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Tapping his feet with boredom, Draco cast his third Tempus of the afternoon. The dial showed four forty-seven and he thanked Merlin for that small mercy. In only thirteen minutes he’d be able to spell the doors of The Black Orchid closed and Floo home. He had definite plans for his Valentine’s evening, and they didn’t involve fancy restaurants, bottles of champagne or confessions of love. His evening plans involved a hot bath and then a glass of Pinot in front of his Muggle television.
Romance, Draco had decided, was for idiots and fools.
He hadn’t ever expected to be this jaded at the mere age of twenty-two, but he supposed that was the result of two factors. Firstly, that he was a professional florist, and manager of his mother’s Diagon emporium and secondly that it was Valentine’s Day.
The whole day had been a whirl of hustle and bustle. He had arrived to a queue outside of the door, and it had scarcely quietened as the hours had passed.
He’d artfully arranged vases of magnolias and violets, charming them so they kept their petals for a week. He’d enchanted chrysanthemums so that they changed colour in the presence of true love. He’d even made up a nauseatingly Chudley Cannon-orange bouquet for Ron Weasley to take home to Hermione. Draco rolled his eyes a little at the memory. He’d had a lot of big plans for his life, and – unsurprisingly – flower peddler hadn’t been one of them.
Draco reasoned that if he could only have a bit of romance for himself, then he might feel a little better about the ordeal of Valentine’s Day.
Truth was, Draco wanted to be wooed. He wanted to be swept off his feet, wanted a head in the clouds and wanted every other romantic cliché that got thrown around so flippantly on this day of the year. His fantasy was highly unlikely to come true though. Wizards of his persuasion were few and far between and often it seemed like all the good-looking lads were coupled up already. A quick-and-dirty roll in the sheets was always a possibility – he was a member of Wandr, the wizard dating agency – but those men never wanted to go out on actual dates. Draco’s past was a little too spicy for most wizard’s tastes.
Oh well. At least he had Pansy, though she’d gotten entirely boring since she’d coupled up with Theo Nott. Perhaps he ought to get a Crup. He’d heard that walking them was a good way to get out of the house and meet people, and-
The doorbell chimed, and Draco swallowed a swear word. What cretin had left it this late to buy flowers for their beloved? They’d have to have what was left on the almost-bare shelves and be happy about it. Carefully placing the begonia stems he had been trimming on the wooden bench, Draco arranged his face into a neutral smile.
“Hello,” Draco greeted, cleaning his hands with a wandless charm. “How might I help you today?”
Draco felt his heart flip over in his chest when he saw exactly who his customer was.
Of every wizard in the entirety of London, it had to be Harry Potter. Gods, but fate wasn’t ever on his side!
Draco had fancied Harry for the whole of forever. True, the two of them were friendly nowadays – well, they played cards in the Leaky occasionally – but that didn’t mean Draco stood even the smallest chance with the wild-haired wizard. Potter had won Witch Weekly’s best smile award two, maybe three, years in a row. He’d saved Wizarding England from certain doom. He wouldn’t have the slightest interest in a lowly florist, especially one with a Dark Mark.
Still, Draco was a consummate professional. The Black Orchid was his mum’s lifelong dream and every Galleon in the till was important. It didn’t matter a single Sickle that Harry had come here seeking flowers for a hot date with some handsome young stud. Not in the slightest.
“So, er… I’ve come to buy flowers,” Harry responded, brushing a messy tuft of hair back behind an ear. Draco’s stomach did a funny little pitter-pat at the sight. It wasn’t fair that some unknown wizard got all Harry’s gorgeousness to himself. Quite honestly, it was the height of selfishness. Potter looked like he’d come straight from work. His Auror uniform was delightfully dishevelled, and it fit snugly in all the right places. Draco gave himself a harsh telling off. It simply wouldn’t do to get caught staring. “But they have to be something special,” Harry continued. “The man I want to give it to is important to me. He’s classy and smart, and I wouldn’t want to give him anything except the best.”
Draco swallowed his jealousy. Who was this mysterious wizard? Was it one of their mutual acquaintances?
