:: :: :: :: ::
Whap.
The force of the blow made his skin sting and his eyes water, but Draco Malfoy didn't make a sound. He clenched his jaw and turned his gaze back to Potter. Potter's eyes were dark and hard in the dim light of the cell, standing out from his pale face. He looked like anything but the world's hero, the vanquisher of the Dark Lord. In fact, he seemed rather malevolent himself, standing behind his Ministry thugs and watching with detached interest as they roughed Draco up.
Draco sneered.
"I haven't got all day, Malfoy," Potter said, with something akin to an exasperated sigh. "Either you know where McCaffrey is, or you don't. If you'd prefer to be beaten more--"
"You know fuck all about my preferences," Draco retorted.
Whap. Draco staggered a step backwards and sank to his knees, wincing. He hadn't even seen the hand raised that time -- he really was losing his touch.
Two years in Azkaban would do that to a man.
"However," Potter continued, as if he hadn't been interrupted at all, "If you aren't interested in being useful to the Ministry, that is your choice to make. I don't particularly care if you want to stay and rot in this cell."
Potter stepped forward to stand over Draco. His features were cast into shadow, and for a moment, he reminded Draco of someone else -- someone he'd rather forget. How Potter had gotten to this point, Draco wasn't sure. He'd only heard rumors, some from before his time in Azkaban and some from the inside, of how Potter was the Ministry's information man. If they needed to know something, he was the one they sent to find out. He didn't rely on Legilimancy, either -- he reportedly used other methods that were quite persuasive.
Potter's hand reached out and grasped Draco's jaw, lifting it up enough to inspect the trickle of blood from where Draco's lip had just been split. "Your sentence is twenty years, isn't it? Pity a young man like you should be condemned to this place for so long."
Draco took great pleasure in leering back at him. "Got other ideas for how I should spend my sentence, have you?"
Potter's eyes darkened, and he released Draco's jaw a split second before one of the other men landed a blow to the side of Draco's head with something solid. Draco's face was pressed into the cold stone of the floor, and it was a moment before he realized no one was holding him there. He just couldn't get up.
"I'll give you a few days to think about it," he heard Potter say. The voice was distant and hazy. He heard sounds that may have been footsteps, and the creak of the heavy door being opened and closed again.
Draco rolled onto his back, and felt pain lance through his right side. He smiled.
:: :: :: :: ::
"In there," the guard barked, shoving Draco through a doorway and into a startlingly bright room. He tried not to blink against the glare, well aware that it made him look more pathetic than he did already. There was a time when he'd rather have died than been forced to live like this. There were still times, to be honest, but for the most part, he didn't care. He'd stopped caring a long time ago.
"Sit," the guard said, pushing him forward. The room was empty save for a table with a chair on either side. The chair on Draco's side was plain and uncomfortable-looking, while the other was ornate and plush. Draco sat, and waited.
A door appeared in the middle of a blank wall and Potter stepped through, dressed in black business robes and looking far more human than the creature who'd haunted Draco's dreams for the last few nights. The door closed and melted away as if it had never existed.
"Leave us," Potter said, looking past Draco to the guard. Draco heard a pop, and the room grew silent.
Potter set a briefcase on the table and opened it, then pulled out some rolls of parchment. He spent a moment unfurling the parchments and reading over each one, never once looking up.
One corner of Draco's mouth turned up. From what he'd heard, this was Potter at his finest: cool, calculating, a master of mindfuckery. He knew exactly how far he could push people, and he was quite good at it. Fortunately for Draco, Potter had spent very little time trying to fuck with him. And Draco had been fucked with by far more important men than Harry Potter.
Potter seemed to wait for a certain amount of tension to build in the room before pressing one roll of parchment flat on the table and turning it so that Draco could read it.
"Your sentencing docs," Potter said, his eyes meeting Draco's for the first time. "Twenty years for conspiracy against the Ministry of Magic, for being a Marked Death Eater, and for refusing to cooperate with the Ministry at a time of crisis." He did not wait for Draco to respond, but instead unrolled a second piece of parchment next to the first. "Rosier McCaffrey, Marked Death Eater, wanted for a dozen murders, including three of innocent Muggles. Do you know him?"
McCaffrey's face leered from the parchment, his expression moving smoothly from a bemused smirk to one of rage, replaying over and over. Draco's eyes darted back up to Potter's. "We may have crossed paths at some point. I don't remember."
The two pieces of parchment scooted away from each other to make space for a third that Potter placed between them. "Eyewitness accounts placing you at McCaffrey's home some four years ago."
"I assume you acquired this evidence under the usual circumstances?" Draco replied with a snort.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning you, of all wizards, should know better than to rely on testimony obtained under torture, Potter."
