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An Alchemical Discontent	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 10911 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Chapter Two—Daphne

            “The mistress will see you now.”

            Draco rose and followed the house-elf from the luxuriously appointed anteroom where he’d waited for an hour into an even more luxuriously appointed drawing room. Or perhaps it was part drawing room and part library, he thought, staring around at the bookshelves that crowded every wall, save where the hearth stood. A brilliant fire blazed there, despite the time of year. Draco couldn’t feel any heat from it, though.

            He grimaced. Daphne always had said that she preferred the glow of fire to the glow of lamps or sunlight. It was reassuring—somewhat—to see that she hadn’t departed from that one of her habits.

            “Hello, Draco.”

            She had come up behind him, as always. And she had startled him, as always. It wasn’t natural for someone to walk that quietly. But Draco controlled his reaction, as always, and turned to bow to her. “Daphne.”

            She stood watching him with her head tilted curiously; she resembled nothing so much as a Kneazle examining a mouse that its owner had just dropped in front of it. She had pale gold hair, a few shades darker than his own, which she wore pinned and coiled about her throat like a snake. Her eyes were deep green, cat-colored. She stood as tall as he did, with a stare as direct, and when she held out her hand for him to shake, her grip was as firm. Done with the greeting, she walked towards the fire and took a seat in a chair there. Draco had to follow and sit opposite, aware as he never was with anyone else of her eyes watching, judging, seeing him.

            He was used to getting hooks into his partners, to being able to understand their needs and twist them. With some people, he had been the aggressive one, offering what they desired and exploiting them that way. But he could also enjoy being chased until he caught the person hunting him, being flirted with and seduced and seemingly used—whilst he was the user, of course. It was all a matter of learning the tiny cracks in a person’s soul and widening them. Only his few friends were exempt from that, and them only because Draco had realized he could trust them soon after he began to use them.

            Daphne had no cracks for his hooks. She didn’t need people, or need to be needed, the way most people Draco had been romantically involved with. She was self-sufficient, complete in herself, an integer instead of half an equation.

            And she was the only self-sufficient, complete person Draco had ever met who was not a man. It disconcerted him and made him feel female around her, if anything could. He always pretended nothing could and chose some other description for the feeling, but that term always sneaked back into his consciousness.

            “This is a surprise, Draco,” Daphne said. “You left last time swearing never to contact me again.” She gave him an expectant glance and leaned back, tapping her fingers together. Her nails were transparent and polished. Knowing Daphne, that could be some clear makeup or a spell that actually turned her nails to glass.

            “I changed my mind,” Draco said stiffly, with the taste of humiliation in his mouth. “I do need your help.”

            “Does this have something to do with the new potion I’ve heard rumors about?”

            Draco nodded, already resigned to the fact that Daphne would know most of his secrets. Daphne’s mother had labored tirelessly, quietly, to make a fortune among the Muggles whilst everyone else was turned inwards and focusing on the wars with the Dark Lord. She’d got hold of a source of oil, which Draco understood Muggles were mad for, and she’d passed on her gifts and her wealth to her elder daughter before she died of exhaustion. Daphne, in turn, used her wealth to run a spy network that brought her rumors of interest in both worlds.

            “What, then?” Daphne folded her hands in her lap and gave him a long, leisurely, appraising glance that made Draco’s cheeks burn. Daphne could still want people; that, he knew very well. But there was no yearning behind that glance. She could take him or leave him, and he would cause her no devastation if he got up and walked out of the room right this minute.

            Whereas his shop would fall around his ears if he didn’t have her help. There was no way he could sell enough Desire potion to make forty thousand Galleons—the ten thousand he still owed Cordelia plus the owed thirty thousand she had bought from his other debtors—in a week. People would be wary and suspicious at first. The potion would take time to accumulate a reputation. He and Harry would need some of the money for ingredients to brew more. And if he set the price too high, not enough people would buy it anyway.

            He shook with rage a moment, and then swallowed. He had known what the consequences of coming here would be.

