Feelings and Other Atrocities

Pointedly Not Looking at Weasley, Draco bats a low-flying inter-department memo away and performs a Shrinking Charm on his trunk. Stuffing the trunk in his pocket, he leans against the back wall of the lift. Weasley stands at the front, pressing his forehead against the wall. Neither says anything, which is fine by Draco. He hasn't a clue what he would say if Weasley spoke to him. 'Sorry I shot all over your robes?' 'Thanks for the pull-off?' ' My, what a firm grip you have?'



"The better to wank you with, my dear," Draco mutters. He doesn't realise he's said anything until Weasley lifts his head to give Draco a sharp look.



"What was that?" he asks loudly.



Shit. Draco really needs to get rid of his inner monologue. Lately it either sounds like Pansy, gets him in trouble, or both. "Nothing," he says with the curl of a lip.



"Right," Weasley says, his tone suggesting Draco ought not have anything to say to him for some time. Draco forces a quick, sarcastic smile. Not speaking to Weasley for a time is fine by him.



The lift doors open, and the annoying hag's voice pipes up again:



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



In a matter of moments, Weasley and he are standing in the middle of the Portkey Office, which seems even smaller than their cupboard of a space, if that's remotely possible. It's cramped; there is barely enough room for the filing system, the chair, and the desk that are squeezed inside it. A nameplate on the desk reads 'M. F. Luder', the letters charmed to blink blindingly white light. Draco can only stare at it for a moment before he has to look elsewhere, focussing on the walls. Pamphlets and leaflets and folios and posters are stuck to the dingy beige walls, advertising all manner of strange things. A few slanted shelves tacked up behind the desk hold rubbish like tins, old boots, mufflers, mis-matched wellies, and sweet wrappers. While he realises Portkeys are ordinarily made from objects that look like litter to the Muggle eye, he does not begrudge this Luder his position. Draco may loathe working in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office with Weasley, but at least he isn't surrounded by rubbish.



The chair spins around slowly, revealing a middle-aged man with specs more horrid than Perfect Potter's, a terribly unkempt and straggly beard, and hair the colour of the putrid-smelling paste used to clean brass cauldrons. Draco's eyes flicker to the nameplate, and he wonders if perhaps the M.F. stands for Mangy Fucker.



"I was beginning to think you boys weren't going to show," Luder says around a dry, rasping cough.



"Can you just give us the Portkey and be done with it?" Weasley snaps, and Draco looks up in surprise. While Weasley is a cranky arse and prone to being a git to Draco, he isn't one to lay into a fellow without being instigated.



Luder blinks, pushing his specs up his nose. Clearly he's taken aback, though Weasley hasn't caught on to it; he's positively glaring at the disheveled wizard.



Well, if this isn't terribly awkward.



"We're anxious to get a start on our case," Draco interjects, then winces. Damn. Is he covering for Weasley's lack of social skills? "I'll sign for it." Merlin's Beard, he is. He must be coming down with something, or else his brains leaked out his cock all over Weasley's hand back in his flat.



Shuffling around his desk, Luder produces a stack of parchments and indicates to Draco where he ought to sign. When the last signature is put down, the parchment and quill disappear in a puff of orange smoke.



"Just a mo'," Luder says, presenting them with his back. He talks to himself, standing on the tips of his toes as he inspects items on the lopsided shelves. "Ah ha! Here we are." Beaming, he comes out from behind his desk and presses a manky old clay jar in Weasley's hand.



"Thanks," Weasley mutters, looking anywhere but at Draco.



Feeling a surge of annoyance, Draco nods curtly at Luden and touches the lip of the jar, taking care not to touch Weasley.



"The man on your end will arrange for a Portkey back at the conclusion of your case," Luden says as he takes a large, silver watch out of his robes. The fob is so long it nearly touches the floor, and Draco can see several hands and dials whirling about on the face. "Hands on it, lads! Good, good. And here we go: three, two, one–"



The familiar hook-behind-the-navel sensation sets in and Draco lurches forward, his feet leaving the ground. Weasley is across from him, too-long ginger hair flapping about his face as the wind howls around them. Then it's all over; Draco's feet slam against the ground, Weasley falls into his chest, and the Portkey hits the ground with a loud shattering sound. Serves Luder right, really, for giving them a clay jar for a Portkey.



