A/N: Trigger warning - Google Translated French ahead.

Draco

A clatter echoed in the dining room of the Zabini cottage as a pair of scales hit the wall. Draco felt a shooting pain in his back when the apparatus collided and he was sharply reminded of his oath not to damage the property.

"What's wrong?" Nott asked. He peered into Draco's cauldron, then looked down at the open textbook on the table. "I don't remember that one turning pink."

"I didn't ask you," Draco snapped. He had been snapping more and more since resuming his studies. He essentially had the knowledge of a fifth-year student since he spent his sixth year focused on his assignment to kill Dumbledore—the exception being when he lost himself into his Potions lessons—and his seventh year was...well, the Defence Against the Dark Arts exam would be easy.

"You added the dungbeetles too soon."

"If you don't remember the potion turning pink, how on earth would you know what I did to do so?"

Nott waved his hand over the ingredients laid out on the table. "Your phial of wormwood is still full. That's supposed to come first."

Draco cursed. "Evanesco." The pink solution disappeared. "I need food," he said, and stomped into the kitchen. He restlessly shuffled through the cupboards and the icebox. "There's nothing to eat," he declared.

His bemused housemate opened a cupboard. "There's a bucket of potatoes in here. Bread's on the counter next to the apples and bananas. There's a package of biscuits hidden under the sink, and I know for a fact there's steak in the icebox."

"Then let me rephrase: there's nothing here I want to eat."

"Beggars and choosers," Nott responded. He opened another cupboard and removed a mostly-empty glass jar of peanut butter. "I admit, we do need to go shopping."

"Shopping? For food?"

"Yes, Malfoy. Shopping for food. That's how it gets to your house." Nott's mouth twitched. "Have you never gone to the grocers?"

Draco frowned at the unfamiliar term but kept his mouth shut. The expression on Nott's face turned to unholy delight.

"You honestly didn't know you have to buy food, did you?"

"Of course I knew you have to buy it," Draco protested unconvincingly.

Nott grinned. "This should be fun."

Inside the hour, the pair stood outside of a shabby wood-panelled store with a dancing sign that read 'MagiMart'.

"I don't like this," Draco said.

"Of course you don't. That's why I'm going to enjoy every moment of this experience."

Nott grabbed a handbasket and led Draco through the aisles. Signs spelled out the general contents of each aisle, wiping clean of their own accord to advertise specific products. The store looked like an over-sized, stiflingly organized apothecary.

"See anything you want?"

"What are these?" Draco asked, pointing to thin green vegetables which faded into white ends. He heard Nott snigger. "What?"

"It must be nice to be so rich that you don't even know what uncooked chives look like."

"I've had about enough of your cheek."

"Oooh, I'm so scared." Nott smirked. "Remember, I'm the one who's actually read the Defence book while you fiddle with your potions. Which reminds me, we should stop off at an apothecary before we head back."

Draco looked around the unfamiliar store and felt his appetite disappear. "Let's just go now. I don't want to be here anymore."

"Nuh-uh. We need food."

A witch with a half-full basket turned the corner and Draco immediately turned away. After being locked away in the safety of his own home and then Zabini's for nearly four months, he didn't feel comfortable in public. Any one of these people could recognize him and send him straight to Azkaban. Why didn't he think about that before he left the house?

Nott glanced over at the cause of Draco's discomfort and sighed. "You're in France. You're fine. No one's going to pay any attention to you."

"People always pay attention to Malfoys. It's our family burden."

"They won't pay you any mind if you don't draw attention to yourself. Look, she hasn't even looked over here. You're fine. And who's to say she would even recognize you as a Malfoy, anyway? Your family moved to Britain nearly a millennium ago. I bet France has forgotten your line exists."

Draco gave an indignant snort. "People do not forget the Malfoys. France is well aware of us."

"Then you should have moved to China and left me in peace."

"Now you sound like Zabini."

"He is my best friend." Nott tossed an assortment of vegetables into their basket. "What next?"

"How am I supposed to know? I'm not the one who's done this before."

"Spending time with you makes me grateful that we were never particularly affluent. You're positively crippled without your damned house-elves." Nott led them away from the produce and into an aisle filled with various jars. "Marmalades, olive oils, mustards...anything strike your fancy?"

Draco looked over his shoulder, watching for the wandering witch. "No," he said shortly. "I want to leave."

Nott selected a few jars with an air of nonchalance and rested them next to the vegetables. "Olive oil, olive oil," he murmured, and moved farther down the aisle.

"We're going to get caught if we don't leave now," Draco hissed. The witch stood at the end of the aisle, examining a display of jellies.

"Stop being so paranoid and help me figure out which olive oil to buy. This one looks good, but this one's imported from California, which could be interesting."

The witch turned to look at them and Draco visualized the Zabini garden and spun on the spot. Nothing happened.

"Did you just try to Disapparate?" Nott chuckled, watching Draco from behind four levitating bottles of oil.

"Why didn't it work?"

"You can't Disapparate inside a store, you dolt. Otherwise, how could they stop people from stealing?"

Draco held his breath as the witch moved closer to them. As she passed by the men, she gave them both cursory nods but there was no flicker of recognition in her eyes.

"I told you," Nott sang. "You can breathe now. You're turning the same shade as your potion."

"Sod off, Nott."

The offending wizard selected a tall bottle, examined the label for a long moment, waved the other three contenders back to their shelves. "Alright, I think I'm finished. Are you sure there's nothing else you want?"

"I want to get out of this bloody store and go home."

