Eight Years Ago ~
The freshly gutted Wizengamot no longer held anyone with a hint of connection to dark witches or wizards. Draco looked out into their faces from the chair in the center of the room with apprehension. He was chagrined to notice that the collected jury waiting to hear evidence against him contained several of his peers. He recognized one of the Patil twins—he could not tell which—and of all bloody people, Neville Longbottom.
It was June the fifth, Draco's eighteenth birthday. His entire family was on trial for war crimes.
They had picked him to go first, discussing his involvement with the Death Eaters at length. Potter (present, of course, where the hell wasn't he these days?) had revealed the story of the Elder Wand and its allegiance to the assembled body, then explained how Draco had thrown him that wand in his time of need—and in so doing had given him the only hope of defeating the Dark Lord. It was a great tale, especially when Potter said it, but the Wizengamot also knew about a great many other deeds Draco had done and those were much less righteous.
He was given a year's sentence in Azkaban. It had not escaped his notice that every single member of the jury that he had attended Hogwarts with had voted for him to stay there longer.
Twelve Months, One Day Later ~
A coughing fit overtook Draco in his sleep. Sitting up, he quickly swung his legs over the side of his cot to have it out; he knew from experience that it would be easier on his lungs not to try to suppress it. The cell floor was cool under his bare feet. When the fit had finally passed, Draco pushed his lank, overgrown hair out of his face and caught his breath. Life in Azkaban had not been kind.
Quiet was not something that happened often in this place. Now that Draco had punctured it with his coughing, someone a few cells down began yelling, which predictably woke up the whole corner block he was in.
Draco laid back down on his moderately comfortable cot and tried to feel grateful that he would be leaving this in the morning. Most of his block had lifetime sentences ahead of them, Lucius included.
It had been eight months since he decided for certain that he hated his father.
He could not get any more sleep in this place.
After going through the humiliating experience of being psychologically analyzed by a couple of Aurors, he was finally cleared to return home. The attending prison guard handed him a package containing the clothes he had arrived in, and he was instructed to return to his cell, change into his civilian clothes, and wait. The clothes no longer fit him quite right: everything was loose and the trousers were too short. Despite the regular meals, he had not eaten much in the past year.
By the time someone actually came to give him his freedom, it was nearly suppertime.
He blinked with uncertainty into the free air outside of Azkaban prison. The ocean was calm, but the sky was gray, as if unsure if it wanted to rain. The smell of sea salt and cold, wet stone permeated everything—he was sure it had seeped into his bones by now.
Once they reached the Apparition point, Draco was flummoxed when he found Blaise Zabini waiting there to escort him home.
Anticipating his surprise, Blaise greeted him, then explained, "Narcissa asked me to meet you. She wanted to come herself, but as you know, she's on house arrest."
Draco quickly did the calculations in his head and recalled that all his family and most of his friends were incarcerated or dead. Still, he and Blaise had been more like acquaintances than cohorts back at school; they had never been close.
He arched an eyebrow. "Since when do you call my mother Narcissa?"
It came out harsher than he meant, especially to someone who had deigned to come collect him from prison and bring him home. He was unused to speaking civilly anymore.
But Blaise ignored his tone and smoothly answered, "Since she asked me to."
Draco frowned, then warned, "Don't hit on my mother."
The other wizard only rolled his eyes.
When they met the lady in question back at the Manor, Draco's first impression was that she was doing well. Narcissa was waiting for them in the foyer, with a smile and arms held open for him. "Darling, you're back."
Immediately, Draco saw that she was wearing the same mask she had worn before and during the war. Her face was relaxed, even around her eyes, but she no longer made direct eye contact. His mother had spent years pretending that the world had not been growing darker, until well after Draco had taken the Dark Mark. But he had no desire to go back to that life, or anything remotely like it. In fact, he did not want to be back at Malfoy Manor at all. That was another thing he had resolved on in prison, right after he decided he hated his father.
