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Chapter 10- Draco Is Impulsive
~Draco's POV~
A misty space. Fog obscured the walls, if there were walls... Draco took a hesitant step forward and nearly jumped as the ground gave way slightly beneath his shoes. A dream; of course. It had been a while since he had dreamed, and they were never lucid.
He was wearing what he had worn to bed- blonde hair dishevelled, sleep still gathered in his eyes, a t-shirt and jeans that he hadn't bothered to change out of. Light red streaks stood out on his pale skin; wrinkles from the blankets imprinting on his arms and legs.
Intricate for a mere creation of his mind, the fog smelled of must and lukewarm tea. It parted as he walked through it, searching for something- even though he wasn't entirely sure what he was searching for. A presence slowly came closer, obscured of looks, but it somehow was familiar in its scent, or the weight of some essential yet subtle taint.
An angel. It must've been an angel for the person that appeared.
"Draco?"
Jet black hair mussed and reflecting the soft amber glow of the dream, clothes disordered in a charming sort of way, and glasses hastily shoved up upon the bridge of a thin nose.
"Harry?" Draco had expected this- dreaming of Harry, that is. He looked strangely realistic, as if he had rolled out of bed just to meet Draco in this dream. Soft, muted footprints tracked behind Harry as he came closer, rising back up slowly afterwards- like they were walking upon some marshmallow fluff.
He touched Draco with real warmth come from only-imagined fingers; they traced his cheekbones gently with a softness, a sadness. They fluttered down his neck with the melancholy drunkenness of damp, bedraggled white butterflies.
It was a delicate silence; it seemed as if it would break if one handled it too roughly, so they cradled it in their palms. Cool and tea-scented, unsweetened and soaked in dreamlike blurriness.
The silence broke like empty eggshells upon linoleum floors when a melody started to wind through the mist. Harry removed his hands and stepped back softly. The tune was far away but came from a specific place in the fog... They never heard more than a few notes at a time, but it was decidedly classical and discursive.
"Let's follow it," Draco said, perking up a bit. Perhaps this would entail an adventure that didn't have bloodstains and romance written all over it in a red felt-tip pen.
And follow it they did; the floor never fell out from under them, but it shifted from time to time like a restless animal. Harry, to Draco's pleasant surprise, sometimes grabbed onto the other boy's arm for support.
Again, the mist parted before they could struggle through it- but it almost pushed them forwards, the inanimate excited for something the two could never guess. The fog thinned suddenly, pushing them forwards as they stumbled.
A figure was barely visible through it, one long leg crossed over the other. He sat upon the edge of a table, elegant and wood-carved, which sat easily on the floor. Harry and Draco took steps forward to better see them.
It was hard to tell if they were male, female, or something else; for though their hair was short, dark, and mussed, like a traditional male's, their eyelashes were long and their high cheekbones were appreciatively, decidedly aristocratic. A well-tailored suit hugged their thin frame, though the jacket was nowhere to be seen. Upon seeing the two boys, the figure looked up, a charming smile appearing on their face quite suddenly.
Oh, and there they were. The eyes. Blue. Their eyes were a gentle sort of blue, like cornflowers and soft pillows.
"Ah! I've been waiting for you." The figure hopped off the table to land quite elegantly on their feet, effortlessly sliding into a slight bow with one foot crossed behind the other.
"A pleasure. Harry Potter, of course, and Draco Malfoy. Wonderful. Won't you sit down?" Their face was so very sweet, and their voice so unexpectedly smooth, that Draco had the very distinct impression that this person wanted nothing more than to sit with them. The impression that it really was a pleasure, and he was swept up in it.
The suited individual sat in the middle seat, crossing their legs at the ankle with practised grace and extracting a cigarette from their pocket and lighting it with the lazy gesturing of one finger. They took a long drag from it, breathing out the smoke slowly into the drowsy air. "Ah, I can hardly wait to meet you two personally. You're so very interesting." At this, they paused.
"Oh, I've forgotten to introduce myself! Where have my manners gone?" They smiled just slightly, the edge of their mouth raising in ashamed amusement.
