I'm breaking my vow not to start posting a piece before finishing...because my computer died, the hard drive (and 3 BIG finished pieces) could be gone forever, and I need some serious cheering up to even continue on. With luck, the store will have good news and there will be a shiny new story out soon, but...just please cross your fingers for me?

A note on slash: I do love men...but more importantly, I love myself. Therefore, I can never condone unfair bashing of my fair sex in a M/M story. Every man is not gay. Women are not a sorry, conniving race of vain, cruel, heartless beasts...even in high school. Figure out a legitimate breakup excuse, people.

The Gringotts Affair

o0|0o

It was early June, nearly in the hundreds, humid as hell, and Bill Weasley was savoring every hair-curling moment of it. Compared to Egypt's sometimes deadly East Bank, Diagon Alley was a lovely, cool oasis, complete with ice cream parlors. There was not a speck of sand outside of an hourglass anywhere, and the shopping district had a strict policy against rampaging hippopotamuses.

Charlie would fight him to the death on this, but the eldest son of the Weasleys of Ottery St. Catchpole would rather be in close quarters with a dragon after his skin any day of the week if it kept him safely away from a sedately bathing hippo. The things were vicious, territorial man-killers, and they absorbed spells. With a shudder, Bill recalled an incident involving a wand-happy idiot on an excavation in the delta. It had led to his fleeing through reeds as the bull at his back came roaring after, exploding everything it touched because there were five blasting curses trapped in its blubbery, puce-colored hide.

'I'll take the dragon every day of the week and twice on Sundays,' he thought to himself with a shudder.

The irony of that thought would not long escape him.

o0|0o

As he strolled back into the bank after lunch, Bill began to harden himself and his hearing against the angry, flustered voices within. Gringotts had been running an insane sort of amok ever since the Dark Lord's return hit the public awareness. It was instinctual, Bill supposed, to want to stockpile resources and gold and hide behind foot-thick wards in such dark times, but the Goblins were not amused and not having any of it. Strict security measures on withdrawals—for "safety's sake"—had successfully discouraged all but the most panicky, and wizardry's wealth remained largely in Gringotts' subterranean vault network.

The goblin's other goal, keeping the public happy and content, involved providing a friendlier face of the bank. Now, anyone who has seen the characteristic needle-toothed smile knows that goblin features are distinctly unfriendly and in fact quite terrifying. Goblins themselves were well aware, so the beings got creative.

A beam of light lanced in from the banks' door, illuminating Fleur Delacour's golden hair. About half the bank, including Bill, sighed collectively.

Hiring the Beauxbatons Beauty for the front desk was probably the best PR move in history. Bill certainly wasn't complaining with the Goblin's tactics...mostly. A few weeks ago he had found himself transferred from a promising dig in the Nubian province to Gringotts London effective immediately. The reason? Studies showed bronzed, broad-shouldered redheads with blunt white teeth were popular with the witching crowd.

Bill felt a bit like cattle, being moved around without a say so, but complaining was futile. His contract wasn't up for renegotiation for a while yet, and at least the money was better, he hadn't risked his neck on the job in months, he was with his family—and then there was of course the perk called Delacour.

"Bill! Darling!" Fleur called as if on cue from her desk. Unfortunately, that wasn't the good Darling, but the hippo at six o'clock Darling. Already dreading where this was going, he walked over to his 19-year-old girlfriend. She gave him her trademark zinger of a smile once he was in range. "Thank you. Bill? The monsieur has exacting needs for ze handling of his accounts today. I feel some with better English would understand…ze subtleties? We want no misunderstandings in such delicate matters, non?"

Bill paused to translate that in his head. 'I can't be paid enough to handle zis pompous dick. Get him away from me or you can get used to ze company of your right hand, Darling.' Hippo at six o'clock, indeed. "You're absolutely right, Fleur," he responded quickly with a smile. "Good day sir, I will be assisting you, Mr…"

He tore his eyes from Fleur to address the "monsieur," whom he had ignored in favor of the buxom quarter veela until then. Selective attention was a situational hazard with Fleur, but so long as the ignored male party was affected as well, he figured he couldn't be called out on it.

The uplifted blonde eyebrow aimed at him suggested otherwise. Bill blinked, taking in the rest of the man…boy. Narrow, sharp features pervaded the teenager's features. Even the lips looked capable of cutting glass. The Weasley in him bristled instinctually.

"Draco Malfoy," the boy provided without preamble. "Mr.—I'm going to take a stab in the dark here—Weasley, if we might retire to a place more private than your bank's foyer."

Bill threw Fleur a 'Darling, you owe me big' look, to which she batted her eyelashes, before saying through gritted teeth, "Please follow me. Sir."

o0|0o

"Merlin," Bill breathed, unable to stop himself when the Malfoy account book slammed down onto the conference table with a reverberating thud. It was enormous. Two feet along the spine, four feet wide, and at least six inches thick. Bill could honestly say he had seen tombs with smaller cover stones.

"That's your book?" he couldn't help but ask disbelievingly.

Malfoy glanced up from his chair with a chilled look that gave Fleur's a run for its money. "This one covers the activity of the business accounts from January the First of this year."

