close again, Draco tunes the hag out, watching disinterestedly as witches and wizards shuffle on and off the lift at each level. More paper aeroplanes, Ministry of Magic stamps gleaming on their wings, zoom in and out of the lift, circling just below the hanging lamp. The lamp's light flickers as the memos move in seemingly endless circles, and Draco's head begins to pound from the bright dim bright dim bright dim pattern. Irate, he brandishes his wand and momentarily Freezes them.

"Leave off. It isn't like I've bought out Honeydukes," Draco snaps when a chubby witch in chartreuse robes raises a brow and jiggles a few chins in his direction.

Her enormous jaw gapes open, but Draco doesn't have to look too long on her as the doors creak open at Level Three. She waddles off the lift, followed by a good number of memos. "Level Three, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, including the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, Obliviator Headquarters and Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee."

"There goes a Magical Accident and Catastrophe if I've ever seen one," Draco mutters, moving to the front of the lift as it lurches upward and the chartreuse-clad witch disappears from view.

The few remaining memo aeroplanes flutter in and out of the lamplight, and Draco pinches the bridge of his nose as the doors open and the hag blathers on again. "Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters and Wizengamot Administration Services."

Brushing past a rail-thin wizard named Rob or Bob or Slob, Draco strolls down the corridor, stopping once or twice to take a look at the dark skies and torrential downpour out the enchanted windows. Maintenance must have their knickers in a twist again about a raise or something, and Draco wishes they would take their doom and gloom and shove it up their arses. Working at the Ministry is shit enough as it is; the hurricanes do nothing to improve his work morale.

With each turn down another corridor, the worse Draco's surroundings get. The floors grow grimier and the light dimmer as he nears the last turn. With a sound between a resigned sigh and an exasperated grunt, he rounds the corner and reaches the dead end. To his left is the broom cupboard and to his right is the door. A small tarnished brass plaque on it reads:

Misuse of Muggle Artefacts
Weasley, Ronald B, Head
Malfoy, Draco A

Ruing his fate for the 137^th time that he not only has to work at the Ministry but in this department and under a Weasley, Draco pushes the door open and immediately curses. The bangs into his desk whenever he opens the door, and now files are flying everywhere.

"Brilliant," he mutters, slamming the door behind him. He can hear it bounce violently against the frame, which probably means the lock didn't catch and the door remains partially open, but he doesn't turn round to take care of it. The scene before him is much more enticing.

"'m telling you that I'm getting to it, Hermione! Give a bloke some time to get the proper forms to Gringotts, won't you? Is it my fault they had a ruddy client Portkey in an Erumpent and the thing went mad? It completely mucked up the place! I told you there were ledgers and paperwork everywhere!"

"Cheerio, Weaselby." Shrugging his travelling cloak off, Draco plops into his chair, propping his feet up on his desk.

Weasley doesn't take notice of him; he's too busy crouched over his desk bellowing into a Topside Talking Tinder. Sitting up a bit, Draco can just make out Granger's face in the thin blue flames and he chuckles to himself. "Ah, young love. How fleeting it is. Was. Is no more."

"Shut up!" Two sets of voices rise together and Draco chortles, then waves his wand aimlessly about. Files lift off the ground and stack as they had been on his desk. This isn't as interesting as the discussion going on across the office, however, so Draco focusses his attention on the Plight of Weaselby and the Former Weasletteby. Weaselbyette? Whatever.

"No, of course that wasn't your fault, Ron. All I'm saying is you've got to be more responsible. You should have had the replacement files there at–"

Weasley must have heard the chortling, because he fixes Draco with an ugly glare. "D'you mind?"

Uh-oh. Weasley looks put out.

"Actually-" Draco leant forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. "-I don't. Carry on."

"Ron!"

Muttering some very naughty things that would've made his mum's head spin about had she heard them, Weasley swings his head toward the blue flames, and Draco smirks. This is more entertaining than listening to Falcons matches on the Wireless.

"Yeah?"

