The Man From H.O.G.W.A.R.T.S. (A Drarry FanFiction)

Chapter Eight

   The door led to a narrow staircase that wound its way up around an old wrought iron banister in the gloom. Malfoy took them to the third floor, where he exited into the corridor. After checking the key fob he began to examine the numbers on doors, looking for the correct one. The carpet was threadbare and the one naked bulb hanging from the ceiling was flickering. Malfoy didn't pause in his stride though until he found a match, then jammed the key into the lock to open the room he had apparently rented.

All sorts of inappropriate thoughts flew through Harry's brain as he watched him swing the door inwards, but he shook them off. He needed to find out what was going on, and fast. He knew he could probably survive a fall from this height if he had to make his escape out of a window, but he would rather not find himself compromised with the K.G.B. if at all possible. Was there still a chance that Malfoy had a plan of some sorts that wasn't nefarious?

Sensing his hesitation, Malfoy looked back and gestured impatiently for Harry to follow. Harry scowled but did so anyway, curling his fists as he walked up the corridor and entered the dingy room.

Malfoy flicked on a table lamp as Harry crossed the threshold and closed the door. The small amount of light meant he was able to see the double bed occupying most of the room was at least made, and might even have had clean sheets. The carpets were as patchy as the ones in the hallway, and there was a single door that looked like it led to a bathroom, although what lay beyond was mostly in darkness from where Harry stood. The walls were a sickly sort of yellow in the lamp's meagre glow, and there was a faint odour of garlic in the air.

Harry went to open his mouth again, to demand just what the hell Malfoy thought he was doing, when he jabbed another warning finger at him, right between the eyes. Then he wagged it back and forth. Don't speak. Were they not secure here? What kind of a safe house was this? Harry didn't get a chance to ask, as Malfoy pointed next to his pocket where he'd stashed the microfilm. He crooked his finger. Give it to me.

Harry clenched his jaw. He didn't know what was going on, and yet Malfoy wanted him to get out their prized salvage, the thing that could hold all the answers to their mission. Malfoy didn't have a malicious look about him though, his face was as carefully neutral as ever. Harry huffed and ground his teeth. He shouldn't do this, but he decided to take a chance and trust him.

So, he slowly reached inside his suit jacket pocket, fishing out the circular canister that he assumed contained a reel of microfilm. They wouldn't be able to see much with the naked eye, they needed a reader to magnify it, but it still felt risky getting it out.

As he pulled his hand back out though, he also accidently extracted the strip of photos from the booth at the station. Malfoy plucked the canister from his fingers, but Harry only kept half an eye on him as he opened it up to examine it. The rest of his attention went to looking at the four images of them that the camera had captured, and he soon found that that was where all of his attention was directed.

Harry remembered how he'd pulled his silly poses, enjoying the brief moment of frivolity as he'd teased his standoffish partner, but now the images he held in front of him told an entirely different story. From top to bottom, Harry peered over his spectacles, fussed with his Windsor knot, and tried fruitlessly to push his curls away from his face. And then, in the last one, he looked at his stunned face as his past self finally realised that Draco Malfoy had been staring at him in wonder the entire time.

Malfoy's expression never changed, not once in all four pictures. He merely gazed at Harry, somehow conveying the impression with his soft eyes that Harry had hung the moon. In that final small square of black and white imagery, Harry looked down at himself staring back at Malfoy, the last traces of humour leaving his face as he realised the gravity of the situation. Or so it seemed. How much could you really trust a photograph anyhow?

The strip was snatched suddenly from his grasp. Harry jerked his head up, and was presented instead with two fingers of vodka. Malfoy held the tumbler up to him with his eyebrows raised, an identical glass poised in front of his own lips, the photos now on the cabinet. Harry took the proffered drink slowly. "Na zdorovie," Malfoy whispered. His toast was barely audible, and then he tipped the shot back.

Harry knew he shouldn't imbibe anything he didn't trust, there could have been all manner of poisons slipped into the clear liquid. He was fucking trained for these kinds of situations. Except he did it all the same, because he was a fool and Malfoy's eyes were the most enticing, captivating shade of silver, and they urged him on. "Na zdorovie," he murmured back.

The vodka was cold from refrigeration but it warmed Harry's throat all the same, burned it even. He knew enough though to appreciate this wasn't a cheap bottle the receptionist had plied them with, and it sent an instant zing to his head. Not enough to distract him though.

For the final time, as he carefully placed his glass down on the cabinet beside the photos, he prepared himself to shout at Malfoy, to insist he explain what was going on. But Malfoy snapped his arm forward and covered Harry's whole mouth with his large hand. His eyes widened towards Harry, then narrowed, before he curled his lip. He brought his other hand up to his own face, a single finger pointed in front of his lips as he mimed a 'shhhh!'

Right, then, Harry thought. Definitely not secure.