He allowed his mother to hug him. When she pulled back, she reached a hand up to touch his hair, which was longer than it had ever been, and lank from not having a proper wash in some time. She wrinkled her nose. "Perhaps you'll want to bathe before the gong. Blaise, you must stay to supper. I have to thank you properly for bringing my son home."
"That would be lovely, Narcissa," Blaise accepted.
"I have no doubt that you'll want to settle back in as soon as you've had a proper meal, Draco," she prattled on. She had still not made direct eye contact with him, and was now fussing over the arrangement of some flowers in a vase on a small table nearby. "I've had fresh linens put onto your bed, and the room aired out. I thought tomorrow we could have breakfast and then see what we can do about getting you a haircut and updating your wardrobe—"
"Supper will be great, mother," Draco interjected, eyes flickering to the doors that led to the drawing room. During the war, he had been present for over a hundred interrogations in that room. In his mind, even the door looked foreboding, like it remembered the blood and the screams it had once contained. "But I'm afraid I'm off tomorrow."
She turned to look at him, astonishment evident on her face. "Whatever do you mean?"
"It'll be an early start. I'll probably have a cold breakfast before I leave."
"But where are you going?" she pressed.
He glanced up at the cavernous ceilings of the entrance hall, feeling that there were still shadows of the dark days in the crevices. "Anywhere but here."
With that, he marched past her and upstairs toward his private suite, amid the sounds of Blaise promising his now-hysterical mother that he would follow. Sure enough, he was only two steps behind him into Draco's receiving room. It looked as his mother had promised; everything was fresh and smelled nice.
"What the hell was that?"
"I'm not staying here, Zabini. I told myself I'd travel once I was out of Azkaban, and I'm going to."
"Will the Ministry let you travel?"
"I'm on probation for two years, which means I only have to check in every four weeks. For the rest of the month, I don't have to be here."
Blaise looked thoughtful. "Where will you go?"
"I'll start north, maybe to Iceland first. I'll decide from there."
Blinking, he repeated, "Iceland?"
Draco nodded, poking his head into his bedroom before making a beeline for his wardrobe. Picking out some clothes, he padded back into the receiving room, where Blaise was still looking contemplative.
"What'll you do there?"
Draco shrugged, sinking onto the edge of the chaise longue to begin pulling off his socks and shoes. "Eat, drink… see things."
"And once you've done that?"
"Go somewhere else. Eat, drink, see things there. Then go somewhere else, etcetera." He shrugged off his jacket, adding it to the pile of discarded clothing on the floor. "Now get out. I stink and I'm going to fix that."
Following a long shower, Draco tied back his hair and had to endure the awkward knowledge that in doing so, he looked more like his father than ever. A haircut might not be a bad idea, he thought privately.
He then sat through a painfully strained dinner with Narcissa and Blaise, wherein Narcissa repeated all her same questions about his plans. It was only when the wizards had finally retired back to the receiving room that Draco began to relax somewhat. His mother's non-understanding of the situation was making things difficult. His second tumbler of scotch was heavy in his hand. After not having any alcohol for over a year, he was already tipsy.
"I want to come with you," said Blaise, nursing his own glass.
"Come again?"
"My mother and husband number nine have taken over the estate. I've been wanting to leave, and looking for the right opportunity. You know I can afford it, and I don't have any commitments here. I speak ten languages fluently—seventeen if you count passably. If you're going to travel the world, I could be useful, and it could help me to improve my repertoire."
Taking a long sip of his scotch, Draco took a moment to collect his thoughts. He had not counted on having a companion, but Zabini made some compelling arguments. Traveling as a pair would be safer, and likely more enjoyable. Not to mention his being a polyglot, which was undeniably a boon.
He instinctively knew the answer only moments later. "The Portkey Office opens at 8. Don't be late."
.
.
