Chapter Three

by Ember

A/N: So, it's Christmas. And Chanukah (there's more than one way to spell it, right:o) day one. Happy Holidays everyone! It's always nice to have a time of the year set aside so we can reflect on things like OMG IS THAT AN IPOD!

...Yeah. Alright, I'm not really that cynical! And our greed allows us to experience divine forgiveness, first hand! Score! Or, you could go ahead and do the right thing, and review. It'll make you feel nice. :3 (That's as cynical/religious as I get. I swear. :P)

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Keres knew where his master was; it was nearly instinct, after all. He wasn't just any odd sort of owl, he was a purebred wizarding owl, and could tell anyone who asked at that moment (and who happened to speak owl) exactly where he was going. So, considering where it was he was going, perhaps it was for the best that no one around could speak owl.

He circled twice over the black roof of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, checking all the windows one at a time for someone who would let him in, then descended on the foggy window of the library, perched on the sill, and began scratching, politely, with one talon at the frosted glass.

Harry, who had, for the past week and a half, spent more time in the Black family's extended library than he wanted to think about, stopped in the middle of "Potent Potions for Lime, Rust and Grass Stains," which had been the last book with the word 'potions' in it that he could find on the whole shelf. So far, he'd already dissected the most likely candidates for holding the secret of the Wolfsbane potion, including "Potions for the Defense Against Dark Arts" "Common Antidotes for Uncommon Ailments" and several blank volumes which happened to hold nothing more secret than care and uptake of some long-discarded line of broomstick and, in the secret, subtle brown volume, a few rather potent-sounding spells for things that made Harry blush and shove the book into the 'not exactly useful' pile. Cohabiting with these were "Dark Magical Creatures" "So Your Brother Was Bitten: How to Cope" and even, in a stroke of bravery Harry wasn't sure he'd be able to summon, "My Run-in With a Werewolf" by Gildorly Lockhart. All of them had made reference to Wolfsbane, (excepting the blank volumes and the one he was reading now, and Lockhart had described making it in a fortnight to save the ailing affected wizards with such embellished pomp that nothing written could possibly have been relevant) but none of them went into specifics. It was apparently a difficult enough potion that most books avoided the details altogether.

And so, with the full moon of this month looming ahead with all the tenacity of a ticking timebomb, Harry hurried through each book, searching fervently for the secret. And still, no luck, although now he could fix that infestation of mildew in the downstairs bathroom.

Every distraction made him testy, whether it was Kreacher bringing him food at his own request or Hedwig arriving with the Daily Prophet every morning. Malfoy didn't seem to mind. He ran the house on his own, and in fact ran it better than Harry could, because the house quite frankly liked him better. Kreacher listened to him, portraits pointed out the way, and Harry'd heard Sirius's great aunt and third cousin talking by the stairs about him. "Such a nice boy, and of real family, not like the trash Sirius coughed up," the splotchy painting with the large brown mole announced hautily. The ratty boy watercolor replied with a nasal voice. "You know, he's Narcissa's boy." "He's a real Black, then! No wonder I like him so much!"

There is something distressing about one's own house, the last thing you'll ever see of the one person who ever really cared for you like a father, and your father's best friend, acting in a way unerringly similar to one's least favorite teacher. And Malfoy, of course, lapped it up like a cat, conversing with paintings, conspiring with Kreacher. It was enough to drive Harry mad- especially when all he wanted to do was find the Wolfsbane potion and someone to take the blonde off his hands.

So it wasn't altogether surprising when, at a quiet little scratching from outside, he threw the book down, counted to ten, and answered it with barely-veiled irritation. Hedwig, who was sitting patiently on his table, got a withering glare for no apparent reason, as if she personally had invited the interloper here.

He opened the window and was startled first by the sheer size of the bird who flew through. It didn't pay him any attention but clumsily staggered into the flat air inside the manor, crashing into the table and kreening angrily at the closed library door.

Harry, who'd only ever seen one eagle owl this close up, knew well who it wanted to find. "Come on," he muttered, and stuck out his arm; after considering it with narrowed gold eyes, it finally decided to trust him and fluttered over to perch on his bicep. It was much heavier than Hedwig, and seemed to have more trouble getting comfortable, waving its massive wings with wild abandon for where it was cramming those feathers and edging up and down Harry's arm, nicking the bare skin with sharp talons. A note was tied to one leg with a peice of green ribbon, and a silver stamp bore a snake-and-salamander crest. On the other hand, it really wasn't Harry's business. Juggling the giant bird, he got the door unlocked and opened and poked his head into the hallway. It was quiet. "Malfoy?"

