A Specialty Brew

Tonight was… a bad night. Draco generally reserved that title for a night posthumously and would judge the next morning whether a night was bad or not based on the horrific-ness of his dreams. But tonight was a bad night and he had yet to even close his eyes. 

Hissing, Draco took another huge swig of cheap wine. It might have been a sauv blanc or maybe a chardonnay but he knew for a fact the whole bottle had cost him seven pounds and all it tasted like was cheap . Didn’t matter. It was more than capable of giving him the intoxication he so desperately craved regardless of the delivery method. 

Even as he thought that, though, Draco involuntarily winced at the taste and shivered. Something in it was just bitter enough that his body tried to fight, but his body was no match for the sheer determination of Draco’s mind. He would get drunk. Or maybe worse, who knows? Because there was no way in hell that he was going to be sober for even a second longer. Alcohol was the only thing that helped.

It was a bad night. Everything hurt and Draco was so acutely aware of his own situation—both in life, and in that moment—that it was too much. 

Until recently, Draco had prided himself on being strong. He’d gotten through the war, through the trials, and through the absolute hell that had welcomed him along with his status as a ‘free’ man. The gods seemed determined to show him that he hadn’t reached rock bottom yet, though. Sixth year had been his rock bottom, then the war, then his holding cell, then the aftermath of the war, then Halfway Lane, and now… Now he’d reached a new kind of rock bottom 

This one was the worst by far. 

Some part of it felt vaguely like what he imagined grief to feel like. He supposed, in his more sober moments, that he’d never mourned the death of his father or the loss of his mother. She’d been spared death due entirely to Potter’s testimony—as had he, and most of the other Slytherins at Hogwarts—but the no contact order stood firmly in death’s place as punishment. 

To Draco, they might as well have all been dead. 

Thank Merlin for Pansy and her ability to procrastinate. She’d managed to avoid taking the Mark, somehow, and then had let it be forgotten as a minor detail during the actual fighting. That, and that alone, was the only reason she could still contact him. 

But tonight was not the kind of night where Draco focused on the positives. He could have owled Pansy or even fire called her but he knew she was sick of his shit and she had every right to be. The only person he could blame for his current circumstances was himself. Draco Malfoy had made the choice, and Draco Malfoy would suffer the consequences. 

Everything hurt. It was ridiculous, from a logical standpoint, but Draco was so far beyond logic that it wasn’t even funny anymore. Breathing hurt, thinking hurt, and even being aware of the pain was somehow painful. All of it—his father’s death, his mother’s absence, the utter loneliness and constant vigilance of his daily existence—stabbed into his chest like a thousand warworn curses. 

He wanted to die. 

It was not the first time he’d had that thought—back in Sixth Year, death had seemed to be his only other option if he couldn’t get the Vanishing cabinets to work—but it was the first time that he’d actually meant it. That scared the shit out of him, secretly, but it was still true. Draco had always considered himself to be strong, and yet he’d gotten to the point where his brain suggested suicide and his immediate gut reaction wasn’t to refuse. 

He hated that he was wavering on the issue. Part of him argued that he’d worked so hard for so long just to survive so it would be a waste to die now. Another part chimed in that he’d regret the decision, and all the things he’d miss out on. But he wasn’t opposed to it in the visceral, whole-body way he had been before everything had gone to shit and that, in itself, was terrifying. 

Because one day, he might do it.

Draco had never had suicidal thoughts or considered himself suicidal, but he supposed that his previous thoughts rather fit the definition. For a fleeting moment, he considered seeking help. But who would even care? Sure, he would see his Mind Healer soon and he could have brought it up but why would he? It would go down in his file as a cry for attention and he would be reminded of all the good things he had—that he had worked his fucking ass off for, thank you very much—as if that somehow canceled out his current agony. 

With another swig, Draco actually made a face at the taste and felt it settle in his stomach. Well, settle was a strong word. It arrived at his stomach, poured into the empty abyss, and remained there due to the protest of his intestines but it was hardly anything close to settled. 

Everything just hurt. so. fucking. much.

Not for the first time, Draco realized that no one would care if he just disappeared. He wasn’t to the point of actually fantasizing about death—to his brain, a disappearance combined with ceasing to exist was more than enough still—but that realization always stung. Pansy would be sad, sure, and his mother would probably be impacted to some extent but… No one would care. People might notice when he failed to show up for work or when he missed a probationary meeting, but that was hardly the same thing as caring. 

