HD 'The French Connection' Part 5
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France in March was perhaps not quite as chilly and miserable as England in March, but it was damned close. The morning dawned grey and cheerless, damp and cool, providing a most suitable backdrop for Draco's dreary mood.
"Hullo, Potter," he greeted, wiping his lips carefully. His toasted croissant, spread thickly with sweet creamery butter and damson plum conserve, sat on the plate before him, reeking of flaky deliciousness. Hopefully, if he could manage to choke it down his dry throat, it would provide fuel for the upcoming, uncomfortable parting of ways and his required cavorting. He'd have to be polite to Potter, naturally, being a diplomat-in-training, but he could still push some of Potter's buttons in passing and that should suffice to send Boy Wonder off in a huff. It'd serve both to appease his squeaky-wheeled 'Good Samaritan Malfoy' instincts and that tiny little demon snarling within him, who craved some small revenge for a night of unparalleled sexual frustration.
"Hullo?"
Potter had at last run Draco to ground in the café across the square from the hotel, where he'd taken refuge whilst Potter was showering. Draco had great reserves of self-control, but even he couldn't stand to be in the same hotel suite with a Potter who was showering. Had taken him ten minutes to staunch the nosebleed, as it was.
"You're up at the crack of dawn, Draco," Potter remarked casually, tentatively resting a tanned hand on the back of the extra chair at Draco's microscopic table. He hovered, as if he might sit down uninvited. "Something going on I should know about?"
"It seems I must thank you yet again, for your hideously Gryffindor charity," Draco jumped right into his scheme to fend off the Hero, both feet forward. "Potter. But I've an appointment in La Palmyre I mustn't miss, and I've made my own arrangements to travel there. Terribly sorry I was in such a confounded rush to depart that horrid excuse for accommodation you hired," he hurried on, "but my meeting's scheduled for nine o'clock sharp and it was imperative I move on." Draco maintained his level tone, but the look he gave Potter was faintly mocking. "And not dawdle about, wasting yet more time. Time is, after all, Galleons." Even a dolt like Potter couldn't possibly miss the insulting implications, could he? "Speaking of," Draco prepared the coup de grâce to his dying-on-the-vine relationship surgically, gaze resting grim on his tiny cup of espresso, "may I reimburse you the costs of your beneficence? The petrol? And the use of your spare bed, naturally. Wouldn't want to strain your resources in any way."
He sneered lightly in Potter's direction, though he carefully avoided meeting Potter's widening green eyes; an effort that cost him a great deal, but was worth it, considering the Dampener.
"Prick," Potter replied, succinctly. The chair scraped harshly across the tile as he shoved it neatly snug up against the wobbly table, having gotten his fine arse nowhere near it. He huffed and Draco winced. "No, don't bother yourself, Malfoy. Just glad to see the last of you. Have a blast chatting up your vintner. See you 'round."
And with that, Potter turned sharply on his heel and departed, without a single glance behind him. Not overly chatty, Potter, Draco observed. He didn't care to waste his precious time over fools, either.
Draco transferred his customary sneer to his hapless luggage, looming leathery at his elbow. Then to his poor, blameless croissant, which he'd not consumed very much of, though it was shredded as though he had. And finally his own serviette-draped lap, because it would be all that much more difficult for any curious passers-by to see that he was blinking furiously at his Muggle-style belt buckle.
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To: Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt
Status: For Your Eyes Only
Dossier Document (Shred or Incendio after)
Mr. Malfoy, age 24, approximately 5'10'', very pale blonde, light complected with grey eyes, and of English extraction despite the deceiving surname, also graduated with Honours from Hogwarts School for Wizards, ranking third in his class after Potter, Harry and Granger, Hermione. Mr. Malfoy functioned to provide some limited but crucial assistance in the war effort and did maintain Mr. Potter's cover under duress during a forced confrontation with Voldemort's agents. Mr. Malfoy owes Mr. Potter a life debt; Mr. Potter owes Narcissa Malfoy a life-debt. Mr. Malfoy is not normally to be seen in Mr. Potter's company socially, preferring to stay focused on his chosen career of diplomacy, but is observed to be both civil and distantly polite when the two Wizards meet face-to-face. There are rumours to the effect that Mr. Malfoy has been nursing a romantic torch for some dozen years for Mr. Potter, and witnesses do report that this is decidedly so, although their personal history whilst in secondary school at Hogwarts was volatile. Mr. Malfoy has made no effort whatsoever to draw Mr. Potter's attention in a romantic sense, but has been observed to be occasionally involved with Wizards who share attributes with Mr. Potter. Thus, it is likely true that Mr. Malfoy maintains deeper feelings for Mr. Potter, as has been reliably reported by M13 agents Zabini and Parkinson, Nott, Thomas and Weasley (Charles, who operates covertly out of our Romanian office.) This information may prove to be key or it may be merely tangential.