"Kais Duciel at your service." Flicking ash from the end of their cigarette as if to underline the words. "He/they pronouns, if you would."
While Draco didn't recognise the name, Harry froze. There was something in his expression- was it the slight raising of the eyebrows, or the opening of his perfect lips in a perfect o that gave it away?
Kais picked this up, as was evident in the uncrossing of his ankles and the incensed look that came about his stony features. "Did you want to say something?" In his voice, there was a clippedness, as if he was clenching his jaw against something inevitable.
Harry mutely shook his head as Draco wondered. This is a dream, why does he know something I don't?
There was no movement. Just a type of chaotic silence in which the air molecules screamed for tension, for pure anger of this experience. No wind rustled the waters of the dream, and the fog did not wisp into the sky. Smoke rose from Kais' cigarette in curls of bitter nicotine, disappearing into the air and replacing the pleasant scent of mist with ashes.
"Well, I would invite you to have tea..." Chipped teacups suddenly appeared upon the table, lightly swaying on their saucers for a moment before settling. "But it seems you don't quite trust me." The tea began to nip out of each particular cup, forming shapes of animals that snarled or lunged at them. Harry nearly jumped out of his seat.
The tea collapsed back into their respective cups with a little splash, and Kais began to laugh; a deep, smooth type of chuckle that, insubstantial, melted into thin air. "Ah, right! I nearly forgot you come from a muggle family." He said muggle like an insult, a certain lilt in his voice that paired with the chuckle in a particular derogatory way. Draco couldn't quite bring himself to disagree, even though it was his Harry he was talking about... Because his voice was so smooth, and the cigarette looked so elegant in his fingers...
A quiet voice in the back of his head whispered, is this a charm? But Draco silenced it easily. Of course, it couldn't be a charm. This man's smile was so bright, eyes so kind and warm, admittedly handsome... As he was pulled into these thoughts, Harry grabbed his hand and drew him back into the real world.
Kais flicked the ash off of his cigarette, tiny smouldering cinders floating down; burning grey feathers down to their skeletons before dissolving into the smoky air. "As much as I'd like you to stay, it's time for you two to leave." He drawled out the last syllable, blinking slowly and taking a drag from his cigarette before breathing it out again in an almost-audible elegant curl of ghostly silver.
Draco felt a stone settle in his stomach at the mere thought of leaving this man, this- this very picture of respectability and beauty. Kais. Somehow, he just knew that something inside him wouldn't be fulfilled until he saw Kais again.
"But first," Kais abruptly said, snapping Draco back into dazed happiness, "I must give you both one of these." He brought their attention to a vase upon the table that wasn't there half a second ago. It was filled with, of all things, marigolds. Eyes dark and seductive, Kais tucked one behind Draco's ear and tried to do the same with Harry, who stopped him and instead took it in his hand.
The floor then faded away, even as Draco tried to claw back. He didn't care what he looked like, he just knew that he needed Kais, needed him...
It was a shock, a terrible one, when he awoke. One never does know the exact moment when one rouses from a land of dream into a land of shadows. After all, can you ever really tell the difference?
There was a moment of decided devastation, of too-quick breaths and Nononono, no, no... Nevertheless, in the span of only a breath or two, the memory of the suspiciously lucid, clear dream was gone.
But when Draco went to roll out of bed, a flower fell from his hair; a golden, sunshiney orange colour; it got crushed beneath his head before he could stop. A sickeningly sweet scent paired with a bright stain marred his pillowcase.
"A marigold?" He muttered to himself before shrugging.
"Weird."
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The days that followed were the same: eat breakfast with Mare, waste the day either walking down the street or rereading the same leather-bound book, and going back to sleep. Oh, the dreams. Draco never quite remembered them, but instead always woke with this indescribable feeling that centred somewhere around his breastbone and shivered down his spine.
The marigolds were getting out of control. They wilted, rotted, and filled his bedroom with the cloying scent of dying flowers. Every night there was another somewhere on his body- and it was getting worse. In his hair, then tucked into the buttons on his shirt, then (disturbingly) into the waistband of his pants.
