HD The French Connection Part 4

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To: Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt
Status: For Your Eyes Only
Dossier Document (Shred or Incendio after)
Mr. Potter, after some heated discussion with other agents of the M13, has nominated Junior Attaché Draco Lucien Malfoy as a possible candidate for a posting within the M13. Mr. Potter cites that Malfoy is an extremely powerful Wizard, likely second only to Mr. Potter's level of overall magical ability, is well versed in the methods of Wizards/Witches employing the Dark Arts, is unfailingly loyal to England, is a quick study and possesses a built-in cover, as a wealthy diplomat in the making. Mr. Potter has stated he trusts Mr. Malfoy with his life. He has, to this end, established a test of sorts of Mr. Malfoy's mettle, with an eye to recruiting him, and will be reporting on the results at conclusion. He had mentioned he appreciates the Ministry's cooperation in this endeavour.

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The following morning, Draco emerged from the Château des Fougères, the well-appointed hotel he'd rather fortunately fetched up in the previous night, courtesy of the kindness of the taxi man, and faced his first real day as a Muggle tourist with a long-suffering sigh.

It was dismal, to be sure. He'd a lot of ground to cover, but fortunately Henri, the taxi man, had agreed to ferry him about so that he could see and be seen. The Casino Barrière de Trouville was first on his list, an immense structure of dressed stone, followed by the Musée des Beaux-Arts André Malraux. He'd finish up by strolling the quays and markets of the picturesque seaside town and then hopefully hire Henri to drive him wherever else Mr. Weasley planned to send him. He winced, anticipating a sore arse in the offing. Henri was so proud of his rattletrap Muggle cab, Draco hadn't the heart to protest

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La Palmyre Zoo is your next stop, Draco. Make certain to 'cavort'; Screwbik seems to require it. Discreetly, of course. We don't want to have to send in the Obliviators. Remember, 'damage a femur', as the Muggles say! Best regards, Arthur Weasley.

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At four o'clock p.m., precisely, Draco was packed up once again and ready to depart for the next leg of his journey. He'd had been alerted by Muggle telegraph upon his return from an awkwardly casual stroll about Trouville's semi-deserted open-air market (it being March, dusk, and quite chilly). The Dampener rattled ominously in his pocket, where it'd been residing all day, frightening the living daylights out of him. Henri was standing by, as he had been bribed into joyous miniondom by copious amounts of Ministry Euros, when a very flashy vermillion Muggle auto pulled up in front of the hotel with a scream of fancy tires.

"Potter!" Draco exclaimed, and then fastened his eyes lasciviously on the Muggle vehicle, which boasted the powerful lines of a thoroughbred stallion and was visibly throbbing, making the most exciting 'Va-Va-Vroom!' noises. "Whatever brings you here?"

"Want a ride, Malfoy?" Potter asked, levering himself from his screaming scarlet sex machine on wheels. He was in yet another hideous student-type outfit and looked more as though he should be sprawled out in the lobby of a youth hostel than lounging elegantly before the imposing façade of one of the finer hotels in Trouville. "Going south, by any chance? I am. Glad to drag your arse along with, if it suits."

Draco, though wary, was captivated. Not by Potter, of course, but by the Muggle racecar.

"What is that?" he demanded, his grey eyes sparkling, a hand already feeling up a silky-smooth quarter-panel. "Can I have a turn steering? Just a quickie?"

"Ferrari Testarossa, Malfoy," Potter smirked, folding his arms and leaning back against the shiny blood-red hued hatch door of the coupe. "And no, I don't think so. I'd prefer to live, actually."

"Er?" Draco turned to Henri, who was also openly salivating over the Ferrari. "Um, Henri. If you don't mind, I'm to ride with my - my friend here. Keep all the Mug... erm, Euros, of course, for your trouble," he added quickly, feeling the veriest rudesby. After all, without Henri, he'd still be at the station, perplexed as to how Muggles moved themselves about with no magic and no carriages available at a simple wave of a wand.

Henri smiled bravely, though he seemed a tad downcast. Draco immediately dug out his purse - or rather, leather billfold, as the Muggles called them. His was stamped Gucci and packed full of those parchment scraps the Muggles seemed to use for everything. He dragged out yet another wad and pressed them upon the eager hands of the taxi driver.

"I am so sorry," he apologised, "I know its last moment, but I had no idea he'd turn up, so…"

"Come on, Malfoy," Potter interrupted impatiently. "You've just handed him the equivalent of four hundred Galleons; he'll recover nicely, I'm sure. Hop in, will you? We've a long drive before us."