            “I’m facing Cordelia Nott over a problem of debts,” he said. He would not ordinarily be so blunt, but Daphne demanded, and got, perfect honesty from the people she helped, or she simply turned them away. “She’s bought them, and means to use their accumulated weight to keep me from selling the potion—“

            “Why would that matter to her?”

            “She thinks it could threaten, or at least upset, the career of Charlemagne Diggory, whom she’s supporting in his run for Minister.”

            Daphne nodded. “Ah. Because you have Harry Potter with you.”

            Draco nodded back and stamped down the desire to fidget. “I need a lot of money, and I need it within a week. Forty thousand Galleons would be ideal, as I could pay her back and simply be done with her, giving her no excuse to continue her hold on me.”

            Daphne laughed. “Forty thousand Galleons would be ideal for many people!”

            God, he hated her. So above it all, and so effortless. He couldn’t have remained like that—in his parents’ home, acting the good little son—unless he wanted to pay the price of himself for it.

            “Will you help me?” he asked.

            Daphne closed her eyes as if she were looking at an internal calendar. Draco had to wait, and he didn’t quite dare to look away from her and at the fire, just in case she should open her eyes, see him not paying attention, and decide against him on the instant.

            She gave him a faint smile, eyes still shut. “The same deal we had last time?”

            “The exact same.”

            “No, not the exact same,” Daphne said decisively. “I want you to do what you wouldn’t do last time.”

            Draco’s hands clenched in his lap. Daphne was delighted with his skill in bed, and so she had tried to introduce him to her favorite games. She was skilled in the mental arts, especially Legilimency and Memory Charms, and she liked to use them on her lovers.

            Draco didn’t fancy waking up naked in the bed with blood on his skin and no idea of what had happened to get him there. He’d refused, and she’d smiled at him, and that had ended their last bargain.

            Now, though…

            He couldn’t afford to be choosy. He needed the help too badly, and too immediately. If Cordelia had left him a month—but she was too wise to do that, and he had to live with the world as he found it.

            Daphne continued to smile at him, and watch him with calm, cat-like interest. Draco determined that he wouldn’t struggle too long and resemble a dying mouse. It was the only way he could keep his dignity.

            “Yes,” he said. “I’ll do what I wouldn’t do last time.”

            Daphne rose and extended her hand. “Then,” she said, “I think the first installment of your payment should be made right now.”

            Draco steadied himself. He would not be ill. He would not think of this as a sacrifice of his pride. It was, instead, a sacrifice to preserve his pride. And when he had what he needed, there were all sorts of ways to bore Daphne badly enough that she’d end it.

            He took her hand.

            Daphne’s smile widened.

*

            Harry stepped uncertainly into the shop and looked around, trying valiantly to stifle a yawn. He had received an owl from Malfoy yesterday evening that demanded he come to the apothecary at five-o’clock in the morning. Why he had to be there that early, Harry had no idea. Malfoy had said he had some idea who Harry’s follower had been, but wanted to wait to use the knowledge. And it wasn’t as though Harry had to do anything more this first day than smile and look enthusiastic, and he couldn’t do that when there were no patrons in the shop.

            “Harry. Good.”

            He jumped and turned around. Perhaps Malfoy had been on the ground floor already, but Harry didn’t think so; he’d probably stepped out of some concealed door. As he glided towards Harry, Harry’s startlement tuned to alarm. There was—a fire behind Malfoy’s eyes that shouldn’t be there. His movements were jerky as he dragged a scoop through a barrel of dried beetle shells and then let them fall again.

            “What’s the matter?” Harry asked. “Are you sick?”

            Malfoy laughed, harsh as a seal barking. “If that were all, then I would consider myself fortunate.” He stared over Harry’s shoulder, until Harry nearly turned to look out the window, and then jerked his head towards the far side of the shop. Harry followed and, unsurprised, discovered the hidden door he’d come out through.

            Behind that, and this was surprising, were stairs that turned out to lead to Malfoy’s private quarters. Harry looked around uncertainly, taking in the defensive wards, the lack of real windows, the carefully arranged furniture.

