bottom_draco | Fest Fic: Early Edition

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Title: Early Edition
Author:

flaminia_x
Prompt: #141, submitted by

westkitsune
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Summary: One day, Draco begins receiving the Daily Prophet a day in advance. Out of the pure kindness of his heart, he starts using the extra day's news to help some others – and if his wallet happens to benefit, all the better. But what happens the day he sees that it's Harry who needs help?
Rating: PG-13 for a bit of innuendo and one use of the word “arse”
Disclaimer: Erm, if I owned anything by JKR, I'd have me a new car.
Warning(s): I don't think there are any, unless Draco's 1st person POV counts ...
Word Count: 6700, +/-
Author's Notes: First of all, I used to adore this show when it was on tv, so the chance to write a fic based on it was awesome. Secondly, I loved how much this prompt lended itself to humor, which I'm currently craving more and more. Thirdly, this was so much fun to write, and I hope it works for everyone!

It was my third week at my new job before I noticed something … odd.

Of course, it wasn't my fault. I am, of course, an extraordinarily perceptive person, but you must admit, this whole situation has required a great deal of adjustment on my part. Not that I'm not happy to have avoided a harsher sentence, mind you, but there have been days thus far where even a Dementor might have made a better boss than Saint Bloody Potter.

Oh yes, haven't you heard? I work for him now – I'm his new assistant at the Ministry. He just had to go and speak in my defense at trial, and with a snap of his rough, stubby fingers, I'm pulled from the maw of Azkaban and thrown behind a tiny little desk in his front office. Something about juveniles and upbringings and not killing Dumbledore … bah. Seems the imbecile just can't leave well enough alone with his whole green-eyed saving people thing.

Anyhow, where was I? Ah. Right. If it weren't for having to settle in at the Ministry – and really, who designs a building where there isn't either a loo or a Floo in sight – I might have noticed sooner, but it takes time to create an office worthy of working in, not to mention to learn the little things, like who's responsible for bringing me a proper cup of tea, and what the important people's names are.

I often arrive before everyone else. Much more peaceful that way, without a hundred buffoons stomping by and random memos whizzing about one's ear. So it wasn't unusual that early one morning I was there, minding my own business, trying to catch up on some leftover paperwork. But unlike other mornings, a cat came strolling by. Not a cat I'd ever recalled seeing about before, but when one lives in proper Wizarding society, one is used to such animals being underfoot upon occasion, so I paid it no mind.

Until it sat - sat! - on my morning paper and had the audacity to start cleaning … itself.

I ordinarily didn't read the morning paper, finding it to be a fair waste of time when one worked at the building whose inhabitants created half the news, but really, the nerve of some little feline beast, thinking it owned my paper! So I leaned over and yanked it out from under the cat's damp little backside. I may even have scowled.

And of course, that is the moment that Saint Bloody Potter walked in.

You would think that by now someone, maybe Granger, would have taught the man how to comb his hair so it didn't fall so carelessly into his eyes. And honestly, don't you think someone should talk to him about wearing some decent robes? The way he prances about the place with those trousers – they're almost obscene, the way they fit so snugly across his backside! But never mind about that. It's just one of the burdens I have learned to bear.

“Erm, Draco, please tell me you weren't about to hit that poor cat with the newspaper,” he said, green eyes flashing in concern.

I looked down. Well. I guess if one really wasn't paying proper attention, it might look like I was going to give the little fiend a swat, not that the thought wasn't tempting. Straightening up, I placed the paper primly on my neat desk and raised an eyebrow coolly.

“Not at all, sir. I was merely removing it out of the poor dear's way,” I replied.

He sighed. Always with a flair for the overdramatics, that one. “Haven't I told you a thousand times, Draco? I'm just Harry around here,” he said, raking his fingers absentmindedly through that messy mane of his.

“Of course ... Sir Harry,” I said. What? Didn't he say to call him Harry? Honestly.

“Draco,” he said, a tinge of annoyance in his voice.

