No Light Without Shadows
by Draeconin
See Chapter One for disclaimer and details.
Chapter Two
"Well, well, well. . . . You clean up nicely, Potty. Now if you'd only do something about that haystack hair and those—"
Harry's hand pressing into Draco's throat as he slammed the Slytherin into a convenient wall put an end to the sneering tones.
"I'm in no mood to listen to your drivel, Malfoy," Harry hissed, unmindful of any passers-by.
Although fear filled his eyes, Draco wasn't about to give in so easily. "What would your friends say about your behaviour, Potty?" he sneered with what breath he had. The thought of drawing his wand flitted through his mind, but he didn't fancy his chances.
"Ask me if I care, Malfoy."
"I don't think I will," was the blond's faintly defiant reply.
"That's very good. Now I shan't have to mess up those oh-so-kissable lips, will I?" With those words Harry briefly leant more into Draco's throat as a warning, then turned and continued on his way, cursing his loose tongue, and yet finding it strangely liberating to have finally said something. He didn't see the shock that entered the blond's still-frightened eyes.
Harry had been on his way back to The Leather Shoppe after having had a very satisfying, if somewhat ordinary breakfast when his arch-rival had accosted him. Why Malfoy was alone was a mystery, though. The blond was almost never alone, following along with his father or having one or more of his Slytherin cronies along.
Seeing nobody looking, Harry surreptitiously re-adjusted his semi-erection to be more comfortable until it subsided.
Draco, for his part, was staring after Harry, rubbing his throat where Harry had been pressing into it, and cursing his own body for its betrayal. Not only had he got hard when Harry was pressed up against him – something he wouldn't have minded had it been almost any other boy (well, any of a select few, anyway, although he was usually the one doing the pressing) – he was feeling flushed and breathless. It was just a fluke. It had to be. He didn't want Harry-bloody-Potter. And he was going to prove it.
He tried to forget knowing that Potter was now definitely on the 'available' list.
Once at The Leather Shoppe, the first thing Harry did was look at the rucksacks. He picked out one made of a thick durable leather, dyed British racing green. The rucksack had four compartments, only the two smallest of which didn't have expanded space inside. He then picked out a knee-length dragonhide duster1 made from Peruvian Vipertooth (copper-coloured), a pair of dragonhide trousers made from the Swedish Short-Snout (a silvery blue), and a sleeveless dragonhide shirt made from the Antipodean Opaleye (an iridescent white). With that ensemble he'd both look stylish, and be well protected from spells up through the medium strength range. It wouldn't stop anything over that strength, but the effects would be muted to one extent or another.
Upon reflection, he decided to get a suit of battle armour. It wasn't pretty, but Ukrainian Ironbelly could protect a person, at least for a while, from everything but the Killing Curse. He hoped he'd never need it, but if he did... The armour, actually a set of dragonhide trousers, waistcoat, robe with hood, and boots, would take approximately a month to be ready, since each set was individually made and tailored to order. Harry had asked about having protection spells cast on it, but was told that dragonhide was a protection against spells because it had a tendency to reflect them – not a good material for any spell to affect.
He'd felt quite foolish, afterward.
The serious out of the way, Harry picked out a couple of wide, stunningly and beautifully worked belts that would wear very well with his dress robes or a tunic, three very soft, split-leather pigskin shirts that fit like a glove, and two pair of leather trousers – one brown, one black – that were also skin tight: both shirts and trousers were spelled to give maximum range of movement and allow the skin to breathe. He also saw some more risqué things, such as a pair of trousers that from the knee up were laced together because they hadn't any sides to them, but decided he wasn't ready to go that far quite yet.
After ensuring that his purchases would be delivered, sans the rucksack, one pigskin shirt the colour of dried blood, and the black leather trousers which he took with, he started on his way to Gringotts.
Once at the bank he transferred twenty Galleons each to Tonks and Shacklebolt, then spent the rest of the morning in the Potter and Black family records vaults (mostly the former). He decided to leave the book vault, which also held quite a few artefacts, for another time. He was rather surprised to find that Sirius was a cousin, albeit not that closely related: which meant, by extension, that Narcissa, and therefore Malfoy... Well, they weren't closely enough related to have to acknowledge them . . . were they? Then there were Andromeda and Nymphadora Tonks, since Andromeda was Narcissa's sister.
Harry steadfastly ignored the fact of the third of those sisters. That one was dead, as soon as he could arrange it.
