Draco
"WHAT THE RUDDY HELL DID YOU DO TO MY ROOM?" Theo yelled from down the hall.
Draco casually turned the page of the French Wizarding newspaper as he waited for his housemate to join him in the dining room. "Three, two, one," he said to himself. He dipped a piece of toast in runny egg yolk and took a bite.
An unnaturally black-haired man in canary yellow pyjamas with black cuffs marched into the room with fury in his gold eyes. "Draco Lucius Malfoy, I am going to kill you."
"Whatever for?" Draco turned another page and sipped his warm cup of Earl Grey tea.
"I look like a bumblebee!"
Draco smirked but still didn't look at Theo. "You obviously haven't seen the back of your shirt, then."
"I have seen EVERYTHING. There is a PORTRAIT of a BADGER on my WALL."
Fortunately for Draco, Theo was a creature of habit and being that the previous night was Thursday, he took his semi-weekly dose of Dreamless Sleep. Unfortunately for Theo, Draco had learned quite a bit about pestering one's roommate. Unlike Theo, who chose to pester Draco by sending hexes, jinxes and curses across the dining room table (or garden, or library, or hall), Draco was more of an artist. And a patient one at that.
Even after three months, Draco was still peeved about the Taboo which prevented him from saying the names of the Hogwarts Houses, so he chose to make his feelings toward Theo a bit more...demonstrative.
"You'll notice that the buttons of your pyjamas are also badgers," Draco said dryly.
That bit of transfiguration was surprisingly easier than Draco had anticipated considering his track record with Weasley's wand. In fact, the entire operation took less than an hour. Theo's room now sported two yellow walls, two black walls, a yellow bedspread, black sheets, black curtains, black carpet, yellow upholstery, and a six-by-four-foot portrait of a badger in a field of daffodils painted by Draco himself.
Theo stomped into the kitchen, retrieved his breakfast, and stomped to the dining table. "I hate you."
"You're not a morning person, are you?" Draco kept his face impassive as Theo glowered at him. "Don't worry. The best part is yet to come."
As Theo stabbed his traditional waffle with a fork, Draco legitimately gave his attention to the newspaper. The only article on the last remaining Death Eaters was a two-paragraph blurb on page three that said next to nothing. The Aurors hadn't made progress on their cases in over two months, and the French public was losing interest in Britain's problems. Draco knew better than to get complacent, but some small part of him hoped that he might actually have a chance at disappearing for good.
The sound of chattering animals followed by Theo jumping in his chair brought the smirk back to Draco's face. "DRACO MALFOY!"
"Yes, Theodore Nott?"
"My BUTTONS are making BADGER NOISES."
"Ah, yes. They'll be doing that at certain intervals."
"I am going to get you back for this, you know."
Draco gave a dramatic sigh. "I know you will. And then I'll get you back for that and we'll end up in an endless cycle of revenge."
Theo narrowed his eyes for several moments before his face relaxed into its normal good-natured grin. "I've taught you well."
"I'm a good student."
"I take it you had no issues with Weasley's wand?"
Draco spun the wand through his fingers, leaving a trail of periwinkle and silver sparks. "I think it may have finally accepted me as its new owner."
"I can see that. Congratulations." Theo returned to wolfing down his breakfast and Draco to sipping his tea and reading the newspaper. An ad calling for experienced potioneers caught his eye a split second before his hair fell in his face.
"Hey!" He looked across the table to see Theo setting down his wand. Draco reached behind his neck to search for the snapped hair tie, only to feel nothing of the sort. "You Vanished it?" Draco tried to keep the awe from his voice. Vanishing an object one couldn't see was McGonagall-level impressive.
"I've been dedicating more time to Transfiguration."
Draco conjured a new band and tied to around his sleek blond hair. He would charm it light brown again before they left the house, as had become habit, but he preferred it blond. For some reason, the colouring charm still made his hair into a tangled mess. He had a feeling Weasley's wand's sense of humour was to blame. In spite of his complaints, the minor change to his appearance made him feel more comfortable in public.
"So," Theo said, and set down his knife and fork atop his clean plate. "What are we doing today? Before you abandon me to go to the bakery."
