HD 'The French Connection' Part 3
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We believe the first line of our friend's note refers to Trouville-sur-le-mer, which is adjacent to Deauxville. Please make that town your first destination and please be certain to be 'seen', once you arrive.
Toodles! Arthur Weasley
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He'd not realised the journey would be as lengthy as it was becoming. Two, nearly three hours was a long time to one used to instantaneous travel. He'd brought along a novel or two (Muggle, of course, as he wasn't allow to carry any Wizarding objects about his person, including his signet ring and his lucky dried Puffskein's foot) but it was all about an elderly man fishing, and then not really managing to land anything worthwhile. Draco found it very un-worthwhile, even as allegory, and tossed it aside after some half-hour of tooth-grinding attempts to make decent headway. A similar thing happened with the obscenely long tale of a very large white whale and the poor (and moronically stoic) lunatic obsessed with it. If this was classic Muggle literature, no wonder they'd developed the telly! Next on his list of paltry entertainment was a glossy publication aimed primarily at wealthy male Muggles, which Mr. Weasley had handed to him just prior to his being shoved out into non-Wizarding London via the Leaky.
"Emergency rations, son," Mr. Weasley had muttered, his gaze darting from side-to-side in a very suspect manner, or so Draco believed, till he at last discerned that Mr. Weasley was attempting to be secretive. "For the train. Been a bit of a scramble pulling these together. Had to send someone out to Foyle's. In any event, some of these chaps in this publication are Wizarding models and I've advised there's decent articles about what's au courant Muggle-wise, so here you are. A little light reading for your journey. Oh, and I've thrown in some additional volumes on basic Muggle life the Agency's recommended highly. I know you're conversant with the primers, but it's better safe than sorry, right?"
"Er, right, sir," Draco answered instantly, willing to be agreeable.
Mr. Weasley handed over a canvas tote bag, full-size, which Draco awkwardly added to his already overloaded arms. The bag was overflowing with books of all shapes and sizes, and a quick glimpse at the titles revealed that he was in for an intensive bout with Muggle culture. Draco, though willing, ready and able, had his own choices of such literature safely residing on his bedside table. Some of the Muggle porn wasn't so bad, actually.
"Sir, is there any possibility I might visit the Manor briefly before I depart?" he asked politely. "There's a few things there I could use - not magical, of course -"
"Oh, no, son; sorry!" Weasley replied instantly, shaking his greying head dolefully. "Can't have you contaminated by magic at this juncture. Already toting the Ball, aren't you? No, I'm afraid you'll just have to go 'as is', as the Muggles say. And here's your cabbie, then - right on schedule!" the elder man gabbled on cheerily, as a rather down-at-the-heels chequered vehicle pulled up to the curb with a screech of brakes and a deathly putrid cloud of petrol fumes. "It'll deliver you straight to Heathrow, Draco, and then you'll be escorted over on the Muggle aeroplane voyage by our boys and girls in OPART, so not to worry, son. We won't let you start off on the wrong foot - not a bit of it! Cheerio, then, and do damage a femur, as they say in Muggle theatre!"
"Oh, but - I've a question still, sir. Precisely how many days d'you think this will require, exactly?"
"Bon voyage, as they say!" Mr. Weasley sang out, waving Draco's anxious query off like so many mayflies and then disappeared back into the bowels of the Ministry. A still gawping Malfoy was officially off on his first 'solo flight' as a Very Junior Attaché.
But he was not alone. Far from it. He was summarily relieved of his luggage and bundled into the rear seat by the chattering cabbie, who appeared to be a Wizard passing for a Muggle, as well as a sufferer of verbal diarrhea, and thus Draco never did gain a chance to ask the senior Weasley any further questions, nor protest his abrupt departure. Nor would he, till mission's end. Communications, he'd been advised, were severely limited to one-way telegrams from Director Weasley, issued only as needed, and Draco was to maintain a low profile, travelling discreetly through France in the guise of a well-to-do gentleman on a self-guided holiday tour of the various coastal wineries. He'd not even been provided a Muggle cell phone, which was, he huffed internally, the very least they could've done for him, given the peculiar circumstances. Even he knew how to operate one of those!