Knowing that most of Britain's wizarding population were related to one extent or another, Harry mentally girded his loins and made up his mind to trace down all of his relations. At long last Harry felt he was gaining roots in the world he was supposed to save, and he wasn't about to give that up, no matter how uncomfortable it made him
After a break for lunch, Harry again returned to the vaults. When his stomach told him it was time for supper he left reluctantly, but took a few things with him.
'What would your friends say...'
'Ask me if I care.'
Draco had been so focused on the way Harry had manhandled him, and worrying over his sexual response to it (never mind Potter's comment about his lips) that it had taken awhile for the implications of that small part of their exchange to come to his attention.
Trouble in paradise? Draco thought. What happened that The Golden Boy has had a falling out with the Trio?
Draco shook himself. Why the ruddy hell should he care? The git had got his father, and some of his friends' fathers put in Azkaban! Although he did wonder what it had all been about. Why had they all been in the Department of Mysteries in the first place, let alone after hours?
But if Potter, the Weasel and the Mudblood weren't on good terms any longer, there might be an angle there to turn it to his advantage. Potter would be more vulnerable now, for a start.
Without realising it, Draco brooded on 'the Potter problem' all day, and throughout a late supper. He took a walk afterward.
Draco saw the Git-Who-Lived sauntering towards The Leaky Cauldron – again on his own. That morning's incident played itself before his mind's eye once again, and his temper flared. He started off after the dark-haired Gryffindor.
Harry entered his room at The Leaky Cauldron, looking forward to doing some reading and then having a good night's rest, but the door was ripped from his hand as he went to close it. At the same time, Harry was shoved across the room, falling across the double-wide bed, and heard the door slam. Someone had followed him! Even as he heard locking and silencing charms being cast he was dragging his wand out, rolling over, and orienting himself on his as-yet-unknown attacker. Harry paused only a fraction of a second as he identified his assailant, evaluated the danger, and then cast, "Petrificus Totalis!"
Draco dodged the spell – an impressive feat, considering the small size of the room – and bodily tackled Harry, grabbing both of his wrists. They struggled and fought. During the fight, Harry ripped Draco's robe whilst trying to lever himself into a more advantageous position, infuriating the blond, who retaliated by doing as much damage as he could to Harry's shirt. As it was a new shirt, and almost the first new thing he'd ever bought for himself, Harry became even more incensed, and soon both boys were doing more damage to each others' clothing than they were doing to each other.
Eventually they tired and, by unspoken mutual agreement, paused to catch their breaths. Their torsos were all but bare, a few bits of rag being all that was left of their upper garments. There were a few red spots that would become bruises, and some scratches of varying degrees of severity, but no major damage had been done to either.
And Draco was still in the upper position. He was also the first to notice that Harry was hard against him, and then that he, himself, had an erection. With a perverse sense of humour, he decided to bring it to Harry's attention. He thrust: minutely, gently – and then again, a little harder, when Harry seemed to ignore it. Harry let out a small groan. Draco gave a broad smirk, and a little snigger.
Harry had been trying to ignore how good the blond git felt pressed up against him, but at the sound, he looked up. Fine. That's the way he wants to play? Two can jolly well play at that game, Harry thought through the haze of his anger. He reached up, his hands moving so fast that Malfoy didn't have time to react, threading his fingers deep into Draco's hair, clenched his fists in it, and yanked Malfoy's face down to his into a very bruising kiss.
Draco's eyes went wide. He was shocked. Who was this, and where the hell was Potter? Because this certainly wasn't the shy, self-effacing Golden Boy he'd seen around Hogwarts for the last five years: the boy he loved to aggravate out of that shell. But as much of a turn-on as this was, it was Potter. And if Potter wanted to play, he'd shag the boy into the mattress, then ruin him at school by bragging about it. He reached down to cop a feel of the Gryffindor's erection, and stroked it firmly a couple of times before leaving off and fumbling with the fastenings of Potter's trousers.
Harry reciprocated: he wasn't about to let the Slytherin control the situation. It wasn't the first hard cock he'd played with, but he was surprised by how Draco's seemed to fit his hand so well, even through the blond's clothing. He had trouble with the fastenings of Draco's robe, since the upper half was mostly in tatters. He finally gave up and just pulled the remains over Malfoy's head.
