Greetings, my fine fanfiction friends.

As promised, I publish this love child of mine six years to the day of my last update. And the laws declare that it shall be updated weekly for your viewing pleasure, or death to the author. Now come, celebrate my return to this lovely sphere of magic with me by toasting my lovely beta, AT Murphy.

Enjoy.

.o&o.

Draco Malfoy was having a bad day. Not that he'd ever use the phrase, but he had heard the Muggle-born call this a "bad case of the Mondays". And despite his good looks, wealth, and social charm, it seemed that he was trapped in an endless circuit of Mondays. He stared once again at the notice on his desk in front of him, and ran his hand through his fine silvery hair.

To the Prestigious Assistant to the Assistant Council-Wizard of the Minister of Magic:

We hope that this letter greets you in good health and better work ethic.

This is your second formal notice that the Ministry's Auror Division, in coalition with the Museum of Wizarding Antiquities' new exhibit of Relics of the Dark Arts, will conduct a purveying stroll of your properties to claim any illegal and/or ancient artifacts of Dark Magics, particularly those harmful to the wizarding race.

Please return with a letter of acknowledgement and an appropriate date and time within the next month to schedule this meeting. If you do not, then the Auror Division will happily complete the arduous task for you. We thank you for your kind considerations and look forward to seeing you at the appointed time.

Sincerely,

The Auror Division

Signed, Nymphadora Tonks

Approved by the Minister of Magic, etc, etc.

Signed, Kingsley Shacklebolt

Draco ruefully sighed and muttered to himself. "A purveying stroll of my properties, indeed. Call it what it is, you bastards." Draco may not have graduated at top of his class, but no one had ever called him a fool. He knew what this was, and the least they could do was admit it: 'twas a vengeful raid of his family's estate because of the demented blabber of an imprisoned father.

And really, they didn't have to expound on his embarrassingly lengthy, but ignominious, job title. That was just rubbing salt in the wounds.

After the first notice, an enraged (but icily calm) Draco had stormed (perhaps not too icily calm, after all) into the Minister's office and slammed the notice on his ornate desk. Shacklebolt glanced up in amusement, then returned to his pile of scrolls. "Ah, young Malfoy. I see you are still fond of dramatic entrances. Can I help you?"

Draco had bit his tongue before he spat out something to the effects of, "don't you dare try that Dumbledore nonchalance on me", but decided that it was best to let dead things lie exactly where they belonged.

"I wish to know, sir, why my family estate is being forcibly searched by the Auror division, and why I am being threatened with the sentence of possession of Dark Arts artifacts," Draco had managed in clipped tones, his shoulders rigid with rage.

Shacklebolt lifted his eyes from the documents he was surveying for a moment, and Draco thought he saw a flash of danger behind the smiling mask of mocha skin.

"Mr. Malfoy, I do not expect that you have hidden Dark Arts artifacts in your home, as you are a loyal wizard to the Ministry, and therefore, wizarding world peace. So, sir, unless you have something you wish to confess, I do not believe there is an issue." Shacklebolt bent over his paperwork again, signing with more aplomb than before.

Draco tried once more, resisting the urge to snatch up those scrolls that were clearly more important than he and rip them to shreds. "Sir, while I am indeed a citizen to peace and prosperity" –here Draco forced himself not to roll his eyes—"this is a grave injustice to my reputation, my family, and my estate. In addition, there may be hidden artifacts whose presence I am unaware of. It is ridiculous that I would be penalized for them—"

He realized his mistake as soon as he said the words. Shacklebolt caught it too and interrupted, looking over those distinguished gold glasses that were at such odds with his tall, bulky frame. "Mr. Malfoy, while I understand your concern for your…reputation, I am sure that if there are indeed hidden artifacts of the Dark Arts in your home that you are unaware of, you would be pleased that some of our Auror friends would rid you of them. That is, of course, if you didn't want them removed…"

At Draco's curt shake of his head, Shacklebolt smiled slightly and returned to his paperwork.

"Then we are finished here. I assure you, if you assist the Aurors in every way, you will not be held accountable for the foibles of your less…civilized ancestors. Good day, Mr. Malfoy." The Minister of Magic did not look up from those damn scrolls as Draco tersely bowed his head and turned sharply on his heel to leave the room.

That had been two days ago. With no response, the Aurors had sent another missive, this time no doubt commissioning a gossipy witch below him in office rank to write it. Draco did not want to think of all his inferiors giddily chatting of his demise. How they would crow in scandalous delight when, no doubt, artifacts were discovered and he was carted off to Azkaban to join his father. His family connections, while a boon before the Dark Lord's fall, had chaffed horribly afterwards.

Thanks to the Malfoy name, he had always been the Bad Boy of the Ministry, though through no fault of his own. Well, there was that minor mishap with Dumbledore and then seventh year...but Draco worked diligently as the assistant to the assistant of some assistant, despite the stacks of galleons that called his name. He didn't need to work, per se, but lazing about the empty manor of memories with his needy mother wasn't his idea of a good life.

Nonetheless, there were a few perks to being dubbed the Bad Boy of the Ministry. Young witches tended to melt and giggle furiously when he passed, and he always had scores of invitations to parties from curious co-workers. That didn't patch up the loneliness that Draco was excellent at ignoring, but it was often a welcome salve.

"Urm, Mr. Malfoy? You have a message?" Draco pulled his head out of his hands, shaking off his reverie. His secretary, a buxom redhead with a super-sonic giggle, was apparently unable to speak in imperative sentences and sounded perpetually inquisitive. He had never really caught her name. Denise, or Darla, or something like that. Sighing, Draco merely nodded to his desk and returned to staring at the notice. He had to do something…no matter what he did, the Aurors would find something incriminating and he'd be off to Azkaban faster than you could chant "kill the pureblood". It would kill his mother. Not to mention, Draco thought wryly, my social life.