The only thing Draco could compare this feeling to was the Cruciatus curse. He’d felt it twice in his entire life and, naturally, it was worse than anything imaginable but, in his current state, Draco was starting to think that maybe he’d found something that could top it. Curses like that were an external pain, and what he felt now was distinctly different. It was a new kind of torture that resulted from a knowledge of inevitability rather than from just physical pain. 

Physical pain could be turned off. Draco had had more than enough practice disassociating and completely losing all sensation in his body to know that it was possible, even if it wasn’t exactly a choice. But when that physical pain was grounded in emotion, it apparently demanded to be felt. 

Draco wished he could disassociate from his brain and his emotions too. 

His face was tingly and his limbs moved in a strange, delayed fashion that screamed of intoxication but it wasn’t enough. He could still feel . His chest ached under the weight of his predicament (nothing in particular, just life itself) and simultaneously bled under the knife of his own thoughts.

Draco, without even realizing it, had begun to sob. He’d been aware of the tears burning hot lines down his cheeks but somewhere between that and the wine his cries had become full-body, heaving sobs. As if he could expel the pain, as if he could ever get enough air, or as if it could make his own brain any nicer. 

Again not for the first time, Draco ached to search out the nearest Muggle BDSM club and find a random Dom who wouldn’t look past his pretty face long enough to see his mark or his scars. His nervous system screamed and yearned for any kind of relief. He’d found that peace long before the war—before he’d had a name for it—and if Blaise hadn’t fucked off to South America with a pretty young witch Draco might have asked for it again. Even over letters… Just that tone and the knowledge that Draco could relax would be enough. 

But they weren’t that close anymore. They weren’t close at all, come to think of it, and Draco had no business asking that of what had become a virtual stranger. Speaking of strangers… He’d considered finding a bar and just waiting until someone with enough dominant energy walked in and seemed interested. It would take a serious toll on his already dwindling finances—not to mention his mental health—but the relief would be worth it. 

Anonymity was difficult, though.  With enough alcohol he could maybe do it… But his own paranoia and trust issues shut that down. Casual sex was never something he’d been able to have, let alone enjoy. There was nothing casual about giving someone the power to destroy him—physically or mentally. Or emotionally.

He’d gone on Grindr and Tinder and all the other apps or sites and he’d started far too many conversations with random men who seemed even slightly dominant. Usually, they pressed him on why he had his location hidden, why he didn’t have any face pics on his profile, or whether he would let them fuck him without a condom. Sometimes, they pretended to be interested in his life or his personality but then they’d send dick pics and get aggressive in their messages. 

Even the ones that didn’t turn sour made Draco feel gross and unsafe when he was sober, though. He knew in the back of his mind that he could never relax with someone he didn’t trust and he cursed himself for that regularly. Damn trust issues. Fuck the Dark Lord, fuck his parents, and fuck everyone who had ever made him question who he could trust. A random bar or internet hookup wouldn’t work, and that made him furious. He hated himself for being unable to just let go . 

There was nothing he could do to help himself, though, which was why he kept coming back to the same shitty cycle. Draco’s brain had made it very clear very early on that it did not trust him. That was fair, given the number of curses Draco had willingly endured with the hopes that it would earn him some kind of respect or affection. He didn’t deserve to be trusted, and he definitely needed someone who did. Someone who would let him breathe. 

Someone who didn’t fucking exist, he thought. His heart and soul, even when put on the line, were the heart and soul of a Death Eater and no one wanted that. Even Muggles, he was certain, could sense how worthless he was and steered clear. The ones who did meet his eye across the bar were a kind that Draco was all too familiar with—the kind who drank in power like it was an expensive cocktail, and who would hurt him the second they had the chance. 

It was hopeless. 

He was desperate for connection, though, and desperate for that relief. His mind refused to give up on the easy, albeit temporary, solution that he knew was right there . And it would have been ‘right there’ if Draco had managed to be at all normal or to have less overly developed self-preservation instincts. 

Tonight he was alone, though. And tonight everything hurt and he considered taking too many Muggle pain pills or drinking another six bottles of wine or even just letting himself starve. But those damn instincts that had helped him survive the war kicked in. He couldn’t do it. He’d worked so bloody hard…It would be a waste to die, right?

Draco wasn’t so sure anymore, but he took a few more gulps of wine to make the thought disappear. In the morning, he would go to work and he would be fine. Right now, though, he just wanted that pain to lessen. He could feel it in his triceps, weirdly enough, and in the very center of his forehead. The former was a kind of weightlessness Draco had only ever experienced in dreams, and the latter was a ceaseless pressure heavy enough to shatter his skull. It was an interesting contrast. 

