A Specialty Brew

Draco swore as he poured the last of his quick oats into a plastic bowl of lukewarm water. He would need to get more after work or resign himself to canned mystery items for breakfast tomorrow. Fucking ‘canned mystery’ food… Things like canned corn or canned fruit weren’t bad, but the last time he’d opened an unlabelled tin for breakfast it had been anchovies and he’d gagged on nearly every bite. Canned haggis had been a mistake as well.

But cans without labels were the ones that went on sale the cheapest because the store couldn’t guarantee what was in them or when/if it expired, they just wanted it gone. So, whenever Draco got a paycheck for a particularly large or lucrative brew, he went straight to the clearance shelf at the back of the local grocery store and began examining cans.

He’d learned to identify some of them by the number of ridges in the metal or by the stackability. Usually brands only stacked well with other cans of the same brand, meaning Draco could at least guess if it was a soup or a fruit of some kind—but pickled horseradish somehow stacked with everything. No matter how careful he was, a can of that shit always ended up in his cart somehow. Bloody disgusting.

That was a problem for after work, though. 

“Hello Mr. Malfoy. My name is Amore Kaiser and my pronouns are they/them.” 

The person in front of him paused, eyeing him with fiery brown eyes as if daring him to comment or have a problem with that. As if he would. Part of him dared to hope that having someone with a non-conforming gender identity in the company would mean a more liberal, tolerant pool of coworkers. He doubted it, though. 

“Well, you can call me Kaiser—all my employees do. For the purpose of transparency, I will admit that I did not offer myself up for the position of your supervisor, nor am I particularly excited by the task. You’ve kept your record clean so far, but I have a zero tolerance policy. One step out of line and you will find yourself out on the curb with the very clientele you currently supply. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Draco muttered, but he couldn’t help his curiosity. “But I don’t believe I work for you?” 

He phrased it as a question, keeping his tone light and inquisitive rather than challenging just in case. Kaiser’s eyes narrowed and their expression soured. 

“No, not yet. Corporate has decided I am up to the task of keeping you in line, though, and apparently your brews bring in enough galleons to make it worth my while. I can’t say I argued in support of this idea, but I wasn’t the strongest opponent either so here we are.” 

Kaiser brought out a manila folder and spelled it open with a wave of their wand. Draco fought himself not to flinch. Instead, he tried to focus on what was being levitated onto the desk in front of him and tried not to be annoyed that even approaching his desk was evidently below Kaiser. The only thing his brain took in was the bolded title at the top of the page:

CONTRACTUAL AGREEMENT OF EMPLOYMENT

His stomach dropped through the floor. Draco was not stupid and he knew every word of his typical contract with Whirlwind Industries—a flimsy, one-time consulting agreement that had so many terms and conditions he was shocked he ever received a paycheck at all. He’d signed hundreds of them over the last year and had cursed their unpredictability more times than he could count. But employment was different. Employment meant regular, consistent paychecks and job security for at least some amount of time. 

“Are you offering me a job?” 

Kaiser rolled their eyes, but didn’t take the folder back or walk away. 

“Me? No, I’m just your supervisor unfortunately. Corporate, however, has decided to take the gamble on a two year contract with you. Terms and conditions apply, of course, and it really makes no difference to me whether you sign the contract or not. Either way, I just need an answer for Corporate.”

Draco skimmed the document, trying desperately to find any kind of a loophole or clause that would screw him over. Whirlwind’s cut was 70% which was 20% more than they took from him currently but he would have healthcare and a guaranteed weekly paycheck regardless of demand or order volume. He would need that paycheck once summer hit when there were fewer spring allergies or winter colds for him to treat. 

Hand shaking, Draco signed the contract.  

That night, Draco began looking for places to live. He’d grown accustomed to 182 Halfway Lane but he ached to have space—any amount of it—where he could actually relax. Here, there was a roof over his head and a heater that worked 80% of the time but there was also Lance and the girls on the first floor. 

Other tenants of 182 Halfway Lane had no qualms about searching his things, invading his room while he was gone, or accosting him in the middle of the night. He’d become paranoid and defensive, hiding his food stash behind a loose ceiling tile and keeping any items of value on him at all times. 

The only plus the place offered was Ariana. She was a young, bright-eyed witch that Draco was certain would have been sorted into Slytherin if she’d been given the chance. Unfortunately, she was a war orphan, like so many others, and had chosen to forgo a Hogwarts education (if it had even been offered to her) in favor of a source of income. 

