Feelings and Other Atrocities

By the time they get to Tarring Neville (after the thoroughly unsatisfying jaunt on the Tube, a train to Sussex, and a cab ride so slow time nearly stopped), Draco has made two Lardbottom jokes, Weaselby has snapped at him seven times, Draco has tried to alleviate the ache in his cock by rubbing the front of his trousers nine times, and Weasley has spent sixteen pounds on a rickety, dangerous taxi ride that quite possibly has given Draco a slight case of whiplash.



All in all, Draco's mood is lower than low when they finally reach their destination – a car boot sale on the grounds of an old Muggle school. Muggle automobiles are lined up row after row, most of the boots propped open. A few people have tarpaulins and blankets set out with their cheap and disgusting Muggle wares - wireless sets, clocks, plates, books, and the like - on display, bits of paper sellotaped to each item bearing prices that make no sense to Draco - 10p, 35p, 50p, and so on. Near the end of the row closest to the building, a large man stands next to a trestle table, a dazed look on his flushed, grimy face.



"I think I've found our kettles and waffle irons, Weasley."



Weasley nods and they both pick up the pace, hustling over to the vendor.



"Sir?" Ron asks gently.



The man stares blankly ahead.



"Sir?"



"Oh, for the love of– Speaking louder isn't going to do anything!" Draco throws his hands up in exasperation. To the man, he says, "Which way did they go?"



Blinking once, the man lifts a finger and points in the direction of the school building.



"See, that's how it's done, Weasley," Draco says around a smirk. After bidding the Muggle "Ta," they jog toward the school.



The closer they get, the more evident it is they are on the right path; a slight burnt and smoky scent lingers in the air, growing more pungent with each step.



"Blimey," Weasley says behind him, as they walk up to the door, and Draco would be inclined to utter the sentiment as well if it weren't beneath him.



The door is shut or, rather, what is left of it is. In the centre of the door a large section is missing; some of the edges of the oval-shaped hole are splintered, while others are charred and stink of burnt wood.



"Wands out," Weasley murmurs, moving between Draco and the door. After making sure there aren't any Muggles about, Draco nods and brandishes his wand while Weasley does the same. He charms the door open, and Draco follows him into the dim light of the school.



"Lumos."



Twin beams of thin light scan the corridor, and they press slowly on. The slightest sound gives them cause to whirl their wand lights about, but so far they've not found a single kettle or waffle iron.



"What makes you think we're even in the right place?" Draco asks as they round another bend.



"The bloke pointed this way, for one thing," Weasley whispered, pausing to peek into a room with an open door. "For another, you did see that door, didn't you?"



"Of course I did," Draco says, speaking slowly so Weaselby could understand.



Ron's eyes narrow; apparently he does not appreciate his partner's concern for his motor and comprehension skills.



Draco smiles the smile of the blithely innocent in return, then starts as a loud CLUNKing noise sounds overhead. "What was that?"



"I think," Ron says grimly, "we're in the right place." Craning his head back, he stares at the criss-crossing rafters. A moment later Ron's wand is pointing upward as well. That's when it hits Draco; they're going to have to fucking levitate themselves up to the beams to deal with these rogue hexed Muggle devices.



"I really hate Potter," Draco announces, then levitates himself toward the rafters so he doesn't have to hear Weasley's undoubtedly stupid response.



Above his head he hears the faint whistle of kettles, followed by metallic clanging noises and the hiss of what Draco knows isn't steam but fire coming out of kettle spouts. Squinting, he can make out how the kettles themselves are flying about; sections from waffle-iron cords are wrapped round and round the kettle handles. The bloody flaming kettles are being towed about by the waffle irons. He is decidedly not doing this by himself. "Get up here, Weasley!"



Weasley must have lead in his arse or something; Draco's managed to freeze a waffle iron and kettle, blast half off another kettle, and send another waffle iron and kettle pair plummeting to the ground by the time Weasley sidles up next to him.



"It's about time. I've nearly gone grey waiting," Draco scowls, then flinches as a stream of flames soars right past his cheek.



