Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

By Mad Maudlin

5. In which I am not allowed outside, Weasley is stubborn, and certain potions are not meant to be shaken up.

The next two days were spent sleeping, planning, and in a rather curious state of détente. Weasley and I got along remarkably well, except for the part where he refused to let me step outside.

"Why the hell not?"

"Dies has probably got people crawling the city. This is the first place I'd look if I were him."

"He's looking for you, too, you know."

Weasley just smirked. "I know a thing or two about concealment and disguise."

It was a strangely comfortable existence: Weasley did the cooking, I was forced to do the washing-up, he complained constantly about the time I spent in the shower and I got to watch him walk around the flat in various states of undress. As it happened, Weasley slept naked every night, and he didn't seem to realize that I knew about the French doors. Life, in that respect, was good.

(What? He's aesthetically pleasing.)

That first day, Weasley left me with an assortment of greasy pans and plates and went out in search of information. He came back with a copy of the Seer-Gazette, which he flung at my head. "There. So you can keep up on your press clippings."

I unfolded the paper and stared at the headline: FIRE RAVAGES KC BALLROOM, DOZENS INJURED. The accompanying photograph showed what I presumed to be the result of the second explosion; a large part of a wall seemed to be missing, and in the foreground a mediwizard was examining a suspiciously still body. I skimmed the rest of the article.

"...started by an explosion...no details...despite witness reports of two explosions...four still missing, including expat business mogul Drago Malfoy..."

"Drago?"

"I noticed that." Weasley was unfurling several large maps on the dinner table. "Look at the back page, while you're at it."

I flipped it over. Aside from a rather large advert for ear trumpets ("it's so light I forget I'm holding it!") and a small piece on some minor politician and his extramarital affairs, there was an article with the headline Alleged Smuggler Greenplate Found Dead in Custody – Authorities Call Suicide. "That's not our Greenplate, is it?"

"The very same."

I read quickly. It mentioned a few basic details about the smuggling operation—nothing more than Weasley had already told me—and his botched attempt to hang himself, but nothing more. "It doesn't say what he died of."

Weasley pinned the largest map to the wall with a few flicks of his wand. "None the reputable papers are, no. It's being hushed up."

"So what are the disreputable papers saying?"

He glanced at me. "The Killing Curse."

I dropped the paper into my lap. "You can't cast that on yourself."

"Exactly." Weasley pinned up a second map. "The disreputable papers are disreputable for a reason, of course, but I reckon somebody let something slip they shouldn't have."

I considered this for a moment. "Dies, of course."

"If he thought Greenplate was going to cop a deal or something, yeah." He picked up the third map, but there was no more space on the wall; he tapped it with his wand so it would float in midair instead. "Though it takes some doing—not to mention bollocks—to stroll into a hospital loaded with Enforcers and kill a bloke under suicide watch."

"Indeed." I thought for a moment. "But this does mean that I'm the last one left who knew about Dies' exports, doesn't it? There's no one else?"

Weasley paused, and gnawed on his thumbnail. "I hadn't thought of that, but yeah."

I set the paper aside; it no longer seemed interesting. Instead, I surveyed the maps. "What did you find?"

He pointed to each of the three maps in turn. "Public Floos, permanent Portkeys and approved Apparation zones for the eastern half of the country. And this—" he pointed to a fourth map, still folded on the table, "is just a plain map, but I reckoned we could use it to plot the course, so to speak."

My plan—all right, our plan—was going to work, I was sure, because unlike the fiasco of the bomb and the tunnel in Kansas City, it was simple. We were going to take publicly available magical transit all the way to New York. By sticking to crowds (on which Weasley insisted) and moving continuously, if erratically, we would stay below Dies' range of detection and, hopefully, one step ahead of him all the way to the coast. Actually getting into the Confederation building in New York City would be another matter—according to Weasley, access was extremely restricted for security reasons—but this technique would, I was certain, get us most of the way there unharmed.

So, as I said, we spent most of the following two days determining ahead of time the route we were going to take. Well, arguing about it is probably more accurate. Weasley insisted on some of the most bizarre detours, and muttered darkly about surveillance; on the other hand, when I innocently suggested we split up in Detroit and reunite in Paducah, he became nothing short of apoplectic, and he seemed not to think that we would ever need to eat or sleep. Whichever of us became too fed up to argue the fastest usually lost, and because Weasley is a stubborn son of a bitch, reaching that point usually took several hours. I suppose I could've given in earlier on a few points, but you must understand, with Weasley these sort of things are matters of pride: he get unbearably smug when he wins.

Weasley also set about procuring supplies, but I was forced to take over certain responsibilities after I caught him frowning over a handwritten list of ingredients in the kitchen. I naturally read over—well, all right, around—his shoulder. "What sort of a potion is that?"

He scowled and tried to hide the list. "Hair dye."

