Chapter Four of 'Because Potter Is Allergic to Poppies'- Apothecaries and Answers

[lomonaaeren]

Chapter Three.

Title: Because Potter Is Allergic to Poppies (4/6)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairings: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Warnings: Profanity, a bit of violence, some sex, even more flangst, and tons of Hapless!Draco. Ignores the epilogue.
Summary: Auror Harry Potter is in hospital being treated for a curse when someone tries to kill him. Obviously it is up to bored, trapped Apprentice Healer Draco, who was only admitted to the Healer Program in the first place to do the menial work, to find out who did it. Because then they will promote him. No, it’s for no other reason, thanks.
Author’s Notes: This is a fairly light story, despite the murder attempt part, and will likely have five or six chapters.

Chapter One.

Thank you again for all the reviews!

Chapter Four—Apothecaries and Answers

“Fill this order for me, Apprentice Healer Malfoy.”

Draco grimaced as Healer Farion thrust the list of ingredients into his hand. She was an older woman who never seemed to take notice of the apprentices or even journeymagi except as bodies to do her bidding. Draco preferred that attitude, sometimes, to the scorn and superiority complexes of some Healers, but it was particularly offensive just now. He had been casting Cleaning Charms on the hospital windows, yes, but his mind was busy with possible solutions to the mystery surrounding Potter.

It was pure luck that he managed to glance down at the list and recognize the handwriting there before Healer Farion got out of sight. She had a brisk stride and had nearly reached the corner of the corridor. Draco swallowed his shock and raised his voice.

“Healer! Can I know who wrote this for you? The last time I went to the ingredients stores, they asked me that,” Draco added, lying his arse off. But since he was skilled at lying and the Healers never dealt with the lesser functionaries who controlled Potions ingredients when they could get someone else to do it for them, he was fairly safe.

Farion sighed and stared over her shoulder at him, giving, without effort, the impression that he’d thoroughly disrupted her Very Important Thoughts. Draco admired the effect and memorized it to copy at a later date. “It was Apprentice Healer Varden, Malfoy, if you must know. Now, don’t hesitate any longer. I doubt that even you would appreciate patients dying because of your laziness.”

She vanished, and Draco scowled at her back. So she did share the common attitude towards him as a jumped-up Death Eater. Well, that was good to know in case he had to come into closer contact with her.

He looked back at the list of ingredients and raised his eyebrows.

The handwriting was the same as that on the list of potions Sabian had found near Mallow’s Potions cupboard.

*

“It doesn’t sound good, Harry. Malfoy.”

Weasley broke off in the middle of his report, or whatever it was, to Potter so that he could scowl at Draco. Draco raised his eyebrows back and pushed the tray of food into the room. There, he cast the charms that would find the Merlin’s Tears and any sign of the base of Peleus’s Revenge. He didn’t find anything, and handed the plate of chicken and bread over to Potter with a magnificent nod.

Potter caught his eye with a stare that said he knew what Draco was doing in regards to Weasley and didn’t approve of the increased dramatic gestures. Draco looked back innocently and pulled out the list that Healer Farion had given him. He’d cast a Copying Charm on it and given the copy to the keepers of the ingredients cupboards. That way, Farion couldn’t say that he hadn’t done his duty, and Apprentice Healer Varden, if she was watching, wouldn’t detect anything suspicious in his movements.

“What is this?” Potter said, but luckily he grasped the significance at once. “That handwriting looks the same as on the other parchment.”

Draco nodded. “And one of the Healers told me that the handwriting belongs to an Apprentice Healer called Varden.”

“That’s our murderer, then.” Weasley leaned back in his chair, looking so cheerful that Draco almost felt it would be a shame to tell him the truth. Almost. “Should have known that it would be easy to find once we applied ourselves.”

Draco started to snap back to correct him about who had done the work and applied himself, but Potter interrupted him, still faithfully maintaining his role of peacemaker. “If he’s an Apprentice Healer, then he won’t have the necessary level of skill to brew all these poisons and cast all these spells, will he?”

“She,” Draco said. “And no, I don’t think she would. Unless she was concealing her real level of skill, but all the Apprentice Healers are tested for the strength of their magic when they enter the program. It helps the Healers to know what tasks they should assign us,” he added, remembering smugly the moment when his own magic had tested as strong and the confounded faces of the Healers who had examined him. No doubt they had imagined that it would be easy to assign Draco to the lowest ranks of the program or kick him out altogether.

Of course, the truth of Draco’s magic hadn’t stopped them from doing the first.

Draco ground his teeth so that he wouldn’t have to think about that and refocused his attention on Potter’s face. “Do you want me to talk to her?”