“Did you need something else, or were you just checking on the health and welfare of little … little … Bob, here?” I asked.

“Your cat's name is … Bob?” Potter asked curiously.

I shrugged indifferently. “Not my cat. Never seen him before, actually.”

Bob mewled and curled itself endearingly around my leg, leaving all sorts of orange hair all over my perfectly pressed black trousers – well, that'd be another trip to the cleaners – then sat down near my foot to begin bathing in earnest.

Potter shook his head, mouthing “Bob” again, then turned and walked toward his office. I, of course, went straight back to work. Not one for the fooling around, generally speaking. I come in, do my job, and go home. But when I turned around to face my desk, I saw the morning paper still laying on top of my desk. When I picked it up to toss it in the bin, though, I saw something a bit strange.

One of the headlines on the front page said “Auror Denison Distraught; Daughter Gravely Injured.”

Now that was odd. Auror Denison had already walked by my desk that morning, and he didn't seem all that distraught. He had been whistling the same annoyingly off-key Muggle tune that he whistles every morning, regardless of my pleas to cease and desist, or at least, pick something in tune.

My curiosity, I admit, was piqued. I tucked the paper into the top drawer of my desk and strolled casually down the hallway and around the corner toward the gents'. But as I passed the staff room, I heard Denison and a few of the other Aurors laughing at some off-color joke that one of them had just made. Clearly, if his daughter was on death's door, he didn't seem to mind too much. Or, it was some strange Muggle-born grief process, but somehow I doubted that.

I went back to my desk and pulled out the paper again, reading the article. Bob jumped up on the desk, seating himself beside it as though he were about to read it with me. Just then, the tip of his tail flicked the top corner, and I saw it: September 30, 1998.

The only problem was, that day was September 29.

For a few seconds, I stared, thinking I was wrong, but Bob butted the corner insistently, and then I knew. Somehow, I had the news a day early.

Of course, my Slytherin mind immediately jumped to all of the incredibly charitable and benevolent means to which such information could be put. After all, it simply wouldn't be in good conscience to hold on to stocks if one knew they would plummet the next day, right?

Bob, however, had other ideas. Walking impudently onto the paper, he pointed one dainty, evilly clawed little paw at the Denison article, and I sighed. Denison really wasn't a bad chap – one of the few that managed to say my name without grating it out distastefully. If it meant I'd have something to hold over his head so he'd stop whistling that blasted song, I supposed I could maybe help him out or something.

Scanning the article, it seemed that his daughter had fallen out of a tree whilst playing near her house unsupervised. Well, now, that was stupid. Who lets a seven-year-old girl climb trees without a proper chaperon? Tempting to let the girl fall, just to teach her parents a lesson, but … no, Saint Bloody Potter can't be the only one walking around here with moral fibre. Besides, Denison had brought the girl in a few times. Sarah, she was called. Seemed like she might actually have a head on her shoulders, and Merlin knows that in this day and age, that's a rarity.

Sigh. Fine. She was scheduled to fall out of the tree in approximately twenty minutes. I could get there, save her tiny little silly girl backside, and be back before anyone knew I was gone. Except … my boss. Hmm.

“Sir Potter, sir, I'm taking my lunch now,” I called, hastily shoving the paper into an empty file folder in my desk drawer.

“But Draco, it's barely ten o'clock,” Potter answered from his office.

“Yes, right. Well, I'm hungry. Be back in a few,” I replied, and in a blink of an eye I had Apparated to Denison's house.

It was a good thing that every higher-level employee of the Ministry was required to memorize Apparition points near everyone else's abode, for emergency's sake. And it was another good thing that, as Saint Bloody Potter's assistant, I counted as higher-level. It would have seemed awfully odd to have to ask someone for the man's address when he was standing right there in the staff room. I landed somewhere in their back yard, not close enough to the house to be spotted, but just outside an old stone wall. Looking around, I saw Sarah wave at her mum and run off toward a gigantic oak tree some distance from the house.

Now all I had to do was figure out how to catch her when she fell, and not let anyone know it was me. Right.

