A Specialty Brew

Harry James Potter was many things—a friend, a wizard, an Auror… and now apparently a bloody idiot as well. Honestly! There were a lot of things he’d done that had towed the line of caution but mentioning Hogwarts of all things? Merlin, what was wrong with him? He never made mistakes like that during the war or at work!

But of course this wasn’t work, was it? 

“Stop pacing and take a bloody seat if you refuse to go home! You’re riling up the portraits!” 

Andromeda’s voice echoed up to him from the bottom of the staircase he was currently pacing in front of. With it, he could hear the bickering of angry portraits as well. Damn, that wouldn’t exactly be helpful for this situation. Once again, Harry wished that he could be the one down there with Teddy and that he could see for himself that the boy was not dying of an allergic reaction or being tortured with the effects of a shift. He hated that he was stuck up here. 

“Yea, sorry. Everything okay down there?” 

From his position at the top of the stairs, he heard a distinctive hmph that he knew meant he wouldn’t get an answer. That was fair. It was the fourth time he’d asked that question in the last hour and her answer had never changed: everything was fine, and Teddy was sleeping like a rock. 

Harry hated the waiting. He’d never been good at sitting around or being patient when there were things he theoretically could have been doing to help or change the situation or… what? There was nothing he could do besides sit there and hope nothing went violently wrong. 

Idiot! With nothing left to occupy his mind, Harry replayed his last interaction with Malfoy and cursed at himself for being so stupid. The Ministry comment had been hard enough to dodge—which it shouldn’t have been, of course there were bloody PO boxes in the postal department—but mentioning Hogwarts without even being asked? And Snape on top of that! 

Malfoy had already been suspicious of him, but now?

At least the years seemed to have been kinder to the blond. Harry had been surprised when Malfoy was recommended to him by a blackmarket informant for the Ministry and had almost doubted his resolve. This was about Teddy, though, and Harry’s personal reservations didn’t matter. 

So he’d gone to the shop, faced Malfoy, and had promptly lied his ass off. He didn’t feel good about the glamour or the lies but he argued with himself that it was for Teddy’s safety, not for any kind of upper hand on the blond. That didn’t mean he didn’t have an advantage, though… 

Post-war, grown-up Malfoy was a paranoid bastard and Harry couldn’t exactly blame him. He’d felt at least seven different wards and protection spells when he’d first stepped into the office and that number had doubled by his second visit. No doubt because he’d accidentally, sort of, maybe threatened Malfoy a bit with his wand. But he hadn’t meant to!

Something about Malfoy managed to wriggled under his skin just like it had when they were schoolboys. Harry was normally very good at keeping his emotions in check and he’d gone through years of training for the Aurors that had honed his ability to remain calm in all situations. All situations, it seemed, that didn’t involve Malfoy. 

Harry cursed the git under his breath, but even that wasn’t satisfying. Because Malfoy hadn’t been a git—he’d been terse, maybe, and a bit impatient but he’d maintained his professionalism. Unlike Harry. What in the name of god had possessed him to bring up having Snape as a professor? The man had been Malfoy’s bloody godfather!  

After two meetings, Harry was already slipping back into that school days mindset and forgetting that Malfoy didn’t see him with the familiarity that he could see the blond. The little quips and retorts came naturally to him: digs at Malfoy’s past—at their past—comments about Quidditch, or even snide remarks about certain tattoos. Things he wasn’t supposed to know. 

Next time, Harry promised himself, he would be more careful and he would manage to hold his damn tongue.

Draco was expecting an owl or a visit from the man the next day, but he had not been expecting the man to be already waiting for him when he got to work at 6am. His client hadn’t noticed him yet, which Draco thanked the gods for. It might have been a bit morally grey, but Draco took advantage of the man’s disarmed state to study him.

Draco strained his eyes, attempting in vain to see through the glamour. He searched for any weak spots in the typical areas—the hairline, the stature, or even the ears. There might have been a hint of dark hair, just for a moment, beneath the sandy-colored glamoured strands but he couldn’t be sure. Even if he had, half of Britain had dark hair. 

Shaking his head, Draco moved his attention to the man overall, hoping to preemptively get a read on whatever mood the Auror was in. The man was... very awake. There was a crazed kind of energy behind his eyes that screamed of a Wide-Eye potion—rookie mistake, Draco had turned to Revitalization potions after the war because they didn’t make you look insane after pulling an all-nighter. That was why Draco looked relatively normal and composed despite spending the last two nights divided between scrolls and cauldrons. 

