19 – Recipe for Tears

Draco twisted off the lid of the jar of wolfsbane. It was a bit less than half full, but the sharp scent meant that it was fresh enough. He shook the jar and frowned, probably two to three ounces. He'd have to check Severus's book to see how much she needed.

The glowing blue bottle of Amorita caught his eye. He reached for it, then pulled his hand back. The Dark Lord might check him for healing potions again. As much as he'd love to feel its gentle soothing, he'd better not. He could at least check to see how much was left. As soon as he pulled out the stopper an exotic floral scent wafted out. It smelled like his mother, and it made him feel lighter, more hopeful. There was so little left. Could he brew it? If he used her tears, would it still work?

He went back into the living room and opened Severus's potions manual as he sat down. First, he checked the wolfsbane potion – wow – one batch called for three ounces of wolfsbane. No wonder they were running out. He might have enough, but . . . .

Then he skimmed through the directions for Amorita. A blurred note in the margin caught his eye. "Used her tears – it worked!" Whose tears? Severus had never seemed all that fond of his own mother. Did that mean . . . was there someone else? Someone Severus loved? Why not? Could that be why he turned spy? What did it get him? He apparently didn't get the girl, and now he was dead. More proof that love, at least in this world, was a fool's game.

Still . . . if Severus was alive could he, would Draco be able to ask about her? Who was she? What happened? Maybe if he took some of his father's best goblin-made wine . . . it wasn't worth thinking about. Severus was gone. It didn't matter.

Amorita was, apparently, most potent if both 'tears of loving joy' and 'tears of a heart torn' were used. 'A heart torn?' Had he ever torn his mother's heart? He sighed. One way or another he needed to visit the Manor.

The jar of wolfsbane in the Manor's stores held more than 5 ounces. With what he had at the Cottage that'd be more than enough for two batches of the potion. He took three and a half ounces, sealed it in a smaller bottle, used a cushioning charm and slipped it into the bag with the other ingredients. He'd already gotten some valerian, dried pomegranate arils and fluxweed. Now all he needed from the kitchen was the powdered jobberknoll feathers. A few more ingredients that were kept upstairs and, combined with his stores back at the Cottage, he'd have everything needed for the Wolfsbane Potion, Amorita and Veritaserum. The Dark Lord's stores of the latter were running low and Draco preferred to use his own recipe for the truth potion. He wasn't completely sure that he'd be able to brew Amorita, but he'd decided to try.

He needed to be very careful with the jobberknoll feathers. They were expensive, but more importantly, they were one of the first ingredients that the Ministry had started registering. This particular jar was from Borgin and Burkes, before it closed, and therefore was unregistered. If he could obtain more at all, it would have to be registered and that would cause all sorts of problems. Better not to spill any. Five drams would be enough for both Amorita and Veritaserum. His right hand was almost healed, but his left would still be steadier. Just in case, he used the ambidextrius charm again. He started to tap out some of the finely ground electric blue powder, then paused. His hand still had a slight tremble. Annoyed, he used a quick steadying charm, then went back to the careful tapping. The shaking of his hand was just one of the symptoms of the emotions he'd forced away, pushing the thoughts behind his barrier, this time to protect himself from them, although he wouldn't want the Dark Lord seeing them either.

It was all her fault. He needed to get her out of his head. She was making him lose his self-control and self-control was what kept him alive.

He had embraced her, comforted her, without thinking first. Years of dealing with Pansy had taught him how to handle female tears, but it was as though he'd reacted instinctively. He needed to keep things professional, not notice how perfectly she fit in his arms.

He wondered if she'd caught what he'd done earlier, his colossal blunder. Even if she did, she wouldn't understand the significance. When the Dark Lord had appeared, he'd forgotten that they were in a memory and he'd moved in front of her reflexively, moved to protect her.

He would've gotten both of them killed if that had been real Dark Lord. Draco had seen him use protective instincts like that many times. It was much more powerful, much more effective than using only an individual's fear, an individual's pain. One person could often withstand torture, at least for a while. However, if they were forced to watch someone they cared about suffering, screaming in pain, they broke almost instantly. Then the Dark Lord would just toy with them.

If Draco were to show such weakness, for a Muggle-born girl no less, . . . The Dark Lord would show her no mercy.

