DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

BETA READER: silverbluewords

WARNINGS: Explicit sexual situations, hard kink, mild violence, and strong profanity.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: In regards to the following story, I have received allegations from an anonymous reader about "stealing an idea" from a fellow author. As I have discussed with the author in question, and to which my beta readers can testify, this story has been on the back-burner for over a year, and no such thing has occurred. The modification date of my first draft, including baked goods and all, precedes the screenshot of my subscription, which I have now removed to avoid further confusion.

My work is my own, and although I continue to have the utmost respect for the author and his/her readers, the only people whom I owe "credit" to are those in the disclaimer above. It is evident that the plot, the setting, and the actual writing (not to mention the pairings...) are completely different, and sharing a common "idea," or, in this case, a two-word phrase, does not constitute plagiarism. That being said, I apologise for all of the misunderstanding and inconvenience that this has caused, both to myself and to my fellow author.

Thank you for reading, and please bear in mind that this is, after all, only fan-fiction. We are all aspiring authors in a world fraught with tropes and clichés. Let's keep the drama in our stories and leave it there. Thus, moving on, it's been ages since my last update, so please enjoy! :)

AGENT 506

Draco Malfoy hadn't treated himself to a good lie-in since he'd left Hogwarts. He recalled with wistful longing the days of commanding a legion of house-elves to do his bidding, without compensation, or actually being able to sit down and savour a decent meal without needing to make a mad dash out the door. He'd be sleeping in a warm, cosy bed, and shagging a beautiful witch into the mattress nearly every single night. Now, he was the house-elf, sentenced to spend the rest of his days as little more than a common slave to the never-ending whims of (Scar-) Head Auror Potter.

Under the tyrannical reign of He-Who-Must-Not-Know-Shame, proper meals were no longer a thing of the past, but a figment of the imagination. Sustenance was procured on the run, nicked and necked down faster than a Weasley that had spotted gold on the ground. As for the rest… Well, Draco was lucky if he even got to see a bed most nights, let alone faff about in it.

The bespectacled bastard always reserved the nastiest, most gruelling missions for him, and all of that shite he fed the papers about Draco being his best Auror was nothing but a load of saggy old bollocks. It was just an excuse to protect his precious, supposedly Gryffindor friends from having to risk their own necks chasing down and apprehending all of the dangerous madmen running about, and if Draco also happened to get killed on the job, then that was just a fucking bonus. So much for bravery and chivalry. He always knew that those pussies were nothing but a great bloody joke.

There were those who said that there was a fine line between snakes and lions. Seventeen years ago, Draco would have believed them. Now, he was convinced that there was no line at all. It was disturbing, really. In all the years that Draco had spent working with the alleged war hero, he'd learned that Potter could be as conniving and ruthless as any Slytherin that Draco had ever known. It made Draco wonder what sort of Muggle substances the Minister was smoking when he appointed Potter as Head. He was completely unsuited for the position, what with his deliberate displays of favouritism—honestly, Weasley? An Auror? What was the world coming to?—and the wriggling hordes of snakes, or "informants," as Potty would have them believe, that were constantly slithering in and out of the office, whispering things into his stuffed-up ears, not to mention that the prick had a horrid habit of doling out sarcastic responses to very serious questions. Perhaps the Dark Lord was onto something, and they should've snuffed him out when they had the chance. Clearly, the only thing that bloody war had accomplished was to trade one demented half-blood for another.

How did he know that the rubber duck squatting out on the floor of the Atrium didn't have some sort of nefarious agenda? It could've been another pissing Horcrux, for all they knew! It was "clearly full of Dark magic," so of course Draco had "reacted in a manner befitting a man of his position," and yes, the children of the wizarding world would sleep soundly that night, thank you very much. His boss was clearly out to get him. And the Almighty Saviour of the Wizarding World was hardly going to be facing any inquiries at work simply because of a few minor grievances dealt against a lowly Death Eater—an ex-Death Eater, who'd done nothing but spend the better part of the last decade striving to regain the honour of his family, even if he was forced to toil beneath that wretch, which, he should remind everyone, wouldn't even be here if it weren't for his mother.

But not today! It was his bloody birthday, and Saint Potter could go fuck himself. He wasn't leaving his room until he was damn well ready to. And with that thought, Draco collapsed onto his cold and seldom used bed in a crumpled heap, Auror robes and all, singed and sweaty and resolved never to emerge from slumber. Even as his wand rolled out of his stiff fingers and clattered onto the ground, his eyelids never ceased in their drooping descent.