He was nearing the point of drunkenness where he no longer wished to be conscious. But, knowing that he could only stay unconscious for a set amount of time before either nightmares or sheer biology woke him up, Draco fought to prolong it. At least consciousness was more tolerable while drunk, right? His body protested but all he could do was clutch his knees to his chest and sob. 

Harry shot up in bed and sucked in a huge gasp of air. He swallowed hard, trying to push back the tears pricking behind his eyes, and deliberately took a few deep breaths that did absolutely nothing for his mental state. The nightmares were shit—no doubt about it—but this one had been… different. 

Logic said it was just because he’d seen Malfoy recently. That blond git had struck something in his subconscious and had brought back old memories that hadn’t dared resurface since the end of the war. That didn’t make it any easier to cope with, though. 

This time, it hadn’t been a dream about Sirius or Voldemort or even the final battle which Harry could at least be grateful for. His chest might have been seizing, but it wasn’t with guilt or grief at least. 

He’d been at Hogwarts—maybe as a student, maybe not, it was unclear—and he’d been desperately, fiercely searching for something. For some reason, he’d been completely alone. Hogwarts itself had been empty, void of all life human or otherwise. He’d run frantically through the halls, searching and pleading with fate to let him find whatever he was looking for while at the same time fleeing something horrible. Whatever lurked in the shadows was dark and ominous and it scared him in a way that not even Voldemort managed to do anymore. He ran with burning lungs, slamming open every door he could find. 

If only he could have yelled for whoever he was looking for. 

It hit Harry then, and only then, that he’d been looking for a person. He knew intuitively in the way that only dreams could provide that Ron and Hermione and the rest of his friends were not in the castle, but who did that leave? Who else could be in danger?

The crackle of flame made his head whip round. 

Draco grit his teeth and rubbed half a stick of deodorant on himself instead of bothering to shower, yet again. Someone would probably notice soon but he weighed the risk and decided that he didn’t care enough to waste the time or the energy. He couldn’t be late, even if he wanted to, because potions were time sensitive. 

Thank Merlin for that. Otherwise, nothing would have gotten his sorry ass out of bed before starvation set in. 

His brain on autopilot, Draco caught the bus to the nearest open floo and, because Helen already knew him, he didn’t even have to mutter a greeting for her to throw in the powder and declare: ‘Whirlwind Industries’. He nodded in thanks before stepping through. 

Draco had a sinking suspicion that today would warrant a surprise visit from his lovely new Auror patron. It was the fourth of the month and tonight was a new moon, meaning it was exactly halfway between the last full moon and the next. Mr. Doe—no, Draco couldn’t even call him that sarcastically. Auror whatshisface always checked in within a day or two of the new moon to see how the potion was coming along. 

Nosy git. Did he not trust Draco to at least be good at the very task he was being paid to do? He shook his head and grabbed a generous cup of coffee from the breakroom, hoping against all hope that he could get in and get out with his caffeine before any of his ‘coworkers’ appeared. 

“Malfoy, you look like shit.” 

No such luck. Draco took a deep breath and turned, cursing the coffee maker under his breath for daring to be so slow. It was like it wanted to delay him. He turned and faced the people in the doorway. One was completely unfamiliar but was dressed like a Gatherer and probably was here to acquire ingredients for one of his coworkers. The other two, unfortunately, were familiar. 

“Bender, Bright, what a pleasant surprise. You’re here early. I thought you didn’t even wake up until the tempus charm hit double digits.” 

Justin Bender sneered at him, but kept his wand in its sheath. Probably because of the Gatherer. Willa Bright merely narrowed her eyes, glaring a little too long at his now-full coffee cup. Well, shit. She’d definitely hexed it somehow. There went any ideas Draco had had about drinking the liquid.

“My name is Andrea Moody, no relation to the esteemed Mad-Eye. You must be Draco Malfoy.” 

Draco finally turned his attention to the Gatherer, who he was surprised even addressed him. She had an American accent. His first name had caught him off guard and, just for a moment, he felt her presence prod at his mind. Before he could even put up a wall against it, though, it was gone and she was offering him a small smile of polite acknowledgement. 

“Yes,” he replied coolly, unsure what else to say. “I’m surprised you know my name. You work for Whirlwind? Merlin help you if you’ve been assigned to gather for these nitwits.” 

Bright and Bender glared at him, with Bender casting a subtle blow to his briefcase and knocking it to the ground. Asshole. Draco merely bent and picked it up, though, noting the small smile that hadn’t left Andrea Moody’s lips. Once he’d recovered, she addressed him with that same light, unaffected tone. 