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The Zoo at La Palmyre was a lovely, well laid-out place, and known internationally for its breeding program. Draco's imperative was to cavort, whatever the Hades that meant, in the company of suggested rhinos and gorillas. Which is what, likely, led to his surreptitious entry into the gorilla's habitat and thus what led to his cowering in the semi-open cave provided the inhabitants for privacy from pesky tourists.
It was smelly, uncomfortable, cramped and horrid. The Dampener throbbed in his pocket like a toothache, and Draco deliberately didn't examine his motives for foolishly placing himself in danger too closely. For he had, and it was bloody stupid of him but still preferable to the rhinoceroses, which had horns. Just because they were humankind's close relatives, biologically, it didn't mean the gorillas would take kindly to a human dancing about their private enclosure, however. Or merely shrinking in fear, awaiting one the of the Zoo's handlers to notice his predicament. Likely, Draco mused, he'd have to spend a great many of the Muggle Euros to get himself out this one.
"Graaahhhh!" one the males growled and swung himself closer, his long arms muscled like...well, like a gorilla's. "OOOgh!"
"Eeep!" Draco replied, and plastered himself against the faux rocks, in order to make himself the smallest possible target. "Bastarding homunculi! Why can't you speak French? Go away, I say! Shoo! Be off!"
The gorilla ignored him and his frantic gyrations with typical French panache.
"Ohhhh-Ahhhh!" sounded from the other curious apes and "Oh, merde! D'you see that man?" exclaimed a group of passing international tourists, drawn in by the rising level of Draco's protests. "Is he mad?" they wanted to know and Draco could've told them, 'Yes!'
He was, emphatically, and it was his job to be so. He'd been told to cavort and he'd bloody well cavorted. In the noonday sun, even. Oh, rued Draco, the barmy things he did for the sake of a steady paycheque and the comforting prospect of a future ambassadorship!
In the old days, Draco would've kicked up a fuss like there was no tomorrow. He'd been spoilt then, and used to being defended by others. In this instance, however, he'd only himself to rely on, which meant he'd have to escape all by his lonesome, using his native wit, as the gathering group of murmuring tourists was doing absolutely nothing useful, such as perhaps summoning a handler armed with a trank gun. Sodding useless Muggles!
Fucking Screwbik!
To that end, Draco inched up the not-rocks, as there was simply no way out other than up. The gorillas had him surrounded. The larger male ventured closer yet, 'OOOggh-ing', and hefted a hunk of fermenting watermelon. Draco, making a sudden break for it, skinnied atop the rockpile that comprised the cave, heedless of his Armani suit (the most appropriate attire he could locate for zoo-visiting in his evil Muggle luggage), and reached out gingerly for a nearby tree branch. It was a straggly one, located just on the other side of the fencing, and there was some rather nasty barbed wire and jagged glass shards in the way, but he'd always been relatively spry and fear did a great deal towards improving one's flexibility, as he'd previously discovered.
"Oooo-Oooo-Oooo!" yodelled the gorilla, in primal challenge, noting that his tribe's unexpected guest planned a quick and impolite departure. "Argh-OOO-errrr-ahhh!" And flung the melon with deadly accuracy, which then naturally struck Draco squarely across the nape, soaking his hair and jacket with sticky juices and dazed fruit-flies.