"Wait!" Draco, his hand on the Ferrari's door latch, hesitated. "How do you know where I'm going, Potter?" he demanded, eyes narrowed. "That's very...odd. Suspicious, even. Are you...are you by any chance following me?"

"This," Potter replied, waving a familiar yellow slip of paper in the air: Weasley's telegram. Draco blanched. Had his mission been discovered? "You should dispose of your correspondence properly; anyone could've read it. I also happened to be staying here, Malfoy. Saw you drop it, and was going to return it to you, like a polite little Gryffindor, when I noticed you were off to the Zoo. La Palmyra's near Royan, which happens to be where I'm headed."

"Oh," Draco sighed. "Well...in that case. If you insist."

"You should; I believe you've just blown your budget, paying off the cabbie. I'll treat you to supper, then, on the way," Potter offered, and Draco's eyes snapped up to stare at his mobile mouth. It wasn't sneering or even mockingly tilted, no; it was more... teasing, that particular smile on Potter's lips, Draco mused. He found he liked this new look of Potter's...teasing him. Without malice.

"Right, then."

The journey was longish, but time flew. Funny how that worked out.

"Are you in France for pleasure or business, Malfoy?" Potter asked him, once they'd settled into a steady pace. Rolling countryside flew by the windows, the lights of distant villages coming alive as the early spring twilight descended. Draco ostensibly admired the sunset - and Potter, when Potter's gaze was steady on the road before them and not trained on him.

"A bit of both, actually," Draco hedged, not looking Potter's way at all when he answered. Hard to look at Potter directly when he was fibbing. "We've estates here and we're always looking to acquire more properties. Wineries, in particular. So, you see..." he allowed his voice to trail off, hoping Potter would assume.

"Ah," Potter exclaimed, obligingly. He nodded. "And you're being discreet as to your purchasing inquiries? That would explain the Muggle train, I suppose."

"Yes!" Draco leapt to concur, as he certainly couldn't tell Potter about the Dampener ticking away in his pocket. "That's exactly it, Potter. Best not to let the Muggles know we're interested in acquiring their vineyards. They might be deviously plotting."

"Devious, eh? Over grapes?" Potter raised a brow and tilted that nice firm chin of his. "I don't know about that, Malfoy; vitriculture has never struck me as a livelihood that requires corporate intrigue, but, hey. Whatever."

"Exactly, Potter," Draco replied, and attempted to appear very canny about negotiating real estate bargains with plotting Muggles. "What do you prefer: red or white?"

"Oi, Malfoy! Just as a matter of interest, were you acquainted with that couple on the Trouville train?" Potter asked curiously, after they'd finished discussing their favourite vintages. "It was kind of you to help them out like that. Fucking enormous dog, that one. I think it was a Borzoi."

"Oh...no," Draco replied, and recalled the contretemps with a shudder. "No, I don't know them. Not at all. Thank Merlin."

It was a relief to swear like a real Wizard. He'd had to be terribly cautious about his careless language for fear of being outed. Muggles sent him odd looks whenever he mentioned Merlin or swore to Salazar, and he'd already garnered enough unwanted notice dealing with his evil luggage, the yellow box in St. Lazare and various revolving doorways. The seatbelts on the aeroplane had almost defeated him ignominiously at the start. Draco had yet to operate an ATM, which was the device Muggles used to print out their paper money, as per the Ministry's Muggle Travel guidelines he'd skimmed through somewhat hurriedly, but he wasn't anticipating that with any great joy.

"And I thought that, too, Potter - about the dog. Definitely something foreign and Muggle; so hugely hairy." Draco smiled, settling into his cushy leather seat. "Do you know Muggle dog breeds, Potter?" he asked idly, by way of keeping their desultory conversation going. "I only know the animals Wizards keep."

"Some," Potter allowed. "Watched Westminster once on the telly. I know more about autos, though."

"Tell me about this one, then," Draco demanded, patting the high-tech console affectionately. "It's lovely. Faster than my winged horse Calvin, certainly."

"Calvin?" Potter chuckled, and Draco allowed himself another small grin. The story behind the christening of Calvin was fascinating, if he did say so himself, and he proceeded to relate it, much to Potter's amusement. And then there was Hobbes, his rescued winged donkey, the reluctant star of another amusing tale or three. Their remarks shifted to the whimsical, and Draco was delighted to discover Potter could be droll when he wished to.

