The French Connection Part 7

0O0

Saturday morning dawned chilly, sunny and clear, and Draco blinked himself awake to the sound of rushing water. It reminded him gently that the day would hopefully bring about the end of his servitude as Screwbik's lackey—and then it sent him barrelling right out of the hopelessly mussed bed.

"HARRY!" he bellowed, banging on the en suite's door. "Harry, get your arse out of there! It's dangerous!"

Terrified, he slammed his shoulder into it and battered away, well aware he didn't dare use even a simple Alohamora.

"Harry!" he shrieked, bursting in and nearly stumbling over the clotted ball of towels and clothes deposited directly before the lav's sink basin. "Are you alright? Speak to me, Harry!"

It was the worst bloody turn-of-events imaginable: Harry Potter, Wizarding Hero, trapped in a lav with a Magical Dampener that would turn him into a Squib as soon as look at him! Draco was frantic.

"What?" Harry poked his seal-wet head out from behind the semi-opaque shower curtain. Beads of moisture dripped down skin the colour of clover honey. Draco swayed where he stood, just from remembering the night before. "Hey, Draco! Good morning. Er—why'd you pile all the clean towels in the tub? That's a little odd, don't you think?"

"Get the bloody fuck out of there, Harry!" Draco barked, and latched onto his sometime lover like an eagle on a sleepy dormouse.

"Wait!" Harry struggled, blinking stray droplets out of his eyes with lashes that were ruddy broom bristles, they were ever so long and luxuriant. "What? I'm not done yet!" He flailed, slipping on the tub's shiny floor, and Draco simply reached out and grabbed at him, lifting him up and out. "I'm still soapy! What the feck are you doing, Malfoy?" Harry demanded, finding his wet, still steaming person suddenly dripping all over the refined plush carpet of Draco's bedroom.

"Oh. My," panted a grateful Draco, kicking the battered loo door shut firmly behind him. "Salazar! Spell something, Harry! Anything—I don't care—No! No, don't, on second thought! Let's go out for breakfast! Luncheon! Oh—"

He was panicking all at once, completely, having lost his head entirely. He couldn't abandon the Dampener and carry Harry away to safely check on the state of his magic; he couldn't abandon Harry, naked and wet in his room, and take the bloody fucking Dampener away to safely chuck the cursed hunk of gaily-coloured shite at Screwbik's bearded mad Prussian face, either! "Merlin! Shite, shite, shite!" Draco moaned, variously caught between a rock, a hard place, a blank brick wall and a large, obstreperous boulder.

Hemmed in, rather. Come ascupper! All at sea! And, too, by Poseidon, and not to think unnecessarily marine-oriented thoughts, but Draco desperately needed to make use of the damned loo for its original purpose!

"Shite! What now?" Draco demanded of no one in particular, hopelessly watching his potentially satisfying future sex life fall all to pieces, metaphorically.

"Right." Harry replied, after a long moment of quiet observation, during which Draco did a little dance of impatience and sheer anxiety. He grabbed the plush coverlet off the bed and tucked it calmly around him, smoothing his wet mop of hair back off his forehead while he was at it. The scar there practically blinked a neon warning at Draco, reminding him of all Harry had sacrificed to stop Voldemort. "Stop, will you? Draco?"

"You have to leave," Draco babbled, abruptly coming to a firm decision and standing as tall as he could, in order to enforce it. "Harry. Potter. You must. I'll—I'll Owl you later—or something, I promise, Harry, but right now, you have to go. Be off, depart, scoot! Shoo!"

"You're barmy, Draco," Harry replied, rubbing at his damp head with a corner of the fabric. "Inhale, will you? It's not the end of the world. Besides, I've already tested it."

"Go back to England, Harry, right now, this minute," Draco was in the midst of directing, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists, and pointing at the suite's exit when they weren't occupied with that, "where it's safe. There's some business I have to take care of, but I swear I'll catch up with you as soon as I possibly— what? Potter?"

"It's fine, Draco. The Muggle Poker Ball thingamajig works perfectly to belay the Hoovering effects of the Screwbik's Cube. There's no danger; there never was."

"Huh? Pardon?"

