A Potential New Case
Strong, rough hands ghosted over his skin. Draco could feel the heat radiating off of the body behind him and relished in its presence, but he knew better than to try to turn around or look. His brain knew intuitively that the man was faceless, but he didn’t need a face. He would know that magical signature anywhere.
“Well, Mr. Doe, this is certainly a surprise.”
A breath of laughter tickled against his throat. Fingers continued roaming casually—absently, as if he wasn’t already coming alive beneath them—over his ribs and down to circle the jut of his hip bones.
“That’s not my name, and you know that.”
He sucked in a sharp breath at the sound of that voice right next to his ear: firm, deep, and full of authority. Draco did know that. The implication that Draco should have known better than to call him by the wrong name sent shivers down his spine and the man laughed as goosebumps popped up all over his skin. He knew he was safe, though, and he wasn’t afraid to push.
“What do I call you then, Mr. Doe?”
A low, warning hum purred over his shoulder. For a second, Draco braced for a punishment but no pain came and Draco realized that the teasing might be his punishment. Fuck, he wanted to move—he wanted more. He swallowed hard, willing himself to stay still even as those fingers skirted their way up to his chest.
“Many people call me many things. But you, Draco?” Fingers trailed over his throat, sending a jolt of desire straight to his gut. “You may call me Sir.”
Draco let his head drop forward because his brain refused to process that. His thoughts had become a steady stream of yesyesyesgoodyes and something had to give but he refused to shift his stance. The man didn’t want him to move—he knew that much.
“Mmmm do you like that, Draco? You like having something to call me that means more than a name ever could?”
“Yes, Sir.”
His entire body was tingling. Every nerve that he had—and maybe a few more—was alight and hyper sensitive to touch. The fingers were still moving, teasing his waistline and tracing his collarbone as if they might grip his throat or venture lower. Draco wasn’t sure which one he wanted more. It wasn’t his choice, though, so he merely followed them with his mind until they settled gently over his ribs.
“Good boy,” Draco shuddered. “Tell me… What do you want?”
“You, Sir.”
The answer was automatic and involuntary, but the hands on his ribs seized and grabbed him hard. Draco felt the dig of every individual finger into his flesh and it twinged beneath his skin, sending shots of electricity straight to his spine.
“Fucking hell… Do you know how perfect you are?”
Draco flushed, hit with the immediate shame and the knowledge that he was far from perfect, but those hands grabbed again and forced the thought out of his mind. More jolts, this time slightly lower over his ribs. It wasn’t pleasure—not exactly—but it satisfied something much deeper inside him that Draco did not have control over. Something ingrained and primal.
“Do you like when I’m rough like this, Draco? When I grab you?” Draco nodded, barely aware of the motion until a hand gripped his jaw and turned it. “Why? Tell me why you like it, sweetheart.”
Draco looked over his shoulder, forced by the hand on his jaw, and met deep, green eyes. Their pupils were blown wide with lust and they stared at him, unblinking and waiting for an answer. But fuck Draco didn’t know how to answer. How was he supposed to explain why he liked certain types of pain and not others? There was no explan—
“Does it scare you, Draco?”
He shook his head before considering that the man might have wanted him to be scared. Part of him wanted to take it back and try to read the situation better before answering, but he’d already done it. The man didn’t seem angry that he wasn’t afraid, though.
“Does it feel possessive?” Draco nodded. “And you like that. Why? How does it make you feel?”
“Wanted.”
Draco shot up in bed, instantly aware of the soft dawn-light streaming into his room and the sweaty mess of sheets he was sitting in. His heart was racing and he fought his lungs, forcing them to take a deep breath. He glanced over at his clock.
5am. Well, he’d been saying he had to catch up on his other potions orders, hadn’t he? That was a good excuse, at least, for him to haul himself out of bed and wedge his body into his tiny shower.
Hot, scalding water beat down on him and ripped whatever pieces of his mind had still been in that dream back to the present. Right, potions orders. Potions orders were important because paying rent was important. It definitely wasn’t because he was afraid to go back to sleep, or to close his eyes and see how that dream ended.
That dream had come out of nowhere. Now that he was fully awake, Draco wouldn’t have classified it as a nightmare but he was trembling as if it had been. He knew he was lonely, but damn. Fantasizing about a client was pretty much the definition of unprofessional, even if said client was rich, mysterious, and incredibly easy to provoke.