I slunk around the wall toward the tree, feeling rather foolish and wishing that the news could have come the day before, when I was wearing a slightly less new pair of trousers. Really, the dirt! It would never come out properly.

As I neared the tree, which fortunately grew quite close to the old wall, I saw her inch out onto a dead branch. What do people teach their children these days? Hasn't anyone ever mentioned that this wasn't a smart idea? The branch began to break, and I was close enough to see her eyes grow wide with fear. She clung to the branch desperately, whimpering as it sagged lower and lower. I readied my wand, and just as the branch broke completely from the tree, I whispered a careful Wingardium Leviosa and floated her to the ground.

Well, that was my intent. Who knew seven-year-olds were quite so heavy? That was a spell meant only to lift slightly smaller things, like troll clubs and feathers. She floated for a moment or two, and then began sailing full-speed toward the earth.

Bollocks.

I jumped over the wall and tossed myself underneath her, only to be rewarded with several pointy bits landing squarely in my stomach.

“Ow,” she said.

“Ow, yourself,” I replied. I may also have used the word 'bollocks' again. Look, it really hurt, alright? Don't judge me until you've been landed on by a small girl who was more elbow than anything else.

“I know you – you work at Daddy's office,” she said, peering down at my face. How on earth she didn't have the wind knocked out of her, I don't know, but I certainly did, and all I could do for a moment was nod and breathe.

“Why are you here? Is Daddy in trouble?” she asked anxiously, rolling off of me onto the ground and dabbing a small cut on her knee with a trembling lip.

I sat up cautiously, taking a second or three to check myself for major organ damage and broken bones. Surprisingly, all was fine, but my poor robes would never be the same again. There was mud on them!

“No, sweetheart,” I said, tracing my wand over her scraped knees. “I just stopped by to … erm, to … double-check your wards. That's it. Auror Potter sent me to check your wards.”

“Oh!” she said, smiling and flexing her legs. “It's great that Mister Potter sent you here, or I might have fallen on the ground instead. He's a nice man!”

I sat there in disbelief as she scampered off toward her house. I'm the one sitting here in the dirt, with ruined trousers and a bruised spleen, and she thanked Potter? Unbelievable. Just for that, I decided a real break – in London, and charged to the Ministry, thank you very much – was in order. But first, a change of clothes.

I popped home to put on fresh trousers and change into my other set of robes, and then treated myself to a lovely brunch at Le Vin Rouge. A mimosa, I figured, was not entirely uncalled-for. But after an hour, I thought it was best to head back to office. Didn't dare to push my luck with Saint Bloody Potter.

I re-Apparated back to the office and sat down at my desk, intent on finishing the rest of this morning's interrupted paperwork, when he appeared beside my desk.

“Oh, good, Draco, you're back, I – did you change clothes?” Potter asked, looking down with a creased brow.

“Oh. Right. Yes. Erm, stupid waiter spilled tea on me at lunch. Trousers were soaked,” I mumbled.

“Right,” Potter said faintly, staring a bit oddly down at me. It wasn't until I waved my hand in front of his glassy green eyes that he came to himself again. “Right,” he repeated. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Do you know anything about this?”

He tossed an owled note onto my desk. I frowned at him. I mean, really, all his mail tends to come through me anyway, so it was odd that he got something personally, but I suppose I had been gone to lunch an abnormally long time. I read the note, written in large block letters:

“Deer Aurrer Potter: Thank you for inspekting our wards. I won't climb any more trees! You are my hero! Love, Sarah D.”

Was it wrong that I fumed just a little? There she was again, thanking Saint Bloody Potter for my good deed. Deeds, even! But I wouldn't stoop to his level, always bragging about all the good things he's done, all the people he's saved. Alright, maybe he doesn't brag quite that much. But he doesn't need to. Other people do it for him. No one bragged about me though, that was for bloody certain. Well. We'd see about that.

I handed the note back to him with disdain. “I'm quite sure I know nothing about it,” I sniffed.