"'m here now." Weasley grabs hold of a rafter and uses it to push off, propelling himself toward the rafters over the centre of the room.



Ducking his head and narrowly avoiding getting a face full of waffle iron, Draco watches as Weasley whirls this way and that in the air, hexing and freezing and obliterating the jinxed Muggle appliances as though it isn't difficult at all, or a bother. Weasley had been a shit Quidditch player, and watching displays such as this one made Draco wonder why that had been. His reflexes are quite good, really. Maybe he'd just had one too many shit captains who never took the time to see his potential before.



Wait, why is he pondering Weasley's ne'er-do-well and currently non-existent Quidditch career?



"OW! SONOFSALAZAR!" Something hits him squarely in the arse, snapping him out of his Definitely Not Thinking About Weasley Thoughts, and it really fucking stings. His hand flings out beside him and bumps against something cool and smooth and metal. A waffle iron. His fingers find its handle and Draco whips it round to the front of him. A plug dangles from the back of it, though Draco can't quite reach it as the iron itself is opening and closing and opening and closing loudly and quickly. He barely avoids losing a finger, just pulling his hand back in time. It makes another chomping motion, and Draco grunts in annoyance. This is ridiculous, and he whips his wand out, a hex rolling off his tongue unbidden. The waffle iron stutters, stops, and then spirals as it falls to the ground. Draco has had enough of this work shit himself, and he descends without so much as a word in Weaselby's direction.



Leaning against the one wall that isn't inundated with smoke or charred wood as a result of a cranky kettle, Draco watches Weasley levitating above him. Weasley seems to have everything under control, so Draco doesn't feel a guilty in the slightest for watching him work. Stifling a yawn, he smoothes out the wrinkles on his trousers. The heel of his palm grazes the fabric covering his cock, and he inhales so quickly that air whistles between the gaps in his teeth. The fellow in the Tube didn't get Draco off to his liking (which is to say, not at all), and he is really going to have to take care of the matter later on.



...Or maybe not.



The click-clicking of heels against stone echo in the corridor, and Draco twists in its direction. There's a twitch in his trousers, and it's all due to the gorgeous woman in stylish robes heading his way.



With flowing black hair and impossibly long legs, the woman does things to Draco's insides that haven't been done since two days prior, or possibly - had N not been a tit about Draco getting his name wrong - this morning.



"Hello there," Draco says smoothly, giving the woman a proper bow in greeting. There's a slight 'oof' beside him as Weasley touches down, and the woman looks from Draco to Weasley and then at the wreckage of waffle irons and kettles on the floor. As Draco straightens, he notices that Weasley's argyle jumper now sports a very large scorch mark in the centre; even flame-breathing kettles have better fashion sense than Weaselby. Draco smiles.



"I see you've everything under control here," she says approvingly. Draco fully approves of the way her tits jiggle when she puts her hands on her hips, and so does his cock. "Nineve Bracegirdle, Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee."



I wouldn't mind bracing your girdle, Draco thinks, but says nothing of the sort. Instead, he smiles broadly and introduces himself. "Draco Malfoy, Misuse of Muggle Artefacts." There is a pointed cough beside him, and he jerks his thumb in Weasley's direction. "This is Ron Weasley, also in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office."



"I'm the Head," Ron interjects, and Draco's lips form a thin line.



"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, both of you." Bracegirdle steps over the remains of a kettle and peers up toward the rafters. "Mind if I take a look round?"



"No," Draco and Weaselby say at the same time, and Draco scowls again.



"Go right ahead." Ron gestures round the room, and Draco skulks back, feigning supreme interest in a twisted, smoking waffle iron near his feet.



Stooping down, Draco runs his fingers over the waffle iron, his eyes watching Bracegirdle's every move - every swish of the hips, every wriggle of the arse, he sees it all.



"Stop that," Weasley hisses out the side of his mouth, and Draco jerks his chin up.



"What?" he whispers back, feigning utter and complete innocence.



"You know full well what." Weasley is snappish now, and Draco rolls his eyes, annoyed. "'sides, I thought you were nothing but a bloody shirt-lifter."