"You do spend a lot of your time gawping at me, Draco," Harry's face creased into a mischievous grin. "Fortunately, I find that attractive. I said—it's fine. There's nothing to worry about. Calm the feck down. Please."

"I..." Draco began, his inner wheels churning up various solutions to this puzzle and mentally comparing and contrasting them, whilst all the while Harry—Potter—grinned at him, like a fucking loony.

Shite! He'd been had! Hoodwinked! Deceived by a bloody Gryffindor!

"I fucking hate you, Potter!"

And with that, Draco bolted for the toilet.

"Potter!"

And promptly erupted back out of it, two minutes later, wild-eyed and terribly relieved, for he'd the blinding revelation whilst staring blankly at the toilet bowl swirling itself clean that it was Saturday at last and he could finally palm off the horrible Dampener on the equally horrible Screwbik. His burden was about to be considerably lightened. "Potter!" Draco hissed. "Look at me, you arsewipe!"

"Erm, yes?" Potter looked up from sliding on his socks. His feet were long and boney and Draco spared a thought to licking them. "What's up, Draco?"

"You are absolutely, beyond any reasonable doubt, certain this thing is safe?" he asked, dragging his thoughts away from poking his tongue in between Potter's toes and caressing the tender skin he'd find there. He waved the red-and-white Muggle Poker Ball that held Screwbik's Cube. It rattled.

Potter shrugged casually and nodded, reaching for his street-stained trainers. "As safe as I could possibly make it, Draco. Had to use it on occasion, you know. Wasn't about to let it latch onto me. Be bad, that."

"Very bad, indeed, Potter." Draco nodded firmly in return; the Muggle guidebook had stated the Grandes Eaux was set to go off at five p.m. at Versailles on the weekends and hols. As of 4:59 p.m. precisely, he planned to be standing penitent before the Roman goddess Flora, awaiting release from his enforced Muggledom.

"Right! Excellent, in fact!" he barked, and turned away to gather his own clothes from his greatly reduced wardrobe. "Step lively, Potter. I'm treating your lying, deceiving arse to that late breakfast I've mentioned and then we're off to have a little sightseeing tour over at Versailles. No reason you can't be in on this, since you seem to know all about it already, wanker."

The last was accompanied by a little glare over the shoulder and Potter, to give him credit, did have the good grace to blush.

"Oh, um," he mumbled, most definitely shamefaced, "about that—"

"Save it, Potter," Draco ordered. "As soon as we've tidied up that loose end, I fully expect a decent apology on yours. That wasn't bloody fair of you, git, leaving me in the dark like a bloody mushroom. You could've trusted me." He scowled, wheeling away. "At least a little."

Potter rose and crossed the room in what seemed like just two strides, he was so quickly pressing Draco's half-garbed form up against the wall by the bathroom. Draco swallowed when their hips budged tight together and actively willed himself not to melt. He was, he reminded himself, righteously wanked off at Potter.

"That's just the thing, Malfoy. I do," Harry said, his voice urgent. A soft, rough brush of his lips across Draco's left him sighing and concluding melting wasn't all that bad a fate; the weight of the Dampener in his trouser's pocket had reduced itself to nearly nothing. "I truly, really do."

Draco blinked; once, twice, and fixed Potter with as baleful a Look as he could summon whilst attempting not to caper about his suite like a ruddy fool. Even if his insides had turned to sodding candyfloss, he didn't have to show it.

"Glad to hear it, git," he replied, gruffly. Though likely Potter could tell how much that meant to him. "Finally."

"I should hope so," Potter replied equably, stepping back at last and gesturing politely towards the doorway. "As it's bloody true. After you, Draco. I've more plans for you, after—and an apology owed. Let's make this snappy."

Draco flashed him a grin, threw on a shirt and stepped into his own Muggle trainers. There was an added insouciance to his step when he exited that hadn't been there for ages. Nothing like having the Man of the Hour admit one's worthiness and dependability to one's very own face. That would be one over on those damned Ravenclaws!

