Chapter Four

"And how is that?"

Hermione's hands had settled on her hips, her expression fierce and unwavering. She looked remarkably like Professor McGonogall and, in that moment, Harry found himself feeling sorry for Rose in her upcoming years.

"Well, with Draco running a potions store.." He began, talking slowly and with a hint of sarcasm, hoping he could wind her up enough to throw her off track of the particular ingredients she was referring to.

He had no such luck.

"Not for these ingredients." She insisted, tapping her finger on their place on the page and looking at Harry with a look so stern he wasn't surprised she had been made a Prefect. "And if he has, moving such ingredients through his business! Is he selling them in potions to the public? If he's as serious about rebuilding the Malfoy name as you say he is-" Hermione's voice had crept up to a borderline hysterical shriek and Harry shook his head to silence her, preparing to admit the now painful truth about the ingredients in question.

"It's not for his shop. It's for me – us." Harry sighed as he sank back against the back of the chair he sat in, feeling as if he needed the physical support to hold him through the story. "When… When you found out you were expecting Rose I was devastated. I was happy for you – of course I was – but it was just a reminder for me of something I'd never have… A family of my own." Harry paused, collecting his thoughts and determinedly blinking away the wetness that had pooled in his eyes before he continued "Draco knew something was wrong, he wouldn't stop pressing me about it.. He thought I was getting cold feet about the bonding." Harry chuckled, a dry, shallow laugh, as he remembered the day he had returned home from work to Draco with his bags packed, declaring that he wouldn't stay and wait around for Harry to call off the engagement – that had, in the end, been the night that Harry confessed the truth to him. "But then I admitted to him how I felt about you and the baby, how it was all I wanted but couldn't have… And then he told me about wizarding pregnancy, how it can happen naturally in extreme cases such as male veela but can be… encouraged." Harry took a glance at Hermione at this point and watched understanding span her features. Of course Hermione would know about such a complex, unspoken potion that had no common application in the wizarding world at large; it was just the sort of thing she appreciated when looking for a little 'light reading'. "The potion itself isn't illegal, just three of the ingredients… because of their use in other potions, like the two in there." He nodded his head toward the book as he finished, settling his gaze on the emotions running over Hermione's face.

Their years of friendship had allowed him to read her expressions with ease and right now he could see, above all of the conflicting emotions she felt at the story, was the one remaining question, the need for the only fact she still did have – where Harry and Draco got their hands on the ingredients.

"George uses a few… Questionable items in some of the Wheeze products. Me and Ron always make sure it goes unnoticed, can't take away the only thing he's got…" Harry grew quiet as he thought of the lone twin. "So I told him about what I needed, why I needed it… He got it for me. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, it's just that Draco didn't even know if he'd be able to brew it, he was getting so close, in fact I think he might have even managed it, then…." Harry didn't need to continue; Hermione knew the rest.

Harry knocked on the back for of Weasley's Wizard Wheeze. It was the middle of a bright, pleasantly warm spring Saturday and Diagon Alley was busy with the bustle of shoppers. Despite that Harry knew that he would not find the person he was looking for tending his shop as he once would have, but in the rooms behind. He stood back, waiting. He knew that knocking again would do no good; some days George would answer and others, quite simply, he would not. If today was not the day – Harry tried to push away a stab of sadness at the thought – he would simply try again another time.

He was just about to step back into the alleyway and apparate away when the door creaked open.

"George!" Harry called out in greeting, closing the step back toward the door he had only just taken away. George nodded in return, his features pale and drawn, his eyes haunted by their permanent sorrow. Harry felt a twist of guilt for the purely selfish reason behind his visit – he should visit more, he knew he should, but with the Auror's, Draco and planning their bonding ceremony.. He'd barely had any spare time at all. He pushed the thought away and fixed a friendly, open expression to his face. "You free for a drink?"

"Not really, I'm a bit busy – new products being developed and, y'know…" George said, shifting his weight between his feet. Harry, who had become increasingly perceptive thanks to his Auror training and years of work in the field, easily saw the words for what they were – a feeble façade to turn Harry away. He had to find a way around it, a way to get inside. Who knew if the next time he called round if George would answer the door at all? It wasn't just Harry; he had lost count of the times during his relationship with Ginny she had returned home in floods of tears from sitting on George's doorstep for hours unanswered.