The gentleman-of-leisure shtick was close enough to the truth so as allow him to act naturally, though, as long as he completely disregarded the fact that he'd none of his own familiar possessions about him, was utterly handicapped by the bloody Dampener doohickey, and was required to avoid all other Wizarding folk to the utmost of his ability, for fear of accidentally Dampening them. Apparently, Draco Malfoy himself was considered highly expendable, Draco concluded huffily, as no one in OPART had seemed at all concerned for his safety or that he was charged with ferrying about a device that might - completely without warning - effectively turn him into a bloody Squib, at the accidental failure of a squiffy Muggle plastic hinge.
Likely they believed he deserved it, Draco ruminated somewhat pettily, his lips pinching tight at the very idea. There were far too many small-minded people in the world, at least as far as he was concerned; many of whom seemed only to recall his family's prior transgressions from the screaming headlines and consequently paid not the slightest amount of attention to the acquittals that followed or his own quiet but significant contributions to the plus side of the ledger of All That Was Light & Right, as epitomized by sodding Potter.
Settling into his surprisingly comfortable window seat, Draco caught up the magazine, determined to distract himself with what well-bred male Muggles were advised to be wearing in the coming summer months. At the very least, he allowed silently, he might be amused.
"Pardon, s'il vous plait," a man's voice pleaded. "Pardon, pardon."
Draco scooted his luggage farther out of the way without bothering to look up.
The seat cushions across the aisle from Draco 'whomped' softly and a very large gentleman settled into them, emitting a long, drawn out sigh, like air escaping a child's balloon. He clasped the studded leash of a hugely shaggy grey canine, which appeared vaguely Russian - a Borzoi or something like, Draco mused haphazardly, not being particularly conversant with Muggle dog breeds. The animal was squirming and tugging mightily at its bounds, obviously over-excited, and the well-fed man never ceased murmuring nonsense to it, attempting to soothe its starts and fidgets.
Draco, determinedly oblivious and pouting on principle (he did not approve of dogs on trains), glared at the full colour image of the very handsome and scantily clothed man on the cover of the glossy publication Mr. Weasley had thrust upon him. The hazel-eyed youth, however, did not glare back, as the magazine was Muggle. It was, Draco gathered, paging through, organized along the lines of Witch Weekly (which he himself never bothered with, of course, naturally, but did maintain an annual subscription to, purely for the sake of the house elves). It consisted of a great many artistically arranged colour adverts for men's garb and accessories, most bearing Italian, American or French brands, with just a smattering of a good, solid English names here and there, such as Burberry or the excellent and reliable old firm of Charles Tyrwhitt, a tailoring establishment even Draco favoured. The haute couture was generally arrayed and displayed by a whole series of fetching chaps (and occasionally, perhaps purely as a sly gag, by some large-breasted and equally fanciable female). The ads were static, though, unlike the Wizarding ones. A reader thus had to rely solely on his imagination to envision the swing of coattail on a sharp heel-turn or the fall of a draped sleeve when an arm was elevated. Or the tightening of fabric over arse, as faithfully outlined in fine-gauge wool or - or those damnable Muggle blue jeans!
Draco snorted softly, feeling vastly proud on behalf of the superior charms of the Wizarding fashion industry and its attendant drove of glossy publications, though he'd nothing to do with the making of them. He did, however, draw in his breath sharply over the highly suggestive pose of one dark-haired bloke, who was shirtless and almost wearing a pair of gravity-challenged Muggle 'jeans'. Perhaps, Draco admitted grudgingly, there was a rustic sort of appeal to those types of trousers. The model's navel and the revealed golden-bronze of his narrow hips was certainly refreshing. Bizarrely, the adjacent hellhound chose the very moment of Draco's tiny epiphany to emit a volley of barking, and Draco's deep concentration on the bloke's jeans was shattered.
Too, it was at that moment a female sashayed into Draco's train compartment: a middle-aged frou-frou type, even for a fashionable Frenchwoman, arrayed in the year's very latest mode of Chanel suiting (Draco was fairly sure he had his women's fashion collections sorted correctly, thanks to his mother) and bearing a large violet sack-bag with a wire panel attached to one end. The oversized purse mewed piteously. It bloody well caterwauled when the woman genteelly elbowed the dog-toting man aside, taking firm possession of the window seat left open next to him. The bag continued to yowl and snarl, unabated, even when the woman pleaded with it to cease fussing.
