Chapter Twelve of 'An Alchemical Discontent'- From the Ashes
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Chapter Twelve-From the Ashes
The next time Draco woke, his brain was clear of the mists of pain potion, and when he shifted cautiously, his leg ached instead of paining him so insistently that he knew he couldn’t rest. He waited for a moment, but Harry didn’t bother to break down the door this time. Draco hoped he’d removed the spells that alerted him when Draco woke, so they could both have some actual privacy.
For a moment, he worried about what Harry might have discovered about Daphne already, and then he forced himself to dismiss that. It wasn’t as though he could stop Granger’s research from his bed.
Then he tried to worry about what he’d said to Harry concerning his variant of the Desire potion, but he couldn’t be too concerned on that front, either. As long as Harry didn’t dump him out into the street and declare they were finished as business partners, Draco counted the consequences as mild.
He did have to think about what would happen to his business with his shop in ruins, though.
He ground his teeth together, and then dug his fingers into his palms until his nails ached. He was envisioning the rubble the shop must have become if Harry had managed to find only a few of his possessions. He thought of his sanctuary in his upper rooms, destroyed. His bed would be crushed, too, and all the work he had put into his wards and the enchanted windows wasted.
Rage blew through him like a sandstorm. Draco welcomed it, and even used his wand-which Harry had thoughtfully left on the bedside table-to cast a silencing charm so he could scream to his heart’s content.
Two screams did it, actually. Already Draco’s rational control was reasserting itself, along with a Malfoy’s desperate need not to do anything too undignified.
So. He had lost his shop. He had lost the stock of Desire potion. He had lost his home. He had lost most of his potions ingredients and completed potions. He made himself face and accept the losses, and then he made himself turn the question around and look at it from another direction.
What did he still have?
A fairly strong Gringotts account. The recipe for the Desire potion safely locked in his head. Harry’s support and friendship, and a home to live in whilst he plotted to recover what was his.
None of those things were small, Draco told himself, over his rapid breathing and heartbeat and the urge to pound his fist into the pillow. They weren’t as much as he should have, considering all the time and effort and money he’d invested in his shop over the years, but they weren’t small, either.
He lifted his hands in front of his eyes and stretched them out.
He had, too, his knowledge of potions and the skill in his fingers to create them. He was an artist-something he hadn’t remembered much lately because he’d been so busy playing politician and salesman and frustrated lover.
He would not let go. He would not back down. He would not let his enemies destroy him. He was Draco Malfoy, who was better than that. He was a master brewer, more skilled than that. He was himself and all the attributes and skills he’d developed over the years, stronger than that.
He bared his teeth in a smile that would have frightened his enemies, could they have seen it.
He would pursue three parallel courses. It would take him time and energy, but he had more than enough of the former, especially considering that he wouldn’t be moving about for a while, and he had never had trouble summoning the latter.
First, he would try to discover who had destroyed his shop. It was an odd tactic for any of his enemies to employ-though it was possible Daphne had done it simply to see what would happen. Nott and Diggory were more cautious than that, and they appeared to have focused more extensively on Diggory’s campaign at the moment. He’d been all over Britain in the last few days, making passionate speeches.
But no matter. Draco would learn their motives, and he would learn the identities of the lackeys they had hired (as he doubted either Cordelia or Diggory would have been foolish enough to approach his shop themselves). And when he found them, as well as indisputable proof of their involvement, he would force them to repay him. How they did that-through open trial or blackmail-hardly mattered. Besides, he probably wouldn’t be able to predict which tactic he needed until he learned who had cast the earthquake spell.
Second, he would demand that Harry join him in more brewing of Desire. The potion had a reputation greater than its detractors could manage; Draco had received five owls yesterday-or the day before yesterday, it would be now-asking about stocks and for multiple vials to be sent by owl, even though those posting him were too chickenshit to enter the shop themselves. The demand would recover, and they needed to have a supply to meet it.
Third, he would buy the ingredients necessary to brew those black-market potions that turned the quickest profit. He still had his contacts among brewers and distributors-people who had never been his creditors but had been his debtors. If Diggory and Nott had managed to discover them, Draco would eat his own wand. If Daphne had probed his mind to learn who they were, it would have done her no good. Draco knew only handles, not true names.
He would build up his money. He would make sure that he started establishing the base of an independent fortune again, and if that took some time, so be it. He would outlast his opponents. He could do that, too.
And-
Draco paused and blinked up at the ceiling. He had counted on Harry’s support, but he had forgotten one of the greatest benefits of having it.
Harry had powerful magic. Draco had not even thought of rebuilding the shop on the same spot so far, even though he owned the site, because the cost to hire wizarding architects would plunge him too far into debt. But Harry had the magical strength of three, or at least it seemed so, and Granger was capable of researching the necessary spells.