“Alright, then, if you're sure,” Potter said perplexedly, and headed back to his office. He stuck his head back out the door, though, and said, “That's the first time I've seen you take a lunch break before, Draco. You should do it more often. You don't have to be glued to your desk, you know – should ease up a bit”

I scowled again, and when his door had closed, I pulled the morning paper out of its file and flipped to the back. Ease up? I could do that. And by that afternoon, I had not only managed to procure a case of excellent wine that was slated to be released the next day, but I got it at half price. I smiled. This paper thing could really come in handy.

The following morning at work, I arrived even earlier than usual. I had to admit, I was curious to see if the paper would show up a day ahead of time again. While most of the wine went into my cellar, I had indulged in a glass the night before, and it was truly extraordinary.

Sure enough, about fifteen minutes later, the morning mail was delivered. I bent down to pick up the day's Prophet, noticing out of the corner of my eye that Bob had appeared on my desk.

“Well, Bob, let's see what deals we can find today,” I said heartily. Bob mrrowed a quiet response and bent his head, licking his paw.

I spread the paper open on my desk and glanced eagerly at the date. October 1. Brilliant! No major catastrophes, but sadly, no real wallet-engorging information, either. I stared forlornly at Bob. “Come on, cat. Surely there must be something in here worthy of my attention, hmm? Stocks, bonds, the society page?”

Bob merely stared serenely back at me, then strode across the paper to sit down in the center of the For Sale section. The tip of his tail whipped back and forth across one small square.

“Alright, alright, if you'd just move your ruddy tail, I could read it, you know,” I said under my breath. Seriously, if Saint Bloody Potter ever caught me talking to a domesticated animal, I would never live it down.

I squinted and read the small print:

“For Sale: The Three Broomsticks, pub in Hogsmeade. Only serious offers will be considered. Please contact Madam Rosmerta Rosewood via owl.”

Well. That wasn't expected, was it?

Bob preened himself and looked down his long orange nose at me imperiously. I glared back at him. “I know what you're thinking, and don't you say a word.”

Bob smiled - smiled, I tell you – and hopped into my lap without a sound, curling up for a nap.

I sat back in my chair, exhaling. No one really blamed Madam Rosmerta anymore for her part in my … erm, schoolboy shenanigans, anymore, certainly not after almost losing an arm in the Battle. But her business must have taken a nosedive afterwards. I blushed, looking around to make sure Saint Bloody Potter wasn't watching me. It wasn't that I felt guilty for it, I just … felt … alright. I felt guilty. I felt guilty, alright? So sue me.

Making sure no one was watching, I quickly jotted a few lines on a small piece of parchment:

“To Whom It May Concern:

I, Draco Malfoy, do hereby release to one Madam Rosmerta Rosewood the sum of 2000 Galleons, for the sole purpose of keeping and maintaining the Three Broomsticks pub in Hogsmeade. Whatever funds are not necessary for said purpose shall be returned to me forthwith. The funds are to be sent anonymously. This transaction is legal and binding, allowed by the Ministry under the supervision of Harry Potter, who has allowed me full and total access to my vaults.”

I summoned an owl and watched it fly out of the nearest window with my missive strapped to its leg. As soon as it was gone, I dropped my head into my hands. Two thousand Galleons was a lot of money – not that it would missed much. The family estates and vaults sometimes lost that much just in the cracks. Still, though, if it weren't for Saint Bloody Potter, I wouldn't have been allowed to touch them, let alone manage them, and oh, how it burned.

Bob butted his head against mine and purred.

“Oh, sod off, you,” I muttered half-heartedly.

“Are you talking to me, Draco?” Potter asked.

I jumped a mile. “Erm, what?” I squeaked – I mean, I asked in a manly fashion.

“Did you just tell me to sod off?” He had a strange half-smile on his face, his lips curled up on the right side.

“Not at all, sir. You must be hearing things again. Now if you will excuse me, I am very busy and important,” I replied, shuffling papers around in an attempt to appear industrious.