Yet as the world around him began to fade, fate seemed determined to sabotage him at every turn.

The door burst open. He blinked blearily at the intruder, too weary to defend himself. "What the ruddy hell do you wa—AAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

In a matter of seconds, Draco's battered body was lying flat on the ground, his bum smarting, and his face suffocated by a mass of bushy hair that had apparently thrown itself upon him and was now proceeding to wrap its curly tendrils around his neck. Gasping and choking, he somehow managed to pry her comparatively tiny body off of him and wrestle her into a sitting position upon the bed as she wriggled and squealed in delight. He groaned to himself. Most days, he hardly had the strength to keep up with his happy little otter. But then she would give him the look. And the look was destined to destroy a man's resolve.

When she gazed at him with those big, beautiful eyes like he was the strongest, smartest, and most super-heroic man in the world, who was he to deny her? From the moment she came into his life, he swore to shower her with all of the affection that he never had as a child. Her every wish was his command. He would hold her, cherish her, and keep her safe from those unruly scoundrels at primary school that were constantly pawing at her with their grubby hands, desecrating her name with their squeaky voices, and watching her with those shifty little eyes. Those bastards didn't even deserve to breathe the same air as his perfect angel, let alone—

Such distasteful notions were quickly forgotten as the second greatest love of his life let out an ear-shattering squeal and toppled over, flailing and fit to burst from her excitement. His arms instinctively shot out and re-seated her upon the bed.

"What's brought this on, darling?" he asked, kneeling before her and carefully tucking an untamed tress behind her delicate little ear.

"DADDY! Happee birfday, Daddy! Look, look, 'Thena make Daddy bizkits!" chirped the owl-eyed Athena, his miniature goddess of wisdom, proudly brandishing a bag of bruised and blackened biscuits that roughly resembled (what he assumed to be) mammalian shapes.

His innards quaked at the sight, but he dutifully reached out and accepted her offering, his mouth stretched thin into what he hoped was an eager and grateful smile. Athena quivered with triumph at the sight, seizing one of the burnt creatures, and, to his horror, gesturing wildly at him with it. He gulped and plucked the charred brick from her hand, force-feeding it into his mouth and swallowing as fast as possible, while attempting to pass off his gagging as an exaggerated cacophony of enjoyment. "Tastes—so—good," he rasped out.

Athena shrieked in response, launching herself upon Draco and nearly strangling him in her jubilation. "Daddy, Daddy, 'Thena so happee! Eat more! Eat more!"

Smiling tightly, he gently, but forcefully, extricated himself from her clutches and rustled through the satchel of death for a morsel that looked remotely edible. If his suspicions were correct, his wife would surely never allow their daughter to use a Muggle kitchen appliance without supervision, meaning that she must have contributed at least one four-legged blob to the batch. He snatched the first one that he could detect a change in texture in and popped it into his mouth before Athena could see the difference.

He moaned with pleasure, warmth immediately sweeping over his tongue, settling into his belly, and radiating throughout his tired limbs. Hermione… He could taste her attention to detail, that fierce determination in her eyes as she absorbed herself in her work, and that maddening passion for lost causes that no one else could ever hope to compare. He reached into the bag to search for another, silently apologising to his daughter. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the gesture, but he would very much prefer to live to see her graduate, or attend Hogwarts, at the very least.

Spurred by his apparent enthusiasm, Athena continued to babble away: "Mummy help 'Thena make bizkits! Mummy say we make them look like Daddy's fav'rite animal!"

"My favourite animal?" he asked, frowning. He'd never really cared for animals, unless there was an immediate use for them, like his eagle owl. Did he even have a favourite animal?

"Mummy say Daddy luuuuurves ferrets, so 'Thena make ferret bizkits for Daddy!" she giggled, clapping her hands with glee.

Draco choked. He collapsed upon the ground and hacked up the repugnant crumbles he had just swallowed, heaving and gagging like a half-Kneazle with a hairball.

"NOOOOOOO, DADDY'S DYING!" Athena screamed.

"No, no, no, no, no!" he hastily croaked out, scooping her up before she could lunge off the bed and hurt herself in her distress. "Daddy's fine," he wheezed. "Honestly!"

She flung her arms around him, squeezing so tightly he thought his lungs might be permanently flattened.

Out in the corridor, he could hear the unmistakable howls of laughter of his soon-to-be-deceased wife and his traitorous eldest child.