What if he appealed to their friendship-and the uneasy something-more with Harry-to ask Harry to rebuild his shop?
Draco would have rejected the thought out of hand only a few days ago. His pride was too great. He needed to do things himself. It was how he had made his living since the war, how he lived with himself from day to day. But he’d broken silence on his feelings about Harry’s potion, and Harry was close to finding out the truth about Daphne anyway. Couldn’t Draco swallow the tatters of his pride that remained?
And Harry wouldn’t think less of him for asking.
Granger might.
Draco snorted. Granger was useful, but her moral approval and disapproval wasn’t something he courted. His life would not collapse if she gave him another lecture on the morality of the Desire potion, or if she looked at him with pity in her eyes, though of course he would not enjoy it.
Ask. The worst he can say is no.
And if Harry did say no, Draco had his three other plans to keep him busy, comfortable, and filled with a sense of purpose.
He grinned at the ceiling again. Daphne, Cordelia, Diggory, I could almost feel sorry for you. You’ll think I’m defeated when you hear the news, and it simply isn’t so.
*
Harry blinked when he drew the scroll tied to the tawny owl’s leg off and read what was written there. He’d sent an owl to Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy with a message about Draco’s health yesterday, and hadn’t received a reply. This message, though, was sealed with the Malfoy crest and had spiky writing that was certainly snobbish enough to be Lucius Malfoy’s.
Harry snorted to himself. Evidently his friendly feelings for Draco didn’t extend to his father, though that was hardly a surprise.
Dear Mr. Potter:
Thank you for contacting us about our son. Due to circumstances beyond our control, the chances that we can help are slim. We will require an apology from Draco first, for certain hurtful things he said the last time he saw us.
Sincerely,
Lucius Malfoy.
Harry rolled his eyes and dropped the scroll next on him on the table. “No reply,” he told the owl, which turned its back with immense dignity and flew out the window. Harry spent a moment more staring at the scroll; he hadn’t expected much help from Malfoy Manor, but that Lucius would try to make it into a bargain was outrageous. Who’s the parent here, and who’s the child?
The wards buzzed to let him know someone was near the front door of the flat. Harry rose warily to his feet, wand in hand, and then sensed Hermione’s familiar magical signature. He still went through the motions of testing the wards before he opened them, though, both because Draco’s safety rode on his shoulders and because Hermione would give him hell if he didn’t.
She nodded at him briskly and slipped inside. At once, she held out a piece of parchment towards him. “I brought you the information you asked for,” she said in an officious tone.
Harry opened his mouth to ask her to be more specific, but Hermione moved her wand in a sharp motion, and sparkling green-gold letters appeared in the air before Harry. Talk openly in a moment. Diggory and Nott are trying to spy on us.
Clamping his lips together, Harry nodded and looked briefly down at the parchment. Hermione had compiled a list of three names, all female, followed by a bunch of numbers Harry didn’t grasp right away but thought were probably financial evaluations in Galleon terms. All three, then, were female Legilimens who fit the right profile.
“Where is Malfoy?” Hermione asked in a normal tone.
“In there,” Harry said absently, pointing to the bedroom, whilst he read the three names over and over again. Maria Edgewood. Daphne Greengrass. Alexandra Roland. Which of them is Draco likeliest to have contacted? They all seem familiar, but I’ve probably heard of them before because of their wealth.
“It seems your fate to give up your bed to others, Harry,” Hermione murmured, and then ducked into the bedroom before he could protest. She shut the door. Harry blinked, but shrugged. If she wanted privacy from him, she could have it. If she wanted privacy from Nott and Diggory, then presumably she wanted to talk to Draco about the spying devices they were using.
He turned back to the parchment, as if his staring could make the three names give up their secrets.
*
Draco blinked when Granger appeared in front of him, and still more when she shut the door. He wondered if she was counting on finding him weak and vulnerable from the collapse of his shop. Did she imagine she would get something out of him that she couldn’t get with Harry listening, or at an ordinary time?
The bruised weakling you imagine doesn’t exist, Draco thought, and shifted upright in his bed so Granger wouldn’t have a psychological advantage over him.
Granger rolled her eyes as if she knew exactly what he was thinking and found it ridiculous-which she couldn’t unless she was using her amateur Legilimency on him, and Draco didn’t think she was-and then spun her wand in a counterclockwise pattern. Something small and gray dropped off her sleeve. She cast another complicated spell, and a hovering dome of blue light appeared over them. Draco felt his eyes widen; he was reluctantly impressed that Granger knew such a sophisticated anti-eavesdropping spell, one that would fill the ears of any listeners with a stultifying abstract discussion of the differences between wizards and Muggles.
“I found this on my sleeve after someone in my Department brushed past me on my way here,” she said, and held the gray thing that had dropped off her sleeve towards him.