It was starting to get worrying, and that was an understatement. The journal, and shadows, the flowers-- there was something strange going on here, but what? Or, perhaps...
Who?
The book was heavy. Thick with ridged, yellow, tea-stained pages. It was worn, as well-used things tend to be, and the spine was long-cracked. Pencil drawings of plants were scrawled everywhere- leaves behind a paragraph on poisons, and a giant flower outlining the fourth page. It showed up unbidden in his hands in the morning, open to a certain page with a marigold sketched in the corner. Page 241, exactly. Years later Draco would remember that number, but never know why he had.
The title was scratched out, but a sketch of a sleeping man next to it helpfully gave a hint as to what it might do. Hm. A sleeping potion, then. On the left side of the page was a faded bullet-point list of ingredients, and under that, a disturbingly vague paragraph of instructions.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Draco brushed another marigold from his hair onto the floor with much irritation. Whoever was doing this must answer. My father will hear- oh, wait, nevermind. The loss hit him again, right in the chest, but he brushed it away just as he did the flower.
The room had become familiar. Everything had become familiar, and Draco needed something to do- even if that something was dangerous, it would be exciting. A break was nice, but his taste for stealing Harry's thunder wasn't quite satisfied.
Looking down, he started to read, only to be shocked when the book spoke with a slightly-drunken, heavily American accent. It was evidently reading from the page but paused quite often for no reason. Draco read along silently.
"INGREDIENTS.
125 ml water.....
300 ml... Dirigible plum (mashed).
A pinch of nightmist... Seeds.
100 ml and... A splash... Of dineastic dindery.
Dragon's blood resin (optional but strongly suggested).
White... Candle, about the length of your hand.
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Pour the... Water into your cauldron, standard size or it'll overflow. Add the dirigible... Plum, slowly... No, slower than even that... Mix that in very carefully, and it should be all room-temperature... At this point. Now, heat the potion to a soft boil with your wand- no, not the candle yet, dear. Take a bit of the nightmist seeds, yes, a pinch, indeed- and just plop it on in there. Nightmist is very calm, it doesn't care what you do to it. Boil it a bit faster. Now add the splash of dineastic dindery; it should bubble and froth for a minute, then settle down. Stir, stir, stir! Keep stirring while you add in the rest of it. Now, stop heating it. Stop it! If you boil it for too long, it'll be far too strong, and knock you out for good. Sprinkle in the dragon's blood resin if you choose to until it's a nice maroon. Lastly, light up the white candle- yep, just light it on fire. Drip the wax into the potion carefully- three or four drops for an adult, one or two for a child. Although you really shouldn't give this to a child. It should turn green and steam a bit. Now, let it cool, and drink about a cup for a coma-like night's rest!"
Overall, the tune of the journal gave the feel of a drunk aunt trying to read a muggle cookbook. No paragraph breaks, no real way of knowing how much a 'pinch' was. The narrator inserted informal language where it shouldn't be and added phrases that weren't in the original book. In the end, it gave a long sigh, fell silent, then the pages rustled as disconcerting soft breathing rose from it.
Draco swallowed, licked his bottom lip, and looked around the room. Where was a reason he shouldn't do this? Make the potion, that is? Sure, the book had appeared mysteriously, and sure, it might actually be a very complex poison, but...
Ever since he was kicked out of Hogwarts, he sort of missed making potions. The smell of formaldehyde and stale lacewings had somehow become customary to the feeling of accomplishment one got when completing an advanced potion.
Why not?
Acquiring the ingredients was arguably the hardest part. His Insta-Cauldron! was tucked safely into his suitcase, but where in the name of Merlin were you supposed to get dineastic dindery?! What was dineastic dindery, anyway?
Draco pushed the book off his lap and onto the floor, rewarded with a satisfying thump of it hitting the floor. Swinging his legs out of bed, he dressed in muggle clothes (the lost-and-found was a good place to steal things), and walked out the door.
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Another journey on the Knight Bus and one galleon less later, Draco stood in the entrance to Diagon Alley, armed with 52 galleons and a scrap of paper with ingredients scrawled on it haphazardly in his own small, elegant handwriting.
