A/N: The following takes place in 2009.

"Fuck. You," Malcolm snarled. He was standing in front of the front desk of the Auror Office, having just been told by the scrawny twerp behind the dark-polished wood that he was not allowed in. "I have a meeting with the Head of this office in fifteen minutes and I'd like to actually be on-time."

"Sorry Mister Tucker—we don't have anything listed in here saying that you're scheduled for today, or any other day," the secretary-twit said, flipping through the department diary. "Are you sure you filed correctly?"

"I stuck my fucking hand out the window, had an owl shat on my rug, and it took off with my request; of course I made sure to file correctly. This would be so much more reliable if you arseholes decided to join us Muggles in the 21st Century, but apparently, you have a fucking aesthetic to maintain."

"Now you sound like my sister's husband," the secretary said in a bored tone. "I'm Muggle-born, so I can understand the frustration."

"Well, you're obviously not understanding enough," Malcolm hissed. He backed away and counted to ten, running a hand through his hair while he attempted to cool off. "Listen: I didn't come down here because I wanted to take a break—Head of Office Potter and I have an appointment to go over the shit that went down in Shoreditch last week, because I'm getting pressure from the Muggle press and no one will tell me anything! How much more do I have to spell it out?!"

"You don't have an appointment."

One thing Malcolm did have to give the lad was that he had guts, much more so than most twenty-somethings he had the distinct pleasure of harassing while at work. Everything he said was resolute and his demeanor unflappable… it would have been something the older man admired had it not been for the fact it was keeping him from doing his own job.

"You will see me again," he sneered. Malcolm spun around to walk out the door, except he turned around and grabbed a handful of candy from the dish on the desk, then stormed out with all the fury of Hellfire behind him.

A Wonkavator ride later and the Muggle was slamming his visitor's badge on the security desk, not even pausing as he grumbled a thanks before he went up and out of the Ministry of Magic. When he left the alley the visitor's entrance was situated in, he whipped out his mobile and rung up Clara.

"You do realize I'm on holiday, yeah?" she answered.

"That little Creevey poof won't let me in to see Potter," he snapped. "What am I supposed to do?! I set up the appointment properly and everything! Now he won't even give me the fucking release of scaring him shitless."

"I remember Dennis from school—we both saw some shit and don't scare easy these days," she said.

"Yeah, well, make sure that next time you take what I genuinely believe is a well-deserved break, that you make sure the wee cunts in your building promise to take me seriously," Malcolm scowled. He politely nodded at the guard who let him into Number 10 and stalked up to his office. "It's a rough thing, Oswald, and I can't wait for the fuckers to start lubing up."

"Can I please get back to playing cribbage with Gran? If I don't keep my focus I could get skunked."

"Go play your wrinkled old bat game—talk to you later." He hung up and walked into his office, seeing his PA typing away at her computer. "Hey Sammy; anything try to fuck us over while I was gone?"

"No," she said, raising her brow. "I thought you'd be back later than this."

"Can't get fuckall done without a wand up my arse and fairy dust in my piss," he growled. "The kid they have guarding that place can't be ruffled."

"Creevey is a casualty—he's a highly-trained Auror, but there's a reason why he's sitting at the desk and not out in the field hunting down criminals," she explained. "Mates tried fixing us up once; didn't work out too well."

"Sam, sometimes I think that you and Clara are the only sane ones out of your lot, and I really wish I didn't," Malcolm admitted. He then went into his office, turning his computer back on in order to get a head-start on some of the things he was supposed to do later that afternoon.

Taking a candy out of his pocket, he broke it in half with his teeth, gnawing on the chewy sweet idly. By the time he popped the other side in his mouth, he had gotten an entire speech written and was beginning work on another one. It was short-lived, however, as he began to feel dizzy and light-headed.

"Fuck… must've not had a big enough satsuma earlier," he muttered. Malcolm closed his eyes and shook his head, opening them to see that there was blood dripping down the front of his shirt and tie. "Fuck! Sammy!"

Sam came rushing in, her eyes going wide when she saw the scene. She went to his side and immediately took out her wand to fix her employer's nose. When it didn't stop, she saw the candy wrapper on the desk and huffed in irritation.

"Do you have more of these?" she asked, holding up the paper. Malcolm took the handful out of his pocket and she nabbed one, opening it up and breaking it in half. "Eat this." He did and the bleeding immediately stopped. "Now who gave you the candies?"

"Nabbed 'em from Creevey's desk," he said, dabbing at his nose with a kerchief. "This some torture device they use to bleed dissenters to death so the suits don't have to deal with them?"

"No; it's a Nosebleed Nougat—a prank candy used mostly to get out of classes," she said, almost chuckling. A couple swishes of her wand and his shirt and tie were clean again. "You ate the grape-flavored side first, didn't you?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You eat the orange first, then the grape. It only works in that order." Sam gave Malcolm's shoulder a pat before walking back to her end of the office. "If I hear you passing those on to cunt-ministers I'm going to have to perform more Memory Charms than should be in my job description."

"Just remind me in the future to not fuck with Creevey and we'll call it even," he said. He dumped the remaining candies in the wastebasket under his desk and continued working, only for his mobile to buzz a short while later—a text, from Clara.

'heard you fell for a skiver. that's actually kind of funny.'

He tapped out a 'fuck you' and waited for the response.

'got some that make people faint. you in?'

He grinned at the message—there were going to be some MPs that would have to watch their backs. This sort of power was not to be used wantonly, but he didn't care. Maybe if he snuck them in people's candies enough, he'd train them to faint at the sight of him like Pavlov's fucking dogs.

'in'