Something’s Brewing
Chapter 11: Something’s Brewing
“Out of my way, Longbottom,” Draco pushed past Neville in the Hog’s Head, then paused to turn back and address his classmate. “Shouldn’t you be in the castle? You’re no good to anyone if you get caught out here. Hogsmede is crawling with Death Eaters.”
Neville shrugged. “I can handle any of those pathetic losers,” he chuckled at his own jab toward the bully-turned-friend before him. “What are you doing here anyway? The Carrows have had quite a bit to say about you tonight…” He looked uneasy, like he was waiting for a bomb to go off.
“Snatchers caught them.”
There was no need to elaborate who “them” referred to.
Neville’s jaw dropped open. “So we fight then!” His wand dropped into his waiting palm, but Draco held up a hand to stop his attack.
“They were brought to the Manor…Granger was…they escaped. They’re all safe.”
“Where are they?!” Neville moved closer, frantically searching Draco’s face for any hint of an answer.
He gave none. “I can’t tell you that. You know the fewer people who know where they are, the better. Potter will find us when it’s time.”
“So why are you here?” Neville asked again, standing defiantly between Draco and the portrait of Ariana Dumbledore.
He let out a grunt of frustration. “I don’t have time, Longbottom. I’ve got to meet with the Headmaster. There, happy?”
Neville stepped aside begrudgingly. “So all business then?”
“Actually, it’s a personal matter, if you must know.”
Draco climbed into the portrait hole and made his way through the long secret passage to the Room of Requirement.
Most of the students hiding out there were still asleep, and Draco appreciated his ability to walk like a ghost between hammocks and bunks. While he was welcome by the main leaders, there were still those that didn’t fully trust him. And for good reason.
The castle was cold, the early morning’s chill and damp still permeating through the stone walls, though spring had arrived outside. There would always be a need for a fireplace in Hogwarts, he thought. At least something in his life was consistent, even if it was only the school’s internal climate.
He climbed the stairs to the overbearing gargoyle statue guarding the Headmaster’s office. “Dumbledore,” he said with a wince. Snape’s choice of password still equally baffled and repulsed him.
Snape was standing, hands clasped behind his back, watching the sun rise through the window. “Mr. Malfoy. I’d wondered if you’d be returning to us in one piece.”
Draco glowered at the infuriating man before him. Another double agent, unwilling to untangle either of their messes before they all got killed. While Snape may not care if he lives or dies, Draco certainly hadn’t planned on ending his own life quite this young.
“Well, here I am.”
Snape turned to face him, checking over his appearance as though he might actually care for a moment. “Here you are. I gather you haven’t come for small talk and pleasantries, so please do get on with it.”
“I need a few potion ingredients,” Draco said stiffly, ramming his Occlumency shields in place. Snape would be curious, unable to resist the temptation, but his knowing what Draco was up to could lead to a more than unfavorable chain of events. The worst of it: the Dark Lord finding out that he loses the war.
The request was not what Snape had anticipated. His brow lifted with temporary shock, but he gathered himself quickly. “Do you not have extensive stores at Malfoy Manor? Surely anything the Dark Lord has asked of you could be brewed there.”
He was prying.
“This is for my own personal use. I only need what’s on the list,” Draco huffed impatiently.
Snape looked over the list curiously at the request. “Are you sure? This will be very complicated for you to get right...” The Headmaster couldn't yet be forty, but he looked far wearier than that of sixty. He’d been through two wars, Draco acknowledged. How could he not have aged beyond his time? “Bellatrix?”
Draco nodded, twitching under Snape’s gaze.
“Take all you need from the dungeons. Professor Slughorn won’t be awake for some time now. He spent the evening drinking sherry with Professor Trelawney. Regardless, if you come across anyone, you may tell them I asked you to fetch it,” Snape said dismissively. The Headmaster returned to the window, and Draco took his leave. “Oh, and Draco, you’ll need this.”
Snape stalked toward a bookshelf behind his desk and pulled out a tattered old potions book.
“Sir?” Draco eyed the book, trying to hold back his disappointment.
“It contains all my personal notes and corrections. It will make sure you get the desired effect.” Snape’s voice held more feeling than Draco had ever heard it contain in his many years with the Potions Master.
Taking the steps two at a time, the trip to the dungeons was short, and he took care not to dally in the store room. He collected a jar filled with squishy pink matter, a pouch of dried green leaves, and a few sprigs of dried lavender for good measure—it wouldn’t do to have anyone guess what he was brewing before the time was right. He set them carefully in the cleanest cauldron he could find and set off toward the gates.
…
Malfoy Manor was quiet upon his arrival. Early mornings usually were, with Death Eaters staying up late into the night to fulfill tasks and revel in the mayhem they’d caused that day. To make up for it, they would rise late, sometimes not even til the afternoon. The snake-like man, however, never truly slept, but he would remain sequestered away in a room with complete darkness until midday when he would join his followers to give out assignments and punishments.
