Fic: Snidget Feathers

[avocado_love]

Title: Snidget Feathers
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Rating: PG-13
Summary: While working on a crucial potion to allow Harry and Draco to become unregistered Animagi, Harry is kidnapped. Can Draco come to the rescue and still be able to keep their secret safe?
Warnings (if any): Cursing, mild violence, EWE
Total word count: 8600+
Notes: Written in, uh, *checks* May '08 for hd_inspired 's animagus round. And then promptly lost and found in my hard drive several times before I dug it out again this evening. Oh yeah, and it was plagiarized once, too. Well, enjoy! (And thanks to sev1970 , themadmermaid , and winnett who beta'ed this for me two years ago.)
****

Snidget Feathers

“Are you sure it’s supposed to look like that?” asked Harry as he glanced a doubtful eye at the cauldron and its thick bubbling mixture. The liquid was roughly the colour and consistency of melted tar – it should have cleared some time ago.

Draco didn’t respond. He was bent over the concoction, stirring it with careful reverence. His brows knit ever so slightly, and he bent so close to the liquid his nose nearly touched the surface. Then he glanced up and addressed Harry for the first time in nearly a half hour. “It needs another pinch of powered squirrel bone. Get it to me. Quickly.”

Harry didn’t move. “You’ve already added three pinches already.”

“Potter, don’t pretend you know what you are talking about. Get me the powder.”

“No, you’re going to ruin it.”

Draco swore and grabbed Harry’s hand, curling it around the stirring stick before Harry could put up much of an objection. “Three times clockwise and then two times counter-clockwise, got it?”

“Draco--”

It was no use. Draco was already off to the other side of the small room, shuffling through the various vials and tubes that held extra portions of the ingredients already used. Harry sighed and went back to stirring. It was very important that the pattern not be interrupted until the potion turned clear. Draco had been at it for three hours already, thus his foul mood.

Draco gave a small grunt of satisfaction when he found the correct vial, and hurried back over to be stopped by Harry’s dark glare.

“Let’s just give it a little more time before we start throwing in ingredients.”

“Nonsense.” Draco uncorked the vial, and then absently brushed a lock of hair back that had somehow escaped his smoothing charm. “This is a very sensitive step.”

“They’re all sensitive steps.” Harry shook his head in frustration, remembering to switch stirring directions only at the last moment. “Look, I was right last month, wasn’t I? When you wanted to add the yellow thistle, and it wasn’t time?” Draco was silent, so Harry ploughed on, “We’ve been working on this potion for over a year. Waiting another hour won’t hurt.”

“It’ll hurt my arm,” Draco grumbled, rubbing his sore forearm. But he set the vial down and pulled up a stool, leaning on the table – apparently content to let Harry do the potion work for once.

Prat, thought Harry, without any real malice. He turned back to the potion and concentrated on his stirring. He was accustomed to Draco’s single mindedness, as well as his affinity to become easily frustrated when things didn’t go his way. Harry decided it was probably a result of his Draco’s spoiled upbringing. Malfoy moodiness aside, Harry knew that he wouldn’t have got this far without him.

It had been a series of strange coincidences that had them partnering up for this insanely dangerous little experiment in magic. They had both taken on the challenge of becoming Animagi at the same time, which, of course, had been a coincidence. Only the dual need of gathering rare ingredients and struggling through ancient translations that had led them (very reluctantly at first) to team up.

Neither had ever discussed the reasons why they were willing to risk so much to gain the ability to transform. Harry’s reason was that he wanted the ability to simply get away: the press and the Ministry had never left him alone after the fall of Voldemort. It would be the ten-year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts soon, and he still couldn’t go out shopping in Diagon Alley without being accosted by well-wishers. Buying a house out in the country had turned into such a media-circus once the Prophet had got a hold of the documents that he had been forced to back out. Dating was completely out of the question. Witches – and a couple of wizards he had tried his hand on – only stared at the scar.

Glamours were easily broken, at best. No, what he needed – what he craved – was to just be able to get away from it all when it became too much: mind, body and soul.

At these times, an old conversation with Sirius always seemed to drift into his thoughts, and tantalize him. Harry couldn’t remember the exact words, but his godfather had been able to resist the pull of the Dementors while in his dog form. It had allowed him to escape the hell of Azkaban.

Grimmauld Place wasn’t Azkaban, but Harry was very nearly as much a prisoner there, nevertheless. Becoming an Animagus – an unregistered Animagus – was the only way he saw to escape.

It was dangerous work for more reasons than one: attempting to become an Animagus without first informing the Ministry was punishable with a minimum of five years in Azkaban. Some of the ingredients needed for the all-important potion were illegal, and the actual brewing process carried a very high risk of being accidentally poisoned, or causing the imbiber to lose all sense of one’s human-self in the body of the transformed animal if the potion wasn’t made correctly.

God help him, he had partnered up with Draco bloody Malfoy to see him through it, and, after a year of working closely with the other man, Harry had to grudgingly admit that he wouldn’t trust another soul with this task.

