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A Potion Named Desire	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 10877 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- 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.

Chapter List
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Thank you again for all the reviews!

Chapter Seven—Slips

            “Now, now, Draco, no reason to look so wary. Can’t a creditor check up on her favorite brewer, and ensure that his work is going smoothly?” Cordelia Nott smiled at Draco, and reached out as if she would squeeze his hand. “That’s all I require, some assurance.”

            Draco managed to miss her hand by the expedient of twisting his body slightly, as though he needed more room to edge into the chair on his side of the table. Cordelia didn’t seem offended. She simply watched him with a faint smile, and then folded her fingers in front of her and chirped, “So. About that reassurance?”

            Draco took a look around the restaurant before responding. The Dragon’s Dream was even more private and exclusive than the last place he and Cordelia had met; it had windows that shone like dark, faceted jewels, providing a view to the outside that was tinted as if it with twilight, but which permitted no one else to see inside, and its walls glowed with subtle Confundus Charms that would keep out anyone who tried to enter without a reservation. The décor itself was simple at first, until one realized that the pattern of repeating dragons twining around the legs of the tables and the base of the walls varied slightly each time. Here a dragon had a pattern of scales typical of an Antipodean Opaleye—Draco thought he ought to be an expert on that by now—and here it was a Hungarian Horntail, though seated in the same posture. And as one’s eye proceeded around the room, it became increasingly hard to tell what was a stream of slender flame, what a coiling neck, what a reaching leg.

            Supposedly, the original idea for the restaurant had been to make the diners think they were eating inside a dragon’s belly. Draco was just as glad that no investors had accepted that.

            He faced Cordelia again, whose eyes had narrowed but whose face was extremely pleasant. “Why, Draco,” she said. “One might almost think you didn’t want to talk to me.” She leaned nearer and lowered her voice. “One might almost think you had bad news to report, in fact. But given how happy you’ve looked in the past month, and the encouraging letters you’ve sent me, I know it can’t be that.”

            “As a matter of fact,” Draco said, deciding that honesty could take its place among his weapons this morning, “I did get interrupted at a delicate, tricky step in the brewing. I could have wished for lunch tomorrow instead of today.” He nodded to the waiter who had come up beside him, and ordered a bottle of Effervescence, a wine made from grapes that grew on the bodies of decaying dragons, a specialty of the house, and turtle soup. Cordelia had a few crumbs in front of her, and ordered only more wine.

            “You are telling me many remarkable things in your letters,” Cordelia said, and her nails made her wineglass ring. “Such wonderful things. Marvelous, one might almost say.”

            Draco bared his teeth. Of course she would accuse him of lying; she had no idea how remarkable the Desire potion really was. Well, let her wonder. When she held the first sample in her hand, then there would be time enough for praise and admiration.

            I wonder what she most loathes about herself, what the potion would remove for her? Draco decided that he would like to be around when she drank it, assuming it didn’t involve a risk to life and limb for him to be so.

            “I am very happy,” he said blandly. “That much is true. I never expected to find help in the oddest corner of the British wizarding world. The Harry Potter I knew in school never had much brewing skill, and yet here he is, helping me with this potion!” He spread his hands wide in mock amazement. “It’s only more proof that the years can alter someone for the better, if he lets it happen.”

            Cordelia regarded the table with a faint smile. “I suppose that you’ve thought of what Potter’s name and reputation will do to boost the sales of the potion?”

            “Such looking ahead would be premature of me,” Draco said smoothly. “The potion isn’t successfully brewed yet, after all.”

            A faint wrinkle of her eyebrows as she glanced up at him. “No, it’s not.”

            If that statement was meant to make him nervous, it succeeded. Of course, Draco had no intention of showing her it had. The waiter had brought his wine and soup. He sipped them and murmured compliments, all the time watching Cordelia’s fingers to make sure they got nowhere near his meal. He settled himself to eating—he was hungry—and decided that he might as well let her resume the conversation when she was ready.

