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He’s sitting down in the Leaky Cauldron on his lunch break, digging into a delicious potato and onion soup when it first happens. He’s blowing softly at the hot mouthful on his spoon, and a pleasant minty scent is emanating from it.
Ron is giving him a play-by-play retelling of the bust they’d just done this morning, confiscating quite a large collection of dark potions and ingredients held without a license. Harry is nodding along and offering a vague response here or there. He’s tempted to remind Ron that yes, he remembers the way the since-arrested wizard dropped to his knees and bent protectively over a bottle of what looked like rotting fish because he was actually there, but both him and Hermione know there’s no stopping Ron when he gets like this.
The Leaky is abnormally busy, even for the lunch hour, and Tom is pacing up and down the bar looking exuberant. When he and Ron had arrived there had been barely a handful of patrons.
“Poor bugger,” Ron is saying, shaking his head, but the look on his face is gleeful. “That’s probably his entire livelihood. Down the drain.”
“Perhaps he should have chosen a better career path,” Harry says, taking another mouthful, “like maybe something legal.”
Ron laughs, and Harry reaches for his pint, and that’s when it happens.
His lips begin to tingle, and then his cheeks, and his whole head, and then it spreads quite rapidly through the rest of his body.
He glances around him, then down at his bowl.
“Ron,” he says, but his voice doesn’t come out as urgently as he intended, in fact it comes out rather airy.
“Yeah,” Ron mumbles around the shepherd’s pie he’s currently shoving into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in days.
“I…”
The tingling in his body is quite pleasant. He feels a little as if he’s floating, actually. He can’t remember what he was going to say.
“Where is she?” he says instead.
“Who?”
“Eloise.” He says it as if it’s obvious. And it should be obvious, shouldn’t it? How would his best friend not be aware he’s looking for the love of his life. His one and only. The only person in the world he can currently think to care about.
Ron’s expression is a little repulsed. “Midgen?”
“No,” Harry scowls at him. “Rosier. I need to see her.”
“Who?” Ron repeats. “I’ve never heard of her. What’d you need to see her about?”
Harry feels a prick of frustration at Ron’s cluelessness. How could he not know?
“Eloise Rosier,” Harry says, and his tongue caresses the name as it parts through his lips. “El,” He says, feeling giddy, “Elly.”
Ron’s mouth is hanging slightly open. “Are you…feeling okay Harry?”
Harry beams.
“Better than I ever have, Ron.” He stands, suddenly. “Excuse me,” he says, “I have to go find her.”
He picks up his cloak and swivels around, leaving his half-finished lunch and a very baffled-looking Ron at the table.
He casts a look around the bar, seeing as this seems a good as any place to start, but 30 seconds into the search he realises… he doesn’t actually know what Eloise Rosier looks like, which doesn’t make much sense, seeing as he’s in love with her.
He frowns, and ponders his next move for a moment, but then a hand claps down upon his shoulder and Ron is standing next to him with his own cloak thrown over his arm.
“Ah, I forgot Harry, I do know Eloise Rosier. She’s friends with Hermione. How about we see if they’re together?”
Harry nods fervently. Ron waves his wand and a translucent Jack Russell Terrier bounds past the patrons and vanishes through a wall.
Ron tightens his clasp on Harry’s shoulder and steers him back towards the table.
“While we wait,” he says, “can we finish up lunch?”
When Ron has finished off his plate and downed the rest of his glass (whilst Harry sits neglecting his soup and tapping his foot impatiently), an owl swoops through the window of the Leaky and drops a small note on his empty plate.
Ron picks it up, reads it quickly, and then reaches behind him for his cloak.
“Good news Harry, they’re both here in Diagon Alley. Shall we walk?”
Harry is up in an instant, grabbing his cloak and rushing halfway out the door before Ron is even out of his chair.
He spots Hermione almost as soon as he reaches Diagon Alley, but he’s very aware of the fact she’s alone.
“Where is she?” he demands, as soon as he’s close enough to be heard.
