Feelings and Other Atrocities

The lift seems to be running slower than usual, though mercifully there aren't many inter-departmental aeroplanes zooming in and out as it stops at each floor this time of night. Most employees went home for the evening long ago, and Draco wishes he were one of them. He spends the majority of the ride to Level Two glaring at Weasley, and Weasley does the same in kind. Draco doesn't know why he's even in the lift; he should have Apparated home instead of following Weasley here.



"You need the money."



"You'll be binned."



Yes, well. There is that. Stupid Potter. Stupid Granger. Stupid Gryffindor logic.



"Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use..."



The lift doors open and Draco pushes ahead of Weasley, a small smirk of satisfaction quirking his lips at Weasley's indignant grunt. A colourful insult dies on Draco's tongue when he realises they have company.



"Gentlemen, if I may." A witch somewhere between the age of sixty and death gives them a smile that could curdle milk, while the pudgy, spotty wizard beside her smooths his walrus-like mustache.



Weasley nods, and the pudgy fellow speaks up. "Right this way. Weasley, yes? And Malfoy. I know Malfoy."



Of course he knows Malfoy, Draco thinks sourly. The family name had been all over the Prophet during the War and the months that followed it, dragged through the mud, hexed, and stomped upon before being put out to dry with the rest of Perfect Potter's Pet Projects.



Not waiting for a response, the pudgy fellow and the witch turn a corner. Weasley and Draco jog to catch up with them, and Draco strongly considers a hexing or two. The old prune swishes her wand and a pair of heavy oaken doors open. The Auror Headquarters is silent. No memos zooming overhead, no Aurors shouting to one another over cubicle walls. It is almost unnerving, though not so much as his own ruddy office is any time of the day.



Leading them to the cubicle at the end, the pudgy fellow Summons a few chairs and gestures to them. "Gareth Bytheway; I'm the liaison between the offices in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Head of the Department."



"What happened to Abernathy?" Weasley asks, and Draco thinks it's a damned fine question. They'd just had a departmental meeting last week, and Abernathy, the liaison, had run the whole boring bloody thing.



"Mister Abernathy had an unfortunate accident with a kelpie and a carafe while on holiday in Boghead," Bytheway says gravely.



"No one in their right mind holidays in Boghead. It's positively standard and duller than dull," Draco says incredulously. "Serves the git right."



"While I would simply love to learn more about Mister Malfoy's views on proper and improper holiday spots, we do have business to discuss." The old witch clears her throat in way that reminds Draco of Dolores Umbridge, and he has a brief moment of nostalgia, wondering what the hell he'd ever done with his Inquisitorial Squad badge.



Bytheway twirls the ends of his mustache, and the witch gives him a pointed look. "Oh!" Wiping his hands on the front of his dress robes, he smiles a saccharine-sweet smile that Draco wouldn't buy for a Knut. "Forgive me, Madam!" He proceeds to bow with a flourish and Draco exchanges a look with Weasley. Clearly this new liaison is a Huge Git. "Portia Rhys-Cagan is from the International Magical Cooperation Office; she's here to assist with the briefing."



She inclines her head in thanks, her waddle jiggling in a way that makes Draco's stomach churn, and distributes thick folders to everyone.



Flipping his folder open, Draco shudders as his eyes lay on a large moving photograph of man so ugly he ought to be classified XXXX by the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Beside him, Weasley lets out a low whistle. "'s that–?"



"Yes," Bytheway wheezes, patting at his forehead with a kerchief, "it is. Arya Bijan Jalil Majidi."



"Bloody hell," Weasley says, flipping the photograph over. Behind it is a stack of parchment as thick as Draco's thumb detailing Majidi's alleged criminal history and connections to Dark and Dodgy Wizards. "Memo wasn't wrong when it said this was important."



Rhys-Cagan tuts, and Draco is reminded strongly of Granger. "We wouldn't have requested your presence here at this hour otherwise," she sniffs. Extracting her wand from her robes with a flourish, she taps the cubicle wall and immediately a series of moving images flicker upon it, showing various images of Majidi and his goings-on. "We have long been in contact with the Iranian Ministry of Magic regarding the activity of Arya Bijan Jalil Majidi. As your files detail, Iranian officials have long suspected Majidi of, shall we say, suspect dealings but have yet to collect enough evidence to convict him for any wrongdoing. His last known profession was that of a Mediwizardry Supplier, though his vaulted funds far exceed reported earnings. Majidi's whereabouts have been unknown for some six months, though insiders at the Ministry recently came across information which leads them to believe he may be somewhere in Fars province."