Draco wasn’t exactly sure what Ariana did for work. He’d asked and pried for information over bottles of cheap wine countless times, but she remained vague and he accepted that he would never know. 

Regardless of employment, Ariana was the only person at 182 Halfway Lane that Draco considered a friend. She was ridiculously intelligent, full of witty comebacks, and had a ferocity when facing the world that rivaled even the Golden Trio. He truly cared about her, and was considering asking her to move out with him when she dropped the ultimate bomb on him. 

She was moving to New York. 

Draco congratulated her, of course, and even helped her pack but her departure had sealed his own fate. He signed a lease the next day for a flat closer to work in a slightly less sketchy neighborhood.

So, of course, now that he was away from his remaining ‘family’ or friends, now that he had a place all to himself and a semi-stable job, now that he was safe and he could finally breathe a bit—the depression hit. 

It weighed on him and squeezed his lungs and he felt like an open wound. It was isolating: he couldn’t explain how he felt to anyone, really, and he didn’t have the energy for friends. His life outside of work was a constant juggling act, fighting to keep all the balls in the air. 

One—at  least one—always dropped. Usually, he forgot to eat. Sometimes it was cleaning or grocery shopping. It was never work, though. Never work. He couldn’t compromise anything about his job because he needed his job. 

He was pissed. The anger was the only thing that pushed back against the hopelessness. It wasn’t fair! He’d spent the last four years fighting for every breath he took and now things were good! Or at least things were okay. He wanted to enjoy his newfound security but now his brain was punishing him. For what? Daring to relax? Thinking he ever deserved or could obtain some kind of peace or happiness? 

Now he had time, he had an apartment, and he had a stable job for the next two years—-he should have been able to relax! But all he wanted to do was cry. Or sleep. Or just stop existing for a little while. It wasn't fair. His Mind Healer said it made sense and that he was finally processing things he hadn't been able to before. 

To Draco, it felt like a punishment for believing he was safe. 

Draco was just… tired. He was fucking tired of being anxious or sad or in pain. Many of the books he’d read either on his own or as homework his therapy talked about resilience. Pansy said he was incredibly resilient but Draco was tired of that too. He didn’t want to be resilient anymore. He didn’t want to push through or hold out or be strong. He wanted to breathe. To relax and feel safe and be fucking happy—just once, even. But clearly he wouldn’t get that. He didn’t seem to deserve it, or maybe he hadn’t earned it. Maybe if he just kept working and pushing, maybe one day… But he was so tired. 

Draco knew it was stupid. It was irresponsible, risky, pathetic, and frankly un-Malfoy of him but… He wanted someone to make it better. Someone stronger and authoritative who could protect him—who would protect him—and who could make him feel less shitty. 

In his dreams, when they weren’t nightmares, letting go and trusting that ‘someone’ gave him a rush similar to what he imagined casting a Patronus felt like. It flooded through his veins and filled him with such an overwhelming sense of relief that it made him want to cry. Sometimes, the absence of that protector did make him cry. The sharp knife-edge sting in his chest was raw and tainted with the reminder that he had no such person—and likely never would. 

His Mind Healer said it was a coping mechanism or a way to take back control but Draco knew deep in his gut that it was his fault. He’d done too many things, made too many mistakes, and was too much of a fucked up human being to have that sense of connection or safety. People couldn’t all be that unpredictable and cruel, so it had to be him. He was, after all, the only common factor. 

Shaking his head, Draco reached for the cabinet above the fridge. He didn’t drink as often as he could have, but he still drank more than he probably should have. The burn and the nausea of cheap wine no longer appealed to him, even as a form of self-punishment. 

Instead, he poured out a shot of dirt-cheap vodka. He downed one, took a sip of two-day-old coffee as a chaser, and downed another. Two shots weren’t typically enough to get him drunk but he hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday. It hit him almost instantly. He breathed in a deep breath and felt the cloudiness cover his mind. 

Perfect. Things weren’t any different when he was drunk, but it didn’t feel quite as raw or painful after a few shots. Sometimes he could even forget for a little while. He preferred to forget. 

His work never saw that side of him, of course. At work, Draco was the skilled and experienced potions brewer who had grown up under Snape’s intense tutelage. Draco was diligent, efficient, and determined to not give Whirlwind Industries a single excuse to fire him or rip up the contract they’d signed with him. 

