𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 2008

On One's Knees

Title: On One's Knees
Team: Fanon
Author: pir8fancier
Prompt: Strength
Wordcount: 32,239
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Lots of swearing, I know that bugs some people
Summary: Five years after the final battle at Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy has been paroled from Azkaban and works nights as a janitor at The Daily Prophet. Harry Potter, recently married to Ginny Weasley, is training as a Healer at St. Mungo's. One wastebasket=one head injury=our story.

Friday, September 20, 2004, 11:34 p.m.

I checked my wand. Fifteen spells left. Fuck. I had only fifteen spells to last the rest of the month. And autumn had come early this year. Which meant I had to choose between casting Warming Charms on my room or using my monthly quota of magic to do the most onerous cleaning chores at The Daily Prophet.

I clamped my mouth shut and stifled the urge scream "Fuck you" at the tens of dustbins I had yet to empty and acres of floors I had yet to sweep, because the bottom line was I needed this job. Four years in Azkaban hadn't dulled anyone's memories. I'd applied for no fewer than twenty positions and been bodily thrown out of sixteen places; the other four had set their dogs on me.

"Not my problem, Malfoy," Weasley had chirped after I'd gone back to his office empty handed, nursing a dog bite on my arm. "The rules of your parole state that you must have proof of employment no less than two weeks after your release. We see this as an attitude problem that another six months in Azkaban should cure. You're just not trying hard enough."

Not trying hard enough. Typical layabout Death Eater, just dying to get back to that luxurious cell.

When I'd appeared the next day with written proof that I'd been hired--thank you, Hugo Greengrass--Weasley's disappointment was so manifest that I half expected him to have a stroke from sheer frustration. But then he read I was being hired by the Prophet at starvation wages as the night janitor; I'd be little more than a glorified house-elf. "Perfect job for a ferrety little prat like you," he grinned. If he couldn't send me back to Azkaban, he'd make sure my life was utter hell outside of it.

One more floor to clean and then I'd be on my weekend. Fuck, my knees hurt tonight. Using my broom as a cane, I leaned on it to take some of the weight off as I made my way around the office. Each waste tin was emptied, the floor around each desk swept. Most people didn't even bother with their rubbish bins; they'd drop their rubbish on the floor. Let the Death Eater pick it up. Which I did. Because it was my job.

And that cunt Brown. Her idea of fun was to send everyone owls filled with glitter, so that a great deal of my time was spent sweeping it up. Brown wrote the Agony Aunt column. Her advice was always full of shit. I wondered how many lives she'd fucked up with her vapid replies.

One knee locked up. I stopped to rub it. "Move, you bastard," I begged. I'd been a little too cautious with the salve, trying to make it last another couple of days. The minute the weather turned, Chalmers probably chuckled with glee, knowing I'd be lathering it on. Open up, Draco. If I could make it out of bed, I'd be in that dickhead's apothecary shop tomorrow afternoon, silently holding out the bottle for more salve. That little bald toad would lick his lips, his hands fluttering in anticipation, followed by a squeaky, "Oh, yes, Mr Malfoy, I was expecting you. Shall we conduct our business in the backroom?"

Just once, just once I was dying to say out loud, in front of everyone, "No, you mother-fucking ponce. How about I blow you right here? Because you and I know I don't have the money to pay you for that salve, and if I don't get it, I can't walk. Considering that my mouth on your dick is the currency in question, unzip your trousers right now."