Flipping through the files, Draco notes that it seems as though Majidi's passion is the exportation of flying carpets. Draco has thought more than a few times that it was a shame about flying carpets in Britain; they've a certain elegance to them.



"Why've we got this case? Flying carpets haven't been smuggled into Britain in nearly ten months. Weasley and I raided Sucksmith's multi storey; we confiscated 313 carpets and Aurors issued fifteen arrests. Majidi didn't have anything to do with them; we've not had any dealings with him over here since just after the war."



"I've never heard of him," Draco adds, buffing his nails against a lapel.



"Last case with him was just before you got hired on," Weasley says, then turns his attention back to Bytheway. "So why've we got this case, eh?"



"Yes, well." Bytheway's beady eyes bulge a bit, and he blows his nose, sounding like a dying augurey. "Funny you should mention Sucksmith...."



"What about him?" Weasley asks sharply, and even Draco finds himself leaning forward in anticipation.



"He's the reason Iranian Ministry officials believe Majidi may be in Fars province. They're absolutely swamped and can't afford to spare more than one man on the case. They need a bit of help, and since it stands to reason Majidi would look to export to Britain (you do know how much flying carpets fetch on the black market, I'm sure), you two come into play. "



"Sucksmith is currently working on plea bargain with the Wizengamot, and they have placed him in contact with the Iranian Ministry," Rhys-Cagan explains, snapping her own folder shut. "Your contact in Iran will be an Auror by the name of Mustafa Salimpour. It's in your itinerary."



"You'll notice," Bytheway chimes in, "you've a seven o'clock meeting with Salimpour at Vakil Bath House."



Draco double-checks his itinerary and scowls. "Seven o'clock in Iran is three-thirty here!"



Rhys-Cagan fixes him with an evil glare, and Draco wouldn't be surprised if she were related to Professor "Steely-Eyed" McGonagall. "Yes, it is. Your Portkey is scheduled for twenty-eight minutes after three o'clock. I suggest you arrive here at three-fifteen."



Fuck, but that's too early.



"We'll be here." Weasley stands, tucking his folder under his arm.



Rhys-Cagan nods and, after standing, Bytheway assists her to her feet. "Good evening," they say in unison, then become engrossed in conversation as they head to the exit. Draco waits until the heavy oaken doors open and shut again before yanking the folder from underneath Weaselby's arm and smacking him on the head with it. Childish, yes. But it does make him feel better.



"Arsehole," Weasley gripes, pulling his folder out of Draco's grasp. Draco watches as his hand clenches into a fist, and he easily sidesteps Weasley's lunge, smirking.



As Weasley grunts and curses and threatens him, Draco shrugs and heads for the doors himself. There is a lot to do to prepare for this unexpected trip, and he needs to get home to do it. "Until tomorrow at the ungodly appointed hour, Weasley."



Damn, if he doesn't wish he didn't need this stupid job.



*****



Looking forward to a stiff cuppa (a little bit of tea with his Firewhisky) and a wank before bed, Draco loosens the knot of his tie as he kicks the door to his flat shut behind him. It's been a damned annoying long day, and he's simply glad to be home, even if the place is no larger than a biscuit tin. Banishing his cloak to a wardrobe, he shrugs out of his robes and pads into the kitchen. The fridge is almost as bare as the cupboards; he is hard-pressed to find much beside a bit of chocolate and a jar of mini-gherkins.



Shoving a mini-gherkin or two in his mouth, Draco slams the door shut and reaches for the bottle of Odgen's. Leaning against the counter, he opens the top and raises the bottle to his face. Inhaling the strong, fiery scent, he sighs with something resembling contentment. It is a pity he can't afford proper liquor, but he makes do with Odgen's. For such a cheap bevvy, it's quite good. A diamond in the rough.



Taking a swig of whisky, he rounds to the cooker, where the kettle is. The moment his eyes lay on the kettle, he groans, deciding he has already had enough of kettles for the day. Draco will forgo the tea for the wank before bed. Figuring he'll pack for Iran in the morning, he shuffles to his bedroom, nipping from the bottle as he goes.



By the time he's reached his room, Draco is feeling warm and toasty and a bit lethargic. The firewhisky burns his throat as it goes down and then settles into the pit of his stomach, sloshing about before settling down, and a pleasant, comfortable feeling washes over him. The notion to wank grows less and less appealing the more and more he nips from the bottle. His eyes grow heavier and heavier until he feels himself drifting away.