“I’m a consultant at the moment, but I’m guessing you’d already deducted as much from my blatantly American uniform and accent. I’ve been assigned to many names here, including yours.” 

Draco tried to hold back his surprise. Including him? Since when did Kaiser request a Gatherer for him? And since when did Corporate even remotely approve of any extra costs for his work, let alone an imported Gatherer?

“I’ll stop by later today to discuss what exactly you need from me, if that’s alright?” He nodded, barely comprehending the conversation. “Your opinions on the capabilities of Potioneers Bright and Bender are noted, though.” 

She shot a quick side eye at the two who were now subtly pouring away his coffee in order to get their own. So Bright had done something to it. Otherwise, she would have taken it for herself or at least let Bender take it. The Gatherer gave him another small smile when she realized he was studying her. 

With that, Draco decided he had had quite enough human interaction for the morning and quickly retreated, albeit without his coffee, to his office. He had to restrain himself not to lock the door behind him. 

There were reports to write, which he could have started on, but his cauldrons beckoned to him and seemed far more interesting. A few tame elixirs were simmering off the right—nothing special or custom, but apparently something no one else had wanted to take on—and a particularly pungent batch of Angel’s Trumpet Draught was cocooned in its own odorous bubble. He checked on his Hogsmeade orders, added another mistletoe berry to his Antidote to Common Poisons, and… 

The farthest cauldron, tucked almost entirely into a space between a bookshelf and a wall, held the Wolfsbane brew. It smelled wrong, though, even from across the room. Draco approached it hesitantly, wand drawn as if it might explode on him at any moment. 

What had been a beautiful deep green potion only the night before was now essentially black tar. How had— what had even happened? He cast a few diagnostic spells, ignoring the prickle on his skin as the wards of the room detected magic, but they all came back inconclusive. 

Panicking now, Draco reached for the nearest ladle and scraped the bottom of the cauldron, trying to see if some stray insect or speck of dust had managed to fall into the potion and catastrophically damage it. Even as he did it, Draco knew it was useless. The room had so many wards and charms cast on it that not even the insects Draco wanted to live usually made it through the doorway. There was a small pile of bug carcases beside the door that supported this fact. 

His ladle hit something, though. 

He yanked at it, trying to leverage the edge of the cauldron to get whatever it was out. The potion most likely couldn’t be saved, but Draco was still frantically trying just in case. Fuck! Whatever his potion had turned into was thicker than anything Draco had ever worked with and it grabbed at whatever he’d scooped up with an almost sentient intensity. 

Draco was so panicked, he didn’t hear the soft knock at the door. 

With a final wrench of the ladle that bent the handle at a sickening angle, Draco managed to pull the mysterious object free. It landed on the desk with a thud and immediately began burning a hole in the wood. Dammit! Not knowing what else to do, Draco cast a protective bubble around the thing, only to have it disappear as soon as it touched it. What the fuck?

“AccioDragonhide Glove!” 

Draco spun on his heel, shocked to see Andrea Moody standing in his doorway. He barely had time to take in that a dragonhide glove had zoomed into her hand from one of the neighboring offices—damn, he was going to hear about that later—and to register a disapproving look from the Gatherer at his apparent lack of gloves before she was moving. She stepped into the room, bracing against the wards but ultimately pushing through them.

With the hand protected by the dragonhide glove, she quickly grabbed the thing which Draco could now see was a sickening shade of silver. It immediately began to burn through the glove. Burnt dragonhide was not something Draco had ever seen before (or had thought possible) but Merlin it smelled like corpses that had been rotting in the basement for years. 

Before it could burn through the glove, the Gatherer pulled a cloudy, but see-through container out of her pocket, vanished the sandwich that had been contained within it, and chucked the thing inside—glove and all. She slammed a lid made of the same material on top and latched it. Inside, the silver thing ate away at the glove until there was nothing left and Draco expected it to burn through the container, but it merely stilled. Gatherer Moody placed it back on his desk and cast a quick repair spell on the hole it had begun to make in the wood before turning to him.

“Plastic,” she declared, gesturing at the container. “Almost as good of an insulator as an insulating charm, with none of the magic. But,” she gestured to the thing inside it. “That shit is dangerous.” 

She didn’t say it like a reprimand, though for all she knew Draco had just been mishandling an ingredient of some kind. As she readjusted her robes and transfigured the chair Draco had for visitors into a much more comfortable looking settee, Draco finally forced himself to inhale. 

