New Years Day
New years eve: 11:55 pm;Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Ministry of Magic, London, England.
Potter fell back on his chair with a heavy thud, exhaling loudly. Then, for no other reason than because he was an absolute knob, he said “Malfoy, you fucking twat,”
Draco was much too exhausted to come up with an appropriate repartee. On principle, however, he shot Potter a scathing look.
Potter scowled back. What a toad.
Head Auror Robards sighed heavily in the background, “will you two give it a rest? You’ve just uncovered an illegal cartel — an illegal troll cartel — go out and celebrate, for fucks sake.”
“I’d rather die, I think,” Potter said, exhausted.
Draco sat down gingerly on his own chair, wincing slightly. Then, he glared at Potter.
“Potter.”
“What.”
“I broke a rib.”
“Tragic.”
“I broke a rib — covering for your sorry arse on the field,”
“Did I stutter, Malfoy,”
Draco leaned back in his chair, “Just thought I should give you a heads up — fair play and all that,” and before Potter had the time to fully form that confused, illiterate expression of his, Draco shot an instant scalping hex at him.
Draco watched with satisfaction as all of Potter’s fur-like hair — or perhaps hair-like fur was the more accurate description — fell off his body.
“I’m going to kill you, Malfoy,” Potter said — too exhausted to properly react to what Draco had just done.
Draco turned to Robards, “did you hear that? That was a confession — we can legally incarcerate him for attempted murder now,”
Robards rubbed his eyes, “have you forgotten this morning when you promised to, and I quote, ‘conduct an impromptu lobotomy’ on Potter using your self-inking quill,”
Draco massaged his aching shoulder. “Potter doesn’t possess any cognitive abilities anyhow, so the lobotomy wouldn’t have made much difference—”
Draco felt his toenails begin to grow rapidly. He grit his teeth and kicked off his boots — lest his growing nails ruin them.
“Hexing an unsuspecting opponent — what a spineless worm you are, Potter,” Draco sneered.
Potter cocked a non-existent eyebrow, “have you forgotten your Hogwarts days, Malfoy?”
“All I can remember from Hogwarts is your sanctimonious arse skipping through the hallway holding hands with Granger and Weasel,”
“All I can remember from Hogwarts is you inflicting childhood trauma on everyone around you.”
“Oh I remember that too — I ate the ones who cried.”
“That explains the smell of your breath, then,”
Draco turned to Robards, “can we arrest him for looking like a turd?”
Robards looked up from his paper-work, “No, Malfoy,”
“Oh come on, his appearance is the definition of Public Indecency—”
“Robards.” Potter spoke up, suddenly.
“Yes, Potter.” Robards sighed.
“Can we arrest Malfoy for being an arsehole?”
Draco stared at Potter for a while. And then, he burst out laughing.
“Awwweeee, widdle Potty — did I huwt your feewings?”
“Robards.”
“What, Potter.”
“Can I kill Malfoy.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
Draco wiped his eyes, “I’m sorry for hurting your delicate maiden feelings Potter,”
“Shut the fuck up, Malfoy — no you’re not.” Potter rolled his eyes.
“No I’m not.” Draco agreed.
“Will the both of you shut up,” Robards groaned.
And so they shut up. For approximately forty seconds. Then, Potter said:
“You’re a fucking twat, Malfoy.”
Robards pinched the bridge of his nose. Draco gave him a look of pity — I know, Potter’s an infuriating twit.
“No Potter — I’m fucking twats — there’s a difference,” Draco drawled, “not that you’d know,”
“Congratulations Malfoy — you’re twelve years old,”
Draco refused to wince. “Not my best comeback, I’ll admit.”
“All your comebacks are shit,” Potter said, crossing his arms.
“Robards,”
“What. What do you want, Malfoy.”
“Who has better comebacks — Potter or I?”
Robards didn’t reply.
“Robards,” Potter said, surprised, “I didn’t know you practiced breathing exercises,”
Merlin, what a fucking idiot.
And then, Robards opened his mouth, “Potter, Malfoy — as your boss, I command you to hug each other when the clock strikes midnight.”
“What have I ever done to you, Robards,” Draco asked, feeling extraordinarily betrayed.
Potter spluttered like a buffoon.
“It’s a command.” Robards repeated.
And then, of course, the clock struck midnight.
Draco refused to move, but Potter, the fucking idiot, got up from his chair.
“Don’t you dare, you insufferable pig—”
Potter glared at Draco and yanked him out of his chair.
“—there’s no way I’m hugging you—”
And then, Potter slapped Draco. Draco blinked, and after a moment, slapped him back.
And then, Potter enveloped Draco in a bone-crushing hug. Draco refused to wheeze and hugged Potter back with all his strength.
And that is the story of how Robards had to floo both Draco and Potter to St. Mungo’s for exacerbated internal bleeding.
“Happy new year, Robards,”
“Happy new year, Potter,”
“Happy new year, Robards,”
“Yes, happy new year to you too, Malfoy,”
“Malfoy,”
“What, you toad,”
“I hope you have the fucking worst year of your fucking life,”
“Wow, you spiteful bitch — I, for one, hope you achieve all that you’ve ever wished for this year—”
“Huh?”
“—and then I hope you lose it all, in the most excruciating way possible,”
“Yeah, that makes more sense. Hey, Malfoy,”
“What.”
“Fuck you.”
“Only in your dreams.”
“I think you mean nightmares,”
Robards sighed in frustration. “You’ve both been assigned to weekend duty for the next six months as punishment, by the way,”
“Great — thanks for that, Potter,”
“Oh anytime, Malfoy.”