Potter's lips quirked into half a smile at that, and he sat back in his chair. "What makes you think I had to torture anyone to get that information? Not many people out there like you, Malfoy. On either side."
The remark stung, but Draco didn't let it show. He smiled instead. "Still worried about popularity this many years out of school?"
"I'm worried that a known criminal is still at large, one who has shown no regard for human life or society."
"Not to mention he's one you've been completely unable to apprehend," Draco added, letting himself sneer a bit. "It must shake your faith in your own moral superiority."
"It worries me," Potter said, voice a bit cooler than before. "And I am prepared to lighten your sentence considerably if you were to help us."
Draco paused as his brain caught up with his heartbeat. "Lighten?"
"Time served, plus five years' probation," Potter said, watching Draco's face. "If we catch McCaffrey, you walk free. More or less."
"You don't have the authority to change my sentence. Only the Wizengamot does."
"I can make a recommendation. And the Wizengamot usually follows my recommendations, on any matter."
It was too good to be true. It had to be a trick. Draco stared at the parchments laid out before him. "What exactly would I have to do?"
"You would be released to my custody and would assist me in the tracking and capture of the fugitive." Potter leaned forward, drawing Draco's attention. "You would still be a prisoner, of course, and would be expected to follow all orders I give."
"Right. Or else." Draco looked away, his mind spinning. Even if it were too good to be true, it would get him out of Azkaban for a stretch at the very least. Even without Dementors, the place was a miserable soul-sucking hellhole, and he doubted he'd leave with his sanity intact in twenty years.
He had no idea where McCaffrey might be. He had never even spoken to the man, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that Potter believed Draco could lead them to him. And if Draco could stall long enough, he might find a way to do just that. Or escape, perhaps. Or die trying.
All three options sounded better than staying where he was.
"All right," he said, looking up at Potter. "When do we leave?"
:: :: :: :: ::
Draco stepped out of the fireplace and into a surprisingly small, dingy flat. It didn't look as though it had been cleaned regularly since being occupied by its current resident, and the furniture seemed to have been assembled from other peoples' cast-offs. Still, it was better than anything he'd seen in six months.
"Here," Potter said, stepping in front of him. "Hold out your hands." Draco did so, and Potter tapped his wand against the metal bindings. They opened and levitated in the air for a moment before Potter snatched them up.
"Thanks," Draco said, rubbing at his wrists.
"It's not for your comfort," Potter replied, eyes cool. "It's for mine. I don't fancy waiting on you hand and foot."
"Nor wiping my arse, I imagine," Draco muttered.
"I expect you to follow a few rules during this assignment," Potter continued, pointedly ignoring the last remark. "You don't leave my sight. You ask permission before you as much as wipe your nose. You do what I say, when I say it, no questions asked."
Draco glared at him. "Is that all?"
"No. Any infraction will earn you a portkey right back to your cell. No second chances. Understood?"
Draco rolled his eyes in response, and a searing pain shot through his shoulder. He clutched at it with one hand and dropped to his knees, groaning. He looked up to see Potter's wand pointed at him.
"New rule. You respond to my questions politely, or I trigger the brand."
"What happened to just slugging me?"
Potter smirked. "This is easier."
"It doesn't hurt as much as the Dark Mark did, you know. Not that it makes you lot any better than--"
"Want me to do it again?" Potter asked, his voice oddly calm.
Draco blinked at him, considering.
Potter gestured to the worn sofa. "You'll sleep there, and you won't leave that spot. If you have to piss, too bad. We leave at dawn." He left the room, closing a door behind him.
Draco climbed to his feet and sat on the sofa, gritting his teeth at the ache in his shoulder. It wasn't even a good sort of ache, which was annoying. He leaned back against the cushions and traced the brand through the fabric of his shirt, running his fingers over the outline of the Ministry's coat-of-arms burned into his skin.
This whole McCaffrey operation was turning out to be a bit more than he'd bargained for, but it was too late for second thoughts.
He sighed. It was still better than Azkaban.
:: :: :: :: ::
"He isn't here," Potter said, kicking an empty bottle across the dusty floor. "And from the looks of it, he hasn't been here for a while."
"Well, the last time I saw him, he was hiding out in this house with a few other Death Eaters." It was the truth, and the only piece of information Draco actually had about McCaffrey. Of course, he wasn't going to tell Potter he'd only seen the man by peeking through the window because Snape had made him wait outside.
Potter turned to scowl at him. "And that would have been what, four years ago? Are you stupid or something?"
Draco snorted. "It's not like I expected him to still be here. But I thought there might be some clue as to where he went."
"Not bloody likely. Is this all you've got, Malfoy? Because I can portkey you back to Azkaban before dinner if--"
"Spare me the dramatics," Draco said. "It would have been foolish not to start here, considering that this was a place I know he spent some time. Besides, there might have been a clue of some sort."