His posture wasn’t particularly tense but that didn’t mean he looked at all calm. Maybe the man was simply uncomfortable in an unfamiliar environment, but surely an Auror would have gotten used to that feeling during their training? They certainly wouldn’t look as if they were waiting for someone to throw a curse at their back. 

Guarded was the best way to describe the man’s body language, Draco decided. It wasn’t the stoic, emotionless kind of guarded that he’d grown up surrounded by—it lacked the authority of his father or the poise of his mother. Instead, it was a more… fearful type of guarded. The man was barely standing still, shifting from foot to foot with his wand partially drawn, and he was fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. Was he anxious? And if so, why? 

Part of Draco was still expecting a betrayal and still bracing for a Ministry raid or a wand drawn against his throat. His own hands twitched, begging him to reach for his wand or for the pocketknife he’d taken to carrying in his inner pocket. He forced himself to breathe. In, and out. This was not a duel and the man had not threatened him—at least not today—so Draco had no grounds to brandish a weapon. Especially not against an Auror.

Screw paranoia, even if it kept him alive. 

Sighing, Draco tried to quell the panicky fear still twinging in his chest. It was too late to turn back or to call in sick for the day. Besides, he was curious about the potion’s results and he couldn’t avoid the man forever. He scowled at his coffee, having barely drank half of it so far, but grudgingly approached his office door. The moment the man saw Draco, he whirled on him. 

“It didn’t work.”

Not angry, Draco noted, just a matter-of-fact statement. Draco barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes and continued into his office, not surprised to see the man following him. By definition, an Auror never needed to be invited anywhere. 

“Well, it’s called a trial batch for a reason. I told you it would take some experimenting and I hardly expected the first try to be perfect. What’s important is how it didn’t work.”

Even as he said it, he could see how little of an effect it had on the man in front of him. Realistically, there was no reason that Draco should do anything to help or aid this man more than strictly necessary for the potion. He couldn’t have explained why he did it—even to himself. But, his hand closed around the corked bottle and he held it out in offering. 

“A sleeping draught of my own design,” Draco explained when he was merely met with a raised eyebrow. “It won’t leave you groggy the next morning and, frankly, you look like you need it. No charge.”

Stupid. People already distrusted him and his brews—giving away one with purportedly no side effects was bound to raise suspicion. Especially when any Auror looking at his finances could see that he needed the money… He started to withdraw the offer and retreat behind his desk but a hand shot out. It had probably been aiming for the bottle, but it closed around his wrist instead. 

Just for a split second, Draco could feel that rush of the healing magic from the last time he’d found himself in this position. Of course, the man hadn’t cast a healing spell this time—why would he? But, as the hand retreated with the bottle, Draco felt a layer of energy leave his skin. It hadn’t been a spell, but it had been… something. A test? Or maybe an unconscious surge of magic so subtle that he hadn’t noticed it until it had disappeared?

“Thanks, I owe you one.” 

Oh, Draco did not like that. He shook his head and turned to his paperwork to avoid drawing attention to it, but his stomach churned tumultuously beneath his skin. Even before the war, he’d never had a positive outlook towards debts or favors… Now, though, the very idea itself curled in his bloodstream. 

Dammit Draco, get it together!

“Can you tell me, specifically, what did or did not work?” 

The man sat in the only chair on the other side of his desk. He looked uncomfortable, but not nearly as uncomfortable as Draco felt. 

“Uh, yeah. The knockout part worked and he—” The man cut himself off sharply, eyeing Draco for a reaction to the pronoun, but ultimately continued. “He slept through the entire thing and doesn’t remember it but the shift still happened.”

Draco nodded, diligently taking notes. 

“Any allergic reaction?”

“Oh, yeah. I wasn’t there in the  room—couldn’t be—but his… caretaker. They said he broke out in mild hives. Didn’t need the anti-anaphylaxis potion and they just applied a calamine lotion to the hives.”

Draco pursed his lips, but noted that down as well. He’d been hoping that the burning and the charcoal combined would have neutralized the allergen. Apparently not, though. So there couldn’t be any monkshood in the potion—burnt or otherwise. Dammit. 

“What are you writing?”

He looked up, sharper than he’d meant to, and made the Auror jump. The man was—or had been, at least—looking over the desk at Draco’s notes. 

“Oh, it’s a combination of shorthand and French. A habit for note-taking I picked up years ago, but it helps—especially for particularly sensitive potion orders. I’m the only person left alive who can read it.” 

Draco wasn’t sure why he was explaining himself to this man, a virtual stranger. Why would this man give a shit about a form of shorthand he’d learned from his godfather specifically for potions making? Even if he’d had Snape as a professor—a detail which Draco had definitely not forgotten—that didn’t mean that he cared. 