Since it fit in with his plans, Draco cooperated. Once free of that, Draco was left in braies and boots.2 Harry's trousers and pants were now pushed down to his knees. Harry's hands found ties instead of elastic when he tried to remove the blond's underwear. He found the end of the bow and yanked it loose. Draco's braies came free.
Draco had started using his legs and feet to kick Harry's trousers and pants lower on the Gryffindor's legs. Harry assisted by kicking off his shoes. In the meantime, both young men were in a frenzy of angry lust, exchanging bruising kisses, bites that left marks but didn't quite break the skin, grasping harshly at each other...
Draco could never quite remember how it happened later, but he found himself under the bloody Boy Who Lived, and being breached almost gently, albeit very insistently. When had he been lubed? How? Instead of fucking Potter into the mattress, his anal virginity was being taken from him. And while he was still angry and now rather frightened, he was also feeling a sort of fierce joy in the fact. Nobody had ever been able to master him before, and Potter had done it seemingly without even trying.
Draco immediately banished those thoughts, that realization of his feelings, and lost himself in sensation.
Draco woke the next morning to see a pair of gleaming green eyes looking down at him. The fact that he couldn't make out what Potter was feeling was rather off-putting. Potter had always worn his heart on his sleeve, before now. And then he remembered last night. Repressing his memories of everything but the pain of being breached – having his virginity taken by someone who was supposed to be unworthy – he called on all the anger he could muster.
'You may have bested me last night, Potter, but this morning you're mine,' he swore to himself. He had to even the score. He couldn't let Potter have something to hold over him without any means of keeping him quiet.
Smiling sweetly up at Harry and ignoring the glint of suspicion in the green eyes, Draco gently moved in and began trying to seduce the Gryffindor. It proved to be far easier than he'd expected, as Potter readily accepted him into his arms, and easily moved onto his back at Draco's gentle urging.
Secretly gloating at the Gryffindor's seemingly too-trusting nature, Draco started stroking Potter's skin, moving his hand down every once in a while to stroke Harry's beautiful cock – the cock that had, eventually, given him so much pleasure last night. And he was extremely aware of the way the Gryffindor's hands were playing on his body, eliciting exquisite sensations from him. Without realising it, Draco's rage was draining away, being superseded with lust and need. Again Draco found himself being manoeuvred, finding Potter over him, covering him, and soon, entering him yet again. It hurt less this time; he adjusted to being filled faster, and he found the lustful pleasure more quickly.
Through means Harry would likely never understand, a plan had occured to him – a plan based on a bit of trumped-up trickery he'd read in a book in Divination. It was worth a try, at least. If Malfoy believed in it...
"Mine," Harry whispered in Draco's ear, when the Slytherin seemed to be lost in sensation.
Lost in lust, Draco replied, "Yes."
"Swear it," Harry urged.
"Yours . . . I swear," Draco panted.
"Say it again," Harry softly demanded.
"Yours – I'm yours!" Draco groaned as his orgasm neared.
"I don't believe you," Harry gently accused.
Still full of Harry pumping into him, a barely pre-orgasmic, lust-filled Draco spoke, unheeding of his words. "Fully . . . irrevocably . . . totally . . . yours!" he screamed, as he came.
A ripple of magic could be felt, and Harry thrust hard, letting himself go, exploding into Draco's depths as Malfoy's body spasmed around him. He lay on top of the blond, panting, trying to regain his strength. A few seconds later he gently extricated himself from Draco, and pushed himself up to look at his arch-rival's face.
Draco looked up at the boy who'd just fucked him a second time, his face a rictus of horror as he realised what had just happened. Not the sex – that had been fantastic, as much he wanted to deny it – but...
Harry smirked down at him. "You swore three times, Malfoy. You belong to me: and by your own words, 'fully, irrevocably, and totally' mine."
Draco screamed his denial. "NO!"
"Oh, yes," Harry purred darkly. "You wanted to fuck me, didn't you? What were you planning on, Malfoy – using it against me at school? Not going to happen now, is it?"
Panicked, Draco only wanted to get away. He tried to throw Harry off himself, but didn't quite manage it, and Harry quickly regained his position. Then he tried to fight, but by that time tears were flowing down the sides of his face and blinding him, making his blows ineffectual. But he only was able to throw a very few before Harry threw himself down on the blond and wrapped his arms around him, pinning Draco's arms between them.
When Draco gave up trying to fight, he started hyperventilating, trying to both calm down, and stop the tears in his eyes from spilling over.