Other employees were not pleased by his presence. Many of the older, more curmudgeon-y managers made no attempt to hide their hatred of him and would openly damn him and all ‘his kind’ to Azkaban. The younger ones were a mixture. Some had moved to Britain in response to the worker shortage after the war and they seemed to pity him more than anything. The youngest few Draco vaguely knew or recognized from his Hogwarts days, but their respect for the war and desire to forget had granted him some degree of invisibility. For the most part, they ignored him. 

The problem was the ones that were only a few years older than him. Ones who had left Hogwarts before the war but whose families had fought in it and who had lost younger siblings or parents in the bloodshed. Those who had actually been there for the battle wanted to move on, but those who hadn’t tended towards vengeance. It was the ones who felt like they’d been cheated out of their fair share of Death Eater blood that Draco had to worry about. 

He shook his head, feeling the paranoia crawling beneath his skin as he dwelt on it. People weren’t going to change their minds regardless of what he did, so he focused on what he could control. 

More than any workplace politics, his product was good. People hated that they were buying from him—or that he worked there at all—but they had no complaints about the potions themselves. Customers who didn’t know that he was a brewer they had even complimented his products. They were cost-effective, high quality, and mistake free. 

On top of that, Draco had experience making large-batch brews as well as specialty potions. Being able to advertise tailored, custom brews was becoming a huge selling point for Whirlwind and Draco was counting on that talent for future job security. His managers and coworkers could spit on him every day but if the higher-ups liked his profit reports, then he was safe. 

“Oi, Malfoy!” Alek’s familiar, grating voice nearly made him drop a jar of Mugwort powder. “A guy here wants a custom brew asap and Corporate says he’s high-priority. You got a spare cauldron?”

Draco winced and cast a few charms to keep anything delicate or time-sensitive from being destroyed. He did not have a spare cauldron—in fact, he was already using three more than he’d originally been given—but he was in no position to refuse Corporate and Alek knew that. 

“Sure, send him back.”

Draco turned, assuming Alek would have to go retrieve the customer, and threw a few rose petals into the closest cauldron to keep them from burning off entirely. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, though, and he was immediately overcome with the magical presence that had just entered the room. It was potent, intense, and oddly familiar. He turned, expecting to see a Hogwarts professor or an older pureblood wizard who had somehow survived the inquisition following the war. 

The man was neither, though, and seemed fairly young. Mid- to late twenties, maybe, with sandy-colored hair and pale brown eyes. His face was inoffensively average—as was everything else about him—but something felt off. Draco’s paranoid mind jumped to a glamour. Why would someone use a glamour to buy a potion, though? Then it hit him. 

An Auror.

The Ministry had sent an Auror and had probably called ahead to Corporate to make sure he got sent to Draco and no one else. They were bloody checking up on him. 

“How can I help you?”

Draco half expected the man to test him and ask for some kind of illegal brew or black market ingredient. The man glanced around at his cauldrons—fuck, was Draco exceeding some kind of max for the room he didn’t know about?

“Do you brew anti-anxiety or antidepressant potions?”

Fuck. It was just the first question and they were already asking about controlled potions. 

“Not without a Mind Healer’s prescriptive orders, I don’t.”

The man seemed neither surprised nor greatly impacted by that answer. There was something about the man—the Auror, Draco reminded himself—that gave Draco a strange sense of deja vu. He felt like he should know this man and there was nothing he could pick out or point to but there was… something. 

His mannerisms, his posture, and the cadence of his voice were familiar. Maybe he’d been a fews years above Draco at Hogwarts? He hadn’t shied away from Draco or looked for his mark yet but maybe he’d been prepped before coming? Of course an Auror would be briefed on him, but even then they usually sneered or balked at him in real life. They didn’t want anything to do with ‘his kind’. 

“Of course. But you know how to brew them?”

“I know how to brew a lot of things. That’s the magic of following a recipe.”

Draco internally smacked himself. He knew that he was being cheeky or maybe even rude which would not earn him any points with the Ministry if this was some kind of surprise inspection. Idiot. The Auror didn’t seem annoyed or particularly reactive, though. 

“Of course,” he agreed again, voice level. “But that isn’t all there is to potions, is it? If that were true, anyone could brew things as well as you.” 

Wait. Was that a… compliment? Even if it was back-handed or some kind of trap, had an Auror just complimented his potions work?