“What the fuck was that?” 

He didn’t realize until the words were out of his mouth that it made him sound both ignorant and unprofessional. But, he reasoned, her only response had been ‘that shit is dangerous’ so perhaps he was matching her register rather than simply forgetting how to speak. 

“Dysprosium in its pure form, if I had to guess. It’s an element discovered by and mainly used by Muggles for harmless things like heat absorption or in nuclear reactors—don’t ask—but this one here appears to have a bit of a vendetta.” 

Draco realized then that he was shaking. How long had that been happening? He tucked his hands up into his sleeves in an attempt to hide it and took a seat behind his desk. Gatherer Moody was so fucking calm… Granted, she had just contained the thing and seemed to be a lot more knowledgeable on the subject but still . It had just burned through dragonhide.

“Is it Ministry controlled?” 

Or illegal? She looked up at him for the first time since she’d trapped the thing, appraising his expression. Fuck, what if it was some kind of banned ingredient and now he was going to be arrested? The Gatherer had never said where she was contracted from—what if it was the Ministry? Or, even worse, some kind of international law enforcement?

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Draco. It’s not Ministry regulated or illegal because, as I said, it’s primarily Muggle. It hasn’t made it onto any official database or list yet, so it has no rules or restrictions attached to it. You aren’t going to be arrested.” 

Involuntarily, a tiny knot of fear released in his chest. She’d used his first name, he noted, and he was surprised to find that he didn’t hate the sound of it. No one but Pansy had called him Draco in a very long time, but Gatherer Moody didn’t say it like a slur or to belittle him. He shook it off and turned his attention back to the dysprosi-whats-it. 

“That doesn’t tell me what it’s doing here, why it ate through bloody dragonhide , or if my potion can be fixed.” 

“Well, don’t quote me on any of this because I haven’t taken a Muggle ingredients class since my first year of training but, from what I remember, dysprosium in its pure form doesn’t react well with magic. It’s almost never found in its pure form—it has to be made—thus why it’s never been much of an issue to the magical community so far. But, and again this is just a guess, I think it took any magic out of that potion and left you with the sludge-y remains of what you would have had if you just mixed all the ingredients together and let them simmer.” 

Draco swore under his breath. Something like that was virtually unrepairable and he didn’t know anything about this dysprosium so there was no way in hell he could safely try to counteract it. The potion was ruined. Fuck . 

“I take it that was an important brew?” 

He schooled his expression, immediately remembering that was not alone in his office, and tried to adopt a neutral posture. His hands were still shaking in his sleeves, though.

“Yes, very. An incredibly time-sensitive custom brew that had a lot of valuable ingredients I now get to pay for.” 

Merlin’s fucking balls he hadn’t even considered that! It didn’t hit him until he heard his own voice saying it, but he’d—by all accounts, because who was going to believe some story about Muggle elements?—fucked up a potion and he was going to be responsible for the ingredients that were lost. That was hundreds of galleons that he just didn’t have…

“Hey, don’t look so glum. I’m sure your very important client will happily shell out whatever you need to pay for the ingredients and he’ll probably buy you new ones on top of that.” 

Draco was about to ask what made her so sure or how she even knew the client was male, when in walked the man himself. He didn’t even knock. 

“Oh, hey Andy!” The man quickly cut in before the Gatherer could even open her mouth. “I see you’ve met the potioneer I mentioned. For the sake of anonymity, he knows me as John Doe.” 

Gatherer Moody stifled a snort but kept her mouth shut as the man sat beside her, turning to Draco. 

“So, I see you’ve met Andy. I was hoping to beat her here so I could explain but I should have known better what with how curious she was.” He shot the Gatherer a look, but she just smirked. “What has she told you so far?”

Another look was shot at the Gatherer, as if to say: it better not be much . Draco glanced quickly between them, trying to take in the nickname and the way the man had clearly tried to keep her from using his name or addressing the glamour. Fuck, how was he supposed to explain the potion? He’d promised the next batch by the full moon and—

“Draco here was a bit preoccupied this morning, so I’m afraid we haven’t had much of a chance to chat.” 

His client raised an eyebrow. 

“Draco?” 

It was a question regarding the first name basis, of course, but Draco couldn’t help reacting to the sound of his given name from that man. He was positive he knew the magical signature but the sound of his name was completely foreign and completely… delicious . Dammit. 

The last thing he needed right now was for his brain to take the sound of a male voice using his first name and run with it. Desperate not to get lost in that thought, he turned on the Gatherer. 

“You said you were here for many names, including mine.” 