Harry's grip changed from restraining to comforting. Harry didn't know why, exactly, he was comforting the blond. He didn't like Draco. Well, Draco had never given him a reason to like him – quite the opposite. But they had engaged in sex together, slept together, then had another bout. True, it had been angry, manipulative sex, but it had been voluntary, and the blond was so pitiful, so vulnerable right now.
Harry felt just a bit guilty for tricking Draco into the bond, as well. He had found mention of the triple vow bond in one of the books from Trelawney's class as an example of a prophecy that had come true. And since it was so simple, and connected with Trelawney besides, he hadn't truly expected it to work. He'd expected to trick Draco into making the triple vow, and then enforce it himself through the blond's sense of pureblood honour: blackmail, of a sort. But against all odds, it had worked.
Then again, the Slytherin had to have been planning something nefarious. And since Harry was supposed to have been a Slytherin himself, with intelligence enough to have been considered for Ravenclaw as well, it wasn't hard for him to see what that 'something' might be. So while his Gryffindor tendencies made him feel guilty, it was only a slight guilt. He'd get over it.
Harry had finished with denying his Slytherin side, and had embraced it.
"Shush," Harry whispered reassuringly to the young man he was holding. "It's all right. I'll take care of you." And he meant it. Because he had so little that he could call his own as he'd grown up, he cherished everything he had. And his magic was telling him that Draco was now his.
When Draco had finally calmed down, Harry had used his wand to cast cleaning charms on them and the bedding. From his new position beside, and slightly hovering over Draco, Harry asked a question that had been quietly nagging at him.
"What were you doing out alone, Malfoy? I don't believe I've ever seen you without at least someone else with you."
"That's none of your business, Potter," Draco replied, trying to ignore the fact that he'd just had an emotional breakdown, and that Harry sodding Potter had comforted him. What was worse, it had comforted him.
Harry gave a mental shrug, and asked his next question. "You've been gone overnight. When do you have to be home?"
"I am home," Draco replied bitterly, "or at least as good as."
"What?"
"I refused the Dark Mark this summer," Draco stated. "I can't go home, so I've been staying at the 'King and Crown' in Knockturn Alley."
"You . . . refused . . . the Dark Mark?" Harry asked incredulously, although the evidence of his own eyes said it was so. Draco's skin was entirely unmarked by anything other than the evidence of their struggles.
"Are you bloody deaf? I just said so, didn't I?"
Harry assumed that either Draco's mother was also a Death Eater and had kicked him out, or that Voldemort, or at least some of the other Death Eaters had access to Malfoy Manor, making it too dangerous to stay. Malfoy couldn't have refused it to Voldemort's face, though, or he'd be dead.
Harry ignored Draco's tone; after all, he felt he almost deserved it, after that stupid question. "And your friends?" he inquired.
"Are protecting their own hides, as good little Slytherins should," Draco replied snidely. "Gods! What is this, Potter – twenty questions?" He half-turned on his side away from Harry, huddling in on himself.
Harry ignored Draco's words, testing how far he could push the blond. But now he knew why Draco had been alone. "You're still a Malfoy, though? You haven't been disinherited or disowned, or anything?"
"My father's in Azkaban and there are no other prospects for an heir, Potter, so what do you think? And thanks for that, by the way," the blond replied sarcastically.
Harry gave a sort of half-shrug. "If they hadn't been intent on stealing from the Ministry it wouldn't have happened. None of my doing."
"So are you hungry?" Harry asked quickly, trying to change the subject.
"My father was a Ministry official!" Draco retorted, ignoring the question. "He had every right to be there!"
"In Death Eater garb, with several other Death Eaters and Voldemort himself?" Harry asked pointedly, bowing to the inevitable.
"That's a lie!" Draco replied heatedly, whipping around to glare at the other boy. He didn't believe his own words, but he desperately wanted to.
"It's a recorded fact, witnessed by over a dozen people. And my godfather, your own cousin, was murdered there that night, so don't you dare try to act as though you're the only one with a grievance, Malfoy!"
Draco sneered. "And who might that be?"
"Sirius Black," Harry replied, his voice like cold, polished steel.
"That blood traitor?" was the sneering reply.
"I'm betting you've been named the same, now," was the frigid response, "and for the same reason."
Draco's face paled as the truth of those words sank in.
They'd showered, separately, and eaten a continental breakfast. Harry loaned Draco his spare shirt and leather trousers, since Draco's robe was now little better than rags. Harry would wear yesterday's trousers and his leather shirt.
