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Chapter Text

Chapter One: The Interview

September 2002 - Two years after release from Azkaban

Draco Malfoy sat with one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, the crease in his charcoal trousers sharp enough to cut glass. Two years in the trade had taught him that posture and confidence was half the sale; the other half was how good you could make the client feel. 

Across the low marble table, the witch appraising him from the velvet chaise was everything the war had left untouched: Vivienne Bulstrode, widow of a Death Eater cousin, much of her fortune from Ministry reparations and a marriage that had ended conveniently in the final battle. She was forty-five, sharp eyed, and dressed in emerald silk that clung like a second skin. She studied him the way one studies a painting before deciding whether to bid. Her manicure was the color of fresh blood; the diamonds on her wrist caught the afternoon light and scattered around the room like a white Periculum charm.

A large portrait hung behind the desk. He guessed it was of her grandfather. It was an old man with only two tuffs of white hair on either side of his head and looked like a rickety bag of bones that would blow away with a strong gust of wind. He glared daggers down at Draco, most likely knowing why he was here.

“You come highly recommended,” she said, voice low, practiced. “Discretion. Stamina. Attentive. Expensive.”She let the words settle, testing whether he’d flinch. 

He didn’t. Draco inclined his head, the movement practiced to hide the flicker of disgust in his gray eyes. “Best of all, satisfaction guaranteed,” he added with a wry glint in his eye. He let the silence hang a moment then shrugged one shoulder. “Although recommendations are kind, Miss Bulstrode, I prefer to let my…performance speak for itself.”

He reached for the crystal tumbler she’d poured. Water, no ice, and he took a measured sip. The glass was heavy, costly. Everything in the room had an exorbitant price tag. Including himself.

Vivienne’s gaze flicked to the folder open between them. His profile: age twenty-two, pure blood pedigree (the irony wasn’t lost on either of them), fluent in three languages, expert in wandless magic. The last line was printed in tasteful italics: Specialty: customized sensory experiences. She tapped it with a manicured nail. “Explain.”

Draco set the glass down without a sound. “I craft moments with potions that heeds to all five senses.” He lifted a single gloved hand to splay all his fingers, and lowered each one as he listed, “from scents of nostalgic moments in time, a taste of decadence you want to continuously relive, the sound of music your heart harbors most, a scene from the deepest recesses of your imagination, a heightening sense of ecstasy during intimacy beyond anything you’ve ever felt;” he lowered his palm to the arm of the chair, “all of them are interchangeable and accomplished with specialty made potions. Whatever is chosen can be as subtle or as strong as the buyer likes. All legal. Consensual.”

A half truth. The legality depended on the Ministry’s mood that week; the consent, on how honestly he read the room.

Vivienne leaned forward. The neckline of her silk blouse shifted, deliberate. He wasn’t moved, but he was practiced in making them feel as if he was. He let a ghost of an appraising smirk rise and a faint color of rouge glossed over her cheeks. It was too easy, really. 

She flipped her hair with subtle flirtation. “And if a woman wants to forget her own name for a night?”

He stared, his eyes never leaving her’s. “I’m skilled with potions,” he said, voice silk over steel, “but I’m even better with my hands. One measured vial of Lethe essence to loosen the edges…and then these fingers will do the real work, tracing every thought out of that pretty head of yours until the only thing left ringing in your ears is my name while you come undone. Come dawn, darling, you’ll have forgotten you were ever anyone else, if it is what you wish.”

The middle aged divorcee’s eyes widened slightly.

The grandfather portrait behind the witch pinched the bridge of his nose in disgust and tried to mouth insults that fell on deaf ears. The witch must’ve put a silencing charm on him, Draco thought in amusement.

She smiled, thin but enthralled. “You’re expensive.”

“I’m worth it.” His expression was unflinching as he let his black gloved fingers drum on the arm of the chase.

Silence stretched, velvet and dangerous, the witch’s expression calculating. 

Draco felt the familiar itch beneath his cuff, three tiny vials sewn into the lining of his jacket. Influence, seduction, satisfaction. Liquid guarantees. All from his own brews. In the hidden pocket of his robe, a separate vial of pale rose liquid warmed against his thigh. One drop in her evening tea, and she’d be pliant, eager, grateful. It was how he’d built his reputation; not just a pretty face, but he made himself a ‘Master of Desire’. A title he hadn’t fully embraced yet from his customers on the black market who didn’t know the gifted potioneer’s true identity.

For his clients he carried influence potions for the shy ones, gratification blends for the insatiable, and many more. He’d used them on duchesses who bit their lips until they bled, on foreign ambassadors who begged in broken English, on one Muggle film star who cried afterward and then slipped him triple the fee to clear his entire calendar for a month.

Word travels quickly when pleasure edges into a vice no one admits in daylight, and now nearly every day perfumed owls thumped against the windows of Blaise Zabini’s home bearing requests for immediate interviews and the occasional photograph no decent wizard would admit to owning trying to persuade Draco to see them for an interview. Blaise was less than enthused to have his manor turned into Draco’s drop box for such propositions, his glass eye(a memento from the war) twitching when he shoved the pile of frilly envelopes into Draco’s hand, but Draco could hardly give out his real address. 

Not the shack he lived in. His place of residence was far less grand. He thought of the cramped lab hidden beneath the dingy Knockturn flat he shared with Theodore Nott, whose fortune, like Draco’s own, had been seized by the Ministry after the war. Theo had lost everything for his father’s sins; Draco had lost everything and spent two years in Azkaban for both his own and his dead father’s crimes. Blaise, though, had emerged unscathed, his mother and he had kept a scrupulous distance from Voldemort and the Death Eaters, so no one could touch the Zabini vaults. Theo quietly resented him for it.

Draco thought of the cauldrons simmering under their floorboards. Moonstone and valerian essences, vials labelled in his spidery hand: Lust’s Whisper, Ecstasy’s Edge, and the rest, tended by Theo while Draco was…indisposed. Theo wore the unofficial title of Potions Manager and was paid handsomely for it. They were building stock, coin by coin, hoping to buy their way out within a year. Enough to never kneel again. Every repeat customer brought them closer to brewing something no galleon could purchase: freedom. 