Draco ran his fingers over his wrist where the man had grabbed. The skin looked normal, but it pulsed with the echo of that strong grip and Draco experimentally mimicked the sensation with his own hand. His own grip felt wrong and fake in all the worst ways. It felt more like a shackle than a hand and, for a second, Draco was back in that holding cell, trembling on the floor. Instantly, he recoiled and turned his attention entirely to his shower.
He would get dressed, eat something, and focus on work.
Draco stepped out of the shower with a grimace. The heater hadn’t come on yet and his entire apartment was only a few degrees warmer than it was outside. There was nothing he could do about it, though, so he pulled on his Potioneer robes as quickly as possible and made his way to the kitchenette.
Fingers crossed, he selected a ‘mystery’ can at random and prayed for no horseradish. His thrift-store can opener creaked in protest, but slowly revealed something yellow and syrupy. Canned peaches? Draco could work with that.
He ate half the can before the fruit became too sweet to stomach and he placed the rest in the fridge—likely for tomorrow’s breakfast. Anything was better than horseradish, however, so Draco was not complaining. With some hot water and three spoonfuls of instant espresso powder, he grabbed his keys and left the apartment, being sure to lock all four deadbolts.
It was too early for Helen to be awake at his usual floo point, so Draco resigned himself to walking. Merlin, was it always this bitterly cold in the mornings? He didn’t make it a habit to go in early unless a potion required it and usually waited until closer to 8am when it was at least light out. Now, he remembered why.
But it was distracting, and it gave his mind something to think about other than that bloody dream. Honestly, a sex dream—what was he? Sixteen? Though, to be fair, he had had other things to worry about at age sixteen so perhaps, as Elle would say, he was finally allowing himself to feel those previously ignored feelings. That didn’t mean he had to like it, though.
The walk itself took about half an hour and only for about five minutes of that time had Draco let his mind wander to his mysterious Mr. Doe. He was rather proud of that fact, given how intriguing the man could be. Intriguing or not, Draco had been incredibly busy over the last few days between meeting Andrea, getting dinner with the man, placing the wards, and then drinks last night. He’d been neglecting his other brews and it was starting to show.
“Malfoy, you’re here early. You wouldn’t be trying to avoid me, would you?”
Draco sighed, but forced himself to set down his bag to turn to the doorway. Kaiser was standing there—because of course they were—looking far more awake and far more curious than Draco had the patience to deal with this early in the morning. He leaned back against his desk and sipped his coffee, trying to appear nonchalant.
“Just an early ingredient addition,” he answered evenly. “Is there a reason I should be avoiding you?”
Kaiser stiffened and, for a second, Draco thought they might hex him. Maybe they felt the resistance of the new wards, though, or maybe they decided he wasn’t worth the reprimand because they didn’t draw their wand.
“Not that I can think of. But you seem to have a lot of new tricks up your sleeve lately, so perhaps there’s something I don’t know. You want to explain how you managed to afford a private contract with a foreign Gatherer?”
Draco did not want to explain Andrea’s presence or anything about Mr. Doe and the potion he was contracted to brew. And, while it certainly would not make him any friends, he knew he didn’t have to. Mr. Doe had made it clear that discretion was of the utmost importance. Kaiser had a lot of authority as his boss and many powers granted by Whirlwind, but forcing Draco to break confidentiality was not one of them.
“Not particularly, but I appreciate the offer. Was there something you needed, or were you just dropping in to say hi?”
His supervisor glared, but evidently had nothing concrete to discipline or lecture Draco about so they held their tongue. They ran their hand along the nearest shelf, checking for dust, and seemed even more displeased by the apparent cleanliness of Draco’s office than by his refusal to answer. Apparently Mr. Doe’s cleaning spells had been very effective.
“Just a social call, for now.” Halfway out the door, they paused. “Nice wards, Malfoy.”
Draco did not miss the threatening drop in their tone, but he said nothing. As soon as they were out of his office, he flicked the little ‘brewing in progress, do not disturb’ sign on beside his door and closed it tight. Granted, he couldn’t lock it. Nothing would stop Kaiser—or anyone else—if they really wanted in, but at least he had the excuse of the sign this time.