Unchecked, for it seemed the large man was also quite ineffectual in controlling his furry nearest-and-dearest, the giant hairy canine lashed himself up to a veritable maelstrom of gruff yipping, yelping and growling, and utter cacophony resulted, for the train compartment was only so spacious. Noises echoed, despite the nicely padded seats and plush carpeting. The surrounding passengers unhelpfully took up for their betting favourites in this classic confrontation of 'cat versus dog', and added to the noise pollution by variously hissing, gossiping and cheering, perhaps in sympathy or perhaps in empathy, Merlin only knew.
Draco, glancing about him somewhat anxiously and noting there were no empty seats left but the one directly next to him, winced and rapidly turned another page, subtly shifting closer to his own window. He attempted to seek some sort of refuge by fading into the shiny metallic finish of the train's wainscoting, but to no avail. He confirmed, though, the previously vague conviction that he most certainly did not approve of felines on trains, either, and vowed never to allow one to accompany him.
That aside, the yammer and bustle, meanwhile, had increased exponentially, as the stout man and the well-clad woman began exchanging heated words, each demanding that other placate their respective animals.
Draco huffed to himself in irritation and kept up his air of disinterest. But not for long, unfortunately.
"'Excuse me, M'sieur," the large man addressed a sullen Draco, leaning over the gap between the seats with red-faced effort. "I know this is a great favour to ask of you, but if I could trouble you to mind my little boy for a moment? My beloved Gerhard, he is in sore need of a tiny 'time-out' to calm him-so many thanks, young man! You are so kind!"
The man smiled genially, waggling his bushy eyebrows, but still wasted no time shoving the loop of the leash onto Draco's lap. Draco grabbed at it automatically. Taking a deep breath, which swelled up his already majestic avoirdupois to resemble blowfish proportions, the canine-fancier returned his full attention to the fashionable cat-woman, clenching his freed-up and meaty fingers into pugnacious fists and waving them about. A barrage of rapid colloquial French ensued immediately, from both parties, and spewed almost too fast for Draco to translate any of it.
"Oh!" Draco exclaimed, appalled, ably ducking a biff to the temple when the man gestured as large as his belly. No, his initial opinion hadn't budged. Canines and trains did not go together!
The dog, perhaps sensing Draco's inner disapprobation, turn his massive head and snarled, slavering and fixing Draco with a vicious red-eyed glare and baring molars the size of a Horntail's. Draco, though no coward, shrank back in his seat.
"No!" he protested faintly, but the man and woman were going at it, hammer-and-tongs, and the language had abruptly descended to sewer-foul and was clearly not meant for public consumption. The volume had escalated, too, and they simply didn't seem to hear him, leaving Draco no choice but to politely turn away again, still in temporary possession of the hairy monster. And all the while the dog kept up its horrible growling and the woman's fluffy white feline, having artfully escaped its carrier, twined the tops of the row of seats, smirking, yowling and generally taunting her enemy at high volume. Several cat lovers in seats farther back in the car applauded its valour.
Draco sneered - and fretted. He was required to be inconspicuous and this situation was not helping matters!
"Please!" Draco tried once more to garner the attention of the arguing pet owners, and that was exactly when the possibly-a-Borzoi lost any tenuous grip it might've had on well-mannered canine behaviour. Draco nearly forfeited his seat altogether as the leash jolted sharply in his hands and the Borzoi lunged upwards and outwards, drooling insanely.
"Whoa! Whoa, I say!" Draco yelped and dropped his GQ in consternation, instinctively resisting. The animal weighed more than he did, he was positive, and he briefly entertained horrid visions of being hauled ruthlessly away from his luggage, dragged down the narrow aisle face first, and carried right out the hissing pneumatic entry door to his death. But the two Muggles across from him didn't even spare him a second glance, being entirely occupied with their own hissing. In fact, it seemed like there were snakes on the train, there was suddenly so much overall sibilance. "Halt, sirrah!" Draco ordered grimly, red-faced and panting with the effort to stay put. "Hold up, you beast! Merlin! Heel, I say! Sit! Stay!"
The dog ceased its infernal gyrations only just long enough to glare at Draco, slit-eyed and actively frothing, in a way that said clearly, 'I'll deal with you later, human!' and then returned to plunging wildly after its ancient enemy. Draco, flailing about and practically falling over his armrest, finally thought to bring his loafer-clad feet up and brace them flat against the rear of the seat before him, wrapping both hands 'round the leash loop in a tight-jawed attempt to endure.
"Fuck it!" he muttered, snarling himself. "Shite! Bloody hound! Blasted bloody Muggles! Sir! Sir! You really must take back your mutt! I insist!"