"This had better not be all you've got," Potter said, his eyes narrowing.
"Of course not." Draco turned to the door, and hoped Potter had missed the hitch in his voice.
They walked down the road back towards the village center. Draco tried to walk purposefully, but not too quickly. He needed time to think. Fortunately, Potter seemed content to brood in silence, walking beside him. Draco had no idea what he should do next. There had to be some place he could take them to and convince Potter that McCaffrey had once taken a shit there, or something. Anything.
They rounded a corner into the main square of the village, which was quiet except for a few drunken Muggles stumbling out of a pub on the far side. At the center, a graffiti-covered statue of a Victorian-costumed man on a horse was the only interruption of the span of worn cobblestones. Draco stared at it, realizing that he'd seen it before. All of these little villages blurred together sometimes, especially the way they'd apparated great distances and moved quickly during the war. But this one -- he was sure he'd been in this spot before. He turned to his right and saw a narrow street curving off of the square.
"This way," he said, and headed towards it, feeling relief spreading through him. They walked down the lane, passing boarded up windows and doors and stepping over rubbish that no one had bothered to pick up. The sun hadn't shone on these cobblestones in years, from the looks of it. It smelled like piss and mold. Draco wrinkled his nose.
"Where are we going?" Potter asked, a touch of annoyance in his voice.
Draco stopped below a faded wooden sign, then turned to face a solid brick wall. "Here," he said. He was almost certain this was it, at least. If not, he'd look like a fool very soon. He took a discreet breath, smirked at Potter, and stepped forward -- right through the wall.
The pub was just as he'd remembered, low-ceilinged and dark, with questionable characters ingesting questionable substances in the shadowed corners. God, how he'd missed places like this.
"A bit common for your taste, isn't it?" Potter said, his mouth so close to Draco's ear that it made him jump.
"And here I thought you were the man of the people," Draco retorted. He nodded in the direction of an empty booth. "You go and sit, and I'll get us drinks and have a chat with the barman."
Potter shot him a look of annoyance at being ordered about, but he turned toward the booth. He'd taken two steps away before Draco realized he had yet another problem.
"Potter," Draco said, willing himself not to blush. "Can I… Do you have any money?"
Potter frowned at him, and then reached for his wallet.
Asking Potter for money was only slightly less humiliating than getting his arse kicked by him, but Draco clenched his jaw and headed toward the bar with his head held as high as he could manage.
The barman was a large gruff man, about a quarter giant from the looks of him. His single surviving eye roved over Draco's torso in a way that could only be described as extraordinarily creepy. He grunted, and Draco stared at him for a full second before realizing that had been his cue to order.
"Erm… Two pints of whatever local ale you've got on draught."
The barman grunted again and reached under the bar, producing two large mugs.
"The place hasn't changed," Draco began, looking about and feigning as much fondness as he could manage. "I haven't been here in years."
The bartender continued tapping the ales and ignored him.
"I've lost touch with some associates from those days," Draco continued, shooting the bartender a knowing look. "I don't suppose any of them are still about?"
The barman paused and cast his eye up at Draco. It narrowed. Draco stared back, trying to look as menacing as possible. It was difficult after all that time in Azkaban -- he'd had to learn to look harmless there, just to survive.
The barman snorted and pushed the two pints toward him. "Twelve."
"Knuts?" Draco asked, incredulous. "It's ale, man, not--"
"Twelve," the barman repeated, his eye now narrowed to a slit. "Special price for Mr. Potter."
Draco swallowed. He hadn't thought of it before, but it was obvious now -- if he were to make much progress, having Potter around would only hinder him. Of course, he doubted Potter would buy that. He'd probably think Draco was just looking for a chance to escape. Which he absolutely would, if he didn't have this Ministry brand on his skin that would allow Potter to torture him from afar for the rest of his life.
He picked up the pints and headed toward the booth where Potter was sitting, suddenly feeling every eye in the place on him. He set the pints down and slid into the booth across from Potter, and scowled.
"I take it that didn't help?" Potter asked, reaching for one of the mugs.
He gave Potter a pointed look. "He knows who you are and he won't talk to me. And he's got a point. If I'm with you, why should I expect anyone to give me information on McCaffrey?"
Potter's eyes narrowed. "I thought you knew where McCaffrey was."
"I knew where he was before I was in Azkaban, but being locked up for two years put a bit of a dent in my social life. If I'm to catch up with him again, it hardly helps to be seen on your arm."
"If you think I'm going to let you wander about the countryside without supervision--"
"Then you must not be terribly interested in catching him." Draco shook his head, not bothering to hide his annoyance. "Because I'm telling you that your presence is not helping."
Potter gave him a long hard look, then sipped his ale. "I'm not authorized to let you wander about on your own."
