Almost Human

Almost Human

Chapter 6

Asphodel

Draco needn't have worried about Potions lessons. Professor Snape was coolly civil to him--though he more than made up to it by being unusually horrible to everyone else.

"Look at this," Granger moaned the next week at lunch. "He gave me a P on my essay on the effects of noble gases in stabilizing solutions. And he wrote 'asinine' and 'ignorant girl' on it."

"I got a 'D,' two 'imbeciles,' and an 'execrable.' Am I pronouncing that right?" Weasley asked.

"Yes," Granger said. "Malfoy, what did you get?"

"Acceptable," he answered.

"And?"

"That's it. He didn't write anything." He turned over the paper to make sure. "Let me see yours. Maybe it isn't as good as mine."

Granger snorted derisively, but handed over her essay.

"It looks okay to me," he said, after scanning it. "Are you sure all of this extra stuff is right? The thing about radon, and this section on reagents?"

"Yes."

"Well." He shrugged. Granger's essay was, objectively considered, better than his. He hadn't bothered to do any outside reading. "Nobody likes a smartass."

Granger looked horrified; Weasley, faintly admiring.

"What? It's a muggle saying." He was pretty sure he'd heard it from Jenna, or else Lydia.

"Not in my family," Granger said. "You ought to make up with him. He's worse than ever. I'm sure it's because he misses you."

"You be his friend, if it means that much to you," Draco drawled, hiding a pang of regret.

"Oh, that would go over well," Granger said. "He doesn't like anybody. I don't even know why he likes you."

"I have loads of good qualities," Draco lied. Snape liked him because he'd taken care of him when he was a baby. Because they were family.

#

"No, Mr. Malfoy, I won't give you any more sleeping potion. If I'd had any idea you were going to take it every night, I wouldn't have given you the first bottle." Madame Pomfrey looked scandalized by his request.

"I can't sleep without it," he protested. The potion didn't stop his nightmares, but without it the fear of having them kept him from falling asleep. He couldn't stand to close his eyes and see Snape stalking toward him with his wand up. Those nightmares were even worse than the ones with Father.

"I'm sorry, Draco," the nurse answered. "It's not healthy to take sleeping potions every night."

"Professor Snape does."

"He brews his own, and there's nothing I can do to stop him. And he's an adult, and knows the risks he's taking."

"So tell me the risks, and then I'll know. If I keep taking the stuff, what's the worst that can happen?"

"Very likely you'll develop a tolerance, and it will take more and more of the potion to put you to sleep."

That was already happening--it took twice the original dose to help him sleep now.

"You could also develop tremors, hallucinations, or narcolepsy. And it will almost certainly slow your recovery from your injuries."

That was a risk he was willing to take. But Madame Pomfrey stood firm, and refused to give him any more potion. He'd have to make his own, like Snape did. There were some old cauldrons and equipment with the cooking things in his kitchen, and a formula wouldn't be hard to find--there was even a basic one in their textbook, though he thought he'd look for a better one in the library. "Okay, thanks," he said, turning his chair around. "See you later."

The formula wasn't hard to find at all--in fact, he had a choice of several. But they all called for ingredients not kept in the regular student kit. He ran though his options.

It was a short list. He could owl order what he needed, but that would take a few days, and besides, he was low on pocket money again, and the ingredients he wanted didn't come cheap. He could try to steal them, which would be almost suicidallly foolish. Or he could ask for them.

#

Severus thought precognition was a load of rubbish, but when someone knocked at the door, he knew it was Draco.

And it was, sitting in his wheelchair and looking rebellious.

"Draco."

"Hello, Professor." He came in. "I need some asphodel and theoconite," he said briskly, not quite looking at him.

"Sleeping potion?" That explained why he was here. Severus wasn't sure how he felt about it.

"Yes."

"Where did you find the recipe?"

"Library."

"Which one are you using?"

For a moment, it looked like Draco was going to refuse to tell him, but then he dug in his bag and handed over a scrap of parchment.

"No," Snape said. "You don't want this one. It has to be stored at a very precise temperature, or it loses its potency." He found a quill on his desk and made a few changes. "This will work better."

"Thanks," Draco said grudgingly.

"You're still not sleeping well?" he asked as he tipped powders into small vials.

Draco looked away pointedly.