But Draco never used his potions in interviews. Not anymore. The first year, yes, desperation had made him reckless. He’d sold them the age old story, the broken boy turned man; a lie wrapped in truth who knew exactly how to make a witch feel like the center of the universe. Now, he relied on his wit, charm, and physical expertise; only using his liquid creations as needed or upon request.

Vivienne closed the folder. “One trial evening. The opera gala tomorrow. It’s black tie so expect an owl to arrive with the appropriate attire for you to wear. You’ll accompany me, and since my ex-husband will be there, impress me by making a public spectacle of him.” She paused, a smirk rising as if imagining the scene in her head. “Then escort me home. If I’m pleased with your..” her eyes roamed over him, “skill sets by the end of the night, we discuss a retainer.” She wagged her brows and leaned an inch or two further forward on her desk, the bare skin of her chest on full display. 

Draco inclined his head but didn’t look. He was all business now. “Terms?”

“Ten thousand up front. Another twenty if I wake up smiling.” She lifted her wand to shrink a large black velvet purse tied with golden thread and slid it across the table like a poker chip. “And your special expertise in potions intrigues me. I want to sample the experience. So bring an assortment of your best vials.” 

Her fingers purposely brushed his as he grabbed the fabric full of galleons; warm, steady. For a heartbeat he pictured it: a single drop of rose gold elixir on her pulse point, the way her pupils would bloom, the way she’d lean in and beg. They all did.

He slipped the velvet purse into his pocket without a tremor. “Done,” he agreed.

Vivienne stood, smoothing her skirt. Draco rose in unison from the chair and she lifted a single finger to make him pause. “One more thing before you go.” She walked slowly toward him, circling his form as her heels tapped quietly on the marble threshold. Her gaze roamed over his perfectly slicked blonde hair and lingered on the sharp lines of his jaw, the pale column of his throat exposed by the open collar of his black robes. The look in her eyes told him what would come next.

“I need to see the merchandise before I buy.” She snapped her fingers and pointed to the floor. “Strip down.”

He didn’t blink. Two years ago, in the damp hell of Azkaban, he’d learned that pride was a currency quicker spent than gold, and years of experience drove the flinch of hesitation out of him. His fingers moved to the silver clasp at his throat, letting the robes pool at his feet. After removing his clothes, he laid them neatly over the back of the chair so as not to wrinkle his fresh pressed suit.

He wore nothing now but his gloves, fitted briefs, and the faint scars of Dementor chills. The gloves never came off unless he was home. A stipulation he added in his paperwork.

If clients asked, he told them it was burns from the war (partially true, he’d actually gotten them from developing specialty elixirs but he didn’t tell them that)..but really, it was because he wanted one part of him that was left untouched by strangers. 

Vivienne’s lips curved with barely hidden hunger. “I was told you were impressive, and I am not disappointed, Malfoy.” She spun her pale finger, “Turn.”

He obeyed, acutely aware of her gaze dragging across the lean muscle he sculpted with near religious discipline. His body was his currency, and he invested in it as such.

After taking in every inch of him, she finally allowed Draco to dress. Being well practiced it only took seconds, and he was already clasping his robe, fully clothed now. He stood in the center of the Persian rug, gloved hands clasped behind his back, posture of poise drilled into him by a childhood of pure blood etiquette and two years of surviving on charm alone. “Are we done here?” 

She gave him one last appraising flicker of her eyes. “You may go. I look forward to our next meeting.” Then with a simple wave of her hand, she dismissed him. 

He didn’t wait a moment longer, with a parting wink at the red faced old man in the portrait, he swiftly walked through the open door without a backwards glance, his robes billowing behind him with quickening steps as soon as he was out of sight.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun had slipped behind the jagged roofs of Diagon Alley by the time Draco stepped out of the Floo at the Leaky Cauldron. He moved quickly, head down, the black velvet purse feeling comfortingly heavy against his ribs beneath the traveling cloak.

A quick glance around confirmed that no one was watching before he murmured the words of a Disillusionment Charm under his breath. The air shimmered briefly around him, and then he was little more than a ripple against the brickwork.

He walked off the main path, ducking into the narrow, shadowed alley that ran behind Potage’s Cauldron Shop. Hidden in the gloom between overflowing rubbish bins and the damp smell of old stone, he swallowed the Polyjuice Potion in one practiced gulp.

The transformation was always unpleasant, like being turned inside out. Bones shortened, shoulders shrunk into a workman’s slump, skin sagged into the soft, pasty pallor of a man who had spent decades hunched over parchment. His platinum hair darkened to black and premature grey, thinning at the crown. The sharp Malfoy cheekbones melted into rounder, unmemorable cheeks.

When he removed the Disillusionment, he turned to see the eyes of Elias Thorne looking back at him in a dusty shop window: forty seven years old, five foot nine, watery hazel eyes behind wire rimmed spectacles that Draco hated with every fibre of his being because they looked just like bloody Potter’s four eyed accessory. Which was why Thorne was perfect. A faint mustache that was greying and unkempt, completed the picture of a man who had probably never mattered to anyone. 

Draco had been briefed on everything he might need if questioned: Elias Thorne was a businessman who had vanished during the Second Wizarding War without a trace. Draco bought the identity from Elga Wibber, an elderly witch who runs a black market trade in Polyjuice potions crafted from the hair of the legally missing, the confirmed dead, or those willing to sell their face before disappearing forever. Elga sourced her strands from fresh graves, abandoned homes, and other unsavoury places her clients preferred not to ask about. She also claimed to sell permanent Polyjuice, keeping the chosen mask for life, but only the filthy rich could afford it. 

To Draco, all that mattered was that Thorne was an unremarkable accountant with a spotless, boring record who wouldn’t draw a second glance from Gringotts’ goblins when he needed to deposit his Galleons. 