Draco took it and stared hard. It was shaped like a tiny moth, with wide-spread wings and glittering blue jewels for eyes. Most people, finding it, would assume it was harmless, a cheap bauble dropped by a passer-by.
Because Draco used a variety of shops in wizarding Britain that most people didn’t even suspect existed, he knew better. This was a Flutter-Ear, a serious version of the Extendable Ear the Weasley twins had created. It created a magical connection, rather than a physical one, between the ears of a listener in the central location where the Flutter-Ear had been brought to life and the target. Distance was no object to its working, and it honed in on the sound of its target’s voice. Diggory and Nott, of course, would have chosen the most sophisticated version available on the market.
And it was genius to try and plant it on Granger rather than Harry or Draco. Granger would be less suspicious of the device even if she discovered it because she was less important to Nott and Diggory, and she knew it. And of course, in the Ministry, she was subject to many more chances to have the Flutter-Ear successfully planted.
Except, Draco thought, as he raised his eyes to Granger’s hard, glittering ones, they didn’t count on how suspicious Granger is, or how experienced from helping Harry in his half-witted adventures.
“It’s what you suspect it is,” he said. “And yes, I’d suspect Diggory and Nott of using this to try and spy on you.”
“Not your precious Legilimens?” Granger asked, taking the Flutter-Ear back and sticking it on her sleeve again. Draco arched an eyebrow. Amusing, and amazing, how they had agreed without words that it would be best if their enemies were fooled for just a little while longer.
“Keep away from the subject, Granger.” Draco could feel his breath growing short just by speaking of Daphne. He coughed and cast a glance at the blue dome of her anti-eavesdropping spell. Already breaking apart. He would have to make this quick. “I’d like you to try and track down the wizard who destroyed my shop.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re Harry’s friend, and the person who did this may threaten him too-especially once they learn that he rescued me.” Draco could feel himself bristling a little. With one disdainful word, Granger had seemed to question his continued existence as well as his right to Harry’s support.
The infuriating woman rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I meant, Malfoy. I mean, why should I do that instead of something else, like tracking down She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Harry would probably like to be the one who found this particular culprit. He was quite-eloquent-in his letter about what he felt on discovering your life threatened.” Her gaze grew wide and questioning for a moment.
Draco wasn’t about to let her see the delicate state of emotional affairs between himself and Harry. If Harry wanted to tell her, let him. “Because I think you should give-her-to Harry instead.” That allusion seemed to neatly evade Daphne’s spell. Draco allowed himself to relax a little. “You didn’t see his face when he realized what-she-had done. I think he thinks of the sanctity of my mind as more important than the collapse of my shop. Besides, you’re more mobile, and tracking down this person will require more mobility. Just staying close to me may help Harry discover her, since he can watch my face and listen to my words for hints.” And that Draco would have Harry nearby when they began to replenish their stocks of the Desire potion would be a benefit. Besides, he wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted to trust himself to Harry’s wards alone just yet.
Granger eyed him, then smiled thinly. “That makes sense. I suppose I should stop looking for dark motives behind your every suggestion.”
No, you shouldn’t, Draco thought, smiling blandly back. Especially since I’m about to start brewing illegal potions that would make you throw a fit. But if you want to pretend I’m upright, Gryffindor, and moral, I’ll pretend with you.
“I’ll ask Harry about what he saw that night,” Granger was saying.
“Precious little.” Draco let his breath out on a sigh. “My wards were so weak by then that it wouldn’t have taken a wizard of any extraordinary power to get inside them and cast the Local Earthquake Spell. And that’s one almost anyone can do once he knows the incantation.”
“But not just anyone with the knowledge and the power would have a reason to want your shop destroyed,” Granger said. “Logic, Malfoy. It’s something wizards don’t use enough of, but I’ve never entirely abandoned that portion of my heritage.” She tossed him an ironic salute as her blue dome dissolved, and departed to talk to Harry.
Draco leaned back against the pillow. It was almost time for one of the milder versions of the pain potion, one that would speed the last mending of his ribs and eliminate the pain creeping back into his broken leg. He arranged his face in the most pathetic expression possible.
It couldn’t hurt to remind Harry that he was a patient, one who needed special care.
*
Harry nodded as Hermione cast an anti-eavesdropping spell, then explained the device to him and who had put it there. She was going to hunt for the person who had collapsed Draco’s shop, she said. Harry told her what he knew, but the cloak and the indistinct voice were all of that. He had the idea the person had been male, but that was only his hurried, fleeting impression, taken at a time when he was just beginning to understand the danger-and it didn’t eliminate Diggory.
“I’ll hunt him anyway,” Hermione said. “You stay here and take care of Malfoy, and do what you can to get the name out of him.” She paused a moment, then let her finger brush along the edge of the parchment. “I did manage to find out that Daphne Greengrass and Maria Edgewood were both in Slytherin.”
