Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

By Mad Maudlin

6. In which there is drunkenness, nudity and levitation, in that order.

Naturally I didn't immediately realize that we were going to the filthiest pub in Cincinnatti, Ohio. What I realized was that it is extremely uncomfortable to Floo two at a time. Weasley was holding on to me as best he could, but the channel is simply too narrow; every single one of my limp extremities banged and scraped against the dozens of grates we passed, and when the rough edges snagged my clothes I felt as if I were being undressed by an irate cheese grater. Weasley at least spared one hand to keep my head from lolling about, which is likely the only reason I still have it.

He fell over on top of me when the fire at the Dirty Goat coughed us out. After the deafening rush of the Floo, it took a moment for me to register the mid-level hum of conversation and clicking cutlery. Weasley was pushing himself up and rubbing soot from his eyes when a shadow fell across us both. "Good morning, gentleman," said a voice that was really quite menacing. "Can I help you?"

And Weasley, kneeling over me, suddenly changed dramatically; his face fell loose, his eyelids dropped, and his words came out in a boozy slur, minus the actual booze. "M' mate's drunk," he said with a shit-eating grin. "I think we got the wrong grate, though."

"Is that it?" The shadow loomed closer; thinking quickly, I shut my eyes.

"Yeah," Weasley said. "Yeah. Could 'choo, um, let us have a room? For a bit? 'Cause he's fucking pissed, mate, four sheets to the wind...or seven...or somethin'..."

I waited for a severely long time before the bartender said, "Of course. I'll go up and unlock it for if you can get your—uh—friend up."

I peeked once I heard footsteps moving away; Weasley made a great show of climbing to his feet, then threw my arm over his shoulders and dragged me slowly up the stairs. My head swung loose on my shoulders, and I got a good look at two old warlocks perched at the bar with bottles; no wonder the bartender hadn't remarked on us being "drunk" at midday.

One of the warlocks spoke while Weasley was struggling with me, and I overheard the following exchange, which I swear I record now verbatim:

"That's disgusting."

"Yep."

"Disgrace to the name of wizard."

"Yep."

"I betcha they're from Massachusettes."

"Eh?"

"He was dropping his ar's."

"Mmm."

"You know the Muggles made it legal up there?"

"Yep."

"Disgusting."

Weasley dragged me into the room above the pub, which was dingy and stuffy with summer heat. He thanked the bartender in his mock slur, but once the door shut he dumped me on the nearer bed and started flitting about the room, sweeping his wand over every surface and muttering incantations under his breath.

After a few minutes of this, I tried to say, "Weasley, get your freckly arse over here and perform a countercurse!" It came out as "Llllnnnuhhh."

"I know, Malfoy, I'm busy," he said, without even looking at me. "Just, just sit still for a second."

"Nngggahh!" With tremendous effort, I flopped one my arms against against the headboard. It hurt.

"Sorry!"

He layered so many Imperturbable charms on the door, windows, even the bloody ceiling, that the air faintly buzzed around us. He then did a charm I didn't recognize, that outlined all the room in a thin red haze for a split second. Then, finally, he sat next to me on the bed and spent seven and a half minutes chanting countercurses until he found the one that brought feeling back into my limbs. This was unfortunate, because it finally allowed me to feel the bumps, scraped and gouges I'd acquired in the Floo, which were, as I said, numerous. I sat up and rubbed the side of my head, where Weasley had let me fall over; I could feel a bit of a lump. "Took you long enough."

He rolled his eyes at me you. "You're welcome."

"Where are we?"

"Cincinnatti." He stood up abruptly. "Take your clothes off."

"Excuse me?"

Weasley pulled off his shirt, which was pretty much shredded anyway. "I said take off your clothes."

I watched him peel off his vest, tangling that crystal necklace around his head, and begin to unfasten his belt buckle. "You know, I don't usually hear that until the second date."

He glared at me even as he shoved his trousers down, revealing the y-fronts. "One," he said frostily, "that leg needs to be looked at. Two, we need to get rid of these clothes anyway. Three, I think one of us had been hit with a Tracking Charm."

"I've never heard of any Tracking Charms," I said, while he tried to get his feet untangled from his shoes and jeans.

"They're not—exactly—common knowledge—" One leg came free, and he almost toppled over. "Mostly used by law enforcement for tracking suspects."

"What makes you think we're being tracked, though?"

The other leg came free, and Weasley peeled off his socks. "I suspected it in Kansas City—the lot who attacked us there didn't pick us up until we were a good ten blocks from the alley. But this proves it, I think—the Anti-Apparation Jinx wasn't cast until we were inside the pub. Dies and his people are following out movements somehow."

"And why do we have to be naked?"

"The charm leaves a mark—but it could be anywhere on either of us." And then he stepped out of his y-fronts and folded his arms and stared at me. "Come on, then."