"Bollocks," Draco said, almost sloshing his ale as he set it back down on the table. "If you can get my sentence commuted, you most certainly do have the authority."
"It's not that simple," Potter replied, lowering his voice to a whisper. "And I have no particular reason to trust you."
Draco gritted his teeth. "No, I suppose you haven't."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, Draco staring into his ale and Potter casting furtive glances about the pub.
"Over there," Potter said at last, jerking his head toward the corner. "See the man with the hood pulled over his face?" Draco glanced in the direction Potter mentioned, then turned back to him and shrugged. "Go see what he knows."
Draco stared at him for a moment, incredulous, and then pushed his ale away with a sigh.
Potter was stunningly naïve, he thought as he crossed the pub towards the man. If he really thought Draco would be able to get any information by approaching strangers who clearly wanted to be left alone, he was even more inept than Draco thought.
He didn't bother asking; he just slid into the booth across from the man. He considered waiting for him to respond, but then thought better of it.
"Look," Draco began, "I know you aren't here to socialize, but I'm looking for someone, and I thought you might've--"
"Alch'en do chienah l'etischi," the figure replied, and Draco felt his blood chill. He'd heard just enough Malasch as a boy to know that this man -- or demon, more likely -- spoke it. And that meant Draco should get as far away from this booth as possible.
"Right, sorry to bother you," he said, certain that his voice had pitched up an entire octave. He slid out of the booth and headed back to Potter.
"Well?" Potter asked.
Draco briefly entertained the idea of explaining that Potter had nearly just got him incinerated, but decided against it. He shrugged and reached for his ale, taking a few large gulps. "He said he didn't know anything."
Potter gave him a long look, and then scanned the room again. "All right. Try that one over there."
Draco looked in the direction he was pointing and groaned.
:: :: :: :: ::
Draco slumped into a worn chair by the fireplace and sighed. He hadn't felt quite this humiliated since the day he was arrested, and for the first time, he wondered if he would have been better off back in his cell. He'd accomplished nothing that afternoon in the pub but to make a fool of himself, and there was no point in explaining to Potter that this approach wasn't going to work.
Potter dropped his rucksack on the small room's single bed. He'd been quiet ever since they'd left the pub and hired a room at this inn, and he didn't seem likely to talk to Draco.
Which was fine by Draco. He closed his eyes and folded his arms over his chest, wondering if he'd get anything to eat that night. Potter didn't seem to eat at all, as far as Draco could tell.
"I hope you're planning to try a bit harder tomorrow," Potter said.
Draco's eyes flew open. "Sorry?"
Potter turned to face him, his expression cool. "You accomplished nothing today. You wasted my time."
"It's not my fault no one at that pub would talk to me, you know. Not with you sitting across the way, glaring Ministry daggers at everyone."
"You weren't trying very hard," Potter retorted, stalking towards him. "And I wasn't glaring."
"Like hell you weren't," Draco replied, looking up at him with as much of a sneer as he could muster. "Every person I talked to asked me why I was with you, and you can imagine that hindered the conversation quite a bit."
Potter shook his head, scowling. "And it never occurred to you to use certain assets of yours to better advantage?"
Draco could only gape at Potter, stunned. He'd never been treated like a whore, even when he probably should have been, but that -- that remark was beyond the pale. He pushed himself to his feet, nearly trembling with rage.
"That was never part of the deal."
Potter smirked. "Oh, please. Did you really think that was in your past, Malfoy?"
"Shut up," Draco said, taking a step toward him.
"Why did you think I wanted you for this job? You've got qualifications I could never have."
"Fuck you," Draco growled, and gave Potter a shove.
Potter turned as if reaching for his wand and Draco braced himself, but then Potter turned back and punched Draco squarely across the jaw.
He floated in the sensation for a moment, as if time had slowed down. He felt the skin grow cold where Potter's fist had connected, and then hot, and then felt the tingling give way to pain.
It was glorious.
He staggered toward Potter with every intention of hitting back, but Potter's fist found his stomach first, and then the side of his head. Draco fell to his knees, groaning, so lost in sensation that he couldn't stop the smile from coming to his face. His cock was rock hard now, harder than it had been in ages. He exhaled and looked up. Potter was staring down at him, a mix of concern and revulsion flickering over his features.
"Well?" Draco asked. He licked a drop of blood from the corner of his lip and smiled. "This was what you wanted, wasn't it?"
Potter stared down at him, baffled. "What are you--?" His eyes drifted down to the obvious bulge at Draco's groin, and then his eyes widened. "Oh… god no. You can't think--"
"This is what you brought me here for, isn't it?" Draco asked, moving close enough that his face was less than a foot from Potter's groin. "To fuck information out of people."