Harry had told Draco to give up his room at the 'King and Crown' and move in with him. He thought it likely that there were going to be Death Eaters about looking for the blond. Harry might not like Draco, but he didn't want the boy to die, and he felt a responsibility for him now – and with two of them, they could watch each other's backs. He then informed Tom of the change and paid another fifteen Galleons for the extra occupant – again, another over-compensation.
Draco had grumbled about it, but agreed. Privately, he thought he'd be safer with that arrangement. Not that he had much of a choice; he'd voluntarily, even if not quite in his right mind at the time, sworn himself to the Gryffindor. His ancestors and the founder of his Hogwarts House, Salazar Slytherin, must be rolling over in their graves. Draco himself was totally ashamed of himself over it. And while he was irate with Harry for tricking him into the vow, he also grudgingly admired the Gryffindor for it; it was a thoroughly Slytherin thing to do.
But Harry had plans for the day that didn't include Draco, and he didn't think it was likely there would be trouble so soon after being on his own, so they had gone their separate ways for the day.
Harry found a luggage shop and was soon perusing trunks to replace his battered one. Eventually he settled upon a model which had four visible compartments – one a large wardrobe, one filled with drawers, one a walk-in closet type of affair for books and other shelvable items, and one a catch-all – plus two hidden compartments which could only be opened by a combination of password and magical aura.
The password Harry chose? "Voldemort sucks donkey..." Well, you get the idea. It was an ironbound cinch that no Death Eater or sympathiser would stumble upon that one.
Once Harry had paid for it, the trunk was attuned to his magical signature and sent on to The Leaky Cauldron to await his return.
On his way to Gringotts for yet another study session in the family vaults, he started past Knockturn Alley. With the half-formed idea of seeing where the 'King and Crown' was, he turned into it, then stopped. Stepping into an alcove, Harry did what he could to disguise himself without magic, being mindful of being caught again by the Ministry, and then continued.
Come to that, why hadn't he heard from the Ministry about that spell he'd cast at Malfoy last night? Or the cleaning spells? But until it happened, he wouldn't worry about it. The former was in the cause of self-defense, anyway.
He hadn't gone far when he noted a worn, faded sign with a wand pictured on it, but no wording. Curious, Harry walked down the narrow alley – barely wide enough for two people to pass each other – until he got to a door with the same sign hanging over it. Harry opened the door and stepped inside. The shop had the unmistakable aura of great age over it, although it was clean and well-kept.
"Ah," a voice said at Harry's elbow, startling him quite badly, "Mister Potter, isn't it? What would bring you into Knockturn Alley, and into my humble shop?" The owner of the voice had stepped around Harry as he talked, until he was in front of him, looking Harry up and down in a measuring way. The man appeared elderly, although his thinning hair was still dark, lank and limp as it was. He was thin and would have been tall, had he not been so stooped over.
"You sell wands here?" Harry asked, unsurprised that he'd been recognised. After all, his picture had been in The Daily Prophet many times.
"Among other things, yes," the man replied. "Yours isn't quite suited to you, you know," he commented.
Harry frowned. He'd always liked his wand. "How do you mean?"
"Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, yes?"
Harry nodded. "Yes," he agreed.
"Yes, the phoenix feather is appropriate, but not alone. And Holly? No, I don't think so. Close: oh, yes, it's close, but rather, I think, one of the magical oaks – or, perhaps..." The strange man shook himself out of his musings and focused once again on Harry. "Shall we see what we can do for you, Mister Potter? Shall we see if we can get you fitted up properly?"
"If I do, will it have the Ministry tracking and monitoring charms on it?" Harry wanted to know, his face showing his dislike of that idea.
"Well, it wouldn't be legal if it didn't, Mister Potter," the man said, giving Harry a sly wink and a small shake of his head to negate his words.
"Then I think . . . yes, I would be interested in a different wand."
"Ah, good, good. Then if you could hold out a finger for me? On your wand hand, if you would."
Totally bemused, Harry did as he was asked. He was still expecting a mad measuring tape to attack him, and couldn't fathom why this old man wanted his finger. He quickly found out. The man took hold of his hand and, as quickly as a snake strike, pricked Harry's finger, drawing a drop of blood. Then taking his own wand, the old man chanted a quick incantation at it, and watched carefully as colours poured off the blood.
