Draco hates France.

It was his mother's idea, of course, coming to France. You got yourself into this mess, Draco. You know how I worry, Draco. Look what Severus had to do for you, Draco. It would be better for you if you left Britain, Draco. So he left.

And he hates it.

The people all speak French, of course. He'd known that, of course; he's not an idiot. But Draco doesn't speak French himself and there are always whispers and looks whenever he needs to go into the village. They know, of course, about the Dark Lord, that he's not on the run, exactly, just sabbatical. He's dangerous, that Draco Malfoy -- a Death Eater.

A Death Eater lying low -- out of the way of the British Ministry, out of the way of another assignment he can't actually complete, out of the way of Harry Potter and his Bloody Goody-Goody Gryffindor Squad.

And he hates it.

Nothing Draco set out to do has been accomplished: His father is still in Azkaban; his mother still worries over him constantly; Draco can never return to Hogwarts, not that he particularly wanted that; Harry Potter is still alive and living up the hero's life. Dumbledore is dead, of course, but that wasn't by Draco's own hand; that was Snape's doing, and though Voldemort hasn't shown any signs of taking retribution for his failed task (for the task was fulfilled all the same, maybe it won't matter, maybe, maybe), there is that constant feeling of not knowing dangling over his head.

And he hates it.

There is an overwhelming sense of uselessness in everything Draco does, everything he touches. He wanted to do something, to be the hero, to be the saviour, for once. But he's not. Instead, Draco listened to his mother, for once, and ran away.

Draco hates France.

Draco is sitting in a café when the owl arrives. The maître d' hustles over, wringing his hands, eyes darting from side-to-side, pleading pitifully in broken English. Will Monsieur Malfoy take ze animal out the side? Theengs are done different here. Thees ees not Eengland, you unzerstand, do you not?

Of course he does. Draco isn't an idiot. He rolls his eyes and stuffs a croissant into his mouth, shooing the bird from his head. The owl, a barn, nothing distinct, which is probably the point, flaps along after him, pecking Draco's ear angrily as they go outside. Draco breaks off pieces of the croissant to appease the dirty animal and unties the parchment from around his leg.

He has expected something like this for a long time. How long could the Dark Lord wait before he would need all of his followers, after all, even if Draco expected the hot burn on the inside of his arm waking him in the middle of the night, not a polite owl sent to him at a reasonable hour.

There is a reason for this:

Malfoy --

Do you know how hard it was to find you?

As hard as it would be to find anyone with a house in the South of France under Fidelius, Draco supposes.

I know what really happened with Dumbledore...

Draco freezes.

...and I think you could help us. I'm taking a risk by sending you this, so stop being a coward and take one, too. I have a proposition for you -- the center of Hogsmeade, tomorrow, noon. Dress inconspicuously. I'll find you.

Consider it. I think we could help each other.

The letter is unsigned, though clearly not from a Death Eater. Did someone from the other side expect him to turn traitor, to help Mudbloods and half-breeds? Ridiculous...

Draco crumples up the parchment and tosses it onto the ground. The barn owl pecks his head.

"Bloody bird." Draco tries walking away. The owl pecks his neck, scratches his shoulder, his wrist. Draco's hand is on his wand as soon as the bird draws blood, but there are bystanders all around, and he is fairly sure roasting an owl in plain sight must be against some public ordinance.

He gets the parchment, smoothes it out, starts to write a capital N, only to get pecked again. Yes, he scribbles hastily, rolling it up and tying it to the bird's leg again. The barn owl, his bloodlust apparently sated, takes to the air and soars out of sight.

It's one meeting. He doesn't have to do anything. Draco can remain loyal to his Lord. He can.

Draco's face crumples up and he stomps on the remains of the croissant, grinds them to dust.

"God damn it," he mutters and goes back inside the café.

Draco doesn't like Apparating.

Actually, that's not entirely true. He doesn't mind it if it's short distances, and it's certainly more convenient than trains or carriages, but there are four international Apparition points that he passes through before even making it back to Great Britain, then one more from London to Hogsmeade. A Portkey probably would have been easier on his body and brain, but the notice is too short for him to arrange it even with all the money his family has.

Draco pulls a hood over his head, blotting out the white-blond of his hair. He knows how much that stands out, but the idea of dyeing or shaving it to make him blend in more is absolutely abhorrent. Besides, he is not ashamed of his family and he refuses to remove the most distinct aspect of his heritage just for safety's sake. Even his mother agreed with that decision.

The streets are oddly empty for the day, though if the Dark Lord's threat has grown, then more precautions are being taken. It's a smart move, even though Draco now stands out with or without his hood.

