Juggerknats
Draco despised juggerknats. The small, chaotic little insects were no bigger than the size of his pinky, but even one rogue juggerknat could destroy the entire shop. They were considered a high-risk ingredient when they were needed alive and Draco was apparently the only potioneer in Whirlwind Industries who was certified to handle them.
At first, he’d been honored and a little proud. Now, he understood that it was not a badge on his chest—he’d been chosen because his life was worthless to the public eye and because he could easily be blamed for any damage resulting from a mistake. Twice now someone had attempted to get him killed or, at the very least, fired by leaving a rogue juggerknat in the vacuum sealed port on their cage.
The first time, he’d merely gotten lucky and had managed to smash the thing in the hatch when he’d reflexively slammed it shut. The second time, he’d been on guard and had trapped the loose one in a containment bubble before it could do more than flip his desk—though it had fought and nearly broken out of that bubble before he could get it into a cage. There hadn’t been any traps set for him since, but Draco was always ready and braced.
Currently, the cage was closed and sealed. The four live juggerknats he’d retrieved were either thudding around furiously in his desktop containment station, gutted on his cutting board, or biting the ever loving shit out of his hand through his protective glove.
Swearing, he tried again to get his knife under the edge of the knat’s carapace but it twisted its head and took a bite out of the blade instead. Damn. That had been his good dissection knife too. Now fully annoyed, Draco squeezed the little wriggling mass a bit tighter and tried again. Finally, he felt the blade slide beneath the shell and the creature stilled.
Bloody nuisance, Draco thought, but he didn’t release his specimen either. He’d learned the hard way—rather than being warned by Kaiser or any of his coworkers—that juggerknats were quite convincing at playing dead.
Ignoring the others in the cage, Draco dissected and carefully removed the creature’s lungs and venom sack. Neither of which, apparently, were vital for living because just as he’d added them to the stasis-controlled beaker beside him, the knat in his hand reared and buried its teeth into the flesh of his wrist.
“Shit! Are you okay?”
Draco spun on his heel, suddenly very aware of the blood that was now pouring from his wrist. Damn thing must have hit an artery.
In the doorway, the now familiar glamoured man was standing and looking utterly horrified. Who the hell had let him back here while Draco was working with juggerknats of all things!?
“It’s fine, please do come in. Merlin forbid I do my fucking job.”
Finally, the knat in his grip died but Draco still hesitated to trust it and decided that decapitation would be safest. Only once the knat was in two very dead pieces did Draco turn to the man.
“Who the hell let you back here? These things are dangerous and if—”
“Your wrist.”
Draco looked down, preparing a retort about workplace safety and Ministry regulations, but… oh. That was actually quite a lot of blood. Damn. He’d have to tie it and hope Pansy would floo over at lunch to heal it for him. He reached for the closest strip of cloth to get some pressure on it but a hand seized his arm.
“Here.”
Before he could even blink, the man had drawn his wand and a pale violet light spread over his skin. The wound closed and healed completely within seconds, but the magic didn’t stop there. It spread over his skin, invisible but not intangible. At first, Draco was confused. He couldn’t imagine what a healing spell would be doing anywhere else on his body and, granted, it hadn’t been a rudimentary episkey but...
His lower back—aching from the way he’d hunched over a cauldron all morning—relaxed with a tingle of pleasant warmth. The knee he’d twisted last month, the scabs that had formed over his knuckles, and even the bruised, throbbing pain in his gut all disappeared as if he’d never been hurt. He even felt the magic trailing over his ribs, his chest, and his arms outlining old scars. It prodded them and traced each one as if testing whether or not they truly couldn’t be healed anymore.
“You okay?”
What the fuck? Draco wrenched his arm out of the man’s grasp without even realizing what he was doing. Merlin… The man had healed him—sure, okay, an Auror would probably know basic field healing spells—but what the actual fuck had that been? He’d gone beyond healing the visible wound and the magic had felt almost… eager. Desperate to find any damage it could fix and soothe any possible pain.
Glancing up at the man, though, he didn’t even seem to know what he’d done. He looked confused and mildly hurt in all honesty. Reeling, Draco straightened himself and put a few feet of space between them.
“Thank you, but that wasn’t necessary.”
Liar , his brain interjected. That wound was deep and you would’ve bled out before Pansy could even answer the firecall. You would’ve had to go to Kaiser and gotten a formal disciplinary write up for carelessness. The man had just saved his ass. He shook that realization off and tried to temper his anger.
“You’re here for the first trial batch, I presume?”
The man nodded, eyes fixed on the raging gnats encased in glass on his desk.
“What are those things?”
Good. Something concrete. Draco moved across the room to secure the remaining knats and tried to steady the shaking of his hand on the latch.
“They’re juggerknats. Nasty little shits and extremely destructive if they get loose. They fight like rabid dragon protecting her horde.”
The man nodded, but his eyes were unfocused and tracked Draco’s hand far more carefully than it followed the juggerknats.
“And you can just… handle them like that?”
Draco bristled. He’d let himself forget for a moment that this man was an Auror beneath that glamour. Idiot.
