Disclaimer: I wish to make a shocking announcement. Harry Potter and all the Harry Potter characters are not mine. Nor are the plots from JK Rowling's published works or any of the Warner Brothers Harry Potter movies. Plus, I am writing this work of fanfiction with no intention of ever garnering a cent, dime, euro or knutt from a single word I produce. I recommend therapy to deal with the sudden trauma.

A/N: This is a story that I decided to get back to writing after a bit of writer's block with my other main fic/& sequels. I should warn you, it's as silly as they come!

I hope you enjoy it :)

The ultimate battle: Draco Malfoy versus Harry Potter

Draco Malfoy was more than ready to flex his Domineering-Bully muscle today. And, boy, did he need to give it a good work out. It had all but been ignored of late.

He'd been cramped up in his office for the past four weeks trying to get that bleeding Annual Ministry report finished, barely raising his head to eat, much less commune with anyone beyond the four walls of his office.

It goes without saying that he had gotten more than a bit stir-crazy: Get me THE HELL out of here.
And was dying to get back to life, pre-report, as soon as possible: I wonder what the weather has been like? Or moreover, whether there is a still a sun and a moon and a sky and a world bloody-well out there?

And now that he was just a strong coffee and quick proof-read away from resurfacing, he thought it would be as good a time as any to remind himself of what life as Draco Malfoy was like, without the bastard report.

Honestly…he was actually a little worried that he might lose his touch if he didn't tend to the much-needed upkeep of his authoritarian skills. With a surge of fear, he realised he'd probably been anything but a dictator in the past four weeks, missing all kinds of opportunities for promoting his own self-importance. In fact, momentarily frozen with terror, he wondered if he may have even been nice to some people while under the effects of his stressful-report-haze.

Well, that won't do…That won't do AT ALL.

As luck would have it, Higgins walked in at that point, providing Draco with the perfect opportunity to grab hold of the cliff edge and hoist himself back up and out of the report writing hole.

Draco's eyes grew into pointy daggers (the really hurt-y looking ones; you know, like, fully scary and sharp) and his jaw became like a clenched work of steel (perfectly chiselled of course, but strong and menacing looking as well at the same time. Heh heh…).

"HIGGINS!" Draco's voice was nothing short of thunderous (Good. Deep and foreboding. A flawless delivery).

Draco was most pleased with himself.

He eagerly studied his victim to take note of any desired impact.

Higgins appeared to shrink to half his size, looking more like a frightened mouse than a tall, six-foot forty-something man.


And then Higgins, a man who normally speaks calmly and clearly, began to stutter, "Y-yes…? Err…M-Mr M-Malfoy…?"


Draco Malfoy was feeling the blood flow once again to his well-toned Domineering-Bully muscle and was pleased to note, the four week hiatus had in no way caused any major muscle atrophy.

Then he remembered that Higgins was still standing there.

Oh, right. Errm. Think of something he might have done wrong. Or…make him do something for you.

"Higgins! What did I tell you about-"


Oh boy, he was a bit rusty.

Oh! How about this: "-coming into my office without buzzing through first?!"


Higgins eyes were now large and fearful. He seemed to be trying to form words but couldn't quite get his lips to move properly.

"Well?! Well?!" Draco continued with just the right amount of Impatience: Not so much so that it might have appeared that the man was important enough to bother Draco Malfoy, but then not too little either, so that it still remained clearly obvious that Draco Malfoy could rein anyone in at anytime for anything if he ever so pleased.

The man almost twice Draco's age practically cowered in the corner and began to mutter, "B-but – b-but…M-Mr M-Malfoy-"

"Yes," Draco said, his voice now swelling with arrogance and a touch of boredom.

But Higgins was still frozen.

"Well come on - What is it?! Speak up!"

"Y-you've never s-said that to me before. Err. Ever."


Oh. Oh crap.

