lomonaaeren | Chapter Seven of 'An Alchemical Discontent'- Regrettably

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Chapter Seven—Regrettably

“Who died?” Draco asked.

Harry checked a sigh. He had already told Draco several times that Shacklebolt’s letter said nothing about who died, and only summoned them to the Ministry. And now they sat on a bench in the Auror Office, with suspicious people passing them and staring at them every few seconds, and this wasn’t the best place to talk.

But did that stop Draco? No. For the first time since he’d started having an inappropriate physical attraction to Draco, Harry reflected on how very annoying he could be.

Well, if we’re utterly incompatible and can’t offer each other anything, better to know now, I suppose.

“I don’t know,” he said, and leaned back to stretch his arms over his head. One of the Aurors passing him immediately clutched at his wand and gave him a look full of something akin to panic. Harry stopped mid-stretch and stared back until the Auror seemed to realize how foolish it would be for Harry to try something here and walked away. Harry dropped his hands to his sides and added, as Draco’s mouth opened again, “And I don’t know how they determined the death came from the Desire potion, either. Shacklebolt didn’t say anything about that in his letter.”

“All right, then,” Draco said. He was speaking through gritted teeth from the sound of it. Harry didn’t look at him, but just continued staring at the Minister’s silent, shut door. What will the Weasleys say when they hear of this, I wonder? Ginny will probably say that of course I shouldn’t be associating with Draco any more. But he wasn’t the only one who brewed this potion, and he needs my support no matter how much of an idiot he is. “Then why didn’t they send someone to arrest us?”

“Maybe Shacklebolt wanted to see if we would show up on our own.” Harry leaned against the wall and tried in vain to get comfortable on the bench, which was too thinly padded to allow it. “Or maybe he decided that arresting Harry Potter would bring on media attention he didn’t need right now.”

“Or us.” Draco made a disgusted noise, as if he were on the verge of spitting. “Have you considered what this attention could do to the sales of the Desire potion? And what it will do to my business? Just as I got out of debt, too.”

Harry glanced at him finally, and felt his heart clench. Draco was putting up a good front, but Harry could see the pallor behind his sneer and the shaking hands. He reached out and laid his hand gently on the other man’s knee. “Let me do most of the talking,” he said softly. “If anything can defuse this and get us some consideration, it’s the power of my name.”

Draco looked at him without speaking. Harry assumed he had an opinion about this plan, but he didn’t get to hear it, because just then the door of the Minister’s office opened and Shacklebolt said, “Harry? Malfoy? Come in.”

*

Draco had to conceal his contempt as they stepped into the Minister’s office. One would think that Shacklebolt could be properly decadent, or, failing that, that he would put up a good façade in order to impress visitors with the power of his position. But the walls were simply lined with cases of files, as if Shacklebolt’s office were an extension of the Ministry archives, and the shelves held ledgers and photographs of criminals and large loose stacks of parchment, without so much as an Order of Merlin. Draco shook his head and turned to the Minister with a yawn just trembling on his lips.

Shacklebolt’s glare, though, was purely impressive. Draco took his seat quietly, and listened as Harry said in a soothing voice, “Can you tell us what happened with the death, Minister? Who died, and how do they know it was from Desire?”

The Minister surveyed them in silence for long moments. Draco wondered if he was trying to scare them.

Well, it’s working.

“The name is one you ought to know,” said Shacklebolt at last, and his tone was hollow. “And we’re not releasing it yet, because of the panic it would cause among those who have already taken Desire. If they thought it was an instrument of the Chosen One’s revenge…well, quite a lot of people have angered you at some point in the past, Harry.”

Harry blanched. Draco winced. That would look guilty. Didn’t Harry know anything about controlling his expressions at all?

But, well, no, he probably didn’t. Not whilst he was on the potion, anyway. Draco wished he knew a spell that would take the potion directly out of Harry’s veins and stomach and disperse it in a cloud against the wall. Then he might get Harry bristling defensively, the way he was supposed to do when he was accused of something.

“I still don’t know who died, Minister,” Harry said.