Draco flexed Thorne’s sausage fingers, rolled the unfamiliar shoulders once, and walked back to the street. The black dragonhide gloves didn’t come off even though his new stubby fingers failed to fill the space at the tips where his long slender fingers fit seamlessly. 

Gringotts rose ahead, bronze doors guarded by goblins in scarlet and gold. Their yellow eyes flicked over him with weary contempt reserved for wizards still breathing. One sniffed, hooked nose wrinkling as though Thorne carried the faint odor of failure–which, Draco supposed, he did.

Goblins perched on their high stools, quills scratching, scales clinking. A witch in bright green robes argued shrilly with a goblin at the other end of the foyer that echoed loudly around the room. 

Draco joined the shortest queue, not wanting to linger any longer than he had to. Thorne’s sensible boots scuffed across the newly polished marble, catching a faint, gleaming reflection of the underside of his sizable gut as he shifted his weight. 

The goblin at the counter had a face like carved wood and fingernails long enough to open letters or throats with equal ease. Bogrod, as his nameplate read, did not look up.

“Name and key.”

“Elias Thorne. Vault eleven ninety three.” Draco slid the small iron key across the counter. 

It would’ve cost him five hundred galleons to open an account, but he’d traded it for a favour he repaid between the sheets with a mousy brown haired witch who had saved him the trouble of charm when she merely batted her eyes in intimate suggestion. Satisfied afterward, she’d given him her own spare vault to claim as his own.

The goblin flicked to the ledger. A clawed finger traced a line on parchment. “Deposit?”

Draco placed the black velvet purse beside the key. “Nine thousand,” Draco said cooly, hands in his trousers. He had to keep some for shopping on his way home.

Bogrod’s tongue, thin and forked, touched the corner of his mouth as he opened the fabric and counted the Galleons, then let another goblin quickly sweep the coins into a leather bag. With a grunt, the creature vanished toward the carts as a receipt, stamped with goblin wax, was shoved back across the counter.

“Next.”

Draco pocketed the parchment and key. He did not linger. Thorne’s stooped shoulders and shuffling gait carried him out past the guards and into the fading light of the Alley before the Polyjuice had even begun to wear off.

Only when he was three turnings deep into Knockturn, did he allow himself the smallest, coldest exhale.

He was now a few thousand Galleons richer, and that much closer to the prize.

The Polyjuice ebbed, bones lengthening, skin tightening like a glove turned right way round. Draco rolled his neck once, felt the familiar weight of his own jaw settle back into place. He left Thorne’s clothes in a heap for the alley cats and stepped back into Diagon in his own skin. Charcoal trousers, black shirt, and sweeping robes. 

He flexed his gloved hands. People noticed him now. A few witches slowed their stride. One openly staring until her husband gripped her around the waist and dragged her away.

Draco smirked and kept walking. He drew the deep hood of his travelling cloak over his pale hair. He was not hiding, he just found that it was potentially inconvenient when noticed. 

Aside from the stares, some recognized him as the criminal thrown in Azkaban, or the Slytherin prick from Hogwarts turned Death Eater, the Malfoy heir who lost it all. Or, Merlin forbid, one of his clients stopping him in broad daylight to try to make small talk about the weather after being paid for a romp on her goose down mattress the night before. It had happened far too often. And Draco would do everything he could to avoid that most uncomfortable situation again. 

But he was running low on stock and couldn’t fill orders as it was right now so he had no choice but to venture into the public for a much needed store run.

He moved with a purposeful stride of a man who had places to be and no one to apologize to.

Knockturn Alley had long outgrown its humble origins as a mere street since Draco started brewing. Now, it was simply called Knockturn: a sprawling, darker, and more enchanted pulsating city unto itself that came alive at night with neon lit wonders from clubs, high stake gambling dens, burlesque theaters, to talented street performers who tried to earn a passerby’s Sickles. Below ground out of the watchful eye of the Ministry held illegal attractions like dueling arenas, dream dives lead by Legilimens into shared fantasy dreamscapes, and other unbridled nocturnal allures.

Although much of this underbelly of the wizarding world was still lurking in shadows; it was thriving, expanding, and drawing ever greater crowds. 

Many wealthy witches and well to do wizards emerged from their ivory towers to slum it with the common folk. Some boldly as themselves, others disguised under Polyjuice to indulge in the forbidden delights and nighttime entertainments that only this part of the wizarding world could offer.

As Draco wandered its transformed streets, the shops he’d passed as a boy trailing after his father, were now relics: old dark artifact dealers, closed and shuttered forever. In their place stood buildings with velvet curtained doorways glowing rose and violet, perfumed air spilling out like a lover’s sigh. Brothel after brothel, new and insatiable. Although Knockturn offered much, pleasure houses were the most frequented establishments and lined all of one side of the thoroughfare.

A painted sign shaped like parted lips swung above one entrance: The Velvet Wand: Discretion Assured. Another had drenched its entire facade in crimson, with a sign in curling gold script proclaiming The Lovely Witch and Gin, its enchanted windows looping illusions of whatever fantasy one whispered to the glass. The air hung thick with lust, cheap glamour charms, and the particular, familiar tang of his own potions(his sensual liquid creations that had unwittingly fueled this economic boom). All of them addicted to his work. As his brews spread, so did these establishments of the night. 

It wasn’t exactly what he’d intended when he started brewing, but he wouldn’t refuse the Galleons.

A witch in a crimson corset leaned in a doorway, fanning herself with a peacock feather. “Evening, lovely,” she purred, eyes sliding over him with professional appraisal. She beckoned him with a single finger. “Looking for company?”

Draco’s mouth curved, polite and lethal. “Not tonight,” he said with just enough silk to make her pupils dilate, despite the rejection. She shivered pleasantly and watched him pass.

To those who didn’t recognize him immediately saw only another pure blood peacock slumming it for thrills like every other wizard walking the alley at night. 