Draco refused to blame his poor, innocent daughter. It wasn't Athena's fault that she was so susceptible to her parents' lies. They were the ones she trusted and admired above all else, and from whom she sought constant approval. Athena may have inherited her looks from her mother, but her inner nature was much like Draco's. She was capable of both great compassion and great cunning, but too often was blinded by how deeply she cared for her family to ever fathom the notion that her parents might not be perfect, and try as they might, may not always have her best interests at heart when they used her as a pawn in their twisted little mind games.

His ten-year-old son, on the other hand, was the spitting image of Draco, but was audacious, shrewd, and an insufferable know-it-all like his mother. Salazar forbid that Scorpius ever sided with his mother on any issue, because they could both talk circles around him until he was laid flat and reeling and had no choice but to submit to their pissing logic.

At long last, the demonic duo finally shunted into the room, shoulders juddering and eyes glistening with mirth. Glaring down as he handed a sniffling Athena over to her unrepentant brother, he growled, "Take your sister and leave us. Your mother and I need to have a serious discussion."

"But Father," Scorpius piped up in a mockery of youthful eagerness. "What about my present?"

"It better not be another bloody book," Draco groaned.

"You'll like this one, Father," Scorpius promised. "Mother and I went to the health and wellness section at Flourish & Blotts, and we managed to find a cross-cultural compilation of various remedies for receding hairlines—"

"OUT!" Draco barked.

Scorpius swiftly slinked out of the room with his younger sister in tow, already occupying her with talk of all manner of vile concoctions that called for the use of human tears, to which she stilled and listened to with wide-eyed reverence, soaking up every word of her brother's questionable wisdom.

As soon as the door slammed shut behind them, he rounded on the evil harpy that was his wife, only to find that she had already replaced her usual self with the countenance of a demure, outlandishly dolled-up French maid. She pranced about in her six-inch heels and her frilly little dress, making his bed, tucking in his sheets, and bending over far more than should've been necessary to complete the task.

Suddenly, she turned and gasped. "Master Malfoy!"

Clearly, his wife had seen one too many of those Muggle porn videos. Not that he'd know, of course. He never watched porn. Porn was… filthy. Absolutely filthy. Like his wife and her slick little cunt—

"Welcome home, Master Malfoy. May I provide you with breakfast in bed?" she asked, biting her lower lip and gazing up at him with doe-like eyes.

"You already have," he growled, shoving her facedown onto the bed, wrenching her legs apart, and tearing down her ruffled little knickers with his teeth as she whimpered and struggled to keep her legs shut. He smacked her for her insolence, causing her plump arse to jiggle and blush at his roughness.

"Oh!" she gasped, the glorious sound hitching in her throat.

Arrogantly, he slid his hands up under the ruched skirt of her maid outfit and groped her bum with impudence, growling with satisfaction at the feel of her soft skin beneath his hands. It had been days since he'd given her cunt a proper fucking, and already, its pretty pink lips were parted and begging for it. He fell to his knees behind her and pulled her arse cheeks apart, completely exposing her to his penetrating gaze. Very gently, he circled a finger around her clit, paused, and ran it up and down her slit, encouraging her to open for him. She trembled and sobbed into the sheets as his finger dipped inside her and smeared her juices up the cleft of her arse. Driven mad with longing at the scent of her arousal, he slipped his finger into his mouth and sucked, moaning at her taste.

"Master Malfoy, please, we mustn't—" came her pathetic pleas.

He silenced her with an abrupt, domineering swipe of his tongue. Her outrageous heels kept her at the perfect height for him to burrow inside her with lingering, possessive strokes that traced and slid along the curves of her canal. When her cries of feigned protest began to descend into high-pitched yelps for more, he coyly pulled his tongue out, the reddened, inner skin of her cunt sticking slightly to it. He laved the swollen tissue with broad, flattened sweeps that would occasionally catch onto her clit and cause her pussy to spill onto the sheets. He smirked, even as he pressed in to lap at her. She could never hold out for long once he'd penetrated her.

Not wanting to waste another drop, he squeezed her throbbing cunt lips with his own and sucked hard, causing her hips to buck as she muffled her screams against the duvet. Immediately, he stiffened his tongue and stuck it up her hole, riding the undulating ripples of her cunt and urging her to give it to him. And she most certainly did, clutching desperately at the covers and fighting desperately to smother the guttural shrieks of his name as her pussy gushed hot rivulets straight into his eagerly waiting mouth.

But leaving her wet and over-sensitised was only half the fun.