The new tables at the Wilkinses' bakery became a favourite place for Draco to spend an hour reading under the guise of slowly eating lunch. Theo teased him endlessly about assimilating into Muggle culture for the sandwiches, but joined him on occasion to indulge in the cupcakes. Draco scoffed at the idea he was 'assimilating' and pointed out that he spent his time in the Muggle town in two places: the bakery and the bookstore. He largely refused to go anywhere else, and only talked to the Muggles when necessary.
"I wouldn't abandon you if you would come with me." In truth, Draco enjoyed his solitude, but recognized that Theo tended to go stir-crazy if left alone too long.
"Nah, I have plans."
"Plans? With?"
Theo gave a cagey grin. "Plans."
Draco narrowed his eyes. "Plans with plans?" He evaluated his friend's too-smug expression. "Are you fraternizing with the Muggles?"
"Don't go all judgmental on me. You've found the Wilkinses, which is great for you. I've found someone else," Theo reasoned.
"Does this 'someone else' happen to be female and around our age?"
"Perhaps."
The narrowed eyes turned into a full glare. "Perhaps? Can you be more vague?"
"Possibly."
Draco let go of the paper and groaned into one hand. "You're infuriating. And you look like a banana. You're an infuriating banana with talking buttons."
"Yes I am. So what are we doing today?"
In the end, they ventured into Wizarding Toulouse, looking for a proper apothecary. The shop in Bordeaux had been disappointing, with only enough variety to supply an amateur potioneer. During the lengthy hours Draco had spent perusing the Zabini library, he found a book of curious potions that required a more diverse selection of ingredients. Theo told Draco in no uncertain terms that if they exhausted all other options, he would not go to Paris. Even disguised, the risk of getting caught was too high in the capital. Thankfully, the apothecary in Toulouse had most of what Draco looked for, and the shopkeeper suggested a couple of non-Parisian locations where he might find the rest of his items.
They went into the Muggle town near midday. Theo waved goodbye before he trudged through the melting snow toward the residential area. He was still tight-lipped about whoever he was planning to meet.
Draco opened the door to the bakery and breathed in the scent of fresh baked bread. He let his eyes close for a fleeting second, remembering the way the Manor used to smell in the morning. Vanilla and fresh bread. Those were the scents of home, before the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters arrived.
If only he could go back to before it all went sideways. He would give anything to be fifteen again.
"Bonjour mon ami!" Mrs. Wilkins called, pulling him out of his reverie. "How are you, my dear?"
Draco gave her a false smile, only to discover it turned into a real smile when he met the older woman's eyes. "Fine, and yourself?"
"It's been a bit warm today for my taste, and Wendell's fighting with the oven again. Stubborn man won't let me come near it, even though I am just as qualified to tinker with it as he is." She grinned and peered through the window. "I thought I saw your brother a moment ago?"
"Chrys is previously engaged. It's just me today."
Nearly a month after their first visit to the town, the men decided on their aliases—thanks, in part, to Mrs. Wilkins' comment about their gold and silver eyes. From there, they chose the names Chrysos and Argyros, which meant 'gold' and 'silver' in Greek. Theo preferred to go by Chrys, since he shortened his real name. Draco preferred 'Argyros' in full as it sounded more appropriate for a pure-blood; even a pure-blood in hiding. To his chagrin, the Wilkinses refused to call either man by their 'given' names, and Draco was subjected to being called 'Mr. Granger' more often than he liked. If only he could go back to that day and come up with some other surname. Anything but bloody Granger.
If only, if only, if only.
"Oh, that makes sense. Lydia Poirier mentioned seeing one of the 'handsome visitors', which could only mean either you or the other Mr. Granger."
"Seeing? As in courting?"
"I take it he has not shared this with you?"
Draco suppressed the annoyance that rose in his chest with a good dose of reasoning. "It's his decision, of course, but no. He did not mention Mademoiselle Poirier."
Mrs. Wilkins nodded, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "Between you and me, I hope he has the good sense to not let things go far enough that he needs to mention her. Miss Poirier is not the most intelligent of young ladies, and neither of you strike me as particularly dull-witted." She wiped her hands on her apron and moved in front of the display case. "But that's enough gossip for the moment. What are you feeling like today?"
"Bread and cheese would be good enough today if you have it," he answered. "I've some reading to do."
"I know just the thing. Wendell just ordered this new cheese to bake on top of the apple muffins—don't ask me why, but I think it has to do with some American thing he saw over the holidays—but I'll melt it down and you can use it for dipping. I'll give you one of the muffins, too. Maybe you can convince my husband that he's finally lost his sense. Honestly," she tutted and headed for the back.