Potter peered at him. “Does she like you? Would such an action stand out as suspicious to the watching eyes of our murderer?”

“Not that Malfoy’s any great loss,” Weasley muttered.

Potter whirled around before Draco could react, even though he had to keep his shoulders against the pillow and so barely seemed able to do it. “That’s enough, Ron,” he said in a low voice. “If I hear you talking like that again, you’re not going to be welcome in my hospital room unless you have information bearing on the case.”

Weasley stared with his mouth open. Draco did, too, but managed to close his before Weasley did. And anyway, his surprise was the pleasant astonishment of hearing himself defended. He didn’t think Weasley was feeling anything like that.

Which added to Draco’s pleasure, of course.

“Mate,” Weasley whispered, as if the single word would remind Potter of everything they had shared and survived together—which was probably a lot, Draco thought, able to be charitable in his triumph. “Remember who I am? Yeah, Malfoy’s your Healer, and a pretty competent one, but I’m Ron.”

“I don’t want you denigrating him,” Potter told Weasley, raising Draco’s opinion of his vocabulary a second time. Potter didn’t move again, and Draco wondered if Weasley realized how much his previous motion had taken out of him. Probably not, if the way Weasley cowered was any indication. “He’s saved my life at least twice, three times if you count recognizing the second poison the other day. He’s trying to help us solve the mystery even though it could put his life in danger. He’s changed, and if you imply otherwise again, I’ll hit you.”

Not the most impressive threat to Draco, but Weasley seemed to regard it in a different light. He bobbed his head hastily. “No problem, mate,” he said. “I promise.”

Potter smiled at him, and there was a tenderness in the smile that burned Draco’s triumph to ashes. “I know, Ron,” he said. “I’m sorry for saying that I’d hit you. I just wanted you to get over this stupid rivalry before it made what we’re trying to do even more dangerous.”

Weasley caught Draco’s eye and gave him a hard stare, then glanced back at Potter and nodded. “I understand,” he said. “Fine. Well, then. What are we going to do about this Apprentice Healer Varden, if Malfoy can’t talk to her?”

“There are other ways to approach her,” Potter said, and looked significantly at Draco. Draco wondered if Potter wanted him to suggest something, and swallowed through a tight throat.

Of course he did have a plan a moment later, his intelligence surging to his rescue as it always did. Draco’s brain wasn’t about to fall down on the job in front of a Weasley. “Sabian,” he said. “He’s also an Apprentice Healer, and he’s been here a shorter time than I have. He could approach her and flatter her, pretend to really want to know her opinion on some Healing technique. He could make himself believable.”

“This is the boy who claimed that he had no memory of how the Wilder’s Growth potion got into Mallow’s hand?” Weasley shook his head. “How do we know that he and Varden aren’t in it together?”

“We don’t absolutely know it, if by that you mean have definitive proof,” Draco said, and fought to keep from rolling his eyes. “But I trust Sabian. I don’t think he could have acted this way around me as long as he has without betraying himself, if he was insincere. Besides, he was the one who brought me the first parchment that had Varden’s writing on it. Why would he betray her if they were confederates? The killer’s biggest advantage is surprise, and it would be better for him—or her—if we didn’t have any clues as to their identity. No, I think the parchment is a false clue in the first place and Varden is innocent. But she still might be able to tell us something, if Sabian approaches her in the right way.”

Weasley blinked and craned his neck backwards as if he thought that viewing Draco from another angle would make him make more sense. “You’re right,” he said, sounding surprised. “You can use logic.”

Draco suppressed the temptation to say that he had thought the Gryffindors’ whole problem with him was his excessive use of logic and his refusal to succumb to their messy emotionalism, because Potter was nodding. Both Draco and Weasley knew who the real center of power and authority in this room was.

“Use Sabian, as long as you think that he won’t betray his association with you accidentally because he’s enthusiastic,” Potter said.

Draco shook his head. “He’s proud to be part of something big and secret. I’ll send him to interview Varden, and he should have results for me no more than a few days from now.”

“Good,” said Potter. “In the meantime, what about the apothecaries that you were going to contact to see who might have sold the base for Peleus’s Revenge?”

Draco coughed. He could feel his face turning red. He would have to say that he didn’t have the answers yet, which was the truth, but how he was supposed to say that he didn’t have them because his father thought Potter too dangerous for his baby boy and had wanted to caution him?

“He’s hiding something,” said Weasley, who was suddenly a genius at the time that Draco least wanted him to be. “What is it?” His wand was in his hand, and he fiddled with it, not quite raising it to point at Draco but not putting it away, either.