Shacklebolt reached down and opened a drawer in his desk. Draco tensed, but he only drew out a small, clear vial and balanced it in the center of his palm. Of course, recognizing that didn’t make Draco calmer. His breathing sped up, and he clutched his sweaty palms on his knees to keep from wiping them frantically everywhere.

“Will you consent to be under Veritaserum for this conversation, Harry?” Shacklebolt asked.

And Harry, like the fool he was, didn’t even glance at Draco to see if it was all right. “Of course,” he said, and rose to open his mouth. “I have nothing to hide,” he added, when Shacklebolt didn’t move, perhaps stunned by the speed of his response.

The Minister shook his head, but took out the cork of the vial and dabbed three drops on Harry’s tongue. Harry swallowed, then nodded and sat back. Draco found it hard to watch his face. He had seen Harry under Veritaserum before, and it was completely eerie how little his expression changed.

Shacklebolt added a few test questions, apparently unable to believe the potion was working, and then added, “Were you at all involved in the death of Dolores Umbridge from the Desire potion, Harry?”

Umbridge. Draco squashed the impulse to ask why in the world they weren’t being called in and thanked for doing the wizarding world a favor. He doubted Shacklebolt would look kindly on those words just now.

“I was not,” Harry said, calmly and clearly.

Shacklebolt relaxed, but said, “And you are not trying to use the Desire potion for personal revenge on your enemies?”

“I am not.”

How in the world could anyone think Harry Potter is planning to take revenge? Draco thought in disgust, and then remembered the way Harry had acted during his fifth year, when Umbridge had taught at Hogwarts.

And Draco had been part of the Inquisitorial Squad.

He pushed the memory sharply away and concentrated on Shacklebolt’s conversation with Harry. It would be important that he know it later, in case someone questioned him over it or they had to get their stories straight.

“Did you know that the Desire potion had been sold to her?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Do you know how she could have died?”

“No, I don’t.”

Shacklebolt leaned back with a grunt and folded his hands in front of him. Draco eyed him sideways, but didn’t know him well enough to say what the little sounds or even the expression on his face meant. Is his friendship with Harry really strong enough to let something like this go? Or at least modify the effect?

“As a matter of fact, she died from trying to break into Gringotts,” Shacklebolt admitted. “The aspect of her Desire appeared to remove was a small amount of sanity and common sense where magical creatures were concerned. She decided that goblins should not have so much power in wizarding society and tried to steal objects from someone else’s vault to prove their security ineffective. Said security killed her.”

“And you’re blaming us?” Draco asked, making sure to keep his voice restrained to a level of polite shock and his eyebrows elevated. “I hardly think you can blame us for that. It would be the same as blaming a Firewhiskey brewer for her entering Gringotts on liquid courage.”

“Except, Mr. Malfoy,” said Shacklebolt, facing him with a tight mouth, “the legal precedents in the case of Firewhiskey are worked out, and every bottle bears a warning. How did you think—“ He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Why in the world did you think you would get away without having restrictions on the sale of the potion?”

“Because the restrictions proposed didn’t come from the Ministry,” Harry said, apparently under the impression that the question was addressed to him. “They came from Charlemagne Diggory and his ally Cordelia Nott. They want Desire out of the way and restricted so that it can’t interfere with Diggory’s campaign for Minster. Not the best of reasons to be careful with the potion.”

Draco shut his eyes as he saw the comprehension sweep over Shacklebolt’s face. Potter, you idiot. This is why you don’t just take Veritaserum when someone hands it to you.

“I see,” Shacklebolt muttered. “So this does have the edge of a political fight.” Then he raised his voice. “But you still should have come to the Ministry. Any potentially dangerous new potion is required to undergo registration. Because of your mistake, the restrictions on Desire will be much tougher than they would be otherwise.”

“Will you make the potion illegal?” Draco asked, because he saw no reason not to be blunt if the Minister was being so.