“Yes, with a fair amount of training and qualifications you can. They’re fine as long as you’re careful and use the right equipment.”
“And that right equipment includes gloves they can bite through?”
He gestured to Draco’s hand where bits of pale skin were visible through the holes that the knat had chewed. Dammit. Technically Draco could only have handled them with dragonhide gloves—that was a regulation, though he prayed that the Auror wouldn’t know that—but dragonhide was expensive. He’d been using a Muggle pair of leather gloves he’d found at a secondhand store and had never had an issue until today.
Figured. He huffed and tried to dodge the question.
“If you’ll follow me to my office, the first trial batch is already bottled and ready for you there. Clients don’t usually invite themselves into my workspace.”
The man didn’t even have the decency to blush. He shrugged, following Draco obediently out of the room and watching him ward the door.
“I went to your office first but you weren’t there. They told me you’d be here.”
“They?”
The man shrugged again.
“I didn’t ask for a name. Red hair, tall, was wearing black robes…”
Draco made a face as he unlocked his office wards. Kaiser. So apparently they were no longer at a ceasefire. Great.
“After you.”
Draco was not stupid. He’d placed charms and wards all around his office the moment the man had left after his first visit and now felt more secure in his ability to survive the man drawing his wand. A small shelling blade had also been gently affixed to the underside of his desk, should he lose his wand.
But, by far the most significant preparation Draco had implemented was a small chain of silver and iron links above the doorway. This was no drummed up Hogsmeade souvenir and the silver in it wouldn’t tell Draco if the man himself was a werewolf or a metamorphmagus, but it had cost him a fortune for a reason.
It could sample a magical signature.
Draco was sure that if he just had more time to feel into it without his life being threatened, he would be able to remember where he knew it from. He had no idea if the man would know what the chain was or be able to feel it sampling his magic, but he prayed that he wouldn’t. There were very few people in Whirlwind Industries who would come if he screamed, and most would only be to watch the show.
He watched the man’s frame intently as he passed through the doorway, looking for any slight tensing of his shoulders or any straightening of his spine—anything to indicate that he’d felt the sampling charm on his magic.
Nothing happened, though, so Draco merely stepped into the room after him and moved to his deliverables shelf. The first batch was a small vial of brown-black liquid that let off small bursts of smoke every few minutes. The man eyed it hesitantly, but took it.
“As I said before, this is merely the first trial. The main ingredient is a knockout draught I custom brew and there is a small amount of burned monkshood. Yes, I know—don’t look at me like that. The most typical allergic reaction to monkshood comes from an active protein in the stem and leaves which can be neutralized with heat and charcoal. It’s a very small amount and I’ve included an anti-anaphylaxis potion as well just in case but I doubt there will be an allergic reaction. I just don’t know if it will be effective enough.”
He handed over the other vial of the anti-anaphylaxis potion. Half of him wondered if he should have labelled them and included written instructions—his customer looked overwhelmed at best.
“Not one for potions, I take it?”
“No,” the man laughed. “It was never my strong suit in school. Snape was—”
The man cut himself off, seeming to realize that he’d just revealed something significant about himself. Interesting.
“You attended Hogwarts?”
It was a casual question but Draco’s mind was racing. If the man had had Snape as a professor, he must have left Hogwarts before the war. If he’d graduated just a few years before Draco, though, surely they would have crossed paths? Hogwarts was a huge school, but there were comparatively not that many students. His face and general appearance were unfamiliarly average, though—it was only his magic that felt like something Draco should have recognized.
“I did, yeah, but it feels like it was decades ago at this point, you know?” Draco did not nod, instead merely noting the vague timeframe of the answer. “Anyways, I’m sure you’re very busy and I wouldn’t want to waste more of your valuable time, so… How much do I owe you for this first batch?”
Draco waved a hand at him and motioned towards the door.
“I’ll owl you an expense breakdown, or you can pay a lump sum once we’ve got a final product. Your choice.”
Draco shifted his weight, trying not to fidget. He urged the man telepathically to pay upfront—Merlin knew his pantry could use the money, even if it was only 30%—but the man seemed hesitant.
“You would need a name and address to owl me, wouldn’t you?”
His expression was reserved but still cooperative, Draco decided. Why not take the risk?
“I could always just send it to the Ministry.”
The man’s head snapped up, eyes locked on Draco with sudden intensity.
“The Ministry?”
“Yeah, to a PO box or to the postal department itself. If you’re still set on anonymity, that is.”
It was plausible enough and the man relaxed a bit at the explanation but his first reaction was all Draco had been looking for. The man was, without a doubt, an Auror. Draco needed to be very careful.
“Right. A PO box. I’ll owl you the details and the address once I’ve gotten it. That alright?”
“Of course. And I would appreciate feedback on the efficacy or side effects of the potion as soon as possible. I hope to have the next batch prepared by the next full moon.”
The man nodded, finally placing both vials into a pocket of his robes. Hopefully, Draco thought, with either a wordless or already existent cushioning charm. No sound of breaking glass came from the pocket, though, so Draco assumed they were safe. He hesitated. The man was still just standing in his office and glancing around at the shelves with a nervous sort of energy.