Draco sighed and turned to Potter. “My father is the one who will contact the apothecaries for us. And last night—well, he didn’t want to because he wanted to send me a warning letter instead.”

“A warning?” Potter’s eyes were narrow as if he were reconsidering his alliance with Draco. Draco hoped he wasn’t.

“Yes.” Draco’s face flushed worse than ever. Weasley snickered. Draco tried valiantly to ignore it. “He wanted to caution me about getting involved with you. He says that’s never ended well for our family.”

To his amazement, Potter didn’t join in Weasley’s loud snorts of laughter. Instead, he considered Draco gravely and then nodded.

“I know that your parents love you,” he said. “I could see that when your mother lied to Voldemort to save you. It was only superficially to save me,” he added, as if talking to himself. “All I can do is say that, this time, it’s going to be different. Thank you for being honest with me.” And once again he stretched out a hand.

He did that a lot, Draco thought as he reached out slowly in return. Perhaps he knew what the gesture of a refused hand had meant to Draco and was trying to make up for it as best he could.

Or perhaps it was just a natural gesture for him and he had no idea what Draco was thinking. That was more likely, Draco thought, gazing into Potter’s big, bright, guileless eyes. Potter was intelligent, but Draco didn’t think he was as calculating as thinking all the time about his gestures would have implied.

Besides, why should he think that way about Draco? Why should he try so hard to put himself in Draco’s place, and see through his eyes? This would end, they would find the murderer, and Draco would receive his promotion, either in St. Mungo’s or as a Healer attached to the Auror Department. They would never see each other regularly again.

Draco licked his lips and surprised himself with a wish that that wouldn’t happen, that this would somehow lead to the forging of a lasting friendship—unlikely as that seemed.

He became aware that he was holding Potter’s hand like some little girl and dropped it hastily. Potter frowned. Draco turned to the side, ignoring him. “Anyway. We should have the information from the apothecaries by tomorrow. I think the ones close to hospital would be more likely to have sold the base, but we don’t know that. Perhaps your murderer would have bought it further away to throw off suspicion.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call him Harry’s murderer, Malfoy,” Weasley muttered with a green face. “That makes it sound as if he’d succeeded.”

“I understand what you mean, and it’ll do in the absence of any other name,” Potter interrupted smoothly. “Thank you, Malfoy. In the meantime, why don’t you send Sabian to talk with Varden, or at least tell him that we need him to?”

Draco nodded and left the room, trying not to mind too much that Potter and Weasley would have some time alone that way.

*

“Malfoy.”

Once again, Sabian had managed to approach unobtrusively. The boy might have a career as a spy if being an Apprentice Healer didn’t work out, Draco thought. He kept his own eyes away and pretended to be absorbed in stripping sheets off the bed a patient had just left. “Yes, Sabian?” he whispered.

He could feel Sabian turning to glance at the door into the corridor and make sure it was shut. Draco himself kept up with his chore, apparently interested in nothing else, while Sabian ranged further into the room as if he were looking for possessions the patient might have left behind. People who were here for a while had a habit of doing that, and Mrs. Bredon had spent three weeks here, recovering from werewolf scratches that luckily hadn’t managed to turn her.

“Varden says that she knows nothing,” Sabian murmured. “Or, at least, she didn’t say that, but I could tell what she meant.”

“How did you get her to talk about it?” Draco lowered his voice further when he heard the clang of a bucket being dragged over the floor outside. The hospital’s administrators, in their relentless desire to do good, employed a Squib as caretaker on this floor in much the same way Dumbledore had employed Filch. Haagedorn was younger than Filch, which meant he had much better ears. “I hope you weren’t obvious.”

“Catch me being obvious,” Sabian muttered.

Draco bit his tongue. He had almost reminded Sabian that, a short time ago, he’d been as big-eyed and helpless as Neville Longbottom. But that wouldn’t have been a good thing to do when he was just gaining in confidence.

“No,” Sabian continued, “not at all. I led the conversation around to Healer Farion first, and said that I’d heard she was hard to work for. Varden acted haughty and said that someone like me would find it hard, but she didn’t. Then I went slowly towards Healer Mallow. I was trying to figure out whether she had left the list in his room, whether he had told her to write it, and whether leaving it there was accidental or not.”

Draco nodded reluctantly, impressed in spite of himself. Those would all be good things to know, assuming that they could actually get the information and verify it.

“She ended up saying that Healer Mallow did have her write the list. He wanted a record of what potions he’d ordered in the last month, so that he wouldn’t replenish them accidentally by ordering more than he needed.”

Draco opened his mouth and then shut it again, but he didn’t think he could keep from frowning. That lapse didn’t sound like Mallow. Draco had always thought that he had the contents of his Potions cupboard memorized. Witness the way he’d been able to direct Sabian exactly to the place where the Stone Response potion was.

