Chapter Nine.

In which an argument gets out of hand.

That afternoon I had the most outright sensual cold shower I have ever experienced; I may have actually wept in the throes of my ablution. Millicent even slipped me a clean change of clothes, though because they were Crabbe's I had to spent several minutes shrinking them before I could dress. It didn't matter; at that point I was so mired in desperation I may have consented to wear animal skins, provided they were clean and relatively odorless. And here I'd been depressed about socializing with the bloody Stiffles.

The rest of the afternoon was spent recuperating from the events of the previous two days. Millicent finished cleaning and bandaging Weasley's wounds, mended my face as best she could, and replaced the dressing on my leg (a procedures accompanied by several nerve-straining remarks about how huge and ugly my crater was, the size of the scar it would leave, and what a miracle it was that I could walk on the leg at all). She then prepared dinner—fried catfish by the cauldron load—on the exact same table, without even washing her hands, and nobody else seemed to find this problematic. I suppose one gets accustomed a certain level of barbarity on an alligator farm, of course.

Crabbe, Goyle and Weasley were surprisingly civil with one another during the meal. In fact, Weasley had taken on a curiously restrained air after Millicent had dosed him with a Blood-Replenishing Potion. (I myself wondered why they kept Blood-Replenishing Potions on hand, until I remembered Goyle's finger.) He scratched his sunburns and fidgeted about as if he were just dying to say something, or had a very full bladder, or possibly both, but remained mostly silent and ate steadily. Meanwhile, Crabbe and Goyle focused most of their attention on the spice bottles, which Millicent had declined to clear from the table.

"Who's the cinnamon bottle?" Goyle asked.

"Kidd," Weasley said. "Accountant. Dead."

"Ah."

Weasley picked up his fork and put it down again something like three times and mumbled to himself. I resisted the urge to demand he come out with whatever the hell he had to say, and turned to Crabbe instead, intending to strike up a conversation about the state of the farm. Crabbe, though, was looking as thoughtful as he ever got, and staring at the basil jar. "Got to be a reason for killing you," he said. "You don't kill for no reason."

"Ministry don't need a reason," Goyle said darkly.

"Nah, the Ministry's reason is that we're Slytherins."

Weasley made a funny noise and scowled, and I quickly changed the subject before they could settle into an extended Ministry-bashing session. "If I knew the reason, believe me, I would tell you," I said. "I'm as confused you are."

"But you were there," Goyle said with a frown.

"I was—"

"You don't know and you were there?"

"Well," I said—hadn't we already explained this? "There's this rather inconvenient Memory Charm involved—"

"I could break it," Weasley blurted.

We all stared at him incredulously.

"It's just a thought." He shoved a massive amount of roast potatoes into his mouth and chewed defiantly.

"Why," I asked, "haven't you mentioned this before? Say five days ago?"

He swallowed. "Because I thought we would be in New York soon enough and there'd be a proper Obliviator on hand to take care of it."

"And you're not a proper Obliviator?"

He looked at his plate, and I thought his ears got a bit redder under his sunburn. "I did Memory Charms for my NEWT," he told his catfish.

"You also sat the Potions NEWT and you can't make your own hair dye," I said.

Goyle blinked. " I thought that was natural."

"So I'm not exactly an expert," Weasley said, looking up. "I understand the theory, and it's not like we've got many other choices."

"Choices about what?" I asked. "Ways to kill me? Because that's Dies' job, if you hadn't noticed..."

"Malfoy, I don't trust anything O'Guin told me about this case anymore, and we need information." he said. "You knew what was going on at Greenplate and Company, you knew why O'Guin Obliviated you, you probably even knew who Basil is. If I break the charm—"

"Without blowing my mind out in the process?"

He went silent for a few seconds, then said stiffly, "I think we're to the point of desperate measures, Malfoy."

"I'm not desperate at all." I turned to Crabbe. "So how have things been on the farm lately?"

The idea gnawed at me the rest of the meal, though. It wasn't just a matter of discovering the identity of Basil; for nearly a week I had been asking myself why in the name of hell I would go to the authorities when I found evidence of Greenplate's smuggling operation. Even ignoring the deeper question of how I found out about it in the first place, I simply couldn't imagine myself doing it; in every scenario I pictured, it would've been smarter to simply ask for a cut of the profits, or at the very least ignore what was obviously a vital source of revenue for the company. I needed to know what had driven me to report to the Confederation at all, not because it would help us evade Dies or Basil or O'Guin, but for my own peace of mind.

But I didn't need it badly enough to let Weasley practice his charm-breaking skills on me. I'd eat one of the alligators first.