"Hair dye?"

"You'll admit mine is a bit conspicuous."

I snatched the list out of his hand—thus proving, I think, that my Quidditch skills have no totally decayed—and read it over closely. "Please tell me you weren't actually going to try brewing this."

"Why not?" He tried to snatch the list back and missed by a mile. "I've done it before."

I blinked. "And you've still got all your fingers?"

"...I wrote that out from memory."

I sighed. "I thought you sat the Potions NEWT."

"That was seven years ago!"

I went into the dining room, summoned a quill, and rewrote the list into a combination of ingredients that would not kill or maim anyone. "Here. Don't say I never gave you anything."

He examined the list with furrowed brows, then said, "I don't suppose you know a basic a Confusion Concoction off the top of your head?"

"Why?"

"Could be useful in a pinch. Keep people from following us."

He looked hopeful and earnest. I sighed.

Yes, I spent the night before we departed slaving like a house elf over various cauldrons on the cooker to fulfill Weasley's requests. To his credit, he participated up to his minimal capacity—chopping ingredients and making unhelpful remarks along the lines of, "If you can brew up all these potions, why can't you cook?"

"Cooking is nothing like potions-making."

"It's the exact same steps—chopping, boiling—"

"Cooking is servant work."

If I'd know the plan would come essentially to naught, I might've mixed up a few other potions while I was at it; as it was, though, we were caught completely off-guard.

The morning we had determined to depart, Weasley ordered me to change clothes three times, drilled me on our itinerary, and burned the maps. He then spent an hour and a half being thoroughly annoying.

"Can you do a Misdirection Charm?" he asked as he paced.

"Yes, Weasley."

Up, down, up. "What about a Confundus Curse?"

"Yes, Weasley."

Down, up. "Disillusionment charm?"

"Yes, Weasley."

Down, up, down, up, down—"What about—"

"Weasley," I said, "if you are always this nervous, it's no wonder the Aurors kicked you out."

"They didn't kick me out." He glared at me and went back to pacing, muttering to himself.

At half past eleven he finally chucked a large satchel at me and shouldered one of his own. He ran his hand through his hair and seemed surprised not to find it streaked with brown dye. "Malfoy—please don't do anything stupid."

"I won't if you won't."

"Be serious."

"Weasley," I said, "people want to kill me. You would not believe how serious I am."

It took him several minutes to re-secure the door, while I examined the alley; aside from the blasted gray cat and a bunch of overflowing dumpsters, it was empty. Our plan was to use the Floo at the inn in St. Louis' wizarding district, which went by the delightful name of Virtue Alley, to start off on our whirlwind tour of the eastern United States. We walked (yes, more of that) a suitable distance from the flat, then Apparated to the inn, which is where we hit the first snag.

"What do you mean," Weasley asked viciously, "there's a wait?"

The bartended gestured to the queue of harassed-looking people in front of his fire. "This is our busiest time of day," he said, almost apologetically. "I mean, if you'd come a little earlier—"

I cut in, "Where do we get in line?"

"Well...at this point, we're really just giving out numbers. Which reminds me." He clanged a large iron bell hanging over the taps and bellowed, "Numbers under forty!" A depressingly large number of people rose from their seats, until the queue now stretched the length of the bar.

Weasley observed this, too several deep breaths, and said, "Let's have a number, then."

We were seventy-seven.

The bartender offered us free drinks, which we declined; actually, I did the declining while Weasley dragged me to a table in the corner. He had that old oatmeal look again. "It's not that bad," I said.

"Yes," he said, "it is."

"So, we'll be delayed. Change of plans."

He rapped the table with his knuckles. "Look at the lot that just came up to the bar."

I looked, and wished I hadn't. A half-dozen burly wizards had appeared at the bar, with a look about them that I didn't like at all. They were all wearing expensive robes and quite a lot of jewelry, and appeared to be showing photographs to the bartender. One of them raised his hand to show to levels—my height, roughly, and Weasley's. "Shit."

"We have to run for it," he hissed. "The next public Portkey won't leave for an hour—"

"So we'll Apparate."

His eyes narrowed. "Try it."

The bruisers were coming towards us; I stood up and got a good grip on my wand and my satchel, flicked my wrist—

Well. I suppose I could describe the feeling, but one really can't fully grasp the experience of rebounding off an Anti-Apparation Jinx until one actually does it. I shall nevertheless make an attempt: take every hangover you've ever had, combine it with a bad case of the flu, toss it inside a large metal drum, and pound on the ends of the drum with iron hammers. Then throw it off a cliff. I collapsed back into my seat, shaking all over, barely able to think at least I didn't splinch myself...

Thankfully Weasley had the sense to haul me up and out of the inn while I was still getting my bearings. "That was an Anti-Apparation Jinx," was the first thing I managed to say.

"Brilliant work, Malfoy."