But on the other hand, Draco had also seen Mallow, under stress, fail to notice that the Wilder’s Growth potion wasn’t the Stone Response potion. And Mallow had worked with several stressful cases in the last few months. Perhaps Draco shouldn’t blame him for this. Perhaps there was nothing suspicions in it.

Maybe.

He nodded for Sabian to continue.

“She didn’t know what had happened to that list. Someone could have stolen it from her desk and dropped it on the floor, she said. But she accused me of lying when I told her where I found it.”

“You told her where you found it?” Draco raised his voice, though he still didn’t turn around and look at Sabian. “That was a stupid thing to do.”

“No, it wasn’t!” Sabian said, with such passionate indignation that Draco was reminded of how young he really was. “No one knows that we’re working together. And everyone who glanced at the list of tasks would know that I was assigned to clean Healer Mallow’s room. Really, I think it would be more suspicious if I hadn’t said anything about it and she had known that it was missing.”

Draco blew out his breath. “Sorry,” he said shortly. He’d never liked spending more time on apologies than was necessary. “How sure are you that she’s telling the truth?”

“Relatively sure,” Sabian said with cheerful confidence. “She can’t lie very well. She comes out all in spots when she tries.” He snickered. “You should have seen what she looked like when she tried to tell Healer Okono-Jones that someone had stolen her homework.”

Draco nodded with a frown. It seemed that that clue was a dead end. It didn’t lessen his suspicions that someone had left the parchment on the floor of Healer Mallow’s office for them to find, but it did convince him that there was no good in suspecting Varden of writing it deliberately as part of a murder plot.

“Are you going to have me do anything else?”

Draco blinked and looked at Sabian. He had a bright, cheerful smile, and he had stopped paying attention to the door. He watched Draco instead, like a dog waiting for a treat that it knew a human had tucked into his pocket.

This is the problem with hero-worship, Draco thought. It’s hard to make people understand that sometimes, you’ll simply have nothing important or special for them to concern themselves with. He felt a sudden surge of sympathy with Potter that he had never expected to feel—or at least never on such a topic.

“Yes,” he said abruptly. He hadn’t planned on this, but there was another area where Sabian can be useful. “Try to find out who’s seen Ron Weasley since Potter was admitted to hospital. If he’s visited any rooms, spoken to any patients or Healers, or done anything unusual.” Since Draco still didn’t know what to make of Weasley’s double appearance at Potter’s door and Potter seemed disinclined to investigate it, Sabian could do it.

Sabian smiled—no, beamed—at him and then practically bounced out the door. Draco leaned back against the bed and thought for a minute about whether he should have had Sabian do something else, something that wouldn’t make Potter angry if he found out.

Then he shrugged. His business was to save Potter’s life, as his Healer. That included investigating things that Potter might be angry about or at least not approve.

And if he could find some way to pin this on Weasley, then Draco would have to admit to a private satisfaction that Potter didn’t need to know about, either.

*

“Malfoy. I’d like to see you a moment.”

Draco froze, and then forced his shoulders to relax as he followed Mallow into his office. Mallow sat down behind his desk and seemed to be absorbed in looking for something specific in his pile of parchments. Draco stood in front of him with hands clasped behind his back and a quiet expression on his face.

At least, he thought it was quiet. His father had often told Draco that he didn’t have as perfect a control over his emotions as he thought he did. Draco hoped it was working this time, or else that Mallow wasn’t as good a reader of faces as Lucius.

Mallow finally looked up and extended a piece of parchment. “Read this carefully,” he said. “Don’t react at once. Considering the source, I thought it should merit your extended consideration.”

Draco stared at the Healer before he stared at the parchment, but Mallow simply linked his hands together across his stomach and offered Draco an inscrutable look. He seemed to be trying to decide what he should believe, Draco thought, and glanced down.

The words on the parchment concerned his treatment of Potter, and proceeded in long, sprawling sentences to condemn Draco for interfering too much, spending too much time with Potter instead of on his other chores, insulting Potter’s friends, and, basically, being an Apprentice Healer where a full Healer should have been assigned, for Potter’s safety and the reputation of the hospital if nothing else. Draco read all the criticisms attentively, and then the signature at the bottom. Ronald Weasley.

“What do you have to say to this, Apprentice Healer Malfoy?”

Draco glanced up. “They’re serious accusations,” he said calmly. “Do you believe them, Healer?” He remembered just in time that he probably should try for more anger than he actually felt now, and allowed himself to crumple the edge of the parchment.