“Of course,” he said softly, and a second later, he had turned and walked away.

Bugger.

Later that evening, I went to the opera, having found out ahead of time that the soprano's stand-in had been stunning in her debut. One can't always be a do-gooder.

The rest of the week passed by uneventfully, to be perfectly honest with you. Bob came in every morning and sat on my paper, which I hid until I could read it in peace. Busy week for paperwork, really. But there weren't any major announcements. No deaths, no old debts to repay, no serious drama. A few Aurors were to have been penalized for shoddy paperwork, which I managed to fix with a few well-timed inter-office owls From the Desk of Harry Potter, and I rewarded myself with a very pleasant conversation with my stockbroker.

No papers on the weekend, thank goodness. And no Bob, which meant no cat hair littering my trousers. Thank Merlin for small favors.

The following Monday, I arrived to work on time. Which, of course, was to say that for me, I was quite late.

The paper was already there, and Bob stalked and stomped around it, meowing angrily.

“Alright, alright, you little fiend,” I hissed at him. “I can't read it unless you let me pick it up.”

Bob jumped up onto my desk, pacing until I had spread the paper out before us.

“Look, I don't know what your game is, cat, but if whatever news happened today is going to cost me another few thousand Galleons, I'd just as soon give the paper back,” I said, pointedly staring the cat in its brown eyes.

Bob promptly turned and showed me his better side before walking around to the front page. Folding himself up, he stabbed one paw at the bold headline:

“Molly Weasley, Battle of Hogwarts Heroine, Dies in Freak Kitchen Accident”

Bollocks. Bollocks and bloody bollocks. Why did it have to be a Weasley?

I'd never cared for them, honestly. And why should I, really? The Weasel had always made life difficult for me, and the Weaselette – well, she had never really done anything so much as she was just there all the time, glowering and hovering around Saint Bloody Potter. I never got to know the rest of them, though. Too many pups in the litter to keep track of. Still, after learning how Mummy Weasley had offed cousin Bella in the Battle … I shuddered. Somehow, if that one ever found out I had a chance to prevent her death, she'd probably come back to haunt me. Probably would even make me wear horrid sweaters. The horror!

Bob paced back and forth anxiously, mrrowing all the while.

“I'm starting to really dislike you, cat,” I hissed, and read the article. According to the Prophet, Mrs. Weasley had been cooking up a right storm for her new daughter-in-law's birthday, when an errant old cauldron had exploded in the kitchen, knocking her unconscious and burning her severely. The family had come home ready for Fleur's feast only to find her gasping her last breaths on the kitchen floor. The main photo by the article showed a dazed Potter comforting his ginger-haired friends.

“Well, if that isn't perfect,” I muttered. “Always about Potter, when he's not even a proper member of the family! And seriously, Bob, did the man stop to fix his hair before the press showed up? How is anyone supposed to think he's grieving when he looks that dashing?”

Just then, the devil himself strode by my desk, barely giving me enough warning to hide the paper underneath a stack of missives from the next office down.

“Hey, Draco, just so you know, I was thinking of taking off a bit early today. Need to head over to the Burrow and help Molly with the preparations for Fleur's birthday dinner tonight. Is that alright, or do you have anything important for me?” Potter asked.

I looked up at him in surprise. If Potter were headed over there already, maybe he would be there when the accident happened, and I wouldn't have to lift a finger. That was a promising notion.

“That's perfectly acceptable, sir,” I said, sneaking the folder with the large red “Urgent” label underneath the other important papers on my desk. “Nothing that can't wait until tomorrow. Perhaps you should take the day off?”

Potter looked at me strangely. “Are you feeling alright, Draco?”

“Certainly, sir,” I said calmly. “It's just that you look a bit peaky. Could do with some home cooking and fresh air, I'd think.”

Potter paled and looked down at the floor. “Oh. Oh – erm, yeah, maybe,” he said in an odd voice. “Thanks, Draco. Why don't you have the rest of the day off too then, yeah?”