Unless it's designer and in the back of his robes, Draco detests labels. "If I have a 'bloody' itch, I'll scratch it with whatever looks best at the time! Right now, Brace-my-girdle looks best!"



"Ahem."



Oh, shit.



"How can we help you?" Draco asks, pouring on the charm as he stands, brushing a lock of white-blond hair out of his eyes.



Bracegirdle gives Draco a look that likely would make the faint-of-heart's hair stand on end before giving him the cold shoulder and turning to Weasley. "Mister Weasley," she says, "have you contained all of the artefacts?"



"Er." He rubs at the back of his neck - a sign Draco knows well enough by now means 'I'm bloody uncomfortable and/or I haven't a sodding clue and/or I wish I could Disapparate and/or I need a pint or twelve' - and surveys the area. "Yeah. Yeah, it's contained."



"I trust you'll dispose of any items you won't be returning to the Ministry for analysis?"



"Yeah. Yeah, I can do that."



Bracegirdle smiles, and Draco could swear he sees fangs. "Excellent. Maliphant from Obliviator Headquarters should be here soon. We'll finish conducting interviews and make the appropriate...adjustments. You'll have a report in your in tray before elevenses tomorrow."



"Make that two reports," Draco interjects. Shit, this is his case as well! He steps in front of Weasley, and Bracegirdle turns on her heel, waving a hand over her shoulder as she saunters down the corridor.



"Good day, Mister Weasley," her voice floats back. Draco doesn't care if it's childish and Hufflepuffian of him; he kicks a kettle against the wall.



"Thanks a tonne, Weasley," he spits, then begins waving his wand about in a flurry of motion. Pieces that are too small to be inspected or tested are Banished, while others are stacked and sent into two rucksacks he'd conjured.



"For what?" Weasley has the audacity to give Draco a curious look while prodding a kettle into a rucksack partition.



The curious look grates on his nerves. As if he doesn't know. "Oh, piss off."



*****



Draco refused to speak to Weasley the entire way back to the Ministry, and he is all too glad (for once) to be back in his - their - office. Uttering "Finite!" to reverse the transfiguration of his robes into Muggle grab, Draco settles into his chair and pulls a mirror out of a desk drawer.



"You're filthy!" the mirror shrieks when he holds it to his face.



From behind a stack of paperwork (which had piled up something dreadful while they'd been out), Ron snorts.



"Get stuffed, Weasley," Draco says, lips twisting in a sneer. Back the mirror goes in the desk, and Draco begins casting heavy-duty Cleaning Charms on his clothes. They smell like smoke and the Tube and burning metal, and Draco cannot have that uninviting aroma on his person.



Weasley opens his mouth to undoubtedly toss something lame back at Draco, but before he gets out even a peep, an owl comes crashing through the half-open doorway, dropping a red envelope on top of one of the stacks on Weasley's desk.



Grinning, Draco rubs his hands together and prepares to take in the show; this'll be good.



"Oh bloody hell," Weasley grumbles, sinking down in his chair a little.



"You'd best open it, Weasley," Draco advises, threading his fingers together and resting his chin atop them. "The corners are already smoking. You wouldn't want it to explode and screech loud enough for all levels of the Ministry to hear, would you?"



He scowls, then shakes his head. "No...." Stretching out a hand, Weasley slits the red envelope quickly and stuffs his fingers in his ears. A beat, and then the roar of the former Mrs Ronald Weasley's barrister fills their tiny office, the sound shaking everything that isn't spelled down.



"MISTER RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY, YOU ARE HEREBY ORDERED TO FILL OUT THE PROPER FORMS FOR MONTHLY ALIMONY DISPERSEMENT FROM VAULT 665 TO VAULT 1132 TOMORROW MORN. FORMS WILL BE SENT TO YOUR OFFICE PRIOR TO THE HOUR OF ELEVEN, AND THE GOBLIN IN CHARGE OF MRS GRANGER-WEASLEY'S VAULT REQUIRES THE RETURN OF THE FORMS NO LATER THAN HALF-ELEVEN. MRS GRANGER-WEASLEY WOULD ALSO LIKE TO REMIND YOU TO MEET MISTER HARRY POTTER AND HERSELF FOR A PINT THIS EVENING. 'A' AS IN ONE, AS YOU MUST REPORT TO WORK IN THE MORN."



