A/N: I got a random prompt for this that I could work with and I got a bit excited. :D Takes place in early February 2009, before Malcolm and Clara are dating, but when they are definitely flirting.
Romney Marsh, 2009
Scowling out the window, Malcolm watched as London slowly ground to a halt. It was can't-be-arsed-o'clock in the morning—too late to kip on the couch and too early to force himself towards his desk—and he was fidgety beyond all fucking reason. He had prepared himself to stay at work for a couple days, knowing that the forecast was calling for some of the shittiest commutes of his entire life and wanting to avoid that as much as fucking possible.
Yeah, sleeping at work was likely the coward's way out, but at the same time, he was going to need to be there when disasters began piling up and someone that wasn't a chimpanzee in front of a typewriter needed to send out a press release.
After watching Nature's Cocaine for a while, Malcolm decided to at least get ready for the day. He went into his bathroom (thank fuck he had a private bog to bomb all day long if he fucking wanted to) and cleaned up before changing from pajamas into slacks and a shirt, just finishing putting the knot in his tie when he heard the sound of his fireplace being used for something far from its original intended purpose. Poking his head into the main of his office, he saw Sam standing there, a tray of hot coffees in one hand and what smelled like a full breakfast inside the takeaway containers in the other.
"Sammy, I could kiss you," he grinned. Going up to her, he did leave a peck on her cheek as he took a coffee and breakfast. "How's the weather out there?"
"It's snowing enough to have an effect on the Floo Network, and it wouldn't surprise me if Apparating was getting a bit fuzzy thanks to the weather."
"No matter what we do, neither of us still have a handle on Mother Fucking Nature," he chuckled. He sat down at the table and began to eat as Sam took off her coat and draped it on her chair before eating her own breakfast. They were nearly done when the unmistakable green flames of the Floo Network began to form once again in the fireplace, with Clara coming out and skillfully dodging his desk chair, while someone else behind her walked right into it.
"You're interrupting my breakfast, love," Malcolm frowned. He glanced past Clara, seeing the newcomer to his office trip over his chair and nearly fall flat on her face. "…and you are…?"
"MPM Ballantyne, of Romney Marsh," Clara said, gesturing towards the visitor. She waited until the woman gathered herself and came forward, giving Malcolm the most irritated of looks. This woman was clearly being a pain in her side, he could tell, and now it unfortunately involved him.
"Ballantyne; any relation to a Muggle named Claire?" Malcolm asked around some beans.
"…no…?" Ballantyne replied, a mixture of disgust and confusion on her face. "You're the Director of Communications? The Muggle one?"
"Aye." He saw her shudder slightly and he smiled inwardly. "What seems to be the issue?"
"How well-versed are you in Wizarding culture?"
"Enough to know you're fucking bonkers."
Ballantyne tried to hide her displeasure, yet continued. "Then you know about Quidditch?"
"Unfortunately."
"Please forgive Mister Tucker—he's not a big sports fan in general," Sam interjected. "This is civil; you should see him act when people try to change the subject to cricket."
"Goddamn fucking toffs always have it coming," he added. At least it wasn't a total lie. He wasn't adverse to many sports, and knew at least a wee bit about most, but talk about cricket and Quidditch were usually two sure-fire ways to irritate him beyond reason.
"Then you may know that the BIQL is expanding next year and that there are a few new teams—"
"The what is expanding…?"
"The Britain and Ireland Quidditch League—Miss Oswald, why are we talking with this man, again?"
"You wanted to speak to a Muggle with authority and this is the most powerful Muggle I know," Clara said. "Long story short, Mister Tucker, but we need an intervention from the Muggle government because a non-magical developer is trying to stop the building of a Quidditch pitch by putting homes there instead, in a manner that cannot be manipulated by magic to squeeze out a bit more room, and he doesn't believe that any of the people he has spoken with has any sort of authority. My guess is that he's the sort that needs to be talked to by another man, simply because he seems to scream the type."
