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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.

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Thanks again for all the reviews!

Chapter Nine—Smashing the Barriers

            “Someone named Charlemagne Diggory came to visit me the other day. Said that he’s running for Minister. Do you know who he is?”

            Draco was glad he’d only been holding one vial of a newly-brewed Draught of Peace a few inches above the table when Potter spoke those words. It dropped and rolled, but didn’t smash as it would have a few moments earlier. Draco blocked its progress with his palm and huffed out a deep breath, not yet trusting himself to turn and face the other man.

            “I reckon you do.” Potter sounded amused.

            Draco did turn then, drawing his shoulders back and forcing his face into its deepest scowl. Potter promptly took a step away from him and lifted one hand, blinking, as if to shield his eyes from Draco’s sudden attack. Draco felt a pulse of gladness. At least the idiot’s smile had faded.

            “Charlemagne Diggory is dangerous.” Draco spaced the words out precisely, wondering idly if he could put up a ward on Potter’s flat that would let him know if Diggory came near it again. Probably not; a wizard of Potter’s power would sense and remove it, and there went Draco’s chance of gaining his trust. “If he shows up again, you should refuse to talk to him. And notify me immediately, of course. Not the next time I come.” He folded his arms, hoping the move would look intimidating rather than defensive, and leaned forwards. “Do you understand, Potter?”

            “No.” Whatever the potion did for Potter, it didn’t diminish his curiosity. His green eyes sparked as he gazed at Draco, and he had taken up a stance with his legs spread slightly apart, as if braced for a physical battle. “Why is he dangerous? Why should it matter what he comes here for, and when he comes here?”

            “Don’t be stupid, Potter.” Draco wondered how much he would have to reveal in order not to make Potter behave like an idiot. Surely not everything.On the other hand, this is Potter we’re talking about. “You should know by now how much trouble Ministers can cause when they want to use you as a figurehead. Or did you forget Fudge and Scrimgeour so quickly?”

            Potter shook his head fast enough to make his hair whip around his face. “I haven’t forgotten a thing, Malfoy. What you’ve forgotten is that I haven’t heard of this person before. I wouldn’t have recognized him as anything more than Cedric’s cousin if he hadn’t told me why he came.”

            “Don’t you ever read the Prophet?”

            “Half of what’s in there is lies, anyway.”

            “Charlemagne Diggory is connected to Cordelia Nott,” Draco explained, praying for patience. Let him recognize that name without any more explanation from me, please. He ought to have paid attention just because he knows someone with the last name of Nott was in our year at Hogwarts. ‘That means he’s dangerous. If he’s not smart and credible on his own—and I have reason to believe he is—then her money and her instruction can make him so.”

            “Who’s Cordelia Nott?”

            Oh, for the love of God. But Draco didn’t feel as panicked as he’d expected when the moment came for him to reveal something so deeply personal. He was disgusted that Potter didn’t already know who she was independent of her connection to Draco, yes. Weary, yes. Amazed that Potter was such a political babe in the woods when he could have used his name to win himself anything he wanted, yes.

            But not panicked.

            “She’s Theodore Nott’s elder half-sister,” he said, and held Potter’s eyes, which was unusual for him, and should subconsciously tell the prat something was off even if Draco couldn’t find the words. “Independently wealthy, abroad on the Continent for the inconvenient years of the war. She wasn’t a Death Eater, but she is someone who’s always shown an interest in manipulating and controlling people. She returned to England quite suddenly, and Charlemagne Diggory, who was associated with her at one point in time, suddenly announced his candidacy for the Ministry.” He paused, evaluating the bored expression on Potter’s face, and knew there was nothing for it. “And she’s my creditor. One of the people whom I borrowed money from to help get my shop started. She’ll share in the marketing rights of the potion, since she commissioned me to make it.”

            He had known that would make a difference to Potter. What he hadn’t truly understood was what a dramatic difference it would be.

            Potter caught his breath as if he were choking down knife blades. Then he took a few steps, and magic like a wind caught Draco and pinned him to the opposite wall. He went with the push, never removing his eyes from Potter’s, and confident this couldn’t be too loud. Potter wouldn’t want to awaken the sleeping Granger.