When they wanted product, they sent owls to the nondescript drop box he kept above Borgin and Burkes, addressed to the only title the public accepted for the mysterious potion maker, ‘Master of Desire’. Blaise’s address however, he gave to clients paying him for his escort services to keep his businesses separate. He didn’t want any link that could invite complications. One of them being that, until he could afford a patent for his potions, he needed to prevent the Ministry from knocking.

When Draco met for potion inquiries, he glamoured his face to be blurred. He wore a hooded cloak, used a voice changing charm, and told them coolly that he preferred the name, ‘Phantom’ in person. They ignored it and called him ‘Master of Desire’ anyway. So he thought it only fair to make the ungrateful tosspots pay triple for early restock requests. Which did nothing but make his pockets heavier in galleons, because the name only grew in popularity. 

He had since tried to accept it as a consequence of the trade.

He turned into a narrower alley where the lamps burned blue and the air smelled musty and faint with crushed jasmine. A tattered brass plaque read: Mr Mulpepper’s Apothecary. The Knockturn branch. Draco knew he could get rare ingredients here.

The bell gave a low, throaty chime as he entered. Shelves towered to the ceiling, jars glinting with powdered unicorn horn, shriveled scarab beetles, things that moved when you weren’t looking directly at them.

 The apothecary was crowded today. A pair of seventh year Hufflepuffs were trying to buy powdered unicorn horn with what was obviously their mother’s galleons considering the purse they carried. Old Mulpepper was pretending not to notice as he shorted them change. The shop keeper loved the young and gullible, easier to deceive. 

Draco made sure to give a wide birth as they passed, ignorant prats holding their purchase close to their chest with quiet giggles like they got away with cheating on their N.E.W.T exams as they slipped out the door. Helga would be proud. 

Mulpepper was a hunched, toad-like man with a distracting wart on his nose that the old wizard used to his advantage when lightening the load of his customer’s pocketbooks. They never noticed the slight of hand when trading galleons with their eyes on the unsettling flaw.

Mulpepper glanced up from his ledger. “Here again, Malfoy?” He rasped, eyeing him like a bad rash as he wiped his hands on a dirty apron tied around his waist. “Starting to think you’ve got nothing better to do than haunt my shop.”

Draco flicked a speck of dust off his sleeve. “I’m sure you’d like that, but perish the thought. I simply need rare items that only your dwindling stock can satisfy.”

Mulpepper barked a laugh. “Flattered, but you’ve bought half my shelves in a month. At this rate I’ll have to start charging you rent. Let’s see that list.” He gestured impatiently for Draco to hand him his parchment.

Draco narrowed his gray eyes but slid a folded itemized list across the counter. The ink was his own spidery hand requesting several grams of powdered moonstone, dried asphodel, lacewing flies, and two whole erumpent horns, and top grade dragon’s blood.

Mulpepper’s eyebrows climbed as he held the parchment. “Planning to dose the entire street boy?”

Draco’s jaw flexed for a fraction of a second. He’d settle for dosing just one insufferable shopkeeper. “Only to keep them coming.” He tapped the counter once. “My items, Mulpepper. Today, preferably before your tongue outruns your lifespan.”

The apothecary tallied figures, muttering. “That’ll be four hundred and thirty seven galleons. And the horns are extra hazard pay if I manage gathering it all without blowing my fingers off.” His bushy brows scrunched.

“I have faith in your ability to defy the laws of death, as you have proven to us all.” Draco said matter of factly as he counted out five stacks from the inner pocket of his cloak, the coins clinked against the old grain of wood beside the register.

Mulpepper’s eyes gleamed at the sight, they always did. His arthritic hands swept the gold greedily into a drawer that locked itself with a satisfied snap. “Give me twenty minutes. Some of this is in the back.”

Draco inclined his head and drifted deeper into the shop while he waited. His leather fingers trailed over jars that shimmered with violet petals of Aetherbloom and black seeds that rattled like tiny bones. He paused at a small, locked case containing a single silver rose preserved in stasis, petals edged with frost. Amortentia antidote, rumored to be the only one in Britain, or so the shopkeeper claimed. 

Draco had built his entire trade on Amortentia itself as the elemental potion for all he created; following the cramped marginalia his late godfather, Snape, had scrawled in a textbook that McGonagall pressed into his hands the day they locked him in Azkaban. Her voice was softer than he’d heard it while she slipped him the book with the words, “Severus would’ve wanted you to have this.” Before she’d turned to leave, she whispered, “Albus always said there was more in you. Prove him right when you walk free.” 

Well, he’d certainly used every bit of the knowledge he’d gained from Snape’s text to become more than what he once was…but maybe not in the way they’d hoped.

Now, everything he brewed was far superior and stronger than Amortentia that had made his seduction serums enterprise what it was today, no antidotes needed.

Draco studied the rose a long moment, face blank, then turned away.

Mulpepper returned with a wicker basket. Everything neatly parcelled, stoppered, and labelled. He’d trained the man well. “Pleasure doing business..even if I have nothing left,” Mulpepper grunted as he gently pushed the basket to Draco’s waiting hands.

Salazar, give him strength not to hex the old goat into next week. Draco lifted the basket with deliberate care, lips curling into a razor thin smile. “You’re welcome. I do so enjoy singlehandedly keeping the old fossils of the shop keepers community well fed.” he said, voice dripping acid sweet as he let the chiming door shut mid-gurgled laugh from behind him.

Outside, the lamps had fully ignited, painting the alley in bruised purples and fever reds. A pair of witches stumbled out of a brothel arm in arm, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy with residual of his very own Lust’s Whisper. One of them laughed too loudly, pressing a hand to her throat as though she could still feel phantom fingers there.

Draco smirked as he watched them go, face shadowed beneath the hood.

He turned on his heel, basket tucked safely into his robes, and melted into the dark.

The Serpent’s Lounge crouched beneath an extravagant townhouse(one of Blaise’s several dwellings) in Knockturn’s deeper folds, marked by a lone lamp and tarnished brass serpent coiled around the door handle. Elegant vines shrouded it in slithering shadows. 