Potter paled, and for once seemed too shocked to respond. Draco reached for the fly on Potter's jeans, but he stumbled backwards before Draco could touch him.
"I was talking about the Dark Mark," Potter said, shaking his head and looking horrified. "I didn't mean… You're disgusting!"
"Oh. Sorry." Draco settled back on his heels, unable to keep himself from smirking. He probably ought to be concerned that his assumption was that Potter had meant that, but he wasn't. Potter looked thoroughly rattled, which meant Draco had hit a nerve. This was something he could use to unsettle Potter completely -- if he played his cards right.
:: :: :: :: ::
The sound of the shower woke Draco up. He shifted on the floor and winced at the stiffness in his joints. Potter had spared a blanket for him, but the floor was cold and hard, and he hadn't slept well. He sat up, stretching, and made an attempt to tame his hair. Sunlight was streaming in through the window, casting annoyingly cheery shadows across the floor and onto his blanket.
Draco pushed himself to his feet and crossed to the window. Outside, the street was coming to life. A Muggle greengrocer was stacking cabbages on a stand in front of his shop, making little green pyramids with exaggerated care. Three children in school uniforms who skipped past him on the pavement, coming perilously close to his stand of potatoes. A young woman in a short skirt and heels was walking up the other side of the street, and men in suits turned to stare after her, eyes firmly planted on her arse. There were others, and they were all moving -- they all had places to go and things to do. They had lives.
It was a world Draco had never really been a part of, and after two years in prison, had never thought he'd see again. He'd never given much thought to the lives of Muggles before, but watching them now, going about their morning as if there'd never been a war or a Dark Lord or horrible things to haunt them in their sleep at night -- he couldn't help but envy them.
A few minutes later, Potter emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. He didn't look at Draco at all, focusing instead on casting cleaning charms on yesterday's clothes laid out on his bed. He stood still when he'd finished and stared down at his trousers with a strange look on his face, as if reluctant to change into them in front of Draco.
Draco sighed and headed for the bathroom, hoping Potter hadn't used all the hot water. It turned out there was enough for him to rinse off and wash his hair, which was better than nothing. Hot showers had seemed an unimaginable luxury while he was in Azkaban, and just standing under the spray made him feel freer than he'd felt in a long time.
He didn't bother wearing a towel out of the bathroom. Potter gave him a sharp look and turned away, and Draco took his time getting dressed. Let the bastard be uncomfortable.
They ate breakfast in the inn's pub in awkward silence, and even that was an oddly pleasant experience. Draco couldn't remember the last time he'd had jam and proper tea. He didn't even care that Potter was barely eating -- there was more toast for Draco that way.
"Sorry about last night," Potter said, in a voice that was so low it took Draco a moment to register what he'd said. Their eyes met for a brief second before Potter looked away again. "I don't expect you to… I mean, you're here because you used to be one of them. I thought you could help us find McCaffrey, and that's all."
"All right," Draco said through a mouthful of toast. He watched Potter stir his tea for a moment, looking even more uncomfortable than he had the night before. Draco suppressed a smile. "But I would, you know. If you asked nicely."
Potter's forehead furrowed, and he stirred his tea a bit more vigorously.
"The innkeeper thinks we're a couple anyway, I imagine," Draco continued, watching Potter's face. "If you think it would be a good cover, I'd be happy to make it look real."
"That won't be necessary," Potter spat, pushing his tea aside. "If you're quite finished--"
"Oh, lighten up," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "I'm only teasing."
Potter stood and gestured to the barmaid for the bill. "I'd rather you didn't."
Draco choked down the remains of his tea as Potter paid the barmaid and gathered up his rucksack and jacket and headed for the door. Draco nearly had to jog to catch up with him.
"So," he said, panting a bit -- not much opportunity to exercise in his cell. "Where to now?"
"I thought that was your job," Potter replied, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
"You seem to know where you're going," Draco said, though his stomach twisted. He had no idea where to go from here, and he needed to think of something fast.
"Unless you'd prefer to apparate in plain view, I was heading toward the alley we were in last night."
"Thanks for the update," Draco grumbled, and began to think through a list of places they could go.
They found a quiet spot in the alley out of view of the main square. Potter turned to Draco and looked directly at him for what seemed like the first time that morning.
"Well?"
Draco pressed his lips together. "I think we should go to Rolvenden."
Potter blinked at him. "Where?"
"Rolvenden," Draco repeated, relieved that Potter had never heard of the place. He'd only been there once himself, and all he remembered was that his father had had some business there once. It was as good a place as any to go, and he had no other ideas. "McCaffrey had contacts there. Maybe we can find someone who would know where to find him."
Potter nodded. "All right. But I've no clue where it is."