            “This whole time?” Potter whispered harshly. “This whole time, when you’ve pretended to be interested in the potion for its own sake, you were really only doing it to repay your debts?”

            “You’ve never been in debt, so you underestimate the persuasiveness of the motive.” Draco arched an eyebrow. “And you mistake me. Cordelia agreed to forgive half my debt to her if I developed a new potion by the summer solstice—“

            “So that’s why you’ve talked about a deadline,” Potter muttered.

            “But she didn’t set the terms of the potion or know anything about what you were going to ask for my help on,” Draco continued. He was relieved to see the flush already subsiding from Potter’s cheeks, and his voice sounding more resigned. One thing Draco was growing absolutely certain about: the potion Potter took helped in chaining his anger somehow, though why he would have suffered such problems with his temper that he needed to chain it was beyond Draco’s ability to speculate. “It was just coincidence that she asked me to do this and then your offer arrived.”

            “An awfully big coincidence,” Potter said.

            “Listen.” Draco leaned forwards, testing the pressure that held him against the wall. Faded, he judged. “Does anyone but your close friends even know you take the potion?”

            Potter bit his lip and looked exasperatingly thoughtful. Draco wanted to say that he definitely hadn’t known, but kept silent. Potter would probably snap back that no one would talk about Potter to Draco, knowing his dislike of him.

            “No,” Potter said at last. “And certainly, nobody besides them knows what I take it for.”

            “Then accept that this was just coincidence.” Draco tried to catch and hold his eyes again, though Potter was now looking off to the side as though he found the walls fascinating. “They couldn’t have known I would go to you, and I’m sure they’re dismayed I did. Cordelia and Diggory probably suspect that I contacted you for some political purpose. And Cordelia has a partial description of the effect of the potion. They’re trying to court you to make sure that this unknown factor doesn’t disrupt the election.”

            Potter still looked doubtful. Draco added, “Trust me.”

            “Why?”

            Draco hissed under his breath. He had assumed that his growing faith in Potter, born out of the way they worked effortlessly together when brewing the potion and the way he had opened his magical core to Potter during the day Granger helped—a gesture that indicated a great level of subconscious trust—was returned.

            “Because I’m telling the truth,” he said. “Or the truth as I know it. And I’ll tell you more, if you favor me with some.” At this point, he wasn’t about to risk everything he had without some promise of a matching stake on Potter’s side.

*

            Harry stared at Malfoy. On the one hand, what he’d said about Charlemagne Diggory and Cordelia Nott made a great deal of sense, though Harry hadn’t heard of either of them before and would have to do some research.

            On the other hand, Malfoy hadn’t told Harry anything about his debts, either, and the part they must play in urging him to develop the potion. God knew what else he was hiding.

            But Harry wanted to know. He needed to know, for Hermione’s sake; he didn’t want doubts hanging between him and Malfoy and impairing their effectiveness as a team. And was giving up secrets to Malfoy such a great price? There were a few he’d retain, as he was sure Malfoy had some he wouldn’t speak. But this—

            Talking to each other as freely and as honestly as they could would help a great deal. Harry had seen it happen often enough in the past to be sure of that.

            He finally nodded and released Malfoy from the pressure of magic holding him against the wall. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to speak under Veritaserum?” he asked.

            Malfoy’s eyes glittered like packed snow. “If I have a promise from you that you won’t ask questions for the simple purpose of personal embarrassment.”

            Harry hid his surprise. He had expected Malfoy to refuse, and then they’d move into the conversation on each other’s word of honor. But of course Malfoy would have access to Veritaserum, as an independent apothecary, and if he was really concerned about the future of his business, he might be willing to take the risk.

            “All right,” Harry said as briskly as he could. “Then we’ll work as normal for today, but when you come back in a week, bring Veritaserum with you, as well as the knife necessary to make a blood oath.”

            Malfoy slowly inclined his head. His eyes still had that savage, cold glitter, and he never removed them from Harry’s face, even as he picked up the vial he’d brought along and said, “This is the Draught of Peace. I wanted to examine how closely the hellebore in it, during the final stages of the potion’s stability, resembles the hellebore in our potion.”