"Fine, be that way. Here's your asphodel. " He gave Draco the three phials. "Theoconite. And sulphur."

"Thanks." He turned to go.

"I'll help you brew it if you like," he offered, immediately wishing he hadn't.

"I can manage."

#

"Granger," Draco leered. "Does Weasley know you're down here? No, don't tell him--"

She rolled her eyes. "I came to make sure you're all right, since you missed dinner."

"Oh yeah. I had Dobby bring me something here. I'm working on a potion."

"A potion? Are you turning into Professor Snape?"

He didn't dignify that with an answer. "Sleeping draft," he explained instead.

"Oh. Where'd you get the asphodel?"

"Snape. I have to keep stirring it, c'mon in if you want." He wheeled back to the kitchen area and, grabbing the towel rail on the front of the cooker, hauled himself up to his feet. By resting his hip against the workbench, he could balance upright.

"Hey--that's great, Draco! You can stand up!" She sounded slightly like the proud mother of an infant.

"Yeah, I'm getting better. Can you reach me the yarrow? It's in that tin on the lower shelf."

Granger bent over to get the tin, and Draco considered what Weasley saw in her.

"Did you and Professor Snape make up?" she asked, straightening up and handing him the tin.

"No."

"But...he gave you the asphodel."

"Yeah."

"You two are so strange."

He shrugged--and shouldn't have. His legs went out from under him, and he toppled against Granger. Fortunately, she cushioned his fall--but he ended up with his head resting against the other thing Weasley saw in her.

"Draco! Are you okay? What happened?"

"Lost my balance," he grunted, dragging himself out of her lap. "Happens. No big deal. Are you okay?"

"Yes, thanks. I might have a bruise," she said matter-of-factly, getting up and straightening her robes.

Telling himself that he refused to be embarassed by a little thing like falling on his backside with his head on a girl's chest, he summoned his wheelchair and tapped it with his wand. "Collapse, damn you."

The wheels folded up like a camel getting down on its knees, and he dragged himself into the seat. "Up," he told the chair, and it stood up on its wheels.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Granger asked worriedly.

"Yes."

"Does that happen often? You shouldn't be down here by yourself when you're not well."

"I'm fine."

"Well, be that way," she said, mildly affronted.

"I will, thanks. Look, if I have any trouble, I just yell, and Dobby comes and straightens me out. It's fine."

And then Dobby did come, with a sharp pop.

"Sorry, Dobby, I didn't actually need anything."

"Dobby knows Master Draco didn't summon him," he said, also sounding insulted. "Albus Dumbledore is sending for Draco Malfoy."

He sighed. "About what?"

"Albus Dumbledore is not telling Dobby."

"Okay--Granger, would you mind watching the potion and taking it off the fire when it's done? It should only take another ten minutes or so. I don't want to keep the Headmaster waiting, and I need it tonight."

She nodded. "Sure."

He made his way to the door, carefully negotiating the tight turn between the kitchen and the main room. "Don't go through my stuff," he added, on his way out.

This time, he wasn't entirely expecting Snape to be waiting for him in the Headmaster's office, and he wasn't.

"What's happened now?" he asked, accepting a cup of tea and refusing a toffee.

"The Department of Magical Law Enforcement is preparing Miss Parkinson and the others for trial. Prosecutor Littlebourne needs to meet with you to go over your testimony."

"Oh." He had almost forgotten about the Parkinson Plot. Being almost killed by Voldemort himself had a way of driving lesser homicide attempts from one's mind, he supposed. "When?"

"It has to be this week. The Prosecutor suggested Thursday afternoon."

"Is she coming here? Or--"

"I invited her to interview you here, but she is convinced you'll be safe in the Ministry offices. I shan't be able to accompany you there, but one of your Professors will escort you."

"Is there any way to--" Put it off? Not do it at all? He sighed. "Okay. Thursday's fine."

"Very well. And how are you feeling?

Exhausted and irritable because he couldn't sleep through the night. Lonely. Angry. Depressed. "Fine. Healer Archon says I'm recovering nicely." Actually, he'd said that he was doing reasonably well, but he'd be doing even better if he'd work harder on his physical therapy. Which mostly consisted of laying on an infirmary bed in his underwear while Madame Pomfrey used a modified form of Mobilicorpus to put his legs through the motions of walking. It was hideously embarrassing, and he couldn't imagine why anyone wondered why he skived off it as often as he could.