As Draco gets his bearings, Weasley pulls back from him as though burnt. "C'mon," he says gruffly, "let's get on with it."



"Yes sir," Draco says, voice dripping with sarcasm as he takes out his wand. Weasley does the same, and they charm their robes to look like the clothing of a common Iranian Muggle: long cotton tunic and matching trouser in natural, boring beige, a hat Draco finds would be more fitting as a pot in one of Sprout's greenhouses, and utterly uninteresting black sandals. After this case is over, he will have to take himself on a shopping spree and spend his meagre savings on a set of designer robes to make amends with himself for the current travesty not really gracing his frame.



"Oy, let's go, then," Weasley says, lifting up a flap on his own tunic to pocket his wand.



Stepping out from behind the large archway that had hidden them, they look around the main room of the Vakil Bath house. The room itself is massive; a large dome (complete with skylight), its intricate carvings leading down into a series of arches across its diameter. Beyond the main archways is a lower ceiling and even more arches. The floor is stone, and their footsteps echo in the cavernous room as they weave in and out and around the tables. The hour is early; the room is nearly vacant save for a few Muggle tourists, servers, and a table or two of elderly Iranians.



"Misters Weasley and Malfoy?" a lilting, heavily-accented voice asks from somewhere behind them.



"Mustafa Salimpour?" Weasley asks as he and Draco turn toward the voice.



"Yes,"answers a short, wiry man in dress very much like their own. After heartily shaking hands with them both, Salimpour gestures to a nearby table. "Please, be seated."



After everyone is tucked in, Salimpour hails a server. He speaks for a moment with the man in Persian, and Draco notes that he looks utterly exhausted. Bytheway had mentioned the Iranian Ministry was swamped; judging from the way Salimpour looks, that much seems true.



"I ordered you some breakfast," he explains after the server has gone. "I realise the hour is still early in London."



Weasley rubs his stomach, and Draco rolls his eyes. The man is a bottomless pit. "Thanks," Weasley says, looking decidely more personable than he had a few minutes ago. "Though it's still early here as well."



"I do not mind the early hour. Lately I have lost track of time, always working. It is rare to have time for myself." Salimpour digs in a rucksack for a moment before producing two hats that look very much like the ones Weasley and Draco are wearing. "A gift for you."



"While my hat is rather cunning, I do believe one is enough," Draco says wryly, and Weasley shoots him a dirty look.



"I'm sorry," Weasley interrupts, accepting the hats. "He meant to say that one isn't enough. His brains are a bit addled from a rather horrendous case of big-headedness; he tends to–"



Draco kicks Wealsey's shin under the table, hard, as Salimpour raises a hand. "It is all right. He meant no offence." Weasley looks as though he wants to comment to that but, fortunately for his health and well-being, Salimpour continues on. "I think you will be wanting to change hats with me. These–" He nods at the ones sitting in front of Weasley. "–are charmed with something very useful the Japanese Ministry devised."



"What'd that be?" Ron asks curiously.



"Ah, that would be–" Salimpour breaks off when the server returns with a full tray. Thanking the server, Salimpour readies three cups of black teas, placing a mug in front of each of them. "Sugar?"



Draco reaches into a small bowlful of cubed sugar, extracting two. His eyes roam over the tray, but there are no pitchers of milk to be found. "Semi-skimmed?"



Weasley coughs and Salimpour's brows knit together, making him look positively ridiculous. "We do not drink our tea as the British do," he says, and then deftly places a cube of sugar between his teeth. "Observe." His instruction is slightly muffled, but Draco catches the meaning all the same and watches as Salimpour raises the mug to his lips, sipping the tea all the while holding the cubed sugar in place with his teeth.



Though he is wary of taking his tea this way, Draco is too tired and Portkey-lagged to put up a fuss and demand semi-skimmed right this instant, so he busies himself with the breakfast nosh (barbari, butter, honey, cheeses, and halva shekari) while Weasley and Salimpour do the same. As Draco takes his tea, a middle-aged fellow a few tables over begins to puff on a water pipe; the smoke wafts over in the direction of their table, making Draco's eyes water.