Hastily, Draco leapt up off his toes and grabbed at the beckoning branch. The next second he'd squirmed and wriggled his way onto it, over it and the fence, and then nearly off it again altogether, when his perspiring palms slipped. A flailing manoeuvre kept him attached solely by the mercy of Merlin and he hung there, panting, long legs swaying forlornly in the chilly damp breeze.
"Gah!" Draco huffed, having assessed his new situation vis-à-vis safety. "Shite!" He was facing the wrong way 'round, sod it!
Alright, alright, Draco told himself. Steady on, mate.
He simply had to inch his way to the trunk in a backwards motion like a sloth, twine all his limbs 'round the sparse branches, swarm down the swaying tree and then he'd be home free, easy-peasy. Resolved, and trying to feel at least slightly positive about the whole situation, Draco gathered his strength. Mission had been accomplished, after all; he was no longer in immediate peril from death-by-enraged-apeman. It was only the prospect of his neck snapping when he descended from the tree to concern himself over. 'No biggie', as Mr. Weasley had told him the Muggles said.
Sod that!
The branch he hung from like some wayward holiday ornament chose that moment to creak ominously, which was just Draco's usual luck. The original gorilla, plus three others, slightly smaller but still armed to the teeth with their leftover luncheon, swarmed up the painted rocks shrieking and "OOOOing" and began pelting the tree— and Draco—with a ragged buffet of fruit and veg choices. Also, gorilla droppings, of which there were plenty, for variety's sake.
"Merlin's bloody bollocks!" Draco swore nastily. "I'm fucking well resigning, the minute I'm out of this! Fucking MACARONI! Sodding Screwbik! Stupid Weasley!"
"Really, Draco?" drawled a well-remembered voice. "You don't say?"
"Harry!"
"Need a hand, Mister-I-have-a-very-important-appointment? Or are you just ducky on your own?"
"Harry, go the fuck away!" Draco hissed. "I'm perfectly fine!"
"Uh-huh," Harry nodded agreeably. "Just peachy, Draco. I can see that, you know. Not that I'd chose that particular vantage point to view the captive Silverbacks myself, but to each his own."
"Shut up!" Draco ordered and began his inching. The branch dropped an inch or two of its own, leaving his stomach above his head for a shaky moment. Draco swallowed, cursing gravity, which was a Muggle invention. "Oh, shite, shite, shite!"
"Certain you couldn't use a little assistance there, Draco?" Harry had his hand on his coat sleeve, an instinctive motion which quite made it impossible for Draco's gut to ever resume its happy home within his swaying body. He choked, deathly afraid of what might happen if Harry unknowingly used magic on him.
Things would go very, very badly—of that, Draco was certain.
"NO!" he shouted, jiggling about on the thin, whippy branch. "No, Harry! I've got it—see?"
He began a frantic hand-over-hand in reverse, as if he were traversing a high wire or the monkey bars in some bass-ackwards Muggle cinema farce, and thankfully the branch steadied as it thickened and ceased with its infernal noises of internal shattering.
"Please don't!" he added, having reached the point where he could wrap himself 'round the slim tree trunk. "Oh, Merlin, please, Harry! Don't even think about it!"
"Ooooh!" exclaimed the useless tourists, who'd been watching pop-eyed all along.
"C'est étrange! He iz craaazy!"
"What's all this, then?" demanded a zoo employee, bustling up a fraction too late and minus his trank gun, in any event. "What is going on here, gentlemen?" he inquired, shooing away the crowd.
"Oh, fuck!" Draco muttered, and slid down the trunk, rucking up his knees and the skin on his palms and ankles as he did so. "I am sooo very, very fucked."
He gasped, staggered away from the trunk, hair sticky and upper half liberally festooned with smeared papaya and...other...unpleasant things. What he wouldn't give for a good Scourgify!
And now, Draco realised, he had to get himself out of this imbroglio; tout de suite, as he'd heard tell French prisons were not preferred Muggle tourist destinations. Not to mention what would happen to his career, should this incident ever make the Prophet.