Thankfully he didn't raise the issue again, but a second one popped up in its place. Over extra-large servings of trifle, Millicent finally brought up the topic I'd been waiting all afternoon for. "We're a bit low on cash lately, Draco," she said, swigging her dandelion wine.

Weasley looked up, confused, but I merely braced myself and asked, "How much do you need?"

"A couple thousand ought to do it."

I choked on my wine, but, really, it could've been worse. "I'll write out a promissory note, then."

"Thank you."

Weasley opened and shut his mouth several times, but when I gave him the coldest look of which I am capable he shook his head and put away most of his glass of wine in one gulp.

Those of us who'd spent most of the day hiking across Alabama turned in early; Millicent pointed us to the guest bedroom. The singular guest bedroom, I wish to emphasize. Which, in case you hadn't caught on at this point, had only one bed. "Bloody hell," I said, stopping short in the doorway.

"What?" Weasley peeked around me. "Oh."

"Yes."

"At least it's big."

I stared at him, but he calmly shouldered past me and sat down on the edge of the bed—which, all right, was rather epic in proportions. He started to remove his shoes. "You don't have a problem with this?"

"Not at all," he said calmly. "I've slept in worse places."

Was he implying that sleeping with me was some kind of a punishment? I scowled. "I have no desire to spend the night with you snoring in my ear, thank you."

"Then sleep on the floor."

Bastard. I sat down at the little writing desk in the corner and conjured some parchment and a quill. "Could you at least find an alternative to your usual sleeping attire?" I asked icily while I started drafting the promissory note.

I heard Weasley pause undressing behind me. "And what do you know about my usual sleeping attire?"

I blotted the parchment. Shit, how had I let that slip? "Those y-fronts are absolutely disgusting," I said quickly. "Though I suppose you can't afford new ones, can you?"

Weasley didn't rise to the bait, though, and the undressing noises continued. "So which one is Bulstrode with, anyway?" he asked casually. "Crabbe or Goyle?"

"Actually, I believe they sort of share her."

Another pause. "...I think I'm scarred for life."

"And you don't even get their Christmas cards."

After a few moments I sensed him come up behind me, reading over my shoulder. "That the money she asked for?"

"It is."

He watched me write for a moment, then snorted. "Nothing like a little extortion between friends, is there?"

"I beg your pardon?" I dropped my quill and turned to look at him; he was shrugging off his borrowed shirt. "I would hardly call that 'extortion.'"

"Yeah? So what would you call it?"

"Business."

"Business?"

"You've heard of the term, I expect?"

Weasley sputtered. "But—you—they're meant to be your friends, Malfoy!"

"They are my friends," I said, with a bit more conviction behind it than I felt. "And I'm asking them an enormous favor. It's only practical to decide up front what everyone's obligations are to everyone else and get them out of the way."

"So you treat them like any other business deal?"

"Of course not," I said. "If they weren't my friends, I would've haggled."

Weasley blinked at me, then muttered a few uncomplimentary things about Slytherins.

"Oh, come on," I said, "don't get all Gryffindor-y-er-than-thou. At least we're honest about what we're doing."

"Who's dishonest?" he asked indignantly.

"Weasley," I said, crossing my arms, "you expect your friends to do favors for you, yes? And you expect to have to repay those favors at a later date?"

"Well...yeah...."

I smiled; he could sense the trap closing. "Then why not pay them back immediately and clear the debt instead of letting it hang between you? What if they come back in ten years and ask for something outrageous?"

"I trust my friends," he said bitterly. "And part of the reason we're friends is that they don't treat favors like a financial obligation."

"If I didn't trust my friends, we wouldn't be here," I said, turning back to the desk. "I simply don't see the point in maintaining the illusion that our motives are altruistic."

"You don't believe in doing something just for the sake of being nice to someone?"

I snorted. "No one's motives are that pure, Weasley. There's always something to gain, even if it's just good karma or positive publicity or brownie points with God. As I said, the only difference between my friends and the rest of the world is whether or not I choose to haggle."

Weasley was silent for a long time after that. I turned around to continue writing out the promissory note, and heard the bedsprings squeal as they took on his weight. Finally he said, softly, "So you bought Crabbe and Goyle an alligator farm because they helped you escape from South Africa."

"It's been a lifelong ambition of theirs, actually."

"And now you're paying them a small fortune so they'll help us get to—get out of America."

"Excellent deduction skills, Weasley."

"So what do you want from me?"

I stopped short, but managed not to blot the parchment this time. "Excuse me?"

"You saved my life this morning, in Newark," Weasley said. "That's a pretty fucking big favor."

"That was a practical consideration," I said without looking up. "You're useful to have around when you're not bleeding or passing out."

"I'm flattered." I heard him sit up. "But that's not how it works, Malfoy. You said it yourself before you floated me, I owe you now. How do you expect me to pay you back?"