Frustrated with both the smoke and the fact that he can't take out his wand to charm the irritant out of his eyes, Draco bypasses the polite conversation Weasley and Salimpour are having to cut right in. "So what's so bloody special about these Japanese hats?"



"They are from Iran. The charm embedded in the fibres was developed by the Japanese," Salimpour corrects.



Draco waves a hand dismissively. "Right, right. Well, then?"



"Malfoy," Weasley grounds out, and Draco chooses to be the Better Man (as though there were any question as to which was which in the first place) and ignores Weasley.



"What is so special is that these hats are Interchange Interpreters." Salimpour beams and leans in, whispering excitedly. "These hats are a new device which helps officials - administration, authorities - understand any spoken language."



"Wicked," Weasley breathes, and Draco finds himself intrigued as well.



"As long as you are wearing this hat, you will understand anything you hear; it translates foreign languages into your native tongue." Looking rather smug, he adds, "But that isn't all. It allows you to speak in someone else's native tongue. For instance, if I was not an English speaker, as long as I would wear one of these hats, you would hear English coming from my mouth."



"That's dead amazing!"



Draco nods in agreement; it is rather impressive.



"Yes, it is quite ingenious." After spreading a generous amount of halva shekari on his barbari, Salimpour pulls out two thick folios, pushing one to Weasley and one to Draco. "Everything you will be needing to know about Arya Bijan Jalil Majidi, his contacts, his alleged associates, his properties...it is all here." Digging in his pocket, he produces a few banknotes - rials - and tosses them on the table as he stands.



"Er. Where are you going?" Weasley asks around a mouthful of cheese.



Touching his hand over his heart, Salimpour bows slightly. "A thousand apologies, gentlemen. I must be on my way; there are seven other cases I am working on; I can be of no further assistance to you unless it is a dire emergency."



"You can't just toss a few folios at us and leave," Draco interjects quickly, a cube of sugar spitting halfway across the table. "And what if we do have a dire emergency? How are we to–"



"Leave a message at the front desk of Homa Hotel on Meshkinfam Street. That is where you will be staying, courtesy of the Iranian Ministry. Ask for Navid; he will know how to contact me. Be salâmat."



And just like that, Draco is alone with Weasley again.



"This is sodding atrocious," he spits, shoving his cuppa away.



"Shut up," Weasley mutters, rising abruptly and shoving his chair against the table.



Not in the mood for Weasley's shit, Draco grabs one of the Interchange Interpreters. Cramming his old hat in his pocket, he shoves the charmed one on his head. He's had more than enough of Weasley to suit him; he'll find the fucking hotel on his own.



*****



As it turns out, Draco doesn't find the hotel on his own. Weasley insists on travelling with him, and they nearly get killed three times on account of mad Iranian drivers. Traffic is horrendous; Draco is sure the drivers view the road rules as mere guidelines.



Rather glad to still be alive, they finally check into Homa Hotel and make contact with Navid, who assures them he will take care of them and any correspondence they may have with Mustafa Salimpour. After both settle into their rooms and freshen up in the loo, they meet in Weasley's room to review folios and files, as well as to discuss plans for the day. They will split up, Ron canvassing and following up a few tips on one side of the province while Draco does likewise on the other.



"Don't forget," Weasley says, his hand on the doorknob, "Arg-i Karim khani at half-six."



"I won't forget, Weasley." Draco crosses his arms about his chest, giving Weasley an annoyed look. "We can compare notes and assess the situation all you like at half-six. Good hunting and all that." With the flick of a wrist, Draco opens the door and sends Weasley on his merry.



Splaying out on the bed, Draco idly flicks through the folio Salimpour had given him, as well as the files Rhys-Cagan had foisted upon him yesterday. After all, it wouldn't do well for him to go out unprepared. He must read up on the files about Majidi and commit them to memory before interrogating the public.



"Oh, who am I kidding?" Draco murmurs to himself, pushing the paperwork to the corner of his bed. What he really needs is a solid, uninterrupted lie-in. The past twenty-four hours have been simply beastly and Draco needs his rest. Sod the Majidi fellow; he can wait.