"Kent," Draco said, and held out an arm. Potter clenched his jaw, looking like he'd rather splinch himself than have Draco apparate him. Draco raised an eyebrow, and Potter sighed. He took Draco's arm, and they disapparated.
:: :: :: :: ::
Rolvenden was tiny, but had a street of magical shops well hidden from Muggle view. Potter had been spotted almost right away by a giggly teenaged witch who'd taken them to the entrance, then pouted when Potter told her they didn't need a tour. He sent her on her way with an autograph and a smile, and it was all Draco could do not to vomit.
"Sometimes I can be helpful to have around, you know," Potter said when he saw the scowl on Draco's face.
"Yes," Draco replied with a snort. "If we were here to rescue puppies and deflower local virgins, we'd be all set, wouldn't we?" They made their way down the narrow street of shops, stopping before a grimy door. "I should do this alone," Draco said, staring up at the faded sign swinging above their heads. "You won't be particularly welcome here."
Potter clenched his jaw, but he nodded. "If you aren't back in 10 minutes--"
"You'll zap the brand, I know," Draco grumbled. He opened the door to see an ominously gothic staircase disappearing up into the building above. He took a deep breath. "On second thought, if I don't come back, you'll probably need it to identify what's left of me."
He climbed the stairs, wincing at how creaky they were, and emerged into a dark, dusty shop that was cluttered with magical objects. There was no shopkeeper in sight, so Draco crossed to the counter and studied the objects under the glass: a real shrunken head, an ivory wand, what seemed to be the skull of a human infant, and a small wooden box with inlaid stone designs on the lid. He leaned forward and stared.
"It's not for sale," a gruff voice said, startling Draco so much he jumped back a foot.
"Everything has a price," he said, though his reaction a moment earlier had most certainly blown any chance he had at seeming menacing. He forced himself to stare back at the man behind the counter. He was quite old with blotchy, wrinkled skin and a ragged scar that ran diagonally across his face. His clothing looked to be older than he was; ruffles like that hadn't been fashionable in the Wizarding world in a century.
"What do you want?" the man asked, scowling.
"Information," Draco replied.
"I don't deal in that commodity," the man said, and turned away.
Draco reached across the counter and grasped one of the ruffles, pulling the man toward him. He pushed up the sleeve of his shirt enough to reveal the tattoo on his arm, casually but deliberately. "Are you certain?"
The man's dark eyes flicked to the Dark Mark and back to Draco's face. "You look familiar, boy. Have we met before?"
"Name's Malfoy. Do you know it?"
The man's eyes narrowed, but he nodded. "Information you wanted, was it?"
"I'm looking for someone -- Rosier McCaffrey."
The shopkeeper pursed his lips and looked as if he were concentrating. "Yes," he replied. "I remember him. Haven't seen him in a few years, though. Thought he was dead, actually."
"He's not dead," Draco said. "The Ministry is looking for him. Which is why I'm hoping to find him first."
"Got your own score to settle, have you?" the shopkeeper asked, suspicion settling into his frown.
"Owe him a favor, actually," Draco replied, and shook his head as if disgusted by the thought. "Why else would I put my neck on the line?"
"I saw him more than two years ago in Wales," the man said, his voice lowered almost to a whisper. "Rounded up some vulture bile for him, but he never showed up to collect it."
"Where in Wales?" Draco asked.
"Don't remember." The man looked thoughtful for a moment. "The last time I saw him, he was going to meet Severus Snape."
"Snape?" Draco asked. He felt like kicking himself. Why hadn't he thought to ask Snape? Because he knew Potter would veto that idea, of course. Still, it was worth a try. Draco plastered on the most charming smile he could manage. "Do you have an owl, by any chance?"
:: :: :: :: ::
"We're wasting time," Potter said, slumping into his chair and scowling.
"You have somewhere else to be?" Draco retorted. He sat back and drained the firewhiskey from his shot glass, closing his eyes at the sensation of it slipping down his throat. He'd missed this too.
"How can you drink so much of that?" Potter asked, staring into his own single-malt scotch. "It burns like hell. And not just on the way in."
"I like it," Draco replied, offering an enigmatic smile. "I like the way it keeps burning in my belly, for hours after I drink it."
Potter reached for the bottle. He squinted and poured Draco another shot. "Did I tell you about those Japanese wizards I met?"
"Yes, twice," Draco groaned. "And how the custom is never to let someone's glass go empty."
"They think it's rude," Potter continued, settling the bottle of firewhiskey down again with exaggerated care.
"I think you're just trying to get me drunk," Draco said.
"It's not as if we have anything better to do until the mysterious shopkeeper contacts you again."
"He'll come through. He should have that location for us by tomorrow afternoon." Draco glanced at the clock on the wall behind the bar, then stretched and pushed himself to his feet.
"Where are you going?" Potter asked, his head popping up.
