A Specialty Brew

Harry could tell the instant he stepped into the room that Draco had been crying. It wasn’t obvious and he doubted anyone else would have noticed, but Harry had spent a long time learning to read Draco’s expression. There were no red rings around his eyes or fresh tear tracks on his cheeks, but Harry knew. Draco’s lower lip always gave him away. 

This time, it looked to be in remarkably good condition, suspicious enough that Harry guessed someone had healed it. But it was still bitten raw, red, and swollen. The first time Harry had ever questioned his sexuality—genuinely questioned it, instead of dismissing it as hero worship (Cedric) or ridiculous (a particularly lewd dream about Oliver Wood)—had been while staring at that chewed lip. He could still remember the thought that had popped into his head, so unwelcome and yet so instinctive. 

I could kiss those lips.

Harry valiantly ignored that thought and tried to assess the situation. Andrea was here, which was good considering they still had no idea who was messing with Draco’s office, but she looked stiff. She had a tenseness to her posture that Harry didn’t immediately recognize. When she and Draco both turned to see who had opened the door, though, Harry knew it instantly. 

It was Andrea’s protective posture.

The moment the door closed behind him, Andrea was putting herself between him and Draco and hitting him with a fiery glare. She wasn’t mad at him directly, Harry was sure, because it wasn’t truly his fault that he couldn’t just tell her everything about the case, but she was mad at something fairly near him. Something targetless, but full of hurt and, apparently, a strong desire to protect Draco. 

“Can I talk to you, Draco?” 

Both of them looked up, but Harry focused his eyes on the blond. This was his decision, even if Andrea was feeling more possessive than usual, and Harry was determined that Draco would be the one to send him away if anyone was going to. Andrea had also looked to Draco, he realized, and oh Harry hated that. He was used to Andrea leaning on him and handing things off to him like an equal—like someone she trusted. Or had trusted.

But now she was looking to Draco for the okay to leave him alone with Harry, as if Harry was some kind of threat. Draco gave a nod, but even that didn’t seem to be enough. As she cast a few basic stirring and stasis charms on the potions she’d been working on, she shot him a glare. 

“Don’t step out of line, Potter. Can you do that?”

He wanted to point out that she was borderline ‘stepping out of line’ by being this territorial around Draco, unless he’d asked her to for some reason. That would only make it worse, though, so he kept his tone level.

“It’s for work.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Damn, had Harry missed something somehow? Andrea was acting genuinely livid with him and he was struggling to find a reason why. Regardless, it was getting under his skin. Seeing her so protective of Draco made Harry want to do something stupid like whisk the blond away just to prove that Draco was his. 

Which was ridiculous, of course, because Draco wasn’t his. 

“We’ll be fine, Andrea. It won’t take long.”

The entire room noticed when he didn’t call her Andy, but the Gatherer merely narrowed her eyes, cast one last glance back at Draco, and left. In her wake, she left the air thick with anger. Harry knew without even looking that Draco had become tense and fidgety, the way he always had whenever his parents were present or when Snape was in a foul mood. 

“Hey, sorry about that. She’s still pretty bitter about being cut out of the case. You doing okay?”

Sharp, anxious grey eyes zeroed in on his expression and, for the first time in months, Harry felt the weight of that scrutiny. The blond searched his face.  He wasn’t sure what Draco was looking for, but he was fairly certain he wouldn’t measure up.

“Why do you ask?”

Ah. Somehow, admitting that he knew Draco had been crying or that he’d figured out the blond’s tells long before now felt too big. Draco was still clearly uncomfortable with how close they’d gotten for the case. Harry didn’t want to push it.

“Dunno, you just seemed off. I brought you the workup from the last wolfsbane batch. Sorry it took so long, but… well, you know. Do you have a second to talk?” 

Draco looked like pausing to talk to Harry was the last thing he wanted to do, but this was actually important. He accepted the parchment—once again in Andromeda’s charmed script—and shrugged. Harry watched with rapt attention as he cast a stasis charm. With his own wand. 

So, evidently his wand wasn’t broken. That just made the mystery of why he’d used Harry’s twice now even more confusing. Hermione, he knew, was having a field day. 

“What did you want to talk about?” 

About how I couldn’t stop thinking about you all night. About how soft your hair would feel in my hands, about how easily I could make you melt, and about everything you would let me do to you. Or do for you. 

