Value for Money

Really, if you looked at it in just the right way, he was doing this for his family. He had an obligation, not just to keep his job, but to excel at it, impress the Minister, and be promoted. After all, he had three mouths to feed at home, and another on the way. He was a family man, a head of household, a breadwinner.

And he couldn't get any work done in this condition.

Things had been going pretty well (his manager had even called him by the correct surname on two separate occasions) until the headaches began. Terrible, excruciating, debilitating headaches that felt as if his skull were two sizes too small for his brain.

He had put forth this very theory during a Sunday dinner at the Burrow...that perhaps his intelligence was increasing at such a rapid pace that the bones of his cranium simply could not keep up...but it was less well received than he would have liked. Which is to say that Fred and George erupted in hysterical laughter, and Ron snorted mashed potatoes through his nose.

"It's nothing to do with your pea-sized brain, Ignat," said George. "You've just got a bad case of DSB."

"My middle name, as you well know," said Percy, "is Ignatius. If you're going to insist on using it, then do me the courtesy of pronouncing it correctly." And then, knowing it was a mistake but unable to stop himself, he added, "What do you mean, DSB?"

George smirked. "Debilitating sperm build-up."

"That'll be enough of that!" said Molly, leaning over and rapping Fred sharply on the head with a spoon. Which wasn't strictly fair, of course, but he was the closer of the two.

Percy flushed a deep crimson. He was certain the remark had been nothing more than a random insult; surely the twins had no way of knowing that Audrey, who at eight months was giving new meaning to the phrase "great with child," had not let him anywhere near her Personal Area since the pregnancy had been confirmed. She had never been especially enthusiastic in the bedroom to begin with, and although the doctors assured him that there was no medical reason for her to avoid marital relations, she insisted that they abstain "just to be on the safe side."

And uncomfortable and frustrated though he was, Percy considered himself too much of a gentleman to forcefully insist on his marital rights. Although he could have. Really. Even though Audrey had threatened him with a permanent Reducio hex the last time he had edged over onto her side of the bed.

Nor was he willing to take matters into his own hands. However much his libertine brothers (and even his father, on that one horribly awkward and best-forgotten occasion) might deny it, Percy was convinced that there was plenty of scientific evidence that the reprehensible habit of self-abuse led to all manner of mental and physical ills.

So he suffered the martyrdom of celibacy in silence. Well, not exactly in silence, since he did find ways to mention to Audrey that his need for the regular release provided by intercourse had not stopped with the conception of their second child. But he certainly had not mentioned it to anyone else, so George's remark had to be a shot in the dark. It had to be.

It did make one wonder, though. Could that really be the cause of the headaches? It made sense on a certain level. A married man had certain physical needs, after all, and it couldn't possibly be healthy to repress them for months on end.

Still, he might never have acted on the theory had he not borrowed Fred's overcoat to go to the corner shop for bread and discovered, in the pocket, a pale lavender business card promising "discreet entertainment for the discerning witch or wizard."

When Zelda asked him what type of girl he preferred, he thought guiltily of plump, fair Audrey and said, "Er...petite. And dark." She had given him a knowing little smile and returned with a diminutive Asian girl clad in a translucent white negligee, whom she had introduced as Malavi.

Now the two of them were alone in a dimly lit bedroom, and Percy's chest felt as though it were full of mice. His mouth was dry. His palms were sweating.

And his penis was flaccid.

Lifeless. Unresponsive. Flabby. Completely limp, the uncooperative bastard.

After desperate months of uncontrollable spontaneous erections whenever he so much as looked at a fully-clothed model on an advertising hoarding, his disobliging member was now as soft as a ripe brie.

The girl was kneeling between his knees, looking seductively up at him from under thick black lashes.

"How about a drink to help you relax?" she cooed, and he nodded mutely.

She rose and crossed to the sideboard, where there was a small collection of decanters.

"Firewhisky OK?" she asked, turning to look at him over her shoulder.

He nodded again, wiping his palms surreptitiously on the coverlet.

The door banged open, and a girl dressed only in an oversized pair of black silk boxers flew through it and launched herself at Malavi.

"You lying WHORE!"

On one of the many subsequent occasions when he replayed this scene in his mind, it would occur to Percy that it was a bit odd to insult a prostitute by calling her a whore. At the moment, however, lexical analysis was the furthest thing from his mind. In fact, he was paying very little attention to what either girl was saying.

The girl in the black boxers was, he realized, absolutely identical to Malavi. They must be twins. Identical, perfect, luscious, ripe twins, rolling over and over on the carpet, clawing at each other with flawlessly manicured nails, and yanking each other's long black hair.

Distracted by a sudden sensation, Percy looked down.

His penis was as hard as granite.

The boxers, too loose to begin with, had slid down the second girl's exquisite legs, and were now entangling her delicate ankles and hampering her movement. Panting with exertion, Malavi seized the opportunity to climb astride her and pin her to the floor.

"Fucking bitch cunt WHORE!" shrieked the girl.

Percy's hand, entirely of its own volition, grasped his straining member and began stroking it. Surely this didn't count as onanism –not when he was watching two exquisite creatures thrashing sweatily about on the floor just a few feet away. Four perfect legs, writhing and twisting and kicking; four perfect brown-peaked breasts, heaving and swaying and sometimes even slapping into each other; oh god, he had never seen, had never even imagined, anything like this in his whole life, oh god, oh god, oh GOD!

Zelda burst through the open door, a purple wand extended in front of her like a dueling foil.

"Abiungo!" she cried, and the two girls sprang apart like snapped elastic. "What the hell is the meaning of this?"

When neither girl responded, she looked shrewdly from one to the other, then pointed her wand at the girl with the black boxers around her ankles.

"You," she said, "are sacked. Pack your things and go."

The girl opened her mouth to protest, but Zelda held up a palm. "You know my policy about the use of controlled potions in the House. What's more, you've very likely lost us one of our most lucrative clients. You're sacked. Hastings will see you out. And you," she said tersely to Malavi, "I will see in my office. Immediately."

Percy had hoped the three of them had forgotten his presence entirely, and was trying to reach his underpants with a furtively extended foot when Zelda turned to him and handed him a towel from a drawer in the sideboard.

"Sir, I do apologize," she said smoothly, careful not to let her gaze drop below his face. "The House will issue you a credit for two free sessions. Just see Hastings and he'll arrange it."

Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded, and she swept from the room.

A moment later, and three doors down, her second apology was not so well received.

"What do you mean, indisposed? And why wasn't I informed earlier? I cancelled a very important appointment to fit this in!"

"I am truly sorry, madam, and I can assure you it will never happen again."

Furious, Narcissa Malfoy cracked the side of her custom-made riding boot with her whip.

"See that it doesn't."