Oh Circe, it couldn’t be that awful prat Hennessy that worked in the Unspeakable Department? He had a crush on Harry the size of six Quidditch pitches.
Harry deserved better than Hennessy. The man was an idiot, he wore pungent, headache-inducing aftershave and he called Harry ‘Haz’. A terrible thought rippled through Draco’s brain and his heart clenched painfully. Was Harry going to ask Hennessy to marry him? That was what people did on Valentine’s Day, wasn’t it?
“He sounds wonderful,” Draco managed, voice thin. “Unfortunately, you’ve left it rather late in the day. Most of our more romantic blooms have already been sold. Were you looking for a potted plant? We do a very nice miniature Shrivelfig bush.” Draco stepped aside to give Harry a better view. Their remaining Shrivelfig bush was wizened and brown. It had seen better days.
Harry frowned at the bedraggled little plant.
“I was looking for something a little more classic... Perhaps one of these?” Harry took a step towards the vases which held the enchanted roses. Draco forced a smile onto his face. Roses were most romantic of flowers and Draco had treated them with Amortentia so they were scented like the object of each customer’s truest desire.
“There isn’t a single wizard in England that wouldn’t want one of these roses,” Draco answered. “The purple one is called Ocean Song, the pink one is called is called Moondial… The yellow is Deja Vue-“
“The red one,” Harry interrupted. “That’s the one I’d like. It’s beautiful.”
It truly was. Hennessy was a fortunate wizard. “The Freedom rose,” Draco replied. “That’s my favourite too. Shall I wrap it up for you?”
Harry nodded, and Draco set to work, feeling rather sad. He had no idea what perfume that awful dolt Hennessy would inhale when he sniffed his Freedom rose, but a myriad of scents assailed his own senses. He smelt fresh coffee, and warm baking bread. He smelt Harry’s bergamot aftershave, the Manor library and air, clean and fresh after a thunderstorm.
“That’ll be a Galleon and three Groats,” Draco said, offering the wrapped rose up for Harry’s inspection. “Your classy, smart wizard will enjoy it, I’m very sure of that.”
Breathing in the scent of the rose, Draco noticed Harry’s eyes widen slightly in surprise. “That’s so clever,” he declared, “I can smell treacle tart, the woody smell of a broomstick handle and something flowery…”
“That’s scarcely a surprise,” Draco answered. “We happen to be stood inside a florists.” He choked back his sarcasm. Mother wouldn’t approve of it. “So, have you a date tonight Harry? Who is the lucky man?”
“I very much hope I do,” Harry replied, sounding bashful as he fished the coins out of his pocket. “I’ll be the lucky man if he agrees. Thing is Draco, I’ve liked him for a long, long time. Even back at school, though I didn’t know it was a crush back then. All I knew was that the person had the uncanny ability to get under my skin like no one else on the planet.”
Somebody from school? That was a surprise. Draco pondered whom it might be. It must be someone older. Oliver Wood? No, he was engaged to a French Quidditch player… George Weasley? Was he even gay? Draco shook his head. It didn’t matter who the man was, because it wasn’t him. “Don’t worry,” Draco answered. “I hardly think they’ll turn down the Chosen One. I believe there might be Wizengamot laws against it.”
Harry blushed at Draco’s weak joke. “I very much doubt it. I’m not sure Hermione would approve.” He held the rose out in front of him, and looked at it for a moment. Then his green eyes flicked up to meet Draco’s own and he held out the rose for Draco to take. “Would you do me the honour of accompanying me out for dinner Draco? There’s a table for two at the Gilded Griffin and I’d be rather embarrassed if I had to eat alone. There’s nobody else in England that I’d rather share my evening with.”
Draco stared at the rose for a few minutes, the scents for the Amortentia infusing the air between them.
“Isn’t that the new Elven restaurant?” Draco asked. “The Prophet said that it was booked up for months.” Draco teased. “It would seem there are perks to being famous.”
“There might be a few. Is that a yes?” Harry asked, the smallest hint of worry creasing his forehead.
Draco couldn’t bring himself to delay, not for even another minute.
“Definitely,” Draco answered, the smile bright on his face.