            “You don’t take any chances with your life,” he tried to joke, but his throat was dry. He didn’t understand why he’d been invited here. It wasn’t as though he had demanded to be shown this private space the way that Malfoy had demanded to come to his flat, and they didn’t have a bond of trust between them deep enough that Malfoy would think to offer it.

            “Harry.”

            Yes, it was his name as much as the suddenness of the words that was startling him. Harry jammed his hands into his robe pockets and did his best to meet Malfoy’s gaze evenly.

            “Cordelia and Charlemagne were here yesterday,” Malfoy said, folding his arms in front of his chest as if he were cold. “Cordelia’s bought out all my debts. I have to have them paid by next Friday, or she’ll claim the shop and the stocks of Desire potion as recompense.”

            Harry cursed sharply. “I don’t have the money to lend you—“

            Malfoy gave him a sideways look of deep contempt, then caught himself and shook his head. “I’ve found a means to pay the debt,” he said. “I don’t like it, particularly, but beggars can’t be choosers. I thought you had to know, however.” He paused, chewing his lip. “And something else concerns me.”

            “Yes?” Harry asked. He was glad he’d built up some patience in the months he was with Hermione, or he never would have been able to endure the pauses in Malfoy’s story. Just tell it through already, he thought. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult.

            “Cordelia and Charlemagne are closer than I thought they were,” Malfoy said. “They rely on one another. They’ll guard each other’s backs in this battle.”

            “I didn’t know we would be dueling—“

            “A political battle, you twat.” And then Malfoy hissed and threw his hands in the air. “Do you see?” he demanded. “We’re insulting each other, circling each other clumsily even now, when we have to work together if we want to survive. It’s not—things aren’t going to get better, Harry. Not unless we make them better. We have to be united as partners to face Cordelia and Charlemagne. That means depending on each other. It means offering trust, and not grudging it. It means,” and he took a step forwards, “we have to start thinking of each other as friends as well as pretending we do.”

            Harry narrowed his eyes. “I trusted you with the story of what I did to Ginny,” he said. The words stuck in his throat—they wanted to be “the story of why I’m on the potion”—but it would be cowardly to pretend in front of someone who knew the truth. “That’s not something anyone outside Hermione and the Weasley family knows about. I’m not sure what more I can do to prove I trust you.”

            Malfoy shook his head impatiently. “I’m not asking for demonstrations or proofs. I’m asking for the trust itself.”

            “You can’t have it just for the asking.” Harry folded his arms and turned away.

            “We’ll need it,” Malfoy said. His voice was much closer now, and Harry shivered at the sensation of warmth along his side. It was as baffling and as inappropriate as the loneliness he’d felt yesterday.

            Well. Sometimes, near the outer edge of his potions dose, he felt lust. He would just have to suppress it.

            “I know you’re an adult,” Malfoy said. “So am I, Harry. Really. We can make a conscious commitment to work this out. That doesn’t make our trust instinctive and involuntary in the way you Gryffindors love, I know. But we have to try.”

            Harry turned back. His neck felt stiff, resistant. Malfoy, as he expected, hovered far too close, staring at him.

            “All right,” Harry said, tongue heavy and clumsy. “I—I’ll call you by your first name, I suppose, and not insult you?”

            “Signs and demonstrations will do no good at all, I told you. This needs to be inner.” Malfoy stepped forwards and took his hand, working it away from his body and flexing Harry’s fingers open. “I thought we were on the edge of friendship. Try to think of me as a friend. Remind yourself of it as often as you falter.”

            “And you’ll do the same thing, I reckon?” Harry gave him a deeply skeptical glance. He could imagine circumstances under which he would want Malfoy—Draco—for a friend. He was a skilled brewer, a good listener when he wanted to be, witty and clever and full of a manic artistic energy sometimes. But he could not imagine what Draco would find valuable in Harry to build on, save for his magic. “I think it’ll be easier for me than for you.”

*

            Draco hissed under his breath. Harry was absolutely infuriating.

            But he was also more right than he realized. Draco knew Harry’s weaknesses, now. He could feign friendship with him—and possibly coax Harry into attraction—more easily than with many other people.