Draco pulled his sleeve back and let the snake strike without flinching as the fangs pricked his skin, tasting his blood. Then the lock hissed open with a satisfied sigh as it did with all members of the elite establishment. If the snake bit and you weren’t a member, Blaise claimed it would devour you. It may be Zabini’s club but Draco thought it was bollocks.

Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke and sandalwood. Slow jazz from the gramophone usually played quietly in the back of the nightclub, but tonight it was pushed aside. Draco noted that a witch in a backless silver gown stood beneath a single crimson spotlight tonight, voice dripping in honey and sin as she sang, 

“I’m a fool… to want you…”

When her doe eyes found Draco’s, she let the last note linger, then winked, giving him a slow wicked grin.

He’d reached his quota of free flirtations for the evening and only gave a polite incline of his head and turned away, moving deeper into the club. Anything else would cost.

Velvet booths glowed beneath warmly lit wall sconces shaped like coiled vipers. Wizards in tailored robes leaned close to witches in transparent silk, glasses clinking, thumb strokes against a cheek here and lips on the columns of throats there. A witch in emerald laughed too loudly at something a wizard whispered in her ear, her pupils blown wide and eyes glowing dark blue. Someone had been generous with a vial of his Night-Blooming Desire tonight. Up the curved staircase, doors stayed discreetly shut, but the occasional moan drifted down like smoke.

Blaise Zabini was busy charming pretty faces behind his bar of polished ebony, sleeves rolled to the elbow, expensive waistcoat and maroon collared shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease the guests. Draco admired the one glass eye Zabini acquired after an injury during the last wizarding war. The enchanted eye itself was a marvel, emerald iris shot with veins of gold, always looking somewhere Blaise wasn’t. Blaise had several he’d switch out with different colored irises depending on the mood. The bloody wizard actually made it seem alluring, those around him mesmerized by it.

Zabini was polishing a crystal tumbler with a crimson rag when Draco slid onto a stool. 

“Well, would you look at what the serpent dragged in,” his friend drawled, pushing a tumbler of gin across the polished mahogany toward him; a boa constrictor giving the illusion of squeezing the bottom of the glass.

“Thought you’d be tucked up in Bulstrode’s sheets till next week.” He shimmied his shoulders teasingly, and Draco knew his friend was already loose from Firewhiskey.

Draco accepted the glass but left it untouched, his fingers steady around the rim. “Never,” he said, voice low and casual. “Contracts first, pleasure later. That’s how I do business.” He tilted his hooded head toward the singer who continued to watch him from the stage. “New talent?”

Blaise nodded, “Delphine. Voice like an angel and legs to match. She costs me a fortune but Salazar, she’s worth every Knut. She hails all the way from Palais Garnier in Paris and I managed to convince her to work for me for a while.” He shook his head. “Nearly every last one of these poor blokes staggers out at closing time, broken hearted, because the only thing Delphine takes home is my Galleons.”

There was a moment of silence and then he turned with a deep frown. 

“Speaking of broken, I’m nearly out of Ecstasy’s Edge. I’ve had two arguments and a duel over the last one already and they broke my precious black crystal decanter. The one etched with the silver serpents.” He sighed dramatically. “Irreplaceable, it was my grandmother’s.” 

He let out a heavy sigh and wiped the bar with more force than necessary. “I kept the vial instead and threw them both out with a Sponge-Knees curse to the back of the legs and made them crawl home.” 

Draco chuckled, letting his fingers drum lazily on the bar, “I would’ve done worse to the greedy bastards.” Then he leaned forward so no one could hear, “let’s go to the back to discuss potion busin-”’

Blaise interrupted him with a snort, ignoring his remark. His glass eye swivelled to fix on Draco while the real one stayed on the rag. “Still wearing the tragic widow look, I see. Hood up, face like someone pissed in your Firewhisky. Very on brand.”

Draco stiffened and pulled his hood further over his features. His lip curled into that familiar Malfoy sneer, drawling with icy contempt, “Try spending two sodding years rotting in Azkaban, breathing in Dementors and listening to the screams of lunatics. And then come back to lecture me about what face I should wear afterwards.” He leaned back in his seat, gloves clasped in his lap. “I have my reasons.” 

Unaffected by Draco’s tone Blaise tapped his chiseled chin thoughtfully, gaze never leaving his, “Though it’s probably part of the Master of Desire’s mystique I presume?”

Draco glared over his glass and whipped his head around at the crowd. “What the hell Blaise, you ever heard of a little discretion?” He snatched a chocolate snake from a large bowl on the bar and tossed it at his loud mouthed friend. “Let’s discuss this in the back like we normally do,” He said through teeth.

Blaise chuckled, “do relax old boy, you’re later than usual and by this hour nobody in earshot is listening as they’re either drunk by now or enjoying the merriments of all the entertainment I offer.” He wagged his brows encouragingly.

Draco sighed, already tired of Blaise’s antics but he let his hood fall anyway since his tosser of a friend wouldn’t shut his gob about it. Draco’s eyes flicked to the golden cobra edged mirror behind the bar, his blonde hair seeming to glow like a white beacon under the lowlights. 

“Happy now?”

Blaise clicked his tongue approvingly and his mouth curved up in thought. “You know, they probably call you ‘Master of Desire’ because it sounds like the title of a bad muggle soap opera.” He gestured around the crowded room, “most of these degenerate bastards devour that drivel in the dark when no one’s looking..just like your lustful elixirs.”

Draco swept his gaze across the dimly lit room, taking in the familiar Slytherin faces he’d once shared a bench with in the Great Hall who were now brought as low as him after the Ministry’s cold justice. Their eyes were glazed over and drunk on spirits; reveling in their selfish diversions with the help of Draco’s creations. Blaise had built this place as both tribute to their shared blood and a bolted door against the world outside: a post-war society that preached forgiveness in one breath and slammed every other door in pure-blood faces who had any dealings with Voldemort in the next. All the sanctimonious outrage about blood prejudice during the war…funny how quickly the coin had flipped and victors discovered their own brand of purity.