Once Harry had got past the animosity, the snarky remarks, the moody outbursts, and racist comments about Muggle-borns, Draco wasn’t that bad of company, really. Draco excelled at potions, and once committed to an idea, completely threw himself behind it. He also had an uncanny knack to be able to root out answers to questions from old texts like a Niffler in a goldmine. In fact (although Harry would never say this because he liked his bollocks exactly where they were, thank you very much) Draco’s thirst for knowledge reminded him of Hermione Granger.

As it turned out, after a year of close quarters, Harry could safely call Draco… his friend.

Harry continued stirring as his thoughts about the last year surfaced, and after awhile he had to exchange hands to keep his wand hand from going numb. He glanced to his right and saw that Draco had stopped sulking and was rereading their translations from the ancient Runite instructions, which Harry had purchased at great price.

The art of transforming into an animal was not a new one by any means. No one knew exactly who or when the first wizard had transformed, but the art of doing so had been in the collective psyche of human minds for generations: skin-walkers, gods with the body of men but the faces of animals. It was even theorized that the werewolf curse was originally born originally out of some poorly concocted Animagus potion -- the more reason for the Ministry to want to keep close tabs on anyone trying it for themselves.

In any case, the instructions were vague in places, and unnecessarily detailed in others. Harry and Draco had spent days translating, and then revising the translations. Finally, after a year, they were nearly to the last step. Draco was probably frowning over something they had done five months ago -- he had an annoying habit of angsting over things that were now out of his control.

It didn’t matter. They were nearly done.

Harry felt a sudden shift in his stirring stick. The potion had given up its resistance. The sludge was finally thinning. “Draco!” he barked, “It’s changing! Look!”

Draco not only came right over, but also elbowed Harry out of the way and took over the stirring himself, as if he didn’t trust Harry to do it right. “I wasn’t looking. Did you add anything to it? Stir it differently?”

Harry felt a stab of annoyance. “Of course not. I told you we should wait, and that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.”

As Draco stirred, the potion became more liquid until finally, finally the blackness dissipated altogether in a puff of smoke, leaving behind a clear, simmering solution. Gone was the rank smell of onions and cauliflower. Now Harry breathed in the scent of rotten leaves.

Draco removed the stirring stick and placed it on the table. He let out a long sigh of pure relief, shoulders slumping as he shook his head. From Harry’s point of view, it looked like the stress was literally rolling off of him. The other man had been more wound up than he had let on, tense over messing up the potion at this last, critical step. “Well, Potter,” he said, turning to look in Harry’s direction, “it does look like you’re good for something after all.”

“That’s what it’s supposed to look like, then?”

“Yes.” Draco didn’t offer any apology for the snarky way in which he had acted, and Harry learned to not expect one.

Draco let out another long sigh and reached over to grab the faded piece of parchment. “When the potion is in this state, it should be safe to let it simmer indefinitely. That will give us time to locate the final ingredient.”

“About that--” Harry began, but was cut off by an abrupt gesture from Draco, who was looking up from the parchment, worrying his bottom lip against his teeth.

“I know you’re dead set against it, Potter, but I’m going to insist that we test this potion at least twice before we consume it ourselves. I know we can’t test the beasts for the final transformation, but at least we will be able to see straight away if it’s poisonous.”

“Draco--”

“My house-elves found a warren of rabbit’s last week on the border of my property. They’ll do just fine.” He paused, finally focusing in on Harry and the huge grin on his face. “Out with it, Potter.”

“You know how you’ve been worried about how we’re to locate the final ingredient?”

Draco snorted. “Snidgets are highly endangered, and highly protected.” He narrowed his silver eyes at the other man, half in suspicion, and half in barely concealed hope. “Why?” Seeing Harry’s grin widen, he took in a sharp breath, “Don’t tell me… you’ve worked out how to gain access to the reserve?”

“Better.” Harry thrust his hand into his right pocket and clasped his fingers on a little wrapped package. He brought it out, and with a quick twist of magic, undid the wrapping.

To a Muggle, a snidget might look a little bit like a common canary, a bright yellow, round little canary with jewel red eyes, but the snidget in Harry’s hand had its eyes closed, its body rigid in death. A few soft yellow feathers still clung to the brown paper.

Draco eyed the poor little creature with equal parts awe and reverence. He held out cupped, slightly trembling hands to Potter. “How did you… may I?”

Harry turned the body over to him. “It’s probably best if you didn’t know how I came to have it, although I was assured that it died naturally.” It was likely that Draco didn’t care, but Harry still wanted to have that in the open. “I know snidgets are highly reactive to magic, so I couldn’t put a stasis charm on it. Do you suppose it’s still fresh enough to work?”

Draco laid the little bird on his table. The awe was disappearing, and when he spoke his voice had become once more clipped and professional. That was good. It was the way Harry most liked to think of the other man: calm and in control.

“It should be fine. We just need three of the tail feathers.” Draco worked quickly, and soon the three longest unbroken tail feathers were in his hand. Draco stood back for a moment, eyeing the snidget and then gave a sigh, “To think of all of the potions that the rest of the feathers and body could go towards…”

“It’s an automatic five year sentence in Azkaban if either one of us are caught with the remains,” Harry reminded.