Present Day ~
Popping another delicate piece of sea urchin into his mouth, Draco savored the creaminess of the meat and its subtle oceanic flavors. When he looked up from his plate, he found Blaise had wrinkled his nose and was watching him with a moderate amount of disgust.
"What?"
"I still can't believe you're eating uni—for breakfast!"
He glanced back down at his plate, where there were still two more bright orange strips. As Japanese was one of the languages Blaise had picked up over their years of travel, he had been the one to help Draco order the dish in the first place. His complaints were really only for show.
Draco rolled his eyes. "It's a delicacy, as you know."
"But for breakfast?" Blaise emphasized.
"Why not?"
"Why do I feel like I have questioned your life's decisions in every major city of the world?" Before he could answer, their server came by to ask how he was enjoying his meal. Again, Blaise translated, and it was only when the man left again that his deep frown returned.
"Remember the last time we were in Fukuoka, and you still didn't have a good grasp of Japanese yet?"
Blaise's sour look answered him.
"Excellent tonkatsu though."
"All you ever think about is food. I don't know how you aren't 300 stone."
"If I love food so much, why the hell did I get stuck with a soulmate who has the most boring palate in existence?" slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it. He picked up one of the remaining strips of uni with his chopsticks and quickly transferred it to his mouth, just to shut himself up.
Blaise's eyes flicked down to the plate, at the one remaining piece of sea urchin. "So is this a Fatemark thing, too?"
Draco's eyebrows contracted. He was grateful for his full mouth so he had the extra couple of seconds to decide how much he wanted to reveal. In the end, he recognized that Zabini was easily the closest friend he had these days. If he wasn't going to talk to him about it, he would not be talking about it at all—and it was getting difficult not to complain. "She's still ignoring me."
Self-conscious now that it was said, he immediately pushed the last piece of uni into his mouth.
Blaise's eyebrows raised. "Have you decided it's a woman?"
Draco swallowed. "I suppose, yes."
"How do you know?"
He shrugged. "It's hard to explain."
It was not a lie. He had not just experienced his Sense, but also emotion when he had suffered in Chengdu. Almost as if a woman were standing right beside him, swiftly cycling through confusion, fear, pain—and finally, understanding. But then the link between them had gone quiet again. That had been three days ago, so he was feeling anxious and impatient again.
Blaise considered the situation. "You've said before that she's ignoring you. What's changed?"
"Nothing! She just eats the same damn things nearly every day. I've only known her for two weeks, and I just think she's the worst—" Draco stopped, ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth for a second, then looked suddenly and highly offended.
"What?" Blaise queried.
"I don't believe it," he uttered, thunderstruck. "She's—! She's brushing her teeth!"
Blaise looked down one last time at Draco's empty plate, and said, "She sounds like someone who knows her limits."
.
.
The teeth-brushing incident filled Draco with renewed determination. By the next day, his frustration at the entire situation came to a head, and he had set two separate plans into motion.
The first plan went into effect that very evening after he purchased a jar of the sourest umeboshi plums he could find in Fukuoka. They were technically meant to be served sparingly over rice or with fish, but since Draco had still not received any direct communication through his Fatemark, desperate measures were called for. That night, he settled into the armchair in his hotel room with the jar in one hand and a fork in the other, and dug in.
Sourness was not a flavor profile he usually sought out, but he had to admit there was something to be enjoyed in it. The first plum made his lips pucker. The second made him salivate. By the time he had moved on to the fifth, his lower jaw was tingling. He was surprisingly enjoying them—and the burst of shock that skittered through him via the Fatemark bond only made it better.
After a few minutes, he had reached his limit. Setting the jar aside, he tried to hang on to that tenuous strand of connection, thinking to her as hard as he could, It's better than what you've been eating... which even you must know.
There was no answer, except for a fading sense of grim determination from the mystery woman, before the connection dissipated entirely.