Mallow chuckled. “That isn’t the question. When they come from a friend very close to the patient, we may have to deal with them even if we don’t believe them. That was one of the first lessons I gave you, and it remains true. More true, even, when dealing with a patient of Potter’s stature.”

Yes, maybe, Draco thought, and smoothed his fingers down the crease in the parchment. But this isn’t Weasley’s handwriting, and it also isn’t his thought process. He’d accuse me of being evil and have done with it. Besides, how much does he know about the hospital routine? Would he be able to accuse me of neglecting my chores? Would it occur to him to do so?

“How did you receive this, Healer?” he asked aloud. “Did Weasley submit it himself?”

Mallow shook his head. “It was on my desk when I came in this morning.”

Interesting. Mallow always kept his door locked when he wasn’t present in the office, and trusted the unlocking spells to his apprentices alone. That suggested a Healer, again, someone who knew enough about the hospital’s wards and Mallow’s habits to slip in when an apprentice was busy in the back, near the Potions cupboard.

Or an Apprentice Healer could have done it himself, of course.

Draco glanced down again. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed as though the handwriting was the same on this document as on the list of potions Sabian had found. But that meant nothing if it wasn’t really Varden’s. Draco knew that people could disguise their handwriting or copy someone else’s with a few complex charms. A lot of the “evidence” against his parents had been forged that way.

“I think you should confront Weasley,” Mallow said, leaning forwards. “Get it over with. I don’t plan to change your assignment to Potter. Speaking to him should force him to offer evidence, and if he can’t, you’re cleared.”

Draco shook his head. Speaking to Weasley would just stir up ill-will. “Why don’t we ask Potter, sir? He’s the patient. He’s in the best position to make accusations against me.”

Mallow frowned at him. “And you’re not afraid that he would take his friend’s side? Speak up for him no matter what had happened, and condemn you?”

Draco smiled slightly as he thought of Potter’s words about trusting Draco, and why he did. Those words would sound strange to an outsider, and Draco didn’t plan to offer them, but there was no reason that he couldn’t rely on them and use that strength to make both his voice and his face innocent. “No, sir. He’s borne with me this long. I think he would have told me before now if he was dissatisfied.”

Mallow subjected him to another hard, piercing stare. Draco made sure that his eyes were more innocent than ever.

Mallow at last grunted and leaned back in his chair. “You understand that I’ll have to subject you to discipline, and other Healers will have to learn about this, if I determine that there’s any truth to these accusations,” he said.

Draco inclined his head. “Of course, sir. But I know that you’ll make a lengthy and thorough investigation of their truth before you tell anyone else. After all, you found the list on your desk instead of Weasley coming and talking to you. That might sound suspicious—to anyone who doesn’t know the situation and how protective Weasley is of Potter, I mean.”

Mallow stared at him again. Draco looked back so easily that he wanted to laugh again. He should have had Potter as a patient years ago. It would have been effortless to brave all the challenges that hospital flung at him.

And why is that, do you think?

Draco swallowed and felt color drain from his face as he thought about the possible reasons that he might be leaning on Potter just as much as Potter was leaning on him. Then he shook his head. He couldn’t stand to think too long about that, or about what would happen when Potter recovered fully and they captured his murderer. It would happen, that was all. In the meantime, he would put up with the distrust from Weasley, the attempts to frame him for crimes he hadn’t committed, and other things.

Look at it this way, he told himself. This is the price of skill. Your enemy, whoever he is, wouldn’t be trying to detach you from Potter if you were incompetent.

Mallow took the list back and nodded again. “You are right, of course, Apprentice Healer Malfoy. I will make my investigation and contact the other Healers only if and when I find evidence. I thought you deserved to know about it first, however.”

Draco cleared his throat. “I appreciate it, sir. Thank you.”

Mallow turned his back, indicating the interview was over. Draco practically fled the room, anxious to carry the news to Potter.

*

“Too much about this doesn’t make sense.”

Draco nodded in fervent agreement. Potter was lying back against his pillow and staring at the ceiling again, so Draco wasn’t sure that he saw the nod. But his fingers danced against the covers, and he was frowning hard enough that it probably wouldn’t have made much difference if he had; it couldn’t sour his mood any more.

“Why would Varden take up a cause against me?” Potter turned over on his side and grunted when he did so. Draco sprang up, hovering, but Potter rolled his eyes, and his breathing steadied in the next instant. Draco relaxed. He knew well enough that Potter wouldn’t have been able to do that if he’d really hurt. “No, wait. I don’t know who my enemy is or why he wants to kill me, so it might as well be Varden as anyone else. And I can see a purpose to that list, if they want to get you away from me so that someone can kill me by a fairly easy trick like poison in the food. But leaving that list of potions on the floor of Mallow’s office? Why would they do that? Why risk giving us any sample of his hand to compare to that list?”