Draco straightened his shoulders, “I know that, Potter,” he snapped, as he hesitated a moment longer before waiving his wand over the dead snidget and Vanishing its remains.

Both turned towards the bubbling cauldron with a sense of wary anticipation.

Draco held the three yellow feathers in the palm of his hand as if afraid they would disintegrate. “If this works…”

“It’s just another step in the process.” The words made it sound simple, but Harry was lying, and they both knew it. It wasn’t just any step. It was the step. Taking an Animagus potion allowed the witch or wizard in question to perform the final transfiguration. Animagi work wasn’t all about advanced spell casting. It was a permanent change in the caster’s body allowing him two forms; not simply the one he was born with, but the one hidden, inside.

Draco still hesitated, teeth nibbling at his bottom lip. Harry stepped forward, putting a hand on his shoulder – a hand that was brushed off immediately as Draco strode towards the cauldron and dumped the very last ingredient in.

The three feathers clung to the surface of the potion, riding the waves of boiling bubbles for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually the heat and the liquid won out and one by one, the feathers sank into the potion.

Harry felt like he couldn’t breathe – didn’t dare to breathe.

Then, in a burst of simmering bubbles and a puff of fragrance somewhere between mint and fried chicken, the roiling potion turned a brilliant yellow, like pure sunlight.

Draco let out an undignified whoop. Harry dared to breathe again, and then suddenly – he never really worked out quite how he and Draco were embracing, laughing, pounding each other on the back and saying stupid fragmented sentences like:

“I thought for sure it wouldn’t—”
“Brilliant! Do you see the colour—”
“Thank Merlin the feathers were all right—”
“Took it long enough. I was about to shit myself—”

The moment they realized what they were doing, that they were in each other’s arms, should have been an awkward one. Indeed, they broke apart each with little coughs and glances in every direction as if some spy – or voyeur—was watching.

“It needs to simmer for a minimum of seventy-two hours with a bezoar to leech out the poison.” Draco was already digging around in his cabinets again, and when he returned with the little stone, Harry could see spots of colour still on his cheeks. The bezoar was dropped into the cauldron with a lot less reverence than the feathers. All the magical ingredients were now in the cauldron.

Harry stood for a moment, gazing at the cauldron: it represented more than eighteen months of hard work. He had wondered what it would feel like to see it nearly completed for more than a year. Now that he was here looking at it, he didn’t know how he was feeling.

“Right,” he said, “what say you and I go get a drink?”

*******

Going to the Leaky or another pub was completely out of the question due to the suffocating press of Harry’s fame. So after heavily warding the work-shed, the two headed up the long twisting trail to the back entrance of Malfoy Manor.

Harry had been to the Manor on several occasions, but those visits had more or less always been for official business – discussing the next ingredient to be found, dividing up time on who would sit to watch a sensitive phase and make sure the flame under the cauldron was the exact temperature, and the like. This was the first time he was invited to the sitting room, and the first time he noticed a bar in the corner.

“Scotch?” Draco asked, walking behind and pouring himself a shot.

Harry nodded and sat down. The sofa felt hard and unyielding. Clearly, this room was meant to sit guests, but not friends. “Yes, thank you.” He took the proffered glass when it was offered to him. The alcohol burned in a most satisfying way down his throat.

He wondered what the Animagus potion would taste like.

“If we’re lucky, it won’t be the last thing we taste,” Draco answered, with a little grimace, and Harry realized he had spoken out loud.

Harry leveled a long look at the other man. “Don’t. We’ve done everything right. We’ve spent months planning around the difficult parts, and we haven’t taken any chances in translating. It will be okay.”

“Yes, well I suppose I will be drinking it alongside the Boy Who Lived, won’t I?” Draco mused, leaning back in his stiff chair and crossing one leg in front of the other. Before Harry could reply, Draco tipped back his shot and swallowed it down.

“If you’re so worried about it, why do it at all?” Harry’s words came out when he had only half meant to say them. Was there a charm on this room to make him just blurt things out? Luckily, Draco seemed a little surprised, looking taken aback enough to ease Harry’s worry about some kind of thought-revealing charm.

“Knowledge is power, I suppose.” He answered, with a shrug, long fingers dancing around the rim of his magically refilled tumbler.

Harry glanced down and realized that his glass had filled as well. He brought it halfway to his lips and then stopped, studying Draco. The other man was shrugging again, not looking at him. “Liar. What’s your real reason?”

Draco narrowed his eyes slightly, but looked away. “I don’t see what business it is of yours, Potter.” His voice was cold, all traces of friendship gone.

With a sigh, Harry decided he was too tired to really push his luck with a moody Draco, and sipped his drink. To his surprise, Draco spoke up again as soon as Harry had swallowed.

“Fine, you want to know so badly. But if you laugh…” He eyed Harry warily.

Harry almost smiled. Draco obviously thought he looked dangerous like that, eyes slitted and lips pressed. What he didn’t know was that Harry liked the look of the slight blush on his high cheeks, and the way his bottom lip stuck out ever so slightly, the hint of grey eyes….