That took a moment to register. After it did, Bill was fairly sure something in his brain broke. "Ah. Of course," he managed.

The boy rolled his eyes. "Well, sit down. Be useful. I take it that you are actually an accountant and not just very pretty window dressing." He returned his attention to the book with an expectant air, only to swivel back to Bill a few moments later. He took in the vivid flush of the man's face with a look of equal parts incredulity and exasperation.

"…Unbelievable." He paused, breathed deeply, and seemed to be gathering his thoughts before he straightened and stated, "Mr. Weasley, judging from your reaction to the size of this account book, I take it you have gained some tiny inkling of just how important my family's interests are to this bank."

Malfoy stood and casually came up to him. Despite being over a head taller, Bill had to fight an urge to take a hasty step back. The boy icily continued, sounding not so much like a teenager as like a dagger-tongued Mephistopheles. "You work with goblins, Mr. Weasley, so I'm sure you know what they will do to you if more cashflow than your pretty little head can fathom…were to just walk out the door?" He smiled at the bobbing apple in Bill's throat. Goblin policy was dismemberment, and they both knew it. "So if I were to give you ten minutes to return here with a qualified account advisor…your best, be it a creature as ugly as sin or a damned mudblood, I have complete faith that you would give it your very best effort." With that, he turned his back to Bill, returned to his seat, and ordered without looking, "Move."

Eight minutes later, the Goblin Hoprik and Draco Malfoy exchanged a low bow and an incline of the head in greeting respectively while Bill hung around uncertainly in the doorway. The redhead silently vowed to kill Fleur for dumping this situation on him. That promise only became more fervent when the pureblood and the gnarled senior manager broke into a conversation of rapid French.

'Grasp of English, my arse,' he growled in his head.

Deciding the best option was to get the hell out now that he wasn't needed, Bill sketched a slight bow and backed out into the hall. Then, before he could turn and flee, Malfoy's voice caught him. "Tea. Rooibos, with lemon, if you please. ZangCha with one sugar and warm milk would suffice in a pinch."

Mouth agape, Bill turned back towards the room he had nearly successfully vacated. The spoiled brat was completely absorbed in the spread of paperwork set before him. What made him pale and scurry off towards the kitchenette was a tight look of Hoprik's that promised pounds of flesh. He detoured only slightly, grabbing Fleur from what surely was a scintillating conversation with a strapping young account holder. "You're too good for her, he told the blushing 12-year-old before absconding with the French witch to the depths of Gringotts.

o0|0o

"Malfoy, I should tell you," he informed Fleur later as he slammed a saucer down on a tray, "is very fluent in French. And now I have the goblin who hired the goblin who hired me out for my blood if the little "monsieur" so much as sniffs, so thank you much, Darling."

He grasped the handles of the tray and lifted, only for Fleur to snatch his wrists and push it back onto the counter. They stared off at each other in the empty, dark kitchenette. With a pinched look, she finally made a dismissive gesture over the contents of the tray. There was a solitary teacup, a pot, and a half lemon placed on the saucer. Clearly appalled, she told him, "I would not give zis to a grindylow. Never mind a personage!"

"He's the spoiled baby brat of an incarcerated Death Eater, not a personage," Bill hissed, butchering her accent on the last word.

"Is he important to the goblins, yes or no?"

He glared.

Taking it as his answer, she continued, "Do you wish to live to see my bed tonight? If so, zen give ze spoiled bébé a proper tea." Putting it that way… "Now, what did want? I am only doing zis once, so pay attention."

Bill sighed. "Lemon…and something. Ruy-bos?"

Fleur, peeking into the kettle, commented shrilly, "Zis tea is black!"

"Tea does tend to be, Fleur."

She made a sound of exasperation, dumped the pot into the sink, summoned a series of tins from a low cabinet, and started prying them open. "Cut ze lemon into six pieces, lengthwise and put zem in a small bowl. A bowl from zere." She pointed at a display under glass. Bill looked dubiously at the fragile, gold-rimmed, and very translucent china set but complied.

Fleur elbowed him out of the way not soon after, muttering about hopelessness and death wishes. A loose blend of tea leaves and needle-shaped seeds accompanied by dried blueberries, lemongrass, and rosehips went into the pots' screened upper half in generous amounts. From her wand poured a boiling variant of aguamenti into the pot. Promptly, she shifted to arrange a plate of shortbreads and sweetmeats. These, along with Bill's meager offering of lemon wedges (which Fleur immediately jacketed in silk—silk!), were placed on a hammered silver tray she had summoned from Merlin knew where. Rounding it off was an array of petite silverware folded in a napkin, preserves, honey, and a steaming damp hand towel embossed with the bank's insignia.

Any doubts about Beauxbatons' pretentiousness were forever silenced in his mind. He glanced around the small, dingy room, wondering where she had found half of the items present.

Fleur coughed discretely, pointing at her watch.