*****



Shit.



Draco blinks, staring blearily at the Muggle alarm clock. 5:32. He didn't intend to sleep that late (well, all right. Perhaps he did.), and now his entire day is shot. There isn't any way he can accomplish visiting and inspecting all of the places on his list for today. Weasley is going to want to kill him.



Hmm, Weasley already does. Perhaps no harm has been done. It isn't as though Weasley can honestly expect him to be Productive and a Good Worker, now is it?



His mood considerably lighter, Draco springs to his feet and takes a gander at his list of Places and People to Investigate. He has to start somewhere, so Draco closes his eyes and jabs a finger against the parchment. Lids fluttering open, he spies the name of his destination, as fated by the touch of his finger. Eram Garden.



*****



Draco hasn't a clue as to where the Iranian Ministry got their 'leads' about Majidi, but he's quite certain the lead about Eram Garden was utter and complete shit. He had watched the workers for a bit and wandered around, but Draco has yet to see anything remotely suspicious. However pointless this particular leg of his mission may be, he cannot complain too much as the garden is especially enchanting. The air is refreshing, the scent of myriad types of flowers and fragrant myrtles heavy in the air. Tall cypresses line the pathways, and there are plenty of attractive people wandering about. All in all, not a bad way to spend a slice of his day.



Deciding to take in some of the scenery before meeting Weasley, Draco strolls along one of the paths, the tips of his fingers skimming cypress leaves as he walks. It isn't long before he senses he is not alone. There is a tingle between his shoulder blades, and he knows someone is watching him. Immediately his hand moves to the pocket where his wand rests, and he turns around to confront his unwanted company.



"Hello," the man says, smiling a bit too widely for Draco's liking.



If this man wasn't sending off red sparks in Draco's mind, he might have taken a moment to marvel at how brilliant the Interchange Interpreter contraption on his head is. However, the man is setting off more than a few red sparks, and Draco hasn't the time to make pause for fawning over top of the line Ministry apparel at the moment. "Hello," he returns slowly, mouth setting into a thin line.



The man's eyes flicker pointedly from Draco's face to his crotch and back again. "It is a lovely day today, no?"



Oh, this one is about as subtle as a cage full of Cornish Pixies. "It is," Draco says shortly. "How about we skip the formalities and you tell me what you want, eh?"



"I want to see your cock. It must be so white and pretty, and I want to touch it, want to feel it grow hard in my hand–"



Bugger, he had to ask the fellow what he wanted, hadn't he?



Thinking on how it had felt when Weasley's hand had been wrapped round his cock only hours before, Draco has to clamp down and grind his teeth together to fight back a moan.



"–want to watch it turn from white to red to purple, and then I'd take it in my mouth and suck–"



God, this is not what Draco needs to hear right now. He'll be meeting Weasley soon; he really shouldn't have it off with a fellow right about now. Besides–



Something he'd read back in the hotel room about Iranian culture comes swirling to the forefront of his mind: Under the strictness of the Sharia law, sodomy is punishable by death. This law applies solely to citizens of Iran and those who partake in such acts with Iranian citizens.



Merlin's Beard, he needs to get away from this man.



"Back away," he says in a low voice. "Back away before I summon your Security Please Force and tell them exactly what you are."



The man's eyes narrow and he takes a step closer to Draco. "It would be my word against yours." Wearing a rather smug expression, he reaches toward Draco's groin. "I am the one they will–"



"Stupefy!" A bolt of red light hurls forth from his wand, and Draco's feet begin pounding against the stone walkway before the man even hits the ground.



*****



Panting, Draco turns down a narrow alley in an area teeming with shops. He probably could have gotten the fellow to bugger off without resorting to magic, but he hadn't wanted to take any chances. Draco could have been sentenced to die if he'd had a shag with that man, and he would much rather suffer from blue balls than having it off and getting killed.



Well, perhaps that is a bit of a lie. Right now he wishes for death instead of this urgent need in his groin.



Pushing his arse back against the alleyway, Draco slips a hand down his chest to take a firm grip on his cock. Angling the heel of his palm and pressing into the constricted crotch of his trousers, Draco moans, arching up against his own hand and shit does it feel good.



