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Currents of Silver	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 7453 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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            Draco held his temper and his tongue until he was alone in the bedroom that Severus and Potter had decided he was worthy of. Then he sat down hard on the bed and turned his face to the wall.
            He had built a reputation as a worthy Auror, not necessarily the cleverest but the most dogged. He always followed his prey closely and brought them in with a minimum of lives lost. The others would never like him, but they respected him. No one whispered words like “Death Eater” anymore when Draco walked by.
            But a few moments in Potter’s presence and he was reduced to a child again.
            Draco reached down to take his boots off, carefully blanking his mind and relaxing his breathing. He had learned that first from Bellatrix when she taught him Occlumency, and added to it since through constant meditation practice. He looked around the room, allowing his senses to feast on the unfamiliar place while keeping his thoughts in abeyance.
            The room had simple wooden walls, unadorned except for the pictures, four total. Above the door hung a small, clumsily stitched representation of sailing ships on a sea. Draco snorted. He was sure that was a gift from one of the Weasleys. Not only was it clumsy, no one else would think of knitting a picture.
            On the far side of the bed was an enormous painting that came down almost to the floor. No matter how he looked at it, Draco couldn’t understand what it was meant to be. It only resembled an abstract swirl of green and purple. Probably Muggle.
            On the wall opposite from the bed was the only painting in the room Draco was prepared to admire. Prepared to admire, which didn’t mean he would. It showed a dusky green clearing in a wood, and something just preparing to step into it from the shadows. The thing had a long black leg that ended in a cloven hoof. Draco could admire the restraint and skill shown there.
            He hadn’t decided if he should yet.
            Above the bed was yet a fourth picture, this one a tiresome vase of purple flowers with a pair of glasses lying next to it. Draco had seen those things before in Muggleborn homes, and knew they were called still lifes. A pathetic Muggle attempt to portray the life that real wizarding paintings and portraits had instinctively.
            Then there was a small end table next to the bed, and a chair with a knitted red blanket on it in the corner, and a window that Draco spelled firmly shut. He had no desire to look out into the enchanted view of a Muggle cityscape that Potter and Severus seemed to prefer.
            Draco sighed. His attempt to calm himself down was shot once he began noticing how shoddy everything was. He reclined back on the bed and carefully stretched out his arms, then his legs. It would have to take the place of his usual training exercises. He had no room here for the precise turns, spins, and kicks that would have kept his muscles in good shape. Besides, too many thumps and he would probably make Potter stomp in and demand to know what he was doing.
            Draco sighed and rolled slowly over on his side as he stuck one arm above his head and stretched it to his fullest extent. The minute he’d solved the Argent case and had the killer safely in hand, he planned to retreat from the Muggle world and leave Severus and Potter to enjoy it.
            He could forget the little flares—like heartburn—that happened every time he saw Severus. He could forget the last moments—like wasp stings—that he’d interacted with Potter.
            In one way, it would have been fitting if the last time Draco had seen him before this was at Severus’s bedside in Hogwarts. It was after that that Severus and Potter had become lovers, and Draco had felt the burning hope in him turn to a thin wisp of smoke.
            But there had been one other time.
*
            Draco leaned against the stone wall and breathed as softly as he could. He had learned that the creature tracking him could hear remarkably well.
            A rattling hiss sounded from down the corridor. Draco froze at once, one hand clutching at the stone wall and the other on his wand.
            Perhaps going into the magically-appearing forest at the edge of Hogsmeade so he could investigate the rumors of the monster and the labyrinth at the center hadn’t been such a smart idea after all.
            Instincts and training combined to gang up on him, and Draco ducked and rolled on the floor just as a heavy, clawed black paw smashed the wall above his head. It was coming from inside the wall. Draco swore as he scrambled to his feet. He might as well make all the noise he liked now. The bloody thing knew where he was.
            The creature heaved itself out of the remains of the wall as Draco stood at bay, calling up the strongest Shield Charms he knew. The beast resembled a cat as far as its legs went, but there the resemblance ended. The heavy head was a goat’s, with blazing golden eyes and curling horns, and the neck was a swan’s. Draco hadn’t known that when he first faced it, and the thing had got in a few lucky bites from the way it could twist.