Harry quickly cleared his throat. “I won’t laugh.”

“I want to…” Draco trailed off and sighed, closing his eyes. “I want to fly.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, without a broomstick or magic. I want to control the air with my own two wings – see you’re smirking. I knew you’d find it stupid.” The slightly dazed, happy expression Draco had on his face was gone in a moment.

“I wasn’t!”

But Draco’s face was now closed, as if hiding what he perceived as vulnerability behind a pair of window shutters. “What’s your reason for doing this, then, if you think my reason was so funny?”

“I didn’t think it was funny.”

“You’re stalling, Potter.”

Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes. Somehow, probably with willpower forged out of keeping himself from making a scene during Snape’s double Potions back at Hogwarts, he was able to keep his face blank. “I thought that you would already know.” He shrugged and took a sip out of his glass. “I want to be able to hide.”

“From the press.” It wasn’t a question.

Harry shrugged. “From everyone. I don’t want wings unless it comes in a very dull color. I just want to blend in, for once in my life.” He ended this by finishing the rest of the alcohol in the glass.

Draco watched him for a moment, and then shrugged. “Well, I’ll drink to that. I’ve always hated seeing your face all over the Prophet. It’s a pet peeve, really.”

Harry smirked. “Thanks.”

“But we’ve still got seventy-two hours to wait, and even if it is successful and we are able to change no wings or claws in the world are going to allow you into a restaurant.” Draco leaned back, “I know just the place.”

“Oh?”

“It’s pricey.”

Harry waved that off with a flippant bat of his hand. The motion was more exaggerated than he intended it to be – the alcohol was finally getting to him. Perhaps it was also getting to Draco, for the other man had a strange glint in his eye.

“It’s a little wizarding restaurant in one of the Muggle neighborhoods in London. It is… exclusive, and will only sit a handful of guests a night. It’s not the type of place that one would dine alone, and I’ve always wanted to go, but I’ve never been able to find a guest.”

Harry’s heart lurched abruptly in his chest so hard that he wouldn’t have been surprised if Draco hadn’t seen it beating under his shirt. Was Draco trying to ask him… out? For dinner? The causal posture said no, but there was no mistake in the steel glint in those eyes. “S-sure.” He was ashamed in his stammer, and quickly covered it up with a cough into his closed fist. “It’ll be nice to get out, for once.”

The corners of Draco’s mouth ticked upwards, “You’re free tomorrow night then?”

“Draco,” Harry gave a humorless laugh, “the media has made me a damned hermit. I’m free every night.”

***********

Much later, Harry left the Malfoy residence with a definite bounce in his step. After he stopped at the work-shed to make sure the potion was still simmering away, he took the long winding trail to the outskirts of the manor. Draco had made it impossible to Apparate in or out of the property in order to protect the potion.

Harry had a silly grin on his face, and his head was so dizzy with alcohol that he accidentally walked past the invisible bounds of the Manor and kept going. It was a very nice night, and he wasn’t in a big hurry to Apparate to his lonely little flat.

He didn’t notice the three shadowy figures following him.


**********

Draco trailed a long finger along the rim of his wineglass, sighing to himself.

There was, he thought, very little in this world much more embarrassing than being stood up on a first date.

Harry was half an hour late for dinner, and Draco was restlessly shifting in his chair, taking in the scene around him. He hadn’t been exaggerating in the least when he had talked about the prices of the place, or its emphasis on keeping private clientele. There were seven other tables in the dining room, all occupied, and although Draco glanced at them all, he could not recognize one of the faces. The charms in and around the restaurant made him completely unable to connect any of the faces with names. Draco had often wondered how the owner managed to keep track of his staff with charms like that, but he had never asked

As his gaze roamed, he caught the eye of his personal server. The man nodded and started in his direction, but Draco shook his head, standing up. “My compliments to the sommelier,” he said, tossing down a small handful of coins, and rising from the table, “The wine was lovely.”

*******

Draco tried to tell himself that it wasn’t a big deal. He tried to tell himself, after waking up the next morning and realizing that he had not only drank himself into a stupor the previous night, but had destroyed a couple of wooden antique chairs in a fit of rage, that he wasn’t hurt at all that Potter had not shown.

So what if he had read the signals all wrong? He and Potter had been working close together for over a year now. Maybe signals got crossed when you were spending all day cooped up in a small work-shed day after day, night after night.

SMASH!

Draco kicked aside the remains of the third chair destroyed by his temper. His wand felt slick in his hand, and there was a suspicious stinging in his eyes.

Stupid Potter… stupid Gryffindor. Wasn’t that House supposed to be brave? Apparently all of the noble and chivalrous stuff only applied to rushing headlong into ridiculous death defying situations. No, they were just as cowardly as the worst of the human race when it came to backing down gracefully from a date.

SMASH!

And there went the last chair.

“It doesn’t matter,” he told himself, closing his eyes and walking away. He had work to do… Potter might not have checked the potion before he left as he said he would, and Draco was not going to let that get ruined over stupid Potter’s stupid carelessness.