"Have to piss. Want to watch?"
"Make it quick," Potter said, glaring at him.
Draco headed towards the toilets, and then looked back to make sure Potter wasn't watching as he continued on past them, to the pub's back entrance. He opened the door and glanced out into the alley. There was no one there. He sighed and stepped through the door, then leaned against the wall to wait. The sky was unusually clear and the moon was full and bright. He stared up at it, watching it seem to swim hazily above him through a fog of firewhiskey.
"Malfoy," he heard, and turned his head. The shopkeeper was there, wrapped in an ancient-looking cloak.
"You're late," Draco said.
"You're drunk," the man replied, wrinkling his nose.
"Have you got something for me or not?"
The man held out an envelope. "It came not an hour ago."
Draco took the envelope and tore it open. He wasn't sure when he would have enough privacy to read it with Potter around.
Stubborn child,
I feel obliged to tell you that your quest is hopeless. Even if you could locate M, I doubt the Ministry would free you as promised. I have heard that others were made a deal not unlike the one you've described to me, and each of them met with a sticky end. To my knowledge, the Wizengamot has not commuted the sentence of a single former Death Eater on the grounds of cooperation with the Ministry.
Regards,
Your favorite teacher
Draco looked back up to the shopkeeper. "I need to borrow your owl again. Can you send a message to him tonight?"
The man sighed, but shot a wary glance at Draco's arm before nodding. "If he replies, how will I let you know?"
"I'll come by the shop tomorrow afternoon," Draco said, flipping the parchment over to write a reply message on the back. He'd already told Potter they needed to be around for another day anyway. "Have you got a quill?"
He scribbled a reply with a few more questions for Snape, then stuffed the parchment back into the envelope. He held it out before him and fixed the man with a stern look.
"Seal it."
"Why can't you seal it?" the shopkeeper grumbled, but he fished his wand out of the sleeve of his robe anyway.
"I don't want the magic traced back to me," Draco replied. It was best not to tell someone you didn't have a wand.
The man cast the spell and the envelope sealed itself again with a shimmer of light. Draco nodded, and the man disapparated.
Draco turned back to the door, hoping all of this hadn't taken too long. Potter was bound to be suspicious no matter what he did, but Draco didn't want to push his luck.
He opened the pub's door to head back inside -- and found it blocked by a very angry-looking Harry Potter.
:: :: :: :: ::
Draco hit the wooden floor hard, and felt pain shoot from his knees upwards to meet the pain in his shoulder. He hated the brand -- it wasn't good pain at all, and he suspected it was powered by a modified crucio -- but he didn't want to tell Potter that. It seemed too much like ammunition.
"I'm only going to ask once more," Potter said, standing over him and panting as if he were the one being ripped apart from the inside. "Who did you write to, and what did the letter say?"
Draco sat back on his heels, grimacing. After the first two hits on the brand, he'd considered telling Potter everything -- that Snape had said nothing useful, that it had probably been a waste of Draco's time, and that apparating him back to their room at the inn to torture him was pointless -- but he'd reconsidered when Potter had started to sweat. Potter was worried about what Draco had done. And if the brand didn't break him, Potter would resort to using his fists.
Or at least, that was what Draco hoped. He spat on the floor and then looked up and smirked. Potter made a sound of frustration and pointed his wand at Draco, nearly shaking with fury. Draco braced himself, and didn't look away.
"Do you know how much I fucking hate you?" Potter looked as if he were trying to control a desire to pummel Draco into the floor.
"No," Draco replied, and tilted his head. "Why don't you show me? I know how much you want to."
Potter stared at him for another second, his eyes nearly black with anger, and Draco felt a shiver of anticipation. If he could just push Potter a bit more, he'd get exactly what he wanted.
It happened so fast Draco almost didn't have time to relish it. Potter's wand was tossed to the side and clattered across the wooden floor, and Potter's fist connected with Draco's jaw, hard.
Draco gasped at the sensation -- it was the hardest Potter had ever hit him, and it left him seeing stars. Potter didn't stop there, though -- he hit Draco again, and again, until Draco could barely feel anything but a haze of pain. Blood trickled from his nose, and he shoved Potter backwards just in time to ward off another blow. He took a ragged breath and the oxygen went to his head, sending fire through his veins. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this hard.
Potter hit the wall with a groan, and leaned against it for a moment, as if trying to decide what to do next. His wand was probably under the bed now, and Draco knew he couldn't reach it. Potter pushed off from the wall, but Draco lunged for him and shoved him against it again hard enough that he heard Potter's skull hit the wood paneling. Potter squinted at Draco, a little dazed, and opened his mouth as if to say something.