“I got you this,” she says, shaking a little vial in front of his face. “It’s for nerves. I told Eloise to wait inside.”
Harry glances at the vial a little speculatively. He’d been so intent on finding Eloise he didn’t notice anything else. But now he knows he’s so close to seeing her… he does feel a little nervous anticipation.
“Thanks Hermione,” he grins at her, and then he takes the vial she presses into his hand and downs it in one go.
He hands it back and takes a step forward, and then his body slumps like he’s suddenly woken up from a very bad dream. When he looks back to Ron and Hermione, Ron is trying to smother his laughter, and Hermione looks terribly anxious.
“A love potion,” he says flatly.
“Lucky I have the experience to recognise one, eh?” Ron says, grinning. Hermione shoots him a reproachful look.
“Harry, you have to be more careful. Think of what could have happened if Ron hadn’t recognised you’d been given it.”
“He’d have shagged some bird called Eloise Rosier,” Ron says.
Harry groans and drops his head into his hands.
The next time it happens, Harry is walking down Hogsmeade alone after a quick lunch at the Three Broomsticks. He’s about to drop into Quality Quidditch Supplies to purchase another bottle of Fleetwood’s High-Finish Handle Polish when he feels his lips start to tingle. He barely manages to get a patronus off before the tingle spreads to the rest of his body.
Thankfully (if he can say that at all), it’s another witch he doesn’t know, so Hermione finds him spinning around in frantic circles only a few feet away from where he sent the patronus.
“Harry,” Hermione chides when he’s taken the antidote and is scowling down at his shoes. “I thought I told you to be more careful.”
“And how do you suppose I do that, Hermione? Never eat in public ever again?”
“Just check your food before you eat it,” she says impatiently, “and at least carry around a vial for yourself.” And although he’d feel like a serious twat constantly carrying around an antidote to amortentia, she does have a point.
Apparently he’d pulled her out of an important meeting at the ministry so she lists off directions and apparates. He apparates a few seconds after, midway down Diagon Alley. He walks right down towards the end, passing a few shops he’s never heard of, and comes to a stop in front of a simple but elegant shop face that features some shiny looking cauldrons in the windows and a sign that shimmers in emerald green.
Potions Proffered, it reads. Harry takes a step through the door and a bell above his head jingles.
The shop is a little steamy, but pleasantly so, with a few cauldrons bubbling around the counter. On either side of him are rows of vials of different sizes, with vastly differing contents. There are neatly written signs below each of the vials, spelling out names and descriptions in an elegant, looping cursive.
“Just a moment,” a muffled voice calls from a couple of rows over.
Harry scans the shelves closest to him for the clear potion he’s after. He spots a vial filled with clear liquid and grabs it off the shelf before looking at its identifying sign.
Vince’s Romance, it reads, and below that, assists in the bedroom (males only)
“Who’d have known?”
Harry jumps and spins around, and there, standing a couple of feet before him is Draco Malfoy.
It feels a little weird seeing him suddenly, two years after the war, especially considering the last time they saw each other was in a courtroom when Harry testified for him and his mother. It’s a little weird, but also it isn’t.
Draco looks the same as he always did, but his pale hair doesn’t have as much gel in it, and he might have filled out a little bit since the last time Harry saw him, and he’s wearing stylish robes of a green so dark it’s almost black, with gold trimming around the edges.
So really, he’s looking better than ever.
Harry shuts down that thought quickly.
“Malfoy,” he blurts, hastily placing the vial back on the shelf. “You work here?”
Draco crosses his arms. “I own here,” he says.
Hermione certainly didn’t mention that.
Draco raises an eyebrow when Harry doesn’t respond. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yes,” Harry says, and he feels kind of mortified buying love potion antidote now. “I was just after some… an antidote. For… love potions.”
Draco’s smirk deepens. “They were both for you, weren’t they? I thought it was a little odd for Granger to be buying antidotes to amortentia.”
Harry gives him a warning look, and Draco rolls his eyes. “Because of Weasley, obviously. Unless she’s lost interest?”