The potion was fine. Draco found it simmering lightly, and he added a little water to the brew to make sure that it didn’t over-thicken. Stepping out of the shed, he glanced up to the sky, half hoping to see an owl. Surely Potter would want to explain himself… perhaps, ask for forgiveness?

Draco hoped that he did, just so he could laugh in his face for embarrassing him so much.

The sky was empty. With a sigh, he trudged back up to the Manor.

*******

By late afternoon, Draco had managed not to destroy anything else of importance – barely – and he had not heard anything from Potter.

Despite himself, he was growing concerned.

Had Potter chickened out of everything? Maybe (and the very thought made Draco’s stomach clench) he had a complete change of heart over the whole Animagus idea and had decided that the best course of action would be to give himself up to the Ministry and turn Draco in as some sort of chip for plea bargaining…

… Stop it.

Stop it.

Draco forced himself to take a few deep breaths. Potter wouldn’t do that to him. He used to be an Auror and knew as well as anyone that the Ministry’s stance on snitches since the war wouldn’t be in his favor.

What, then, would hold him up?

Draco didn’t know, and he was tired of not knowing. Setting down the cup of tea he’d been sipping, he got up and headed resolutely for the cellar.

After his mother had died – well, after the War, really, Draco hadn’t been able to go down to that dark, dank place. Too many memories haunted him here: memories of what had been done and what he had done. Anyone who knew anything about him and the events during the War knew that he hated the cellar and had wished it blasted into nothingness.

This made it the perfect place to hide things.

Draco paused in front of the door, mentally steeled himself, and murmured the charm to disable the wards.

The room was dark, with no lights or torches to guide his way. After closing the door, Draco lit his wand with a Lumos and held it up high, revealing a single pedestal with what looked like an old sock upon it.

A Portkey. But not just any Portkey.

Two scant days ago, Draco would have been ashamed to admit what he had done. It was very much like the boy he had tried to forget: the petty little man-child whose arrogance had finally ended up getting him in such hot water he nearly boiled alive before Harry Potter put a stop to the Dark Lord’s madness.

A year ago he hadn’t trusted Potter. Potter probably trusted him even less, but the fact was that Draco had much more to lose if their little Animagus experiment were found out. People would think twice about sending The Chosen One to Azkaban… but most of the population still wanted Draco under lock and key for mistakes he made when he was sixteen.

So, Draco had put a locating spell on Potter. It was a simple thing… something he had picked up in East Asia during his travels right after the war.

While Potter didn’t know it, he had a little spy following him around – in the guise of a slip of paper, barely two centimeters long, shaped in the form of a human being. The paper was charmed to follow Harry, to catch under the hood of his cloak while going out, to slip unknown and unseen under doors and behind objects.

And, when Draco required, it was also meant to be the anchor of a Portkey.

It wasn’t perfect. Draco had to make his charm very small, so he knew he would only be transported in Potter’s general area. Not to mention there was always the possibility of Potter finding the charm… but he never had, and now, for the first time Draco was going to call upon it.

Merlin help you, Potter, if you’re just sitting in your flat moping, thought Draco as he reached for the sock.

The tug behind his navel was immediate, and Draco set his jaw firmly against the sudden onslaught of whooshing colours and scenes as he was transported. Or at least, that’s what he had set his jaw expecting. The tug in his stomach was nothing more than a quick jerk, and a moment later Draco found himself right against the eastern boarder of his own property near an abandoned cabin.

In his father’s day, an old Squib had been hired as grounds-keeper for the wilder parts of the Malfoy estate, and had lived in the small cabin. The old man had died long ago while Draco was still in Hogwarts. The paint was peeling off of the wooden cabin, and its gardens had overgrown well past their boarders.

And if Draco wasn’t mistaken, Potter was inside.

There was a slight movement from one of the dusty, cracked windows, and Draco hastily ducked behind the trunk of a gnarled old oak. He didn’t know why he had hidden. This was his property, and this was his ramshackle old building, but Draco was starting to get a very bad feeling about all of this. The fine hair along the back of his neck rose up like tiny hackles, causing a tingle to roll down his spine.

Something wasn’t right here, other than the fact that Potter had been on his property without Draco knowing about it. Something was off.

He ducked down and edged around the overgrown hedges, careful to keep out of the direct line of sight from the small cabin. As it was still within the borders of the property, he simply couldn’t Apparate inside as he wanted, so he needed to have a look about before he just strode up and knocked on the door.

A crash sounded from within the walls of the cabin, along with the muffled tenor of a raised voice.

Quickly, Draco glanced both right and left to make sure no one was around before he darted across the garden and to the lee of the house, pressing his back up against the wall to keep out of sight of the windows.

As close as he was, and as thin as the walls were, he could hear the conversation inside fairly clearly.

“—ridiculous! I’m tired of you playing stupid with us!” snapped a voice that was definitely not Potter.

Silence followed, and then a testy, “We’re waiting for your answer, Potter.” The voice was different from the first, lower, as if the man was growling. “We need them snidget feathers. Now tell us where the ingredient is, and we’ll let you go.”