            The body that overlapped the legs and ran from the neck to the tail was a turtle’s heavy shell. None of Draco’s strikes had managed to dent that. And the tail was a snapping scorpion’s stinger. Draco swore again.
            Couldn’t the Dark wizards obey the Experimental Breeding Ban? Just once?
            The creature crouched low when it saw him. Draco wearily prepared himself for another charge. He had so far managed to keep the creature from stinging him or ramming him with its horns, but he knew his luck couldn’t last much longer.
            Then a spell he didn’t recognize darted down the corridor, curled around the corner, and stung the creature in one golden eye. The beast tilted its head back with a roar of agony and then whirled around—Draco ducked its tail and one leg—to stare towards where the spell had come from.
            “You! Ugly! Yeah, you.”
            Draco wanted to put one hand over his eyes. He knew that voice. He didn’t know what it was doing here, but that was another matter.
            The creature made a surprised, grunting sound. Draco peered bleakly around the thing’s legs, and saw Harry Potter stroll around the corner his spell had come from. He was swirling his wand. A ribbon of color trailed it.
            Draco felt his eyes widen. He recognized that spell, but he couldn’t believe Potter would use it in close quarters.
            Then again, it was Potter, and Potter did crazy things.
            “Yeah,” Potter said to the creature, which was concentrating so intently on Potter that it didn’t seem to notice Draco now. “I said you. You’re ugly.” He gave the word a twist that made Draco immediately suspect it was the key word of a Compulsion Charm.
            Draco hadn’t known those could work on animals, but maybe the creature being magical was enough to make it work. The goat head roared, and then the creature twisted its neck and snapped at Potter the way it had with Draco. Draco winced. The mouth was more like a beak, and he could tell it was aiming to break Potter’s wand in half.
            Potter leaped nimbly aside, not seeming to care that he dashed himself against the wall and the creature’s front leg. Then he ducked under the taloned slash that that paw tried to give him, and leaped. Some magic carried him up until he landed in the middle of the creature’s back.
            The beast tried to sting him without seeing him, and then gave a bleating roar of agony. Draco wasn’t sure what had happened, but he thought it likely that the beast had stung itself in the back of the neck.
            His feelings rocked towards hope. He would never have tried such a thing, but if the creature was vulnerable to its own poison—
            He didn’t get the chance to find out if it was or not. The creature began dancing madly, trying to crush Draco under its paws, and Draco had to hurtle forwards and down and under. He didn’t know how he did it himself, only that he was in safety and turning to fire a Blasting Curse at the beast’s underbelly. He hadn’t really tried that before. Maybe it would be more vulnerable than the turtle shell itself.
            “That’s the way to do it!”
            Draco nearly didn’t cast the spell. Potter had vaulted down from the creature’s back again, and had spun to look at Draco. His eyes blazed in a way that made it clear he was dancing on the mad edge of exhilaration.
            But then Potter waved his arms and yelled like he was trying to scare a bull into running, and Draco decided that meant it would be a good idea to cast.
            His Blasting Curse hit the creature’s underbelly and lifted it strongly enough to smash into the ceiling. Draco stared. He hadn’t cast that hard. He didn’t know if a single person could cast that hard. He glanced instinctively at Potter.
            Potter nodded and winked, and Draco decided that meant he’d cast at the same time. Then he ran towards Draco, and Draco got the hint and whisked away with him down one of the labyrinth’s tunnels.
            Potter turned and twisted in seemingly random directions, but given that Draco didn’t have any better idea of where to go, he willingly kept up with him. At least Potter didn’t seem to be leading him down any dead ends.
            And behind them, the corridor was quiet. The beast’s bleating had faded. It didn’t sound inclined to come after them anymore.
            Potter abruptly stopped, cocked his head to the side for a minute, and cast a sudden spell at the wall. Draco leaped back as the stone turned to mud and rained down on his head, but Potter’s hand was on his arm, steadily pulling him out of the way and up to the surface. Draco spluttered and choked as mud got into his mouth, though.
            A spell of his own cleared that, but didn’t do anything about his hair. Draco felt Potter’s wand moving over him, cleaning the mud there and then checking him for injuries with what Draco recognized as diagnostic spells. Draco leaned on the stump of a tree and stared around.
            The magically-appearing forest was smoldering around him. Sometime between when he’d entered the labyrinth and now, someone had set a ton of the trees on fire.