“That may be the recommendation of the committee involved.” Shacklebolt stared at him and shook his head. “Your father was more subtle than this when he played political games, Malfoy. You had no reason not to have contacted me the moment you figured out how this potion works.”

Draco bit back the angry words about how he hadn’t wanted to be involved in politics, and how he knew perfectly well that common variations of love philters created every day weren’t registered with the Ministry. He leaned back in his chair instead, and gave a resigned nod.

He would just have to ensure that there were ways to get past this, and continue to sell Desire, and not be interdicted by other brewers.

*

Harry felt the Veritaserum wear off. He could suddenly control his tongue and lie, if he wanted, and the deep calmness that had subdued all his emotions retreated. He sighed. He had rather liked that calmness.

He and Draco were waiting for a lift. Shacklebolt had let them go with a stern warning not to antagonize any reporters, not to sell any more Desire, and to come back to the Ministry in two days, so they could be present when the newly formed committee to evaluate Desire wanted to ask questions. By the look of things, Draco, his head down, was already plotting furious revenge.

Harry leaned towards him and whispered, “Don’t do it.”

Draco’s head came up, and he arched an eyebrow. “What?”

His innocent look had long since ceased to fool Harry. “Whatever you’re about to do,” Harry said. “We can’t sell Desire during the next few days, no matter how much you want to. If we don’t seem to be cooperating with the Ministry—“

“Relax, Potter,” said Draco, and the distance his last name put between them made Harry step away, uncomfortable. “I’m simply thinking about the best way to speak to this committee and convince them that Desire can’t be restricted because of what it might do, any more than they can stop the selling of sedatives because someone might take too many and go into a coma.”

“Really.” Harry stared at him. Not that this was a hardship, really, considering how lively and intriguing he found Draco’s face. He just didn’t trust the calmness glittering in those gray eyes right now.

“Really.” Draco nodded firmly and then turned around to punch one of the lift buttons, as if that would summon it faster.

“And if the committee does declare it illegal?” Harry asked, absently flicking his wand to check for eavesdropping spells within a few feet of them. No one was obviously listening, but still, he would have preferred to wait to discuss this until they were back in the safety of Draco’s shop.

“I’ll obey them, of course,” Draco said, giving him a strange look.

Harry concealed a sigh. He knew that look, too. Draco was a black-market brewer. Let the Ministry try set the cage of laws around him, and he’d dodge between the bars. He’d been doing it for years, though Harry doubted he had sold any potion quite so dangerous.

And what was Harry going to do if he did turn to the black market?

He couldn’t conceive of abandoning Draco now, he thought, as the lift arrived and they climbed into it. On the other hand, he couldn’t conceive of dashing heedlessly into illegal activity, activity that might hurt people.

He would have to think more carefully about things. He would have to read through the evidence that Ginny had sent him—in Draco’s presence—and listen to Hermione and his own conscience as well as the impulses that urged him to stay with Draco always, to deepen their friendship and—

Harry felt himself blush. He stared at his hands and said nothing on the ride down in the lift, or the Apparition back to Draco’s shop. But when he went to open the door, Draco put a hand on his wrist. Harry looked up, and met a pair of sharp, glinting eyes that seemed to have fear behind them, though why that would be the case, Harry didn’t know.

“I just—I don’t want you to come in right now,” Draco said carefully. “I know that you left those documents here, but do you trust me to look through them first and make my own judgments on them? I promise I won’t steal anything, or burn anything, or change anything.”

Harry peered at him, his worry over his own course of action giving way to concern. Draco’s eyes had taken on a feverish cast, and every now and then he craned his neck back to stare at the shop as if he could change the interior with his gaze.

“If you really want me to leave you alone right now,” Harry said slowly, “I can do that.”

“Yes, yes, good, that’s exactly what I want.” Draco gave him a frantic little push between the shoulder blades. “Go away and think, right? And remember that we have to be in front of that committee in two days. I’ll owl you tomorrow, and we can think up strategies. It will be good to have a day to sleep on it.”