“Hermione had an idea and asked me to check up on it. I know you’ve mentioned the domovoi a couple times and said he could be a bit mischievous… Is it at all possible that he’s the one leaving the dysprosium?” 

Draco’s pupils shrank and Harry wondered what that meant. He hadn’t been close enough to the blond, physically, to see little reactions like that very often so they weren’t as easy to interpret. Not that Draco was normally easy to interpret. They both glanced to the unlit hearth in the corner of the room—Draco, at the mention of the domovoi, and Harry in response. He watched the blond’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. 

“I doubt it,” Harry had expected nothing less. “But I suppose it’s possible. I don’t know how he would react to handling it, given that he is more of a spirit than a magical creature. I also don’t know why he would be doing it.” 

Again, Harry had expected nothing less. He’d argued the same points when Hermione had asked but, given that neither of them were particularly well versed in slavic mythology, she’d suggested he ask Draco. 

“From what I read,” he started, trying to gauge whether or not his voice still made the blond flinch (it didn’t). “They’re sort of like a guardian spirit for a house and they follow a particular family. Given that this is not a house, and that—no offense—your family is neither here nor Russian, do you know what it’s doing here?”

Draco looked uneasy and kept glancing back to the empty hearth. Harry had half a mind to Apparate the both of them then and there to the nearest cafe or restaurant where Draco would be less worried about offending the thing, but he knew better. Not only would Draco likely panic, but Andrea would kill him. 

“He,” Draco corrected, shooting another pointed look at the hearth. “Isn’t attached to me or my family. I haven’t exactly sat down for tea with him, but my best guess is that he was abandoned by his original family a long time ago. This hearth was likely brought in from somewhere else rather than built new. It’s reasonable, I suppose, that someone might try to salvage magically charged items like it in the aftermath of an invasion or a war. He’s always been fairly neutral towards me, though, so I don’t know what could have sparked the whole dysprosium thing. I’ve been leaving offerings, same as usual. He comes and goes sometimes—and before you ask, no I don’t know where he goes when he’s not here—but, again, that isn’t abnormal for him.” 

Harry nodded, having come to a similar conclusion on his own. Hermione had suggested bigger offerings in case Draco had somehow offended the spirit/creature, but Harry felt weird suggesting that here. Here, in the artificial light of Draco’s potions lab, all Harry could think about was that final squeeze. Had Draco meant it to be reassuring? Encouraging? Or had it been intended to cause pain? Like a warning?

“Why don’t you use your own wand when I’m around?”

Those grey eyes shot up and narrowed once again at him, but didn’t turn molten. Draco seemed to be weighing his options. Part of Harry wanted to push—both because he knew Draco would give, and because he wanted a truthful answer—but a bigger part wanted to see what Draco would do if left to his own devices. Would he admit to why he never used his own wand?

“Can’t.”

That was all he said, but Harry wasn’t disappointed. It was less than he’d been hoping for naturally, but he was proud of Draco for even saying that much. He’d admitted, with just one word, that it wasn’t a meaningless choice or a mere preference. He couldn’t use his wand in those situations. But why not?  

“You said there was something work-related you wanted to talk to me about?”

He’d let the silence sit for too long. Internally, Harry felt the jab of Draco making this about work again, but he knew it was the logical thing to do so he nodded. He had come here for a reason, right? He’d been planning to already, of course, but Kingsley had asked him to reach out to Draco. Why had he done that, again?

“Oh, right, of course.”

Draco was clearly waiting for more, but Harry was struggling to remember what he’d been supposed to tell the potioneer. It hadn’t been covered in the briefing—Draco already knew all of that—it had been something afterwards… When Harry had been wrapped up in thoughts of Draco’s hands on him. 

“Eloquent as always, Potter.”

There was none of that familiar bite or snark behind the comment, though. That alone would have clued Harry in to the fact that something was wrong, if he hadn’t already noticed Draco’s lip. But it wasn’t his place to pry, so Harry just sighed. 

“Sorry, it’s been a long day. I was supposed to tell you that we have another body and another crime scene. This one is pretty fresh, according to the original investigators, and it’s a hotel rather than private property so we were able to stasis charm the entire scene. There’s no rush, really, but we were hoping you could come look for potion traces again. Does tomorrow morning work?”

Draco barely seemed to have heard him. His eyes were focused somewhere near the hearth and Harry knew that his mind was reeling, trying to make sense of the whole domovoi situation. 

