HD 'It's An Ill Wind…" Part 2

At that same office doorway, the other Aurors murmured and jostled behind the first row of rapt audience members, a few of them smiling with shared pleasure at what seemed the culminating act of a fine Shawsian farce being played out before them, a certain few others frowning for one reason or another—Harry noted those for future observation—but all understandably quite wound up by the sight of their ex-Head Auror in a body-bind and the Aurors Malfoy and Potter in what, sure as shite, was an unmistakably fond embrace, and then going on to shake hands and make nice with a smiling Minister.

The word 'marriage' being bandied about only fomented the growing tumult. Behind them loomed a yet larger group—the younger ones, shuffling for place, most still unenlightened as the details of the drama currently playing itself out in their Head's office, but vastly curious. A few Admin personnel orbited erratically, trailing after gossip like bloodhounds on caffeine.

"Gentlemen," Kingsley swiveled on a booted heel and stared the front line down till they were deathly quiet, "and ladies of the Auror department."

His imposing height and carrying voice were a definite advantage in crowd management. He took a breath, preparing for an ex tempore speech.

"As I'm certain you're aware, the Ministry has been reviewing the inner workings of each department carefully in an effort to affect positive change, moving forward. It has come to our attention—and this unfortunate incident merely supports our decision—that Head Auror Robards here is eligible for a well-earned retirement. Effective immediately."

The noise of many voices returned, swelling to a raucous crescendo. Gawain Robards might've been a fine Auror once upon a time, but nearly unlimited power under Scrimgour had had an unfortunate cumulative effect. Not one of the Aurors gathered, to a man or a woman, was particularly sorry to see him go. That revelation, however, was immediately overshadowed by immediate speculation on who was to replace him. This department, of all of them, simply could not run without a Head in place.

Kingsley, ever aware of the efficacy of the iron, struck whilst it was red-hot.

"You'll no doubt join me in congratulating young Mr. Harry Potter here, in his new position as Head Auror," and the other men and women cheered wildly at that, for Harry was always an odds-on favorite, as well as a recognized National Treasure, "and—and," the Minister repeated, till all eyes were back on him once again and there was quiet, "his just-now acknowledged partner in both work and daily life, Mr. Draco Malfoy—a quite talented Auror himself."

The cheers and 'Huzzahs!" repeated, loud enough to drown out any residual grumbles, and Aurors poured into the office of ex-Head Robards like ants on honey, chattering a mile a minute and guffawing uproariously at various randy jokes and insinuations, handily slapping both young men on their backs and other available bits. Harry winked inconspicuously at Draco in the commotion, and cleared his throat in an official manner after a moment of hubbub.

"Ah-hem! My sincere thanks, Minister, and to all the rest of you lot, too, for the honour. I look forward to working closely with you all, ladies and gentlemen of our fine Auror department—in one month's time, as Draco and I have yet to have our honeymoon."

Gasps were heard, as those in the farther reaches clued in on that undying whisper of marriage and reacted—again, mostly favourably, as Harry could be trusted, even if Draco was not.

"Mr. Weasley! Ronald Weasley!" Harry called out, over the latest round of noise, catching a glimpse of the bright ginger head of his best mate bobbing far back in the madding crowd.

"If you'll just step into my brand new office, Ron?" Harry invited. The Minister turned a tiny chuckle into a cough and the nearest Aurors stifled their chortling and catcalls behind hands, mindful of him still lingering amongst their close-knit group.

"Due for a thorough turn out, I'd say," Draco muttered, casting a dissatisfied glare round at the dust and old honours decorating the walls. "It's disgusting in here, Potter—the stairwell would've been miles better."

"Ponce," Harry sent him a glance, but he nodded discreetly, nonetheless. He agreed—it was filthy—and the Ministry elves had likely felt Robards was a nutter, too, and had given him wide berth.

With a little scuffling and shoving and some delay, Ron managed to find his way forward through the muttering, chattering crowd. He eased across the doorsill, instantly taking up a guard-point position at Robards' left side, and motioned Seamus Finnegan—his assigned partner—to fall in smartly to the right.

Ron gulped, and swallowed hard, confronted finally by the newest—youngest ever, naturally--Head Auror, and his excited flush heightened even further, an attractive clash with his hair.