It was no use. The man couldn't possibly hear him over the high-pitched stream of gutter invective his companion was dishing out and the cursed cat wasn't helping matters at all, uttering ferocious snarls and eerie shrieks more suited to a public zoo than a public conveyance. The dog had taken to baying.
"Oh, no!" Draco groaned, as the heavy man's 'beloved Gerhard' propelled himself to yet new heights of unmanageability. His palms were sweaty; the leash was slipping, and at any moment the dog would escape his collar and murder them all! "Oh, no!"
"Oh, now," remarked a familiar deep voice, one that Draco barely noted as very recognisable in his mad frenzy of resistance. "That's not what's wanted. Budge over, Malfoy," Harry Potter ordered, taking charge. "Give me that."
And he plucked the leather loop right out of Draco's hands and stared commandingly at the rabid excuse for a pedigreed canine.
"Sit!" Potter ordered firmly, but kindly, and the dog promptly sat.
"Hush!" Potter added, and the dog snapped its jaws shut, just like that.
"And you, as well, Mademoiselle," Potter went on, turning a gimlet green eye on the poufy-tailed cat. Which then meekly and sweetly ceased its eldritch screams and briskly sauntered back into its carrier, all the while purring buckets and pails and blinking ever-so-fondly at Potter.
"Thank Salazar!" Draco mumbled gratefully, shaking the ache out of his knuckles and examining the crisscrossed red lines burned into his palms. He shook his head, too, having developed a sudden piercing ache in the sinuses.
"Monsieur, Madame," Potter carried on, his baritone the literal Voice of Reason. "Pardon me, if you please. Un moment."
The other occupants of the train car instantly settled down, as it appeared the ruckus was ended.
Even the heavy man and the fashionable woman shut it abruptly, and Harry Potter, opening his lips and spouting a flow of perfect conversational French, proceeded to skillfully restore dog to owner and persuade both parties to stopper their gobs and settle their differences. And be civil about it.
"Merlin!" Draco swore under his breath, and made a grab for his magazine, which was splayed out on the floor. "Some people!"
Gathering himself together and not knowing what else to do, as Potter had magically appeared to save the day, Draco squinted carefully at the exceedingly small font of the magazine articles Mr. Weasley had mentioned. Finally, he capitulated with a long-suffering sigh and retrieved from a pocket the ugly Muggle reading glasses OPART had been kind enough to equip him with, back at the Ministry. In moments, he was (apparently) so totally absorbed in the task of assimilating Muggle men's wear (and by the large number of brunet models featured in this particular edition, quite a few of them hazel or green-eyed) that he didn't even take note when Potter ceased his long, amiable conversation with the French couple (who, as it turned out, were legally man-and-wife, and quite happily in the midst of their second honeymoon) and turned his shaggy head in Draco's direction. In fact, Draco was so very determined not to notice his companion, it was a ruddy physical shock to glance up and find sodding Potter, of all people, still plumped down square in the seat next to him, examining Draco as if he were a rare butterfly stuck on a bleeding pin.
He suffered a minor species of panic all over again, Draco did. Whatever could he say to Potter, when he'd always made it a point to avoid him?
The bloody Man of the Hour, as Draco liked to think of him, Golden Boy being rather outdated at age twenty-five, uttered not a word, at first. His eyes travelled over Draco leisurely, from toe of loafer to part of pale hair by slow degree, and Draco goggled stolidly in return, unblinking, silently sorting over all he knew of Potter whilst he waited for the ad hoc staring contest to end.
For it was not as though 'the Man' did much of anything special these days, as far as Draco could discern from the tabloids, but he was still relatively newsworthy. Still occupied with rampant do-gooding, too. Potter had given up Auroring some time ago, Draco knew, remerging from a brief hiatus as a minor philanthropist. Had even established his own private charity foundation, Phoenix Rising. Hermione Granger, as per Draco's recollection, managed it for Potter and it was all very orphan-centric and laudable. Potter was laudable, really. A man to be admired - from a safe distance.
A very safe distance - Draco was toting along a Magical Dampener. Not a good show, Dampening the Boy Who Lived. Mr. Weasley would not be amused.
Well, Draco decided, if the distance between them couldn't be physical, it could certainly be mental. Before he went bloody mental, being exposed to a real live Potter unexpectedly.