There was a muffled reply that Draco couldn’t quite hear, but there was no mistaking it -- it was Potter’s voice. Whatever he was saying sounded subdued, and his speech was cut off by the sharp crack of flesh against flesh.

“I’m getting tired of his mouth, Steve,” another voice said.

“I’ve already been tired of it.”

Draco’s mind felt like it was spinning… how many men were in there? How had they found out about the potion? Oh Merlin… Harry…

Instinctively, Draco reached inside his robes for his wand. He had to shift his weight to do so, and it was too much for an unnoticed twig under his left foot. It snapped in half, making a sound that seemed impossibly loud to Draco’s keyed up senses.

“Wait,” one of the men said, and to Draco’s horror, he heard footsteps coming in his direction. The windowsill was a spare meter away. Draco pressed himself to the wall, praying that the stupid man would look only straight out the window and not from side to side.

An eon seemed to pass before he heard reluctant footsteps away from his wall again and a muttered, “Stupid animals…”

Draco knew his best course of action would be to run in now and stun Potter’s unsuspecting captors. Hopefully Potter wouldn’t be too traumatized by the ordeal to lend a hand. They were two powerful wizards, and with the element of surprise – well, it might work. It would be what Harry would do. It would be what any one of Harry’s friends would do.

Draco couldn’t. His muscles wouldn’t obey his racing mind, and he stood there while the men set about interrogating Harry again.

When he heard another unmistakable sound of curled fist hitting flesh, Draco’s legs decided to work for him.

With fist pressed tightly against his mouth in order to not make a sound, he lurched away from the house. Only when he was safe beyond the border of darkened hedges did he break into a panicked run, away from the house.

Away from Harry.

******

The overwhelming panic that had taken over his mind dulled only when Draco caught sight of the little work-shed. Casting a glance behind him to make sure he hadn’t been followed – he hadn’t – he made one final sprint to the door, and fled inside.

The cauldron was simmering merrily, not having changed a bit since Draco left it last.

“Oh Merlin…” the impact of what Draco had just done hit him like a punch in the stomach, and he slid down the door, coming to rest on the floor. He had abandoned Harry to be beaten up and interrogated… how long until the other man was tortured enough to give anything away? How long until those men came looking for him?

Oh Harry…

Draco raised his eyes to look at the cauldron, and for the first time in a year’s worth of work, realized that it wasn’t worth it. The chances he had took, both professionally and personally… the time he had spent… none of it. Had it ever been?

The sound of Potter being hit again flashed in Draco’s mind, and he let out a low groan, fingers tangling in his own hair.

What was he doing? He had to get Harry out of there. He had to—to—do what? Call the Aurors? Oh yeah, that would be a real nice conversation. Harry would be saved from those men, if he wasn’t killed in some sort of horrible crossfire, only to be thrown in Azkaban for making the potion, Draco along with him.

Maybe he should tell Potter’s friends? If Granger and The Weasel were smart enough to help him defeat the Dark Lord a decade ago, surely they could help Draco take on four or five thugs. The odds would be bad, but it would be better than nothing.

Except for the fact that Potter probably never told them about him. Why should he? And who knows how long it would take to get them to trust his word long enough to help out? Harry could still be hurt or worse in magical crossfire…

Damnit, damnit, damnit! “You’re thinking like a Gryffindor, Draco!” he snapped at himself, disgusted. There had to be a way around this. He was just looking at things from the wrong angle.

Draco got up and started pacing the floor, both hands clasped behind his back. “Right… okay… so I can’t go to the officials and Potter’s friends are out. I also can’t win in a four to one duel, and besides even if I were to escape I don’t want to be recognized. They could just blackmail me later… I need a distraction of some sort… or a disguise.”

Once again, his eyes fell on the potion, and it clicked.

Of course. The Animagus potion!

Draco’s jubilation withered away almost the moment it had blossomed. The potion was still poison for another twenty-four hours, and he had testing…

Harry didn’t have that kind of time.

Who knew what those thugs were doing to him now? If Draco was lucky enough to transform into something dangerous, something deadly he could get him out. This needed to happen fast.

Quickly, Draco went to the shelves and started rooting around. He found the small grubby box he had been looking for almost immediately: Three bezoars were still inside.

He turned, dumping them into the cauldron quickly, not allowing himself to pause to think about what he was doing. The translation had required only one bezoar, but they were a neutral magical force… in theory, more could be added to speed up the process. Draco had intended to follow the original translation line for line to reduce the possibility of mistakes, but now there was no time.

Draco studied the cauldron, watching for an anxious minute for any changes of color or texture to the potion. There was nothing. It remained its brilliant golden yellow shade, gently simmering.

He did a couple of quick calculations in his head. At this rate, the twenty-four hour period would be cut down to eight.

Eight long hours in which anything could happen to Harry.

Closing his eyes, Draco forced himself to push that thought away. He had to trust that his friend would say enough to keep from getting killed, and hope that it wouldn’t lead those thugs to the potion. Short of going back and storming the place – certain suicide – there was nothing more to be done.