*



In his very fantastic dream, a skilled hand traces feather-light patterns on his bare chest, nails fleetingly scraping across the skin every so often. His hips rise, cock straining against his trousers, a plea for the hand to feed into his desires, to touch him. The plea, after a tense moment or two, pays off. The hand skates down his chest to rest over his trapped erection. It rubs slowly, gently and then suddenly tightens just–



Draco's eyes fly open; it isn't a dream.



Fingers still curled round the firewhisky bottle, Draco uses his free hand to feel for his wand, cursing.



"That isn't any way to treat a girl," a soft, breathy voice chides, cool fingers stilling his hand.



"Keridwen?" he mumbles, squinting in the dim light.



"You've been avoiding me, Draco," she says in a scolding tone, and he grunts.



Yes, he has been avoiding Keridwen Fenwick. Apparently she's caught on to that. Bugger.



It isn't that she isn't a good shag. In fact, she's quite brilliant at shagging. Keridwen just tends to...smother. Draco isn't very fond of being smothered. He likes his space. He likes his freedom. He likes that he has the choice to shag whomever he pleases whenever he pleases. Keridwen doesn't seem to understand these things; she has been sending him an owl a day (sometimes two or three) since Draco had slept with her one evening nearly four weeks ago. Come to think of it, she hadn't sent him an owl today. He should have known she was going to pull something like this.



"Have I?" he asks slowly, giving her a lazy smile. His head rather hurts from the haze of alcohol, and it's a bit difficult to discern how late it is. "What time is it?"



"You have." Her hand shifts over him, her fingers squeezing him. "It's rather late, or rather early, depending on how you look at it." She leans in close, so close the ends of her hair brush against his cheeks, and he can smell a faint minty alcohol on her breath.



"Get lost on your way back from the pub, have you?" The hand on him feels good, and he moans low in his throat, pushing himself into her touch as much he can. Her thighs are on either side of his hips, her arse pinning his legs down.



"Not exactly." Keridwen's small, pink tongue darts out to lick her lips. "I've found you, haven't I?"



Hmm. He's still not got off today. While this is Smothering Keridwen with her hand on his cock, it is also a means to an end. Besides, she clearly wants him, and who is Draco to deny this witch her utmost pleasure? Really, he's fulfilling her wishes and desires, and that ought to speak volumes about his character.



Humming softly, Draco shoves the bottle off the bed and thrusts his hands beneath her robes. He wastes no time in brushing his fingers against her knickers, sliding over them until he finds what he's looking for. Applying pressure to the wet fabric, he grins as she throws her head back and pants. Her fingers move up and down the length of his erection, and he meets her eyes as he presses his thumb against the damp cotton covering her clit.



Keridwen growls, unzipping and unbuttoning his trousers to wrap her hand around him. Knowing that he'll very likely come from her touch alone (and not wanting to do that just yet), he shoves her away. She squeals in protest but shuts up quickly when his hands cup her tits and his lips and teeth nibble along the side of her neck. Pushing her into the mattress, his tongue tastes every bit of her skin he can reach. Keridwen's hands stroke his thighs for a moment, and then she wraps her legs around his waist. Chest aching with need, he yanks her knickers to the side. Biting the sweet spot where neck and shoulder meet, he rocks forward, guiding her along his cock. Her knees dig into his thighs and she rolls her hips, slowly, firmly over his.



Heat coiling and spiraling madly in his belly, Draco digs his hands into her hips, setting a hard, fast pace. She matches him thrust for thrust, moaning as his teeth tug on a nipple through the thin fabric of her blouse. Her fingers skim up his back, twisting savagely in his hair, and Draco crushes his mouth to hers for a harsh, demanding kiss. Gasping, Keridwen breaks away, biting his jaw, and with a rasping cry Draco's thrusts turn short and hurried. He is so close now, so very close to finally getting what he's needed all day. Her muscles flutter around him, squeezing, and Draco–



"Oi, Malfoy! Where's your ruddy trunk?"



Beneath him, Keridwen moans, "You've company."



"I hear that," Draco snaps, craning his neck, hips still slamming into hers.



"C'mon, we've not got– Fuck."



Locking eyes with Weasley over his shoulder, Draco says, "Yes, I'm on that, Weasley," though he pries Keridwen's legs from about his waist. Despite her protests, he pulls out. He wouldn't want to shag in front of Weasley.