Draco relaxed when indeed, the only one watching him was the sultry witch with the microphone across the bar, who couldn’t possibly hear their discussion. He lifted a brow at her and turned away. 

“I’ve made my peace with the fact that the public has abysmal taste in titles.” Draco said dryly as he tapped a single gloved finger on the mahogany bar. The public never listened, no matter how many times he said he preferred Phantom when he met them disguised in dark alleyways, over the tacky mouthful that was what he’d been forcibly given. But, again, he’d come to terms with it. Mostly.

Blaise smirked and reached beneath the counter and produced a black lacquered box, sliding it across. “Restock request. Lust’s Whisper is gone, Ecstasy’s Edge, as stated before, nearly so. You’re not keeping up with demand it seems, Master of Desire.” Blaise lingered on the name again just to get under his friend’s skin as he flipped the lid and gave Draco his cut of the profits for the week.

“Bugger off you one eyed twat,” he muttered as he pocketed the galleons, then reached deeper into his cloak and produced a small ebony case. Several fresh vials nestled inside, glowing softly. “I’ll be brewing new batches tonight but I have more Oblivion, Whisper, Edge, and one vial of a new blend to trial. Snow and Heat, but it's topical, and a drop is enough for the desired effect. Any more than that will feel like fire.” 

Blaise whistled low, unlocking the charmed cabinet behind the bar. He placed the potions Draco gave him in the black lacquered box and slid it into place beside bottles of Ogden’s Reserve Firewhiskey and something he guessed was Blaise’s own stash that shimmered liquid violet in a bottle. Probably something illegal.

“You’re spoiling me.” Blaise crooned as he turned back around, glass eye turning to check on his guests while the other watched Draco with amusement.

“We’re both profiting. There’s a difference.” Draco said as he swirled the whiskey, still feeling the singer's eyes on his backside. There was curiosity, and then there was...gawking. For Salazar’s sake, did she think he couldn’t feel it crawling up his spine like a badly cast Sectumsempra?

A soft laugh. “Allergic to gratitude as usual.” Blaise looked up to see what Draco already knew. “I see my singer’s taken a liking to you. Hasn’t looked away since you walked in. As I told you..she usually doesn’t blink twice at anyone in my club.” 

“Didn’t notice.” Draco murmured as he checked his watch, it was time to get home.

“Oh I’m sure you’d notice if she paid a pretty galleon for that pretty face,” Blaise chuckled and shook his head. “Honestly Draco, she’s a star around here and most wizards would be dying to trade places with you.”

Draco ran a hand through his blonde hair and shrugged. Blaise didn’t know he’d trade places with almost anyone else in the world if he could. His life wasn’t exactly sunshine and roses.

The singer hit a sultry crescendo and half the room sighed with her. Draco glanced toward the doors, then back. “I’ll bring fresh stock tomorrow night. After the gala with my client.”

“Bring yourself back in one piece,” Blaise said, suddenly serious. “Vivienne Bulstrode has a reputation for eating pretty boys for breakfast.”

Draco stood, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his robes. “Then I’ll make sure she works up an appetite. Once satiated, she probably tips well enough,” He teased, lifting his gray eyes to a Blaise who didn’t grin back. 

“Seriously, she’s the devil in Prada, draw boundaries where you need.” Blaise eyed him warily.

From upstairs came the unmistakable sound of a creaking bed and a woman’s throaty moan.

Blaise’s gaze flicked upward, then back. “You know, you could stay tonight. Pick a booth. Pick a witch. On the house.”

“Tempting.” he lied, setting the full tumbler down. He slept with women for a living, the thought of being touched if he didn’t have to be was nearly nauseating. “But some of us have cauldrons to tend.”

Blaise lifted his glass in salute. “To freedom, then. Paid for one galleon and one gasp at a time.” He lifted a hand to unclasp yet another button to expose more of his glistening chest and tilted his head back to drink until the glass was empty, slamming it down on the bar with a wild grin.

Draco, leaving his still full tumbler behind, tapped two gloved fingers to his brow in a lazy farewell in return and slipped toward the door.

Behind him, Delphine’s voice followed him into the alley like a lover who wouldn’t quite let go. 

“I’m a fool… to want you…”

Indeed. He pulled the hood back over his head and disappeared into the night, pockets heavier by the weight of a hopeful future.

The stairwell to the flat stank of boiled cabbage and despair. Draco climbed the five crooked flights without hurry, basket balanced on one forearm, the other gloved hand trailing the peeling wallpaper out of habit rather than need for balance.

Draco’s foot caught the edge of the dimly lit stairwell when a soft voice drifted down from the landing above.

“I wouldn’t hex me if I were you, Mr Malfoy.”

He spun, wand already half raised, heart slamming against his ribs with a spell nearly past his lips.

Miss Grumble, a neighbor in the building, stood utterly unruffled. She was an old woman draped in layers of violet velvet and too many crystal necklaces, her silver streaked hair twisted into a knot held together by what looked suspiciously like a bent spoon. 

She didn’t flinch at his hawthorn wooden wand now pointed between her eyes. In her left arm she held a Niffler who was staring greedily at his shiny cufflinks. It gurgled and cooed with need. He’d be worried if the ol’ coffin dodger hadn’t charmed a leash to rein him in.

Draco’s lip curled. “Next time, announce yourself before you go lurking on stairs like a cheap fortune teller.”

“I am a Seer, Mr Malfoy, which rather makes me a fortune teller by trade. It’s how I pay my rent… and precisely how I knew you were about to try hexing me,” she grumbled in annoyance as she shuffled down the steps and brushed past with an elbow to his ribs to move. “What wretched days these are, when a grown wizard’s first instinct is to snatch his wand when a feeble old woman merely greets him with few more words than, ‘boo’.”