            But what he would have to have was true friendship. He’d felt able to offer it last week, when Harry told him the story of how he’d almost assaulted Ginny Weasley, but Harry had withdrawn rapidly in the days since then, as if eager to forget his own weakness. Draco needed to show, now, that he could do this.

            “Probably you’re right,” he said. “But I’m still committed to trying.”

            Harry had a new shadow in his eyes now, and he quirked a smile Draco didn’t understand. “If only for the sake of your business,” he murmured.

            “Of course.” Draco snorted. “Honestly, Potter. Do you think we would ever have come near each other if you hadn’t needed my help for Granger?”

            Harry shook his head. He was still quiet, still thoughtful, and Draco wondered what new insight had occurred to him.

            Ask. A friend would share it with a friend. This ought to encourage him.

            “What are you thinking?” he said, and Harry started and stared at him in shock. Draco put up a hand. “No need to answer if you don’t want to. But something obviously just crossed your mind, and that’s the kind of thing friends tell each other. Sometimes.”

            “Sometimes, yes.” Harry chuckled, and Draco didn’t know why. That was infuriating, too. But he held his silence and waited, and Harry seemed to relax into that; Draco decided he probably appreciated the option to speak at his own speed, something he wouldn’t get with Granger’s hectoring and lecturing.

            “I was just thinking that this can’t be real on your side, no matter how much you might want it to be, no matter how much I might want it to be,” Harry said. “It’s for the sake of your business, and that’s all. What would happen if I forgot that?” He shrugged. “I’m used to people moving on because I can’t give them what they need. But I’m also used to their being honest with me. Susan Bones—my last girlfriend-- told me right away when she fell in love with Zacharias Smith. I can imagine you tiring of me, hating me, and yet not telling me that, because you need my support for your business.”

            Draco frowned and stepped back to lean against the wall. It took effort not to fold his arms in a defensive gesture. Harry would probably nod his head sagely, decide he was right, and walk out. “You know my tendency to snap and insult people,” he said carefully. “I could say something about tiring of you, but that wouldn’t mean it was true.”

            “Make your words true.” Harry was half-smiling again, peering at him. “If the most difficult part for me would be trusting you inwardly, I think the most difficult part for you would be honesty. But that’s what we need.”

            Draco paused a long moment. His few friends had years of shared history behind them to ensure that they believed in the same principles as Draco did. Harry was very different from him, and he didn’t have childhood memories of Slytherin or knowledge that Draco had once helped him out to soften his irritation with careless words.

            True honesty, the kind Harry wanted, would expose the cracks in Draco’s soul, and give Harry an opportunity to betray and hurt him badly. Draco hated that kind of vulnerability.

            But he would have to live with it, even if he never grew more comfortable.

            “All right,” he said, abruptly, at last. He knew his voice was rasping, and he couldn’t quite meet Harry’s gaze. That would probably make him suspicious, and Draco was prepared to give multiple reassurances.

            Instead, he saw Harry start a little, his eyes widening. Then he moved forwards and cupped a hand around Draco’s chin, turning his face towards him. Draco stood very still, not used to such intimacy except with a lover.

            But Harry just studied his face raptly, with no sign of lust. Of course not, Draco thought, as he stifled a frown. That damn potion is forcing all of it down and away.

            “You mean it,” Harry said, and then a smile slipped across his face and began to widen. “I really think you mean it.”

            Draco took one deep breath to force away his fear. Enough of the Desire potion remained to him to give him some courage, that he might spring past the inevitable hesitation. “Yes,” he said, and lifted his own hand to curl around Harry’s fingers. “I do.”

            Harry was beaming at him, so openly that Draco couldn’t help smiling back.

            “Good,” Harry said. “Then let’s go down and start opening the shop for your big day, shall we?”

            “Our big day,” Draco said, and got an even wider smile. He basked in the warmth of it.

*

            Harry shook his head in wonder. Draco’s shop opened at seven on the dot, or so said the banner hovering above the door, but the line of patrons was already around the corner. He considered the barrels Draco had assigned him to move—he wanted them out of the way, so they wouldn’t risk being tipped over—and then waved his wand to stick them to the walls. It was an elementary spell, which meant something Harry could perform with a great deal of power when he was on the potion. The barrels wouldn’t fall on anyone’s heads or spill their contents, even if something bumped them.