Disgruntled and even a little depressed, Draco turned on the hotel television just to have some noise to fill the empty space around him. A Japanese soap opera was on, and the on-screen couple was declaring their everlasting love for one another. He almost changed the channel, but something about the subtitles flashing quickly along the bottom of the screen made him pause. The over-the-top dialogue strongly reminded him of a show which had been on the Wizarding Wireless Network when he had been growing up: The Lovers of Scarborough.
Draco had been fascinated by his mark when he was younger, constantly prodding at it or looking at it in the mirror. So as he had grown, his mother—who had no Fatemark herself—had religiously made him listen to episodes of the show. Narcissa had been determined Draco should be educated on the matter somehow, given that he had one... even if it meant he suffered for an hour each Thursday and Sunday evening from the ages of eight to eleven.
The show was about a witch named Adelaide and her Fatemark, located on her wrist. In the show, Adelaide's Sense had been hearing; she had begun to hear the humming of a tune in her ear and knew that her soulmate was trying to find her. The whole show had been far too sordid for Draco on the whole, but even he had to admit to feeling a thrill of excitement when the heroine had finally heard that same tune hummed in person for the first time.
He remembered that small, private thrum of elation with an element of sadness now. It bothered him that his soulmate refused to engage with him. It seemed that his multiple attempts to get her attention were to fall upon a numb palate. Whoever she was, she was a creature of routine. She seemed to eat at the same times every day—three meals, almost no matter what. This was useful to know, because by Draco's calculations, the pattern placed her somewhere in western Europe.
Which is why, when it got to be around two in the morning and he still had not been able to sleep, he figured he might as well stay up and wait around to see what the idiot on the other end of his Fatemark decided to feed herself for dinner.
He took the elevator to the roof, lit a cigarette, and spent twenty minutes watching the movement of the city, bustling even at this hour. Fukuoka Tower was a spire emerging from the glowing sea of lights.
During his second cigarette, his Fatemark began to itch like crazy. Right on time.
A moment later, he got the distinct taste of bad curry: greasy and with an unbalanced flavor profile. Familiar disappointment washed through him.
He took another drag of his cigarette. Pathetic.
.
.
The second half of Draco's new plan went into action after lunchtime the next day. An owl had showed up at his hotel suite with a special delivery for him. Luckily, the bird did not look like it had been waiting long.
"You ordered something?" Blaise queried, following him into the room and dropping onto the loveseat.
Untying the package from the owl's leg, Draco paid the bird and it took off. By way of explanation, he merely said, "Special order."
"From where?"
"Mongolia."
Wasting no time, he ripped off the brown paper wrapping and opened the box to find that someone had thought to place a cooling charm on the glass bottle inside. A thrum of anticipation passed through him.
He uncapped it… the smell was pungent.
Immediately, Blaise's arm shot up to cover his nose and mouth with his sleeve. "What the fuck is that?"
"It's kumis. I've had it imported."
"Whyyyy?" he whined.
Draco took a sip… It tasted like something he wanted to be good, but had since expired and left to sit. Still, his soulmate had brought this on herself! If she was going to continue to ignore him, he was going to continue reminding her that she was being unreasonable.
He took another sip.
"Why are you putting that in your mouth?" the other wizard demanded.
"It's not great," even Draco had to admit. "But it's interesting at least."
Blaise began to make gagging noises.
To prove his point, Draco calmly took another long drink, making sure to coat his entire tongue with the strong flavor of fermented milk. That was all he really could take, so he agreed when Blaise demanded, "You need to get rid of that stuff immediately. I have seen you do lots of stupid things, but this one is currently coming out on top."
Capping the bottle again, Draco placed it on the kitchenette countertop and then pulled out his wand to vanish it. Not for the first time, he experienced a brief philosophical curiosity. In his mind, there was a place like the Room of Hidden Things, where all vanished objects went—and he felt momentarily bad about sending the kumis there.