And then she was gone, the dome popping above her as she went. Harry was glad to see her stride determined and her eyes fierce. He was doubly glad that she had her own private stock of a few vials of Desire potion, so she wouldn’t be as hurt by the collapse of Draco’s shop.
He checked the time, started, and fetched the pain potions for Draco. Draco greeted him with a wan smile as he came through the bedroom door and examined the vials carefully before he drank them. Harry wasn’t insulted by his care. The only potions he felt absolutely comfortable around were Desire variants, and the last thing he wanted was Draco poisoned because he’d swallowed what Harry gave him too blindly.
“Thank you,” Draco whispered as he handed the empty vials to Harry, blinking pathetically up at him. “I have a few favors to ask you.”
Harry’s heart melted. At that moment, watching the weariness cling to Draco’s lashes and the corners of his mouth, he would have given up all thought of chasing the female Legilimens who had done this to him, as long as he could remain by Draco’s bed and give him every care he needed.
But the calm granted him by his own potion made it easier to grasp reality, too. What this witch had done once, she could do again. He sat down beside the bed and took Draco’s hand. “What do you need?”
“Ink and parchment first, to make a list of ingredients.” Draco turned his head towards Harry, and his eyes shone with determination, courage, excitement, hope-too many things to name. Harry caught his breath. Draco didn’t appear to notice, but the hold of his fingers in Harry’s grew a bit tighter. “We need to start brewing the Desire potion again as soon as possible. And I’ll have other potions that I need to brew. Viable sellers, to build my money back up.” Draco wrinkled his nose, looking resigned. “I promised myself when I began doing very well with my apothecary that there were certain potions I’d never brew again, but I certainly didn’t anticipate the destruction of my entire apothecary.”
Harry hesitated, and then spoke, because as much as he was proud of Draco in that moment, his own conscience and Hermione both would have killed him for not asking this question. “Are any of the potions illegal?”
“Several of the love philters,” Draco said, unfazed, “and one of the potions that clouds the brain. Yes.”
Harry shifted away from him.
“None of them are like the potions that Nott and Diggory accused me of brewing and selling through your she-Weasel.” Draco paused, probably because he saw the expression on Harry’s face at the name he’d given Ginny, but didn’t apologize. “The reason they’re illegal is because the Ministry can’t agree on how to regulate the ingredients going into them, Harry,” he said patiently. “It’s the ingredients and not the potions themselves that are the problem. There’s an enormous bother about getting hold of dried Eos flower, for example, because it’s endangered in one of the countries where it’s grown and the others try to make exporting it illegal.”
“Still,” Harry said, “the last thing you need right now is to get in further trouble with the Ministry, and do Nott and Diggory’s work for them.”
Draco snorted. “I know the channels, Harry. I’ve done this for a long time. And if you really want to stop anyone at all from selling love potions, why don’t you march down to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes and tell them you disapprove?”
“They don’t sell the illegal kind,” Harry said uncomfortably.
“Oh, yes, they do,” Draco said. “As well as potions that cloud the brain worse than the one I’ll brew. Theirs imitates a permanent Confundus Charm. Mine simply makes it a little more difficult to remember certain things, and is used mostly by people with war trauma.”
Harry swallowed. Draco could sound so reasonable, but Harry had to remind himself of his own bias in favor of the other man. “Then why is it regulated?” he muttered. “That sounds like a perfectly legal use.”
“Ingredients, again.” Draco’s hand squeezed his. “If it helps, I’ll be sending you after substitutes for the banned ingredients. I wouldn’t want to trust you to walk into a black market, all Gryffindor guilelessness and famous scar, and try to receive service.”
Harry ducked his head.
“Of course, my potions will still be illegal, because I can’t change the law overnight, and because I’m not about to owl the Ministry that I’ve discovered perfectly safe and legal substitutes that also cost less.” Draco snorted again. “I’ve got some business sense left.
“I’ll ask for your help with that, and your help brewing the Desire potion, and-do you think Granger will be willing to help us study architectural spells? I want to rebuild the shop, and I think your magic will be strong enough.”
Harry’s own hold on Draco’s hand grew tighter as he listened. Draco spoke calmly, with a grim certainty shadowing his words. He didn’t sound happy, but neither did he sound like a man whose entire life had fallen down the night before last. He had managed to absorb the blow and go on.
He was taking measures to cope with it, to do what he could, the same way that Harry had invented his own measure to cope with the aftermath of the Incident when he threatened Ginny.
How could he refuse to help?
How could he feel anything but pride for the man who sat in this bed, wounded, ruined, with his enemies still out to get him, and planned how to rise from the ashes?
Harry finally became aware, when Draco coughed, that he was still waiting for an answer to his question about Hermione.
“Yes,” Harry murmured, and that single word answered more than just the single question.
Chapter 13.