"Harr—Mister Potter, sir, R-Ronald Weasley, at your service," he managed finally, after opening and shutting his mouth a few times in vain attempts to come up with something appropriate to say to one's best friend, and now one's Boss. He managed, but still stuttered just a wee bit from not-terribly-well stifled excitement and what with keeping his face even mildly bland, as was professional.

This clearly required enormous effort; Ron's voice squeaked and the grin that insisted on blooming nearly overwhelmed his freckles, even so.

"And it's a right pleasure for us all to see this at last, Harry—sir, if you don't mind my saying so. No more than you deserve, Har—Chief."

"Huzzah! Huzzah!" roared the Aurors, in agreement. "Pot-ter! Pot-ter! Pot-ter!" they chanted, raising yet another fuss.

Ron used Sonorous, too, simply to be heard. Seamus, choosing mime over shouting, sketched a merry little bow, complete with a few lewd hand gestures for Malfoy's sake, but he kept his trap shut even as the crowd quieted, as a mid-level Auror should do in the presence of his brand new Head.

"'Harry', Ron," the ginger-topped Auror was advised firmly, as Harry stuck his hand out for an official greeting. "Just plain old 'Harry', just as always. The more things change, mate, the more things stay the same, right?"

"Er—r-right. Yeah…yes!" a startled Ron replied, looking very pleased by this development indeed. Nodding happily at Harry, he still cast a suspicious eye in Draco's direction. His Hogwarts-era tormenter instantly curled a mocking lip at Ron and held his now formally acknowledged spouse even more firmly, visibly staking his claim.

"And whose idea was this one?" Harry's best mate went on to inquire in a very discreet undertone, low enough that the Minster and the crowd of his co-workers couldn't possibly overhear.

"Yours, you wanker?" He glared at Malfoy, who merely shook his blond head in response, nodding over at his partner.

"Not me," Draco murmured. "All Potty's fault, this. As usual."

"Oh, come on, Malfoy!" Ron took offense at that. "I know how you do like to make a show, you twat!" Ron went on, suspicion ripe in his taunt. "You've got to have had a hand in this somehow! I can't believe Harry just offered up his arse in Robards' office of his own free will!"

"Ron!" Harry was patently shocked, though his green eyes glinted slyly.

"Truly, Weasel, this was all Harry's idea," Draco retorted, now openly grinning at the discomfited redhead. "Always Harry, you know, in these situations—I just get dragged along on his coattails."

Draco folded his lips primly and looked terribly innocent, blinking at Harry's best friend in the spirit of a young Dickensian hero, falsely accused of stealing loaves in the market.

"Truly, I never did nothin' to nobody, I swear, Mr. Auror Weasley—not that I didn't instantly agree to from the start," he smirked, at the very end, ruining his angelic mask.

Ron huffed and shot Harry a telling look, one that clearly said 'Didn't I say he was trouble?'

And Harry sent Draco a lightning glance that practically sizzled, and spoke of a million things, not one of them meant for public consumption, and then began to laugh aloud in a way he almost never did in the office, not in these last grim months, what with Robards always sneaking about, spying on him. Ron's eyes widened at it, even as Harry turned back to him, still snorting a bit, a wicked, wicked light in his remarkably green eyes.

"Ron—Mister Weasley," Harry touched his throat and got on with business, in his new 'official voice', "it is my quite honest pleasure to offer you the appointment as Pro Tem Head in my very shortly-to-begin absence—starting this afternoon, that is," a whole gang of Hogwarts graduates began to snicker loudly near the back of the crowd, possibly at the implications of Harry Potter tackling with vigour the problem of seriously delayed honeymoon, "and under the guidance of Senior Aurors Proudfoot and Williamson. Subject to the Minister's approval, of course."

Here Harry looked to Kingsley, who simply nodded and glinted his teeth even more whitely, visibly enjoying the much brightened atmosphere in the Department. The cloud of Robards' incipient madness was already well on its way to dissipating.

"I can't think of anyone who'd be better at it, Ron," Harry went on. 'Would you do me the favour?"

"Well—well—well—yeah!"

Ron clearly hadn't expected to be catapulted abruptly into power, at least not this particular afternoon, but it didn't stop his teeth from splitting his face nearly in half in a dazzling, contagious smile, one he absolutely couldn't control this time. On the other side of the struck-still Robards, Seamus Finnegan was practically clogging in place with vicarious glee.