The voice abruptly stops and there is a ringing in Draco's ears. Weasley shoves the Howler to a far corner on his desk, jerking his chair back as it bursts into flames and curls into ashes. Taking a good look at Weasley, Draco notes that he is now purple, a colour that does not go well with his ginger freckles.



"It could be worse," Draco offers, slapping the top of his desk to illustrate his point.



"How's that?" The words are practically spat out of Weasley's mouth, and if looks could kill, Weasley would be a basilisk.



"It could've ended with the barrister saying 'Avada Kedavra'?"



Weasley stares at him in silence for a long moment, and then all of a sudden he, too, slaps the table and groans. "Almost wish he would've. Honestly, she's being a total nightmare about all this! Yeah, it was my idea and all, 'cause I insisted she take money that would've been hers had we stayed married anyway, but...sodding hell."



"All women, no matter how noble and honest and just, get like that when money is involved, git," Draco explains, using the tone one would reserve for discussing safety rules with a toddler.



"You can say that again." Weasley sounds awfully glum, and for a moment Draco almost- almost! - pities him.



"If you say so." Shrugging, Draco repeats himself. "All women, no matter how noble and honest and just, turn into nightmares when money is involved. Git."



"s'not like she needs it for herself." Slumping further down his chair, Weasley adds, "She's gonna use it for house-elves."



Draco sputters. "House-elves? You can't be serious?" Well, it is Granger they're talking about.... "Yes, I suppose you can, and you are."



"She's working on opening a shelter for displaced and needy house-elves," Weasley mumbles into his fist. "It's kind of her thing."

After letting this soak in for a moment and reflecting on everything he knows of Weasley and Granger, Draco pulls his chair round near Weasley's side of their office. "Weasley, it's about time you–"



"Leave off, Malfoy."



Draco blinks, fingers curling round the edge of Weasley's desktop. "I beg your pardon?"



"Don't beg on my account." Weasley stands up, shoving the pile of papers on his desk toward Draco. "Here." He tosses his cloak about his shoulders and works on doing the clasp. "It's past five. I'm going home."



"I'm leaving as well, then." Pushing himself on his chair back to his own desk, Draco stands and reaches for his travelling cloak.



"Oh no you don't, Malfoy. You skived off two hours this morning; you need to make the time up. Since you missed the Barrow Burn raid this morning, you can do the mountain of paperwork." A tight, thin smile on his lips, Weasley offers him a nod in parting. The door closes softly behind Weasley, and Draco curses, reluctantly scooting the paperwork to his side of the office.



"Paperwork. A fate worse than detention in the forest with Longbottom," Draco mutters to himself, pulling a large scroll from the top of the stack. Dipping a quill in ink, he begins the mindless job of comparing the scroll to Weasley's written statement from that morning, filling in boxes and marking bubbles and generally wasting a whole fat lot of his time.



Filling out paperwork gets very old very fast, and Draco is itching to leave, himself. The paperwork does need to get completed, however, and after the incident with the Department of Wizarding Affair's employee alert system this morning, he isn't about to chance getting binned for failing to fill out a stupid form.



"Shit." The nub on his quill breaks and, after spelling the blot away, he pulls open a desk drawer to dig for a new quill.



That's when it hits him; Weasley's got some Working Wonders Quills in his desk. His mad brothers sent a few over the other day, claiming it would 'do your work for you in half the time!' though Weasley had yet to test them out.



Draco doesn't mind being the product tester, not if it means he can leave straightaway. He has more important things to do than stay after hours to fill in boring Ministry paperwork.



Like pulling.



Smoothing back his hair, he steals a quick glance at the mirror in his desk drawer again. Instead of screeching at him this time, it whistles. "You look devastatingly handsome and fit, dear!"



"Of course I do," Draco murmurs to his reflection. "Pansy, here I come."



She won't stand a chance. She never does.