“We?”

Oh, that was fair. Draco had probably assumed he meant him and Aidan, which was likely and understandably the last pairing the blond wanted to work with. 

“Yeah, me and Kingsley specifically. We brought in four other Aurors, two of which are junior still, for the case but they haven’t been briefed on you or your involvement yet. I’m not sure how easy it will be to get the scene to ourselves again like last time, but I can try if you want.”

“There might not even be a potion for me to analyze. We can wait and see what the scene is like.”

Draco’s voice was flat and distracted, but Harry didn’t blame him. It was one thing to know that a person was out to get you, but a mythical spirit that is poorly understood at best? That was an entirely different matter. 

“Great, I’ll let Andrea know she can come back in. I’ll see you tomorrow, Draco.”

Harry tried not to let that sound as hopeful as it felt. He wanted to see Draco again, and he wanted an excuse to get Andrea out of the equation until whatever bad feelings were brewing between them had subsided. The last thing Draco needed was to be afraid of her and Harry on top of everything else. 

Andrea entered as soon as he touched the door, shooting him a glare and rushing not-so-subtly to Draco’s side as if Harry might have cursed him. He frowned, nodded to them both, and left. Something was definitely up with her, but he doubted that pushing for answers right now would make the situation any better. Hopefully, she would come to him once she was calm enough to discuss it. 

Draco made it through the rest of the day and most of the night, managing to only think about Harry bloody Potter every five minutes or so. His brain was eager to suggest all the ways that Harry could ease his current state. Anything from fingers tracing his ribs to fingers in his ass—Draco would have inhaled all of it like powdered Amortentia. But that was stupid to even consider because it wasn’t going to happen. 

After Harry had left, Andrea had calmed down remarkably fast and had gone back to being his loyal, helpful assistant potioneer. She hadn’t asked what they’d talked about and Draco hadn’t told her. To her credit, she also hadn’t asked about what was on his mind or why he was so distracted today—though maybe she’d just attributed it to the crying spell she’d walked in on. He hoped that was all she attributed it to. 

But, Draco had specified that he’d made it through most of the night. Now, it was 2am and his brain was running wild with all the thoughts and fantasies he’d held back during the day. He imagined Harry grabbing him by the hips and pushing him up against the nearest wall. His skin tingled, and he could feel the dig of each finger into his flesh. 

Harry had grown up. Draco had always been tall, but he’d never realized how thin and slim his frame was until he’d stood next to the broad, muscular Auror. He wondered idly if Harry could pick him up. Probably. Would Harry throw him over his shoulder if he was bratty enough? Or would he use that leverage to wrap Draco’s legs around his waist and push him against the nearest hard surface, forcing Draco to exist solely dependent on Harry not dropping him. 

Harry wouldn’t drop him. In real life, Draco was still full of trust issues but this fantasy version of Harry, he knew, would never let him fall. By now, Draco was loopy and sleep deprived enough that his imagination was on full blast. He could feel hot breath against the side of his throat. Large, firm hands gripped his jaw and twisted his head to the side so that warm, soft lips could mouth at his pulse point.

Draco felt a shudder run through him. The idea of Harry Potter grabbing and kissing and taking every piece of Draco that he could reach was enough to make him hard. It was exciting. But that wasn’t why Draco was indulging in the fantasy, and the arousal was secondary to the flush all over his skin. If Harry was gripping his hips and demanding more contact, it was because he wanted Draco. 

And fuck that went straight to his head. He felt the dip and sudden lightness in his chest that warned him that he was playing a dangerous game. Maybe it was because it’d been so long since Draco had truly let himself relax, or maybe it was because he’d always been obsessed with getting Harry’s attention. Either way, the fantasy alone had him teetering at the edge of subspace. 

He knew he could bring himself under. He’d done it before, with fantasies less potent than this one, and it could be good, for a while… But he also knew what he was like in that headspace. With someone there, guiding him, he could be resurrected and reborn into the purest possible bliss. Alone, though, he would let himself rot in that neediness until it turned sour and bitter in his mouth. 

Draco shook his head, pushing the fantasies out of his mind. It wouldn’t do to spend the next five hours in utter misery just because he felt like punishing himself for daring to think that way about Harry Potter. Instead, he rolled over and tried to force himself to sleep. 