Draco was able to slip easily into his room, summoning Wipsy to collect the last of the ingredients he needed to begin. The elf popped away and returned several minutes later with everything he’d requested, in addition to a hearty breakfast.
Deciding not to start on an empty stomach, Draco ate slowly while he penned the necessary letter. It was difficult to think of what to say. His mother would be grieving the loss of her only child, and surely a few pretty words couldn’t possibly make it any less painful for her.
He settled on making it relatively short and sweet. She would appreciate his level of decorum and not dragging out the inevitable. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had written him her own letter to find post-mortem. It was morbid, but he knew he was going to die, so why not give her one small bit of closure.
It would have to be hidden well, though, so she wouldn’t find it preemptively. “Wipsy!” Draco called softly.
The elf arrived, eager to help with another task.
“I need you to place this in mother’s funeral dress robes. It needs to be hidden, but not so well she won’t find it if she puts them on,” he looked earnestly at the elf as he spoke.
“Funeral clothes? Master Draco isn’t—“
“No, Wipsy, it’s just in case,” he tried to comfort the poor creature who’s large eyes started to get a bit mostly. “Now go, before everyone start to rise for the day.”
The elf nodded, taking the folded up letter and disappearing.
Draco set to work. He chopped and weighed and measured and crushed his ingredients, looking like a chef preparing his kitchen. His instruments and tools were all cleaned several times over before being used, preventing any possibility of contamination that might mitigate or exaggerate the effects of the desired potion.
He filled his cauldron with water, adding the first round of ingredients and stirring twice clockwise. It had turned the color of black currant, and Draco was pleased to see the extra notes in the margin had been helpful. It was left to rest for the allotted time, and he paced nervously as he prepared to begin the next stage of the brew.
The next ingredients were slowly and carefully added, stirring seven times counterclockwise and once clockwise. It had turned lilac, exactly as it was supposed to. He stirred counterclockwise, stopping after every seventh stir to add a clockwise one, until the potion turned clear as water.
Draco added the final ingredients, stirring the noted amount of times between each measured cup. As the last bit went in, the liquid turned an inky black and he sighed in relief.
He filled and stoppered two tiny phials, hiding them in a small leather pouch he hung around his neck, under his clothes. Draco cast a Cushioning Charm and Notice-Me-Not for extra measure, and gave the pouch a proud pat. He took out his fake galleon and sent her a message. They were ready.
…
Two weeks.
It had been two weeks and the Dark Lord had kept Draco incredibly busy. He hadn’t even been able to resume his duties in assisting Longbottom with protecting the students at Hogwarts. He’d been essentially on lockdown once the Dark Lord came out of his chambers that day. They all had. His father and Bellatrix had been cursed within an inch of their lives, but Draco could no longer find it in himself to care.
Neither he nor Granger could find enough time for him to slip away and give her the potion. It set him on edge knowing she didn’t have an escape route, but he did find some comfort in the fact that they supposedly didn’t die until the final battle…whenever that was.
He had taken to having Wipsy bring his meals to his room, better to avoid as much contact with the Dark Lord as possible. Draco took pride in his Occlumency abilities, but he truly didn’t want to test his strength against such a ruthless opponent, especially with such crucial information to hide.
No. He preferred to avoid tempting the man—if he could be called that anymore—entirely.
The morning edition of The Daily Prophet had been brought to him along with his breakfast, and Draco casually flipped through it. He scanned for any mention of Potter or Granger, and begrudgingly, even Weasley.
They’d managed to stay under the radar after their escape from the Manor, and Draco was grateful that at least sneaking around without being caught seemed to be one of the trio’s more prominent skills. While he’d loathed their ability to skulk about the castle at all hours without being seen or reaping any repercussions during their school days, he rejoiced every day they managed the feat now.
A jolt of electricity radiated up his left arm. The paper crumpled in his fist then dropped to the floor beside him. Burning—fire—licking its way across his forearm and past his elbow. It took all his strength not to cry out. He hadn’t been summoned this way often, one of the very few perks of the Dark Lord residing in his family home. Usually an elf was sent to collect him, occasionally his mother.
The Dark Lord was angry, Draco could feel his rage through the summons.
Potter, what the fuck did you do now?
…
Rob a bank. That’s what Potter did. Because of course he did. The Chosen One, good old Saint Potter could even rob a bank and get away with it—Gringotts no less!
Draco rubbed at his face. They’d taken something critically important to the war. The way the Dark Lord paved across the marble floor of the wizarding bank…he was becoming unhinged. There would be no reasoning with him now; no planning. He was a loose cannon and they were all collateral.
Puddles of garnet and ruby pooled at his feet, glistening against the soles of his boots. Every single goblin had been slain. Draco was only grateful he’d arrived after the violence.
The Dark Lord was a caged animal, and lashing out was the expected response now.
Draco could feel the pouch resting against his chest, its ever-present weight a small comfort in the moment.
“Tonight. We make our move on Hogwarts tonight,” the high, cold voice hissed. He disapparated with a reverberating crack.