A/N: Please enjoy the next installment! Thank you again to everyone who reviews, follows, and favorites. You are so, so appreciated!
As it turns out — to no surprise — the tiny amount of occlumency I used to pack away the images of Draco Malfoy soaping up his naked body has come around to bite me in the arse. Of all the stupid things I have done since landing in Crail, this might very well take the cake. The funny thing is, I knew as soon as I activated the neural-specific magic that I would regret using it. It is probably what exacerbated the curse in the first place, but I thought the outcome would be worth it if I were free from thinking about him like that forever.
Now, to stave off the painful consequences of my self-inflicted stupidity, I'm high on my third dosage of questionable potion, still cringing from being chewed out from one side of the Earth to the other by a grumpy wizard.
Oh, and how grumpy he was.
If I hadn't already been in excruciating agony, I think Draco might have shaken me for using so much magic in such a short period of time.
'You're a fool, Granger,' he'd said over and over, rubbing an herbal salve on my temples until the potion's euphoria rushed through my veins. 'A fucking fool.'
I couldn't even be angry with him over the accusation because he wasn't wrong.
As soon as the most pressing issue was abated, Draco resumed shrinking and packing the remainder of the cottage's furniture into his satchel. Apparently, the Giverny safehouse isn't ready yet for occupation, which would have been nice to know when he shared this 'brilliant' contingency plan yesterday. His parents were supposed to ward the perimeter and make it habitable, but they haven't arrived from wherever they are, and Draco isn't sure when they will. All I could get out of him was that the portkey wasn't supposed to be used this early.
Draco is in the lavatory now with the door wide open. The wall is blocking my view, but I can hear the tinkling sound of him using the toilet. A blush creeps across my face, followed by a scowl.
"Have you no shame?" I call, bristling as Draco flushes the loo and washes his hands. "Even Harry and Ron shut the lavatory door."
The offender appears a moment later, thumbs tucked in his robe pockets, entirely too casual considering the situation and what he's just done.
"None whatsoever," he deadpans. "Besides, I'm not leaving you alone again so you can make another play of frying your brain. This is your life for the next few hours, Little Witch, until we find a healer."
The huff that leaves my chest is neither mature nor graceful, and I'm reasonably confident I've just sprayed spittle across the blankets.
"Where did you get it, anyhow?" I ask, jerking my chin towards his discarded satchel.
"Get what?" asks Draco, joining me on the bed. "These dashing good looks? Most people say I take after my father, though I have my mother's eyes."
"What? That is not… Ugh. I'm talking about the portkey."
Draco sighs and checks his timepiece.
"It's the top of the hour, just so you know. We leave at half past."
"Great. How do I know we won't be cursed as soon as you pull off the cloth? You said the portkey wasn't rendered by the Ministry, so where did you get it?"
Draco laces his fingers behind his head, the picture of relaxed as he leans into the pillows.
"Illegal artefact creation was another one of dear aunty Bella's talents. Mother stole it from her room. Took her ages to break the tampering wards and reconfigure it."
"Your mother stole from her sister? From the Dark Lord's General?"
A grim smile dampens Draco's face, the same glimmer of reluctance he's shared whenever his family is mentioned, no matter the context.
"Yep. Then my father took great pleasure in killing the bitch—speaking of my aunt, just to be clear—a few weeks later. We're one big happy family, the Malfoy-Blacks."
I have never been one to whistle, though it seems appropriate to do so now. The harsh cast on Draco's face softens as I blow air more akin to a raspberry.
"The entire situation is…." I struggle for an appropriate word. "... Unfortunate. Does it bother you that the Manor is gone?"
I can feel his weighted gaze, though I refuse to meet it and haven't done so since he called me a fool. It's not that I'm holding a grudge — I'm not, I swear — it's just that I'm unable to look into his eyes without remembering everything else as he stood before me naked, all flushed and heaving and absolutely sinful.
"Seriously?" says Draco. "Of course, it bothers me, but the grounds were already corrupted by all the dark magic. Housing a small army of murderers who kill where they sleep will do that to the ley lines, no matter how ancient or powerful they are. The entire place would have had to be razed and rebuilt, anyway."
I pick at my makeshift splint while processing all of this, pulling at the loose threads. It's easy to forget all the trauma Draco has no doubt lived through when he acts so composed most of the time, but the casual way he mentions murder speaks volumes about what type of atmosphere was at the manor.
It would be disingenuous of me to pretend that I know what surviving a chronic, terrible environment is like. In fact, Harry, Ron, and I have lived quite a sheltered life these past few months—recent events notwithstanding—away from skirmishes and lethal threats.
And in a way, I've been grateful.
"Will you ever go back?"
"To Wiltshire?"
"Yes."
Draco considers the question, his knee shaking the bed.
"If the Order proves they have a spine and can actually vanquish the Dark Lord? Then yeah, I'll go back. To whatever's left. Hopefully, the peacocks survived."
"Peacocks?"