I smiled. “That would be most pleasant, sir. Have a good afternoon, and enjoy your party.”

Potter stared at me funnily, and shaking his head, he turned and left the office.

I sat back. Now that was a job well done, I thought. Saint Bloody Potter would head over to the Burrow now instead of in a few hours, and he'd be there when the cauldron exploded, and … oh. Well. He'd be brilliant enough, as always, to save the day, right? I mean, there was no chance that the cauldron could explode on him instead, right? Right? Hmm.

Bob cocked his head at me, and I swear he winked.

Growling in frustration, I grabbed my cloak and double-checked the Apparition coordinates for the Burrow. Potter might have headed over now, but I would just pop by in a few hours, just to make sure that the bloody cauldron didn't give him another stupid, pretentious scar, or worse, take off his head. Could you imagine the headlines then? “Potter: Killed By Pottery”? “Saviour Slammed By Saucepan”? My stomach lurched at the thought. Surely it was acceptable to save one's boss and erstwhile foe simply so the world could avoid such horrible journalism, yes?

My own ability to create horrific headlinery got me a bit overwraught, to be frank, and I thought it was best to treat myself to lunch – a light lunch – before I went about saving more people. Really, it was amazing that Saint Bloody Potter remained as fit and trim as he did – this saving people business made me completely ravenous.

A quick scan through the paper showed that there was a new bistro nearby with good reviews. That would be more than sufficient. And perhaps a mimosa. On the Ministry, of course.

I arrived at the Burrow around noon. Sure enough, Potter was already there; from my vantage point in the garden, he and Mummy W were enjoying a cuppa whilst a bevy of knives chopped and diced in the kitchen. Well, if that was the way things were done around here, it was nothing short of a miracle that the Weasley brood still had all its fingers and toes. I settled in to watch, my eyes glued to the cauldron hissing and spitting in the corner.

Sure enough, it began bubbling over, but Mother Weasley was too busy mothering Potter to notice. The two were standing next to each other in the kitchen, laughing about something, when the cauldron began glowing a dangerous shade of red I had only ever witnessed before in Potions class with Longbottom. A second later, it cracked loudly, steam pouring out of it.

“Shite,” I whispered, and aimed my wand.

“Petrificus Totalis!” I said, and Mother Weasley fell stiffy to the floor behind the kitchen table. My Stunner sent Potter down on top of her just in the nick of time, as the cauldron exploded, showering the entire area with molten pewter and burnt stew. The table took the brunt of the mess – of course, that had been my plan all along – and a quick Banishing spell eliminated what few fragments landed close enough to them to be dangerous.

I couldn't help but smile. That had worked out rather more nicely than expected, if you ask me, and no dirt on my robes this time, either.

Potter launched himself off the older woman with a grunt, asking if she was alright.

“Oh – oh, Harry,, you saved my life! You – you threw yourself on top of me, and protected me from that cauldron. Why, you could have been hurt – you could have been killed,” she cried.

It really shouldn't surprise me. Of course. Saint Bloody Effing Potter to the rescue again. Seriously, all the bloke did was fall down – because I Stunned him unawares, to boot! - and he gets accoladed. Maybe tomorrow he'd sneeze and win a medal.

With a stifled curse, I turned about and Apparated home. Mondays. They get me every time.

I was frightfully early the next morning for work, trying to figure out a way to catch up a bit on some of the paperwork that had gotten shoved aside yesterday without Saint Bloody Potter being made aware. No Bob or paper, which was rather odd, but at least it gave me some peace and quiet to get to work. Fortunately, Potter was a bit late himself. Probably still recuperating from yet another near-death experience, I grumbled when he finally appeared.

“Morning, Draco,” he mumbled wearily as he walked by me toward his office.

“Good morning, sir. And how was your party?” I asked nonchalantly.

He stopped and looked at me quizzically. “Oh. The party, right. It was … nice, I think. Erm, thanks for asking.”

“Your mail, sir,” I said, handing him a stack of assorted papers.