0O0

Alas! It was the Low Season; no waters flowed through the Fountains of Versailles in late March, except on state holidays and it wasn't Muggle Easter for another week. Draco and Harry were reduced to standing about by a voluptuous Flora Fountain sadly dull and placid without the plash of falling liquid. The walk through the various parterres and elm-lined paths had been pleasant, though taken at a very fast clip. And stalled, frequently, by bouts of impetuous open air snogging.

Draco, disappointed to learn he'd not have the chance to witness Le Grande Eaux after all, was even more eager to be shed of his burden and spell himself into regular Wizarding gear. Harry, it seemed, was exceedingly anxious to make him that apology he owed and move on to his aforementioned 'plans', judging by the way he kept devouring Draco's lips whenever they came upon a private place in the Palace or the Gardens. There were, as it turned out, a great many private nooks and crannies in Le Nôtre's famous formal Gardens and they ended up being both sidetracked and pleasantly forgetful, what with the lack of proper breathing technique. Thus Screwbik (a florid, purple-apparelled man who emerged from one of the intersecting paths like leftover party guest transported magically from the Reign of the Muggle Sun King), though vastly crucial a personage and the whole point of Draco's romp through Muggle France, was politely brushed off as soon as he'd taken his bloody Cube back in hand.

Whole 'transfer of goods' took five minutes, tops, and left Screwbik nearly swallowing his tongue and murmuring, "Potter! Wasn't that Harry Potter?" over and over. For Draco, it was five minutes too long, though.

"Oh, I say, young Malfoy—may I call you Draco?" Screbik began, striding right up to Draco and possessing himself instantly of Draco's hand. "Draco, then, it's a fine piece of stealth work you've done these last few days—proud of you, I was. Let me tell you—very proud! Good-oh for the old Ministry, right, what?"

Screwbik liked to chat, Draco learnt immediately. He'd begun after the initial introductions and hadn't stopped since. Currently, he was in the midst of loquaciously congratulating Draco for all his efforts, exclaiming over the weather, the state of his beloved dog, the plans he and his wife had made for the next stop on their sentimental second honeymoon tour de France and so forth. Had, in fact, gotten himself rather lost in an ocean of flowing periods.

"Thank you, sir, and now we must be going," Draco required only that the man swiftly depart so he and Potter could return to snogging—and then move on to fucking. Fucking and Paris went together like wine and cheese. Champagne and Brie.

"... as I was just Owling Arthur the other day ..." Screwbik was still babbling on. He was a veritable magpie, Draco decided, and opened his own mouth for the fifth time to put a stop to it. Harry was visibly fidgeting, standing off a little ways from the two of them and pacing back and forth like the proverbial panther. "Always glad to be of service to the Ministry folks—do my duty to the homeland and all that—"

"... another appointment waiting, sir; I'm sure you understand," Draco gamely attempted to fob the mad inventor off yet again.

".. the crucial importance of timely inventions is the lifeblood of the Ministry's programme for updating ..."

Blah, blah, blah, Draco thought impatiently. Do shut up!

"Draco!" This from Harry, who'd sloshed his way into the fountain pool, tired of waiting about for the business of transferring to conclude. "Draco! Look at what the sodding tourists have done! There's Muggle money here, tonnes of it—come see! You should have come here first before selling your clothes!"

"... and then Arthur was just remarking to Violetta—that's m'wife, you know; dear girl, headstrong, has this awful cat—that my Cube was crucial ..."

"Prat! Don't touch that! It's likely dirty!" exclaimed Draco, watching Harry bend over with a salacious glaze tinting his gaze. He blinked and instantly remembered the inventor, who was going on about Borzoi and their many attributes. "Sir!" he interjected loudly, "you must excuse my poor cousin, sir; he's a bit touched since our Aunt Ernestine passed. Do pardon us now, and have a safe journey, sir, and a wonderful second honeymoon. On behalf of the Wizarding government, your Item was most appreciated and terribly necessary, but we simply must leave you now—"

"Harry Potter!" Screwbik burbled, turning to watch Draco's progress. "Oi! Isn't that Harry Po—?"

Draco had meanwhile made his leisurely way into the fountain, taking time to Charm his shoes and trousers dry as a bone to spite the chilly water. He stepped in, with panache, and slogged his way over to Harry, who was bent over still and rooting about for coins at the bottom of the Fountain.