"Well, it was a bit of a favour I wanted, actually… It's kind of private. About Ron and Hermione – their baby?" Harry said. He felt another awful wave of guilt wash over him at his voice of words; it was true, yes, that the favour was private and it was also true – at least in a way – that it was about Ron and Hermione's baby. If it hadn't been for Hermione announcing her pregnancy, he wouldn't have felt the way he did, Draco wouldn't have looked up the potion, and Harry wouldn't be here asking for ingredients. But he had purposely chosen to structure his words in such a way that would peak what could be tempted of George's interest by alluding to an unborn niece or nephew; George 's grief may have isolated him from his generation of family but Harry knew, from watching him at family gatherings, he always had soft word for Victorie, a sweet for Percy's daughter Lucy or even a new toy for Teddy.

George didn't speak, but he nodded, holding open the door and allowing Harry to come inside. As he stepped over the threshold and up the stairs to the flat above the shop Harry, as ever, made a conscious attempt not to grimace; the small sitting room was overflowing with dirty dishes, unopened post and general mess. A quick glance around through the flat's open doors into the few rooms – the kitchen, George's bedroom and a small room used for product testing - all told the same story; the story of a home in ruin. Harry knew that Mrs Weasley had tried everything and had even cleaned it for him a number of times but George always allowed it to return to the same state.

George pushed a stack of unread Daily Prophet's to the side of an armchair and perched himself down on the cushions. Harry mirrored his lead, placing an unwashed bowl of what Harry assumed had been cereal on top of an already teetering pile of dishes on the low table which centred the room.

"So, Ron and Hermione – the baby – they're ok?" George asked, his usual bland, emotionless face flickering with rare concern. It warmed Harry's heart to see the old George beneath the surface yet brought him another twist of guilt in the way he had presented his problem.

"Yes, they're all fine. It's me, actually." Harry admitted, scratching the back of his head in a nervous habit he had picked up since the war ended.

"But you said.." George began, the brief flicker of concern long gone, with now only a shadow of confusion in its place.

"It is to do with the baby." Harry hurried to explain, cutting George off before he could say anymore. He knew his hurry was in part to ease the guilt he felt but also due to nerves; George would be the first person either he or Draco were telling about their plans. He looked down, unable to face the look George may give him when he realised Harry had somewhat tricked him into listening to his problems. "Ever since Hermione announced the news, well… I've been down. It was always on my mind, reminding me of something I could never have. Ever since I realised what a real family was, I've always wanted my own, but I knew with Draco I could never have it…" Harry knew he was beginning down a path of self-pity which George didn't need to hear; yes, Harry wanted a family he thought he couldn't have. But he had a lover, and friendship, and a job he loved. His life was full in other places. But George… "Anyway. Draco noticed how different I'd been and eventually he made me admit it. He's been researching and, well… He's found a potion that might make it possible." Harry pushed on, past his self-pity and past his sorrow for George. Dwelling on such thoughts would do neither of them any good. "For us to have a baby." He clarified when George didn't speak, looking up and searching for his gaze.

"You're going to have a baby with Malfoy?" George's face was dumbfounded – he had likely not known such a thing was possible either, Draco had explained to him how little known the potion had become over the past centuries.

"Well, we're going to try…" Harry said, nodding, seizing the opportunity to push forward with his request. "But we need some certain… restricted ingredients. I know you can get them all, with what me and Ron have turned a blind eye to, so I was hoping… You could help me?" By the time Harry had finished speaking he had pulled the small square of parchment from his pocket which contained the names of the ingredients their potion would need.

George stood abruptly; his eyes flashed for a moment but the emotion was so brief Harry missed it. Harry mirrored the movement, all too eager to get up from the sofa he had occupied – it smelt faintly of rotten eggs – and faced George.

"We all want things we can't have." Was all he said, though he held his hand out for the parchment.