She smiled and glanced a bit sheepishly at the Auror beside her, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong. 

“Yes, well, you assumed I meant other potioneers. I was referring to Mr… Doe.”

Even as she said it, she shot the Auror a knowing smirk and Draco had to wonder just how well they knew each other. Before he could ask, though, the Auror was taking control of the conversation.

“Well, since Andy here appears to have done a bang up job explaining the situation, I suppose there’s no need for me to even try.” Gatherer Moody shoved his arm playfully. “Regardless, Mr. Malfoy, I’m sure you’ve realized that Andy here is a private contract Gatherer. I’ve engaged her services here for the development of our little… project. I can guess that a lot of the substitutes or brewing ideas you’ve had have been limited by ingredient access or cost and I don’t want that to be the case. Andy can and will get you anything you need. Anything.” 

Draco was not processing words anymore. He stared, blinking at the Auror and then looked to the Gatherer as if she could help him. Sensing the lull, she took up the torch. 

“ Mr. Malfoy ? Jesus, you’re so formal. You don’t mind me calling you Draco, do you?” He shook his head, unable to do anything else. “See? Oh, Draco, you can call me Andrea by the way. I forgot to mention that over the petty simmering rage of those two who showed me in. What did you call them? Nitwits?” 

Draco flushed as if he was going to get in trouble for that, but the Auror merely let out a small laugh. Wait, a laugh? He was laughing rather than angry? Rolling his eyes, the Auror chided Andrea and muttered something about manners before he asked about the potion. 

Oh no. 

Sheer panic flooded through Draco’s body and he couldn’t have opened his mouth or run even if he’d tried. His stomach tied itself in knots and he began fidgeting in earnest as he glanced back at the now ruined cauldron of sludge, desperately trying to figure out how to explain this. He could say he’d dropped it in by mistake, or that he’d grabbed the wrong ingredient. Andrea might call him on out not even knowing what it was, though, and then—

“Oh, about that.” Andrea’s voice, clear and calm, rang out through his panic. “I had good timing, actually, because your little potioneer here appears to be the target of sabotage.”

Your little potioneer. Draco fiercely tried to fight back the blush that brought to his cheeks. Before he could deny it, though, and before the Auror could ask, Andrea was continuing her narrative. 

“I was coming in to introduce myself properly and found Draco wrestling a hunk of dysprosium out of the cauldron. Nasty stuff, I wonder who would have even known to use it…” 

“Dyspro-what-now?” 

Andrea rolled her eyes at the Auror and Draco distinctly felt like he was interfering in a private conversation. 

“Honestly, P— Mr. Doe . If you’d managed to ever pay attention to anything I said you would be an unstoppable force of knowledge. Dysprosium is a Muggle element. Intentionally refined, very hard to get, virtually unknown in the wizarding world, and with extreme anti-magic properties apparently. It turned the whole brew into a cauldron of tar. Sapped all the magic out of it and all the ingredients I imagine were in it. Complete do over.” 

While Draco would not have said it so bluntly, he realized she was right. He would have to completely start over—not to mention pay for the supplies he’d used—and there was no way his client would be happy about that. The Auror was frowning, which only confirmed Draco’s fear, but Andrea wasn’t done.

“Oh! And as I’m sure you can imagine, Mr. Doe , Whirlwind will want to be reimbursed for the ingredients. That won’t be a problem will it?” 

To Draco’s utter shock, the Auror just waved a hand.

“Of course, whatever you need, Draco . It can’t be salvaged?”

Draco shook his head, but fuck the sound of his first name was going straight to his head. This time, there had been so much emphasis on the word and not a hint of uncertainty as if the man was trying to prove that he could use the name. 

“Damn, well… You know what’s best and I’m not giving a botched potion to a five year old kid just for the chance to save some ingredient costs. I’ll replace anything that was lost and try to get someone to look into the dysprosium thing. Just ask Andy for whatever ingredients or supplies you need and look at me, Draco—” His chest tightened, and he met the Auror’s eyes. “Cost is no object. I want you to buy anything that might even have a chance of working, okay? Don’t try to skimp or substitute for a more available ingredient. Andy is very good at what she does, and we will get you anything you need. Understand?” 

Draco nodded, but he couldn’t feel his hands and his heart was racing and he was hyper aware of the expression on his face and Merlin what the hell had just happened? 

“And Andy,” —thank fuck the attention was off of him— “You already know that money isn’t an issue and I don’t care what you have to do to get whatever he needs. You know how to contact me if you need immediate cash or if a situation requires a bit more… leverage. I’ll owl you as soon as I have a name for who’s looking into the dysprosium thing and if there are any issues, you know where to find me.” 