He was babbling by now, and Harry couldn’t help catching his hand, though he knew Draco was desperate for him to leave. “Draco,” he whispered, leaning in. “You’re all right, aren’t you?” He was remembering Draco’s limp, the comment Patty had made about Draco’s stomach, and the mysterious creditor Draco had apparently managed to convince to pay off forty thousand Galleons worth of debt. “You’re not in trouble?”

Draco gave him a despairing look, but then he shook his head and stood up. “Sometimes, Harry,” he said loftily, “you just need to learn when you aren’t wanted.”

Harry winced, but kept hold of his wrist and kept looking at him. If Draco was in trouble, it didn’t matter how personally insulting he was; Harry still wanted to help him.

And perhaps Draco sensed that, because after a moment he gave a strained smile and glanced at his shop door again. “Harry,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, but I really do have to go. I’ll owl you.”

“Fine,” Harry said, and convinced his fingers to release Draco’s wrist. It was a hard effort, one that made his hand cramp, and then he had to fight the impulse to snatch Draco into his arms. He walked away slowly, glancing over his shoulder, but Draco opened the door of his shop and stood inside, waving enthusiastically until Harry Apparated.

And so then he had a new dilemma. How much independence is it actually appropriate to give him? What if he’s in trouble, hurting and needing help, but too proud to say anything about it?

One thing was for certain. His life had certainly got quite a bit more complicated since he had crossed paths with Draco Malfoy.

*

Draco made sure the CLOSED sign was hung prominently on the shop door, and then turned to face Daphne. She was sitting on a chair near a barrel of hens’ teeth, idly running her fingers through them. She rose when she saw him, though, smiling a little.

“How did you know I was here?” she asked, in the same deep voice she’d used for the conversation when Draco tried to bore her.

“I could see the sunlight glinting on your hair,” Draco said, leaning against the door and trying frantically to get control of himself. His heart was beating like a hummingbird’s. “And since I doubted there was a pile of new-minted Galleons waiting on the floor of my front room, I thought it must be you. Nothing else shines like that.”

“Why, Draco, how very sweet.” Daphne stepped forwards and rested a hand on his brow, still smiling. “But you didn’t want to introduce me to your friend? I haven’t seen the famous Harry Potter since he defeated the Dark Lord.”

“No, I didn’t want to introduce you to him,” Draco said, flinching. The fingers crawled over his skin like spider legs. He had no idea what the glittering dust that covered her fingernails might be or what effects it might have, and he had to subdue visions of waking up writhing in pain, quite alone, tonight. “You knew him in school. That’s really all the acquaintance with him you need to claim, don’t you think?”

Daphne chuckled in her throat. “I knew him as well as any Slytherin knows a Gryffindor,” she said. “Which means, not very. But you certainly seem to be getting close to him, Draco.” She reached out and laid her wand against his stomach. “If I were a jealous woman, that might be a problem.”

“It’s not,” Draco said, and then pain blossomed in the center of his stomach and sent him to his knees. Moaning, he clasped his arms around his gut.

“Oh, yes,” said Daphne, and from the sound of it, she was tapping her wand against her teeth. “I forgot to tell you about the small modifications I made to your body during one of our play sessions, didn’t I? Well, you’ll find out about them fast enough when you try to eat something that has milk in it. Or when I do this.” She moved the wand again, and the pain became so agonizing Draco froze, his muscles tensed into one long curve of anguish.

Daphne stooped down in front of him. Her green eyes were all he could see in the light through the window, glittering and pitiless.

“Not,” she whispered, voice breathless with excitement, “that you’ll be allowed to remember the latter.” And she placed her mouth on his.

*

“Well, the answer’s obvious to me, Harry.” Hermione was pacing the living room of her flat, her hands clasped behind her back. It made her look so much like McGonagall that Harry had to check himself before he made an unfortunate comparison aloud. “If Malfoy does something illegal, then of course you can’t be involved.”

“I’ve supported him so long,” Harry muttered. “And I can’t abandon him now.” He was sitting on Hermione’s couch, listening to her half the time and brooding all the time.