“I suppose. Alek said you were looking for a custom brew?”

The Auror’s eyes drifted lazily around the room, taking in ingredients and book titles. Even though Draco knew he didn’t have anything illegal or Ministry-regulated—or even anything questionable, which he kept in a safe in the back of the shop—his skin crawled with anxiety regardless. Clearly, the man was in no rush. 

“Yes, for a rather sensitive matter. Can you guarantee discretion?”

Another trap. Draco sighed and launched into his practiced speech. 

“I fall under the discretionary practices of Whirlwind Industries, and of course under the legal confidentiality clauses of the Ministry. Whirlwind is informed of all orders I take, their progression, and their final status as well as compensation. I can offer confidentiality in all circumstances unless: you are a danger to yourself, you are a danger to others, you seek to use the potion for illegal purposes, or if a vulnerable person is at risk of harm. In this case, a vulnerable person could range from a child or an elderly person to an addict or a streetwalker…” Draco glanced at the man, checking for a reaction to the term, but the crinkle in his brow felt more personal than societal. “Outside of that, though, I can promise the utmost discretion.” 

The man paused and seemed to consider this, weighing his options, before moving his eyes to the ingredients prepped and waiting on Draco’s work table. 

“And what, exactly, is included in the information that Whirlwind receives?” 

This was beginning to feel less and less like a test. Why focus on Whirlwind rather than try to bend or circumvent the rules for the Ministry side of things? Surely that would be what they could arrest him for? Maybe this wasn’t a Ministry sting operation after all. 

Draco scolded himself and tried to put his guard back up, but his curiosity was breaking through his paranoia. This man—who was still most likely an Auror—seemed to be much more personally invested in this than your average paper pusher. Maybe he was just a good actor? But Draco usually prided himself on being able to detect lying or disingenuity and he didn’t get any sense of it from the man. 

“Whirlwind receives an order report which I complete. It includes the name of the potion requested, or the closest equivalent potions with a brief description of any modifications made for custom brews. It also lists the main four ingredients, the ID number for the cauldron I brew it in, an approximate batch size, and the amount of payment I receive. Your name doesn’t need to be anywhere on the form or included at all, if that’s your concern.” 

Draco was waiting for the man to offer his name, but he merely glanced back towards the door. It was open, but their voices were low and the noise of the cauldrons would cover anything they said. Was this an Auror trying to lure him into an illicit deal? As much as Draco’s logical side screamed at him to be careful, his intuition was much less suspicious. The man finally looked back to him, meeting his eyes with an unexpected intensity. 

“I appreciate that, but my name is not the main concern. Correct me if I’m wrong—I want to be sure I understand you right—but if the sensitive situation that requires this potion is not explicitly illegal, this can be kept confidential?”

The nitpicking specificity felt dangerous, but Draco’s greatest weakness had always been his curiosity. He pursed his lips, scanning the man’s face. 

“If it’s not explicitly illegal and doesn’t involve any Ministry-regulated ingredients, then yes. I can be vague on the form that Whirlwind receives and I can promise discretion. You have yet to even introduce yourself, though.” 

“Unfortunately, I think I will remain anonymous for now. If you can guarantee discretion under the conditions you’ve set, then I would like to discuss the necessary potion.”

Draco gestured as if to say ‘go right ahead’ but the man clearly indicated the open door. Apparently he was as paranoid as Draco was. With a nod from Draco, the man spelled the door closed and cast a few heavy silencing charms on the room that Draco was frankly surprised by. What kind of non-illegal potion required such secrecy? Even the old purebloods who came to him for erectile potions weren’t this jumpy. 

“I need a special batch of Wolfsbane.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow, but the man did not elaborate. He seemed, instead, to be studying Draco and watching for some kind of reaction. Fear? Prejudice, maybe? Wolfsbane hadn’t been labeled as illegal yet, though the werewolves who used it were often targeted by the Ministry.

“You could buy that at any large potions’ shop or brew it yourself. What’s special about it?”

A sigh drifted through the air between them and, for a split second, Draco could have sworn that he knew that sigh. That was ridiculous, though, because whose sigh would he even know that well? Pansy’s? His mother’s?

“I need a custom recipe made. A Wolfsbane brew for someone who is allergic to monkshood.” 

Ah. Well, that was decidedly much more complicated.

“You are aware that monkshood is the primary ingredient in Wolfsbane, right?” The man nodded. “And you know that no other recipe without at least a small amount of monkshood exists?” Another nod. 