Draco scoffed as his eyes followed her by. Angry heat climbed up his neck. He reluctantly lowered his wand, arms stiff at his sides. “It doesn’t take a Seer to know that if you pop out of the shadows yelling ‘Don’t hex me!’, you’re getting bloody hexed on principle.” He loosely pointed his wand at her feet. “Try announcing yourself like a normal witch instead of lurking in the shadows with an ominous declaration.”

“So dramatic,” she sighed and waved her hand dismissively. “Just know the future’s always watching you.”

He turned from her and didn’t look back. What a generalized statement for the gullible. “Tell it to sod off.” Unless it bore the good news of the end of her fraudulent fortune telling. Or her passing. Either would do.

He took the last flight two at a time when he heard her soft chuckle follow him up the dim stairwell. “Knew you’d say that too,” she barked from below. “And mind the loose step; you’ll twist your ankle on Tuesday if you’re not careful.”

Draco rolled his eyes so hard he could nearly see to the back of his own skull and continued his angry assent. When the lock of his door recognized his signature and opened with ease, he slipped inside; slamming it behind him. 

When he’d first moved in, she was always trying to read his palm or lure him in her flat to use her crystal ball for a Sickle or two. He’d rudely turned her away more than once. Now she despised him, and the feeling was more than mutual. 

But, she adored Knott. He entertained her whims and enjoyed her company when Draco was away for long periods of time with clients.

He turned and finally relaxed his shoulders. Home sweet home. Or what passed for it.

A single lamp burned in the sitting room, throwing long shadows across sagging armchairs and a table permanently scarred by spilled potions. 

Theodore Nott sprawled across the sofa, one leg hooked over the back, a tattered copy of Witch Weekly open on his chest. He didn’t look up, but his tone was amused. “I’m going to assume the ruckus in the stairwell was another confrontation with our delightful Seer of a neighbor.” 

Draco swept a hand across the table, shoving aside a battlefield of Theo’s culinary casualties. He’d use his wand to clear it, but Theo had a thing for wanting to do things the muggle way in their home these days. 

Draco guessed by the charred crusts, apples reduced to blackened lumps, and dripping cinnamon sludge from a tin that smelled of burnt sugar..it was an attempt to bake an apple pie. By hand. He shivered.

When Draco left Theo alone too long, the silence turned restless and Theo drowned it in a new obsession that usually involved wandless busy work, anything to keep his darker thoughts away.

“You mean the Charlatan?” Draco muttered irritably. “Yes.” 

Theo chuckled and shook his head. “Anyway, glad to see your lordship survived another day of being devastatingly handsome for money.”

Draco set the basket down with a lazy clink. “I’m always devastatingly handsome. The money is incidental.”

Theo turned, finally glancing over. His brown hair stuck up in seventeen directions. There were violet shadows under his eyes that never quite left anymore. But his boyish good looks never faded, despite the sadness he attempted to hide with humor. “Well I’m guessing the rich puma liked what she saw if you’re coming home with an armful of  supplies..”

Draco began unpacking: moonstone powder, asphodel, the erumpent horns wrapped in dragonhide so they wouldn’t explode and ruin everyone’s evening. “I think I can handle charming a middle aged divorcee with nothing but an annulment and two cats for company...” he trailed off, wondering if he should add Bulstrode wasn’t officially a client yet. “But, she asked me to come with her to a gala for a trial tomorrow. Just semantics really, I’m already hired..I’m sure of it.”

Theo grinned, despite himself. “We’ll see.” He watched Draco lazily from his perch on the sofa, thumping the rolled up Witch Weekly against one knee. His expression was thoughtful. 

“You should know your favorite Seer read my tea leaves today and relayed that the cup basically screamed I was going to die celibate and broke. She laughed and still tried to charge me for such a prophecy. The swindler.” He leaned back, placing his arms lazily behind his head. “How is it that you are paid thousands to get laid, and I can’t even get a snog for free?” 

“It’s tragic really.” Draco smirked and continued to arrange ingredients in order of importance. “Now help put these away before the erumpent detonates and we both die broke, single, and very much on fire.”

Theo huffed and slowly unfolded himself with the enthusiasm of a man being asked to defuse a bomb and started sorting jars instead.

Memory drifted in uninvited, the way it sometimes did in this flat. Two years ago he had staggered out of Azkaban’s gates looking like a corpse that hadn’t quite decided to lie down. Ribs showing, hair brittle, eyes too large in his skull, and wrists raw from manacles. Theo had been waiting on the other side of the barrier. He looked thinner from stress and his hair unkempt. He held a paper bag of liquorice wands like they were a bouquet, and an awkward grin like he didn’t know what to bring for a friend who’d wasted two years of his life behind bars. His smile had dropped immediately when he saw Draco, but after the initial shock of seeing him in his emaciated state, Theo quickly closed the distance and hugged him tight.

“Come on, Malfoy. Blaise has a room waiting for you. I’ve been living there since you were sent away. We’ve really missed you mate.”

He had stayed at Zabini’s Manor for four months, trying to heal and adjust to a normal life again. Blaise never asked for rent, in fact he enjoyed their company. Draco had brewed sleeping draughts and minor pain relief potions for Blaise’s injured mother in exchange for his hospitality. Theo on the other hand had charmed the house elves into teaching him to cook passable spaghetti.

At night Draco stared at the ceiling and felt the walls closing in. The first night he’d barely slept at all, expecting Dementors at the door, waking in silk sheets every hour that smelled of bergamot instead of rot. He had hated every minute of owing someone. Charity, no matter how kindly meant, tasted like ash. He knew he had to make hard decisions for his future or there would be none at all. 

Theo didn’t have many skills, just his usual whimsy and lack of drive after the Ministry took everything he had. Coasting through life, as if nothing mattered anymore. 

Draco grew desperate and nearly driven mad from lack of options. He applied to every place of work he could think of, no matter how lowly. But not one establishment would hire him with his criminal record. Not even bloody Wheezly Wizard Wheezes. The redheaded bastards howled with laughter and immediately spread the word to the rest of their freckled face ilk clan about his pathetic plea for a job. 