            They didn’t get much work done that day, both watching each other too distrustfully, or engaging in staring contests when they should have been attending to the bubbles and color of the Desire potion. But if it would get them past the barriers that lay between them eventually, Harry wasn’t sure he minded a lost day of work.

            Besides, perhaps Hermione would be well enough to sit in on the conversation next time.

*

            Draco stepped through the door into Potter’s flat with his breath coming irregularly. The vial of Veritaserum in his pocket seemed to weigh more than a millstone. The flint knife on a belt around his waist, the tool they’d need to complete the blood oath, was scarcely lighter.

            But finally, finally, they would move past the uneasy combination of distance and reckless trust that had bound them together so far. They’d thresh things out. They’d talk. Potter would understand the danger he was in from Cordelia and Diggory, and Draco would have the chance to quash a few doubts about how committed to this potion Potter was.

            Potter waited for him in the drawing room, with Granger on the couch. Her face was weary and pale, but her eyes alert, the way Draco had seen his mother look after one of her frequent painful headaches. She sat up when he came in and looked at Potter. Potter nodded, and Granger drew her wand.

            Draco physically forced himself not to react when the wand waved and a tingle of magic settled around his person—or around the knife on his belt, as he realized quickly. Granger was testing to see if it was the real thing. Since Draco had sought out the oldest flint knife he could find, he knew it was. He raised an eyebrow and waited until the blue glow had faded before he spoke. “Aren’t Gryffindors supposed to ask guests first, before casting spells on them?”

            “Shut up, Malfoy,” Potter snarled. For a moment, when he saw those green eyes stab at him, Draco thought Potter had forgotten to take his potion again, but then he uttered a sigh and said, “Sorry. But—I just realized how much of the camaraderie we’ve built up is nothing more than my trust in your greed and your trust in my love for Hermione. I want something more than that. It’ll have to be something more than that, if I’m going to get dragged into this maelstrom you see as inevitable.”

            Draco, who had seen nothing wrong with the relationship they’d built until Potter had displayed the political instincts of a warthog, just inclined his head in a small nod. Then he drew the flint knife from his belt, and—

            Granger cast a Summoning Charm. Draco scowled at her as it was ripped out of his hands and carried over to hers, where she could examine it at her leisure. “I would have given it to you if you asked,” he said, and suppressed a comment about Mudbloods never learning better no matter how much they were exposed to the manners of their superiors. Potter didn’t look as though he’d choose to be amused.

            “Shut up, Malfoy,” Granger said, proving that she and Potter shared a single brain between them, and then studied the knife for long moments more, carefully running her fingers over the grooves in its surface, made where flakes of stone had been chipped out. Draco held still, confidence returning as she frowned and stared harder. She wouldn’t find an imperfection. One reason Muggles hadn’t found all the flint knives thousands of years old was the wizard interest in them. Flint knives had been one of the first tools of humanity. That made them perfect for an ancient blood oath that called upon old cooperative and social instincts.

            Granger finally sighed and nodded at Potter. “It looks as though it’ll do, Harry.” She sounded disappointed.

            Potter didn’t show that he was, which made Draco decide their single brain must be flexible. He beckoned Draco over to the table where they often brewed, and took the knife from Granger. As he had promised, he had a tin bowl ready and waiting. He sliced the heel of his hand, and then Draco’s, and let their blood mingle and drip into the bowl in the moments before they pressed the wounds together.

            Draco hissed at the sting, but said aloud, “I give you my oath, as contained in this blood, to ask you no questions of an embarrassing or personal nature.”

            Potter repeated the words, and the blood beneath them bubbled once, then settled into a thick paste. It was a crude effect, but this was a crude oath—though not the less powerful for all that. Draco knew the effect had been compared, in more than one of his textbooks on the subject, to thick stone chains. They didn’t have to look pretty to hold you more effectively than iron.

            When he judged that enough seconds had passed for both Potter and Granger to feel impressed, he pulled the Veritaserum from his robe pocket. “And you’re ready for this now?” he asked. Potter nodded, his green eyes so shadowed that Draco added, “I’ll go first.”

            It was worth it, just for the way that Potter jerked and Granger leaped as if a bug had bitten her.