Wanting some space, he left Blaise at the hotel and headed out into the city on his own, ending up at a bar. For a moment, he thought it might be exciting to try to meet someone, except a second later he felt bad about it. But why? Because of my soulmate? He had not actually connected with her in person yet, and his only impression of her was extremely lackluster. Why should I be faithful to someone I've probably never even met?
During the seven years of his travels, Draco had a few one-night stands. Hell, he had lost his virginity to a one-night stand. No one wanted to get involved with a Fatemarked person, no matter where in the world they came from. There was too much widespread superstition over potentially getting in the way of destiny, that hardly anyone wanted to risk it.
He was still contemplating the situation three hours later, when something actually happened.
Miraculously, his soulmate had responded. At least, he thought so. Raw onion?
Apathetically, he smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth to make sure he was right. It was definitely onion. But why? Raw onion was really no big deal—it was delicious in so many things. It was such a weak attack, it almost did not deserve a response, but it was actually a repartee from her. It seemed she had gotten his message and was trying to send a calling card of her own.
I'll reward good behavior. He decided to lowball his soulmate back, and ordered a shot of flaming sambuca. When it showed up, he watched the flames dance for a moment before pressing his hand over the top to kill the fire, and knocking the shot back. Swirling it fully around in his mouth before swallowing, he mentally asked her, Are we done now?
A minute later, just as he was about to order another, he halted. A gross, slimy feeling oozed across his tongue and down the back of his throat. Worse, there seemed to be solid beads of something in the goo, which occasionally burst and squirted a liquid into his mouth that burned a little.
Nearly doubling over, Draco clenched his fist to his closed mouth and pressed his eyes shut. He fought the urge to puke as the feeling slowly descended into his throat. A few more moments went by, and he decided that if there was going to be another attack, it would not be imminent. He had made it through.
What the hell was that? he wondered. It had not actually tasted like food.
Luckily, no one seemed to have noticed his momentary episode. He paid his tab and returned to the hotel. When he knocked on the door to Blaise's suite, his friend answered, but said, "I'm going out."
"I can't stay here."
He shrugged. "You can come. But hopefully you need to find your own way home."
Draco rolled his eyes, but changed and tried to ignore his itching Fatemark. After hopping around to a few places, the two wizards ended up wandering the city. With all the hubbub Draco's Fatemark had been generating, Blaise had put only a halfhearted effort into finding a hook-up for the night.
Around midnight, Draco got another Sense while they were wandering through the street carts and vendors. Blaise noticed immediately, the moment his companion began to smack his tongue and scratch at his shoulder blade. "What now?"
Slowly, Draco admitted, "I'm not sure."
"Well what does it taste like?"
"Vinegar. Maybe pork?" He shrugged.
Blaise grinned. "It's the most creative she's been so far, right?"
Well, that was true. It was nice to finally be on the receiving end of something other than cardboard and lettuce. But if his mystery soulmate thought she was winning any arguments with pickled bologna—or whatever she was eating—then she had sorely underestimated her opponent.
"Do you keep in touch with Ronya?"
Blaise thought for a moment. "From Uppsala?"
"The very one."
"We don't keep in touch but we've never parted on unfriendly terms, I think."
"Do you think she could get me into a surströmming party?"
Exasperated but intrigued, Blaise demanded, "A what?"
But Draco was undeterred. "I want to go to Sweden."
Blaise paused. Warily, he asked, "Why do I have a bad feeling about this?"
They packed their things and departed. Since Draco had picked the destination, he was responsible for making their hotel arrangements. However, since he was relying on Blaise successfully asking a favor of a repeat paramour, he gave his friend the option to choose the location. Blaise was the picky one, and Draco did not want to hear him complain—which was how they found themselves at a trendy luxury hotel in the nightlife sector.
They had just secured rooms and were heading toward the elevators to settle in, when Draco began to get another Sense. He had not even responded yet, but his soulmate had apparently decided to barrage him anyway.
"It's happening again, isn't it?"