The next morning, Draco found himself miserably trying to get by on just three hours of shitty sleep. He splurged and got a triple shot espresso before heading to the Ministry. It was weird to enter the imposing halls and busy, rushing foot traffic as if he had any right to be there. Without Andrea or Harry by his side, he was doubly aware of any potential ill will. Many people sneered or glared, but so far no one had sent a curse his way. 

Thank Merlin, considering that Draco could not perform a blocking spell even if he had the reflexes. Stupid Ministry. He wanted to hex them and curse their ridiculous rules and restrictions, but he reminded himself that this was the price of escaping Azkaban. People hated that he was here among them, but he would have had it worse if he hadn’t been pardoned.

“Hey, Draco. Oh good, you already have coffee. Ready?” 

He nodded, but kept silent because of the unfamiliar Aurors flanking Harry on either side. Two were clearly too young to be full fledged Aurors, which meant they were the junior Aurors Harry had mentioned. But the other two were typical Aurors, unfortunately, and they were old enough that their faces twisted in disgust when they saw him. Harry must have already issued a warning, though, because neither said anything. 

In a slow, half-awake manner, he listened as Harry briefed them all on the situation as they walked to the hotel from the closest Apparition point. Draco hated Apparating. He hadn’t missed the glares he’d gotten when he’d taken Harry’s arm to sidealong, but he’d been too distracted by the feeling of Harry’s bicep flexing under his hand to come up with a retort. Again, no one had said anything. 

They didn’t know their victim’s name yet because they hadn’t managed to identify her, but she was young and appeared to have been in the country long enough to get British Wizarding money. She hadn’t been robbed, which was one of the few points pointing to genuine suicide. In fact, she’d been found with over a thousand galleons on her—thus, why Aurors had been called in to begin with. 

Draco didn’t recognize the hotel. It was old and large, but had seen better days and Draco could imagine what kind of clientele it typically received. This was the kind of place where deals were made. There were people mulling about in the lobby, none of which Draco knew but a few of whom he could guess at their chosen profession. The pimp in the corner seemed particularly interested in Draco. Harry noticed and immediately moved to stand between them, shooting a glare at the man. Interesting.

They made their way up three flights of stairs and down the hall to room 411. As soon as they saw the Auror robes, most people scattered so they found themselves in front of the correct door fairly quickly. Draco braced himself for gore, or for blood. He saw neither, though, as the door swung open and he followed the rest of their little group into the room.

Everything seemed to be in order. The bed was made, their victim’s suitcase was packed, and most of the carpet still had vacuuming lines on it from the last time it had been cleaned. Even the room’s minibar had gone untouched. There was also no body as far as he could see and he looked to Harry in confusion, who only gestured towards the bathroom. 

Draco moved hesitantly towards the indicated door, again bracing himself. He stepped into the doorway so he could assess the situation without disturbing any evidence, and took in the body of a woman in the bathtub. She was young, pale, and most of her body was submerged in bathwater that had turned dark with blood. Draco looked to her wrists, expecting to see slits, but they were uninjured. 

His eyes moved further upwards, taking in the lack of clothing—she’d prepared for the bath then, at least, not been dumped in by a killer—and long, strawberry blonde hair. No, not strawberry blonde, he realized. Just blond. It was tinted pink and reddish from the diluted bloody bathwater. 

Finally, Draco forced himself to look at her face. For a second, there was nothing and he saw chapped lips, lifeless eyes, and freckled cheeks with something like indifference. But then it registered. 

Everything stopped.

The world fell out from under his feet and Draco couldn’t breathe. He collapsed against the doorframe, half trying to hold himself up and half no longer caring what happened to the fucking crime scene. She was dead. 

Vaguely, he heard people talking and he felt Harry’s hand on his shoulder but he couldn’t look away from that face. It was the same face that had laughed at him when he’d asked if he was allowed to shower when he’d arrived at 182 Halfway Lane, and then had quickly fallen into worry when she’d realized he wasn’t joking. The same face that had split into a smirk anytime he’d pressed her about what she did for work. Hell, it was the same face that had slept inches away from his own when it’d been too cold not to share blankets and body heat.

No, she was supposed to be in New York. He’d never figured out what she did, exactly, but she’d said she was leaving only a few days after Draco had moved out. That was the last time he’d seen her alive. She wasn’t supposed to be here—she wasn’t supposed to be dead! But she was, and the longer he stared at that painfully familiar face, the more he felt reality begin to slip away.  

Ariana was dead.