It still didn’t make it any easier to wait.

********

Despite his resolve to stay awake for any changes in the potion, Draco was started out of a light daze by the first cracks of sunlight peeking through the one window. Blinking, he looked around in sleepy confusion before the memories of the night before flooded back with full force.

He shot to his feet and looked over at the cauldron. The potion looked the same as ever, and a quick Tempus confirmed that it had been just over eight and a half hours. It should be ready.

Draco found himself hesitating before collecting the two vials. He should really be smart about this. He should test it on one of the rabbits. If the potion was still toxic, no one was around to help him. No one could help him. He’d be dead before his body even hit the floor.

Biting his lip, he looked out the window and shook his head, rejecting his inner-thoughts. No. There wasn’t any alternative, and Harry… Draco didn’t want to think about what Harry had been through last night. This was the only way, the only chance to get him out of that cabin and make sure that neither of them would be troubled by those men.

He cautiously ladled the potion into the vials, careful not to spill a drop. Then, with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, he waved his wand over the remainder of the Animagus potion, Vanishing it out of existence. His and Harry’s hard year of work was gone, leaving doses enough for the two of them.

Now, the only thing left to do was drink up.

It was strange in a way how he couldn’t get his arms and legs to move in order to rush in and save his friend, yet he could stand there and unstopper a vial that had a good chance of being deadly poison, and drink it with no idea what the results would be, Draco reflected, moments before his lips touched the vial. Perhaps it was his way of being brave.

The potion tasted surprisingly good – buttery and mellow as it swished around his mouth and warm as it went down his throat.

Draco closed his eyes and waited. By the tenth beat of his heart, he dared to hope that he had done it right after all.

After three minutes had passed, he knew he was safe.

A warm feeling spread from his stomach outward, to his chest, arms, and legs. It wasn’t all pleasant. Where the warmth touched there was also a twitchy, itching feeling. Draco shifted around uncomfortably, unconsciously jerking limbs that suddenly wanted to move and change.

His body was ready. Now all he had to do was think of the spell he and Harry had already committed to memory.

Harry should be here for this, Draco thought sadly as he capped and tucked the other dose safely away in his pocket. If this went correctly, the two would soon be together. That thought is what he needed to concentrate on.

Draco’s lips turned downward into a frown as he concentrated. He had told Harry the truth the other night when he said he had wanted to fly, but now he didn’t see how wings could help him at all.

I need to be something dangerous… I need to be something that can help him. Please, make me something that can help him.

The actual transformation was faster than he had ever expected. He felt a sickening drop in his stomach, and for a moment he felt he was falling. But no, he was simply shrinking… shrinking so fast that it seemed as if the floor was rushing up to hit him.

Draco’s hips tilted as he shrank, and he fell forward, catching himself on his hands – no, paws…

Colors twisted and dulled and his vision dimmed, but at the same time the world seemed to come alive through his nose. He inhaled, and felt the world explode back into his mind – a world of scent and not sight.

The change was done. Draco looked down at himself to see for the first time the animal within.

No.

This couldn’t be. He couldn’t – oh Merlin, how was he supposed to help Harry like this?

Draco would have cried out in shock and horror, but ferrets were quiet creatures, and didn’t have the vocal cords to do either.

*******

Harry came into consciousness slowly, and immediately regretted it.

One of his captors – Harry thought his name was Dustin or Dusty or something of that sort – had taken pity on him last night and had attempted to clean up some of the damage the others had done during Harry’s extended interrogation yesterday.

Dustin/Dusty had some dittany to help with Harry’s cuts, but his right eye was still swollen shut from the time Big Red had taken offence to a couple of things Harry had said about his mother. He was fairly certain that he had a broken rib, and knew that the nerve endings on his hands and feet were going to be in big trouble if they continued to be starved of blood due to the bindings strapping him to the chair.

Despite all of their work, they hadn’t got anything out of Harry, and the longer he stalled, the more time he had to be found and rescued… and the safer both the Animagus potion and Draco would be.

Draco…

Maybe it was the blood loss, but Harry’s mind had continually worried over the other man even while he was being pummeled by one of his six captors. How long had Draco waited at the restaurant for his arrival? Did he hate him now? How was he going to explain this all to Draco. Would Draco believe him? After all, it wasn’t every day that the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, was overpowered and kidnapped by a bunch of—

A movement to the right interrupted Harry’s thoughts. He twisted his head, mindful of his sore neck, but couldn’t locate exactly where he had seen that distant flash of white. His glasses were gone, and all he could pick out with his good eye were the forms of the sleeping men. They were still passed out even though it appeared to be mid-morning, probably snoring off the effects of all the alcohol last night.

The flash of white appeared again, and now Harry was able to focus his eye long enough to see an animal shaped blob (he was really useless without his glasses) scurrying around the room. The little creature hunted right, and then left, appearing to search for something. When Harry shifted slightly in his seat to get a better look, the little creature darted forward and suddenly it was on his lap.

Harry let out a strangled gasp. The creature was finally in his field of vision, and he knew he had seen this ferret before.