Draco's attention snapped back to the lobby, where the elevator dinged open in front of him and emptied of people. "What?"
"You're scratching," Blaise pointed out. "Every time it happens, you start to scratch and then you get this faraway look—"
"Haggis," Draco interrupted, heat flooding his face. "I think she might be eating haggis."
Wrinkling his nose, Blaise pushed into the empty elevator and said, "Eugh."
Following him and absent-mindedly scratching at his shoulder blade again, Draco answered, "It's not bad, actually."
.
.
Ronya was delighted they were back in the city.
In the years since he had met her through Blaise, Draco had long considered the tall blonde woman to be a standard of beauty. She was also the type of witch his mother would have adored to have as a daughter-in-law: looks, charm, and lots of money.
But of course, he was Fatemarked. Not to mention, Ronya was clearly more interested in Blaise than in him anyway. As Draco blew out a cloud of smoke and flicked a bit of ash from the end of his cigarette, he felt a brief spike of jealousy toward Zabini. It was momentary and fleeting, as it always was. Draco did not begrudge Blaise his lifestyle… he just wished that he himself was not so lonely.
Be patient, he reminded himself. A second later, he was struck by the full weight of the fact that he was trying to obliterate his soulmate in the war that had become their introduction to one another. It was not exactly romantic—though still better than The Lovers of Scarborough. A tiny piece of him even reveled in the unconventional beginning.
Blaise popped into existence nearby. Having come Side-Along, Ronya was clinging to his arm.
"Draco, hello," she greeted, coming up to him and air-kissing both his cheeks.
Yet another reason he liked her. She actually seemed pleased to see him.
"Ronya, I hope you've been well."
"Excessively well," she assured him before charging directly into, "I hear you want to go to a surströmmingsskiva."
He nodded. "Yes."
"That's brave of you."
Blaise frowned as he fished his silver lighter from his pocket. "Why is it brave?"
"Surströmming has a reputation for being the smelliest food in the world, which is why a surströmmingsskiva—a party where the barrel is opened after fermentation—is an outdoor event."
Looking disturbed, Blaise shot him a look which clearly said, You brought me to Sweden for this?
Not, Draco thought, that Blaise had any reason to complain. He and Ronya had certainly seemed to hook back up just as nicely as last time.
"It's famous," Draco offered her as an explanation. "I want to try it."
"You're lucky, because even if someone is not hosting one that we can go to, my sister has been talking about doing one for awhile now. They have some that is about ready to be opened." She turned to eye Blaise for a moment before adding, "So if you don't mind that the party would mostly be my family, I can talk her into having one soon."
"Oh no," Blaise protested firmly. "Sorry, but this is all Draco. I don't want anything to do with something that can't be opened indoors and which I then put into my mouth."
Usually, this was where Draco would have called Blaise a wuss and rolled his eyes. This time however, he knew that surströmming was going to push even his adventurous appetite. He kept his mouth shut.
"I hope that's okay," he said to Ronya, instead.
"It is," she said after only a second's hesitation. She looked at him curiously for a few moments before turning back to Blaise. "I should get heading back. I have plans for tonight which I'm afraid I cannot miss." She kissed Blaise on the lips, then smiled and turned to Draco. "I'll see what I can find out for you." Shooting him one last considering look, she Disapparated.
"Nice witch," he said to Blaise.
He shrugged. "She likes you."
Draco snorted. "Right. That's why she's hanging all over you."
"Ronya is not a woman who ascribes to monogamy."
"Okay, whatever," he answered disbelievingly.
"Draco, this surströmmingsskiva… it's because of your soulmate, right?"
"You know that's the case."
Blaise lost his patience. "So we're here again? You're going to ignore your real problem and just go on running from it? This is just like when you got out of Azkaban."
All at once, the heavy weight of the dark times pressed in on him. The feelings were faded somewhat, thanks to time and distance, but still oppressive. Immediately on the defensive, Draco hissed, "Don't pretend you know what's going on here."