Ermm. "Higgins. Look at me. Do I look like a man who has the time to tell every blithering person in this office what should be bleeding-well obvious to them in the first place?!"

"Nn-o M-Mr M-Malfoy-"

"Then do you also think I am the type of person who would allow people to just waltz into my office when ever they pleased?"

"No-No. N-no Mr M-Malfoy."

"Good. Then you will never again show your bumbling face in here without going through the proper process first."

Higgins nodded wildly. And then went to leave (i.e. was ready to run and run fast).


"Oh- Oh wait," Draco said in a now mildly excited tone. "Could you grab me one of those coffees? You know…the ones from the Muggle machine…down the hall?"

Higgins froze and raised an alarmed eyebrow. "O-of course."

"Oh, I'd love a large one. And could you make it double strength? With skinny milk? Oh - and two sugars?"


Draco nodded. "Good. Good." And then Draco turned back to his report. "Thanks Higgins!" he called out breezily as he opened the report to page one and started to whistle happily to himself.


Harry Potter was in the over-crowded elevator, squished in next to someone who smelt like salmon.

And as much as he liked well-cooked salmon on a plate, he did not like salmon-esc odour on other people. At all.

He screwed up his nose and inched towards the other direction, only to notice he had all but shuffled towards a toothless old witch with wild frizzy hair who was fixing him with a positively predatory and - Oh-GOOD-lord! - seductive leer.

Okay, I'll take the salmon then, he thought and shuffled quickly back towards the stinky-fishy person.

He decided to get out three floors too early – floor four - when crazy, scary lady began to edge towards him, closing the precious gap he had just created. A second longer, and he'd be crammed in between a rock and a hard place; that is a very bad smelling rock and a very scary, quite possibly a moment away from being groped, hard place (No – not that kind of hard place…get your minds out of the gutter! Besides, didn't you just read that she was positively putrid?! Hard was not even entering the equation.).

Harry stepped towards the open doors, deciding to take whatever the Ministry had in store for him on this level – even if it was a Hall of Fame dedicated entirely to Umbridge; one which included life-size photos of the 'woman' and took up the whole floor itself.

He stepped out of the elevator and breathed a sigh of relief that: 1. he could no longer smell stale-old fish, 2. he could no longer feel the dirty eyes of a stale-old witch on him, and 3. there was no Hall of Fame dedicated to stale-old Umbridge on this floor. Not that there would be. That stale-old bi-arrr-ch was in Azkaban. Care of one not-so-stale Harry Potter.

He breathed in the stuffy office air joyfully, as if it were pure oxygen itself, and made his way towards the stairwell.


Draco Malfoy handed the report to his long-nosed, incompetent boss Delta Pennyworth, delivering the important document a whole day earlier than it was actually due (Ha! Har!). And, as Draco had hoped, the look on Delta's horse-ish face was priceless. Plus, she began to babble on about how, in all her years at the Ministry, she had never known of a single year in which an extension for the report was not required, much less recall a time when the report had ever been early.

That's because, hello?! I'm DRACO MALFOY woman!

He then wandered off to get some lunch with a sprightly spring in his step but not without first sneering at the new kid in accounts, death-staring the grumpy middle-aged witch who always wore clothes that were hideously too-tight for her, followed by a particularly delightful look of distaste sent random-person-he-did-not-know's way.

All persons on the receiving end of such undeserving attention visibly shuddered as he passed by.

Heh heh…

Was there anything he could not do?! Was there any one he could not stand over? No, it seemed. Oh…it was good to be back!

He knew he was overusing that Bully-Domineering muscle of his – but, so what? It could withstand all kinds of abuse, surely.

And anyway, he was feeling positively alive again, for the first time in a whole month.

He walked into the men's room and caught his image in the reflection of the mirror.

Draco Malfoy you sly old snake, you. Are you not just the fucking greatest -or what?!

He swept some hair out of his eyes and looked approvingly at his twenty-five year-old face and body.