Okay, first off, the dirigible plum... That's fairly safe, so I'll be able to get it in Diagon Alley.
He turned around a couple times, scanning the names of stores for a Mr Mulpepper's Apothecary or a Wizard's Everyday Potions or even, perhaps, a Dirigible Plum Inc.
Draco wasn't so lucky as to spot any of them. They were always moving; you could walk for an hour without finding any of them one day, but the next, all of them could be right next to each other. Instead of seeing those shops, well... Instead, he saw Madam Missie's Magic.
The store that was known for its pink everything, and its customers (which were almost always middle-aged glamoured women). However, in the storefront window were, of course, dirigible plums... And only one galleon for two...
Groaning, he started to move his feet towards the shop. He tried to look as grumpy as he could, as reluctant as his face would let him. Because if one person in the crowd saw him looking excited to go into this fucking girly shop, he would be dead. Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy's son, the pureblood, was not only gay and a vampire- he was into Madam Missie's Magic.
Draco pushed the door open, attacked almost instantaneously by a deluge of hot pink glitter that rained down from the ceiling. Aggressive ringing of fifteen tiny, golden bells to his left dizzied him further. Everything smelled like vanilla cake, woman's perfume, and sickly sweet lavender flowers.
"Hello, Hello~!!" An upbeat voice made him jump, loud and freakishly girlish. A green-haired witch with a face full of makeup appeared very suddenly, a ginormous, dumpling-shaped pink dress almost knocking over the things around her. It was rather hard to see around the glitter, but Draco was very much sure that she was smiling. A blinding crescent shape hung upon what he assumed was her face.
"Darling~! Oh, darling, it's been so long since a boy's visited us! How refreshing! Darling, look, we have some perfumes over here- and look, the vanilla's on sale! Darling~" She gushed, ushering him over to perfumes with her dress pushing him forwards. He retreated, slightly disturbed, before interrupting.
"Can you not call me darling? I'm here to pick up a few dirigible plums," At this he pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket, checking it before continuing. "300 millilitres, to be exact."
The woman, now rather cross, clenched her teeth in what was probably supposed to be another smile. "Of course, honey. You'll only need one or two. Pick out some from the display over there~." She turned, making a table near her wobble disconcertingly as she danced away, hands fluttering idly.
The glitter finally cleared, settling to the ground in a sparkling blanket before disappearing completely. Now the rest of the store was visible, and it nearly burned Draco's retinas. Hot pink bottles of Missie's Mist covered one small, round table that stood in the middle of the store in a sort of centrepiece. Around it was other tables filled with magical handbags that never got lost, dirigible plums dyed a horrible puce, leeches in a clouded rose jar the size of his head...
About the size of an apple, orange and radish-shaped, dirigible plums lined the window. Lacy white curtains were drawn back with ribbons around it, and Draco wrinkled his nose as he picked out two and placed them on the polka-dotted check out counter. Thank goodness nobody but the employees were in the shop, and weren't there to see the cashier giggle at him quietly as he left the store, bells ringing behind him. She didn't know that the tip he left her was actually a fire newt, charmed to look like a galleon. She would figure that out once the desk caught on fire.
Draco hummed to himself in quiet laughter, wishing to have somebody to share this bout of cleverness with. He pulled out his list of ingredients, crossing the dirigible plum off with a stolen sugar quill. Goyle had left it lying around when Draco just happened to be packing, and, well... Finders keepers.
He sucked on the end of the quill as he studied the list. Nightmist seeds. Where would you find those? Draco wasn't even entirely sure what they looked like. Nightmist didn't seem like a plant that would grow in his mother's garden, and everything grew in his mother's garden. That meant...
This would have to come from Knockturn Alley. As much as he hated to go in there by himself, most of the shadier patrons, as well as sellers, knew his father already. That meant he wouldn't be murdered... Probably. Unless Lucius had told them about the falling-out and his gayness, he'd be safe. But, seeing as it was all over Wizrd, it was unlikely they hadn't heard.
Whoops.
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lmao 'whoops' -my parents after giving birth to me
my mom like *screeching* PUT IT BACK
{{Theme Song: Icarus by Bastille}}
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