"Ah, I was wrong. No, not Salamander Oak, although that would have been better than the Holly. No, we'll need a branch of Leir wood.3 The tail feather of a phoenix, of course. And ground emerald – a dark green: about the same colour as your eyes, I think. And a mixture of bloods: yours, of course, to link it to you . . . and Amphista will ensure that if it's ever broken that it can mend itself, and . . . ah, yes . . . the Chinese Wood Dragon. Very rare. Very dear. Can you afford it, Mister Potter?"
Harry had no doubt he could afford whatever the price, but he wasn't about to admit it. "That would depend on the final bill," he replied.
Harry wasn't so sure of the idea of using blood in his new wand, since he'd been told more often than not that blood magic was Dark magic, but the reasons the old man gave for it seemed reasonable. He pushed his unease aside. After all, it was supposed to be blood magic that had kept him 'safe' at the Dursley's.
"Ha-ha-ha-ha!" the man cackled in delight, shaking a finger in Harry's face. "Canny! You've learned, you have! Ah, let's see now, shall we? Leir wood – rare, and dangerous to gather that, you know: shock you to death if you're not careful. Phoenix feather . . . I suppose you'll want to stay with the fire phoenix? Probably best so," he continued, not giving Harry a chance to answer, "and the purest ground emerald . . . the bloods – not counting your own, of course . . . Three hundred eighty-four Galleons, five sickles and nine knuts, young sir," the wand maker finally said, eyeing Harry closely.4
Harry was shocked by the high cost, and wasn't quite able to hide it, causing the strange old man to cackle yet again. His wand from Ollivander's had only been nine Galleons – most being only seven. But along with the expensive materials, Harry realised the man was taking a risk by selling an illegal, unmonitored wand to someone he thought to be a minor, so there was probably a fairly large and unmentioned risk fee included. "You'll take a bank draft?" he finally asked.
Harry could probably have got a reduction of the fee by letting the man know he was legally an adult, but Harry wasn't yet ready for that information to become public knowledge.
Damn! That's why he hadn't got any underage warnings! He was legally an adult!
The old man raised an eyebrow, but slowly nodded. "Aye, I'll do that," he said. Going behind a counter he pulled a Gringotts bank draft form out from under it and filled it out. Harry read over it, and signed it. As soon as he'd finished, the form disappeared.
"We'll have a short wait, then," the old man said.
Five minutes later, a heavy leather bag 'clunked' onto the counter. It was still only a small fraction of the size it should have been for the amount of gold that was in it.
"Ah, yeh weren't lyin' to an old man, then. I half expected a Gringotts representative to show up and haul yeh off. But since it's here, we can get started. You'll hold the money until you're satisfied with the product, of course."
Harry was a bit affronted by the eccentric old man's admission, but given the quality of the customers he probably usually had, Harry could understand his cynicism.
The wand maker bustled around gathering the materials he'd need. Harry had never seen Leir wood before; it was a light, almost metallic-looking wood with a beautiful straight grain. The fact is that it did have a high silver content. The phoenix feather was obviously from a phoenix other than Dumbledore's Fawkes, being a deeper, more pure red, with gold highlights that were missing almost entirely from Fawkes' feathers. The ground emerald almost glowed in its purity, and the two types of dragon blood in their vials looked like . . . well, blood.
Then the wand maker took a flat gold platter not quite two feet across and lightly engraved with several runes and sigils out from under the counter and placed it on the surface. Taking up the Leir wood, he placed it on the platter and cast a spell on it, getting it ready to accept the other components. Laying the phoenix feather on top of the wand wood, he cast yet another spell, and the feather sank into the core of the wand. He repeated the process with the ground emerald. He then took a dropper and, incanting all the while, cautiously dropped nine drops of the Amphista blood in carefully measured spaces onto the wand, where they were absorbed.
When he'd finished that, a fine layer of sweat beaded the man's forehead. He stoppered the blood, then set it and the dropper aside. Taking up a dropper with a larger diameter, he picked up the Wood Dragon blood. The incantation this time was in an almost musical language that Harry guessed to be a dialect of Chinese, although it could have been any other language, for all he knew. But again nine drops were used, these drops being larger than the others, and dripped in the spaces between where the Amphista blood had been dropped. Again they were absorbed.