"Gaston, you silly arse!" He flapped his hands at Harry, herding him along. "Remove yourself from here at once! It's not a ruddy wading pool. Come along now!"

"But isn't that Harry Pot—" Screwbik asked again of no one in particular. "I could swear I've—that's—right?"

Harry stood up straight, splashed across the small gap that separated them and latched his lips onto Draco's open ones without a second's hesitation. Screwbik finally ceased bleating. The bronze goddess Flora was impassive, naturally. No waters ran, but certain other things flowed, in a generally upwards and outwards direction.

"Mmmm, Harry..." Draco breathed, and buried his quivering nose in that hair.

"Gaston, Cuz—remember?" Harry grinned, and tightened his hold 'round Draco's waist. "Best cousin ever I had!"

Draco, flushing pink with what might've been embarrassment but was more like overflowing lust, spared one more passing glance at the goggling garrulous inventor just prior to an impatient Potter turning on his sodden heel and Apparating them both away, blessedly shed of the Devilish Dampener.

"Kissing cousins, Mr. Screwbik! Kissing!" Draco sang out in the scant seconds remaining before they tumbled into a blissfully horizontal cushy and most importantly shagworthy receptacle—his hotel bed—at last. "The British Wizarding government thanks you again, sir! Au revoir!"

0O0

The maids had been and gone; the newly freshened sheets beckoned and Harry and Draco wasted no time squirming on them and twisting them all to Hades.

"Want you," Harry ground out, and straddled Draco whilst he was still frantically tugging his clothes off.

"Want you more, Harry," Draco moaned back, and gave up on using his fingers. A Nudicum spell had them both naked as babes in a blink. Draco, fighting to get as much of his naked person plastered against as Harry as he possibly could, rolled them over again and proceeded to nip and kiss his way down the skin he'd become addicted to in less than twelve hours.

"So good," he muttered to himself, concentrating on leaving marks to prove he'd been, "oh, so fucking brilliant!"

"Mmm," Harry moaned, and allowed Draco to have at it, unchecked. "It's all—" he gasped, "at your serv—ah!"

"Give me," Draco growled.

He fell on Harry's dick like a starving man on a banquet, and Harry arched his hips up, scraping the tip of his cock across the ridged furrows on the roof of Draco's swallowing mouth, tossing his dark head from side-to-side in a frenzy when Draco hummed.

"Draco!" he cried out—and then positively yelped his lover's name when Draco's long fingers pinched the very base of his swollen prick. "Draco! Bastard!"

"Not yet," Draco growled, "not without me, Harry—not ever again!"

"Then fucking do me, git!" Harry pleaded, scrabbling at Draco's fingers with his own, "or suck me or—or something, but do. It. Now! Let me come! I need to!"

"Patience, Harry." Draco went up on his knees, keeping Harry's hips clamped tight between them and his own punishing fingers in place. "All in good time."

"I don't have time to be patient, idiot!" Harry gritted and fixed Draco with blazingly brilliant eyes. "Are you that angry with me for not saying anything before? 'Cause I'm sorry, Draco; really I am—"

"Oh, Harry!"

Draco wasn't angry—well, a little miffed, perhaps, but it was clear Harry hadn't been lying by omission simply because he liked taking the piss. No... Draco was more...determined. That was it: determined. Harry needed to understand fully what he'd gotten himself into, accepting a Malfoy into his life..and his bed. Malfoys were possessive by nature, and terribly territorial. He knew; he'd grown up as one.

"Accio pillow," Draco ordered the bed. One promptly zipped right on over, hovering politely. "Here, Harry. Budge your arse up, will you?"

Harry groaned something that sounded a lot like 'Finally!" and Draco grabbed his knees, shoving them back so that the backs of Harry's thighs met his flexing chest.

"Want me to rim you?" he asked him wryly, scooting his own knees forward enough for his prick to nudge familiarly against Harry's hole. "I can, you know. I'm very good at it, Harry," he teased, but they both knew it was well past that, now.

"No!" Harry grunted, and glared at him, peering through slits of poisonous pea green. "Just get in me, twat! I'm tired of waiting."