"If I didn't know any better, I'd accuse you of fancying him."



Damned Pansy and damn the Pansy voice in his head! He doesn't fancy Weasley. That isn't why he's stopping mid-shag. They've important Ministry business to attend to immediately. Portkeys and meetings and all that.



"Sorry," Weasely mutters presumably to Keridwen, though he looks everywhere but at her. "Right. Where's your– you didn't even pack? Christ." Crossing to Draco's trunk, Weasley irritably gets out his wand, swishing and flicking up a storm. As various bits of clothing, toiletries, and other assorted items make their way to the trunk, Weasley says again, "Sorry. I just– We've a business trip soon, and–"



"Oh for fuck's sake, Weasley," Draco lashes out, "haven't you ever tossed someone to the wayside before?" Lighting off the bed, he glares down at Keridwen, hiking his trousers up. "Get out! Go on, then!"



To Draco's extreme annoyance, the bint begins to bloody cry. Unimpressed, he sneers and begins physically dumping robes and trousers into his trunk. All the while Weasley looks from Draco to Keridwen and back again, wearing a rather stupid and idiotic expression complete with gaping mouth.



"You're disgusting," he says, and Draco gives him the two-fingered salute while ushering Keridwen out the door.



"Take the Floo, and go easy on the powder!" Draco calls warningly down the corridor. He turns round to speak to Weasley again; only he finds it's rather difficult to speak when someone's ramming their fist into your mouth.



Draco's head snaps to the side when Weasley's fist connects with it. When he recovers from the shock of 'Weaselby just sodding hit me,' Draco grabs hold of him by the shoulders and slams Weasley against the wall, pinning him there.



"Don't you ever hit me again," Draco says. Weasley responds by bucking his hips in an attempt to escape, and Draco is painfully reminded that not only are his trousers still undone but his cock is curving out, excruciatingly hard.



"Are you– you–" Weasley's mouth scrunches up, his eyes rounding, and Draco grits his teeth.



"Of course I am, you great freckled arse! You stopped me mid-shag!"



Weasley's eyes close; Draco can see pink blooming underneath the smattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose. "Get off," Weasley chokes, hands pushing against Draco's chest.



"I would've," Draco grinds out, "but you interrupted me. AGAIN, Weasley. You interrupted me AGAIN." Irked, Draco rocks forward, and their hips grind together as Weasley squirms, trying to get away.



Shit.



Draco's cock just bumped against a bulge in Weasley's trousers. A hard bulge.



"Cor," Weasley gasps. "Malfoy, please just–"



"No," Draco says fiercely, "I won't." Anger having built up all day, Draco ignores him, taking up fistfuls of Weasley's dress robes. Yanking the material towards the centre of Weasley's chest, Draco smirks when he winces.



Weasley gasps, then scowls and bucks his hips off the wall roughly. Their pelvises grind together and Draco groans, not giving a shit at how wanton he sounds because Weasley fucking deserves it.



His frame growing tense beneath Draco's, Weasley bangs Draco's inner thigh violently with his knee. "Ruddy– sodding– 'm not a fucking shirt-lifter, you sick sonofa–"



There is the label again, and Draco's vision swims redhot. Enraged, he grabs one of Weasley's hands, forcing it to grip his cock. Holding Weasley's hand in a tight circle over his cock, Draco ruts and bucks and rubs himself against the fucking lines of Weasley's palm. His skin burns, and it burns hotter and more unbearable as Weasley gasps and pants and grunts and stutters.



"You're the s-s-sick one," Draco says in a series of ragged gasps, his hand and Weasley's tugging furiously on his cock. There is a slick-wet smacking sound rising above their laboured breathing, pleasure twists viciously within, and he can't help but to cry out. His cock twitches and pulses, slippery come spreading over Weasley's fingers and his own.



It's only when he hears Weasley say "Shit!" faintly that Draco realises what he's done.



"Get off me!" he demands, pushing Weasley roughly against the wall as he stumbles backwards.



Disgust and repulsion washes over Draco, and neither speak after Weasley performs a Cleaning Charm on the both of them. Draco moves past him, crouching to put the lid on his trunk and fasten it. As he casts a Locking Charm on it, he can feel Weasley's eyes on him. When Draco turns to catch him, Weasley pivots away, crossing to Draco's Floo.



What a fucking mess this is.



Silently, numbly, Draco follows Weasley through the Floo.



The Portkey awaits.