You try being intelligent in that situation; I shook off his arm and tried to overcome the strange vibrating feeling inside my skull. "But we Apparated in—"

"Which means this was trap."

He grabbed hold of my sleeve and kept pulling me forward through the ebb and flow of the midmorning shoppers. "Trap?" I echoed. "How the hell could it be a trap?"

"I have no idea, but we have to find another fire."

"Where?" I shook off his arm again and paused to rub my face. "We can't just go up to a shop and say, 'Excuse me, we're being stalked by a criminal gang, could we please use your Floo—?'"

"Keep walking!"

We marched along in silence; I had to grab hold of Weasley's satchel to bring him down to a manageable pace. The Gringott's branch at the end of the alley loomed ever closer, but when I opened my mouth to ask him if where, if ever, he indeed to stop, he jabbed me in the ribs with his elbow. Then I noticed our company: more bruisers, a bit smaller than the ones in the bar and dressed far less flashy. They were walking nest to us, in front of us—even, if I caught the reflections in the storefront mirrors properly, behind us. Traps within traps.

We suddenly turned down a side street—I'm not certain whether it was Weasley or the gang of cretins or both taking the lead. Unlike the main thoroughfare, it was nearly deserted. "Weasley," I whispered, "any time you wanted to stage a dramatic escape would be just fine with me."

"Wait for it."

We walked, and walked, until it was just Weasley and I and about six of Dies' men (that I could see, anyway) surrounding us like an honor guard. I couldn't keep my eyes moving fast enough to follow them all; Weasley stared ahead with a fixed expression, appearing completely oblivious. The end of the alley loomed in sight, a sturdy brick wall flanked by decrepit buildings. At that moment I seriously considered fleeing on my own; the only thing stopping me was the possibility of another Anti-Apparation Jinx.

Then I noticed Weasley reach into his satchel. He groped around for a moment, then began to shake something rather violently. I frowned at him; he winked at me, and pulled out the bottle of Confusing Concoction, which is a potion that does not take well to being shaken up. It was bubbling violently in its bottle and giving of pink and orange sparks.

Weasley whistled sharply; the two bruisers walk in front of us turned around, just in time for the bottle of potion to smash at their feet.

I'd never seen what happened to a shaken-up Confusing Concoction before, and it turns out it's rather interesting; if I hadn't been in mortal peril, I might've taken notes. The potion converted to a vapor almost instantly, quickly filling the narrow street. I held half a breath; Weasley pulled his shirt up over his mouth and nose and ran for it, dragging me behind him, though the thick of the cloud.

Curses whizzed over our heads and pockmarked the street. We made it into the shadow of the nearest building, around the back, and through a door that Weasley charmed so hard it nearly came off its hinges. The first floor appeared to be empty; I groaned, and he growled. "Upstairs."

"If the building's empty, we're trapped—"

"Just come on!"

He took the stairs two and three at a time, and I struggled to keep up. The second floor was just a landing with five doors. Weasley started pounding on them, shouting "Open up! Open the fuck up!" which I really didn't think was terribly productive, but I didn't have time to tell him so because a curse struck me just below the knee.

I collapsed to the floor; I was completely ration and clear-headed, mind you, but a sort of tingling numbness spread out in waves from the point of impact, almost like an intense, full-body Jelly Legs Jinx. I tried to say "Weasley, can you give me a bit of assistance here, I think I'm in mortal peril," but what came out was more along the lines of "Weough ugh uhnnn." He swore, and dragged me around a corner after sending a few hexes blindly down the staircase.

I found myself propped up against a door, the only one Weasley hadn't been pounding and shouting on. He rattled the knob, pounded a few times, and then said "Oh, fuck it," and pointed his wand at it. "Alohomora!"

The door didn't just unlock, it swung open, and I cracked my head against the floor, which shows you just how much consideration Weasley had for my safety and well being considering that he was meant to be saving my life. He grabbed me under the arms and dragged me through, kicking the door shut behind him as he called "Hello, sorry, we need to use your fire—"

Except the room was quite empty. The sparse furniture was covered in white clothes, the floors were coated in dust; but, thankfully, there was a fireplace, though it was dead and cold. Weasley dumped me limply on the floor (though, I will grant, less violently than before) and I heard him pawing about near the fire, mumbling to himself. My head was pointing in the wrong direction to see anything except the door of the room, and the knob beginning to twist—

"Aha!" Weasley shouted, then, "Incendio!" I heard a fire roar into life and smelled the peculiar odor of Floo powder in the air.

The door was beginning to open—

Weasley grabbed me and hauled me back into the fireplace; he shifted until I was slumped into his chest, nearly vertical; "The Dirty Goat!" he said, and my last impression was of the door of the flat swinging open.

This is how we ended up at the filthiest wizarding pub in Cincinnati, Ohio.