“I reckon the list could have been left behind accidentally,” Draco said, shifting his shoulders so that he could lean against the wall more comfortably.

Potter shot him an intense stare. “I don’t believe that, and neither do you.”

“It would seem rather a coincidence, yes.” Draco stretched out a hand, palm-up, in front of him. “But I don’t know what else it could be.” He smiled. “Could that list of potion names and the list of objections that he put Weasley’s name to be another of his twofold tactics, only this one’s intended to drive you mental?”

He reveled in the sound of Potter’s laughter, although it ended soon and Potter was looking him as intensely as Mallow had, earlier. “You know that Ron didn’t really send that list, right?” he asked. “That he wouldn’t do it?”

“Of course I know that,” Draco said. “Once I got a look at the handwriting, I recognized it. And Weasley is more likely to punch me in the face than write a list like that. Not to mention,” he added, unable to resist, “that the sentences were more clever and complex than his small brain could handle.”

“I don’t want you insulting him any more than I want him insulting you.”

Potter said it mildly, but Draco felt a bone-deep shiver work its way up his back. Potter could cut with a few words. “All right,” he said.

Part of him wondered why it mattered. Their association wouldn’t last out a week more, at the very latest—Draco had to think that his own brilliance and Potter’s investigative skills would put the mystery to bed long before then—and then Weasley would never have to deal with Draco again, except under the unimaginable chance that he came in wounded when Draco was on duty as a Healer. Why was Potter so insistent on their getting along?

Well, perhaps he had already figured out that Draco had some hopes of being hired as an Auror Department Healer. That would mean he would be treating both Weasley and Potter in the future. Draco hid his grimace of horror and waited patiently for Potter to say something else.

Potter actually accepted his declaration with a smile and set aside the list of objections against Draco with a firm hand. “We don’t know what the similar handwriting means. We won’t worry about it. Do you have a list yet from the apothecaries who should have sold the base of Peleus’s Revenge?”

Draco nodded and produced that list. It was the only thing that had happened in the last few days which he felt actually proud of. Lucius had given in in the end and made the inquiries, though he hadn’t yet responded to Draco’s letter about why he was helping Potter. Draco hoped that didn’t mean he disapproved.

Potter was reading the list, eyes narrowed. “What does this abbreviation mean?” he asked, tapping the seventh line of the list.

Draco leaned over the list, and then realized the problem and groaned a little. The list, not unnaturally, used apothecaries’ abbreviations for locations, potions, prices, and units sold. Draco could read that language thanks to his interest in Potions and his Healer training. Potter would probably go away and do some bloody stupid thing like trying to get Granger to read it if Draco wasn’t here.

Just another way I save him, Draco thought with immense irritation, and looked for the abbreviation Potter had been puzzled by. “That means the shop is a small one located in northern England,” he said.

“Not near us, then.” Potter’s finger moved on down the list. “What about this one? Lo means in London, right?”

Draco looked. “No,” he said, with patience that he hoped didn’t sound too strained. “It’s the general heading that begins the Locations column.”

Potter must have heard the strain, because he glared at Draco sideways. “Excuse me for not having the ability to read this,” he snapped. “I didn’t receive the specialized training that you apparently have.”

Draco bit his lips before he responded. “It’s true that I didn’t think about how hard it would be for you,” he said, which was a concession he could make without pain. “But you ought to be able to see that the information is arranged in rows and columns like any halfway sane document, and draw some conclusions from that. The notation I explained before is in this column. The only reason Lo is repeated at all is because it goes onto another page at that point.”

Potter flushed and ducked his head. Draco suspected he was embarrassed about his mistake and politely looked the other way until he heard Potter’s voice again.

“Yes. Thanks. So, will you show me the abbreviations that locate apothecaries in London that sold the base recently?”

Taking pity, Draco found them easily. “But remember that this man might be clever enough to have bought the base a long way off,” he cautioned Potter.

Potter groaned. “I was trying my best to forget that, thanks.”

Draco shook his head, but didn’t make any of the obvious retorts, because all of them were obvious enough to disgrace him. “All right. There are four apothecaries in London close to hospital. One of them sold only a few grains of the base in the last month. The second—” Draco focused his eyes on the purple ink that particular notation had been written in, and snorted.

“What?” Potter demanded.