            “Your doing?” he asked Potter.
            “Shhh.”
            Draco opened his mouth to say that he didn’t need to be quiet, he was totally fine, and then yelped. There was a sudden slice of pain down his collarbone, and when he glanced to the side, he saw the mark of the beast’s claws there. One of the talons on the outer side of the paw must have caught him, and the adrenaline hadn’t let him feel it until now. He winced as Potter gently sealed it up and then cast another charm Draco knew was one to ward off infection.
            “There.” Potter stepped back and smiled at him. “I can’t find any other wounds or broken bones. You’re damn good at what you do, Auror Malfoy.” He gave Draco a small salute of the kind Aurors often exchanged, although not always with Draco.
            Draco blinked and pulled himself slowly up off the stump. He had thought Potter was going to say Draco was lucky. “What happened to the forest?”
            “It started burning about half an hour after you went in.” Potter frowned and shook his head. “I was here visiting Honeydukes, and someone mentioned that you’d gone that way, and they thought a few people from the village might have wandered in, too. So I went in to see if anyone needed help.”
            Draco bristled a little. “You didn’t think I was competent to handle it on my own?”
            “Strangely,” Potter said, “I don’t think magical forests that start burning on their own are part of the standard Auror training class.”
            Draco wanted to agree, but his pride was still stung. “You didn’t need to rescue me.”
            “No,” said Potter. “I wanted to.”
            Draco stared. Potter stared back. It was so obvious that he wouldn’t let Draco say the right thing or believe his words in the right way that Draco found himself falling back on another source of outrage.
            “I thought you’d left the Aurors because you weren’t good at it,” he said. “Battle or something, other than against the Dark Lord.” Potter’s mouth curled a little, and that was another reason for Draco to distrust and dislike him, because he obviously despised Draco for being afraid of a name he’d always been taught to be afraid of. “But you were wonderful in there. How could you have left?”
            “Being good at something doesn’t mean liking it.”
            The words were soft enough that Draco would have tried to question them in someone else, but he didn’t care that much about Potter’s reasons. “Do you know how many more cases we could have solved if you’d stayed? How many lives we would have saved?”
            Potter abruptly stalked straight up to him. Draco drew his wand, tired and panting though he was. Humiliatingly, Potter didn’t even pay attention to it. He simply leaned forwards until his nose was pressed against Draco’s.
            “How many lives would they have lost if I hadn’t become a Healer?” he whispered. “How many other people would have died because another Healer couldn’t close their wounds or recognize their condition in time? I’m good at being a Healer, and I like it, and going against the rules is sometimes encouraged because death and disease don’t always play fair. I would never have fit in among the Aurors, not for long. Don’t act like your insecurity is my fault.”
            Draco stared with his mouth open. Then he snapped it shut and shoved Potter.
            Of course, the bastard had to be graceful enough on his feet that he only rolled back and came up without falling. But now his eyes were quiet and malevolent and he turned away without speaking, walking back towards Hogsmeade.
            “You haven’t told me what happened to the other villagers!” Draco yelled after him.
            “Find out for yourself.” Potter didn’t look over his shoulder or slow down.
            Left alone in the middle of the burned forest with the mysterious stone labyrinth under his feet and his chest hurting far more than his collarbone, Draco snarled and cast a Chain Lightning Charm at the ground, by way of relieving his feelings. He was almost happy when it shocked his toes a little.
            Fucking Potter.
*
            Now, in the back room of Severus and Potter’s home that they so obviously kept for unwanted guests—why stick all these paintings that no one in their right mind could love here, otherwise?—Draco opened his eyes and slowly surfaced. His meditation hadn’t accomplished exactly what he wanted it to, in that he was still tense.
            But thinking about it, he could still use that. He could sleep this way, since he’d had practice in high-stakes situations like waiting to ambush a smuggler, and he could use it to make his mind sharper as he pursued this case in the Muggle world.
            After all, the sharper he was about capturing the Argent killer, the sooner he could leave the man who irritated him most and the man he could have had, and go back to the world that actually respected him.
*
            Harry grimaced and picked up the sheaf of parchment that Malfoy had brought along on the case. It had been sitting in the middle of the kitchen table this morning. Severus had been the only one there, sipping his morning hot chocolate from a small cup and staring remotely off into the distance.