Several minutes later, Draco flipped the page of An Anthology of Potions of the 17th Century (which he previously charmed to look like a Muggle history book he'd seen at the bookstore) and dipped slices of sourdough bread into a bowl of a sharp Irish cheddar. The bell above the door chimed, causing him to snap to attention. Once he scanned the newcomer for any signs of magic (she had none), he let out a held breath and returned Weasley's wand to the sleeve of his blazer.
Moments like that were the only downside of spending time at the bakery. Every time the tiny bell tinkled to announce a customer's arrival or departure, Draco found himself clutching Weasley's wand under the table, waiting for a hex to be thrown his way by an Auror. He hated praying to see Muggles instead of wizards. It felt intrinsically wrong. His whole life was thrown out of proportion and he wondered if the fear would ever leave.
The longer he and Theo stayed at the Zabini residence, the deeper the war raged within himself. He knew it was stupid to stay in one place too long, but he had lived at the Manor for eighteen years. The Malfoys had lived there for nigh on a millennium. It was in his blood to put down roots, and he had become attached to this little corner of France. But the practical side of his mind warned him that he might have to run at a moment's notice, and he hated the entire idea.
"Good afternoon Mr. Granger," Mr. Wilkins greeted Draco as he walked to the table farthest away from the windows, where Draco always sat cast in shadow.
"Good afternoon," Draco echoed, and closed the book. Mr. Wilkins had a look on his face that Draco remembered from many conversations with his father: the "we need to talk" look. The last time Lucius Malfoy gave his son that look, he announced he and Draco's mother were going to ground in Wizarding America. Needless to say, the look infused Draco with a certain sense of dread.
Mr. Wilkins gestured to the chair opposite Draco. "May I?" The young man nodded and the baker seated himself. "Now, Mr. Granger, I'm not sure how to approach this without scaring you off." An uneasy feeling settled in Draco's chest. Whatever Mr. Wilkins had to say, he wasn't going to like it.
"It's the only way we can be safe, and you know it isn't just Aurors that will be pursuing us," Draco remembered his father saying. "England is not going to be kind to us this time. We have to leave, Draco. Draco, why are you being so infuriatingly stubborn? Don't you see your mother and I have your best interests at heart? You need to leave with us, young man. It's the only way we'll survive."
"I'll find another way," Draco had snarled at his father. "Run off to your friends. Hide from the consequences of losing the war. Be the coward you raised me to be." The words had been harsh, unforgiveable and he regretted them. He regretted not saying goodbye to his mother, whose eyes betrayed the broken heart her set jaw would never reveal. He regretted so much, and he did everything to drive those thoughts from his mind before they caused him to go mad.
"Son, are you still with me?" the gentle voice of Mr. Wilkins broke into his memories. Draco returned his eyes to the older man and nodded once without a word. "You're awfully tense for such a young man." The look on Mr. Wilkins' face morphed into concern, which made Draco feel even more awkward. Why was this Muggle concerned? "Is everything alright with you?"
Draco nodded again, numb at the idea that someone was even asking that question. He was a wanted criminal, and someone he was raised to hate on principal was asking after his well-being. How had this confusing, conflicting mess become his life? Why couldn't he go back to the days of riding his broom above the Manor or relaxing in the common room, before it all began? Before he began to question everything he had been taught from birth? Why was this disaster of an uncertain future his lot in life?
"You're running from something," Mr. Wilkins accused. Not accused. Said. Mr. Wilkins wasn't accusing Draco of anything, but he still felt his core wind tight in case he needed to spring free and run. When it came down to fight or flight, he would choose flight every time.
"You spend a lot of time staring at the table. You jump every time the bell rings and you look out the window. I'm not sure you realize it, but you often look over your shoulder." Draco noted the careful tone in the man's voice. Nothing good ever came from a cautious tone. "You look like you're preparing to defend yourself and run, and I have a feeling it has to do with that."
Draco cursed as Mr. Wilkins pointed to the wand he had subconsciously dropped to his hand, and jumped to his feet. Mr. Wilkins grabbed his left forearm, where the Dark Mark was hidden beneath layers of clothes. Draco recoiled, but Mr. Wilkins was stronger than he looked. "Argyros," he said with conviction, holding Draco's arm hostage. "You don't need to run. You and your brother are the only magic users we've ever seen in here."