With a deep sigh, he turned to his cauldrons at last. He realized with a jolt that his hands were shaking and, after a moment of consideration, that it was leftover adrenaline from his confrontation with Kaiser. Damn… Draco was really not bringing his A-game. Sure, Kaiser was intimidating but he’d never had a visible reaction to the supervisor’s presence before.
Briefly, Draco’s brain conjured the suggestion of warm, steady hands gripping his wrists and calming the panicky energy under his skin. Just as quickly, though, he dismissed that thought. No one was coming to help him and it was borderline idiotic of him to even consider the possibility. He forced a deep breath and, when that didn’t work, cast a steadying charm on his gloves. It was far from perfect and it meant he now had to wear them whenever he was doing anything remotely delicate, but it was the best that he could do.
Draco Malfoy always had, and always would, rely on no one but himself.
Harry became aware of his consciousness and groaned unabashedly into his pillow. He did not want to be awake, and he didn’t care who knew that. Grudgingly, he forced one eye open enough to cast a quick, wandless tempus and he was reminded once again why he no longer relied on physical alarm clocks. If he could have, he would have chucked the glowing numbers across the room.
It was 10am. Which meant he was already late—fantastic—and that he’d probably missed a meeting or two. Hopefully nothing important or that he couldn’t reschedule. Kingsley would glare at him, but realistically what were they going to do? Fire him? He was a bloody good Auror and, though he was loath to admit it, his reputation alone brought the department more funding than they’d ever had before the war.
There was a letter from Andrea on the other side of his bed. He knew the crisp, blocky handwriting immediately even if it was blurry and he glared aimlessly at whatever bird had brought it during the night and refused to wake him up. Or maybe it had tried… A pillow was lying conspicuously in the middle of the floor and Harry had a vague memory of being pecked by something.
Either way, it didn’t matter now. He hauled himself into a mostly upright position and reached for his glasses. When they were not in the first place his hand checked, he gave up the search and muttered an irritated Accio. They shot into his waiting hand from somewhere on the other side of the room. The frames nearly sliced his palm open, but he’d let that happen one too many times and he curled his fingers at the last second. Finally, he could see.
Dear Asshole aka Harry,
You’d better have been nice to Alfie because it is not his fault that timezones exist.
Harry winced, glancing around to see if any stray feathers had been lost in the battle. Well, he was already off to a rough start. Great.
Despite your best efforts to thwart me, I managed to secure five selkie teeth from a fence near Ontario. It wasn’t cheap, but you should see how they shimmer. I’ve taken the liberty of sending them straight to Draco because Merlin knows you do not need another excuse to show up at his workplace unannounced. You know I’m right.
Harry was not in the mood to be lectured about his behavior with Draco. He scowled at the page and considered throwing it across the room or leaving the rest of it unread on his bed in protest, but his only other option was to get up. No part of his body was prepared to commit that heavily to being awake, so he continued reading.
There’s still a long list of things to be gotten and I won’t bother writing out the details because I know you wouldn’t retain them. Most of them I either know where to look, or have a strong lead for. No need for the Great Auror Potter to get involved yet. One ingredient in particular, though, I think Draco might actually have the best chance of getting access to. I’ll keep you updated.
Don’t be a dick just because it’s morning.
Love,
Andrea
Well, one could accuse Andrea of many things but sugar-coating was not one of them. He was intrigued by whichever ingredient she thought Draco would be able to get more easily than her, but she hadn’t said which it was and he didn’t bother asking. Andrea was the kind of person who was always on to the next thing. Even if he did ask, she would only inundate him with information about whatever ingredient she was now on the hunt for.
Harry frowned, but managed to pry himself out of bed and slip on his Auror robes just as his fireplace burst into green flames. He turned, now grateful that he hadn’t decided to shower, and met Kinglsey’s annoyed expression.
“Ah, so it appears you were planning on showing up for work today after all. It’s nearly 11am, Potter.”
Harry knew he should be ashamed and that it was incredibly unprofessional, but he honestly didn’t give a shit. It wasn’t that he didn’t take his job seriously or that he didn’t respect the Minister—he did, immensely—it was that he knew the irritation was mild at best.
“I’m coming, I’m coming. I’ve shown up early and worked overtime every day for the last three weeks, though, so I figured I could sleep in this once. Call it a half day and take it from my vacation days, if you want.”