Once he cursed them and left was the day Draco entertained an idea he thought he never would. An idea so low…he didn’t tell a soul for weeks as he worked up the nerve to take the leap and use the only possible form of income he had available to him. His body. Good looks that would hopefully allow him to bed the desperate and hungry, which he knew would open the door to his potions enterprise..which would eventually free him from having to sell himself at all. 

The first client had been a pure blood widow who paid in galleons and discretion. She knew he was green and shorted him half of what she owed. The second had asked him to make her feel twenty again. After the third, Draco stopped counting faces and started counting coins. Then, with the help of Blaise’s connections, the potions business grew exponentially. 

When the stack finally reached five figures, he’d found this place in Knockturn: a dingy flat that was damp in winter, stifling in summer, but his. He’d also managed to get it across from Borgin and Burkes, perfectly positioned so he could slip over and collect any owl post inquiries about his potions without drawing attention. No one took a second glance at a cloaked figure here.

Theo had followed the same week, carrying a cauldron and a grin. “I can’t live on Blaise’s velvet couches forever,” he’d said. “Besides, someone has to keep you from blowing yourself up.” 

Although nothing could fully erase the sharp pain of losing everything except his own name, Draco noticed that his vision had restored a sense of purpose to Theo, drawing a rare, genuine smile to his face.

Then months later, as their venture gained traction, mysterious competitors began to flood the market with toxic, watered down counterfeits. These cheap imitations stole customers and siphoned away their hard earned profits, pushing their dreams further out of reach. For now, they were just managing to stay afloat. But soon, they’d have to do something or risk losing everything they’d fought for.

Theo was watching him now, eyebrow raised.

Draco blinked.

“Earth to ferret.” Theo waved his hand in front of his face. “Did you hear what I said?” 

Theo’s voice dragged him back to the present.

“Word on the street is Ministry’s bringing in new blood. Some prodigy Auror. Never lost a case, apparently. Righteous little swot. The Prophet’s already polishing the halo.”

Draco’s eyes dropped to the counter and he lined the lacewing flies in neat rows. “They always say that. Then the righteous swots discover the world is grey and they learn to live with it and join the rest of the aurors in only ever reaching for mediocrity. If I have to, I’ll slip them a Confundus Charm in their tea and they’ll retire early, fat, and happy.”

“I’m not so sure...” Theo flicked a beetle off the counter with disgust. It tried to escape, and he whispered a spell to make it burst into flames(his muggle rules didn’t apply to creepy crawlies). “Counterfeits are getting worse. Someone’s cutting Ecstasy’s Edge, our best seller, with Tentacula Seeds or some other Non-Tradeable Substance and selling it as our’s for a fraction of the cost. Had three witches in St Mungo’s last week screaming about tentacles.”

Draco nearly scoffed and thought, let the cheap customers choke on their discount nightmares if they only wanted to pay a fraction of the cost. Then he cleared his throat and said in a voice more carefree than he felt to keep his friend from worrying, “Think about it Theo, if the bastards went to the trouble of sourcing Venomous Tentacula seeds, a Class C Non-Tradeable, nearly eighty Galleons an ounce on the black market, just to lace a knock-off batch of Ecstasy’s Edge and undercut us by what, a few Sickles in the grand scheme?” He shrugged. “That’s not competition, that’s performance art. They’re the ones losing. I didn’t know we had fans dedicated enough to risk Azkaban for life just to prove they can make our customers sprout tentacles cheaper than we can make them come.” He smirked. “Almost flattering, in a mouth-breathing, inbred sort of way.” 

Theo wasn’t deterred by Draco’s nonchalance on the matter. His eyes narrowed. “Mouth-breathers who are stealing much more than a few Sickles and hurting our business’s reputation. When will you take this seriously?” He hesitated. “If this new Auror starts sniffing around unregulated potions…”

“They won’t find our’s.” Draco’s voice was quiet, utterly certain. “They could turn this place inside out and find nothing but mildew, beetles, peeling wallpaper, and your terrible taste in literature.” He tapped the floorboard twice with the toe of his boot. Beneath it, the trapdoor waited, sealed with a hissed command in a language no Auror alive still spoke. Potter, the only one who could, had stepped down as Head of Ministry for reasons Malfoy didn’t care to know. Probably because The Boy Who Lived had realised he was utterly out of his depth. Fitting end to his short lived career.

Theo exhaled, half laugh and a sigh. “You and your bloody Parseltongue kink.”

“Practicality, Theodore. Not a kink.” Draco replied lazily as he shrugged out of his robes with liquid grace, the black suit beneath still unwrinkled and clean. He draped the heavy fabric over the sofa’s threadbare arm like it belonged there. 

“I’m doing my best to turn this little black market empire legitimate before the Ministry decides to make an example of us and the counterfeits put us on the street. That costs several thousand galleons we’re still currently short on and time but..” he ran his gloved fingers through his tousled blonde hair, “we’ll get there.” 

His friend merely nodded, eyes still anxious and they finished unpacking in silence.

Afterward Theo yawned, stretched, and disappeared toward the kitchenette in search of whatever passed for dinner. Draco lingered, gloved fingers brushing the last jar of dragon’s blood, then moved to the threadbare rug in the corner.

He knelt, graceful even in exhaustion, and pressed his palm to the floor. A low hiss, almost tender. The boards rippled like water and folded away, revealing narrow stone stairs spiralling down into warm, copper scented darkness.

The laboratory. Three large cauldrons simmered under perpetual Stirring Charms: silver for Lust’s Whisper, obsidian and violet for Ecstasy’s Edge, and the great black iron one he used for the anti-tampering serum he still hadn’t perfected. He breathed in the familiar perfume of moonstone and Belladona, of possibility measured in drops.

One day the Malfoy name would be more than a curse whispered in parlours. One day he would patent every brew, seal them against counterfeiters, walk back into the Manor that should have been his and open the doors without shame. One day the gloves might even come off.

Until then, the cauldrons waited.