Andrea nodded, finally looking a bit more serious, and the Auror gave Draco one final glance before standing. He moved to the door, but paused before opening it. Draco hadn’t even realized he’d closed it. 

“And Andy?” The brunette looked back at him. “Behave yourself.” 

She smirked and replied something along the lines of I always do but that command—even if it was a joke, and even if it wasn’t aimed at him—hit Draco hard . He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to blink back tears as the man disappeared. Andrea turned to him, quickly took in his expression, but apparently decided not to comment on it because she kicked her feet up on the settee and leaned back.

“Told you he wouldn’t care about the ingredients.” 

Draco finally had the presence of mind to change his expression, but all he did was gape at her. His nervous system was still reeling from the combination of hearing his first name so many times and from hearing that command from the man’s voice. He knew, of course, that it wasn’t the Auror’s real voice but it was more than he’d had in a long, long time. 

“You know him,” Draco managed to force out. 

Andrea looked up, appearing disinterested, and shrugged. She’d somehow acquired a coffee that she hadn’t had when she’d first come in, Draco noticed, and he almost let himself be distracted by that. If his mysterious client hadn’t been the topic of conversation, he would have. 

“I do, but apparently he wants to remain anonymous for this. He’s never been good at that kind of thing outside of…” 

Andrea trailed off, trying to find an excuse that would fit the sentence she’d already locked herself into, but Draco interrupted. 

“Outside of work?” 

For the first time since he’d met her, the brown eyes that turned on him were sharp. He considered taking it back, but figured it wouldn’t change the situation because she’d already heard him. Should have just kept his mouth shut... 

“Yes, outside of work. But if he asks, I didn’t confirm or deny that and I definitely didn’t suggest that detail. Got it?” Draco nodded. “Good. Well, anyways, he’s never been very good at that kind of thing outside of work so I doubt he’ll be able to keep it up for long. I mean he didn’t even tell me he was using a glamour with you until he showed up today. I could have name dropped him when I first met you and he’s just lucky that Blight and Blender were there to distract me.”

“Bright and Bender,” Draco quietly corrected. 

“Oh, whatever. Anyone can see that they’re a pair of bitter assholes so what does it matter what I call them? Not like I report to them.”

“No, you report to me, apparently.” 

That was stupid and Draco pinched himself for saying it. He’d met this woman less than two hours ago and he had no foundation for guessing how she would react to a comment like that! She didn’t hex him, though. Instead, a grin spread over her face and she merely stretched out a little more. 

“Apparently I do. Don’t go getting a big head on me though, Draco. We’ve been getting along so well, and I’d hate to have to mess up that pretty face with one of my signature hexes.”

The threat sank in his gut like lead, but Andrea was still grinning at him so Draco managed to quell the panic. He smiled back at her. 

“So, are you just going to sit here and annoy me whenever I don’t have ingredients for you to fetch?” 

“Already getting cocky, I see. No, sometimes I have other tasks to do and sometimes I might sit here and annoy you even when you do have ingredients for me to gather just because I can. What, you don’t like the company?”

Draco actually did like the company very much because Andrea was the first person he’d been able to joke with since Pansy had discovered the depths of his depression and stopped trying. He smiled, and began making a list of all the ingredients that had burned in the cauldron as well as any he thought he might need for the upcoming batches. Hopefully the Auror was serious about sparing no expense… 

“Is he actually going to get someone to look into the dysprosium thing?” 

Andrea looked up at him from where she’d been fiddling with the hourglass on his desk. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that it wasn’t a priceless artefact and instead had been an old Halloween decoration Draco had found and liked at a thrift store. She looked confused, though, and not by the hourglass. 

“Of course he is. Tampering with potions like that is a serious offense and using poorly understood mediums like dysprosium creates a danger for everyone involved. They couldn’t have known for sure how it would react with each of the ingredients you’d used. Plus, it was his potion you were working on that got sabotaged. It could have seriously hurt you. He doesn’t take that kind of thing lightly.” 

Harry swore as he finally took a seat in his office. It was past noon—not that anybody would care or report him for being late—and he was frustrated. Andrea Moody was the best Gatherer that money could buy, both in skill and in personality. He’d known her since his first year of Auror training and he trusted her expertise as well as her general opinion of things. 

Before this morning, he’d told himself that she was there to keep an eye on Malfoy. He didn’t entirely trust the blond—or at least he didn’t think he did—and Andy was there as an impartial mediator/informant who would tell him if anything suspicious was going on. Anything like potions sabotage. 