I think you can appreciate exactly how uncomfortable this situation was for me. It was one thing to oggle Weasley while he was asleep, but when he was awake and naked and staring like that—well. The monsters of adolescence were once more rearing their spotty heads. "You do realize I'm a poofter, Weasley," I said, hoping it might put him off the idea.

"Do I look like I care?"

Well, then, cheers to him for being confident in his sexuality. I began to undress.

"Could you hurry it up a bit?"

"Could you not stare like that?"

I saw his lips twitch up from the corner of my eye; damn it, he knew he'd gotten to me. "My apologies," he said dryly, and turned around to rummage through our satchels. Unfortunately he squatted down to do so, which was in its own way even worse than the staring. I finished undressing with my eyes shut.

"There now. Happy?"

Weasley stood up with the bottle he'd fished out of my satchel—a basic unguent we'd appropriated from the flat in St. Louis. "Roll over so I can do your leg."

I resisted the urge to congratulate Weasley on his wonderful choice of words; instead I stretched out on my stomach on the bed, and Weasley hissed the way people do when they've seen something really disgusting. "What?" I demanded.

"Nothing."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing. Don't turn around."

The area where I'd been hit was still a little numb, but I distinctly felt the unguent go on—boiling oil would've felt soothing in comparison. I believe my thoughts on the subject were "Fucking shit!"

"Pipe down," Weasley said, and conjured a bandage. "At least we caught it in time."

"Caught what—" I tried to turn around, and Weasley pushed my head into the pillows. "Dammit, it's my leg!"

"Lift up a bit so I can tie the bandage."

I kicked my foot in the air and felt him apply the dressing. "You realized you're not reassuring me at all."

"I'm not trying to reassure you, I'm trying to cover the bloody crater."

"What?" I twisted around, trying to see; Weasley cringed and tried to pin me to the bed. "What d'you mean, crater?"

"I didn't mean crater. I meant—er—hole. Small hole."

"What's wrong with me?"

"You want the list?"

"Weasley—!"

"Will you calm the bloody fuck down?"

He pinned me flat on the mattress with both hands, laying his whole weight across my back, the crystal pendent resting against my face. I stopped struggling and relaxed my breathing. "Weasley," I said as calmly as I could manage, "I think I have a right to know if my limbs are about to fall off."

"Then I'm happy to inform you that they're not," he said. "The hex just left a bad mark. It'll heal in no time."

"Good."

Weasley sat on me for a bit longer.

"You can finish putting the bandage on now."

"Are you going to get hysterical again if I get up?"

"I was not hysterical."

"All right."

He climbed off the bed and finished wrapping the bandage, while I concentrated hard on house-elves and Arithmancy. It's a bit difficult to conceal an erection when one is naked, after all.

And don't make that face, either. All men get inappropriately aroused from time to time, all it takes is stimulation—and I wasn't fully erect, just a bit...firm. What with the sheets rubbing against it during the tussle and then Weasley getting friendly, my penis was quite probably just confused. It means absolutely nothing. In fact, I don't even know why I'm bringing it up.

Oh, wait, yes I do. After Weasley tied off the bandage, he climbed to his feet and said. "Now stand up so I can check you for the Tracking Charm."

I briefly considered the consequences of refusal, then took a deep breath and stood. Weasly, surprisingly, didn't say a word; he just knelt down next to me and started running his hands up my calf. "What, er, exactly are you looking for?" I asked

"Discoloration. Swelling. Hot spot under the skin." His fingers traced around the sole of my foot where it met the floor. "I'll know it when I see it."

"Lovely."

From the vicinity of my clenched right hand, he barely glanced up. "What're you so jumpy for?"

"I'm not jumpy."

"Just close your eyes and think of England."

"Very funny."

I had to think of something, though, because Weasley was kneeling on the floor in front of me and you are certainly capable of deducing for yourself where that train of thought led. I did Arithmancy problems in my head, reviewed my stock portfolio, and tried to remember all the words to the Hogwarts school song while Weasley's hands marched up one leg, and then the other. I was too old for this, I told myself. I am a grown man. I do not get randy at the slightest provocation anymore.

Weasley grabbed my testicles and lifted them aside. I shrieked. "What the hell?"

"Just being thorough." He leg go and knee-walked around behind me.

I shielded my crotch with my hands in case he decided he had to check under my foreskin, too. "Oh, yes, because I really couldn't tell on my own if someone had bewitched my perineum."

He knee-walked around behind me and ran his fingers over my arse. "I don't know how you survived living in a dormitory for seven years."

"Well, to begin with, Slytherins don't go around casually grabbing each other' scrotums!"

"I mean," he said, his hands now on my hips, "you are entirely too jumpy about nudity."

Only with Weasleys who stare and grab scrotums, I thought. "I am not jumpy."

He snickered. "Sure you're not. Did you have to ask everyone else to clear the showers so they wouldn't get a look at your delicate heinie?"

"My what?"

His hands slid around front across my stomach, up towards my chest. "Or did you just have Crabbe and Goyle hold up a towel and avert their eyes?"