Luckily, he was finished with the jobberknoll powder, or the shudder that ran through his entire body might have caused him to spill it. This was why he had to stop this, had to stop thinking about her so much, but how?

At least he was done here. He could leave quickly before . . . .

"Good afternoon, Draco." Too late. His father was already here, leaning up against the doorframe, a crystal wine glass in one hand.

"Father. I didn't know that you knew where the kitchens were." Two years ago he would've thought that, but never said it. Last year, the Dark Lord would never have permitted the two of them to be alone together in the kitchen, but now . . . at least with his father he could say whatever he wanted. There were advantages to having the man be completely addled.

"Don't be ridiculous. I know every inch of the Manor. Care to join me for a glass of Madiera?"

"Muggle wine?"

"Of course not. This is goblin-made, Portugese goblins. Quite excellent. I was just stopping in to see if we have any Manchego left?"

"Isn't it a bit early for wine and cheese?"

"Perhaps. Is there something we can be celebrating? A betrothal to Miss Parkinson?"

Draco's stomach clenched. This was so much like talking to his father, but so different at the same time. The same topic – his father never let up about getting engaged, but the tone was so much easier, so much lighter. Why couldn't . . . He needed to answer him. "No, Father. I won't be getting engaged to Pansy."

"Hmm, should I speak to Mr. Greengrass then?"

Draco just shook his head. Did his father really not remember that Mr. Greengrass had been murdered?

"You seem different today, Draco. I thought for sure it was the glow of budding romance. Ah, well. I can drink to the blooming of the jonquils instead."

His father had definitely gone insane. He would never have spouted poetic rubbish like that before.

"I'm sorry. I must be going." Draco hurried out, before he heard any more of his father's ravings. He went upstairs, but instead of going left towards his own rooms he went right towards his mother's. The physical pain in his chest surprised him, although it shouldn't have. He hadn't been in this hallway since her death. Seeing her rooms empty, feeling the hollowness that said no one had been in here for a while, made her absence more real. Every time he thought he was beginning to turn the corner, that his grief for her was beginning to ebb, something like this would bring it slamming back.

He hesitated with his hand on the doorknob to her room. Maybe it would be better to come back . . . no, tomorrow wouldn't be any better. It wasn't going to get any better, so it was best to just do it.

He refused to pause in her room, refused to look around. Why torment himself? He hurried into her en suite bathroom, where she kept her private potions, her memories, her most precious things, hoping that the Dark Lord wouldn't intrude here. So far, she'd been right.

He opened the far left cabinet, and took down the small ornate jars of powdered moonstone and powdered unicorn horn. He carefully took one dram of each, putting it into smaller bottles. How many times had he leaned up against the pink marble counter, watching his mother work on various potions? He returned the larger jars to their places, then moved over to the next cabinet, where she kept her memories, her tears, her own blood. Luckily, she was meticulously organized. He pulled open her drawer and found, just as he remembered it, her journal where she kept notes on what was in the small vials above. He paused again. This felt like an invasion. She'd told him to do it though.

He flipped through the pages, found the right one, then ran his finger down the list of dates, pointedly ignoring the fact that his hand was shaking, again. On the page headed 'Tears,' under Draco's name there was a heading of "joyful," followed by dates, then "sorrowful," again followed by dates. At least the joyful list was longer, but the other list mocked him with its many dates. He tried not to see the two lists on the next page, under his father's name, tried not to note that the "sorrowful" list on that page was far longer than . . . .

This was all too private. He averted his eyes.

The glass bottled memories were next. Again, the bottles were dated and a journal page listed the dates, then noted the memories within. He skipped over those with various memories of her family, her early life, his own childhood. There was a large gap in the dates then he reached those she'd made just before . . . just before she died. "Amorita I" was followed by "Amorita II." How strange. Was it a two stage process? Severus's notes hadn't mentioned any long stewing period. He took both bottles.

He closed the journal and put it back in the drawer. Was this drawer charmed to open for him, but not for others? There was no way to know, so he added his own locking charm just to be sure.

Now to risk seeing his father again. The mark on his arm was still, no glowing, no moving. The summons wasn't likely to come until later. As he left his mother's rooms he used another locking charm. Like the one he'd used before, this would admit no one but himself and his father. The Manor wouldn't allow him to lock any room against his father.