            But then Potter smiled, and reached out to take the vial from Draco with a hand that brushed his almost shyly. “Thank you,” he said, and hesitated long enough to warn Draco that something special was coming before he added, “Draco.”

            “We’re not friends yet,” Draco said. “But maybe we can be.” He sat down in the chair nearest to the tin bowl full of blood. “I’m ready. Three drops on the tongue, remember, not the whole vial.”

*

            Harry wanted to snap that he knew that, but he didn’t think it would be productive. He had already washed his hands, anticipating that Malfoy would complain about the taste of sweaty skin if he didn’t. He could sense Hermione watching tensely, critically, as he placed the drops on Malfoy’s tongue. The other man closed his eyes and swallowed, with no apparent attempt at deception.

            Apparent, Harry reminded himself. Hermione had warned him that a blood oath like this could sometimes spark unnatural feelings of trust, the connection it forged was so primal. He sat down in the chair opposite Draco, and waited until the gray eyes blinked at him, dazed and neutral, and the expression faded from the mobile face.

            “What is your name?” Harry demanded.

            “Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

            Of course it would be, Harry thought in resignation. Then he asked, “Is the story you told me about owing Galleons to Cordelia Nott true?”

            “It is.” Flat, emotionless, and though Harry was technically in Draco’s line of sight, the gray eyes stared to stare around his face anyway. It was creepy.

            Harry was tempted to ask how much Draco owed, but the wound on his hand promptly hurt. That was probably too personal a question, or maybe it would embarrass Draco, who certainly seemed to have enough pride in his business. “And do you think Cordelia really is supporting Charlemagne Diggory’s election as Minister of Magic?”

            He heard Hermione stifle a little gasp. He had told her the details of his previous conversation with Malfoy, but she had been in one of her deeper fits of depression, and he hadn’t been sure how well she heard. At least she was listening now, and understanding the implications, maybe better than he did himself. Harry felt a burst of pride in her.

            “I do.”

            “Why?”

            “Cordelia’s made many conquests.” Harry surmised Draco must not have been one of them, or the oath probably wouldn’t have let him talk about this. “Usually, they leave her broken in heart and fortune. Diggory survived. Why, I have no idea. But he’s rising suddenly, and she’s here in England—one place she always avoids, if only because she doesn’t want to come into contact with her family—and she’s been uneasy during the times I met with her.”

            Harry sat up. “Met with her?”

            “She met with me as a creditor, to talk about how much I owed her and about developing a potion to pay half my debt.”

            Harry half-shook his head. He shouldn’t be so surprised; Draco had mentioned that the last time he visited. It was this damn blood oath, really, forcing a sense of kinship to Draco on him that rebelled at the thought of betrayal. “Of course,” he murmured. “But what do you think Diggory really wants with me, if it’s not to use me as a figurehead to make himself more powerful?”

            “He really could want that,” Draco said earnestly, though Harry knew he would have added some more sarcastic remark if he were in his right mind. “But he’ll want something else, too—to find out how to use you, or tame you, or get you out of the way, so that you can’t interfere.”

            Harry frowned. “Why me?”

            “Because you’re developing the Desire potion. Cordelia knows I’m working with you. And she has, and Diggory has, if he’s smart, some idea about how much it could change the wizarding world as we know it.”

            “See?” Hermione whispered triumphantly.

            Harry sat back in his chair, rapping his fingers together. He knew that his own potion wasn’t addictive, and he presumed that the Desire potion wouldn’t be, either. But maybe it should be regulated, if it was so powerful.

            Now, how was he to do that without breaking his pledged word to Draco, that he would be the one to control the marketing and the distribution of the potion?

            By being involved, of course, Harry realized reluctantly. Draco had already tried to convince him that his magic was necessary for the continued brewing of the potion. Harry would have to see to it that yes, it would be necessary, and stay as close to Draco as possible, shadowing his movements to make sure neither the production nor the price got out of control. And he would have to face Diggory and Nott, since he in no way intended to back away from this project just because it had become dangerous. Hermione still needed her potion.

            “Draco,” he said.

            “Hm.” Flat, without a hint of question or trouble in it. Harry hated the sound.