He released her with a final, suckling kiss to her clit and flipped her onto her back. She reached out to him, thinking that he was finished "disciplining" her. But he was nowhere near through with her. Without giving any outward indication as to his intention, he thrust a finger inside her. Her hands scrabbled back onto the bedding, bunching up the sheets as she arched her back and opened her mouth in a silent scream. When he slipped a second finger inside her, she wailed. But he was beyond the point of showing her any mercy. He twisted his fingers and rammed them in deep, relishing the feel of her flushed, soaked cunt squeezing down on him as he repeatedly denied her the one thing he knew she truly wanted—his cock.

"Please, Master Malfoy, please," she begged, tears streaming down her beautifully blotched face.

"Please what, you inferior piece of Mudblood cunt?" he hissed, sweat trickling down the nape of his neck. He was nearly panting from the effort it took to watch her come on his fingers and not rub himself through his increasingly strained trousers. Underneath, his cock twitched and pulsed in desperation, his pants plastered along its length with his own pre-cum.

"I need—I need—," she whimpered.

He slapped her arse harder, wrenched her up by the hair. She shuddered as he leaned in and whispered harshly in her ear, "Tell me what you need."

"I need," she quavered, "I need your long, hard pureblood c—cock inside of my f—filthy Muggle p—pussy, p—please—M—Master Malfoy—" Her voice broke off as she shook from her confession, torn between humiliation and need.

He laughed with cruel satisfaction, letting go of her wild curls and biting the inside of her thigh. "Only good girls get cock," he smirked, holding her hips down as she moaned in protest. "And you've been a very, very bad girl, my naughty little Mudblood maid."

"I've been such a bad girl, Master!" she wailed.

"That's right," he solemnly agreed. "A horny Mudblood bitch like you lusting after a pureblood is a dangerous threat to the wizarding community. As an Auror, it is my duty to place you under arrest and bring you to justice."

"Please don't send me to Azkaban, Master Malfoy!" she pleaded. "I can't help my filthy Muggle pussy! Punish me, Master, please!"

He narrowed his eyes at her with promises of a long, hard night of retribution thundering behind his gaze. "Make no mistake, little maid, I will punish you, and you will enjoy every second of it, like the dirty little slut you are. I've seen you, with your coquettish glances and your frilled skirts, pretending to clean and straighten out my sheets, when all you really want to do is spread your deliciously wicked legs wide open for me and soil them all over again. I expect to see you in my private quarters tonight, on your knees and ready to learn your place."

"Yes, Master!" she consented with passion.

"Good girl," he praised, finally crawling over her and pressing his lips to hers.

There were few things in the world that he loved more than kissing his wife. Not only was it the best way to shut her up, but the taste of her just made him feel so fluffing good, like he couldn't possibly need or desire anything else in life—just her and her sweet, stubborn mouth. Certainly, without her, there'd be no blasted missions for Lord Potter, no risking life and limb on a daily basis to save a regressing subset of humanity that hardly deserved it, no gruesome family dinners on the Weasley breeding grounds, and no fucking house-elf union, but then there'd be no Scorpius, no Athena, no lectures that lead to kinky Muggle sex, and no home worth coming back to. She was, quite honestly, the only thing that made each godforsaken day worth living through.

They spent the next few minutes or so shamelessly snogging out like randy sixth-years in a broom cupboard until their lips were chapped and swollen and they were forced to separate for lack of air. Despite his best efforts to prevent his stiff cock from brushing against any part of her body, she'd still somehow managed to snake her hand in between them and cup him. He quickly rolled onto the bed beside her and she turned to him with a sly grin on her face, admitting, "The kids and I have something special planned for you tonight, so I suppose you'll just have to get the rest of your present later."

He grinned back and she scooted towards him, playfully nipping his top lip as he shot his tongue out and licked her in retaliation. She giggled and darted out of his reach before he could grab her. He sat up, swiftly scanning the room for his slippery little wife, only to be ambushed from the side as she pounced onto his lap and ensnared him with a brazenly deep smooch. His painfully unattended arousal jutted out towards her wet heat in blatant protest of his earlier promise to his little maid. At least I won't be the only one who's suffering, he leered at Hermione.

"Keep looking at me like that and Scor's big master plan is going to go to waste," she scolded him. "He's been worried, you know," she said, her eyes softening.

"About what?" Draco asked, genuinely concerned.

Ever since he was a boy, Scorpius had taken all of his burdens with silence. He wasn't like Athena; he rarely shared his personal problems with the people closest to him, always putting on a charming smile or taking command of the discussion with his swotty digressions. Hermione's infuriating sense of nobility and indomitable will, combined with Draco's emotional compartmentalisation and social manoeuvres, made for a nigh impenetrable defence that never ceased to leave Draco wondering what was really going through his son's head. It deeply worried him that something could be troubling the boy, and he would never know it.