His father, on the other hand, could lock him out. When he reached the door to Lucius's office, he hesitated. If it was locked, he'd have to find him, have to explain to him why he wanted to use the pensieve. He tried the handle. It opened easily.

The pensieve was already out, waiting on his father's large mahogany desk. There were no bottled memories anywhere near it. He glanced in and the white swirling material lacked the silver sheen that it had once a memory was waiting. Why was it out? What use had a mad man of memories? Or were they of more use? No matter.

He poured in the contents of "Amorita I" and didn't allow himself to hesitate before touching his wand to the surface and slipping in before he lost his nerve. He was anxious to see his mother again, but dreading it at the same time. It would freshen the pain.

His mother was standing, back in her own bathroom, brewing a potion, a simple white apron over her light blue robes. He folded his arms against his chest to fight the urge to reach out and touch her. He didn't need the added jolt that he'd get when he reached right through her memory.

She'd taken out all of the ingredients and lined them up in the order she'd need them. The mirror made everything easily visible and she read the recipe out loud as she went, obviously already planning to save the memory.

"Tears of joy – these are from the day you first flew an adult size broom." She was looking into the mirror, addressing him. "I was doing fine until you shouted 'Watch Mom, I can loop!' You were so happy. I got all teary." She smiled as though she could see him.

"Tears of sorrow – you could probably guess when I shed these – the day you first left for Hogwarts. I did fine as we dropped you off, stiff upper lip and all that, then we got home. I went into your room and, well, I filled 6 bottles with tears. At least they're useful." Her eyes were sparkling with tears as she spoke. Draco felt a harsh tightness in his throat. Did he even remember how to cry? He certainly hadn't saved any tears. Then again, no one would be making Amorita from his tears.

As far as he could tell the recipe his mother was using was the same as Severus's. Had she gotten it from him? It was agony to be so close, but not be able to ask her questions, not being able to talk to her. He focused on the potion, instead of the graceful way she moved, the gentleness in her voice. His eyes caught on her ornate wedding ring, now lost deep in the North Sea. He should've found a way to . . . . He couldn't let his mind go there.

The potion was almost done – the distinctive pearlescent blue shimmering in her small cauldron. She poured it into the bottle, the same bottle which was now back at the Cottage, nearly empty. "There you are – Amorita. Not a recipe you'll find in many books, but one passed down generation to generation, now passed on to you. Someday you'll pass it on to little Scorpius." Draco rolled his eyes. His mother spoke of the child as though he were more than some fortune teller's delusion. She went on. "You're quite good with potions. Maybe you'll get the chance to experiment – to see what uses it can have. Don't forget the second memory."

She faded away. He stood there, puzzled, staring into nothing but swirling mist, until he remembered to pull himself out of the pensieve. What was that last bit about? What other uses could it have? He wasn't going to let anyone else try it. It was made for him. Would it even work on anyone else? Wasn't it personal? He slipped the bottle marked 'Amorita II' into the bag with the potions ingredients. He was already exhausted. He'd save that one for another day.

Once back at the Cottage Draco went straight to the kitchen and looked through his potions stores. There wasn't time to brew Veritaserum today. He couldn't risk interrupting the process. His Blood Replenishing Potion was almost out, but the medjool dates needed to be stewed overnight. That one would have to wait also.

He might as well go ahead with Amorita. He couldn't take any yet, but he could brew some so it would be ready. It wasn't a difficult potion to brew, once the rather unusual ingredients had been obtained, but it should be enough to keep his mind off of . . . people he shouldn't be thinking about so much.

He lined up the needed ingredients, all there, but he needed to mince the ginger root and valerian. Why hadn't his mother taught him in person? He had so many questions for her. Not really questions about how to brew the potion. More questions about who had taught her, how often did she think he should use it, did anyone make it for her? His father had never really had the patience to brew potions.

Would his mother be proud of him? She'd have enjoyed the way they saved the orphans, although at least she hadn't had to see him suffer afterwards. Would she have known how to do all that Hermione did? Would she have let Nappy go get the muggleborn? Wouldn't she have been impressed by the healing Hermione did, by the spells she used to make his arm look injured again?

He paused to flex the fingers on his right hand. It was almost completely healed. He hadn't been using the muggle painkillers today and it felt fine, maybe a little tender.