One of the portraits who had always been very civil to Harry yawned and blinked doe-like eyes at him. "He's probably upstairs, in the master bedroom. He's been pacing a lot lately."

The news didn't surprise Harry, who would have been pacing, himself, if he didn't have research to do- there just wasn't much to do in response to the manhunt staged against him, and he guessed Malfoy felt the same. But on the other hand... "He could have been helping me look up Wolfsbane."

The portrait shrugged, and Harry, realizing that he was on the edge of a rant that had been boiling for three days, hurried to the nearest staircase. The Black Estate had several of them, all winding dramatically, until there was almost too much dramatic flair for one house to hold. The owl, growing impatient, shuffled and crooned, rubbing one talon against its unburdened leg.

The door to the master bedroom was locked, which boded well. "Open the door, Malfoy," Harry snapped, then, remembering his age, whipped out his wand and snapped "Alohamora," at the doorknob. Keres shreiked, maybe at the invasion of his master's privacy, but probably in some sort of avian greeting.

Malfoy wasn't pacing. He was sitting on the bed, looking out at nothing. Harry might have expected him to be crying, but of course he wasn't; it went against what the Malfoys stood for to break down like that, even though everything in his posture said he should have, and he looked maybe weaker just sitting there than he would have otherwise. Harry, not liking the blatant sympathy that was beginning to clog his chest, cleared his throat, and the owl screamed again, beating the dead air with its wings and gliding over to sit next to its master.

Malfoy snapped out of whatever reverie he was in as soon as he saw the owl. "Keres?" he managed, incrediously, then broke the note off the eagle-owl's leg without even so much as thanking it. Keres, however, was used to it, and looked proud enough of a job well done on its own, as all less-than-wizards seemed to be proud to have served the Malfoys.

"It's from Snape," he said, after a second of inspecting it, because Harry was hovering in his doorway and seemed to expect to be included.

"How can you tell?" the other asked, moving forward a little to see the sprawl of the note.

"He signed it," the blonde sneered, rolling his eyes minutely and pointing. He cleared his throat and read out loud in an exasperated tone, "To Draco Malfoy- I hope you don't deceive yourself into thinking that you can avoid the Dark Lord forever. Already, the werewolves are on your track, and we already made the Wolf's Bane so they can hunt you all through the full moon. Give up and surrender yourself, Draco- if you manage to do it just right, you might not even be killed." This didn't sound altogether like their Potions Master- maybe a panicked and hurried substitute. Harry opened his mouth to suggest fraudery, when Malfoy lunged forward in an increasingly excited tone- "I hope you don't believe that you can make the potion yourself. It's exceedingly complicated, even for one of your stature- and besides, the hickory has to be smoked for more than a month anyway, before being added to the Gorgon Grass and the Necter of Naiad- bloody Rasputen. This is it." It didn't take a genius to figure out exactly what it was- someone had sent Malfoy instructions on how to make the potion, and in a format Harry wasn't certain rang sincere.

He moved forward, grabbing for the list, but Malfoy shot him a poisonous glare and pulled it away. "What do you want?"

"I wouldn't trust it." Harry shot the paper a glare that should have turned it to ash. "How would Snape benefit from sending you the Wolfbane potion? And you know that if he'd gotten caught, no matter how cleverly he wrote it, it wouldn't fool anyone..."

He was starting to stumble on his words and finally fell silent, staring at the coldly glaring Malfoy with the sinking feeling that nothing he was saying was getting through. "Well, really," Malfoy hissed, his voice low and as soft as velvet, "it's really either that I risk it, or I run around as a wolf every full moon for the rest of my life- however long that is- and take out everyone I can touch with me." The sick-sweet smile he shot at Harry had more of the aforementioned wolf in it than the ferret they had all known. "Or, you could try your luck again. The moon's waxing, and there's nothing left in the library for you to check."

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. Hey, it was Malfoy's ass; if worse came to worst he could petrify the aristocrat before he could hurt anyone, mid-transformation, the second he started to snarl. "Do whatever you want. Prick."

Malfoy whisked himself out of the room, clutching his note in one white-knuckled hand and muttering something about idiot muggle-raised benedicts trying to run his life and tell him what was best for him. Harry rolled his eyes and reflected on the ingredients of the potion, thumbing almost wishfully through them for any poison he knew that used them. Necter of Naiad- he'd never heard of that in any poison. Gorgon Grass could be used in almost anything. Hickory smoked for more than a month... Wait, what now?

The hickory has to be smoked for more than a month.

...Shit.

Even if the potion worked, they weren't home free yet. Harry glanced wistfully towards the open window- where Keres already sat, dozing quietly- then trudged back for the library, knowing full well what the generation bridge was telling him to do.