            Cordelia watched him eat for longer than Draco would have thought she had patience to, like a cat at a mousehole—the way he watched for clues Potter dropped about the nature of his own potion, Draco thought. Then she said, “You realize that the Ministry would almost certainly want to place restrictions on the sale of such a potion.”

            “I do realize that, yes,” said Draco, who had seen her mouth start to open and already swallowed his latest spoonful of soup. “The question is whether they could, when—forgive me the pun—this potion will be such an object of desire for so many people.”

            Cordelia widened her eyes prettily. “Why, Draco! This talk of rebellion, of challenging the Ministry! I didn’t think it was like you.”

            And you just slipped, Draco thought, with violent satisfaction that he kept out of both his face and his hands as he turned back to his meal.

            Cordelia knew well enough that he had made his way in the world during the last seven years by nothing but rebellion, challenging the social norms that everyone would have expected him to follow, working for a living, brewing in ways that the more accepted apothecaries didn’t. She should not have spoken an outright lie. And she had a snap of brittle ice in her voice when mentioning the Ministry, when it should have been, as a pure-blood witch living mostly abroad, of no more importance to her than a buzzing fly.

            She did have ties to Charlemagne Diggory. For whatever reason, she supported him in his run for Minister, and she wanted to make sure that Draco and his potion didn’t end up making trouble for him.

            “I consider myself above the social gaffe of open rebellion, that’s true,” Draco said modestly, putting absolutely no inflection on any of the words.

            Cordelia reared back a little, staring at him. Draco ate more soup through a serene smile. If he had judged his tone right, as he should have, then she would be uneasy, but wouldn’t know what had triggered her unease. And, of course, searching for it openly would only put her more at risk.

            She picked up her wineglass and took a small sip. Draco took the moment to steal a covert glance at her face, wondering, as he always did, what so attracted the poor fools who thought it possible to ride on the whirlpool of her personality and still escape her pull. As usual, he saw nothing spectacular. Potter had a more expressive face than hers, and a better smile.

            “You’re absolutely sure the potion will be finished by the summer solstice?” When Cordelia spoke again, it was with polite doubt, as much to say that Draco had defaulted on promises to her before.

            That wasn’t true, and Draco checked the swiftly rising anger it was meant to provoke in him. He flexed his fingers as though he’d been holding his spoon too long, picturing the anger leaving through the tips of his nails. Then he looked up at Cordelia with a soft smile that he knew was enigmatic, and said, “Positive.”

            She nodded to him, just a touch too sharply, and sat back to nurse her wine in silence and gaze down on the bustle of Diagon Alley through the windows, as though he had ceased to interest her already.

            Draco sipped, and sipped, and drank his soup daintily from the bowl of the spoon, and watched her, and in no way showed his glee.

*

            Harry had known that May would be difficult. This was the month Ron had died, the month his and Hermione’s lives had changed so drastically, and the month things had really begun to go wrong for her. Harry knew now that the tearless mask Hermione had adopted after Ron’s death wasn’t real.

            Still, he had thought the worst day would be the anniversary of the Quidditch accident itself. He hadn’t expected to get up on the first day of the month and find Hermione curled into a tiny ball under the covers of his bed, her arms wrapped around a pillow, sobbing as if her heart would break.

            Harry said nothing, because he knew from the depth of the sobs that she wasn’t in the mood for comforting platitudes. He sat down next to her and put a hand on the back of her neck instead. Hermione tensed, but when he didn’t try to hold her, she abruptly relaxed and began to weep once more.

            He lay down next to her, and fought his own grief for a moment—grief both for Ron and for the fact that his proud, strong Hermione had been reduced to this. He concentrated his mind on the potion that was going to help her; he and Draco got closer and closer every day, and made even greater strides on the afternoons Hermione was strong enough to help.

            Obviously, this wouldn’t be one of them.