For fuck’s sake why was he so wound up? It wasn’t like the potion had exploded or like anyone had even gotten mildly hurt by it, but he was still tense and anxious in a way that reminded him of during the war. 

“Rough morning?” 

Hermione’s voice made him jump, but she was a welcome distraction from the chaos in his mind. She was wearing her full uniform, he noticed, which probably meant that she had some important meeting later that she either hadn’t told him about or that he’d forgotten. Either way, she didn’t look particularly vexed so he was willing to bet that he was safe. 

“Yeah, I stopped by to see Malfoy.” 

Maybe Andy made it a point to use first names, but he was not ready to call the blond ‘Draco’ to Hermione’s face yet. She merely hummed in acknowledgment, though, and waited for him to continue. 

“Andy beat me there, I told you I was hiring her to Gather for him, right?” Hermione nodded. “Well, apparently she was just in time to save Malfoy’s entire potion’s lab from some kind of Muggle metal that doesn’t like magic. Don’t look at me like that, you can ask her yourself for the particulars. But the whole potion is ruined and Andy not-so-subtly implied it was intentional.” 

For a moment, Hermione was silent. She took a small sip of her tea, closed his office door, took a seat, and cast a silencing charm on the room.

“Tampering with potions is a very serious crime. I get the feeling that isn’t why you’re so worked up about it, though.” 

Harry waited for her to say more or to launch into a speech about the dangers of meddling with in-progress magical creations but she merely sipped her tea. Apparently it was his turn to talk.

“Well, Teddy you know—”

“Teddy has been fine with the sleeping draughts for years. We both know that the Wolfsbane potion will only be necessary once his full shifts begin and he has years before that’s likely to happen.” 

Harry frowned, searching her calm, level expression for some hint of what she was getting at, but continued.

“Yes, but all those ingredients wasted—”

“Mean nothing to you and, I’m guessing, can be easily replaced with enough galleons.”

“All of Malfoy’s hard work—”

“Which he is still getting paid for regardless.”

“And the implications of it being a Muggle metal, according to Andy—”

“Can and will be handled by whatever Auror or investigator you assign to the case.”

“He isn’t safe ! Okay?”

At that, they both stopped. Hermione quirked her brow and conjured a coaster, setting her mug down on his desk. 

“Explain.” 

Harry wasn’t sure that he could, honestly. He wasn’t sure where that thought had come from or why he’d said it with so much emotion in his voice. Obviously, though, Hermione wasn’t going to let him go without an answer and she’d cast a silencing charm on the room after all…

“I… Whoever sabotaged the potion obviously has it out for him and Andy hinted that at least a few of his coworkers don’t like him. You haven’t been to his office, I know, but he has at least twenty different wards up and those are just the obvious ones that I can feel. He’s paranoid, ‘Mione, and cautious to a fault but they still managed to get into his office without him knowing. They still managed to tamper with one of his brews. Who knows what else they’ve messed with or what they might do in the future? I just don’t like the idea of him being at risk like that. I know he’s a git, but Draco—

“Draco?”

Harry had been about to say the potioneer was valuable, or to argue that even if he did deserve to be hexed, it couldn’t be because of Harry’s brew. He’d slipped, though, and Hermione’s rapt attention had latched onto that little detail. 

“Yeah, Draco. I’ve been calling him Mr. Malfoy because I didn’t know what else to call him and he didn’t exactly introduce himself when we met—well, when he met me, at least. But Andy went right to first names with him and then said I was too formal so… Draco.”

He’d expected her to be upset by this. Honestly, he’d expected her to be against the entire idea from the very beginning but apparently the blond had made a name for himself in potions. She’d confirmed what he’d heard—that Draco was the best—and merely told him to be cautious. Which was what he was trying to be. 

“You’re worried about him.” 

It wasn’t a question, but Harry still felt the urge bubble up in his chest to defend himself. He wanted to argue that it was a practical matter and that he needed Draco for his potions skill if nothing else, but he already knew Hermione wouldn’t listen. She’d drawn her own conclusions already and no amount of defending himself would change that. 

“I don’t want to be the reason anyone gets hurt, even him.” 

She nodded, pursing her lips in thought. Harry was no better now at reading her thoughts than he had been in school but the alternative was to just sit there until she decided to speak so he tried in vain. There was something like concentration or worry in the crease of her forehead, with a hint of what might be intrigue in her eyes?

“You think whoever it was might try again?” He nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”