I felt the absurd urge to growl, and castigated myself. I was not allowed to let him get the upper hand. "Did you consider that perhaps you're a little too free with yourself, if you catch my meaning?"

"Malfoy, I had five brothers growing up."

"Do you mean you couldn't afford clothes for the lot of you?"

It was, I admit, a bit on the harsh side, and certainly very immature. What do you expect? I was naked and he hand his hands on my nipples; I needed to regain the upper hand. He paused for a moment, then carried on feeling me up for spell marks, but he also answered in a stiff, cold voice. "No, I mean I got used to having no privacy."

Weasley didn't talk while he checked over my shoulders, neck, and arms, though he did linger for quite a while near my left elbow. I squeezed my eyes shut while he probed my face, my ears, my bloody scalp..."I think I found something."

"Wh—ow!"

"That hurt?"

"Yes, you stupid git, because you dropped me there."

"Oh." He finally stepped away far enough that I didn't risk rubbing up against him when I breathed. "So it's not on you... do me now, I guess."

Of all the sticky dormitory nights I spent imagining Weasley saying do me now, I don't think I ever came close to the scenario in which it finally occurred. But Weasley was already examining his own arms and chest, so I obligingly turned to his back. "What am I looked for again?"

"I told you, swelling, discoloration—"

"And how am I to tell what's discolored or not?"

That cold voice again. "Freckle jokes stopped being funny in first year, Malfoy."

"My sincerest apologies."

Surprisingly, my mind didn't wander too far afield during my Weasley inspection; perhaps I was simply too annoyed with him. When I got down to his arse, though (and, true to my earlier assessment, it was a very fine arse) I simply had to avenge his earlier testicle-grabbing antics. I ran by fingers over both cheeks, through the creases where they met his thighs, and then delved into his crack.

"Malfoy—!"

"Just being thorough," I said. He growled.

I made it all the way down to his feet, then sat back on my heels. "Congratulations, Weasley, all your discolorations are your own problem."

"You didn't find anything?"

"Not a pimple."

He started pacing the room. "They how the bloody hell did they find us...?"

"Maybe," I said, "you're not the master of disguise you claim to be."

He stopped and glared at me, then shook his head. "Get dressed. We have to keep moving."

I immediately seized my satchel and the first pair of trousers that came out of it. "We're terribly far off our itinerary."

Weasley's head popped through the neck hole of his vest. "I don't think we should stick to that plan."

"Why not?"

"We don't know how they found us in St. Louis," he said, "therefore we don't know if they'll find us again. The safest thing to do is just get to New York as fast as we can, while we're still a step ahead of them."

Dammit, he was being logical. I grumbled a bit as I finished dressing, and finally asked, "So where are we going?"

"I need to send a message to O'Guin first, to let him know we're coming."

It took me a moment to remember who O'Guin was, and a full minute to remember something important. "Weasley, you told O'Guin about the original plan, didn't you?"

He dropped his robes over his head and frowned at me. "Not the details, but yeah, something."

"Perhaps Dies' men intercepted the message, then."

Weasley shook his head. "They couldn't have."

"How do you know?"

"Because the S.J.F. has ways of communicating that can't be cracked."

Ah, the acronym again. I was almost as sick of them as I was of Dies. I shouldered my satchel and turned around to ask Weasley how he intended to leave when we were meant to be passed out drunk on the floor, only to discover that he had opened the window and was dangling one leg out. "What are you doing?"

"Leaving." He swung the other leg over the sill. "This window faces an alley, come one."

"You want me to jump out a window with you?"

"Well, I'd have to lift all the spells on the room for us to Apparate, and if I leave them up anyone who's followed us this far will could be held up for hours."

All right. So perhaps Weasley can be creative from time to time. I still wasn't jumping out any window and I told him so.

"Suite yourself," he said, and jumped. A moment later I heard a faint, agonized moan.

I paced around the room for several minutes, tried to kick the door, and examined my reflection in the mirror. I was in need of a haircut. I paced the room again, listened for more moaning, heard none, then gave in and stuck my head out the window. "Weasley, are you—"

"Leviosa!"

If nothing else in this chronical so far has succeeded in invoking your pity, this should: I was without warning or provocation levitated out of a second-story window and into an alley. (I spent a great deal of time in alleys on this little adventure, didn't I?) Nothing feels quite so helpless as levitation; I paddled furiously at the thin air and groped for a drainpipe as I floated past, but I could catch nothing, could do nothing but wait for Weasley to let me down. And swear at him, which I did, at length.

All right, so I was only in the air for a few seconds, if that. But it was still very traumatic. And if that doesn't inspire your pity...well, keep reading.

When I felt my weight settle on my feet again, I pointed my wand at Weasley's throat. "I," I declared in a suitably enraged tone, "despise you."

He just raised his eyebrows at me. "Would you rather I'd pushed you out? Come on."