"Malfoy," someone says, tapping his shoulder.

Draco whirls around, wand already drawn.

Harry Potter sighs and shoves his hands into his jeans. "That was predictable."

Potter still hasn't learned how to dress like a proper wizard; he's wearing god-awful Muggle clothes that hang off his skinny body, and -- defying everything Draco knows about clothing -- even though Potter's jeans threaten to slip right off his hips, they're still two inches too short. It's with a large degree of annoyance that Draco realises that Potter is now about an inch taller than him, stretched like beanpole. A beanpole that hasn't been watered or fed, judging by the circles under Potter's eyes and grayish cast to his skin.

"I should have known," Draco says, not lowering his wand.

"Why?" Potter asks. He sounds genuinely curious. "I hate you. I know you're a Death Eater. Nothing about that suggests you should have known."

Draco shrugs. "I have no idea who would bother finding me, and I suppose you're as good a guess as any."

"That's pretty stupid, Malfoy." Potter digs into his pocket and pulls out a small leather pouch. He pulls out his wand and changes it into a much larger leather pouch, then tucks the wand away again. "This is for you, if you want it."

"I don't even know why I'm here."

Potter points at the back of Draco's hand. "Because that bird was instructed to abuse you until you agreed to show up here. And if you hadn't shown up, I would have sent another bird after you. It was smart of you to come here."

There is anger roiling in Draco's stomach, so much that he wants to forego magic and just stab Potter with his wand. He should sue, that's what he should do. His father...

"And before you go making threats, who are you going to tell? You're definitely wanted for questioning at the Ministry, and let me tell you, Scrimgeour isn't exactly the let's sit down for tea and talk about our feelings type. He hates Death Eaters, hates Voldemort -- almost as much as me."

Draco's shoulders slump.

Potter thrusts the pouch in Draco's direction again. "The Order needs a spy," Potter says, then shakes his head. "I need a spy."

"Then get a spy," Draco says, sounding petulant even to his ears.

"I had a spy, and now I don't. I need a new spy, someone who has access to the inside. So, will you?"

Draco crosses his arms. "Will I what?"

"Spy. For us," Potter says, pronouncing each word slowly, carefully, as though he thinks Draco is stupid.

"And why would I do that? Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you right here." Draco points his wand at Potter's chest.

Potter sighs. "Because you couldn't."

"I could." Draco leans in. "I'd be happy about it."

"No, you couldn't," says Potter, wrapping his fingers around the tip of Draco's wand and pushing it aside. "I told you in my letter-- I know what happened with Dumbledore. I know what happened with you, and how you couldn't kill him."

Draco feels all the colour drain from his face.

"So, why would I think you could kill me here? It's not like you harboured some great love for Dumbledore. Lower your wand, Malfoy."

The world is spinning, and Draco can't find footing anymore. He's going to throw up. He's going to kill himself. He's going back to France.

Potter holds out the pouch again, waiting until Draco takes it. "You're going to spy. Everything about your assignment is in there, including information on how to contact me once it's complete."

Draco stares blankly at Potter, his thoughts racing with broken wardrobes and cursed jewelry, thoughts about impossible tasks.

Potter sighs. "It'll probably be easier if you stay in England. I followed you for almost a year so I know you can do the magic -- you know more than me, at least. And it's not like Voldemort was going to let you stay on holiday forever, right?"

"Yeah," Draco says slowly, nodding. "I guess." I hate you, he thinks, very hard. I hate you so much.

"I'll be in touch." Potter disappears with a pop, leaving Draco holding the bag.

Draco's room in The Leaky Cauldron is a dive, to say the least. The wallpaper, small pink flowers dotted on dingy yellow, is peeling, and the faucets in the sink and tub drip incessantly, keeping in line with the name of the establishment. The barkeep downstairs had told him to be glad for a private bath at all. The idea of not having an en suite bath is abhorrent.

He is tired. His part in this betrayal is complete, at least, the rest left to Potter and his cronies, but keeping his mind blank around the Dark Lord is impossible and terrifying. Aunt Bellatrix has taught him well; he knows how to make the thoughts he's willing to share come to the forefront, and it's incredibly easy to let thoughts of hating France and missing home flood his head.

The Dark Lord bought it. And--

There is a knock at the door.

And it must be done. So the Dark Lord is down a pet. He probably won't be in a great mood for awhile, and when the Dark Lord is in a bad mood, people die. The crap room in The Leaky Cauldron instantly becomes posh luxury as Draco throws open the door.

If Draco looks tired, Potter looks like the dead.