His mother, like all wizards he knew, took life debts seriously. Would she agree that the life debt he owed Hermione meant that he should distance himself from her, keep her safe by stopping these feelings he had towards her before they grew too uncontrollable? Maybe . . . later . . . after they'd stopped the Dark Lord, if they even could . . . maybe then he could pursue her . . . if she'd even be interested . . . could he show her that he'd changed? Surely, she'd seen that already, but had he changed enough? Could he be worthy of her?

These were the kind of thoughts he couldn't even allow in his head. They were too dangerous, too seductive, too easy to get lost in.

Brewing Amorita wasn't difficult. The hard part, the part that was giving him a headache, was the battle going on in his mind.

He finished the potion, but needed to steady himself before he could bottle it. He took a long sip of the hot tea Nappy had brought him, then turned to smell the finished potion. It smelled wonderful. It must have worked. He leaned his head down onto his hand. If only he could take some then this head ache would . . .

"Draco? Are you home?"

"In here, Granger." He stood up, rubbing his temples one last time.

She hurried in, cheeks pink with excitement? Exertion? His eyes caught on the white lace strip that trimmed the neckline of her blue Muggle shirt. "We've just finished our planning meeting. I thought it would be quicker to . . . ."

He turned away from her, staring intently down at the counter. "You can't just pop in here any time you want. What if Aunt Bella was here? What if I'd had a house full of Death Eaters?" Why was she always so careless?

"You let them come here? I thought no one else . . . ."

"So far they haven't, but if Aunt Bella wanted to come, if the Dark Lord wanted to use this house, what could I say? You don't understand. I can't say 'no' to them. I'd have to agree. I'd have no way to warn you. You're so damn complacent."

He turned back toward her and wasn't surprised to see her scowling at him, anger snapping in her brown eyes. "Fine. I'll send you the message by runes. I was trying to make it easier for you, so you wouldn't have to translate, but never mind."

She stomped from the room.

"Wait!" he called. Why had he done that? He should just let her leave, let her send the runes. "You're here now. Just tell me."

She kept her back to him. The lace trimmed the bottom of her shirt also. She had on a skirt today. White cotton. Was that normal muggle wear or had she worn it for him?

"It's all set." Her voice was cold, efficient, well, cold and efficient for her, which was still warmer than he was used to, still softer than he deserved. "Do you know what time the raid will be?"

"I'm to report to Aunt Bella's at 8:00. I expect the raid will happen within the hour."

"The Auror office will be ready. There's a map on the wall, but nothing will be marked except for Death Eater attacks that have already happened. There's a big file cabinet in the corner, full of useless paperwork, requests for acquisitions, descriptions of known Death Eaters, nothing top secret. The desk will have files open on it, but they'll just be write-ups of attacks and raids. You can take copies of any of it. Do you know a good copying spell?"

"'Effingo' should work."

"That's what I would use. The plan is for the good stuff to be harder to find, hidden. Have you used 'adapertio'?" She glanced over her shoulder at him when he didn't respond, questioning.

"No."

"It reveals magic. The wand motion is like this. Try it." She was already distracted out of being angry with him.

He copied her motion once, then again, this time as he said "Adapertio." The finished potions on the counter glowed blue, the Amorita the brightest of them all. Some of the ingredients also shined – the moonstone powder, the unicorn horn, the jobberknoll feathers.

"Looks like you've been making something interesting."

He just nodded. This wasn't something he could discuss with her.

"So, go ahead and look at the other stuff, then complain that it's worthless and do the 'adapertio.' A smaller file cabinet will appear, tucked back in a corner."

"Do we just open it or what?"

"No, if it's too easy it'll be suspicious."

No wonder she was mad when he said she was complacent. She had the whole thing plotted down to the last detail. Before he knew it, they were sitting at the kitchen table as she explained the whole plan to him. He tried to keep his answers short, bit back the temptation to tell her the plan was brilliant, kept his eyes focused on her face. That wasn't working. He found himself noticing the gold specks in her eyes. It was rude, but he turned his stare to the table.

She looked down. "Oh, how's your arm?" Without asking she did 'finite incantatem' then gushed "It looks so much better." She reached up and put her hand across his forehead. He flinched away from the warmth of her touch, but she ignored that. "No fever. Good. Should we leave it like this or give you one more day of bruises?"