“It might be useful talking to the seller, still,” Draco conceded. “But I don’t think you’ll find much here if you’re sure that your killer isn’t one of the Aurors. That purple ink signals someone who sells ingredients to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Potter didn’t respond, and Draco looked back up, wondering if Potter was going to say that he did think his would-be killer was an Auror. But instead, he was gaping at Draco. Draco raised his eyebrows, and Potter snapped his jaw shut and shook his head. “I thought they kept information like that secret!” he said.

“From obvious criminals, of course,” Draco said, trying to hold back his chuckles. He was enjoying this chance to initiate the innocent Harry Potter into the realities of the world. “But not from each other, and not from someone who could need access to the information for other reasons. Like hospitals or inventory specialists. Why would they?”

Potter dragged a hand across his face. “That’s all we need, an apothecary or an inventory specialist who knows the Dark Arts.”

Draco waved his hand. “In my experience, true inventory specialists are too obsessed with potions and ingredients and how to store them all to have any time to worry about the Dark Arts,” he said loftily. “Concentrate on the ones that appear helpful and friendly and don’t look down at a book or go off to potter in a dark corner the entire time you’re there. They’re the ones you should distrust, because they’re the ones trying to make themselves look normal.”

Potter laughed. Draco soaked in the sound of it, and barely heard the door opening. He wasn’t sure if he would have turned around if he hadn’t still been worried about any attempts to assassinate Potter.

Then again, if there hadn’t been any attempts to assassinate Potter, he wouldn’t have been here at all.

Weasley stood in the doorway, staring transfixed at the sight of them laughing together—or maybe at the two of them bending over the parchment with their heads so close together, Draco thought. “Um,” he said, and took a step back. “I can come in later.”

“Ron!” Potter sat up and tossed the list of apothecaries back to Draco. Draco caught it without taking his eyes off Weasley. He wanted the git to know that he had ruined a special moment. Weasley gulped and shuffled his boots nervously. “We have some information about apothecaries in London who might have sold the thing that poisoned me.”

Draco rolled his eyes. The thing, indeed. He knew now that Potter was smarter than that. He thought Potter tried to curb his intelligence in front of Weasley on purpose, so that he could fit in better with the common man.

Draco could have told him it wouldn’t work. Try as he might, nothing about Harry Potter would ever look ordinary.

A moment later, he thought, Why did I think that?

He found the idea that he’d turned into one of Potter’s admirers so disturbing that he was almost grateful when Weasley cleared his throat, shot Draco a distrustful look, and asked, “Well, how are we going to find out which one it was?”

Draco smiled, took up the list, and tapped the one London apothecary that was marked in purple ink. “I doubt that it will be this one,” he said. “They would have to have their records spotless since they work with the Aurors, and anyone who wanted to buy the base and keep the purchase hidden would know that. He’s likely to have bought it at one of the others.”

“Unless he knew that and wanted to throw us off the scent by doing something that we didn’t suspect!” Weasley looked triumphant.

“I think he’s hidden his trail well, but we can’t attribute superhuman intelligence to him or always assume he’s ahead,” Draco said. “We’d never get anywhere.”

Weasley stared at him. Draco sniffed. “What? Do I have a piece of food on my shirt?” He made a mental note to test Potter’s food for more poisons later that day, as long as the notion of eating was crossing his mind.

“No,” Weasley said slowly. “It’s just that what you said made sense. I thought that never happened.”

Draco glared, but he couldn’t find the venom to sustain the glare for long. “I think it’s this one,” he said, and laid his finger on the fourth apothecary in the list of those that were close to hospital.

“Why?” Potter asked, luckily working as a buffer between him and Weasley yet again. He leaned forwards so that he could see the list better, and this time the motion didn’t cause him to immediately begin gasping. Draco noted that with approval. The Merlin’s Tears had run their course, and while that meant Potter’s murderer would probably notice his improved condition soon and try something else, at least that meant Potter wasn’t in danger of dying from the rare complications that could come with consuming that poison.

“Because,” Draco said, “of the name.” He tapped the other list of shop names, and Potter obediently swiveled his head to look at it.

“I don’t understand,” he said after a moment. “Pythia’s Potions? What about it? Who’s Pythia?” he added.

Draco clucked his tongue. “The young get no education these days,” he said, and rather enjoyed Potter’s glares. “Pythia was the name of a priestess who served Apollo. The Greek god of sunshine, among other things,” he added, when Potter’s face remained blank. “She foretold the future by inhaling a kind of holy smoke. Shops that refer to her usually sell supplies that are meant to go into potions focusing on the future and visions, though of course they’d sell other ingredients, too.”

“I still don’t understand,” Potter said.

“Neither do I,” Weasley said, probably to remind them he still existed.