“Draco, for the last time,” he sighed, taking the stack.

“You'd better get started, sir,” I said, nodding at the papers. “Some of those are rather important, I expect.”

He groaned and stalked into his office, followed shortly thereafter by a floating urn of coffee.

An hour later, he reappeared, holding a few pieces of opened mail. “Erm, Draco, do you know anything about these?”

I looked. In his hand he had a stack of thank-you notes. “Why, no, sir – more adoration, I presume?”

“Oh, shut it,” he said quietly, blushing a bit. “No, these are – they seem like thank-you notes, but the problem is, I don't know what for. I mean, look – here's one from Auror Dobson down the hall, thanking me for giving him another chance. But at what? I haven't spoken to the man in months. Same thing here, from that new Auror, Wells, and I've never even met her! And what on earth is Madam Rosmerta going on about – something about vaults and anonymous donations in my honor? I have no idea what any of this is. Come on, Draco, you've got to know.”

“No, sir, I don't 'got' to know anything,” I snorted, and returned my attention to my very important work.

I heard a muffled groan as he stomped back into his office, and I smiled to myself. Oh, but it was so nice seeing him so worked up. The color in his cheeks was quite nice.

However, no sooner had he slammed the door but an owl came whizzing into my office with today's tomorrow's Prophet, Bob slinking in behind it.

“Ah hah!” I said triumphantly at Bob, as though his lateness had also been a victory. “And just where have you been this morning? Catch a tasty mouse, find a lovely lady cat, hmm?”

Bob merely looked at me with an almost mournful expression, then looked down at the paper. The headline was so big, I could read it from my desk.

“Boy Who Lived, Man Who Died: Rogue Bludger Kills Harry Potter”

Oh. Oh.

I sat staring at the paper. Bob butted my forehead, purring gently, then sat down, leaning up against my arm. Well, this was an entirely different matter, wasn't it?

I mean, this whole saving people thing – that's his job, not mine. I've done a fairly brilliant job at it so far, mind you, but I don't think I'm cut out to make a career of it. Too much … dirt. If he wants to run around with that naughty-looking bedhead hair and muss his trousers and rescue the huddling masses, that was quite his business. Me, I've had enough. And besides, if he weren't around, who knows where the Ministry would stow me? When it came right down to it, he wasn't a horrible boss. I suppose it could be worse. Marginally. I could have to stare at Rufus Scrimgeour every day. I shuddered. No, Saint Bloody Effing Potter was just going to have to live, thank you kindly.

I looked down at Bob, who mrrowed up at me softly, rubbing his little feline head on my arm. “Alright, alright,” I said. “But no more. No more, do you hear me? I'm done. Finished. Officially and legitimately retired!”

Bob curled up at my elbow and began licking his tail.

I sighed. Small assurance, that, but it would have to be good enough.

“Draco?” Potter's voice called from his office behind me. “Do you have a minute?”

“Yes, sir,” I smirked, mentally envisioning his practically patented eye roll.

I stood up and walked around the corner. “What can I do for you, sir?” I asked.

Sure enough, he rolled his eyes and sighed softly, fidgeting. “Draco, I was wondering – well, I have two seats in the Ministry's private box for tonight's Quidditch game. Cannons against the Harpies. I thought maybe you'd want to come with me?” he said in a rush.

Me? My eyebrows may have disappeared into my hairline.

“Me?” I asked.

“Yeah. I mean, erm, well, it's just that Ginny's playing, and Hermione hates Quidditch, as you probably remember, and I haven't seen much of Ron lately, and forget it, I shouldn't have asked. I'm sure you're busy, you must have a life outside the office, and ...” he babbled.

“Yes,” I said. I did love a good Quidditch game, and besides, I hadn't had the foggiest idea as to how I'd get close enough to The Great One to save his slim, toned arse at the match. How nice of Potter to provide me with the perfect opportunity. Of course, that was the only reason I was saying yes. I'd never say yes otherwise. Certainly not.

“I mean, you probably have plans already, and … wait, what did you say?” he asked.

