The Dreamer's Curse

The Hunted

[Chapter 29]

We ducked into a dark alley to change our clothes. After realising that the dress robes would be—were definitely—a waste of space inside the pouch, I stuffed them unceremoniously into the garbage bin. Fleur would have to do without the dress. A crowded night market was in full swing a few streets away. We could hear the exotic sound of the zither from where we stood. 

“So,” Draco said, pulling on a pair of jeans, “where are we?”

An old Asian woman was hurrying a little boy across the street. She’d apparently seen Draco undressing.

“Chinatown,” I pursed my lips. “Assuming we’re still in the country.”

“You’re kidding, right?” 

I shook my head. My curly hair fell wildly down my back. Draco let out a stream of curse words that would make even a sailor cringe. The effects of the potion had worn off, and we looked more like ourselves again. 

I bit my lip. We were so exposed. 

“Hey,” he said more gently, “Danny’s with Tonks. She’ll make sure nothing happens to him.”

“Yeah,” I said dryly. “We have to get out of the open—without magic. I don’t know exactly how this Trace works, but I’ve still got it on me.”

He stuck his wand into his pocket and slipped his hand into mine. “D’you have much of that Pertorqueo Potion left?”

I nodded. “It’s a different batch, though, so we’ll look different from the wedding.”

“All the better.”

We each took a sip, and I watched as Draco’s blonde hair turned brown. His nose flattened against his face, and his eyes turned an eerie shade of black. His hand widened in mine, and my fingers shrunk in his. He shrunk about a foot, but this time, his shoulders did not pack on muscles. I felt my trousers stretch to accommodate fleshier thighs, and my face stretch over a squarer jaw. My hair blew across my face, straight and blonde. I pushed it away. 

“You’ve got a button nose,” Draco said in a raspy way. 

I groaned. My voice rose a pitch. “I don’t like this potion anymore.”

“Pseudonyms,” he whispered. “Just to get into an inn. And money. Have you got Muggle money?”

I rolled my eyes. “Bonnie and Clyde?”

“Bonnie and who?”

I sighed. “One day, I am educating you on Muggle culture—books and movies and everything. And we’ve no need for pseudo-names. What is this, a Bond movie? We’ll just rent a room in a motel.”

We crossed the street, and Draco gawked at the use of Muggle signs. The neon signs caught his attention. We followed the zither’s sound into the market where Chinese pedlars hawked their goods as we walked passed. Jade hair pins and golden rings glittered under the lights; the waft of ducks hanging from metal rungs invited us to dine; little acrobats jumped out at us from their stages. 

A dingy motel sat unimposing at the corner, surrounded by the market on all sides. I pulled Draco up its steps, and into the quiet lobby. 

“Hi,” I smiled at the receptionist. Her dark eyeliner was smudged across her eyelids, her slanted eyes sharp and wary. 

“Wha you want?” she snapped. 

“A room,” Draco said, putting an arm around me. “For three nights, maybe.”