“Do you have it or not?”
Draco gestures for Harry to follow and leads him a couple of rows over to a stack of shelves titled Antidotes.
The shelves are vast but Draco walks directly over to a line of neat little vials filled with the clear potion Harry was looking for.
“Five Galleons.”
Harry stuffs his hand into the pocket of his robes and pulls out a handful of Galleons. He drops them into Draco’s hand and takes the vial.
“Pleasure,” Draco says curtly, and strides away, robes billowing behind him.
Harry frowns and pockets the vial, exiting the shop for what he hopes is the last time.
It isn’t the last time.
With an antidote on hand, and two very sternly worded letters threatening legal action sent to the two witches who had tried to enchant him into a frenzied lust, Harry was feeling a little safer.
Feeling a little too safe, evidently, because after a few weeks Harry stops checking every meal he eats out and ends up at the Leaky again midway through a mint-scented beef stew, frantically searching his robes for the vial and soundlessly handing it to Ron before he turns into a lovesick mess.
He apparates to Diagon Alley straight after lunch.
The bell jingles over the door and Draco stares at him from where he’s leaning against the counter.
“Again?”
“Again.”
Draco sighs and steps around the corner, heading for the shelves.
“It’s almost as if you like getting hit with amortentia, Potter. In fact I bet you do. Otherwise you’d be a little more careful about what you’re ingesting.”
Harry is certainly not in the mood for a lecture. He’d already made Ron promise not to tell Hermione about the latest situation.
“I was being careful, I just hoped I didn’t have to be anymore.”
“You always were dreadfully optimistic weren’t you,” Draco says, taking another of the vials, and turning to face him.
Harry frowns at him and takes it, handing him five Galleons without being asked.
“You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”
“It is,” Draco says simply.
“So I’m supposed to always expect the worst then am I? Like I suppose you do.”
“Well at least you’d be prepared,” Draco says, nodding at the potion Harry holds, “and you wouldn’t be standing where you are.”
“I’d prefer to see the best in people.”
Draco gives him a considering look. “The sorting hat didn’t have to spend very long on you did it.”
“Actually it did,” Harry says. “It thought about putting me in Slytherin.”
Draco snorts. “It did not,” he says incredulously.
“It did. Though that might have been because I was carrying round a bit of Voldemort’s soul in me. Don’t think he would have wanted to be sorted into Gryffindor, don’t you think?”
He’s not entirely sure why he’s being so open. It just seems to be coming out of him. He supposes it’s kind of always been that way with Draco, but it was insults that were free flowing.
Draco seems a little confused about it too, judging from the way he blinks at Harry with a small frown on his face.
“No,” he says, slowly, “I don’t think he would.” After a beat, he adds, “He would have been livid.”
Harry can’t help but laugh at the novelty of the thought, and after a second Draco’s face softens, and the hint of a smile plays around his lips.
They stand together for a while longer, just looking at each other, and then Draco turns away.
“Get a handle on that love potion problem, will you?” he says over his shoulder, “people will start to question the quality of my potions.”
“Will do,” Harry says sarcastically, but he’s grinning, and he rolls his eyes at Draco’s retreating form.
This time he actually takes the advice. He weeds out the tainted meals and drinks, and the sweets he gets sent in the mail, and weeks pass without another incident. His life settles back into normalcy, but there’s one thing Harry can’t stop thinking about.
Draco Malfoy.
He hasn’t had any reason to go back to the shop since, but there’s been more than one occasion (a lot more than one occasion if he’s honest) where he’s caught himself thinking about how Draco came to own a potions shop, or whether he goes to see his father in Azkaban often, or if he still sees many people from school.
He brings it up with Hermione one night when he’s over for dinner. While Ron tunes into the radio to listen to Lee Jordan’s nightly podcast, Harry offers to help Hermione clean up in the kitchen.
“You didn’t mention Malfoy owned the potions place in Diagon,” he says casually.
She glances at him, and her expression is unreadable.
