and wondered what Narcissa thought about when she had taken in the same view.
They stood inside the small structure. Draco wrapped his arms around her from behind and rested his chin on her head.
"What will you do now?" she asked him.
He was still staring at the house. "Make love to you in every room." She felt him grin.
"Except your father's study," she said, primly.
He considered this. "Yes, every room except that."
"Seriously, though. What will you do? I can't see you being content to play lord of the Manor indefinitely."
"Ah, but being lord of the Manor requires more than strutting around in tight riding pants, brooding over absinthe in the evenings and tormenting the household staff with my debauched demands."
She giggled at the hedonistic picture he painted. "Explain 'debauched demands'."
It took him a moment to locate a suitable example. "You remember old Aramis in the painting I questioned during the attack last week?" Hermione snorted, remembering the old man that had ogled her. "How could I not?" "Well old Aramis was said to have installed a weekly wenching night..."
The giggles promptly turned into laughter.
"It was every Thursday. He'd send someone down to the village. And if a suitable girl could not be found there, he'd have a companion sent from London."
Hermione got a hold of herself "Please, tell me there's an autobiography somewhere I could read. The Malfoys suddenly sound even more interesting."
"The name Malfoy was not always associated with the Dark. We had quite a colourful, almost flamboyant history. Until my father, of course. Lucius brought back black, in more ways than one."
"Where do you think he is? Your father, I mean." Hermione asked.
"If I had to put money on it, I'd say he's on his way to meet up with Snape, if they haven't already done so." Draco's tone was amusement on ice.
"Do you think you'll ever see either of them again?"
He nodded. "Sure of it. In the meantime, I have all this to land to work with. Pansy did a fantastic job in my absence. Maybe it's time a Malfoy heir paid more attention to husbanding what he's inherited. I'd have to get to know my home all over again. And maybe while I'm busy doing that, you could get to know me..."
He sounded almost scared. She spun around in his arms to face him. "I do know you. I know enough about all the more important bits to know I love you."
She felt him shiver a little at that declaration. Draco pushed back the hood of her cloak so he could look at her face. "I will never tire of hearing you say that."
"Then I'll remember to tell you daily."
**
Elsewhere, in the not so distant future
The tall man with the straw fedora was an easy target. Or so the young pickpocket thought. He looked like one of those over-confident, tourists who had strayed from the herd armed only with his brand spanking new, Lonely Planet guide. The khaki slacks he wore had pockets everywhere, but the one that most concerned the pickpocket was located on the right, front-side. It was deep and was gaping enticingly.
His wallet would be in there. Or perhaps a hotel key.
The thief followed the man through the marketplace. It was Sunday and the bazaar was in full swing. What had once been an empty square, Jemaa el Fnaa was transformed into a myriad of rows and alleys, created by the existence of hundreds of colourful stalls. You could buy anything and everything in Marrakech. You only had to know where to look.
The man walked exceedingly quickly despite the thick crowd. And perhaps that alone ought to have been enough to put the thief off his goal. As adept as he was in skimming his way through the people, the pickpocket still found himself out of breath by the time he was two or three strides behind his intended target.
He kept his eyes on the prize, on that slack pocket, weighted down by something he hoped would pay for a week's worth of fun.
There was a commotion nearby. Two hawkers were arguing and exchanging a barrage of extremely colourful abuse. A crowd had stopped to watch this minor amusement. It didn't matter how good the man was at weaving through the crowd, there was simply no way around the bottleneck until people dispersed.
Now was his chance. The thief approached from behind, curving his arm forward and around, his practiced fingers slipping deftly into the pocket without touching anything in particular. Not yet. There was no wallet. His thumb and index finger closed around a slender piece of...wood?
The thief was momentarily confused.
A strong hand suddenly covered his. The grip was crushing. Eyes the colour of hammered steel looked down at him from under the brim of the straw fedora.
"I think not," the man said.
The boy's English was limited, but he understood enough to know he was extremely lucky when that iron grip slackened and he was released.
He scrambled away into the crowd as quickly as he could.
A highly annoyed Lucius Malfoy made his way out of the market place and to the outdoor cafe where he knew Snape was waiting.
Hogwart's former Potion Master was nearly done with his mint tea by the time a disgruntled Lucius pulled up a chair.
"I gather you had no luck finding a newspaper?" Snape inquired with a raised eyebrow.
He was, as always, dressed in black. Lucius could not fathom how he managed it, seeing as the dark colour attracted the heat like flies to a heap of dung.
Still, such attire had its uses. When they had passed through South America, Snape had sometimes been mistaken for a priest and had cleverly said nothing to put good Samaritans off the notion of feeding a dusty, travelling padre.
"Maybe there really aren' t any bloody wizards here," Lucius postulated. Lucius thought swearing was crass and common, but Snape guessed that an extended period of living in what definitely qualified as hard times had humbled him somewhat.
Lucius took off his hat and threw it on the table. "No bloody news about anything happening outside the bloody city. I don't know why I let you talk me into coming here."
Snape was an ocean of calmness, in comparison. And just the tiniest bit smug. "Oh, there are wizards here. They're just not so open about it. There are worse things to fear than Voldemort." He reached down into his lap and retrieved a tattered copy of the Daily Prophet. It was hardly a current edition. In fact, it was nearly a year old. But it was the exact edition they had been looking for.
Lucius snatched it. "Where did you find this?"
"It pays to ask people nicely sometimes, Lord Malfoy."
This earned Snape a narrow-eyed look from his travelling companion. "That's my son's title, if you please."
"I do beg your pardon," said Snape, with great dignity. "Are you going to read it or not?"
Scowling, Lucius peeled open the yellow, bedraggled paper, flipped carefully to the society pages at the back.
He must have found the article he was looking for, because his eye widened and then narrowed and occasionally, there was a derisive snort.
"Fifty guests! Can you believe that? That's hardly a rabble, let alone a proper wedding."
"Small and intimate," Snape opinioned.
"I had three hundred at mine," Lucius muttered.
"Yes, and look how well that turned out for you."
"Dumbledore married them!"
Snape shrugged. "He does have a license."
"They held it at Hogwarts." And this time there was neither approval nor disapproval in Lucius' voice, so Snape said nothing.
Lucius continued reading, making a cutting comment here and there. When he was done, he carefully folded up the paper and sat back in his chair.
"Has your curiosity been satisfied now?" Snape inquired.
A noncommittal grunt was Lucius' response, but Snape noted that he looked content. Happy, even.
"Good." Snape paid for his tea.
The two men left the roadside cafe and proceeded to the train station to catch the non train to Fez.
It never did for fugitives to stay in the one place for very long.
~The End~