“Was there something else you needed?”
He’d begun to turn, looking at things on the walls or near the door and Draco did not want him to notice the chain.
“No, sorry. Thanks for this,” He patted his pocket. “I’ll let you know how it works.”
Draco nodded, pretending to busy himself with paper on his desk. But, the second the man was gone, Draco let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The chain above the door now had a faint purple glow to it.
It had worked.
A very strong part of him burned with curiosity and wanted to lock himself away with analysis spells for the next four hours, but he knew that the juggerknats on his work table wouldn’t stay contained forever. He examined his glove, dismayed to realize that it would be virtually useless with all those holes. With no other choice, he pulled off his right glove and inverted it as a sad attempt at making it left handed. He would just be incredibly careful with his knife hand and it would be fine, right?
It took another hour and a half for Draco to get the necessary parts from, and subsequently kill, the remaining two knats. He got bitten at least four times but luckily they were either shallow or had been at least semi-blocked by the glove. Thank Merlin, otherwise he would have had to crawl to dinner with Pansy rather than just to the packet of self-adhering bandages he kept in his desk.
He slid the chain into his satchel as he clocked out, barely resisting the urge to study it immediately as he hid it from coworkers passing by. The only thing that managed to spur him onwards was the knowledge that if he missed the train into the city, he would have to sit in the cold for another hour til the next train and Pansy would chastise him as if she were his mother. As if the entire transportation system of Great Britain could be reformed by his own aristocratic sense of punctuality.
Draco walked into the bar and felt a resounding pang in his chest. Pansy was sitting in a booth, already nursing an obnoxiously pink drink, and grinning at her phone. She looked so happy…
“Hey, sorry the train was running a bit late.”
She stood at the sound of his voice and enveloped him in a hug that Draco was so unprepared for he didn’t even react. He blanked, but Pansy was thankfully at least one drink in already and she didn’t seem to notice or mind.
“A double shot pina colada is already on the way, my dear. Sit, sit! How have you been?”
Draco smiled and joined her in the booth. Though he judged the color of her own beverage, he appreciated that she was one of the few people who knew about or remembered the strength of his sweet tooth. She’d clearly anticipated needing to cheer him up for some reason.
“I’m doing alright. Work is work, of course, but tell me about you .”
His drink arrived, dulling the ache in his chest to a more tolerable level of pain, and he devoted all of his attention to listening. He’d lied when he said he was alright—of course he had, and Pansy probably knew it—but she hadn’t called him on it and Draco honestly didn’t blame her. There wasn’t much to talk about when it came to depression.
For Pansy, though, life was finally looking up. She’d had a rough few years but now she had a job she loved, an apartment in the city, and a doting fiancée that Draco semi-grudgingly approved of. Secretly, he knew they were perfect for each other.
He was happy for her—of course he was, she was his best friend for Merlin’s sake and he’d never wanted dissolving their engagement to hurt her—but the sound of his own congratulations landed hollowly in his chest. It reminded him of his own distinct lack.
Still, he only got to see Pansy one a month or once every other month or so these days so he shoved his own shit away in a box to be dealt with later. Depression was timeless, but Pansy’s schedule was not. He ordered another drink and continued listening as Pansy gushed about the anniversary dinner Maeve had cooked for her.
That night, Draco couldn’t help himself. He’d barely toddled in off the last train of the night—or rather, morning—and he was definitely still a little bit drunk but he couldn’t resist. The chain called to him in his haze. Even if he couldn’t properly perform many spells or incantations at the moment, one little taste wouldn’t kill him, right?
Sliding each deadbolt into place, Draco took the chain out of his bag and properly looked at it for the first time. It hummed against his skin. The metal itself still glowed faintly but the purple had diffused into a color so faint it was almost white. He wrapped it around his palm, letting the excess drape over his forearm, and closed his eyes as he tried to feel for the remaining magic.
This time, the familiarity of it settled on his shoulders like a blanket fresh from the dryer. The magic was far less intimidating or threatening in this form, though it was still incredibly potent. It was strong, but not aggressive anymore. Draco was positive that it was familiar now and not in the distant way he’d first thought. He couldn’t identify the signature outright, though, so he forced himself to give it up for the night.
For the first time in months, Draco didn’t dream of blood on his hands or of cold, dead faces staring up at him from their graves. Instead, he felt fire on his skin. The Room of Requirement toppled around him—onto him—and he was alternating between screaming and choking on the smoke.
He woke with a start—screaming and coated in sweat. Merlin, he hadn’t woken up in that bad of shape since he’d lived at Halfway Lane. Why now, though? With everything else from the war looming over him, he’d barely even remembered the fire. His trial, his parents, the funerals and corpses—sure. But that fire?
Draco flopped onto his side and forced himself to think of something else. His brain jumped to potions and he began going through the different brews he had in process at work currently. The lily-infused dittany, a basic amortentia batch for Hogsmeade, a large calming draught order for St. Mungo’s…
He fell asleep dwelling on herbs with similar properties to monkshood.