"That's—that's bloody stunning, Harry—I mean, really," Ron blushed his pleasure, and went pale with stern seriousness the second after. "Of course you can count on me! I mean, yes! Yes, I'd be glad to—jeez, yes, thanks, Harry—that'd be bloody brilliant! Wait till Hermione hears!"

The room and its surrounds erupted in utter Bedlam at that, what with people overwhelmed by the rapidity of events, and more than glad to see them, and some variously aghast or delighted that their Harry Potter had permanently hooked up with that Draco Malfoy and then going on to express all this excitement physically, cuffing and 'high-fiving' Ron, Harry and Draco in the indiscriminate way people who've worked together long and closely in very dangerous situations had. Seamus and two other mid-levels meanwhile unobtrusively whisked Robards away to a guarded ward at St. Mungo's at the Minister's whispered command, and the threesome who remained in the Minister and madman-free Head Auror's office set themselves to the task of calming their fellows and easing the Department back on proper track.

*

In the emergency stairwell, Harry grunted, the back of his head rapping the concrete with a thump. Thank Merlin for hair and Draco's Cushioning charms, he thought briefly. It was two hours later; he'd missed lunch completely, and Draco had finally threatened to commit mayhem on Harry's arse if he didn't get some pash right this very moment.

"Shite, Draco! Can't you fucking well wait w-wait till w-we get home, damn it? It's only an hour or so more! Ah!"

"No bloody fucking way, Harry," Draco snapped back, pulling off for a quick moment. "We're two fucking hours past schedule now and I'm ready to AK for a simple packet of crisps just to tide me over—if you think I'm going to sit on my ruddy thumbs waiting about a moment longer foryou and that shaggable little arse of yours, you have got to be entirely gaga, Scarhead! Now shut your fucking trap and come for me!"

"Gah! Dra—ngh—gods! You are such an arse, Draco Malfoy, such a bloody, randy, pompous, selfish ar—oooh!"

His partner only pressed Harry's prostate all the harder, rendering him incapable of doing much more than gurgling.

"And I know you, don't forget," he carried on, unfazed by Harry's desperate lunges against his well-lubed fingers or the rock-hard prick he had just barely between tongue and lip. "We're not setting foot back in that Salazar-be-damned office till I've had my fill of you, Harry Potter—promise me that!"

He sucked—and stroked—hard enough in between words to induce Harry to be agreeable with most anything Malfoy might suggest at all—decamping to the moon, perhaps, or rearranging the bloody stars—provided he, in turn, promised not to stop, ever.

"N-No? Yes—all right, then! Whatever!" Harry gabbled, "Anything, anything—just don't—don't!"

But Draco knew what Harry really meant. He always knew what Harry meant. Came with the territory—which was all his, thanks ever so much. No one else's, ever.

"Of course not, Harry—got you till the day I die, don't I?" Draco was visibly pleased by this. "Think I'm ever giving that up?"

"Ah—no, Draco," Harry gasped, "No! Never! Me, n-neither!" and stopped breathing again when his much-abused thighs were jerked open and his bum was wedged firm against the cold concrete block. He'd have this fucking stairwell repainted first thing, Harry decided, taking advantage of the brief break to breathe and to plan—and then promptly forgot all about that when Draco nibbled on his bloated foreskin.

"You bet your bloody life, Harry," Draco growled, tweaking, and pulling, and jerking Harry's arse up higher yet till the honeycomb texture of the concrete had to be leaving marks all down Harry's back.

"You're all mine, and you know it!" he stated firmly, and inserted one finger again—then two; three and trousers were trailing off at the ankles, unheeded, and Harry was still stretched from the marathon shag in their bath that morning, and damp, humid air hung heavy all about them just from snogging and it was slippery between the two of them and hard—

Blunt—Draco hadn't been lying, no—and so achingly tight despite stretching Harry winced away quick tears of pain, and Draco as well, and then—

"Yes, Draco—gods! Yes, Draco!" and it was all ankles and knees propped over shoulders at the very last minute: "Upsy-daisy, there, Harry! Give it up for me, love."

There you are, then! Harry panting. Draco purring. Easy as pie. A piece of cake. Harry moaning. Draco pressing his damp, flushed face into Harry's throat as if it were his touchstone. Shooting fish in a fucking barrel, mate. Harry muttering 'love' and 'want'; Draco pumping harder, harder.

A sure thing. Could bet on it.

"Fuck!" one of them moaned. The other bit him.

Draco was all done in, and Harry home safe.

Finite