"Patience is not a Malfoy virtue, is it?"

"Compassion seems to be missing from your repertoire." Draco headed for the front of the store and tried to stomp out his anxiety. He heard Nott snigger.

"You don't need compassion. You need a reality check."

They approached the clerk's counter and laid their purchases on the tall bar. "Avez-vous taut trové?" the haggard man behind the counter asked. Did you find everything?

Nott looked at the man with a blank expression and turned to Draco. "I don't speak French."

"And you think I do?"

"I've heard you."

Draco let out a long-suffering sigh. "Oui." Yes.

The witch arrived behind them and cut into the conversation. "Je ne peux pas trouver le curcuma." I can't seem to find the turmeric.

The clerk nodded and retrieved his wand. "Accio poudre de curcuma." A small jar with an orange-tinted powder whizzed into his hand. He set it on the bar and returned to the men.

Draco glared at Nott before addressing the clerk. "Si je vous ai donné une liste d'articles, les invoquez-vous pour nous?" If I gave you a list of items, would you Summon them for us?

"Oui. C'est un service que nous offrons." Yes. That is a service we offer.

"I'm going to kill you," Draco said to his housemate.

Nott looked confused but shrugged. He retrieved a newspaper and laid it on top of their order. "This too, please."

The clerk nodded and put their items in a paper bag. "Sept gallions."

"Seven Galleons?" Draco sneered. "That's robbery!"

"Oh, shut up. How would you know?" Nott said as he counted out the appropriate coins. "Three Galleons, two Sickles, and eight Knuts. I did the math already."

The clerk grunted as he took the money from Nott. "Vous êtes plus intelligent que votre ami, Anglais." You're smarter than your friend, Englishman.

"Hey!" Draco protested. "Je vais vous faire savoir—" I'll have you know—

Nott grabbed the bag and Draco's arm and dragged him outside. "I may not know what you're saying, but I know that tone. Merci!" he called back into the store. The clerk ignored him.

"I did not have a tone."

"You did. It was your 'I'm going to be a git' tone. Now, are we going to the apothecary to replenish your Potions supplies, or are your delicate nerves sufficiently frayed for today?"

With a pop, Draco Apparated to the cottage and stormed through the front door. His housemate followed behind and kicked the door closed. "I'll take that as a no to the apothecary, then?"

"You're insufferable."

"I could say the same about you," Nott answered mildly. He rested the bag on the kitchen counter and began sorting the groceries. "Damn, I forgot butter."

"I am not going back there."

"Calm down. I wasn't going to ask you to. Go clean off the dining table so we can sit down for a decent meal."

"I am not a house-elf!"

"It's called cleaning up your own mess. Do it now or I will Imperius you."

"I'm immune—"

"Titillando," Nott said calmly.

Purple ribbons of light assaulted Draco, tickling him to the brink of tears. The blond man doubled over, howling with involuntary laughter while trying to scream at Nott. The latter finished sorting the vegetables and levitated them to the sink for washing.

After three minutes or so, Nott released Draco from the hex. "Are you prepared to behave yourself?"

"I'm going to kill you in your sleep."

"Don't get blood on the sheets. Blaise'll kill you next." Nott donned an apron and set a skillet to heat on the stove. "Now, shoo."

As they tucked away a meal of roasted vegetables and steak, Nott flipped through the French Wizarding newspaper. "I can't read any of this rubbish."

Mollified due to the full condition of his stomach, Draco tapped the newspaper with his wand. The words rearranged themselves into English.

"Okay, that was cool. You'll have to teach me that one."

Draco smirked. "Malfoy family secret."

"Malfoy family secret, my foot." Nott turned the page and skimmed a long article. "Thank you." He paused and frowned. "They're training a new class of Aurors. Look who's in the front row."

"Let me guess. Scarhead, Weasley, and the Mud—Muggle-born."

"Two out of three. Blaise said Granger went back to Hogwarts." Nott returned to the front page of the paper to review it now that it was in English. "Oh."

Draco looked up at his friend's tone. "Oh? What's wrong?"

Nott flattened out the paper. "'Rodolphus Lestrange was captured by the British Ministry of Magic late Thursday evening. An emergency session of the Wizengamot was called Friday morning to question the Death Eater, as it is believed he may know the whereabouts of several prominent followers of You-Know-Who. Under the influence of Veritaserum, Lestrange revealed he had been in contact with several Death Eaters, including Rabastan Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, Lucius Malfoy, and Atticus Nott. He was unable to provide specific locations but indicated that Malfoy and Nott may have fled to North America. The Magical Congress of the United States of America (MACUSA) and the Parliament of Magical Canada are currently investigating these claims. If discovered, Malfoy and Nott will be extradited to the United Kingdom to stand trial immediately.'"

"Oh," Draco said. A flare of annoyance rose in his chest at his father's carelessness. "Why would he keep in touch with anyone? Doesn't he realize how dangerous that is? When you go into hiding, you go to ground and don't look back!"

"You kept in touch with me," Nott said.

"Not intentionally."

"Fine. You intentionally kept in touch with Blaise."

"That's because I needed him and the only reason I'm still here is because he got one over on me by keeping a key to my Gringotts vault. I should be far away by now, living under a new identity." A small part of his brain chided him on the blatant lie; he'd decided to stay before he knew Zabini had full access to his Gringotts account.

Nott just shook his head. "You can't even shop for necessities. How are you going to survive on your own?"

For once, the biting and sarcastic responses died in Draco's throat as he laid his head in his hands. "I don't know. I really don't know."