“I said yes, sir,” I answered.

“Great! So, how about we leave from here after work? Can find some half-decent chips or curry at the game for dinner, I think,” he said, smiling.

“Perfect,” I said, and returned to my desk. Excellent. Now, to figure out exactly when said rogue bludger was expected to make its appearance …

By six o'clock that evening, Potter and I were safely ensconced in the Ministry's private box, a plethora of unhealthy food and ale on the tables in front of us.

“Cheers, Draco. Thanks for coming with me,” Potter said almost shyly, and raised his glass toward me. I nodded and swigged some of the lukewarm ale in his general direction, eyes by habit already looking for the Snitch.

According to the paper, the Bludger had veered drastically off course about an hour into the game, catching Potter at a ridiculously fast speed directly in the temple, killing him instantly. Immediately beforehand, the Harpies had scored three different times, two by the Weaselette. Right. So, all I needed to do was wait for that to happen, then dramatically shove Potter out of the way, thus ensuring both his survival and a life debt to me. Not bad for a day's work, really. I smiled, nursing my ale.

The hour passed by remarkably quickly – the Harpies were spot on this season, and the Cannons were – well, they were the Cannons, as usual. Potter and I got quite a few good laughs out of their horrifically shoddy performance, assisted of course by both the youngest Weasel's remarkable skill and the two or three ales we each had. I had almost forgotten why I was there when Potter exclaimed, “Look! That's two for Ginny! And here she goes again – no, it's Tomlinson -”

Bollocks.

Sitting up, I pretended to stare at the Weaselette, but instead began a frantic search for the Bludger. There was one, way off on the other side of the pitch. Where was the other? “Come on, Draco,” I encouraged myself.

“Hmm? What was that?” Potter said, turning toward me. “Oh – Oh Merlin, Draco, duck!”

And a second later, I found myself flat on my back, a wild-eyed, panting Potter on top of me.

“Holy shite,” he said, staring at me. “Where the bloody hell did that Bludger come from? It was heading right for you!”

Bloody, bloody hell indeed.

Now, forgive me if I'm wrong, but in that instant, I was a little perturbed. No, A Lot Perturbed. I'd spent the better part of two weeks rushing around, saving people I didn't even know, let alone like, only to have Saint Bloody Potter thanked each and every time. I had my chance here to save the Saviour, and what happened? He saved me instead! I just couldn't win, could I?

“Merlin, Draco, I don't know what I would have done if it had hit you,” the man in question babbled from on top of me. “That would have done some real damage. You could have died!”

If only he knew!

I struggled to get up. Alright, I struggled half-heartedly. A little. And as I did, I realized that Potter wasn't really making any attempt to get off of me. In fact, he was sort of ...
staring, intently, into my eyes. And … was he stroking my hair?

“Draco, I – oh, bollocks,” he said. “You have to know how much I fancy you, don't you?”

“E-excuse me?” I managed to stammer.

“I – I said I fancy you, Draco,” he said, eyes downcast and a rather attractive little blush spreading across his cheeks.

“No, you don't,” I said automatically, registering a scant second later that that was most definitely not Potter's wand digging into my hip.

“Erm, yes, actually, I do,” he said, looking back up at me with those bright green eyes. “I have for a while, actually. Hard to admit at first, but there you have it.”

“Well, that's … interesting,” I gasped. I knew he had been acting odd at the office, but Potter had always been odd. Never would have pinned an infatuation for the cause, though, not that it didn't make perfect sense. Who wouldn't fancy me? And I guess he wasn't a horrid-looking sort. Might clean up nicely, anyway, if he had someone like me to help him along. It'd be hard work, but I could be talked into the challenge.

“Yeah, interesting, I guess. Can't be helped, though,” he said.

Merlin, did I have to do everything around here?

“I can think of something that would help, Potter,” I answered.

He really did have a lovely smile, actually. And as he grabbed my arm to Disapparate us home, I swear I saw that bloody cat wink at me from under the table.

The End.

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