            Harry knew what that meant. This little tableau had been arranged for his benefit. The case was here, but Malfoy wasn’t.
            And yes, he was going to look at it, Harry thought, darting a quick glance at Severus and then separating the sheets. But that didn’t mean he was going to use himself or his patients as bait for the killer, which seemed to be what Malfoy was angling for.
            The case itself had gruesome enough descriptions that Harry was soon flinching and giving up any plans to eat that morning. The photographs he put into their own little pile over to the side; they were all so similar that they didn’t really tell him anything, and so disgusting that he was in danger of vomiting already.
            The descriptions of the cases themselves made Harry shake his head. He didn’t even know he was doing it until Severus murmured, “Is there a problem? Did Mr. Malfoy leave something out?”
            “He wasn’t the one who did,” Harry said absently, and turned over the sheet he was reading to look at the back. Yes, there was the briefest description of the room where the dead girl had been found, and it made him sigh. “Whoever was working these cases before just didn’t put down enough information about the place. That was where I—well, where I thought one of the connections might be. But if there was any kind of evidence in the murder sites, or reasons why the killer chose these places, it didn’t get written down.”
            “Hmmm.”
            Harry didn’t look up. He knew what he would say, and Severus’s eyes had too much effect on him in this kind of mood. Instead, he continued reading the descriptions.
            The only benefit from the wizards who worked the case not knowing about the Muggle victims until later was that they had more carefully described them, because there were all sorts of things that stood out to them in a Muggle environment which might not in the wizarding world. But still. People had died outside—or been found there—and in their bedrooms, in alleys, near the wizarding world and far from it, in London and little villages. The places didn’t make a good connection, either. And they were all different ages, both male and female, although only a few children.
            Harry had been trained to spot patterns, working as both an Auror and a Healer, but this case seemed to have only the silver bands. The photographs of those were no good, either. Harry cast spells that enlarged the photos, and they showed only complete, blank metal, with no etchings or letters or anything like that.
            And while there was a link and a similarity between the victims in that the killer had always put the silver bands around their upper left forearms, that became a dead end when it was such a plain clue.
            Harry, almost desperate, shuffled through the parchment again and began writing names down. He at least wanted to know those, and maybe—possibly—he could spot connections between last names that Aurors might have missed, although he really, really doubted that. There was the faint chance that murdered Muggles might be related to Muggleborns who had changed their names on deciding to stay in the wizarding world, but that was one thing he did trust Malfoy to have investigated thoroughly.
            Hailey Fortune. Abilene Orell. Rhonda Roades. Russell Young…
            Harry filled most of a page with them, side-by-side. He stared. Then he shook his head and began to list them down the page.
            And then, then he froze.
            “What is it?”
            Give Severus that much justice, Harry thought, and licked his dry lips. Even when he thinks that I’m doing something wrong and should give Malfoy more of a chance, he recognizes me being afraid.
            “Look at this,” he whispered, and pointed to the list of names as they marched down the page.
            Severus came to look over his shoulder. He saw it as soon as Harry did: the message that the names spelled if listed down the page, via the first letters of the victims’ first and last names.
            HARRY POTTER I AM COMING FOR YOU BE READY FOR ME NO
            Harry leaned back, breathing so fast that it felt as if he’d been running a race. But he reached over his shoulder and found Severus’s hand waiting for his clasp, and that was enough for the moment.
            “I’m still not going to allow him to put any of my patients in danger,” Harry said after a moment.
            “Of course not.”
            Harry closed his eyes. That cool certainty was what he had fallen in love with, ages ago, back when he had still thought that he could be an Auror trainee.
*
            There was never a good time to visit Severus Snape, not the impatient man who had survived Nagini’s bite, but Harry thought this moment was particularly bad.
            He had come to Snape’s isolated little house on the outskirts of a Bulgarian forest because the Auror Department was still obsessed with uncovering how he’d managed to survive Nagini’s death, and because Snape wasn’t in his usual haunts. The Aurors thought he must have invented some great antivenin, and they wanted it thanks to the development of a new spell that imitated a poisonous snake bite.