"You can't just," he wiggled his arm imitating a spell, "zap him or some shite like that?"
"We tried, but too often he keeps coming back, and there's only so many times we can use a Memory Charm and have it not adversely affect the targeted mind."
"What grounds does he have for putting a development on this land?"
"He bought a few adjacent lots and one of the farmers claimed that the land we would be using was part of her family plot, the particular patch of soil too poor to ever develop. It was once part of her family's holdings, but this particular section was sold to a Wizarding family before the Statute of Secrecy, therefore erasing all Muggle knowledge of the sale and to whom."
"…and you're not calling on a lawyer because…?"
"We tried," Ballantyne said with disdain. "He has said he's only going to listen to someone from the government telling him what to do."
"Fuck…" Malcolm swore. He downed some coffee and stared at MPM Ballantyne. "Does this have to be done today? I'm kind of waiting for the fucking fallout of the bullshit that's happening outside."
"What's happening?" she asked.
"The snow," he replied, motioning towards the window. "Are you that fucking dense?"
"Do you always talk to your ministers that way?"
"How else can I even attempt to keep them in line? If I didn't, we'd have more issues on our hands than we currently do, and that's fucking saying something."
"You are vulgar."
"I'm doing my fucking job—I know of no one who gets to where I am by being nice." He stood and walked towards the cupboard, pulling out his suit jacket and pulling it on. "Alright… might as well get it done and over with quickly, or else my daily wank will be thrown off-schedule."
"Stop talking," Ballantyne frowned. Malcolm grinned in response, adding a wink for good measure before turning to Sam. "Okay, I guess this means I'm out for a while."
"What do I tell people if they ask for you?"
"No one's gonna fucking ask for me, and if they do, just say I'm out for a walk."
Sam smirked. "No one takes a walk in this weather."
"Exactly—it might terrify them into thinking I'm something more than human."
"What the fuck you talking about, mate?" Malcolm glanced over towards the door and saw Jamie standing there, a rumpled mess with windblown cheeks and covered in sweat from the trek in. "They already think you're some preternatural shite—mornin' Sam, Clara—it's not like they need any help."
"Jamie, yeh wee fuck, make sure no one harasses Sammy while I'm gone; they know I'm supposed to be in."
"He does talk to everyone that way," Ballantyne said disapprovingly. She then turned to Clara and cleared her throat. "I'll meet you over there. You remember the way, don't you?"
"Yes, of course." She then watched as Ballantyne left the room via Apparation, her expression instantly souring as the MPM left. "Malcolm?"
"Yeah?"
"Please don't screw this one up—this woman has been such a pain in my side that if I can get her to back off after this, my schedule will be amazingly free and peaceful."
"Your wish is my command." Malcolm finished putting on his coat and held out his arm. Clara took hold of his elbow and POP, they were off.
The snow had stopped, thank fuck, but that did not mean that it was a pleasant thing to be outside, Malcolm decided. After vomiting in a hedge, because that's what he did whenever he Side-Along Apparitioned, Clara waterproofed his shoes and trousers and they were on their way. It was still fucking cold, fucking snowy, just all around fucking miserable. There were some kids running around, having gotten the day off from lessons, though their glee could in no way mitigate the fact that there was still work to be done.
Before long, Clara had led Malcolm over towards where there was a boxy caravan sitting near the edge of a field, with lettering on the side that made it clear it was doubling as a field office. Ballantyne was already there, angrily pounding on the door.
"If you don't let me in, then by Merlin's beard I'm going to come in anyhow!" she shouted.
"Oi, cut the fucking aesthetic," Malcolm cussed loudly as they approached. "You're only making it worse."
"Don't you lecture me, you foul-mouthed Muggle," Ballantyne sneered. She kicked the lower part of the door with her pointed shoe and stepped back, waiting for Malcolm to do what she needed. He rested on the doorjamb and quietly knocked on the wooden surface.