            Harry continued to stroke her neck, and sometimes her hair, and gradually, as if by coincidence, she turned slowly towards him. Her eyes were tightly shut, but tears squeezed from beneath the lids anyway. Now and then she made a dry hiccoughing sound, a strange thing given all the moisture in her nose and throat. Harry held himself still—how much practice he’d had at this in the last few years, especially when his girlfriends had to tell him, tearfully, that they’d fallen in love with someone else—save for the regular, light motion of his hand.

            Hermione reached out and wrapped her arms around him.

            This was much better than her being in a fetal position, and it was something Harry knew he would never have achieved if he’d tried to coax her out of that position. He embraced her in return and held her steady, while she sobbed into his shoulder. If he could be nothing more than an anchor in a storm, then he would be that.

            He wasn’t sure how long he’d lain there, his only clue the grumble of his stomach that told him he’d missed lunch, when a peremptory knock on the door startled him. It was Malfoy, of course, come to brew. Harry frowned, and wondered for a moment how he could tell the git to go away. Ordinarily he would just have cast a charm that carried his voice outside the door of the flat, but his arms were wrapped around Hermione and his wand was trapped neatly beneath his hip.

            A moment later, Malfoy solved the problem by pushing the door of the flat open—he’d been keyed into the wards several weeks since—and then shoving at the door to Harry’s bedroom, complaining under his breath all the while.

            “Potter, when we both agree on one-o’clock, that’s when I expect you to be waiting—“

            He stopped at the sight of the sobbing Hermione, and stared. Hermione curled her face more firmly into Harry’s chest, as much to say that she couldn’t face Malfoy’s company right now. Harry quite agreed.

            “There’s an emergency here, Malfoy,” he said, making sure not to raise his voice, which would upset Hermione further, but putting steel behind each one of the words. “We won’t be brewing today. Sorry for the inconvenience this may have caused you. Come back on Tuesday.”

            He meant the last words to sting, and turned away, certain Malfoy wouldn’t want to stay. It was Harry’s weakness and not Hermione’s he had always delighted in exposing, and he must know, because he wasn’t stupid, that if he said anything about Hermione in the future, Harry would take his head off.

            Harry was startled when fingers brushed the nape of his neck, in the same place he’d first touched Hermione. He glanced back and saw Malfoy just withdrawing his hand, face pale and neutral as a cloud.

            “I’ll come back on Tuesday, then,” he said, with a small nod, and departed.

            Harry cradled Hermione in his arms for the rest of the day. By the time she finally fell asleep, his limbs were fantastically cramped, his bladder was full, and his stomach was aching with hunger. He managed to detach himself, for a miracle, without waking her, and went to use the loo. Then he ate a heavy meal and went back to the bedroom to fall asleep beside her. Propriety be damned when she needed him this much.

            Hermione’s ordeal exhausted him and took up his attention nearly as much as it exhausted her and took up hers. Even so, that was no excuse for what he later learned he had forgotten to do.

*

            Draco made sure his steps were firm, audible a good distance down the corridor from the door to Potter’s flat. If he was going to be turned away again, then maybe Potter could have the courtesy to come out and meet him this time, and explain why.

            You know why, last time.

            Draco frowned at the turn his thoughts had taken. He should have felt far more impatient with Potter than he did, letting Granger’s hysteria take him away from an important day of brewing. They had limited time and were so close to a fundamental change in the potion that Draco could almost taste it. Being so close, they should keep working steadily. Draco would have arranged to meet Potter every day if he hadn’t needed some hours for separate research and testing new combinations of ingredients.

            And yet, he couldn’t find it in his heart to scorn what he’d seen the other day. The emotion he’d felt most strongly, to his astonishment, was envy. He had no one who would hold him in his arms like that and shelter him from the world—no lover so close, no friend so true. He’d gone up and touched Potter before he’d been aware of it, just so he could feel like a part of that friendship for a moment.

            And you are becoming silly and sentimental, he scolded himself, and rapped firmly on Potter’s door. This time, it opened at once, but Potter only gave him a curt nod before he turned away again. Draco frowned, but stepped inside, deciding that Potter would have dismissed him at once if it was another “emergency” with Granger.

            “Hermione won’t be joining us today.”