"Don't forget Harry's coming round later, and we're to meet him after work so you two can have your pint and we can catch up, and do bring that paperwo–"

Holding up a hand toward the Topside Talking Tinder, Weasley says, "Hang on a tick, Hermione. Malfoy just traipsed in. Two hours late." Draco can see Granger roll her eyes, and he's tempted to pull a face back at her, but Weasley starts in on him before he can do anything. "You know, Malfoy," Weasley says, pushing the Topside Talking Tinder toward the back of his desk, next to a nipping nutcracker and pair of chopsticks tapping out a rhythm. "You could've showed up for work on time for once instead of leaving me to do the Barrow Burn raid myself!"

Draco can still make out Granger's face in the blue flames, and he gestures toward her with the tip of his wand.

Following Draco's meaning, Weasley taps the side of the Topside Talking Tinder three times with his wand. "Catch you later, Hermione." Mouth scrunching to the side, he adds "Sorry" as the flames begin to flicker. Then they flare blue-white as her face disappears, and return to their normal light blue colour.
"Thanks a lot, Weasley. Just when it was getting interesting...."

Weasley's jaw clenches; Draco can see it and he tips his chair back further, pleased with himself.

"Whether you like it or not, you are a part of this office, Malfoy," he says hotly. "And I don't appreciate having to confiscate five dozen flame-spewing kettles all by my lonesome."

Not bothering to conceal a yawn, Draco decides the best way to occupy his time is to resume working on his chair-spinning prowess; he's got a bet with Piano in Department of Mysteries that he can spin longer than Piano's entire department put together. The competition is fast approaching, and he needs to train. A steak tartare dinner at the finest establishment in wizarding Paris is riding on it. Seeing as how Draco can't afford to purchase one steak tartare dinner let alone eight, he needs to be sure he will win when the day comes. Narrowing his eyes in concentration, he counts to three and then pushes off from the desk, the momentum giving him quite a bit of force in his spin. The room whirls before him faster and faster, and he can almost taste the steak tartare on his tongue–

"–can't believe this is my ruddy life, working in this shite cupboard with a dirty, stinking Death Eater–"

Death Eater.

The words cut right through the dizzygiddyhaze of the spin-spin-spinning, and Draco slams his feet against the ground, forcing himself to come to a stop.

Yes, his mood has definitely soured since coming into work, and it's all Weasel's fault.

Shifting the slightest of degrees, Draco uses the tip of his wand to fling the only personal item he keeps on his desk toward Weasley: a framed Daily Prophet article. He knows it by rote:

MALFOY PARDONED, BOY WHO LIVED SHOWS SUPPORT
Draco Malfoy, confirmed former Death Eater, has been pardoned of all charges. The Wizengamot’s decision was announced by newly-appointed Chief Warlock Differendius Diggle yesterday.

"Harry Potter, he's the Boy Who Lived and the Boy Who Won, you know! Harry Potter testified on behalf of young Malfoy, and of course we had to do as he asked. Like the Wizarding World would forgive us for going against their hero's wishes," one aggravated Wizengamot member who wished to remain anonymous later said.

Another provided a different perspective. "Potter's testimony was compelling and irrefutable. Both he and Malfoy underwent Veritaserum questioning and proved the validity of Potter's statement. Malfoy directed Potter to the final Horcrux, thereby enabling Potter to defeat You-Know-Who. That goes to show that a Slytherin really can shed its skin," said another anonymous Wizengamot member.

Despite his pardon, Malfoy's family assets remain frozen and he is not eligible for War Hero Funds. A spokesman for the Minster for Magic revealed that Malfoy will be offered a prestigious job at the Ministry of (ctd page 6, column 4 ½)


"Malfoy Pardoned, Boy Who Lived Shows Sup–"

"Save it, Malfoy."

Draco flinches as the frame hits him squarely in the chest, and rage boils over him like ten dozen of those kettles Weasley confiscated that morning. "Get fucked, Weasel," he sneers, carefully setting the frame on his desk. When Draco raises his eyes, Weasley averts his own.

He waits and waits and waits, but Weasley doesn't toss an insult back. Instead, he buries his head in his in tray, the occasional grunt and tsk floating over to Draco's side of the office.

Weasley rendered speechless. My, my. The day certainly is beginning to look up....