"Hey man, cut the crap and let's talk about this like men," he said. Two seconds later and the door opened a crack, revealing a man slightly younger than him, yet outweighing him by fifty pounds of sheer muscle.
"I told the lady just what I'm telling you: this is my property now—no one else's. Now leave before I have you arrested for trespassing." He sounded Northern with a slight lilt of education on him—likely just as dangerous as Clara if he had to bet on it.
"On a day like today? Rozzers would just laugh us off unless it was genuinely important, considering how much they have to do otherwise." Malcolm shrugged and jerked his head to the side, motioning at the snow. "Kinda cold—think we could come in for a tic?"
"No, because I'm not letting those birds and their bloody parchment forgery anywhere near me," the man said, pointing at Clara and Ballantyne. "Just because you're Scottish doesn't mean you're part of the Caledonian Mafia—get the fuck out of here."
"Not part of the Caledonian Mafia, hmm…?" Malcolm reached underneath his coat and pulled out his Number 10 credentials, flashing the badge gratuitously. He got a nearly perverse sense of satisfaction as the expression on the man's face changed, realizing what sort of people he had crossed.
"This is a direct misuse of power," he said, face darkening.
"It's not if everything checks out legally," Malcolm replied. "Now no one's really at-fault here, just a large misunderstanding on either end, so I don't expect any sort of charges to hold up in court aside from whatever it would take to kick you off this plot, but do you really want to go and get your arse handed to you by a woman that shouts epithets about Merlin's fucking beard? Did you see the nip they've got playing him now? I doubt he could he could grow a damn thing."
The man glared through the crack in the doorway, not entirely certain he was impressed.
"Listen," Malcolm continued, "it's either you agree to go now and you haul this shit off when the roads are clear, or we return with a court order, the fucking Fuzz, and every news service in the area, all because you were too dense to realize that draining this wetland will do nothing to either take it out of a floodplain or help the local ecosystem any, let alone that it would be stealing thanks to nothing more than a lost deed copy. Do you really think you'd be able to get any contracts with a reputation like that?"
A moment passed with the man remaining unfettered before narrowing his eyes. "I'll leave, but don't think I won't be back."
"There's a good lad."
The door swung wide open and the man stood directly in the doorway, using the fact Malcolm was standing on a lower step to tower over him. "Don't patronize me, you Scots poof."
"Poof? You make it sound like if I was one, it'd be a bad thing."
"I will go to the papers with this, and it will make your lives all Hell."
"I'd like to see you try." Malcolm took the step up and glared directly into the man's eyes. "Clara…?"
With the man's eyes on Malcolm, Clara was able to whip out her wand and silently flick a spell towards her Muggle counterpart. His eyes flashed yellow and two of his teeth began to grow, giving his grin a disturbingly vampiric quality.
"You think you know Hell? I'll bring it to you, if you'd like."
"Jesus," the man swore. Malcolm could smell piss as the man stumbled off the steps and began to run away, leaving his caravan wide open as he tried to put as much distance between himself and his visitors as possible.
"That was fun," Malcolm laughed. He waited until Clara took the spell off him before closing the door and joining her and Ballantyne on the ground. "How'd you know that's what I wanted you to do?"
"You are predictable," she teased. She then turned to Ballantyne, attempting to not be completely smug. "I told you he would work."
"I still think he is uncouth and not suited for his position," the older woman replied.
"He's not bad if he gets the job done."
"The Muggle Prime Minister needs to get a handle on him."
"Oi, I'm right here." Ballantyne gave him a cursory look and then Apparated, thankfully vanishing into thin air. "Bitch."
"Now you know why I wanted someone else's help—too many people in the Ministry are too blinded by the idea of more top-level Quidditch teams to recognize the woman's bloody power trip."
"Any time, love," he said, giving her a genuine smile. He held out his arm again and glanced around quickly, making sure there was no one in their line of sight. "Can you at least drop us next to the toilet?"
She grabbed his arm again and smirked back—not a chance.