            Draco frowned further. Something was wrong with Potter. He was pacing in circles as if his goal was to wear a hole in the carpet, and his hands were clasped behind his back, his face thunderous. It really did look as if he were struggling with a problem he’d thought about for days and still had no answer to. Draco let the door fall shut, and observed him carefully.

            There was high color in his cheeks Draco hadn’t seen before; even in the moments of most heated debate or most intense embarrassment in the brewing, when he made an elementary mistake, Potter hadn’t acted like this much of a child. His hands were wringing and traveling over one another, sometimes squeezing his wrists viciously, as if he sought relief from a painful operation. He hissed something under his breath in what Draco thought might be Parseltongue, and then drove a fist into his knee.

            “Something wrong?” Draco asked mildly.

            “I—no, nothing.” Potter shook his head and made a bee-line for the table in the center of the drawing room this time, where he had a cauldron hanging over a fire. Granger must be resting in the bedroom, Draco presumed. Potter stared at the cauldron for a moment, as if he’d forgotten what it was for, and then exhaled explosively and aimed his wand at it. A moment later, water filled it and began to bubble. “Sorry about that.” Potter’s words were clipped, and he kept his back to Draco as he spoke them.

            Draco stared for a moment, then put down the ingredients he was carrying on the table and said lightly, “Nature calling. I’ll be out in a minute.”

            Once in the loo, he locked the door behind him and spelled open the cabinet where Potter kept the doses of his own sludge-green potion. He counted the vials quickly, and narrowed his eyes with triumph when he finished. There were still fourteen of them, as there had been the last time he visited before Granger’s “emergency.”

            But Potter should have taken one of those vials between then and now. In fact, from what Draco knew of his two-week schedule, he’d been supposed to have one on the afternoon that Granger had got so hysterical. In the bedroom comforting her, he’d probably never heard his clock chime.

            So this is what Potter’s like when he’s off the potion. How very interesting. Draco turned to relieve himself, to make the lie truth, but didn’t take his eyes from the vials until he absolutely had to close the cabinet again. I think we’ll leave him off it for a little while longer, and see what happens.

*

            Harry didn’t know what was the matter with him. For one thing, his emotions seemed near boiling point. He had acted impatient with Hermione this morning, even though he knew perfectly well why she needed help and that it wasn’t her fault. That horrified him. He had managed to act calm around her for the rest of the morning, but then, while waiting for Malfoy, he had caught himself thinking about what cutting remarks he’d make if the git was late. And then there came a spiteful thought about Susan and Zacharias.

            And then Malfoy had walked in, and Harry found himself absorbing what he really hadn’t before, that the past seven years had only changed the other man’s appearance for the better. When he flicked his hair out of his eyes to address Harry, the motion exposed pale skin along his shoulders and collarbones. Harry couldn’t decide why that would be so fascinating, but evidently it drew his eye.

            Then there was forgetting to actually fill the cauldron with water and set it boiling. That was a mistake he’d never made before, and he flinched when he thought of the way Malfoy had raised an eyebrow about it.

            I have to calm down. I have to act like an adult. I’ve fought too hard and too long for this. I can’t let it go to waste.

            He smoothed a hand down the middle of his face and took a deep breath, though he couldn’t help jumping slightly as the door of the loo opened and Malfoy came back into the drawing room. He nodded at Harry and stepped past him to reach for one of the new ingredients he’d brought along, a red flower Harry didn’t recognize. His arm brushed along Harry’s shoulder, which had happened before, but only this time did it send a sizzle straight to Harry’s nerves. Vague imaginings, lustful thoughts that had no fantasies to back them up, darted through his head.

            Harry held himself rigidly in control as he moved a little out of the way. Malfoy didn’t seem to notice. He turned towards Harry instead, twirling the red flower in his fingers.

            “This is an anemone,” he said. “Used in many potions resembling the Draught of Peace, though not the Draught itself. And it has a particular virtue to it that I think we should use to replace the lavender petals.”