No, my friend. Not only are you fucking gorgeous. But you have the world at your finger tips. At your delicate, perfectly shaped finger tips.


Oh yeah, I'm the greatest, I'm the greatest, Oh yeah…he began to sing in his head.

It was all he could do to stop from dancing a little jig-of-self-love on the bathroom floor.


Harry raised an eyebrow. "So, when you say you want me to come and work here…what exactly do you mean?"

"I guess I mean: Come and work here."

Harry rolled his eyes. "What do you want me to actually do here?"

"Well…turn up at 9AM. Sit at a desk. Complete some menial tasks we've set for you. Take a long lunch. Waste time and chat by the water cooler for the better part of the day. Walk around with a busy-look on your face whenever possible. And avoid that evil woman Meryl – she is fucking evil, I swear. And leave at 5PM sharp, and that's it."


"Because we have to pay you overtime if you stay beyond five o'clock."

"No. Why do you want me to work here?"

"Oh. Well. A whole bunch of reasons."

"Such as?"

Ron suddenly looked around, over one shoulder first, and then over the other. "Because something big is brewing Harry," he whispered with large eyes.

Harry leaned forward and matched Ron's hushed tone and enlarged eyes, with a hint of amusement. "What?"

Ron bit his lip and paused. "I can't say."

Harry looked at him in alarm and then sat back, crossing his arms across his chest. "What?! So…You want me to take a job – a nothing job, by the sounds of it - at the fucking Ministry of all places - for some apparent big, important reason, that you can't in any way explain to me?"

Ron frowned and said hesitantly. "Yes."

"Fair enough. When do I start?"

Ron blinked. "What? Just like that?"

Harry shrugged. "Sure, why not?"

"Well, I thought you would have tried to, you know, get a bit more info out of me."

"Oh, well, do you want me to?"

"No, no."

"Are you sure?"



"Alright! Fine! The extra bit I wasn't sure whether I should tell you about or not was this: I'll need to set up a team, a special team…very soon…and I've been given strict instructions that the team must be made up of current staff only."

Harry nodded slowly. "Okay. Sounds intriguing." And then he went to stand and leave. "Good. So, I'll see you tomor-"

"Wait-wait. Aren't you going to try and ask what the team is for?!"

Harry sunk back down into his chair and looked at Ron humorously. "Why Ron. Why don't you tell me what this special team you speak of is for?" And then he continued dully, shaking his head and rolling his eyes, "And, before you try to brush me off, I won't take No for an answer. I…mean…it. You'll tell me and that's all there is to it."

Harry may have yawned mid-way through that last part.

But Ron grinned. "Fuck Harry you're pushy! Fine! Have it your way then! Okay, it's a special team to do with something you're really good at…and something you absolutely love!"

Harry nodded. "Hhmm. Cryptic. Anything else you can tell me but supposedly don't want to?"

"Yes! I'm hoping that, if I get my way, you'll also be running the whole team."

Harry's eyebrows shot towards his forehead. "Really?"

Ron nodded excitedly. "So…you'll start tomorrow?"


"But Harry. You've got to keep this all quiet."

"Don't worry Ron. Mum's the word on the whole Quidditch World Cup organising team thing," Harry whispered.

Ron's mouth dropped open. "What! How did you know?!"

Harry walked towards his door and pointed to the sign. "You're doing Bagman's old job Ron. As if it wouldn't have something to do with sport. Plus, you know…those hints… 'something I like'… 'something I'm good at'…there is only one sport that fits into that category."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Fucking - sometimes I forget that you did Auror training and can piece together little bits of information like a bleeding Muggle detective."

"Yeah. And….I can also read Top Secret memos that are sitting on top of your desk, right in front of me." He smiled and turned. "Bye Ron. See you tomorrow."


Draco Malfoy kept catching his reflection in shop windows as he walked down the street. And it only served to boost his feelings of self-importance today (which, by the way, were already reaching previously unheard-of levels).

