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Violet Hill 2/?

Posted on 2009.04.16 at 19:17
Current Location: scotland
Current Music: viva la vida - coldplay
Title: The House on Violet Hill 1/?
Disclaimer: Of course I don't own the characters.
Rating: PG (future chapters will rated R)
Pairing(s): Draco/Harry
Spoilers: All books.
Notes: For Dorra's birthday - hope it will meet your expectations!

Summary: Post-DH - Three years after the fall of Voldemort Draco lives a quiet life in the wilds of Scotland when Harry Potter has the audacity to collapse, bleeding, four feet from his tent.

Potter was wincing as he pulled on a pair of boots, Draco's shabbiest set of winter robes gathered at his hips as he struggled with the laces. How the mighty had fallen. Draco would gloat if it weren’t for his own situation, skulking about the forests of Scotland like a damned cur with only portraits and books for company.
"Do you need to use an owl?" he asked brusquely.

"No," Potter wheezed. "I'd rather just go home."

"Don't you want to report the attack?" Surely the Golden Boy would leap at the chance to inform every available newspaper of his harrowing ordeal and remarkable survival, complete with a snapshot of his grim, handsome face? He was, after all, so very good at that sort of thing. Draco decided (rather diplomatically, he thought) not to voice his opinion.

"No, no," Potter snapped, as though this were an absurd suggestion. "Like I’d want them involved in this." Oh, of course not. The authorities had orphaned children to cuddle and kneazles to rescue, far more important things than following up attacks on Harry Potter. Oh, what a martyr he was.

"Well then," Draco said, rolling his eyes, "the storm has died down so would you apparate or do you need to hang on to me?" He shrugged on a cloak, ready to travel into the world he’d so successfully been avoiding rather than let Potter feel, even for a moment, that he was welcome to stay the night.

"Thanks, I’ll be fine," Potter muttered, his voice still raspy, poison bubbling beneath. He stood, breathing deeply, before locking Draco in a fierce gaze from across the room. "Listen, if the papers get a hold of this, it won't look good for either of us. Considering your past, they'll assume you were the dealer who got me into this mess."

Draco blinked. "Are you threatening me?" he asked, stunned.

For a brief moment Potter had the decency to look embarrassed, and then he was gone, leaving Draco to glower at the spot he'd been stood in. He was so incensed he ended up railing at his mother's portrait about honour and gratitude and other things he knew very little about until he was staring at a dark, empty canvas nursing his brandy and a nasty headache.

He passed out in his bed sometimes later and when he awoke the following afternoon, he managed to peer through the haze of indignation (and a stonking hangover) to wonder what Potter had meant by calling him a dealer. They'll assume you were the dealer who got me into this mess. A dealer in what exactly? Potter was hardly talking about furniture, was he? The poison, perhaps? That was a funny way of phrasing it. Surely, in order to dealer there had to be a demand?

Very slowly, the fragments began to piece together in his mind. The state Potter was in, the remote location in amongst the darkest woods of wizarding Britain, his reluctance to contact the Aurors ... supplier ...

"Aconite," he mumbled, already stumbling towards his study. After swallowing a much needed dose of pepper-up, he began leafing through his handwritten copy of Tartula's Potions for a Dark Hour, a collection of heady illegal draughts and elixirs. The book was banned, of course, but looked innocuous enough in its plain brown leather bindings that it could be sold on every street corner of Knockturn. And sure enough, Draco found several pages dedicated to the properties of aconite. Apparently, when mixed with ashwinder skins, it became a potent concoction which numbed pain, dulled memory and when ingested, was a powerful transcendent known as Aconsight - a wizarding high, the visceral realisation of magical energy.

Of course, too much of the stuff killed you in hundred nasty ways, at best turning you into a raving lunatic. Hardly the sort of illegal elixir a young wizard might flirt with. If he'd so much as dabbled in aconite, Potter was either very brave or very stupid. Of course, Draco had always been of the opinion that being very brave was stupid, so mystery solved there. Harry Potter, potion addict. Delicious.

Draco had the distinct feeling his days scraping about the foulest parts of Britain, surviving on a pittance, were very much behind him.


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