His mind was frozen. Why did she have this effect on him?

"He likes it when you suffer, doesn't he? Let's give him one more day." She bit her lip and focused on his arm, making it slightly swollen, then using the pigment spell to give it color, this time an ugly mix of faded purples and yellow, but the spell itself felt like a caress. He braced himself against the sensation, afraid he would let out a sigh of pleasure. What if he were to let her paint his entire body, any color she'd want, just to feel . . . . Why couldn't he control his mind around her?

He stood up. "I need to get going." What did that mean? It wasn't time yet. Where did he need to go?

"How's your pain? I don't think you need any more of the antibiotics. I checked Professor Snape's notes."

"My arm's fine."

"How about the rest of you?"

His head jerked up at her. What did she mean by that?

A lovely blush pinked her cheeks again. "I mean . . . when I came in . . . you seemed . . . stressed. Do you have a headache?"

"I always have a headache when you're around," he snapped at her, but she hardly reacted at all.

"I'm sure. Here, take a couple of these. They'll help."

He took the pills from her without thinking. It wasn't until after he'd swallowed them that he realized he should've just pushed them back at her.

She bit her lip. She wasn't wearing any lipstick. Purebloods, like his mother and Pansy, always wore lipstick. Her lips were just a natural rosy red. He wouldn't think about kissing them, wouldn't wonder what they tasted like . . . .

"That's it then." She looked up at him, puzzled. Why was she standing so close to him? "Look, I'm sorry I just barged in. Next time, I'll check, with the coin, first."

He didn't answer, not wanting to say something he didn't mean to say. He couldn't trust himself. She looked at him intently. Was she going to kiss him? Did she kiss Potter and Weasley good-bye all the time? Did he even want that kind of kiss?

"I need to get ready." He moved away from her, went out into the living room, just wanting to keep his back to her so she couldn't see how fast his breath was coming. Maybe he did need some time to get his mind, and his body, back under control.

She didn't ask any questions. "Okay. Be careful, Draco." He nodded. She turned and reached into her pocket for the portkey. "Let me know when you get back, with the coin - especially, if you're hurt. No more wandless, exploding mirror stuff." With that – she was gone.

What he needed was a shower. His headache was fading. Was it because of that Muggle medicine she'd given him? One way or another he had an hour before it was time to go and he needed to pull himself together.

Fifty minutes later he was clean, dressed and had been going over the plan, thinking of every possibility, although with Aunt Bella's chaos factor that probably wasn't possible. He took a deep breath, then gathered his memories, and pushed the ones that needed to stay hidden back, behind the barrier. He left the gathering of potion ingredients, at least the ones in Veritaserum. He left the memory of speaking with his father. The Dark Lord would enjoy his pain.

It was time to go.

He needed to speak quickly, convince the Dark Lord. "My Lord, may I speak freely?"

The Dark Lord quirked his head, gazing directly into Draco's eyes, but instead of intruding into his mind, he simply said "Of course."

Draco cleared his throat. He had to be convincing. "We have an opportunity here, a chance to know more than they think we know. If they know that we've gained access to their Auror office, they'll not only change the password, but they may also change their plans. If we can go in and leave no signs that we've been there, we can catch them off guard."

Aunt Bella scowled, but the Dark Lord pressed his fingers together. "My thoughts exactly. That's why this will be a small operation. Bellatrix, you take the polyjuice. Draco, stay disillusioned. Only the two of you will go into the Auror office." The Dark Lord glanced behind Draco and said "Ah, our late arrival is here."

Draco turned to see Dolohov striding up. Why did he have to be involved?

"Antonin, are you ready?"

"Yes, my Lord. Greyback is waiting outside. He is eager to help in whatever way he can."

"Excellent. His . . . special talents will be very useful."

"My Lord?" Draco's mind was racing. There was no way to control Greyback, no way for this to be a neat and quiet, undetected mission. "I thought you said . . . ."

"Mr. Dolohov and his associate will be accompanying you, although their mission is in a different part of the Ministry. They will provide a distraction, keep attention off of the Auror office." Draco didn't let his annoyance show on his face. The Order wouldn't be ready for whatever they would be doing. He wasn't ready for it.

This was not good.