            That Snape had told no one how he’d survived Nagini, and that he was unlikely to reveal it to Harry if he did decide to tell someone, didn’t seem to matter to the Aurors, Harry thought bitterly. He’d rapped on the door several times now, and he’d finally leaned forwards and peered through one of the gloomy little windows, using his wand to create a small hole in its protective enchantments large enough for one eye.
            The interior of the house didn’t look much like a lab, the way Harry had thought it would. It had a lot of couches and tables and benches instead, and Snape was standing in front of the tallest table, staring intently down at something on it. Something long and thin and—
            Harry nearly went over and hammered the door down again. Snape had a person chained on his table!
            But even as Harry watched, the person’s hands flailed up and then came down again, bound by the chains, and a long, chilling howl drifted up from its throat. Harry swallowed and slowly eased back from his crouch.
            He didn’t know how, since it was full daylight and not full moon, but somehow Snape had engineered a werewolf transformation on that table.
            Harry paced back and forth outside the house, waiting for Snape to finish his experiment. But long minutes passed, and nothing happened, not even another howl. At last Harry’s curiosity got the better of him and he went to the window and put his eye to the hole.
            There was an eye looking back at him.
            Harry jumped away, swearing, and slipped awkwardly in the snow. His arse came down on the ground with a crunch that was only comforting in one way: Harry was sure Snape would have heard that.
            The door to the little house opened. Harry rolled onto one knee, ready to meet anything from a charging werewolf to a tirade of collected scorn from Snape.
            But Snape only stood there and looked at him without speaking for some moments. Then he nodded, as if he had expected Harry, and moved aside. “You had better come in,” he said, in the deep voice he’d had since Nagini.
            Harry trod cautiously inside, looking around. He saw the same tables and benches as before, but no sign of the werewolf.
            He turned to Snape, thinking he might as well get the embarrassing part of the business over quickly so he could return to London. “The Aurors wanted me to ask you,” he began.
            But someone moved over to the side, and Harry leaped and turned around like a cat. He could feel Snape watching him in amusement, but he didn’t actually care. He should have sensed that someone else was in the room at once. He’d thought his training was at least good enough for that.
            Then he realized the person was harmless, or at least looked like it, a tall man in a long red robe. He had shaggy dark hair and brown eyes that blinked continuously, as if he’d just woken up. He yawned at Harry and glanced at Snape.
            “Sorry,” said Harry. “I wouldn’t have intruded if I’d realized you had a guest.”
            “No,” said Snape. “You would only have spied at the window.”
            Harry started to snap something else, but the man turned his head and smiled at Snape, and Harry saw the amber gleam to his eyes. It wasn’t much, just a short catch that was there and then not there, but it still made Harry realize something.
            That was the werewolf. He made him transform and then turned him back again. How?
            The man turned to Harry and held out his hand. “Ernest Glover.”
            “Harry Potter,” Harry said, and was impressed when the man’s eyes didn’t widen and he didn’t start blubbering something about what an honor it was to meet Harry. Then again, Glover’s English had a bit of an accent. Maybe he didn’t come from a country where they knew much about Harry Potter.
            “I was going,” Glover murmured. “I think I’m well enough for the Apparition, and I wouldn’t want to keep you from your appointment with Sir Severus.” He smiled at Snape again.
            Snape, astonishingly, turned and loomed over the man with his eyes narrowed. “You won’t Apparate right now and ruin all my hard work,” he said. “You know that the residue on your skin might interact badly with magic for at least two hours.”
            “But I feel so much better!”
            Harry thought privately that Glover didn’t look in condition to be Apparating anywhere. Snape seemed to think the same thing, because his face took on the harsh lines Harry remembered so well.
            “Who is the Potions brewer who just cured you of lycanthropy?” Snape whispered harshly.
            Harry sat down. He missed the bench just behind him and the plain wooden couch off to the side and simply dropped straight to his arse on the floor. Neither Snape nor Glover seemed to pay the slightest bit of attention to him.
            “That’s why I want to go home!” Glover argued. “To let them all see me—to let Natasha know—”
            “And then you will end up not a werewolf, but Splinched,” said Snape, and managed to make his loom more ominous without moving. “I will not allow my work to go to waste. No.”
            Glover frowned, but even that seemed softer and more dazed than it should have been. Of course, Harry thought, his head whirling, if he had just gone through transforming into a werewolf and then had that be his last-ever transformation, he would be dazed. Glover finally sat down on a bench and pulled the robe around him with a martyred sigh.