“I didn’t think it would be a problem anymore.”
“It isn’t,” Harry says, watching the plate in the sink be scrubbed thoroughly by a cloth to avoid her gaze, “I just didn’t know.”
“He looks well,” she says, after a moment, and her tone is careful, “and he makes very good potions.”
“Yeah,” Harry says.
“He seems sorry…for what happened. He never really wanted any part of it.”
“Didn’t he?” Harry says flatly.
“You know what I mean,” Hermione says. “Boasting to his friends as a 16 year old and having Voldemort live in his house are two very different things." He doesn't respond, and she raises a hand to touch his arm lightly. "Listen,” she says, gentle, “I’m not saying you have to be friends, but maybe making amends isn’t such a terrible idea.”
Harry shakes his head, “We’re past all that. I don’t feel like that towards him anymore." He meets her eyes. "It’s not really his fault his dad was a twat.”
Hermione laughs, “charming.”
Harry flicks her with a bit of sudsy water and she squeals, running from the room when he threatens to flick her again, and that’s the end of that conversation.
It isn’t the end of the matter for Harry though.
A few days later he comes to the abrupt realisation that he’s in desperate need of Pepperup, with it coming into winter and all.
The shop is empty when Harry steps through the door, with no sign of Draco behind the counter or between the rows of assorted potions. He takes his time, browsing the shelves and the vials that swirl and shake and bubble in neat lines.
He’s twisting around a vial filled with crimson smoke (Fiend’s Friend according to the sign) when he hears a loud sigh from somewhere behind him. A sigh he’d recognise anywhere.
“For the sake of both of our sanities, please, for the love of Merlin, tell me you’re not here for what I think you are.”
“I’m not here for what you think I am,” Harry says, turning, and he can’t help the half grin that twists at his lips.
Draco throws his head back dramatically. “Then you’re smarter than I thought you were.”
Harry laughs, “Shouldn’t you be disappointed I’m not boosting your sales anymore?”
“Apparently you still are,” Draco says, glancing down at the vial Harry still holds in his hand.
Harry holds it up and shakes it a little.
“What does this do?”
Draco frowns. “The potions have descriptions for a reason, Potter.”
“But I want you to tell me yourself,” Harry says.
Draco looks at him for a moment, considering, and his grey eyes are still bright in the hazy room.
“It acts as a lure,” he says, finally. “It draws a chosen someone to a particular place.”
“Hmm,” Harry muses, placing it carefully back onto the shelf. He picks up another vial a few places down. This one is greeny-blue and whirls a little in the glass. “And this?”
Draco crosses his arms and lifts his chin a little.
“Sea-Breeze. It mimics the sound and smell of the ocean.”
Harry wouldn’t mind getting that. The sea always made him feel calm. But perhaps when the memories of Shell Cottage have faded a bit.
The next one he picks up is murky brown.
“Herbicide Potion,” Draco says, before he has the chance to ask. “It damages or kills plants, depending on how much you use.”
They spend a good half hour continuing along the shelves, Harry pointing at various potions and Draco reciting their uses. Harry is more than impressed with Draco’s knowledge. He knows every single potion Harry points out, and the thought that he brewed every single one is…well…it’s impressive.
Eventually they wind their way back to where they started and Harry returns the last vial to the shelf (Manegro Potion, causing the drinker’s hair to grow rapidly). Draco runs a hand through his own hair as if suddenly remembering where he is.
“Did you actually come in here for something Potter? Or simply an education?”
“Am I taking you away from your customers?” Harry asks, glancing around at the still empty shop.
To his surprise, Draco flushes, and his easy expression turns a little hard. “Most of my orders are through owl post,” he says.
“Oh,” Harry says, a little awkwardly. The silence drags on. “Actually I came for some Pepperup.”
Draco nods, and after a moment he returns with it.
“3 Galleons.”
Harry hands over the money but pauses before he grabs the bottle.
“I…It’s really cool that you’re doing this Malfoy. The potions. Owning the shop. You’re good at this.”