He walked into The Smokey Dragon, a fine dining restaurant magically hidden within the Muggle part of town, and ordered a goat's cheese pasta with a celebratory glass of white wine. He sat back in his chair and, raising his glass to no one, made a toast to HIMSELF and wondered, quite seriously, if his estimations of how long it would take for him to be Minister for Magic were off. Way off.

Perhaps he'd get to that cushy all-powerful job even earlier!

In case you still hadn't quite got it, I will point out very clearly that Draco's confidence was on fire today. In fact, in this instance, it would be completely reasonable to wonder why his head had not yet blown off and zipped up into the sky like an over-inflated hot air balloon.

Now, when Malfoy was feeling such extreme confidence…the world had better watch out. No one was safe from his sneers. Old ladies, small children – even an inanimate post box and a street sign he didn't much like the look of received malicious icy glares.

A short while later, he coasted towards the Ministry building, walked through the entry way, crossed the foyer and headed towards the open elevator doors.

And was overcome by an awful-fishy smelling person who was standing right fucking next to him! Fucking Merlin! He sneered at them and then stepped obviously away with a loud retching, guttural sound that he in no way tried to hide. Only to find himself confronted with a fucking old harpy who appeared to want to jump his bones. Well, fuck No! You can't! So piss off!

But then he realised, he'd only said that in his head and she was still looking at him like all her merry little Christmases had come at once. "In your fucking dreams woman," he said venomously at the banshee, the drug of power and over-confidence rushing through his veins.

"In fact…" He moved his arms around his body in a large circular fashion, forcing all present company in the elevator to move away from him and into the cramped corners of the small square space. "That's right people. Step aside. Further – no, further. Especially You smelly person – and You, banshee woman. Good."

Tension filled the small elevator compartment while Draco Malfoy merely whistled merrily to himself and wondered if the Minister got their own private elevator. One which was completely harpy and stench free. Scratch that. One that was always empty, kept free for only him.


Harry headed towards the door to the stairs for fear that the elevator was still not safe. Merlin knows why he had the feeling that it still might not be, but something just told him to avoid it like the plague.

Instead he went with the bright idea of stopping on the floor three flights of stairs down and visiting Hermione.

Only, it turned out to not be such a bright idea. Not the catching up with Hermione-part. That was fine. Hermione was actually able to chat with him for a few minutes before her pathological commitment-to-work appeared as if it was about to get the better of her.

No, the bad part of it was….Draco Malfoy. Draco bloody Malfoy. And right now? He'd take salmon-smelling person, toothless witch, and Umbridge Hall of Fame over this.

From Hermione's cubicle, Harry could see Draco Malfoy sauntering along the hallway like he owned the place. But the last time Harry checked, this was the Ministry of Magic. Not the Ministry of Malfoy.

…Wasn't it?!

Just to be sure, Harry glanced quickly at the sign above Hermione's desk and was relieved to see the Ministry had not in fact changed names (Well, the Malfoy's had a lot of money…who knew what they were investing in these days…).


But with a second attack of fear, he checked the business cards on Hermione's desk too – just to be on the safe side - and was, once again, overjoyed to see the word Magic and not Malfoy in clear black writing next to the words Ministry of.

Thank Merlin. He'd just accepted a job here! Imagine working as pretty much one of Malfoy's fucking underlings?!

Harry didn't need to look up to know when Malfoy had finally spotted him. The guy had a gaze that was almost audible (like a screaming yelling person, standing right by his ear), if not physical (like a fucking hot poker sticking into him from a distance).

But, Harry Potter was not that easily perturbed…not even by screaming in his ear and hot poker thingys. The more the merrier!

Okay, maybe not the 'more' the 'merrier' as such…because ear drum damage and hot poker injuries were not really his thing and he could probably do without them both to be quite honest.

The point is…

Mr Draco Malfoy?

Bring. It. On!

A/N: Chapter 2 is on it's way…