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Old potions are named in Latin.
New potions in English.
Good potions were French.
That's what Draco told him at least. All the Potter potions were in English, though, even the old ones, Harry told him, which made Draco roll his eyes petulantly and call him plebeian.
So Harry did what he had to. He took the handwritten shopping list from Draco's manicured fingers and tucked it into the front pocket of his oversized hoodie, and disapparated into Diagon Alley before Draco would verbally rip him a new one.
The first few items were easy enough to make out from the green ink —“Moss green, Potter! Salazar, save me from this imbecile.”— looking all swirly like the over designed greeting cards Harry knew from Costco. Draco may call it casual cursive, the posh wanker, but nothing about the man had been casual in his entire life.
Harry wandered from one shop to the next, picking out various fruits, teas, and sweets. If he knew the word, he could make a reliable educated guess. This had worked so far when Draco had sent him out like an errand boy —“To keep the Saviour humble, you should thank me. Tout suite, Potter, stop dawdling.”
The next three items were at the Patisserie, Harry knew that word. Apparently Draco had run out of madeleines. Again. Then he wanted… Merlin's balls, Harry lifted his glasses as if that would somehow change the handwriting into something less obnoxious.
Well then, he had run out of luck with his guessing game. He had another trick, though, and entered the bakery —“it's not a bakery you philistine!" — He read the labels on the foodstuffs on display and compared them to what Draco had written. Triumphant, he bought a dozen madeleines, three lyboise and two entire loaves of pain d’épices. The lady behind the counter was giggling at his pronunciations but didn't chide him for it, unlike some blond mouthy git. He bought a box of lemon macarons for himself and since he recognised the word tarte he bought two slices of each flavour. He got one macaron for free and stuffed the entire thing into his mouth when he left the shop.
Last stop would be an apothecary. The Pharmacie des Sorcières, to be precise, neatly squished between the patisserie and a coffee shop with tiny wiry tables and uncomfortable metal chairs. Draco loved to sit out front and gossip with Pansy, Theo and Blaise, whisper-shouting insults about passerbys. The hobby was harmless enough, Harry let him have his fun.
But now Harry was in a right pickle. He couldn't make heads or tails of the name of the potion written on his list, but he knew it was French, as Draco had insisted was incredibly important. It was a matter of life and death. For Harry, not Draco, obviously.
Harry groaned and opened the door to his final destination. There were far too many potions, balms, draughts and powders in display to cross-reference the placement of vowels. He sighed, then groaned, and balled his fists, crumbling the list. Fuck. Well, let's compare the letters to the ones on the names of items he had already bought today. Let's treat this like a puzzle. Draco often was a puzzle himself, with sharp edges and inappropriate pictures printed on top, but Harry, unfathomably, had the patience to solve it over and over. Draco liked that about him, not that he would admit to that, but Harry knew.
Nausée-Partez? Really? And what was the word in brackets? Fran… no, framboise!
“One flask of Nose-Parts in Fram-boys, please.” Harry told the eagerly waiting man at the desk.
The man's eyebrows shot up, almost creeping onto his bald head. “Pardon?”
“Well, yes, it was worth a try. Here, last item on the list.” Harry handed the man the note, pointed at the green swirlies in question. The apothecary took it with pursed lips and an appreciative nod, then he bolted into the backroom. Harry bounced on the balls of feet, waiting for him to return. He wanted to finally get back home, as he was in desperate need of a nap.
The man reappeared and proffered the flask to Harry like a waiter would present a bottle of wine. At least in the restaurants Draco dragged him to, kicking and screaming. The flask looked ridiculous, more like a perfume flacon and labeled with a fancy golden sticker and a miniature raspberry dangling from the stopper. Positively stupid, in Harry’s opinion, but anything for Draco.
“Looks about right.” Harry said.
The apothecary proceeded to wrap the bottle in sheen paper, added a bow, a candy —“Excuse-moi, those are bonbons!”— and put it in a small gift bag. “For your wife, Monsieur?” he asked, tone friendly and light with a heavy accent.
Ah, he didn’t recognize him. He must really be from the continent and had moved here only recently. That, or he honestly didn’t care for tabloids and papers.
“Husband, actually.” Harry corrected him with a smile. “He insists this is the only anti nausea potion that would help him with the morning sickness.”
“Oh? Did he experiment with the new potions fertilité?” His eyes sparkled with interest.
Harry snorted. “You could say that.”
Draco had experimented with them, oh yes. The idiot had invented them, too, by accident, as he kept saying. Drank half the flask to test what it did, then Harry wrenched it from his hand and drank the rest, because, really, since when would he let Draco do anything stupid alone, where was the fun in that?
“Could you get me the usual Puke-No-More as well?” Harry requested.
“Monsieur, are you sure?” The man asked.
“The cheap one is for me. My nausea isn’t as bad.” Because, yes, not only was Draco with child, no, Harry was pregnant as well. He lay a hand on his middle, caressing over his small bump, the movement flattening his hoodie around it to make it obvious.
“Oh?” The apothecary quipped, quite delighted. Harry saw the telltale grabby hands people made, itching to reach for his belly. He was the same with Draco, unabashedly touching his husband, rubbing expensive oils into the fair skin, smothering the dome with kisses and whispering sweet nonsense against it.
“It was a wild night.” Harry shrugged one shoulder and almost managed not to blush.
“Young love, savour it.” He smiled at Harry with a soft and dreamy sigh.
Harry paid the exorbitant price and made his way home, to Grimmauld Place, where Kreacher was excitedly losing his last marble in preparation for the two new members of the noble and most ancient house of Black, delirious with serving Draco’s every whim, of which there were plenty.
“Oh, the Savior deems to grace us with his presence once more!” Draco greeted him dramatically. “Hand me my cake or I will strangle you.”
“At least give me a kiss first, you tosser.” Harry jabbed and held the bags behind his back.
Draco growled, but relented. He stepped closer, one hand on Harry’s neck, and leaned in, baby bumps touching as his lips locked to his husband’s.