            Harry frowned. So far, they hadn’t discussed replacing the lavender petals with anything else, and he didn’t think they should do so now. But if Malfoy’s reason was persuasive enough, well, he could listen to it. “The blood-color? Is that why you want to put it in the potion?”

            Malfoy paused, just for a moment, but long enough to let Harry know he was surprised. “Yes,” he said. “Not only the color of blood, but associated with blood. In Greek mythology, it was the flower that sprang from the blood of Adonis, Aphrodite’s lover, after he was killed by a wild boar.” He turned to face the cauldron, which had already nearly surpassed the proper temperature for the boiling water, Harry saw with a frown. He flicked his wand again, and cooled the worst excesses of the fire. “I think the ingredients we’ve chosen so far have too much of an effect on the mind and the soul. We need to balance them with something that connects to blood, to flesh.”

            “And a purely symbolic effect is enough to do that?” Harry moved up beside Malfoy, to watch critically as he plucked the petals from the anemone, but was careful to leave enough space between them that they wouldn’t accidentally touch.

            “Copper’s association with Venus is also purely symbolic.” Malfoy shrugged, his clever, delicate hands still working. Harry glanced away as the undefined thoughts stormed through him again. “That doesn’t mean we won’t use it. And we should also use this.” He laid the plucked petals on the table and turned to Harry, a challenge in his eyes. “I want three whole petals in the potion, and one shredded to the same length that you used to cut the duckweed. Can you do that with the Diamond-Cutting Hex?”

            Harry grinned slowly, his blood firing at the challenge in Malfoy’s gaze. He raised his wand. “All the other ingredients are cut just the same?”

            “They are.”

            Harry whirled into the spells, staring all the while at the blood-red petals, filling his mind with their place in the spell and their virtue, to ensure he wouldn’t forget them when the moment of the Diamond-Cutting Hex came. And then it was there, and he did it, with even less conscious thought than usual, cutting one petal into segments three-eighths of an inch long, while the rest remained untouched and all the other ingredients fell apart just as usual.

            It was like being on a horse that carried him smoothly over all the obstacles in its path. It was like being an artist, able to create whatever sound he wanted, beauty and music flowing from his hands. It was—

            It was wrong. Too wild, too uncontrolled, too deeply tapping at the root of him.

            And that was the answer, of course. He hadn’t had his potion. He should have drunk it the day that Hermione had been overcome, and he hadn’t.

            Thinking about his potion, he lost control of the one he was brewing. A swirl of lavender petals joined the anemone in the cauldron when they should have remained on the table, and, without fanfare or noise, the potion exploded.

            Harry flung his arm over his eyes to shield his glasses from the rain of thick goop that followed. When he lowered it, it was to see Malfoy staring at him, his expression intense and furious, his hair slowly plopping gobs of the potion onto his shoulders.

            “Sorry,” Harry babbled, backing up a step. “I haven’t had my potion. I got distracted. Sorry,” he added, and then burst into the loo and opened the enchanted cabinet.

            See? he scolded himself as he poured the green sludge down his throat and massaged his throat to ease the swallowing. That’s a sample of what happens when you don’t keep up your obligations. And now you’ll have to practically grovel before Malfoy until he forgives you.

            Still, what most filled Harry was a profound sense of gratitude, edged with just a tint of dread.

            At least I took it before anything worse could happen.

*

            Js: Thanks for reviewing!

            Lilith: Oh, the potential for attraction is definitely there. But Harry and Draco don’t know each other well enough yet to explore it.

            Dezra: Thanks! There are rather large hints in this chapter, as you may have noticed.

            Mangacat: Well, the lack of a potion doesn’t seem to affect Harry’s magic that much, so maybe Draco won’t care. (Yeah, right).

            QueenBoadicea: Hermione’s in no condition to make such a demand. Harry is holding up against her, along with Malfoy; she knows that he won’t support her in this, when he really just wants Malfoy to make the potion with as little interference as possible.

            And she was doing better, but May will be very difficult for her.
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A Potion Named Desire