"Mr. Malfoy?" That damn woman again. He looked up, scowling.

"What?" The word emerged more harshly than he had intended. At her stricken look, he scowled further. Damn conscience. "What?" he said again, intentionally removing his scowl and softening his voice. It was harder than expected, especially when she giggled in relief.

"Urm, I've been trying to find the extra quills for this afternoon's meeting? And I've looked everywhere in the closet, and I just can't find it? Maybe if a second pair of eyes looked?..." Darlene managed to look attractively lost while squeezing her pert breasts together in cute confusion. Draco approved.

He rose from his leather chair and nodded. He hadn't been productive today, and Merlin help him if he couldn't find quills in a closet. "Right," he began brusquely. "You've looked everywhere?" At second glance at Darcy, he decided he didn't need an answer. Even if she had, it had no significance to his search. She probably had a hard time finding her lusciously long eyelashes to apply the gobs of mascara to them.

Striding towards the closet across from his desk, Draco heard Daphne's stiletto heels clicking almost ominously behind him. How that woman functioned in every day society and retained a job, Draco had no idea. But at least she had a great arse.

"Lumos." His wand shone cold, white light into the deep closet. Stack of old memos, wooden dustbins, and a random assortment of sub-par office supplies cluttered the area. He could feel Diane's warm breath on his neck. Next to wet socks, his greatest pet peeve was someone else's air on his body. It was just repulsive.

"Oooooh," she cooed, expelling more of her moist carbon dioxide onto his being, "you're so clever, using the light spell like that? I just tried looking in the dark, you know?"

Draco could stand it no longer. He spun around and stepped back, farther into the closet. Anything to get away from her repellent breath. Minty, fruity, or fetid, all breathing mammals should keep their personal air away from each other. However, in doing so, Draco realized that something much worse than breathing on Dara's mind.

Closing the closet door behind her to just a crack, she moved towards him like a cat stalking her prey. He recognized that look in her vapid eyes immediately: it was his signature smolder. She wanted his meat like it was her grandmother's pot roast. Draco, despite his larger intellect and countless skills, was rooted to his spot in…fear? He wasn't sure what it was, but it felt like a House Elf was pounding its little way through his heart. Side note: not a pleasant emotion. Avoid at all costs.

He hadn't realized he was backing away until he felt the sturdy shelves of the closet behind him. He still clenched his glowing wand. Draco mentally slapped himself in an effort to shake some sense into his prodigiously well-dressed person. He, Draco Malfoy, had faced death and looked into its slitted red eyes. He was not afraid of his silly, sexpot secretary. He was the supervisor, and he would handle this situation with his usual calm and biting wit.

"Now, see here…" he began, but she was on him before he could finish.

"I've been waiting for this for weeks, Mr. Malfoy! Just dying to touch you, and kiss you, and feel you…"

By the gods, the woman was speaking in statements.

Draco was growing strangely anxious with each second–this woman was a tigress!— as he brushed her roving hands from his chest. "That is quite enough. If you know what's best for you—"

She moaned (moaned!) in what appeared to be excitement. "Mr. Malfoy! We don't have to play games anymore. Take me! I'm yours!" With this rather dramatic statement, she struck a sensual pose against Draco, wrapping her leg around his hip and draping her head on his shoulder.

Draco knew he was attractive, but he had never had a woman attack him with such vigor. Flattered as he may be, Draco was in no mood for her to try her witch's magic on his wand. He had work to do, and besides, he certainly did not want to snoogle with this feline in a closet. Lastly, he was pretty sure it was illegal for supervisors to shag their employees, let alone the timing. Twenty minutes before a meeting? If the secretary had any neuron sparks to speak of, she would have considered that bit before launching her attack. With the weight of the law on his side, Draco finally felt empowered to stop these shenanigans.

"Ms. D…er, I have no intent in 'taking you'. I am quite content with our previous arrangement of memos and stapling. Now remove yourself at once."

Said with all the authority of a Malfoy, it should have nearly magically bound her to obey him. Sadly, it did nothing but titillate the poor girl further.

She giggled most obscenely. "My darling, you are quite the player. Now stop pretending and give me what we both want!" With that lurid statement, she grabbed him by his crisp Oxford collar and began ravishing his mouth. Simultaneously, her legs sprang around his waist with all the frightening strength of a thestral.

Draco was quite undone. And not in the shag-in-the-closet sort of way, that leaves you tingling with pleasure and naughty scandal, but the sort that fills you with confusion and despair. Short of hexing the woman, he was at a loss of how to rid himself of this issue. This really was a bad day, and seemingly getting worse.

As Dina began pulling at his lips with her teeth and mussing his hair up with her roaming hands (not his hair!), Draco gathered up his strength for one big shove and—

BAM. In the midst of the struggle against secretarial lust, someone dropped directly on top of them with little consideration of where their elbows landed. Dawn screeched into his ear, and Draco took this opportunity of chaos to shove her away. Whoever landed on him –how the hell did that happen?— had done him a great favor, and then first thing he was going to do was buy the fellow a big shot of firewhiskey…

And then, by the light of his wand (still miraculously in his hand after all this harassment), he could clearly see the crumpled and winded form of his arch-nemesis from Hogwarts.

"…Granger?"

.o&o.

Hey, it's my birthday. Well. Sort of. But don't worry about sending me a welcome-home gift; your lovely review is more than enough. Thoughts, questions, reactions: all welcome.

Next in our shocking tale: Malfoy and Granger have it out, just for old times sake. Don't forget about Darla. Or Dara. Whatever her name is.