Harry passed the square across, mentally kicking himself for his earlier words whilst at the same time trying to force away the smile that bubbled at his lips knowing that George would get the items they needed.

George took the parchment, nodded to the door which led to the stairs, and turned his back. He swept away to the small room he used to test his products and, within a few moments, a vial of amber liquid, a small hessian sack containing what felt like beans and a glass jar of what Harry could only describe as thick black hairs landed in Harry's arms. He quickly conjured a bag to hide the items inside and lifted his head to offer a smile of thanks – and an apology for his thoughtless words – to George.

Yet when he looked up he was standing alone. George had not returned from the testing room – Harry knew he could seek him out, he had been witness to many lively product experiments in the room before Fred had died and a few more sombre ones since his death – but he knew that it was a signal that he had outstayed his welcome. It was nothing personal, he knew, but that George wanted to be alone.

"Thank you." He called out to the doorway he knew George to be inside and turned to the stairs, clutching his bag of ingredients tightly and beaming all the way.

Hermione's lips were pursed in disapproval, although she rearranged her features with a soft shake of her head. "I understand, Harry." She said, reaching across to place her hand over his. "You'll get the chance, we'll make sure of it. We'll go to Draco's shop – we'll have to disapparate under disillusionment charms, you never know if the shops being watched – and we'll have a look at his ingredients. The brewing facilities there will be better too, if we can find some way to stifle the chimneys smoke so it doesn't look like anyone's inside… I'm sure I read about a spell somewhere…" With that she rose, heading toward the kitchen, muttering to herself about charms and a book she had at home.

-ooo-

The door creaked slowly open and Draco hauled himself quickly to a sitting position, staring ahead to the direction of the sound yet seeing nothing as, once again, his captor had declined to light the corridor behind him.

"I thought you might appreciate some entertainment." A voice spoke, echoing against the walls of the cold, dank cell. It was the same voice that visited Draco before, the same voice he had been sure he had known, but couldn't place. His ears peaked and his mind flew into action. Stay calm, listen to the voice. Not the words, Draco told himself, no matter what he says you will have heard worse in your time – Draco paused to shudder at the memory of his first few visits to Diagon Alley after his exoneration for the war, the biting comments, the outright challenges, the hysterical shrieks – he had held his head high then, despite it all, surely he could focus on a voice now, rather than the words it spoke. "I've finished my letter to your… Other half." The voice sneered "I could do with the reaction of an invested audience before I send it."

Draco, however, did not hear the latter sentence. His heart began to thump wildly. Harry. He yearned at the thought of his lover in a way he would have considered pitiful until their love affair had turned his emotions upside down, yet now only made his heart ache. The mention of Harry threw Draco from all thoughts of the promise he had made himself to analyse every intonation, every tone, every beat of the voice that spoke to him. Instead, all he could think of was Harry.

"Potter." The voice began, and just hearing Harry's surname on his captors tongue, laced with so much hatred, was enough to force Draco to bite down on his lip to hold back a hiss of distaste. It wouldn't do to reveal his emotions. "As you are aware, he is ours. We have him.." Draco tried to force himself to repress the shudder of fear that threatened his spine, the vague reoccurrence of "ours" and "we" fogged through his mind; so this man, the only one I've seen, he isn't alone, Draco's thoughts allowed him to summarise from the words, although he could focus on little else except that Harry would soon, no doubt, be reading the same ones. "He must be avenged and we will take great pleasure in doing so. He will be honoured in death, he will be avenged, he will have his justice." The voice snapped back into Draco's consciousness, cold and sharp. The way the voice spoke of "he" almost sent a shiver of disgust down his spine; it was reminiscent of the way his Aunt Bellatrix, of the way his father and the other Death Eaters who frequented the Manor during the war spoke of the Dark Lord. The words struck him like a blade; Harry had always feared the letters which would take away his lovers as acts of revenge from wild dark wizards; the ever loyal, ever illusive Death Eaters who still managed to evade capture and – even worse, Harry had said – the new, crazed dark lords who would attempt to rise, convinced their power would be proven, their word would be obeyed, if they were the ones to finally destroy The Boy Who Lived.