            “Would you deliberately try to develop a potion that was addictive? Or dangerous to the people who took it?”

            “No.”

            Harry waited a moment, and then sighed as he remembered how literal people under Veritaserum could be, only giving answers to the questions asked, and not the ones implied. He prompted, “Why not?”

            “Because addictive potions are easy to make, or easy to make accidentally,” Draco said. “I’m an artist. I’d prefer to do the more difficult thing.”

            Harry smiled in spite of himself, and looked sideways at Hermione. “Can you think of anything else to ask him?”

            She shook her head, looking weary but determined. “That doesn’t mean I trust him yet.”

            “That’s perfectly fine,” Harry said, and then sat back to wait for the Veritaserum to wear off.

*

            Potter under Veritaserum wasn’t much different from Potter without it. His face looked a little more relaxed, but his eyes were still as calm as they normally were when he opened them, and he slumped in his chair just as he’d been doing before. Draco remembered the difference between this Potter and the potion-less one, and his curiosity about Potter’s potion increased exponentially.

            But the cut on his hand stung, and he remembered that he had promised not to ask any personal questions, which that most definitely was. Damn.

            Obedient to the strictures of the blood oath, he switched the direction of his thoughts and asked, “Why don’t you pay more attention to the political world around you?”

            “I don’t want to be reminded that it exists,” said Potter, and even his voice wasn’t much different, just slightly slower and flatter. “I had to deal with it enough during the war and the first two years after.”

            Draco nodded. An attitude that he never would have adopted himself, but one which made sense for the Gryffindor Boy-Who-Lived. “Would you start paying more attention to it if you had to, because Cordelia and Diggory could be a danger?”

            “Yes.”

            “And how much do you believe me about the connection between Nott and Diggory, and how dangerous they are?”

            “I only half-believed you before the Veritaserum. I fully believe you now.”

            Draco relaxed. Yes, this had been worth the risk. His memory of his own questioning was hazy and fragmented, like a dream, but he knew that Potter would have held to the terms of his own oath. In truth, Draco hadn’t really expected many pointed and personal questions from the other man anyway. Potter was simply too nice for that.

            “Do you have any ulterior motives to the brewing of the potion?”

            “No.”

            “What is your motive?”

            “I want Hermione to be well again.”

            “And you won’t try to take away control of the brewing and the distribution from me?” Draco knew he was being paranoid; if he had relied on Potter’s word in one instance, he should rely on it in the other. But he felt better when he had asked the question, and that was the ultimate point of this exercise, after all.

            “No.”

            Draco relaxed even further. He wished he could have made an attempt to turn the conversation indirectly towards the reasons Potter had started taking his potion in the first place, but with Granger watching like a hen hovering over one chick, he knew he wouldn’t get the chance.

            “What will you do after the Desire potion is perfected?” he asked, which was the only question he was curious about and which might slip past Granger’s net. She scowled at him, but didn’t try to interrupt Potter’s answer.

            “Become more involved with the world again, since I have to. Help Hermione rejoin it. Work with you in the continued brewing, if you still want the help. Find someone else to date, like I always do.”

            Draco could have purred. It seemed Potter had changed his mind about using his magic for Draco. And whilst he probably wanted to remain a virtual recluse, he knew when it was impossible.

            “No further questions,” he said, and leaned back on the chair with his hands behind his head, ostentatiously not trying to touch or mess with Potter while the Veritaserum lasted. All in all, this had been most successful.

            The only thing that would make it better, he thought, would be if Potter could smile or snarl at him with real fire in his eyes.

*

            Mangacat: Even Draco doesn’t have the full picture about Diggory yet, but that should change in the second story.

            Lilith: Interesting metaphor you use there!

            Hachan: Thanks! Diggory definitely shows up again; he’s a major character in the next story.

            Birddi: Thanks for the compliment! As for the solution you propose, it would require OOC behavior from both Harry and Draco. Why in the world should Harry loan such a large sum of money to Draco, knowing nothing about him? He doesn’t trust him that much. Besides, then Draco would be in debt to Harry—something I think he’d find even more intolerable than his present position.
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A Potion Named Desire