"Good," Dumbledore said, twinkling at him.

"This thing with...what's her name?"

"Amelia Littlebourne."

"With Littlebourne. It's...what is it, exactly?"

"You'll sit in her office and she'll ask you the questions you'll be asked at the trial, and she'll help you frame your answers. She's on your side."

He wasn't entirely sure he bought that. But the meeting didn't sound too bad. "So I don't have to go in front of the Wizengamot or anything. Yet."

"Right."

"Good." He wasn't entirely sure he could stand to sit in a circle of witches and wizards, all staring at him, even if they weren't wearing masks.

"Are you having any difficulty catching up with your lessons?"

"No." Not much, anyway. Granger's notes were very thorough, and his teachers (except Snape) were going easy on him. "Everything's fine."

"Have you given any more thought to where you'll be spending the summer?"

He was trying not to think about it. "What do you think is best?"

"It's your decision."

"I want to go home."

"I can't allow you to go somewhere you won't be safe."

"Then it's not my decision, is it?" he asked, even though he really wasn't all that eager to be cruciated to death any time soon.

"You could, of course, ask Professor Snape to stay with you. I expect he'd say yes."

"No." Even though that was what he wanted. If only he hadn't killed Snuffy. "I don't like him anymore."

"Yes, my dear boy. I know."

#

"You still haven't made up with Malfoy?" McGonagall asked him abruptly.

"No." Severus wished he had decided to mark homework in the peace of his office, rather than the staffroom.

Only he didn't, because his office was too damn peaceful.

"Well, you ought to. Dumbledore's asked me to take him to the Ministry on Thursday."

"The Ministry? What for?" Surely Dumbledore would have told him if something had happened.

"Something to do with the Parkinson trial. Didn't you know?"

"It's no concern of mine," he said stiffly. Why had she brought it up, anyway? Just to tease him, probably. She knew perfectly well they still weren't speaking. "Leave me alone," he snapped. "Please."

"You ought to just apologize to him," McGonagall pressed on.

He had. It hadn't helped. "Leave me alone," he repeated.

"If you're really his godfather, you've a responsibility to stop being so stiff-necked and make it up with him. He's--"

"Are you calling me a liar?" he demanded. He was a liar, of course--not only about the specific matter in question, but in general.

"No--but--I'm just saying you should be the adult. He's a teenager, you can't expect him to--"

"To what?" He got up and backed away from her. "He didn't understand. Before--the teapot. He didn't understand. Now he does. He's not going to forget." He laughed humorlessly. "Apologize? That's going to make it all better?"

"He didn't understand what?" McGonagall asked.

"You're going to pretend you don't know? You knew from the moment you laid eyes on me. All of you knew." Draco, along with Dumbledore, had been the only one who could look at him and see something human. And he wasn't so sure about Dumbledore.

"Knew what?"

It was a stupid question. It had to be a trap, to goad him into an admission. But he answered it anyway. "That I'm a killer."

A look of something like pity crossed the transfiguration Professor's face. "Nobody thinks that. Not anymore, not after all you've done."

"All I've done," he echoed. "As Dumbledore's tame Death Eater."

"No one else could have gotten the information you did--"

"Precisely," he drawled. "Ten points to Gryffindor. Anyone could have infiltrated the Death Eaters...anyone pure-blood, at least...but the jig would have been up the first time Voldemort asked them to kill for him. Who could kill innocent people, even in the service of Light? Just--me."

"It must have been very hard."

"On the contrary. It comes very easilly to me." Except for killing Nathan Ragier, who was a monster like him.

"Dumbledore doesn't think that."

"He should. It's true."

Severus wasn't sure how he escaped, but a few moments later he was letting himself into his rooms and slamming the door behind him.

The first thing he saw when he lit the lamps was his Order of Merlin (First Class), taunting him from the bookshelf. He snatched it up and threw it into the fire. He couldn't imagine how Dumbledore had convinced them to give it to him. Or why he had ever been proud of it. Only Severus Snape could get a medal for committing atrocities and fail to recognize it for the obscenity it was. He had never been very bright when it came to people. Maybe that was why--

No, it was no use looking for explanations. He was a monster. It was no more complicated than that.