An intimate late supper - at a tiny restaurant in a nameless French village - brought them new topics of conversation.

"What have you been up to lately, Potter?" Draco inquired, his tongue loosened by two glasses of an excellent vintage. He picked at the very last remains of his scallops au Provençale and gazed at Potter bright-eyed, defences rendered nearly non-existent by prolonged exposure to a charming Potter. "It's been ages since we've spoken casually. I must admit, I'm curious."

"This and that," Potter quirked his lips fleetingly and flourished his glass, his eyes a steady dark green. "I stay busy. But a proper toast, Malfoy. Appears to be called for, don't you think? We've not murdered one another outright yet, despite not agreeing on any number of things. I'm rather pleased, honestly."

Draco raised his own glass sharply, scowling ferociously. "Of course not, Potter. I'd not harm you, prat." He resented the very implication. He'd done nothing - but nothing! - to provoke that kind of remark from Potter!

"Really?" Potter twinkled. "And why is that? I've been under the strong impression you didn't much care for me, Malfoy. You always go well out of your way to not be where I am."

"That's only - I mean - you're not likely to -" Want me around, are you? Draco barely stopped himself from blurting out that damning question, cursing the insidious wine and the flickering romantical candlelight all the while. Cursed ambiance! He'd nearly let his tongue run away from him, sod it, and he mustn't. Really, he mustn't. He was dangerous to Potter at the moment and he couldn't very well simply shrug off the salient fact he carried with him the Dampener. The ginger lot would never forgive him if he damaged their Boy; hordes of demented Weasleys would hunt him down and skin him raw in the blink of an eye.

"We can surely manage to get along now, Potter," he went on reprovingly, his stomach queasy at the thought of being hounded by giant carrot-haired gorillas, attacking right and left, for the remainder of his days. And, by Salazar, there had to be scads of them. He spared a half-sec to wondering where the French legions might be lurking. No doubt in Nord-Pas-de-Calais or perhaps even Languedoc, two lovely areas favoured by Wizard folk but not particularly well-to-do otherwise, judging by the more rustic state of the Muggles dwelling there. "We are adults, are we not?" he added smarmily, recovering his usual cool composure. "At least , I know I am."

"Mostly," Potter allowed, quirking a sardonic brow. "Though I try not to be, really. Had quite enough of that, before."

"I see," Draco replied shortly, lips thin. "Some of us take life seriously, Potter. Some of us need to."

"Some of us really just need to enjoy life as it comes, Malfoy," Potter answered easily, "and, from the look of your forehead right now, that would include you. Relax, mate. You're on holiday."

"...Right," Draco acknowledged. He was, most decidedly, not on holiday. "Working hols, for me. Shouldn't we be getting on with it, then?" he prompted, voice clipped and cool once more. "A long way to go yet and I'm anxious to meet with my latest vintner. Don't want to miss a single opportunity."

"You mean, to plot nefariously over grapes?" Harry grinned. "How devious, Draco."

"That's what I am, Potter. Don't forget that," Draco shot back repressively, and returned his full and undivided attention to his dinner.

Potter watched him curiously after that, but thankfully said nothing of import as he paid up the tab, and Draco climbed warily back into the sex machine and kept himself firmly to boring, deadly dull, non-incendiary topics for the rest of the drive.

"Have you noticed the weather, Potter," he found himself blathering, "has been warmer than is seasonable?" and then nearly stabbed himself through the eye when it struck him that he was trapped inside a very sexy Muggle vehicle with a very fit Harry Potter and reduced to remarking inanely on how pleasantly balmy it was for March. But that was still better than letting slip any of the other questions he'd knocking at the back of his front teeth, just dying to escape.

Les Mathes in the Charente Maritime district was their general destination, or at least Draco's. La Palmyre Zoo was quite close and no doubt there'd be Muggle taxis for hire. Potter was agreeable enough to stop the night nearby, in Royan, and even offered Draco the use of the second bed in his bespoke hotel suite, when they arrived far too late in the evening for Draco to book a room of his own.

"Thank you, Potter," Draco said grudgingly, accepting out of sheer necessity. Whilst they'd been at dinner, he'd briefly toyed with the intriguing possibility of offering Potter a quick kiss goodnight (it had rather felt as though they were a couple, out on a dinner date, earlier) but that stillborn scheme was effectively dead in the water. Not only had the atmosphere stiffened, but he'd be stranded, with no place to wank in private after, had he dared press his lips to Potter's smooth pink ones.

