Aurors: The Fist of Mars

The Potion Maker

"Wolfsbane," he said. "Snape used to brew Wolfsbane for Lupin. I don't know how he got it before."

"And who would be the best possible person to buy Wolfsbane from?" she asked.

"Er..."

"Damocles Belby, the man who invented it."

"Oh, him," Harry said, certain that he had at least heard the name once in a potions lesson or something.

* * *

Harry and Savage left immediately to go visit Damocles Belby. He had a small shop in a corner of Diagon Alley. Harry was sure it hadn't been there during his third year when he had spent an entire week roaming the streets of the wizarding shopping centre. "This used to be a haberdashery," Harry said.

"Yes, well, Belby has only recently moved him commercial enterprise out of his home dungeon. But he's quite famous."

The Apothecary in Diagon Alley sold cauldrons, ingredients, books, and common potions. Damocles Belby's shop, a storefront with no sign and a simple silver cauldron hanging over the door, was a specialty store. The front of the shop was a small room, no bigger than Harry's old bedroom at Privet Drive. The walls were lined with shallow shelves only one or two bottles deep. All-in-all, Harry estimated that there were less than a hundred products on the shelves, which was a sparse stock by wizarding standards. He had grown quite used to shops that stacked merchandise from floor-to-ceiling—shops where you had to be careful not to bump into a pile or you might up-end the whole thing.

A man came out of the back. He was only a little older than Harry, a pale man with brown eyes, jet black hair, and shoulders as broad as Oliver Wood's. Harry recognized his face, though the last time he had seen it, the body that came with it had been much, much skinnier. He was very tall and had a pointed nose and chin. Unlike the last time Harry had seen him, he had dark circles under his eyes. "Marcus, right?" Harry asked, remembering the name from the Slug Club dinner. Now Harry knew where he'd heard the name. Marcus Belby was the nephew of Damocles Belby, a famous potion-maker.

"Harry," Marcus said. "Good to see you." He spoke softly, like a man who was afraid to hear his own voice get too loud. He chewed on his lower lip.

"Are you a potion-maker?" Harry asked.

"Apprentice."

"Marcus was in Ravenclaw, year ahead of me," Harry explained to Savage. "We ended up roped into this nepotism club when Slughorn was teaching Potions my sixth year."

"Is there anything I can help you with today?" Marcus asked.

Savage was looking at him through a narrowed gaze, as if examining him carefully.

"Well, we actually need to talk to your uncle. Ministry business." Harry shifted his weight uncomfortably between his feet. Marcus was clearly nervous and Savage wasn't helping by contributing anything to the conversation.

Marcus murmured, "Right," and went to the back. A few minutes later, Damocles Belby came to the front. He was a middle-aged man with glasses and neatly-parted black hair that came down in a little curl against his forehead. He was wearing an apron over his black work robes, and as he came to the front of the shop, he removed a pair of thick dragon-skin gloves. Harry noticed that his right ear was mangled and marked with burn scars. He wondered what the potion master must have burned it with that a healer couldn't fix it.

"Damocles Belby?" Savage asked, finally finding her voice.

"That's me. What can I help you two with?"

Savage offered her hand to shake. "Alauna Savage, auror department."

There was a hint of confusion that passed over his face before he nodded and shook her hand. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Savage."