What had been wrong with Draco in those last moments before he left him at the shop? The thought of Draco suffering, and Harry not knowing, not being able to do anything about it, made him want to leap up and run back to the apothecary. But Draco would probably push him away. There had to be some reason that he didn’t want Harry to know the truth, and undoubtedly it was a good reason.

Maybe. But questioning Draco would say he didn’t trust him.

“Harry, are you listening to me?”

He started and looked up, the lie dying on his tongue when he saw how distressed Hermione was. This is hard on her, too, he thought, and rose to put his arms around her. “No, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just—I’m so worried about what this means. What kind of stories are going to come out now? How can I get Draco out of this mess that I’ve got him into?”

Hermione shoved at him, and frowned severely as Harry jumped away. “I think he’s cooperated quite as much as you have at putting himself into this mess,” she snapped. “And the simple thing would be to stop brewing Desire with him until he agrees that he won’t do anything illegal to promote it.”

Harry blinked. The solution was indeed simple, so much so that he hadn’t thought of it at all. “But—but that would mean his business stands a good chance of going under, Hermione. No one will come and buy ordinary potions there, even if he stops selling Desire.”

“Then he can fall back on his parents and let them support him.” Hermione folded her arms. “Forgive me for not having a great deal of sympathy for someone so privileged.”

“That would kill him, I think,” said Harry, and jammed his hands into his robe pockets whilst Hermione stared at him incredulously. “His parents don’t support his shop. He told me that. They don’t think Malfoys should work.”

Hermione made an exasperated noise. “What would you rather see sacrificed, his pride or his life? And the latter is what will be in danger if he tries to sell Desire illegally. Do you think Nott and Diggory will stop at just killing other people?”

Harry swung around to face her. “But Shacklebolt told us how Umbridge died,” he said. “There’s no way Nott and Diggory could have set that up.”

“Even if they put someone near her to observe what effect Desire had on her, and then to influence her in the right direction?” Hermione shook her head. “Really, I’m surprised Malfoy didn’t think of this. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t consider it important, since Diggory and Nott are already opposed to you. But really, Harry.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t want to see you get hurt, and you don’t want to see Malfoy get hurt. For both reasons, you should refrain from letting him sell Desire.”

Harry nodded slowly. He dragged in one breath, and then another. “There has to be another way,” he whispered. “Draco’s good at planning. I’m sure that he can operate within the bounds of the law and still sell the potion.”

“It all depends on what the committee says,” Hermione said firmly. “And I think it helps that no one in the Ministry really liked Umbridge, or will mourn her loss, and that the cause of her death was so indirect. Malfoy’s business can still survive, Harry, but only if you do everything right. And making plans to rebel against the Ministry’s decrees immediately isn’t a good move.”

Harry nodded, and forced out a weak smile. “Now I just need to convince Draco,” he said. “I don’t think he’ll like this.”

Hermione wore an expression that said where Draco could take his dislike and shove it, but a tap on the window distracted Harry. Aphrodite was hovering there, and sure enough, when he took her on his arm and unrolled the letter bound to her leg, it said that Ginny and Dean had chosen the Garden of the Hesperides for dinner in a few days, and could he come there?

“That’s Ginny’s owl,” Hermione said, her voice soft with amazement.

“Hmmm,” Harry muttered, looking around for owl treats and something to write with. “We’re having dinner in a few days, to try and talk over the problems between us.”

“That’s wonderful.” Hermione’s voice softened and warmed. “Maybe you can finally stop taking the potion, if you stop feeling guilty?”

Harry went still, then turned around and looked at her.

“Listen,” he said, his voice shaking a little, “I’ll let you advise me on handling Draco and on handling the Desire potion and the politics. You know more about it than I do. But I’ll decide what potions I drink.”

Hermione folded her arms and looked mulish.

Harry shook his head and was glad for the distraction of Aphrodite flapping her wings. “Do you have something I can give her?”

I don’t know why everyone’s so frantic over what I decide to drink, he thought, as Hermione joined the hunt for owl treats. I’m in less trouble than anyone else at the moment.

Chapter 8.