“Draco?!” he hissed, and glanced quickly at the forms of the sleeping men, but they slept on.

The ferret let out a quiet chirp of happiness, and jumped down onto the floor. A moment later, Draco, stood up. He looked more disheveled than Harry had ever seen him; his hair unslicked and dark bags under his eyes.

Harry’s good eye widened and he opened his mouth, more out of reflex than the actual need to say anything, but found it covered a moment later by Draco’s hand.

Draco put a finger to his lips and glanced over the men in silent warning before pulling out his own wand. A moment later Harry’s bindings loosened, and he would have fallen out of the chair out of sheer relief if Draco hadn’t grabbed his shoulders and kept him upright.

Something cool and smooth was pressed into his hands. Harry glanced down in surprise to see a vial full of yellow liquid.

“Drink it. Quickly.” Draco commanded in an urgent whisper. “Where did they stash your wand?”

“In the kitchen, I think. Draco--”

The other man was gone, already heading to the kitchen, leaving Harry to regard the vial with in awe. A hundred questions were swimming around in his mind, the first being how Draco had got away with not poisoning himself. There would be time to answer that, later.

He drank, feeling a sense of bemusement. In all the times he had imagined himself drinking the Animagus potion, the scene around him had been nothing like this – being rescued in a fashion by Draco.

Harry just swallowed the last drop as Draco returned, handing Harry’s found wand over to him.

“Now, repeat the spell as we practiced before, and you’ll change.”

“Wait, Draco, there’s something--”

A low groan at the front of the room stopped Harry mid-sentence. Big Red was starting to stir, slowly coming into consciousness.

“Now, Harry!” Draco hissed.

*******

The man known as Big Red was no stranger to life throwing curve balls in his direction. Hell, his whole life seemed like one big joke starting from when he had been a child and realized he was different then the rest of his family. Sometimes it felt like all the powers in the universe had got together to make his life one Muggle comedy sitcom starring him as the unwilling victim of circumstance.

But nothing in his sad, slightly tragic life prepared him for what he saw upon waking up on the floor of the dusty old cabin with a pounding headache between his ears.

Out of habit he rolled over to glance at his captive – only to see a four-point buck tossing its head and pawing at the floor. Seeing him awaken, the stag lowered its head and charged.

Big Red did what any man would do in a situation like that: He screamed and covered his head with his moth-eaten blanket.

The blanket was thin, and he could clearly see the shadow of the animal leaping over him. A crash and a tinkle of broken glass told him it had used the window as an escape.

Big Red didn’t get to see the strange sight of a pure white ferret riding on the stag’s back.

********
The next evening
********

When Draco had visited this restaurant a few days ago, the wine had been exquisite. He was having the same vintage tonight, but now it tasted like ashy grape-juice on his tongue. Or maybe it was just his dinner conversation that was putting him off. “Squibs?” he repeated, nearly spitting the word.

Harry grinned at him from across the table. Draco thought it to be an odd reaction — Harry looking so at ease after what he had been through — but Harry kept insisting that he hadn’t suffered too much from the kidnapping, and he now looked like he was really enjoying both the expensive dinner in his honor and spilling the surprising news to his friend. “Apparently, one of them – I never could work out which one – read about a potion that could awaken magical properties in squibs—”

“Nonsense,” Draco interrupted.

“Yeah, well one of them worked at the snidget reserve and was hoping to get his hand on the next one that died. I got there first.”

“And they came looking for you.” Draco felt a hot blush of shame and embarrassment spread up his neck and he tried to cover it with another sip of his wine. He had run away from a bunch of squibs…

“Draco,” Harry seemed to notice his tablemate’s discomfort, and to Draco’s surprise, Harry slipped a hand over his. “They all could have been highly trained wizards.”

“I ran away.”

“You came back.” Harry smiled again and his fingers tightened over Draco’s hand, warming it. “Thanks.”

Draco wanted to say something sarcastic, but didn’t want Harry’s hand to leave his own. So he swallowed his words instead and forced a smirk, “I could have poisoned myself.”

“About that….” Harry’s grin was gone, “I’m sorry, Draco. I know you wanted to fly.”

Yes, that was another bitter disappointment. Draco was not a bird after all… his Animagus form wasn’t useful in the slightest. Draco had tried not to think about it all day. He had spent all that time and energy brewing the potion for… nothing.

“But I was thinking, being a ferret would be useful to you. It might also be fun.”

“Fun?”

Harry’s green eyes sparkled in a way that Draco was coming to realize was his most mischievous. “Ferrets are night time creatures, aren’t they? Well, so are deer. I would like to take a run at night through the forest. Just you and me.”

The way in which Harry was speaking implied more than just an innocent run, and Draco felt his heart beat faster in response.

*******

Although no wizard or witch ever heard the legends, all of the Muggle children who lived near Malfoy Manor quickly learned to stay away from the forest at night. After rainfalls the children would often find footprints in the mud – human for a few steps and then animal. Demons, or maybe some sort of sprites lived in the forest with the skin of animals, but the souls of men.

How else could they explain the strange jubilant male laughter from behind the thick trees?

The End