Squinting at him with speculation, Blaise amended, "Fine, but I just can't help wondering if this surströmming thing—plus all the other weird food, the hellfire soup—isn't just a way for you to cover up the fact that you're heartbroken—"
"I am not heartbroken," Draco insisted.
"Right, because eating famously horrible fermented fish is normal behavior. Just like it's normal to get out of prison and then leave the next morning to go on an indefinite world-traveling trip." Blaise speared him with a frank look. "This is Akureyri all over again."
"Well what the hell do you want me to do?"
"Stop torturing your damn soulmate!"
"This is not torture, it's an argument, which I will be winning when I go to the surströmmingsskiva!"
Slowly, Blaise shook his head, but he backed off anyway. "You're an idiot, Malfoy."
Draco stomped out his cigarette, vanished it, and then Disapparated without another word.
.
.
The surströmmingsskiva was held at Ronya's sister, Elena's, house. It was in a more suburban area of the country, so Draco arrived with Ronya through the Floo network. He was introduced to a great number of people, many of whom did not speak English, or else pretended not to, and so they did not talk to him. Too late, Draco realized how awkward it was to be at a party with Ronya and her family, almost as if they were dating.
"I hope I'm not embarrassing you too much," he murmured to his host once they finally made it outside.
Ronya smiled at him. "Don't be crazy. My mother is probably already planning our wedding."
He nearly choked; she had the graciousness to laugh off his surprise.
Most of the family had by now assembled in the backyard, and were eyeing the huge can of surströmming sitting on a long wooden table. It was the size of a small barrel, and bulging at the sides from the fermentation of the herring within.
Ronya pointed to a separate table, where there was a stack of plates, silverware, and various things to be eaten with the surströmming. "You'll have to assemble your own meal."
He looked expressively at her.
"Don't worry, I'll show you the best way to eat it."
When it came time to open the can, everyone was warned to stand well back. Draco, along with the thirty-odd other people, all stood by with bated breath while Ronya's brother-in-law casted an unsealing spell. The stench came in a brutal wave, and for the first time, Draco wondered if he could actually do this.
While he was considering what to do, Ronya led him toward the queue, handed him a plate, and instructed him to grab a piece of flatbread from a towering stack of it. Some of the surrounding family chuckled as she bossed him around, telling him what to put on his plate, how to pull the spine out of the fish, and then how to properly assemble it for eating. It involved a lot of scraping his fork around to mash up the pungent fish, then mixing it with some potato, onion, and dill, then spreading it onto the flatbread.
"You eat it like this," Ronya instructed, clearly enjoying telling him what to do. She lifted the heavy flatbread to her lips and began to eat.
Looking down at his own plate, he obeyed by lifting up his creation and nearly gagging at the smell.
"Cheers," Draco said, trying to tell himself this was no different from eating a piece of pizza in Rome. He could not back down now—not when Ronya had gone through all this trouble to get him here. Plus, there was his soulmate to consider. She would never be able to top this, he was certain.
He took a bite.
It was too much, even for him. The feeling must have shown plainly on his face because from nearby, a child—one of Ronya's young nephews—giggled at him. A few of the adults were watching him with curiosity, too. Draco supposed he did not blame them, as the food definitely had a certain notoriety and he was the outsider here. Still, the dill sauce was not doing the dish any favors in his opinion, no matter what Ronya claimed.
It was solely for the satisfaction of making his soulmate miserable that he soldiered on. The longer he went, the more secure he was in victory, until he had consumed every last bite. Emotions were coming through the Fatemark bond again: she was there, tangible, almost as if she was sitting right next to him—and hating him.
A/N: Thank you so, so much to everyone who has read along so far! I love you all to pieces. Also a humongous shout-out to my most excellent alpha/beta readers—sarenia, Witches-Britches, and iwasbotwp. This story would suck so hard without you!