"Come, now, Cousin Frédéric!" Harry exclaimed loudly. "Enough of your nonsense!" He strode forward and grabbed Draco's grubby arm. "Please excuse us, M'sieur; my cousin's easily over-excited," he informed the frowning zookeeper urbanely, whilst describing a discreet and universal circling motion 'round one ear with his pointed forefinger. "We must be going, Frédéric," he urged, glancing meaningfully Draco's way and forcibly tugging him into tow. "Right now. We're terribly late for administering your daily dose of happy pills and you know how you like those, don't you? The Happy Pills? Cousin?"
"Ah, er?" Draco gawked, and then twigged it, abruptly. "Cousin Gaston! You've arrived! You've come to retrieve me!"
He capered just a bit, in the best house elf tradition, as everyone knew house elves were both mad and mostly harmless, as well as bloody useful, and he'd no other point of reference for being charmingly barmy and notably off his nut.
"Happy pills, Gaston!" Draco chortled, scampering after Potter with alacrity. "Oh, take me away from all this, do! My friends the apemen won't play with me! They're soo cruel! Frédéric is soo sad, Cuz! You don't know how sad Frédéric is!"
The zookeeper stood well back and motioned them both along hurriedly, a reluctant sympathy dawning on his stern face.
"You may go, sirs," he allowed gruffly, "but don't come again without your medication, please," he scolded Draco. To Harry, he nodded ever so faintly and issued a quiet, '"Je te dis merde!"
"Merci, M'sieur," Potter smirked in return. He frowned at Draco and began a fast frogmarch to the car park. "But come, dearest Cuz," he ordered, overcoming the giggle that threatened with a manful struggle. "Let's return to the hotel now, shall we? Aunt Ernestine awaits us, and then you may have a nice long soak in the bath, and a restful nap, after luncheon."
Draco continued skipping; he felt it was in character. Also, Harry was dragging him along at a great pace, and he had to nearly sprint to keep up.
"What are you doing here, Potter?" he demanded, when they reached the Ferrari. "Oh, don't stuff me in there—you'll ruin the upholstery. I'll summon a cabbie."
"No, you won't, Draco," Harry stated firmly and proceeded to insert Draco into the passenger side rather forcefully. "There's spells for this—"
"No!" Draco shrieked, jerking away. "No! No! No! Absolutely not! No spells! Not near me! Don't do it, Potter; I'm warning you!"
"Why ever not?" Harry asked reasonably enough, sliding deftly behind the wheel. "We're Wizards, remember? Why wouldn't we use spells?"
"Because—because!" Draco gasped, fumbling for any reasonable (or even irrational)explanation. "I'm allergic! That's it. I mean to say. The thing that's wrong with me. I'm allergic to magic, Potter. Had an illness recently—odd side effect, you know—of the medication. Passing but very virulent! On medical leave from the Ministry. So—no spells! D'accord? Capiche? Got it?"
Potter gazed long and hard at Draco's pleading face, his expression skeptical. He nodded at last, slowly, bright eyes assuming a reserved glint. "Right, then, Draco. No magic. Whatever you say."
"That's right, Potter—whatever I say, and I say it's fine, and you can just drop me anywhere near a taxi-stand any time now. I'll be perfectly all right. I've my luggage and I'm done here, in any case."
"Where is your luggage, for that matter?" Potter demanded, preparing to merge onto the motorway. He avoided addressing Draco's demand altogether, Draco noticed. "Did you stash it somewhere? Such a nice set, that; Gucci, isn't it?"
'What? No!" Draco gabbled, practically plastered his eyeballs to the window, searching for a suitable place to exit the sex machine as the town of La Palmyre appeared before them. He couldn't bear another moment of this; he really couldn't!
"Look, I don't know Muggle, Harry! I don't follow every little fashion trend they have— don't have the time. Er, please. You mustn't concern yourself with my fucking luggage, alright? I'll deal with it—it's fine. And you mustn't concern yourself with me, either. Now, about dropping me off—"
"I will—in the loo at the hotel, Draco," Harry replied, primly. "As soon as possible, trust me. You stink."
"Git! I do not!" Draco jerked his chin around to give Potter the Look.
"Prat. You do. You need a bath—like yesterday!"
"Prick! That's my business, Potter! Keep your damned nose out of it!"