I clenched my fist around the quill and thought rapidly. I hadn't intended that comment seriously, but if he took it that way...well, what was a life worth? What could I ask of him, and what would he actually do in return? Damn it, that sounded like a philosophical question, and I hate philosophy almost as much as levitation, modern art and Harry Potter. "I'll think about it," I told him.

"About what? Whether or not to haggle?"

"About a lot of things, if I have your permission." I glanced over my shoulder at him; he was sitting with one knee pulled up, wearing just his bandages and a pair of Goyle's trousers, staring. Again. "Do you intend to sleep tonight?"

"You're the one who's all for clearing debts."

"At the appropriate time and place."

"Who decides what's appropriate? 'Cause I'm willing to settle this here and now."

I quickly finished writing out the promissory note, but didn't sign it—not until I'd seen the sum. I wasn't that trusting. "Weasley," I said, "I refuse to discuss this right now. Go to fucking sleep."

"When do you want to discuss it, then?"

"How about when the sun shines in Hell?"

I stood up and began to toe off my shoes. Weasley climbed to his feet and folded his arms across his bandages, scowling. "I'm just playing by your rules, Malfoy," he said. "I want to clear this up now so we can concentrate on more important things."

I snorted and tried to pull off my socks. "If you're having trouble concentrating, Weasley, I assure you it is no fault of mine."

"Yes it is!" He practically snarled; I paused with my socks in my hand. "I need to know you're not going to hold this over my head so you can get your way on decisions that affect the both of us."

"Like what?"

"Like going to Britain."

He just had to bring up that again. I threw my socks across the room and flung myself onto the bed. "Weasley, that decision had already been made."

"It's the safest place to go—"

"And also the most obvious!"

"I've got my own set of friends who will protect us without a payoff."

"Well, congratulations. But as I've already got two homicidal maniacs hunting me, I don't particularly see the need to add the Ministry of Magic to the bunch."

"It's worth the risk!"

"Pardon me if I don't share your suicidal recklessness."

"Then call in a favor."

"What?"

Weasley suddenly sat on me—all right, to be perfectly honest, he straddled me, putting his weight on my thighs, and braced himself against the headboard so that he loomed over me. "You don't want to go to Britain?" he hissed. "Call in a favor. Tell me that you saved my life and I owe you and we're not going to Britain."

I pushed myself up on my elbows and tried to throw him off me. "I thought you said this was a decision for both of us."

"Your safety is my responsibility, Malfoy. That's my assignment."

I laughed in his face. "Weasley, that assignment was a set-up and your bosses are now trying to kill you."

"That doesn't change anything."

"It changes everything!" What the fuck was Weasley's problem? We were only thrown together by the most ridiculous of circumstances, there was nothing stopping either of us from walking away except convenience. And why the fuck did he have to climb on top of me and stare at me like that, breathe on me like that, fucking tempt me with his charm breaking and his sneaking to Britain and his sleeping fucking naked in the same fucking bed—

He dropped his hands so they were planted next to my head, so that he was leaning close enough to brush the end of my nose with his. "It changes nothing," he snarled, "and tomorrow morning I'm going to tell Crabbe and Goyle that we're going to Britain—"

I smirked. "And I'll tell them we're not. We'll see whom they listen to."

"This isn't your decision to make!"

"You don't have a monopoly on unilateral decisions here."

"I'm doing this with your best interests in mind."

"So am I."

"Then say it"

"Make me."

Weasley's lips curled back. "Selfish little bastard!"

"Reckless son of a bwha—!"

He kissed me. This seems very abrupt, because it was, and it seems very inadequate because I don't believe there's a word in the English language that captures the sort of tongue-thrusting, teeth-grinding, hair-clutching exchange of saliva that Weasley inflicted on me, especially considering that, given all those descriptors, I rather liked it. He practically yanked out a double handful of my hair and his mouth tasted like fried catfish and potatoes, but he was pressing up against me in all kinds of intimate ways and...well, okay, he's not that bad of a kisser. Or tongue-thrusting teeth-grinding hair-clutching saliva-swapper, whatever you want to call it.

I had a very brief window of absolutely clear thought for just a moment then. I considered various facts: that Weasley had drunk an awful lot of wine at dinner, that he was a reckless son of a bitch, that he could have very well been attempting to manipulate me into agreeing with him, that we were both injured. I also thought about the view through the French doors in the flat in St. Louis. I am only human, and Weasley was willing, and...well, what do you expect me to do?

I returned the kiss and gave his hair a retaliatory yank. He growled like a feral thing and bit down on my lower lip. And I don't think what happened the rest of the night is any proper business of yours.

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