Of course, there was also the bloody Dampener. Draco was very much aware of its rectangular malignance, lurking in its red-and-white plastic Muggle container in his jacket pocket. That article was buried in the very bottom of his vile luggage, where hopefully it would be secure. Draco hadn't forgotten for a second it was hellaciously dangerous to regular Wizarding folk, Screwbik's blasted Cube, which was exactly why it was him sent alone on this stupid jaunt about the Frankish countryside in the first place, and now he'd gone and stuck Potter squarely in the path of possible disaster, through no bloody fault of his own. Well...mostly 'no bloody fault'; he hadn't been forced to accept the ride to La Palmyre. He'd just really wanted to take advantage of the rare chance to talk to Potter without interference.

But Potter (who was, undeniably, the most powerful Wizard on the planet, even if he chose not to go about flaunting it) was not someone Draco ever wanted to harm. Not at all, and not merely due to a silly life-debt or blind gratitude or any personal reason (such as his own insidious sexual attraction to highly-charged Wizards; brunet, hazel-eyed Wizards, preferably with rakish scars and unhappy childhoods - a life-long fascination which had led to some rather unfortunate relationships, all of which Draco would much prefer to forget ever happened). No, it was the fact it was Potter.

Potter, who'd been gypped out of his first eleven years of his native magic, as Draco had learnt from Witch Weekly's recent exposé; Potter, who'd been repressed, suppressed and oppressed by those horrid Dursleys, according to the heart-wrenching, bleeding-heart, sob-story reporting of Skeeter, and who'd been so very visibly awed by his first real experiences with magic, he'd gawped like a fool. Draco clearly recalled scoffing way back when, thinking what a silly baby that Potter boy was, really, but then he remembered just as vividly those green eyes opened wide with wonder when Potter first took off on his beat-up old Hogwarts regulation broomstick. His pesky eidetic recall when it came to all things Potter wouldn't let him forget the train compartment gleefully stuffed with grinning boys, Frog wrappers and Wizard cards, either - or the delighted smile on Potter's face when he first caught sight of Hogwarts castle proper. He'd not realised then what being magical meant to Potter, but he knew it now. Even the sloppy reporting of Skeeter couldn't disguise the fact that Potter loved his magic - or that he'd be utterly heartbroken without it.

No, Draco couldn't endanger Potter. That was absolutely the last thing he could ever do.

And, as he'd not consent to that, even if it meant giving up his one tiny happenstance chance to indulge in Potter's company in a non-hostile environment, far away from the memories of all that was between them back in bloody old England, then he'd have to go. Take himself right out of the picture. Immediately - or as soon as humanly possible, which effectively meant first thing the next morning, straight after breakfast. Which meant, too, that any snogging - even friendly, 'I'd not mind getting to know you better; thanks for a lovely dinner' sort of snogging - was completely out of the question.

"Shite," Draco muttered, and meant that, too. He rolled over, fretfully cursing variously Screwbik, Arthur Weasley and his own bloody bad luck, in a long, inaudible grumble.

"Mmnphf," Potter grunted, messing about with his coverlet. Draco could hear every shift of fabric in the dark.

"Shite, shite, shite." He was so very needing a wank and the cause of that was just a few feet away, clad only a skimpy t-shirt and faded boxers. It was horrible.

"Malfoy?" Potter's question was sleepy. Draco could discern Potter's every breath and slight sigh, and his thighs went rigid, tautly clamping down on his overeager prick. Salazar, but this was pure, unadulterated torture; payback in spades for every little dig he'd ever spat out in anger. Potter would probably be pleased...if he ever realised sodding karma was on his side.

"Draco? Everything alright?"

"Yes," Draco groaned, restlessly rolling the other way and attempting to bury his bloody inconvenient boner into the harshly unforgiving springy mattress. "Spiffing, thank you, Potter. Good night now."

"Mmm. 'Night, Draco."

Shite. Draco's eyes popped open at the 'Draco'. He clenched them tight-shut again and bit back a moan. Salazar! Sodding little git, tormenting him this way! It wasn't fucking fair! Perhaps he could simply wait till Potter was asleep and pull off a quick one in the lav?

In the next bed over, Harry Potter's breathing finally slowed and he let out a dainty little snore. Draco's fingernails nearly punctured his sheets.

Shite, shite, shite. This was fucking brutal, this bloody 'thing' he had for Potter.

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