"Twat! Whatever were you thinking, Draco, climbing about in a gorilla cage? Are you so bored with your life of minor diplomacy you have to end it?"
"Hardly!"
On the verge of spilling his guts to Potter, because Potter was trustworthy and used to weird things happening, and would somehow totally understand Draco's current predicament, Draco stopped himself. Again.
He couldn't. That was the whole reason Weasley had chosen him, a diplomat, supposedly schooled in discretion. Always, always able to defuse a situation. Always able to pull off a polite lie, with dignity. No, he couldn't confide in anyone concerning the situation he was in, not even 'Hero Harry'. And he must remove his admittedly somewhat malodorous person from Potter's side instantly. All his clambering about with the gorillas could've damaged the Cube's protective Muggle case.
Draco glumly contemplated the suddenly very real prospect of Squibdom.
"Look, just drop me off somewhere, will you?" he requested, subdued, all his normal fire firmly doused. All very well for him to become a Squib, but Harry couldn't. No fucking way. "Anywhere will do. I'm really not in the mood for company right at this moment, Potter, and especially not yours. I'd much prefer to be left to myself, thank you."
"Ah," Potter blinked at the macadam rapidly rising and falling under the sex machine's tires. A lovely view sped by, entirely disregarded. La Palmyre proper was just around the corner. "I see. Right. Whatever you wish, Malfoy."
"I do wish, thank you," Draco reaffirmed quietly, blind eyes fixed on the rapidly passing and pleasant scenery. He didn't; in fact, he wished nothing more than to return to the very nicely appointed suite Harry had booked in and indulge in a long, relaxing soak, and perhaps even enquire of Harry if he might be interested in washing his back later. Because he did stink, Draco knew, and in more ways than one. He was rank with lies of omission and half-truths and sodding secrecy and that was no good at all if he were trying to impress Potter.
But he wasn't ever likely to impress Potter, in any case; not unless he became an Ambassador, and perhaps not even then.
"Thank you," he mumbled, when Harry pulled the sex machine up with a jerk and a faint squeal of brakes. "Very much. Here will be perfect." The intersection in La Palmyre's main shopping district was crowded, even in March. People were going about their lives—shopping, strolling, talking— and when Draco opened his door, he was hit by a miasma of bustling small-town contentment.
And he could give a bloody Flying Fig about that, Draco mourned. It wasn't as if he were a real tourist.
"Thank you, Potter," he repeated for the third or fourth time, fixing his face into a polite and bland company smile. "I'll take it from here. Have a safe and pleasant journey."
"Draco." Harry leant forward against the leather-covered steering wheel, frowning. "Are you certain?"
"Very—"
"Oi!" yelped a nearby policeman. "You cannot park that machine here! Move on, sir—please move on!"
"Certain, Potter. Yes, indeed! Right! Going!"
Draco nodded and smiled charmingly at un policier and backed rapidly away from Harry's rented vehicle. He'd not be seeing Harry again, of course. Coincidence would only carry him so far, and he'd still the bloody Dampener in his pocket, and that stupid arse Screwbik hadn't bothered to rouse himself to relieve Draco of it, even when he'd been so actively cavorting.
"Carry on, M'sieur; excusez-moi!" he called out to the irked policeman over his stinky shoulder, firmly turning his back on the Ferrari and taking himself off to the opposite kerb, leather loafers squishing foully with every step. Behind him, he heard the low potent rumble of the super-charged engine revving and then the sports car was roaring away, leaving only a cloud of petrol fumes to mark its passing. Leaving Draco standing on the verge of a busy intersection, his potent BO—enhanced by the unmistakable scent of fresh gorilla excrement and rotting tropical fruit—threatening the noonday diners at the café that spilled out its rustic little wrought-iron tables all over the quaint cobbles.
"Oh!" exclaimed a matronly woman nearby, clutching her serviette to her nose. "La la! Quelle mauvaise odeur!"
"Taxi, taxi!"
Draco stepped forward hastily, flapping his befouled arm like a white banner, and got on with the exacting business of being a Muggle tourist. Nothing much else left to do, was there?
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