Malfoy watches him carefully. There’s a strand of pale hair brushing his eyelashes. Harry really wants to brush it away.
“Thank you,” he says, politely, but his eyes still watch him as if he’s waiting for the follow-up.
“I know we haven’t spoken since…everything,” Harry starts, but he’s not entirely sure what he wants to say, only that he doesn’t want Draco looking at him the way he is now.
Draco’s lips turn down at the corners. “I don’t want pity,” he says. “If you want me to express gratitude for what you did at the trial-”
“No,” Harry says quickly, “I don’t want that. I guess I just…” he ruffles the back of his hair awkwardly, “never said sorry, for everything that went down between us.”
Draco’s lips part in surprise.
“You’re sorry? What could the golden boy of the wizarding world possibly have to be sorry to me for?”
Harry shrugs and drops his hand. “Years of rivalry, I suppose. I didn’t exactly treat you fairly. You just always had a way of getting under my skin.”
Draco sweeps a look over him. “Don’t act like I was the victim in this, Potter. We both know I was far from it.”
“Well I never said you were,” Harry says.
Draco scowls, and the look is so markedly familiar that Harry laughs.
Draco only scowls further, but then, as if he can’t help it, his scowl drops and he rolls his eyes, his lips threatening to smile.
“As insufferable as ever, Potter,” he says.
Harry grins and puts out his hand.
“I don’t hold it over you,” he says, the words serious.
Draco pauses, and then he hesitantly reaches out and shakes his hand. His hand is cold, and smooth, and fits rather perfectly within Harry’s own.
Harry nods, once, and takes the potion. He can feel Draco’s eyes on him the whole way out.
Four days later he realises his disturbed sleep requires sleeping draught.
A week after that he accidentally knocks over his bottle of Mrs Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover and leaves to purchase a replacement immediately.
When Ron coughs more than once in an hour at work while they’re filling out paperwork from their last case, Harry pops out in his lunch hour to buy cough potion for him.
He only starts to realise it might be a problem when he’s visiting the shop for the third time in a week, but by then he’s already halfway through the door and Draco is glancing up from where he’s perched over a heavy book at the counter.
“Although I appreciate you keeping my store in business, three times in one week does seem a bit excessive even for you, Potter.”
Harry tries not to blush. The heat rising in his cheeks tells him he’s failed.
“What is it this time?” Draco continues, “More cleaning solution? Sleakeazy's Hair Potion?” His eyes lift purposely to Harry’s messy hair. “You could use it.”
“Amortentia antidote,” Harry says. He can't seem to find the last vial.
The smirk on Draco’s face instantly drops.
He lifts his wand and flicks it towards the shelves of antidotes, and three clear vials shoot towards Harry. It’s only because of his seeker’s reflexes that he’s able to grab them in time.
“On the house,” Draco says, and his face is noticeably sulky.
“Uh,” Harry says. “Right, thanks.” He’s somewhat puzzled by Draco’s reaction.
Draco pointedly returns to his book, in a clear dismissal. Harry takes the vials and flees.
Harry is a little reluctant to return, after that.
He spends days pondering Draco’s reaction. Was it because he thought Harry didn’t take his advice? Is he tired of Harry’s continual visits? Or perhaps he’s simply realised his number one customer is none other than Harry Potter, his ex-nemesis.
He’s thinking about it in bed one night, a week later, curled up on his side and staring at the moon through his window.
Why is he obsessing over the matter? Over Draco Malfoy, of all people. They’re not even friends, barely acquaintances, why is Draco’s opinion of him so important?
He thinks of Draco back at school, with his pointy chin and barbed insults. The way he carried himself as if he expected the world to shift for him.
The way Harry’s heart would always beat faster when he saw him in the halls, preparing for a challenge. How he couldn’t help but notice where he was in a room.
He thinks of him now. His white-blonde hair and light grey eyes. His delicate skin. The hundreds of potions he brews. The glint of pride he still holds in his stature.