Draco was on his knees before the words came out of Potter's mouth. He tore at the fly of his jeans and wrenched them down enough to free his cock. It only took a few seconds for it to get hard in his mouth, and for Potter's garbled words to fade into a moan. Draco sucked hard, clenching Potter's arse through the jeans and inhaling the scent of him, all anger and sweat and tension, and it was the most erotic thing he'd done in years.
Potter was inarticulate above him, but he didn't push Draco away. His hands clenched against the wall as if trying to find support, and his cock got even harder.
It was all Draco could do not to rut against Potter's leg, but he hardly needed the stimulation. He buried his nose in Potter's groin, swallowing around the shaft and stroking with his tongue. Potter stiffened and grew silent, and then came. His knees buckled, sending them both to the floor in a heap.
Draco pressed a hand against his own cock through his trousers, and that was all it took -- he came with a groan, his forehead pressed against Potter's belly.
They stayed there for a moment, panting. Draco pushed himself to sitting and looked up. Potter's eyes were open, and he was staring at the ceiling.
"Potter--" Draco began.
"Get off me," Potter growled. "Now."
Draco stumbled back, and Potter rose to his feet. He didn't look at Draco as he tucked himself back into his jeans and fastened them, and then bolted for the door.
Draco stared after him, uncertain what had just happened. He'd wanted to unsettle Potter, hadn't he? That had been a goal from the start, a necessary part of his plan to survive. Sex was just a perk at this point, one he hadn't expected. He shivered and pulled the blanket around him, and settled on the floor. The spinning of the room was because of the firewhiskey, he told himself. And not because of anything else.
:: :: :: :: ::
The next thing Draco was aware of was something hard pressing into his cheek. It was only the experience of two years in Azkaban that kept him from responding. He opened his eyes and blinked against the darkness, trying to remember where he was and why he was on the floor.
Oh. Right. He'd sucked Potter's cock and Potter had bolted, and now that seemed to be Potter's shoe making an impression in his face.
The shoe was removed, and he heard Potter walk across the room. There was a creak of springs, as if Potter had sat on the bed.
Draco stayed still and waited. Potter was either going to kick the shit out of him or fuck him. He wasn't sure which one he'd prefer at the moment.
Potter did neither, though. "I'm sorry."
Draco blinked and turned to stare at him. "Sorry?"
"I was just a little freaked out by…" Potter paused and looked down at his hands. "Why did you do it?"
"Suck your dick?" Draco asked, incredulous. "Do you really have to ask?"
"No," Potter said, burying his face in his hands. "God, no. I meant the letter."
"The letter," Draco repeated. "Right." There was no reason to keep lying at this point. "I wrote to Snape, all right? I thought he might have some information about McCaffrey."
Potter looked up, brow furrowed. "So what did he say?"
"Nothing," Draco replied, looking away. "He said we should give up."
"And you didn't believe him?"
"I think he knows something. He just doesn't want to tell me."
Potter sighed. "I thought… I don't know what I thought."
"I know what you thought," Draco replied. "And I know you have no particular reason to trust me, but I want the same thing you want. I want…" He took a deep breath. "I don't want to go back to Azkaban. I don't give a fuck about McCaffrey, and I'll do what I have to do to find him. But if he doesn't want to be found, what can I do?"
Potter shook his head. "Why didn't you just say that in the first place?"
"You were going to kick my arse no matter what I said. So why should I bother saying anything?"
"You picked a fight with me, Malfoy. Why would you do that if you didn't have something to hide?"
Draco opened his mouth to reply, but found he wasn't sure how to explain. He didn't really owe Potter an explanation, anyway. "Maybe I like it when you hit me."
Potter's expression hardened at that. "That's sick."
"Is it?" Draco replied, smirking. "It would certainly explain a lot, wouldn't it?"
Potter stared back at him, his face clouded. "You're serious."
"I was horny. And you seemed like you wouldn't mind knocking me around a bit."
Potter shook his head, looking something between fascinated and disgusted. "Why would you… get off on pain?"
Draco couldn't help laughing, even though it sounded hollow even in his own ears. "If I work that out, I'll be sure to let you know."
:: :: :: :: ::
Story Notes:
Originally posted: November 8, 2006
Warnings: explicit m/m sex, violence
Note: This was written at the request of Zully for The Quidditch Pitch's Demelza House fundraiser . Zully asked for: "Post-Hogwarts, post-war. Harry is working within the Ministry, and Draco is unaffiliated but untrusted by the Ministry. He's hired on when a case appears that requires investigation into remaining Death Eaters groups." This went in a direction she probably didn't expect (and was a couple of months late in coming), but I hope she likes it!
Big thanks go to Geoviki, Charlotteschaos, and Jedi Rita for their extremely helpful comments and suggestions on an earlier draft of this story.
Links: My LJ | The Quidditch Pitch | Skyehawke