Kingsley pursed his lips, but Harry knew he was right. Before this week and before he’d let his attention get swallowed up entirely by the blond potioneer, he had been assistant lead on a rather large case and had put in so much overtime that Kingsley had told him to take a vacation. This technically counted, didn’t it?
“Don’t make it a habit, Potter, and I want you in my office as soon as you get here. We might have a new case.”
Harry nodded and watched the green flame completely disappear before sighing dramatically. The last thing he wanted right now was another parole violator or some teenage wizards who had gone overboard on the firewhiskey. It was his job, though, and for the most part he enjoyed it so he grabbed a bagel, his wand, and a coat before Apparating straight to the Ministry.
Draco stared at the recipe in front of him with something akin to hatred bubbling in his chest. Seven Alder bark. That was all it said. Seven what?! Seven pieces? If so, how big and how thick? Seven inches? Or was it seven bloody trees’ worth?
For the fifth time that morning, Draco cursed anyone who had ever written a potion recipe without precise measurements. Which was, upon further inspection, nearly every recipe in existence. No wonder Snape had made such a big deal about systems of measurement—though Draco maintained that anything but the metric system was pure bollocks and if he had to measure the length of something in ‘hands’ like a damn horse even one more time he was going to scream.
Draco forced himself to take a slow, deep breath. He could do this. Okay, the recipe was from the early second century, probably somewhere near the Mediterranean. That meant the Roman empire, most likely. They’d mainly used the Hellenic system, but that would have warranted labelling still, unless it was the most common unit maybe… Which left him with digitus or palmus. He scoured his memory, desperately trying to remember how many centimeters either of them were and why Snape had made him memorize this in the first place.
After a few seconds, he relented and moved to the bookshelf over his desk. A book on ancient measurements—a gift from Snape, of course—landed with a thud of dust on his desk and he thumbed through until he found a conversion chart for Roman digitus.
18.5 millimeters.
Okay. 18.5 millimeters—Draco could work with that. Seven multiplied by 18.5 was… roughly 130mm. That seemed reasonable. Just in case, he glanced over at the conversion for palmus: 74mm. That would give him a bit more than five hundred millimeters which, given the size of the potion, was just too much in Draco’s non-expert opinion.
He shrugged and began measuring strips of bark into 18.5mm segments.
Kingsley’s office was one of the only places in the entire Ministry that Harry felt comfortable. He grabbed a mug and poured himself some coffee from the pot without asking—Merlin knows he’d done it enough times by now to know what he could and couldn’t get away with—and pulled his favorite chair away from the wall to sit. The two chairs that typically sat in front of Kingsley’s desk were hard and wooden—chairs designed to make you feel like a disobedient child. They were for discipline, and Harry had decided early on that the cushy chair in the back corner was his favorite.
“By all means, make yourself at home, Potter.”
But Kingsley was smiling as he said it and Harry just shrugged, sipping his coffee. Maybe it was the pot, or maybe it was the beans he used but Kingsley’s office always had the best coffee.
“Oh, come off it. You’re the one who told me to take a break, aren’t you? What was it you said? If I didn’t get my blood pressure under control, my heart would explode? Well this is me controlling my blood pressure.”
Kingsley rolled his eyes, but Harry could tell he was more amused than irritated. Ever since joining the Aurors, Harry had been drawn to the Minister and they’d become rather friendly over the years. By all technicalities, Kingsley was not his direct superior and there were at least two other people Harry should have gone to for briefings or concerns—and he did, whenever Kingsley was busy. But somehow Harry always found himself in the man’s office at least once a week. Sometimes for a briefing, and sometimes just for a friendly chat.
“One day, Potter, you’re going to come across someone who doesn’t give a rat’s ass who you are and they are going to throw that attitude right back in your face.”
Harry smirked, mind immediately going to Draco. Now wasn’t the time, though, so he forced that thought back down into his subconscious and tried to focus on the situation. Kingsley didn’t look upset, which was good, because the man had absolutely no poker face. If something had gone horribly wrong or if it was the bad kind of case, the Minister wouldn’t have been able to hide his agitation. However, there were also no files on his desk which Harry found odd for a supposed briefing.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Sir. You said we might have a potential new case?”
Kingsley nodded, but didn’t make a move to pull out any file or even a pensieve. Harry watched very carefully as the man steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair. He didn’t look upset, but why was he being weird?
“Yes, ‘might’ being the operative word. Have you heard of any unusual suicides recently?”