"Are you certain, Harry? It'll be very vanilla, you know—just regular old boffing." Draco grinned like a bloody lunatic and stuck a careless hand on his dick to aim it, Muggle lube slopping. "And I've not stretched you properly, either. It'll be tight as fuck."

"Just. Do. It!" Harry ordered, and wrapped his legs round Draco's waist, hauling him closer. "You can move on to all that fancy shite later, Malfoy! Just get in me, will you? I like tight and I like burn, damn it! What're you waiting for, laggard?"

"Glutton for punishment," Draco murmured, and did exactly as Harry asked. His lover moaned as he slid in, jostling about a bit and grinding his hips to-and-fro in an effort to widen Harry's narrow channel as he went. The subsequent drag-and-clench was horribly constricting, wince-evincing and utterly sublime. Draco closed his eyes because he literally couldn't keep them open. Potter had sucked him in—lock, stock and barrel.

"Bloody Hero," he grunted, in quiet admiration. "Feel like a fucking virgin, you do, every time."

"Mmmmmm," Harry was both panting and purring beneath him, his throat humming with a sweet growl that inflamed; hips in a constant simmer as Draco eased in, swaying with tooth-grinding restraint. "My specialty. Oh, um, Draco," he added, voice lazy with pleasure as Draco's cock found its mark: Harry's prostate. "Thass'pperfect! Right there!"

"Yes? Nice and slow, then," Draco bit out, barely breathing. "I can do that." It was an exercise on self-control, and he could only focus on the extenuated drag, back and forth, of his prick sawing in and out of Harry's arse. It was an excruciatingly gorgeous view, his blonde pubes meshing into Harry's dark curls, and Draco committed it to his photographic memory in a series of portraits he'd not ever forget.

"Merlin, Harry—you're gorgeous!" He couldn't help but blurt it out; likely he'd admit to more scurrilous tripe just like that as he grew used to the concept of shagging Potter on a regular basis.

Harry smirked at him, tipping the mood back from dreamy to competitive. "Am I, now? Thought I was a little git?"

"You're not going to hold every foul word I ever said to you against me, are you, Potter?" Draco demanded instantly, though he never ceased the slow rock of his hips against Harry's arse. "Because you've done your own fair share of mud-slinging—and I don't mean metaphorically, either, Potter!"

"No, Draco, I am not," Harry was quick to reply. "I'm just—well, I'm just amazed, a little. I didn't really think you'd, er, um, how shall I say it?"

"Gag over you, Harry?" Draco suggested, both brows aloft and waggling in a wry leer. "Wank to your stupid Prophet pictures and the sound of your stupid voice on the wireless and every stupid memory I've ever had of my skin touching yours directly, even if it was only tussling with you over some idiotic schoolboy insult? Because I do, Harry. Wank. All the fecking time."

"Yeah?" Harry's eyes were slowly closing, the lids drifting down as Draco increased his pace. "You do?"

"Yeah," Draco rumbled, and succumbed to the call of the expanse of Harry's throat. He loved the swallow; it made him entertain exceedingly lascivious thoughts. He loved the way the tendons and veins were there, ripe beneath the skin, and how proudly Harry carried his head, even now. "I do."

"Draco," Harry mumbled and turned his jaw, so he could lap at Draco's ears and his tumbling hair, tasting it. Draco groaned.

"Tell me you won't change your mind, after," he demanded, hauling his face away from Harry's fascinating one with effort. Harry blinked at him, confused. "When we go home," Draco clarified, "tell me you'll still—it's not just a holiday thing, is it, Harry?"

"No," Harry said slowly. "It's an ever after thing."

Draco could practically feel his face cracking; his lips were stretched so widely. And likely he looked daft as ruddy brush, but who cared? "You mean that."

"I mean that."

"Well...me, too." Draco flushed, but his gaze was steady, though his respiration rate certainly wasn't. The rocking never stopped.

"I know, git," Harry smiled, and the misty-eyed glance he gave Draco in return belied his super-casual tone. "Now, d'you think you could fuck me for real, Malfoy? Because I still owe you an apology."