Draco gave them a lofty look. “No reason that you should. The reason that the Pythia’s shrine was sacred has to do with a deed that Apollo performed there, driving off the enormous serpents that used to guard it.” He waited, but the expected comprehension didn’t make its way into their faces. “Surely you know what it means for an apothecary or other Potions shop to refer to a snake in its name,” he snapped.

“Assume that we don’t and enlighten us,” Potter said, his voice tight.

Draco shook his head. “It’s a code that the Dark wizards started using years ago, back during our time at Hogwarts, when there were first reports of the Dark Lord’s return.” He swallowed; he didn’t like to think about that time and the naïve boy he’d been. But he’d survived and got into a considerably better position, although it would be an even better one when people stopped being prejudiced against him. “Since part of his symbol was a snake, Dark wizards arranged to meet at places that had a snake as part of the name, or were otherwise associated with snakes in some way. It spread, and, among other things, shops that were willing to cater to Dark wizards—not just Death Eaters—changed their names. I was sure the Aurors knew this,” he had to add. It was an open secret among the staff of St. Mungo’s.

“No,” Potter said, after exchanging a long look with Weasley. “We never did. But since all the shops sold this ingredient, why would you assume it had to be the one that caters to Dark wizards?”

Draco shrugged. “It’s simply likely, that’s all. Of course apothecaries will ask what their customers are using the ingredients for, so as not to get into legal trouble. But a place like Pythia’s Potions is much less likely to ask, because they don’t care. They have other recourses in place to avoid that kind of trouble.”

“They’re going to find themselves in trouble all right, after this,” Weasley said grimly.

Potter nodded. “And you think that our murderer couldn’t have prepared a convincing lie?”

Draco was tempted to say your murderer in response, but he didn’t want to disclaim any sort of name that would bring him closer to Potter, if only to irritate Weasley. “I think our murderer is a Healer,” he said. “There are signs that will reveal that expertise to a knowledgeable apothecary, the same way that we have basic knowledge about them. Why go to a shop where he’d have to come up with several disguises and lies, and might still betray himself, instead of one that was more convenient in all the ways that mattered?”

Potter gave him a slow smile, and Draco swallowed as he felt a surge of response pass through his body, especially his groin. He tore his eyes away and tried to focus on both of them, Weasley and Potter, at once. Weasley was tapping the list with one finger as if he assumed that it would vanish if he didn’t keep a hold of it.

“We’ll have a means to find him now,” he said. “Even if this Pythia’s Potions isn’t the one, you think that you can find other apothecaries with the same likeliness to sell to Dark wizards, Malfoy?”

Draco nodded. “Of course. I just assumed that you knew the code already, or I would have identified them before I brought the list to you.”

“We’ll catch a lot more of them after this, too, the bastards,” Weasley murmured. He was staring at the wall as if he could see through it and into the heart of every Dark wizard hiding in hospital. Draco had the feeling that he was seeing the Auror and not the concerned friend or the git Weasel for the first time during Potter’s stay here.

“We will,” Potter said. “But I think you ought to go back to the Department and put the more subtle spies on this, Ron. They’ll have to take a look at Pythia’s Potions before they can raid it.”

“Teach me how to do my job, right,” Weasley said, and punched Potter on the shoulder before he left. He even nodded at Draco, which made Draco shake his head in wonder.

“You were great.”

Draco turned back to Potter, only to realize that his face was much closer to Draco’s own than he’d thought. Draco swallowed and resisted the temptation to take a step back. It was just that he was startled, that was all, he told himself defensively, not afraid. “With Weasley?” he asked, because he wasn’t sure what Potter meant. “When we’re united in the cause of saving you, he’s not so bad, I reckon.”

“In general.” Potter had an unnervingly soft voice when he chose to use it. “It’s just—it’s wonderful.” His hand reached out, and Draco watched it come as if in a dream.

It closed on his. Potter lifted his hand and turned it back and forth as if examining his fingernails for signs of dirt. Draco raised an eyebrow in challenge, used to this kind of inspection from Healers who wanted to catch him dragging disease about.

Potter bowed his head and pressed his lips to Draco’s knuckles, a quiet, reverent gesture that stunned him so much he stood still for a long moment.

By the time he could recover, it was over. Potter leaned back against the pillow and looked at him with eyes full of bright challenges of their own.

Draco took a deep breath, blurted, “Um, I should go pick up your food now,” and bolted out the door.

He felt stupid, but he simply couldn’t stay in the same room with Potter a moment longer. It took him every effort not to collapse where he stood.

That can’t mean what I thought it did.

But the memory of the shine in Potter’s eyes—though his abrupt exit might have dimmed that—said that it did.

Comments

[ellie]

The plot thickens and what's with the two Wesley and the note?