And so, with his girlfriend's dubious blessing and preemptive eulogy rolled into one and a peck on the cheek, Bill hefted the heavy spread. Heartily wishing he were elsewhere, he made his way back to the conference room where the spoiled dragon lurked. Strange as it sounded, he was even beginning to long for 130-degree weather and hippo-infested waters.

o0|0o

Good Rooibos tea, Bill learned from his spot in the corner of the room, was a vivid red. Which explained Fleur's initial reaction to the ink-black tea, but come now. That just was not right and bordered on downright creepy.

The tea wasn't the consistency of blood, but his brain was bored to death and thus quite willing to grasp at very scraggly straws. Under the watchful eye of Hoprik, he dutifully conjured boiling water into the pot after every two cups but otherwise spent the rest of the afternoon pretending to be an unobtrusive red splotch on the dark gray wall. There was nothing to do but watch as the two nattered on in languages not English. Comparing the red tea to blood was one of the tamer thoughts that flew through his head as time went by.

He was about ready to give into the fantasy and punch the boy's lights out when Malfoy finally slipped a silver watch from a waist-pocket and summed it up succinctly: "Shit."

"The bank is closing shortly," the goblin said.

'Thank. Merlin.'

The blonde gave the accounts book a tired, measuring look. "I need to take this with me. Review it overnight."

"That, I am afraid, is not possible." It was the closest thing to a sneer that Hoprik had given Malfoy all day.

Malfoy pursed his lips in response. He sighed, "And, I take it, even I will not be permitted to stay here after banking hours?"

"Regrettably," the goblin confirmed. "The book must be guaranteed safe by a Gringotts' representative at all times. The goblins that guard our entrances do not make house calls." Bill tilted his head slightly to the left. There was a loophole in that statement. Goblins didn't do that, except on purpose and only to their own benefit. He shifted as well, suddenly uneasy, though he couldn't say why.

Malfoy considered the goblin calmly. "When you say representative, would any Gringotts employee suffice?" he asked, voice soft and delicate.

Hoprik nodded. "Yes. However, it would have to be one in recent proximity to the book, to limit possible exposure of sensitive material, of course." After that, the being gave a needle smile. Even after years of working around goblins, Bill couldn't suppress a small shudder at the sight.

The boy remained completely composed, offering back a bright, toothy smile of his own. "Of course. And I can safely assume your independent consulting fee along with the odd hours would be obscenely expensive." He jerked a thumb at Bill. "What about him, then? He has been "in proximity" to the book just as long, and surely your wives won't take kindly to your absence?"

Hoprik blinked, agog, clearly unprepared for that possibility. Finally, grudgingly, with a look to Bill, he admitted, "That would be…permissible."

Except for the part where it really wasn't. Bill opened his mouth to pipe up and say no way in hell was going to babysit a book overnight at Malfoy manor, especially when he had a hot girlfriend who owed him for this shit.

Swifter, Malfoy turned to Hoprik and in all seriousness offered the goblin, "Thirty galleons, for the night."

Hoprik countered immediately, "900EG. Weasley is a talented curse breaker with a proven track record of deterring robbers and other threats." I.e. hippos. "It would be unconscionable to loan his services for less than their proper value."

To which Malfoy scoffed, "You are currently employing him as a glorified greeter. And to suggest that my ancestral home's wards would permit a thief entry…sir goblin, don't insult me. Eighty. I would go up to ninety, but the feeding and watering will come of my pocket."

"Feeding him is your choice, not my prerogative. This is a highly unusual twisting of the bank's by-laws. 500EG." The goblin laughed. "You should be lucky I am willing to permit it, even for you, sir."

"Five hundred galleons? For a pretty piece of window dressing to spend a night in my home? One hundred, and not a knut more."

"Ninety, then, for the protection detail of the book," Hoprik offered, paused, then added, "and for the window dressing…an additional twenty."

Now Malfoy looked amused. "Only twenty more?"

"Per hour, starting five o'clock tonight until the book is returned. Twenty is, I believe, the going rate in Knockturn these days? Though I will of course make inquiries with the local whore house should you insist on an accurate amount."

Bill had been slack jawed and blinking rapidly since Malfoy had coolly mentioned feeding and watering him like livestock. His senior manager stooping so low as to pimp him, though, finally ignited the infamous Weasley fire in his brain. Damn Malfoy and damn goblin retribution. If they wanted to dismember him, they were welcome to try.

Drawing up, he snarled, "Fuck you!"

o0|0o

Draco felt his lips twist as Weasley finally snapped. He had honestly been expecting that explosion four hours ago. It had been amusing, though, to watch the man fight against his choleric nature so valiantly for so long. Draco did feel a twinge of annoyance that it had been the fetid-smelling and glint-eyed goblin to ultimately elicit the reaction, but he let it pass. He had much more important things to do than to rile up Gryffindor hotheads.

And yet…

He first caught Weasley's heated gaze before giving the man a lazy once over. Grinning with an exaggerated lasciviousness, he laughed, "Deal," and shook hands with the goblin to the sounds of repeated and rather creative protest.

Story Alert and Stay Tuned for our next installment:

A confidentialty contract, a peek into Malfoy manor, and a Dark Lord all spell toil and trouble for our hapless Bill Weasley.