Draco knows it will feel even better if he gets his hand on his cock, so he undoes the buttons on the flap of his trousers and slips a hand inside. Reflexively, his hips snap forward, straining against the fluttering touch of his hand. God, he's brilliant at pulling himself off. He really is. This is fucking fantastic, and he doesn't hold back the gasping moan that starts low in his stomach.



Tightening the ring of his fingers, he rotates his wrist from left to right and back again, twisting his grip down over the length of his cock, then stroking upward hard. Draco groans, blood and glory and everything in between rushing down to his cock. His free hand clenches into a fist and he stuffs it in his mouth, biting it as his thumb runs over the head, pushing against the slit. Yelping, Draco pistons his hips as he continues to stroke, opening his fist and dropping the hand to cup his balls. The hand cups and squeezes and rolls and pinches and then, with a shuddering gasp, it rubs over the head of his cock while the other strokes up and down the shaft hard. Then everything inside builds and builds until it all crashes together, and his hips are jerking, jerking, jerking forward and he's coming like he's the fucking Hogwarts Express and "Oh fuck, Ron–"



The orgasm is over quickly, although it had seemed to last for eons, and Draco slumps against the wall. It is then, when his elbows scrape against mud and straw, that he realises what he'd just said.



Ron?



WEASLEY?



The Pansy voice pipes up smugly, "If I didn't know any better, I'd accuse you of fancying him."



Right then and there, Draco decides that he will owl Pansy a special parcel at the conclusion of his business trip, just a little reminder that he appreciates her friendship.



Nothing says love and friendship like a parcel full of asps.



*****



By the time Draco arrives at Arg-i Karim khani, it is well past half-six and Ron is nowhere to be found. Though he knows it is worthless, Draco wanders around the citadel-cum-museum on the off chance Ron didn't get entirely pissed and leave when Draco didn't show up right away.



When the hour is nearing nine, Draco decides he has looked for Ron enough and returns to Homa Hotel. The teen at the desk gives him a message from Ron, which reads:



YOU'D BEST HAVE A SODDING GOOD REASON FOR MISSING THE MEETING. REPORT TO MY ROOM IMMEDIATELY UPON READING THIS NOTICE.



RONALD B WEASLEY

HEAD OF MISUSE OF MUGGLE ARTEFACTS OFFICE

As if Draco doesn't know Weasley's the head of his stupid office. Crumbling the notice in his fist, Draco tosses it in a rubbish bin as he passes it. Seething, he jogs up to the floor they're staying on; Draco would like to get the confrontation over with so he can take a shower and get some sleep.



The door to Ron's room is ajar, and Draco places his palm against the solid wood, pushing against it slightly.



"–mione, 'm sorry, but I can't– obviously I'm in Iran, yeah? So I can't sign the papers here unless you– Yeah, that'll work. The Department of Wizarding Affairs can forward it here, and I'll send it ba– No, don't say that, all right? Look, I want you to have the money for your house-el– Because I know it's important to you, okay? That's why I agreed to it in the first– Yeah, all right, then. Tell Harry hullo, and we'll all take tea when I get back. Cheers."



Draco had figured Ron was on the Topside Talking Tinder, and when he hears the tell-tale three raps of the wand to end the Chat, he opens the door and steps inside Weasley's room.



"Well it's about sodding time!" Ron bellows the instant his eyes lay on Draco.



Shutting the door behind him, Draco arches a brow and looks on him. His skin is almost as red as his hair, and he's working himself into a right fit. Ron hasn't got a shirt on, and Draco can watch as colour blooms across the expanse of his skin. It's almost amusing, really.



"Hullo to you too, Weasley," Draco says calmly. Funny, he's started to think of Weasley as Ron since that bit of madness in the alley, yet he cannot bring himself to actually say Ron. At least part of him still has sense and sensibility.



"What the ruddy hell are you trying to DO, Malfoy?" Ron demands, pushing up out of his chair and crossing to Draco. Before Draco can get even a single word out in response, Ron barrels ahead, poking his finger in Draco's chest. "I'll tell you what you're doing! You're doing nothing but sabotaging this assignment and making me look like a great arse!"