"Nice Inferi impression, Potter," Draco greets him. Potter pushes himself into the room and flings his dried-blood-and-grit-covered self onto Draco's bed. "Hey! Keep your dirt to yourself."

"It's spiteful retribution." Potter rolls around a bit. "Do you have any idea how much blood a giant snake produces?"

"Yes. I paid attention in class."

Potter smirks. The expression looks disturbingly right on him. "Not last year."

"I was preoccupied." Just like he is now. For someone who just slaughtered a giant snake, Potter looks rather pleased with himself. Draco tries for aloof as he sits in the small chair near the window. "Why are you bothering with murdering the Dark Lord's pets anyway? I don't recall you being into animal torture, and I thought you'd be more concerned with killing him. Eternal struggle and all that."

"One and the same, Malfoy," Potter says, sitting up. "One and the same."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Potter hangs his head upside-down over the edge of the bed until he's looking at Draco and puts his finger to his lips. "Secret."

"God, you're annoying."

"So are you. Good information, though. I don't even think Voldemort even knew my group was there before we were gone again." Potter sits up and examines the hem of his t-shirt. "Hey, what gets out snake blood?"

"Magic, idiot," Draco retorts, rolling his eyes. "You're a wizard, or have you forgotten?"

"Couldn't do that, could I?" Potter stands up again and pulls another tiny leather pouch from his front pocket; Draco blanches. "Same deal, Malfoy: Assignment and instructions on how to contact me in the pouch. You spy, I don't tell anyone where you're hiding out. Deal?"

Draco nods, once. He knew it couldn't be over -- not until the Dark Lord or Potter is dead, and maybe not even then -- but he'd hoped. He hopes, constantly.

Draco is trembling as he Apparates into 12 Grimmauld Place. His knees shake and his stomach churns and his extremities have gone numb. He wants to sit, wants to hide, he doesn't want to be here at headquarters or have Potter on him, pounding his fists into Draco's gut over and over, so fast, so surprising that all Draco can do is block his face until he finally manages to shove Potter way and draw his wand.

Sparks are shooting from the tip as Draco pants heavily. Potter's eyes are wide and wild, a look that Draco's face probably mirrors.

"I--" Draco starts.

"You fucked up," Potter growls, fists still clenched, ready to barrel toward Draco at full tilt. "You told me that it would be a good time to capture them. People are dying because of your family, your bloody aunt, and you're letting it happen. You stood by and watched. I told him it was safe, and you stood by and watched."

"I'm a spy, Potter!" Draco screams. "Or have you forgotten? Do you want my cover blown? Do you want to start over at Spy Square One? I bet that's what happened to your last spy. He probably played the hero and found himself on the bad side of a Killing Curse, didn't he?"

"No," Potter says, and he swings at Draco again, only this time Draco makes a slashing movement with his wand, the spell cutting deep into Potter's cheek. "Fuck! No, that wasn't it. What are you, mentally deficient?" Potter claps a hand to his face.

"Are you?" Draco's voice is steady, even if nothing about him feels steady. He keeps his mind blank, even though he knows Potter is crap at Leglimency. "You want me to do my job, the one that I agree to, even though I don't want to do it? Yes? Then keep up your end of the bargain."

Draco tucks his wand away, slugs Potter clear across the jaw, shakes out his hand. Damn, that felt good.

"He was only seventeen," Potter murmurs, still holding his face. "He was my friend."

"War is hell, Potter," Draco says, sounding far braver than he feels. "Welcome to it."

Draco Apparates away before Potter can say anything else.

Side-along Apparition is nearly as exhausting as international travel, especially since Draco has never done it before. He hopes he hasn't left Potter's foot back in Voldemort's lair or something.

It's easier if the person is unconscious, he tells himself. It's easier like this, easier, it is.

When they get back to The Leaky Cauldron, Potter's eyes are closed but his breathing is shallow, so faint. Draco dumps Potter onto the bed and runs his hands through his own hair, grabbing clumps so hard his scalp pulls and stings.

"Oh God, oh God, oh," he mumbles, pacing back and forth. If his cover hasn't been blown before, it has now. "This is why the hero shit is for Gryffindors. You idiot!" Draco punches the unconscious Potter in the leg. "I hate you." He slaps him across the face. "This is all your fault, hero." Draco slams his palm flat against Potter's sternum, and Potter coughs and opens his eyes.

Draco blinks at him. Potter looks back, then sits up sharply and coughs so hard that he has to spit something into his hand. "War is hell," Potter rasps, then stumbles to the bathroom. Draco can hear the sounds of vomiting, the toilet flushing, the tap running, and more spitting before Potter reappears. "I had no idea taking a person's soul hurt that much."