"He knows that he's getting his Hogwarts letter soon, and he's been fretting about the Sorting for years now. He finally told me when we got back from Diagon Alley last week," she finished quietly.

"What? Why? The boy's obviously going to end up in Slytherin," he drawled, inwardly relieved that it wasn't something catastrophic and abhorrent like his son fancying the Weasel's pasty little freckle-faced, ginger spawn or worse, that mangy, four-eyed little poofter that Potter had cloned of himself and had the gall to name after Severus Snape—of all people! The man hated Potter, and would surely turn in his grave if he only knew what that bleeding arsehole had done to fucking "honour" him! And on top of it all, if Pothead found out that Draco's son was doing lewd, homosexual things with his son, regardless of what may or may not have happened on one horrible, drunken night, many, many years ago, Draco was fired. SACKED. Beheaded. Arrested by the wizarding hit squad, of which his own wife was the lead Hit-Witch, and spirited away on a one-way trip to Azkaban.

Hermione merely huffed at him in disapproval. "You see? This is exactly why he's worried!"

"Worried about what? He's my son—how could he possibly not end up in Slytherin?" he scoffed.

"Don't you see, you daft git? He loves you, and he's afraid of disappointing you if the Hat doesn't place him in Slytherin, and at the same time, he's terrified about what'll happen if he still asks the Hat to put him in Slytherin and he has to spend the next seven years in a House that he doesn't really belong to! He'll be lying to you, and he'll be lying to himself, and it's going to tear him up inside—" Hermione broke off and turned away, eyes glistening with frustrated tears.

There was silence as the weight of her words hung between them.

Finally, Draco replied, "I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too dreadful. The boy is such a smarmy, condescending little swot, he'll fit right in. If he ends up as a Hufflepoofter, we'll just transfer him to Beauxbatons or some other school. But not Durmstrang. Certainly not Durmstrang. That's where your pissing pen pal is from, which automatically renders it a substandard institute, unworthy of educating a Malfoy."

Predictably, Hermione gasped with indignation and opened her mouth in protest, but he cut her off: "Honestly, the real question shouldn't be whether or not he's going to end up in Slytherin, but whether he's going to overanalyse every sodding thing to death, have a fucking heart attack before the Hat even touches his head, and end up a bloody Gryffindor like you."

Hermione blinked at him for a moment, her face frozen in place and shifting in small increments as several emotions warred for dominance of her expression.

Eventually, she burst out cackling like a madwoman, the remnants of her tears streaking down her cheeks.

"Draco!" she admonished, smacking him on the chest.

"Gods, woman," Draco murmured, latching onto Hermione's neck and groaning at the sharp throbbing of his prick once again. "You know what that does to me."

"The same thing that this does?" she whispered into his ear, shimmying down to her knees and yanking his trousers down. His stiff cock prickled at the light breeze that greeted it, but it wasn't long before Hermione's warm, wet mouth closed over his shaft and siphoned in the bulbous head with eager, suckling smacks that were designed to pull out his seed and wring him dry.

"Fuck," he moaned, thrusting his hips as she slathered her tongue over him and bobbed up and down on his length. "Oh, yeah, love, suck me! Shit, just look at you, getting off on sucking my dick like a little whore! Best fucking birthday present ever—"

There was a knock on the door. Shit! Those blasted kids! What did a bloke have to do to shag his own wife around here? He glanced anxiously down at Hermione, who gave no indication that she'd heard and was still slurping up his cock like a lolly. She lapped up his pre-cum and whined in delight, her reddened lips squeezing over his cock as she flipped her skirt up and shoved two fingers up inside herself.

Merlin's fucking rod, he was about to blow his entire load down her throat...

"Father?" came Scorpius' voice from behind the door. "The post just arrived."

"Leave it on my desk," he gritted out.

"Father, I think you should come quickly."

I'm bloody trying to! Draco screamed in his head as Hermione gave him a sneaky, wet suck, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

"Father, there's a Howler," Scorpius persisted, only to be cut off by a resounding boom as said Howler detonated and proceeded to rain destruction down upon their ears.

"MALFOY!" bellowed the dulcet tones of Lord Potter. "THERE IS A GODDAMNED DEATH EATER ATTEMPTING TO RESIST ARREST TWO STREETS DOWN FROM YOU. GET ON HIS ARSE! NOW!"

It was just another day in the life of Draco Malfoy—ex-Death Eater, proud father, husband to the brightest witch of their age, farcical birthday boy, and nothing less than the best Auror for the job.

THE END