Draco glanced up, trying to see if his internal tangent or vaguely revealing comment had had any impact on his listener. Rather than annoyed or triumphant at being given information, the man looked… saddened. Why, though?

“Sorry, that’s none of my business.” Draco was about to interrupt and dismiss it, but the man wasn’t done. “You’re the potioneer and I’m the client. It doesn’t matter how you do it, I suppose.”

That hit Draco like a slap to the face. He was just the potioneer—it didn’t matter. To think that he’d been about to explain the symbol for wolfsbane or the benefits of using French in an English-speaking company. It made his notes useless to competitors and coworkers alike. But that didn’t matter. The man didn’t care why or how he did anything—just that it got done. That was all that mattered. 

Wouldn’t want the former Death Eater to forget his place. 

“Right. Were any effects of the shift missing or stronger than before?”

“His caretaker said that the pain was probably less, given that he didn’t cry, but that might have just been the knockout potion. The hives were new, but other than that everything seemed to be the same.”

“Including heart rate?”

The Auror frowned, averting his eyes to the ground.

“Uh, I’m not sure. I didn’t ask… them. I doubt they were monitoring his heart rate, though.” 

Draco sighed again, but made a neat line through his symbol for heart rate. He should have assumed that the man wouldn’t know what to monitor and provided a list. Next time, he would include it with the potion. Hopefully this ‘caretaker’ would prove to be more competent than the man funding the whole operation. 

“Same for breathing, body temperature, and eye movement I presume?” The man’s sheepish expression was answer enough. “Okay. I have some ideas and I’ll start on the next batch tonight. The Mugwort will take a week or so to—”

Wait. The man himself had practically just said word for word that he didn’t care about Draco’s process or ideas. Why was he bothering to explain himself?

“Regardless, it should be ready by the next full moon. If you’ve managed to acquire a PO box then—” 

His client slid a slip of paper across the desk. John Doe. PO Box #439, Dept of Postal Services. Draco snorted at the name choice. He’d become familiar enough with Muggle television over the last five years to recognize the most generic name possible.

“Alright then, Mr. Doe. I’ll send the expense report later today and you can send your payment to Whirlwind directly or to this shop’s account at Gringotts. We here at Whirlwind Industries appreciate your business.”

Draco knew he was being rude but he didn’t care. He’d let himself stupidly believe that he’d found an unbiased—or at least semi-less-prejudiced—person interested in his potions for something other than sabotage. That was on him. He should have known better. 

Still, anger and hurt prickled under his skin even after the man had gone. It made sense because he didn’t have anyone to bounce ideas off of or to explain his ideas to anymore, but that didn’t make it okay. Especially since the man in question was an Auror . 

A part of Draco still wanted to talk about it, though, even if it was dangerous and even if the man didn’t care. He had to school his expression and keep that urge contained. His hands went back to work, cutting and separating the stamens of some lavender blossoms he’d picked that morning for one of his smaller sleeping draught batches. His mind refused to settle, though. 

Because the lavender preparation was so routine now, his fingers nimbly separated the necessary pieces from the unnecessary. He was on edge and overwhelmed in a way that didn’t fit the situation, though, and his mind would not let him forget that. This feeling was not a new one, unfortunately, but it was still extremely unpleasant. 

For possibly the ten millionth time in his life, Draco prayed for someone else to come and let him breathe. Even just for a few minutes. Everything was too much all the time and half his energy went into just trying to hold all the pieces together. If he so much as blinked, it would all come crashing down. He would be back in that holding cell shaking with equal parts cold and fear, just waiting for someone to finally come and end it all. 

Draco could hold it together. Somehow, he’d managed to survive Sixth Year and the pressure from the Dark Lord’s ‘assignments’—he could make it through a bad morning. But it wasn’t just a bad morning. It was a reminder of how alone he really was, it was the cumulative weight of a hundred bad nights, and it was that looming threat to remind him that he could lose everything with one wrong move. 

And fuck that weighed on him. 

Every day he just somehow seemed to get more and more tired and, each time, he could swear he’d hit rock bottom. But then it would just get worse the next day, and the day after that. He knew he couldn’t really have that ‘someone’: a protector, a comforter, a lover, a bloody savior even. Of all people, Draco Malfoy did not deserve to spend his life alongside someone like that—but was it so wrong to want it? Couldn’t he maybe have just a taste? Just for a few minutes, even? 

Was it so wrong to want to be able to breathe?