But still, he couldn't just sit and stare. He must attempt to be pleasant, Draco knew. It was required of him.
"Hullo, Potter."
Draco nodded politely after another immensely long pause, and then studiously returned his gaze to his article on suspenders, use of. Or rather, he forced his eyes in the direction of the nicely muscled models wearing them and valiantly kept his lips zipped, terrified of encouraging the slightest possibility of idle chatter. Perhaps Potter would depart to whence he came, if Draco wasn't effusive...or responsive.
"Hullo, Malfoy. Nice to see you."
Potter, abruptly ending his regard, promptly opened a dog-eared paperback novel he pulled from a torn pocket and buried his nose in it. His ugly spectacles slid down his not-ugly nose in a very attractive manner.
Draco swallowed.
"Of course. Likewise, Potter," he mumbled.
After another long moment, Draco huffed irritably, making sure to be very quiet about it. Wouldn't do him any good to offend Potter now. Or later. Or ever. Even if he wasn't much in Potter's circle socially, he still had to contend with the Prat-of-Prats every now and then and it paid to remain civil. Especially when one was wholly committed to a career of diplomatic service.
Potter also sighed after a while, nearly inaudibly, and pulled out a bottle of Perrier water from a rucksack he carried. He took a brief swig, capped it neatly, stowed it and returned to his novel without ever glancing over at Draco. Draco, watching his actions surreptitiously from the corner of his eye, noticed Potter's throat moving and thought instantly of the white-necked, make-upped mime who'd aided him at the start, clad all in jaunty monochrome diamonds, with that silly, poncey ruff of black lace clasped round his Adam's apple. Here beside him was the 'real deal', as the Muggles said, and Draco couldn't even begin to imagine this scruffy Potter sporting either a lace collar or harlequin suiting that revealed every line and curve of his toned body. A leather collar, perhaps, and much tighter garb than what he presently clad in, but certainly not lace.
Potter, Draco mused, would be silly in Chantilly, the blighter. Or Lycra, which was, he believed, what the Muggles used for sewing that clingy, skin-tight circus attire. No sense of style, the wanker. Even now he was garbed in paint-spattered Muggle blue 'jeans', rolled up at the ankle, some sort of battered black canvas duck lace-up footwear and a huge misshapen burgundy woolen jersey, appliquéd with a bloody golden-embroidered lion's head and far too many sequins for a mane. It was a laughable outfit, in Draco's opinion, especially when combined with that hair and those stupid black-rimmed spectacles Potter had seemingly never bothered to change out since their Hogwarts days. It was highly unsuitable for travelling in France, where even leisure clothing was fashionable.
Draco wondered vaguely if Potter was under the impression that the get-up he was wearing rendered him less attractive to stray fortune hunters. Perhaps that was why he insisted on being ruddy rudely attired, because he'd heard tell Potter was quite well off, having inherited two fortunes. Even he, Draco, suffered from hangers-on questing after his own legendary store of Galleons, despite the lingering miasma of ex-Death-Eater scum that clung to him, no matter what he did to dispel it.
Potter, come to think of it, had made a wireless speech about just that topic, recently. Concerning the need for his fellow Wizards and Witches to treat 'other' people fairly, and featuring him stating repeatedly that his listening audience must provide each other a fair chance in life. Exhorting them all not to assume that certain 'other people' were evil or ill intentioned simply because their ideologies differed. And stating, as well, that the Wizarding community should be content to 'live and let live' in these days post-Voldemort. Draco had applauded the speech internally, and toasted Potter's remarkable fluency in getting across what Draco believed an admirable concept, if unrealistic. He'd stayed by the Wizarding Wireless broadcast for hours that evening, listening to Potter's sexy voice repeating those key words over and over, every instance they replayed the clip: 'Live and let live.' He supposed that also applied to him, in Potter's estimation.
Whatever. He wasn't about to debate the likelihood of that scenario ever happening; Draco had simply relished hearing Potter say it aloud. More than made up for his execrable day wasted squiring about the spoilt wife of the Brazilian Ambassador, who'd really needed a bellhop or a house elf far more than she'd ever been in need of his services, as official diplomatic escort.
Draco was still so pleased with Potter, even months on, he ventured another few words in his general direction when the train finally pulled into Trouville station.
"Good day, Potter."