            Draco was already behind the counter, which had been transformed into a glittering platform apparently encrusted with gold and gems and covered with small blue-green vials of Desire potion. Harry thought the effect tacky, but Draco had said his customers went for that kind of thing, and Harry had to bow to his superior knowledge of people who regularly shopped in high-end apothecaries.

            Draco caught his eye, and smiled. The smile reminded Harry of the way he’d looked the day he came bursting into Harry’s flat ready to brew the Desire potion. Narrow, cunning, excited, it made the excitement flare in Harry’s own chest.

            And he had been staring at Draco a little too long. Harry turned away, blinking. He took the potion on a strict schedule, which meant he could only have another vial when a full two weeks had passed from the time he’d taken the last one. But right now, he fervently wished that wasn’t the case.

            I don’t like the way I’m looking at him. I don’t like that part of myself.

            Ginny’s face floated before his eyes. Harry forced himself to stand a few minutes with his head hanging and his breath coming softly, despite the distracting, eager faces of people outside the shop. He was all right now. He could control his emotions. He had made an attempt to better himself. If it turned out not to be enough, he would take other steps.

            He just—even if he wanted to pursue Draco, it would need to be on something other than the basis of physical attraction.

            A clock Draco had hanging above the counter chimed seven precisely. Harry opened his eyes and cast the spell that would unlock the front door of the shop.

            People spilled inside: witches with wide, greedy eyes and small children beside them; reporters snapping pictures of the apothecary as if that would reveal something vital about the brewing process; older wizards who were probably on several potions already to control baldness. Numerous people stopped to shake his hand. Harry put his brain elsewhere for the moment and spoke the same few inane, welcoming words over and over, struggling to keep his feet in the rush.

            He did manage to turn and face the counter for the moment when Draco announced, “And the first Desire potion goes for twenty Galleons to Roderick Foley. Yes, yes, sir, no need to thank me, but if you wanted to try the potion right in the shop, I would have no objections.”

            Mr. Foley had no objections either, Harry saw with a faint smile. He had already uncorked the vial and held it in front of his mouth. But he did stop to announce to the rest of the shop, “I think the thing I loathe most about myself is my fear of using spells more powerful than Lumos. Bloody embarrassing when you have to get a house-elf to do everything for you.”

            He gulped eagerly, spilling a few drops of the potion into his beard, and then closed his eyes and waited. Harry craned his neck, watching with interest. He’d never had the chance to watch someone actually drink the Desire potion, since Draco had done it at home and Hermione had locked herself in the loo to do it.

            Mr. Foley took a deep, grasping breath. Then he opened his eyes, drew his wand, and said in a loud, deep voice, “Gloria amplius!”

            A crackling glow, half-water and half-fire, shot away gamboling from his wand, and formed itself into a picture of a dragon such as Harry knew existed nowhere in the world: golden, smooth and shiny and friendly, without horns or plated scales. It opened its mouth and gazed around with happy, satisfied eyes, then shot towards the roof and flew around the room, wings beating a dazzling rhythm. Harmless light shot from its jaws and raked over dancing, squealing, laughing patrons.

            Harry turned his gaze from the illusory dragon to Draco’s face, and found the smile there—self-satisfied, proud, triumphant—quite as beautiful to watch as the Gloria spell.

*

            Lilith: Thanks for reviewing!

            Ritinha: Thanks! There will be some discussions with Hermione in this story, but fewer than in the last.

            Paigey007: Thanks for reviewing!

            Mangacat: Cordelia and Charlemagne are wary of Draco, but they don’t think he’s dangerous politically unless he’s allied with Harry—and as you say, that’s something that will take effort from both of them.

            rAiNwAtEr: Thank you!

            Moyima: Glad to see you reviewing! Hope you enjoy the second chapter, as well.

            Thrnbrooke: As you can see, essentially, Draco will whore himself to Daphne so she’ll help. He doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t have much choice.
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An Alchemical Discontent