The wand maker wiped the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief, then putting the soiled handkerchief in his trouser pocket, he looked up and smiled at Harry. "Only one more ingredient to go, lad. Might I bother you for that same finger again?" When Harry complied, the old man didn't stick it again, but used a spell to re-open the old wound. The cadence of this last incantation as the wand maker guided Harry's finger over the wand was slower, the tone deeper, but this time only three drops were used; one at each end, and one in the middle, carefully coaxed from Harry's finger. The blood spread to cover the entirety of the wand, however, before it was absorbed and disappeared.
"Pick it up, Mister Potter, but please – don't try to use it yet. We're not quite through, here. I need to cast one more spell in order to fine tune the wand to you."
Harry picked up the wand, and was surprised at the sensations he was getting from it already. He looked up at the old man just as he aimed his own wand at the new wand in Harry's hand. Harry's wand started to glow a soft golden colour which spread to Harry's hand, and down his arm to the elbow. The golden glow lightened, became silvery, and faded away.
The old man grinned at Harry, then at the wand, and his grin faded away. "What's that?" he asked in a bewildered fashion.
Harry looked at his new wand and noticed a pattern on it which hadn't been there before; a silvery inlay made a decoration that looked rather like a very beautiful flowered vine, but only up one side of the wand. The rest of it was exactly as it had been before.
The old man came closer, peering very closely at the decoration without touching either it or the wand. "Mythril? I don't have mythril. Where did the mythril come from?" He looked rather accusingly at Harry as he asked that last question.
"I don't know," Harry protested. "What's mythril?"
"You don't know?" The old man peered into Harry's eyes. "You don't know!" he repeated wonderingly. "It's an elvish metal – quite magical. But where could it have come from?" he inquired of nobody as he again studied the wand. Then he shook himself as he'd done a couple of hours ago to shake himself out of his musings, straightened up as best he was able, and looked at Harry.
"That wand..." He trailed off, looking at first it, then Harry with doubt, then began again. "That wand should allow your spells to be at least twice as powerful as before. Usually my wands only allow about a ten to thirty percent increase in power, but the mythril inlay... But try it out, Mister Potter. A simple 'Lumos', please, at first."
Harry cast the 'Lumos' spell, which would give off a soft lighting good enough for reading with his old wand, or dimly lighting up an area about ten feet away from him in all directions. The resulting bright white light illuminated every corner of the shop, throwing the shadows into sharp relief. Harry quickly cast 'Nox', ending the spell. He looked in wonder at the old man, whose features clearly showed his own surprise.
"I must find a source for mythril," the old man finally said to himself as he gazed at the wand.
"I quoted you a price, young sir," he said, again looking at Harry.
Harry nodded his head at the bag of Galleons, which he'd left on the counter where it had first appeared.
"It hardly seems enough, now," the old man muttered as he picked it up, "but the mythril wasn't mine, nor my idea." Again he turned his attention to Harry.
"The Ministry won't allow you to carry two wands," he warned. "Tap this one against your forearm, and it will disguise itself as an armband. Just will it into your hand when you want to use it. Oh: and don't let anyone else handle it. It might be dangerous for them." With that the old man turned and disappeared into a back room, bag of Galleons in hand.
He had obviously been troubled by the appearance of the elfin metal on the wand, which made Harry a little uneasy as well. But it was clearly a superior wand if the results of the light spell were anything to go by, so Harry shook off the mood.
"'Have a good day' to you, too," Harry muttered after the bent old man, then called out, "Thank you!" He then pulled up his sleeve and tapped it against his forearm. Nothing happened. 'Ah – of course,' he thought to himself after a second. He pulled up the sleeve on his wand arm and tapped the wand against that forearm. The wand wrapped itself firmly, but not tightly around his arm, settling in just below his elbow, the mythril design showing clearly. Harry readjusted his clothing, took one last look around the shop, and then turned and left.
o~~~~~~~~~~~~~o
1. A type of overcoat
2. Braies: While the Italian braies example at www dot cloakedanddaggered dot com/braies/ is from the 15th century, I'd expect Draco to wear something of this sort, rather than the 'union suit' or baggy, knee-length underwear typical of Victorian times (in which the Wizarding world's fashions are stuck). As a pureblooded aristocrat, Draco would NOT wear the Muggle fashion of boxers, just because they are Muggle (nor do I believe they would suit his tastes in style, but that's purely speculative).
3. Leir is the Celtic God of Lightning. The magical Leir Tree is named after him due to its electrical properties. (My creation.)
4. US $3,381.24 as of 3/2006