            Snape turned to Harry with a small smirk. Harry was sure that him revealing he had a werewolf cure was on purpose. He could easily have made up some other lie to tell in front of Harry if he’d wanted to.
            “When did you develop this?” Harry asked. “Do people know about it? How soon can you market the potion?’
            “It is not a potion,” Snape said. “Or not entirely. It involves a procedure and a ritual, and I can only cure one person at a time. So far, Ernest is only the third one who has trusted me to conduct the ritual.” He threw a proprietary glance at Glover.
            Harry nodded slowly. He could suppose that, if the ritual was painful, it wouldn’t matter how much the person in question trusted Snape; there would still be plenty of people reluctant to undergo it. And for some werewolves, maybe the pain they knew was the better choice.
            Snape leaned back with his arms folded and studied Glover. The coolness in his eyes didn’t match the sharp way that he watched every movement Glover made, and how he swung his hands between his knees.
            Snape, who hated werewolves, had decided to treat them.
            Harry wasn’t naïve. He didn’t think Snape had decided to do it out of the goodness of his heart, and the way he watched Glover might have as much to do with concern about his professional reputation as concern about the man’s safety. But still, he had undertaken a great deal of difficult and dangerous research that would mostly benefit magical creatures and human beings he had no reason to care for.
            It was—strange, Harry thought, staring down the length of his wand, and thinking about how reluctant he’d been to come here on the Auror Department’s behalf. Even if he didn’t like Snape, even if he simply wished that Snape would tell them the truth and make them go away and stop assigning Harry this mission.
            He had suspected for a while that he didn’t want to be an Auror, but what else was he going to do? There was no other career half so suited to him, no other career that would let him help that many people.
            Then Harry paused.
            That’s a little ridiculous, isn’t it? Snape managed to help people, and he focuses on potions and research. And rituals, apparently.

            Harry turned the idea over in his mind. Of course, helping people escape from criminals or take their revenge was one way of doing it. He had never doubted that even when he began to dread going to training or rolled his eyes in private at the self-importance of some of their Auror instructors.
            But what other ways could he do it? Give people happiness, the way Snape had Glover? Ease their lives?
            “Potter. What did you want to talk to me about?”
            Harry started and looked up. Apparently having decided that Glover wouldn’t collapse in the next second, Snape had switched from staring at him to staring at Harry. One eyebrow crept further up his face as Harry stood there instead of speaking.
            “Have you Splinched your brain on the way?”
            “Things might be easier if I had,” Harry muttered, standing up. “Anyway. Sorry to waste your time, Snape. It was the usual question.” He smiled at Snape. “But I don’t plan to let anyone waste either of our time again.”
            He stepped out of the cottage and left before Snape’s baffled look could turn into a demand for explanations. And as he went, he smiled to himself.
            This had been a long time coming, so it wasn’t like visiting Snape had been the only factor in his decision. But Merlin, it felt good to know that Snape was part of the final catalyst for making that decision.
*
            I set my life going thanks to him, once. Harry squeezed hard at Severus’s shoulder. I can do it again. He’ll advise me, and he would never ask me to put my patients in danger, not because they’re them, but because I’m me.
            “All right,” Harry said. “I think—I think I can work with Malfoy. I think I have to. Can you call him in?”
            Severus raised one eyebrow. Harry knew what that meant. To show real commitment to working with Malfoy, Harry should be the one to do it.
            With a sigh, Harry stood and walked back to the guest bedroom. Malfoy was in the middle of a long stretch against the wall. He looked at Harry without an expression. Harry wondered for a moment if it was the way he would have looked if Harry had stayed in the Aurors.
            “Yeah,” Harry said a moment later. He swallowed. “The murderer seems to be after me, specifically. He left a really creepy message embedded in the names of his victims. I’ll help you.”
            There continued to be no expression on Malfoy’s face for extensive moments, long enough that Harry really did think he was going to be a prat and turn away for no discernible reason. Then he lowered his leg from its position against the wall and nodded.
            “Good,” he said softly.
            Harry nodded back and went away, with the sensation that he’d been carrying a large block of ice that he could finally dump in hot water to melt.
            That’s one thing settled, anyway.
*
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