Draco knew the voice was continuing, outlining a meeting place for his captors and Harry, but Draco was unable to listen to anymore. His mind had begun to spin with the dots he had connected; only those who still lived to serve the previous Dark Lord, the remaining few Death Eaters, would speak of 'he' in such a way. Draco tried to cling to the hope that, at least, they were the lowest in the ranks of Harry's fears. They weren't, however, so low down in Draco's…

"I see you are not paying attention." The voice quipped as the non-verbal charm he had used previously spun through the air, forcing Draco's head – and his thoughts with it – back to his captor with a painful crack. "You believe Potter will save you. Not if I have my way. You dare to live, to succeed, when he is gone?" The voice asked, almost on the edge of hysteria. "He will be avenged, he will have his justice."

With that, the charm holding Draco's face toward his captor broke as he left the cell, slamming the door behind him and leaving Draco alone once again

Suddenly alone and pursued by the thought of Death Eaters, he tried in vain to run the list of known alive, but currently missing, names who had fled at the moment of the Dark Lords defeat and who, as of yet, the Ministry had not managed to hunt down. It was information that, although he shouldn't, Harry often shared with him. He would awake shaking in the middle of the night, from a nightmare, and confess to Draco the Auror office's latest hunt for a Death Eater who had been sighted.

Avery… Roinwell… Amycus Carrow who, despite being captured once, had managed to evade Aurors during a fight during the journey to Azkaban which had killed his sister…

Draco knew that for many of those capturing Draco Malfoy as Harry Potter's lover would be up there with their wildest dreams. Ruining the life of the noble, worshiped Harry Potter who vanquished their Lord and, at the same time, taking merciless, no doubt painful, revenge on a Malfoy they considered a traitor. As that thought crossed Draco's mind the scar on his arm where the Dark Mark once blazed seemed to throb as if reminding him of its presence.

But who was it? Draco cursed himself for being so easily thrown from his promise to listen to the voice and find its owner.

Who, however, was no longer the main question on Draco's mind. The question that taunted him now was why.

Why wouldn't his captors use a voice distorter? Why would they be so open to the possibility Draco would identify their voices? The charms were simple enough to master, after all, especially for someone who had the strength of magic to contain and conceal a wizard as Draco was….

Unless.

Unless his captor had not cared to conceal his voice because Draco hearing it, knowing who he was, didn't matter at all because he would kill Draco anyway…

You believe Potter will save you. Not if I have my way.

-o-

"Harry." Hermione's voice called from the kitchen, level and calm and perfectly Hermione. Harry pulled himself to his feet, lazily heading toward the kitchen.

"Have I run out of floo powder again?" He called out as he walked through the corridor to the kitchen. "I don't know why your so against apparition, it's much quicker and cleaner."

When Harry entered the kitchen, however, he saw that Hermione hadn't even made it as far as the fireplace. She was stood beside the table, standing so still it eeirely reminded Harry of when she had been petrified in their second year, staring intently at something on the oak surface.

It was then, as Harry followed her gaze, that he saw a roll of parchment waiting for him in the centre of the table. No post owl, no open window, nothing.

Just like the last.

He leapt forward and opened the scroll with fumbling fingers, his heart beating so forcefully he was sure that it would burst from his chest and splatter blood over the words before he could read them. As if he thought such a thing may actually happen his eyes darted over the page, taking in the scrawled words within seconds.

Potter.

As you are aware, he is ours. We have him.

He must be avenged and we will take great pleasure in doing so. He will be honoured in death, he will be avenged, he will have his justice.

If you wish to see your partner alive again, follow the apparition coordinates at the foot of this message. Our meeting will take place at midnight tonight.

I trust, of course, you have told no one of our current circumstances.

Remember, we are watching.

Tuus Hostis Occulti.

Harry knew Hermione was reading over his shoulder when the familiar green glow of the detection charms passed over the parchment he held. The note, as Harry expected, was just as tightly protected as the last. Hermione must have expected it too, he knew, but she let out a sigh of frustration all the same.

"It looks like the brewing will have to wait." He muttered, rolling the note up and pushing it into his pocket.