Draco doesn't elaborate further, which is probably for the best. I already had a mini panic attack when I thought of all the house-elves fleeing from the fire, though Draco assured me that their bonds were severed and they all escaped.
We talk a little more about what he'll have to do to cleanse the land of all the darkness, a practical tone to the conversation, and fall into an easy silence as the sun dips lower in the sky. Now that it is quiet in the cottage, I can't help but ruminate on what transpired earlier, stealing glances at Draco even though I know I shouldn't. Even though I know it's stupid. But underneath those loose-fitting, inky black robes is a chiselled work-of-art, a body meant to be admired. It is a crime, really, that such a fine figure exists and that it belongs to him, of all people, someone who already possesses so much.
Draco's scoff startles me out of my reverie.
"Why are you being so bloody weird? For fuck's sake, Granger. You've been odd all evening. Spit it out."
"I'm not being weird." To punctuate how incredibly normal I am, I uncross my eyes and squint at his jaw. "You're the one who's… Odd. Only one of us was flitting about the cottage like a hurricane, stealing everything in sight, and it wasn't me."
Draco chuckles, and I realise before he speaks that I am not going to like what he says.
"Ahh. Alright. I know what this is about." He pats my knee like we are old chums, his voice taking on a teasing tone. "It's just a cock, Granger. There are what, three billion of them on the planet? Chances are you'll run into a few more."
A furious flush blooms across my cheeks.
"What!? Oh my God, Malfoy. I am not discussing 'that' with you."
"Discussing what? Call it by its name, Granger. Don't be shy," he says, a challenge in his voice. "It's a cock."
"Absolutely not. That's… That's… Bloody hell. That is a vulgar word."
Draco's shoulders are shaking with how hard he is trying to suppress his laughter.
"Then what will you call it, then? A penis? How clinical."
"Shut up."
"A tallywacker?"
"Oh my God."
"A pork sword?"
"Enough! What is the matter with you?"
Draco's eyes are smugger than they've ever been, all crinkled in the corner with mirth, and I am the fool who has made the mistake of falling right into their trap.
"There she is," he says, all fond and smiling like he hasn't just absolutely scandalised me. "The brave little Gryffindor, staring down the big, bad bogeyman. Who knows? She might even puff up her chest and fight him."
With a huff, I blow a curl from my eye and lift my nose at him.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Being smacked around by a girl?"
Draco bites his lip for a fraction of a second before his face smooths into a blank mask. "I think I'd prefer gentle handling, actually, but if you're offering…."
"I'm not," I quickly say, trying my hardest to sound put-off rather than squeaky.
"Well." Draco checks his timepiece, a smirk curling on his lips. "It's funny, isn't it? You've flashed your vulva multiple times without a care in the world, yet the mere mention of a cock has you blushing like a virgin on her wedding night."
It is so, so tempting to use wandless magic to crush Draco's thick head with the rafters.
"I don't know what the hell you think you've seen, Malfoy, but it certainly wasn't my… My…." I think I might actually combust as I choke out the word. "… Vulva."
Draco shrugs and crosses his arms.
"On the loo? Or have you forgotten? Don't think those little fingers of yours hid anything." He has the presence of mind to blush as my jaw unhinges, backtracking in his boldness. "What? It wasn't like I was trying to look. I tried to cover you! But I'd say I have a pretty clear picture of everything now."
After several sputtering false starts, I finally manage to grind out an indignant, "A clear picture of what, pray tell? My mons pubis? My untamed bush? I told you I haven't shaved. There is no way you saw anything worth waxing poetic about."
Draco rubs his jaw, muttering, "Far be it from you to tell me what I find attractive."
"Oh my God." I think that's done it — I think I am actually on fire. "Just stun me, please," I say, squeezing my eyes shut, not caring if I am being dramatic. "Put me out of this misery."
Draco tsks at me.
"Fine, Granger. I apologise if that was too far. It was a joke. Friends joke, right? You can keep staring at my chin if it makes you feel better. Just know that I won't be returning the favour."
As I continue my efforts to ignore him, calculating complex arithmancy equations in my head with a proficiency that would make Professor Vector proud, Draco mutters about the delicate constitution of Gryffindors and leaves the bed. When I peek to check where he's gone, he's brooding at the window like an ill-tempered statue, palms flat on the sill and shoulders hunched.
A few minutes pass before Draco suddenly jerks and knocks his skull against the frame, cursing as he leans so close to the glass that his breath must be fogging it.
"I don't fucking believe it," he says, his voice a growl. "What the fuck?"
The sharp thrill that runs up my spine is immediate.
"What? You don't believe what?"
My heart pounds as I crane my neck to try to glimpse around Draco's shoulders, but it is impossible to see.
"Malfoy! Move! What is it?"
When Draco abandons the ledge and graces me with his front, his expression is equal parts furious and relieved. There is only one reason in the world for him to wear such a face, and my heart sings like a choir of angels in a chorus of gratitude to God.
"It's the brigade, Granger. Harry fucking Potter and the Order of the Phoenix."