Potter, already up and pacing down the aisle after the man, his wife and their now well-behaved animals, glanced back over his shoulder. To Draco's consternation, he grinned cheerily, sending Draco a sly wink. That made a mockery of the mime's travesty, in Draco's opinion. This was the genuine Potter. He knew; he'd seen it often enough, back at Hogwarts. From a distance.
"Same to you, Malfoy."
Draco's opinion was also that Potter was rather fanciable when he cared to smile, straight at one's face. As he had, just, with Draco.
The train station at Trouville was a half-timbered, Tudoresque building, sprawling and complex. When he stepped off the train and achieved the reception area proper, Draco shivered. It was March yet and there was a distinct smell of the sea in the chilly air. The train journey, the last hour of which had seemed to drag on forever and a day with Potter beside him, seemed suddenly beckoning. It'd been warm and somehow comforting to have Potter barely an inch away, silently immersed in his Muggle pulp fiction, despite the never-ending tingles of heady excitement Draco had had to contend with.
He rather regretted not offering up much in the way of conversation after that initial greeting, but, after all, it wasn't as if they had much to converse about, he and the Hero. Draco kept himself to himself these days, beavering capably away at his post (which was indeed difficult, as it meant he had to belt up on his temper), and rarely venturing out with the Ministry types to their after-work drinks parties and Friday night club fests. Potter, having two best mates involved with the Ministry, all too often turned up for those events, so Draco made a habit of avoiding them. He seldom attended the organised fêtes and soirées the wealthier families hosted, either, and limited bestowing his elegant presence in person to the diplomatic functions he felt obligated to attend in his position as Junior Attaché. Potter never went to those dos if he could help it, saving his air kisses and meaningless handshakes for charity balls and the like. Which all resulted, in the end, in Draco hardly ever running into Potter socially, and that was the way he much preferred it.
It wasn't as though he was concerned they'd quarrel, or that he still held Potter in dislike. It was more that he chose not to waste his time brooding over a man he was never going to have. Potter, simply by circumstance, was not a blip on Draco's radar, nor would he ever be, realistically, and there was no point in dwelling.
But, still. It had been rather cozy, sitting next to Potter. Sharing the same oxygen, exchanging the occasional glance when the large man cooed at his evil dog or the fussy woman fed her cat scraps of cake through the holes in the carrier. By the end of the trip, the two of them had been getting along like houses afire; the doggy man and the feline woman, naturally, not Draco and Harry.
Draco shivered again and took a good look about him, a faint concern growing in his gut. The afternoon was wending down to dusk and he was in need of a place to sleep. The enormous bulk of the Casino was more than visible in the not too far distance but he wasn't certain it was open off-season for tourists sating over. Certainly, there were no French playboy types frolicking merrily nearby, as his travel guide had stated the town was noted for. Didn't look much like the high life was happening here; not at all, and Draco had no clue why Screwbik the Inscrutable would want him here, of all places.
"M'sieur? M'sieur?"
An elderly man was addressing him, his quavering voice growing more insistent with each repetition.
"Might you be in need of a taxi?" he asked the startled Draco, in accented English.
"Oui, oui, s'il vous plaît," Draco replied hastily and gratefully, in the hopes the cabby could deliver him to a viable hotel. If nothing else, he needed to explore his Muggle luggage, which seemed to have taken on a life of its own, and see what else OPART had packed for him. Hopefully, there were PJs tucked in there somewhere, a toothbrush and also a Muggle razor, as he could feel the faint growth of invisible stubble when he rubbed a weary palm across his chin.
A pox of this accursed pseudo-Muggleness of his! Draco fumed, as he rode in the ancient excuse for a taxi, clutching wildly at the strap at every hair-raising turn. If only he'd his wand - or even if he'd any of his usual accoutrements, he wouldn't be left feeling so damned helpless! Now he required not only a room, but likely also a map and a tour guide, having never visited this part of France. Then, too, and likely obnoxiously bright and early on the morrow, he'd be required to venture out to be 'seen' by some mad Prussian inventor. Most infuriating, the unreasonable demands made by the F.O. and the most senior Weasley, but he couldn't complain, now could he? It was still the least he could do to maintain international Wizarding relations. Even if he wasn't in the same class as that prat Potter, who supported orphans and saved the world in his spare time, Draco could do his bit.
And bloody Potter had long since disappeared into thin air once they'd disembarked. Draco was certain he wouldn't be seeing him again, not even by accident. Not a bleeding chance.
Fate couldn't be that cruel...could it?
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