Slapping Ron's finger away, Draco says in a deadly quiet voice, "Don't do that again."



"Oh ho, why not?" Ron asks hotly, and Draco would bet ten Galleons the flush on his skin got even redder.



Tilting his head to one side, Draco studies him, taking in the way Ron's eyes flash angrily, the way his bare chest heaves up and down with indignation, the way he's clenching and unclenching his hands into fist with frustration. It is then that Draco knows he has to do something to get Ron to calm down. He simply isn't in the mood to deal with this hot-headed shit, and so he has to put an end to it. Looking at Ron, all shirtless and flushed and fit, Draco has a rather good idea as to how he can put an end to this temper tantrum, and put an end to it quickly.



The fastest way Draco knows how to resolve any conflict is much more enjoyable than any daft Wizard Relations and Conflict Mediation Seminar the Department of Wizarding Affairs would offer, and so he takes immediate action to do things his way. Really, he's doing this for Ron's own good. No matter if he's still a bit randy from pulling himself off earlier. No matter at all.



Dropping to his haunches to rest on his heels, Draco hauls Ron's trousers down about his ankles and shoves him back against the bed. Ron's arms pinwheel wildly, his knees hit the foot of the mattress, and his arse flops on the bed. Nudging Ron's knees apart, Draco situates himself in between them and raises a hand to Ron's cock, following the lines of the shaft with first the pad of his thumb and then the heel of his palm. He can feel Ron's cock jerk against his hand, and Draco smiles. The smile widens when Ron sputters, "D-don't– get off– ohfuck–"



"Oh, I'll get you off, Weasley," Draco promises, not caring a whit that he sounds a bit breathless. Licking his lips, he bends and mouths the head, just enough to wrap his lips around it, but not quite enough to take it in his mouth. Humming experimentally, Ron's entire frame jolts beneath him, and Draco opens his jaw, taking Ron fully into his mouth.



Ron's hands card through his hair, taking up great handfuls of it to twist violently. "Malfoy– 'm not a–"



Just then Draco licks at the spot on the underside of the head that always drives him mad, and Ron's protests taper off to a low keening sort of groan. The groan turns into a whine and Ron pushes upward. Draco digs fingers into his hips and pushes him back against the bed, flicking his tongue slowly over the head and then switching to suction up and down the length of Ron's shaft, teeth grazing the vein along the underside. As Ron continues to whimper and buck and pull at his hair, Draco fastens his hand around the base of Ron's cock, squeezing it until the bucking slows down.



"Good boy," Draco murmurs, moving his hand in slow, even strokes.



"'m not– I– fucking hell I need to–"



"Shut up, Weasley." Hissing softly, Draco sucks Ron into his mouth until his lips meet his hand, and Ron screams. Ron screams, and Draco slides his free hand down to brush over his balls before pressing just behind them. Ron's scream stutters and then dies out, and his mouth gapes open soundlessly. Then Draco sucks so hard his cheeks cave in and he twists his fingers just so against the spot behind Ron's balls, and Ron's hips piston with abandon. He comes fast and hard and thick and hot down Draco's throat, and Draco drinks it all down.



When Ron stops shaking and Draco can feel him getting a bit boneless beneath his hands, he pulls away, grey eyes meeting blue.



"All right, Weasley?" Draco asks, wiping delicately at the corner of his mouth.



Ron gives him a look that could melt glass and grabs the waistband of his trousers. Standing up, he yanks them over his hips and pushes roughly past Draco.



Frowning, Draco gets to his feet and follows Ron, but he's a moment too late. The door to the loo slams right in front of Draco's face. His fingers curl round the doorknob and he pulls it; locked. Gripping hard, he twists it in the other direction, but it isn't any use.



"Weasley." He raps his knuckles on the door, but there is no response.



This is the thanks he gets for a fucking phenomenal blow? For making Ron forget he'd been cross?



"Well, fuck you too, then, Weasel!" Draco sneers, kicking the door for good measure.



"I'm not a fucking poof, so no thanks," comes the reply, and Draco stares at the door in disbelief.



"I'm thinking you are, Weasley," he says, and then he laughs.