It would be a challenge. Difficult, but not impossible necessarily… Maybe there was another plant similar enough in certain properties that—

“One more thing,” Draco gestured for him to continue. “I need the potency to be reduced, as well as the dosage.” 

Well. this just got more and more interesting. A reduced potency? Draco was used to brewing concentrates and high-potency potions but reduced?

“Reduced? How much?”

The man shifted from foot to foot and glanced nervously around the room. 

“You will guarantee discretion?” Draco nodded impatiently. “...it’s for a child.”

Oh.

A child. A child werewolf who was allergic to monkshood. Draco was unbelievably curious but his brain was stuck, circling and triple-checking trying to find any potential loophole or legality issue with this. He had to be sure it wasn’t a trap. 

“How old?”

His question was immediately met with suspicion, which only made Draco feel more sure of this. Usually he was the one hesitant to give out information or accidentally reveal himself, not the client. 

“I need to know so I can guess weight, height, body mass, etc. It’s for the dosage adjustment.”

That seemed to be enough of an explanation. Draco could only imagine what it would be like to be a werewolf after the war, but a child too? Merlin. 

“Five. The child is five.”

Draco noticed how careful he was not to use a pronoun. It shouldn’t be an issue because hormones weren’t vitally different at such a young age and it shouldn’t affect the potion, but his curiosity was endless. He resisted the urge to pry for more information. Instead, he merely nodded. 

“I’ll do my best. Recreating an entire recipe and all the trials or experimental batches won’t be cheap, though.”

“Money isn’t an issue.” 

The response was so fast and so forceful that it reminded Draco of how he used to approach finances. Was this an old world pureblood in hiding? Who else would have the kind of money that bred that confidence? Regardless, money was money. Merlin knows he could use the brownie points such a big contract would earn him with Corporate. 

“Alright. I’m assuming you want it as soon as possible?” The man nodded. “I’ll have a trial potion ready by the next full moon.” 

That was only thirteen days. Draco was not at all certain he could meet that deadline but the thought of a five year old kid drinking something they were literally allergic to rather than suffer a full shift was…motivating. He would do it, even if it cost him sleep.

“One more thing.” 

The man’s voice had taken on a strained quality and he glanced back at the door again as if he needed to reassure himself of their privacy. Against his better judgement, Draco let his wand slip out of his sleeve and into his palm. He didn’t particularly like how nervous this man seemed to be—especially if he was an Auror. What if that ‘one more thing’ turned out to be a targeted attack on a former Death Eater?

“You seem to be full of additional information. Perhaps I should get you a quill and a piece of parchment so we can create a full list.” 

His client was not amused. Draco tightened his grip on his wand, but almost immediately loosened it again. He was used to the tiny surge in magic that happened when someone grabbed their wand with a fair amount of intensity, but he was not used to the answering rush of magic that had accosted him in response.

The man’s eyes had gone steely and focused on him with painful precision. Draco didn’t dare look away but, in his peripheral vision, he could see a wand sticking out of the man’s sleeve. Had that surge been meant as a threat? Or had it merely been the man gripping his wand? If the latter was true, who the hell was this man?

“I’ve already said this is a sensitive matter. I was dead set on not telling you a damn thing but a… friend of mine insisted I should in case it had some bearing on the potion. To avoid any potentially harmful side effects, I have decided to tell you. But this information does not leave this room, understood?”

Threat or no threat, Draco felt sweat gather on his palms. He swallowed hard, struggling not to shift under the sheer intensity of the man’s stare, and nodded.

“Good. The child in question,” He paused, as if considering his last chance to back out. “Is a metamorphmagus.” 

Draco sucked in a sharp breath despite himself. A metamorphmagus? Those still existed? And a werewolf metamorphmagus at that? Who the hell—

“I trust you can keep your vow of confidentiality?” 

That tone alone sent shivers down Draco’s spine. It was clearly a warning, something remnant of how his father used to trap him with impossible questions or lace that undercurrent of a threat into mundane conversation. He shifted unconsciously and reached for something to fidget with but his hand closed around air. Damn. Rather than reholster his wand, he met the man’s eyes. It was easily the hardest thing he’d done all week, but the colored rings lost a bit of their bite through the veil of the glamour so he managed it. 

“Of course. As I said, I’ll have the first trial potion ready by the next full moon.”