"Fourteen years worth, Harry," Draco shot back, never one to be found at a loss—at least, never again. He accelerated, rearing higher up on his knees and gripping Harry's firmly. "You've been rude to me that long, at least."

"Uh!" Harry grunted. "Shut up, Mal—"

"You," Draco shot back and then took care of silencing Harry himself.

0O0

Congratulations, young Draco, on successfully completing your first mission for the M13! Welcome aboard, as the Muggles always say! Wizards say that, as well, but I meant it in the Muggle sense, as you'll be having a lot to do with them now, won't you, as a full-fledged covert agent? Dear old Chom Screwy (he was two years before me at Hogwarts and Head Boy, don't you know?) was very pleased his precious Cube was delivered to him in perfect condition. The Minister also sends on his best regards, son, and sincere thanks for 'services duly rendered'. Also, we'll look forward to having you and Harry at the Burrow for this Sunday's dinner, don't forget! Four o'clock, sharp. Molly likes guests to be prompt. Lastly, this telegramme will self-Incendio in just seventeen seconds, beginning count-down as of now. Please place it safely away from your immediate vicinity and stand well clear. Cheerio!
Signed, Arthur Weasley, Director, M13 & MACARONI and Managing Director, OPART.

0O0

"Stop bending me over the back of my own chair, Harry!" Draco implored. "It's bloody demeaning!"

"But I like it, Draco—and so do you, prat. Don't complain," Harry puffed in his ear.

"But I have a sofa!" Draco pointed wildly, losing his somewhat desperate grip on the rolling seat as Harry pounded him. "Right there, git-for-brains! Installed for the express purpose of —of—ah!"

"Yes!" Harry gasped. "Draco!"

"Harry!"

"Want! Need!" Harry ground out, arching his gorgeous spine and giving Draco's cock that last wrist-flip, the finishing touch that always sent Draco bloody stratospheric. "You! Git!"

"Oh-gods-oh-gods-oh-Merlin! Shite, shite, shite, Harry!" Draco gabbled. And came like the bloody Flora Fountain, all over his gathered 'Top Secret' dossiers and the brand-new set of gold-inlaid quills his proud Mum had given him to celebrate his elevated status as a Secret Service agent. Or perhaps it was to celebrate his six-month-steady relationship with Potter, Harry. She wasn't supposed to know about either item, actually, but mothers, it seemed, knew bloody everything.

"Coming!"

0O0

To: Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt
Status: For Your Eyes Only
Dossier Document (Shred or Incendio after)
Mr. Malfoy, as you're aware, has signed off on the documentation, and has been formally accepted into the M13 division. He has taken up a partnership with Mr. Potter, as was Mr. Potter's original goal. The gentlemen are currently awaiting their next covert assignment in their new offices, located in the central MACARONI division and beyond that, have taken up co-habitation in Mr. Malfoy's Belgravia townhome. The other M13 agents have accepted Mr. Malfoy into the fold wholeheartedly; in fact, it is reported that Mr. Malfoy had to double-ward his residence against an overly enthusiastic Ms. Parkinson.

This concludes the observational report of the Detailed Operation Obtain Malfoy (or DOOM), as originally submitted to yours truly and duly executed by Agent Potter. Please be assured you will be kept abreast of any future developments on that front.

P.S. On a more personal note, Sir, it is also rumoured that Mr. Malfoy is very taken with the division's motto and has had it embroidered on all his bath towels. He has also taken like a mallard to a moat his recent prolonged exposure to French Muggles: he Portkeys every Friday afternoon, along with Mr. Potter, to play a game known as 'bocce ball' with a group of elderly French gentlemen; mostly recently retired Captains of Industry and Movers-and-Shakers in the Muggle world, I believe. Mr. Potter is said to win the actual games more often than Mr. Malfoy does, which is the one known bone of contention between them. However, this is not considered a major cause for concern, Sir. They seem to carry on most happily and efficiently as partners—and woe betide the next You-Know-Who!
Toodles! Arthur

[Carry on then, Muggles! Damage a femur, alright? Signed, Sincerely, Secret Agent Tigersilver, M13 Coven Special Ops, Bollixing Up the General & Garrulous Editions of the Reported Realities of the Everyday Muggle Division(BUGGERR'EM)]