"Is that what it was?" asks Draco. There are goosebumps running up and down Draco's arms, across his back, nerves prickling in his spine and fingertips.

Potter grins, twisted and stretched. "One piece left. One more, Malfoy."

"One more what?" Draco feels like punching Potter again.

"Nothing," Potter says and flings himself back to the bed. "Nothing at all. Hey-- Hey, Malfoy. Malfoy?"

"My God, what?" Draco looks down, sees that sick grin on Potter's face and wants to look away. He won't. "I can't go back again."

"I know."

"So, I'm useless to you."

"I know." Potter's hand is touching Draco's arm, fingers pressed to Draco's wrist, beginning to snake around them, gripping. "You pulled me out of there."

Draco stares down at Potter's hand, but doesn't dislodge it. "Shut up."

"You did. You saved me." Potter looks insane and his grip tightens. "Why?"

"I don't know." It's true. Potter was able to infiltrate the Dark Lord's innermost quarters because of the work Draco has done, weeks and weeks of researching and planning, but that was as far as Draco had planned. He hasn't picked sides yet, hasn't meant to now. But Potter destroying that book, that cup, trying for the Dark Lord before crumpling to the ground...

Draco has picked a side. But he didn't mean to. "I didn't mean it," he insists.

Potter sits up, his face disturbingly close to Draco's. "But you did it," he insists right back.

"I like girls," Draco says uselessly, his shoulders slumped. He is staring at Potter's face.

"So do I," Potter replies. "So what?"

Draco shrugs, tilts his head to the side, leans in. "I hope you cleaned your teeth."

"Shut up," Potter whispers, his breath puffing out over Draco's lips.

When Potter kisses him, it's disgusting. There is stubble, rough against Draco's chin, and too much spit, and Potter's tongue is everywhere. Draco remembers Potter's little girlfriend, the baby Weasel, and figures weasels must kiss like they do everything -- like they haven't any idea where their next meal is coming from. And Potter kisses like he's hungry, too, like he hasn't eaten in days, weeks.

Draco is on his back before he knows it, Potter over him, and he wants to voice his protest, but can't find the words for it, not when Potter pulls open his robes, pushes them aside, licks his way down Draco's chest, his stomach.

Finally, Draco manages to prop himself up on his elbows, to muster up some indignation. "Potter, what do you think--"

"Shut up," Potter grinds out. "I had a traumatic experience, so shut up." Draco's pants are yanked down to his ankles and Potter is between his thighs, licking his hip, breathing deep as he grabs Draco's cock, fingers wrapped around it as easily as he held Draco's wand, his wrist.

Draco's eyes widen and he twists his fingers into the sheets, mouth falling open on a gasp as Potter licks the head, sucks him in, fist moving up and down.

It hurts, Potter's teeth scraping the underside, the too-tight grasp of his hand, the way impending orgasm makes Draco's stomach clench, his head swim.

Draco moans, he can't help it. Potter looks up, blinks at him from behind the smeared lenses of his eyeglasses.

"You like this," Potter says -- a statement, not a question -- not curiosity, just fact.

In reply, Draco bites his lower lip and steadfastly refuses to answer.

Potter smirks and loosens his grip, licks the entire length of Draco's cock, an obscene use of tongue, and Draco feels totally out of control.

Draco Malfoy is on a tatty mattress in a grimy inn room, having his cock sucked by the gaunt, scrawny paragon for good, and he's drowning, drowning.

"Potter," Draco gasps and comes, arching up and flopping like a fish as his muscles spasm, over and over. He hits Potter in the head as soon as Potter's lips slide off him. "Don't die on me, Potty. I'll never fucking forgive you."

Potter looks up and tilts his head to one side. "That almost makes dying worth it."

"I hate you."

Draco hates everything.

Draco hates France.

He is alone there, in hiding, waiting for the war to end -- again. Every time the Dark Lord is unhappy, Draco's wrist burns and he can't sleep at all. He's been up nearly every night since he's arrived, but not last night.

Potter's voice echoes in his head: One more piece. Just one more.

The Mark fades. The owl arrives, this one snow white and beautiful, but just as difficult on Draco's hands.

"Ow!" he yells, shooing it away. "Just let me read."

Draco opens the parchment.

No more pieces, Malfoy.

You'll come back to England, right?

The snow owl waits expectantly for an answer, bites Draco's ear, scratches his throat, leaves an imprint everywhere it touches.

Draco writes one word: Yes.

END