The way Harry’s heart still beats faster whenever he sees him, but now, he doesn’t expect to encounter a challenge.
The realisation feels like a stinging hex to the chest.
He’s utterly gone for Draco Malfoy.
He avoids the shop, and Draco, for the next two weeks.
He avoids Draco, but that doesn’t mean he stops thinking about him. If anything, the obsessive thoughts only tend to get worse now he knows how he feels. He also notices that a lot of the thoughts are growing…less than appropriate. He’s going mad.
And worse still, it’s becoming noticeable.
Somewhere within the second week, he meets up for tea with Hermione.
She’s telling him about her recent success with an amendment to the Act for the Safety and Wellbeing of Magical Creatures.
“…And obviously I haven’t quite finished with the inadequacy of the current Section of Rights, but Gellert says we’ll have plenty of time for submissions at the second reading of the new Act.”
“You’re a genius, Hermione,” Harry says, smiling. He always knew Hermione would be achieving incredible things. “You’ll be Minister in no time.”
Hermione beams at him.
“And you? Ron says you’ve been quiet at work,” she looks at him worriedly. “Is anything the matter?”
Harry shakes his head and pastes on a smile.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Just busy.”
“You haven’t been hit with anymore love potions, have you?”
“No,” Harry says guiltily, taking a sip of his tea to avoid her eyes.
“Harry.”
He sighs, placing his cup of tea back on the saucer.
“It’s not really anything to do with that. Well, I suppose it is.” He can feel her watching him closely. “I’ve been going to Potions Proffered, a few times.” He looks up to see her reaction.
She frowns. “Malfoy’s potion shop?”
Harry nods, “Yeah.”
“What for?”
“This and that.”
He can practically see the cogs in Hermione’s brain working furiously.
It takes her a total of 10 seconds, and when he sees the realisation across her face, she doesn’t even seem surprised.
“Malfoy,” she says.
Harry blinks at her. She rolls her eyes.
“We all knew it would come eventually, I just thought, after the war, and everything that happened, you might not…” she trails off.
Harry stares into his murky teacup. “Me neither,” he says.
Hermione reaches across the table to grab his hand, and he meets her eyes. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” he says, honestly. “I haven’t thought that far.”
She squeezes his hand. “Whatever you choose,” she says, “Ron and I are with you, no matter what. You deserve happiness, Harry. Whoever it’s with.”
He squeezes back. Its times like these he remembers just how much he loves her.
“Thanks Hermione,” he says, and then swiftly changes the subject, because oddly enough, she looks as if she’s about to cry, and he’s never been good at dealing with that.
He visits the shop a few days later.
“Coming,” is the call, when the bell rings above the door.
Draco trails out from the back a few seconds later, freezing when he sees Harry. He takes a second to collect himself.
“If you’re here to buy another antidote I’m not selling it to you.”
Harry frowns, “why not? This is a potions shop isn’t it?”
“I won’t sell my products to imbeciles,” Draco says. “If you’re too stupid not to take my advice and actually make something of an effort to stop impressionable witches trying to poison you, that’s certainly not my fault, and I’ll have nothing to do with it.”
“But,” Harry says, confused, “didn’t you tell me about the wizard who came in after getting Shrinking Solution mixed up with Strength Potion? And you still sold him the antidote to reverse the effects.”
A flush rises on Draco’s pale skin.
“That was different. It was one occasion.”
“Are you…?” Harry pauses, incredulous. “Are you… jealous?”
Draco scowls. “Jealous?” he spits. “What would I have to be jealous of?”
“Of the witches attempting to trick me into love.”
“I- what?” Draco splutters. “Are you mad?” He sounds absolutely aghast, and Harry might believe it if he couldn’t see the flush beginning to spread down Draco’s neck and beneath the high collar of his robes.
It boosts Harry’s confidence.
“D’you fancy going for a drink with me?”
“A drink? With you?” He doesn’t sound half as indignant as he obviously wants to. “Why would I want to do that?”
Harry grins. “Because I’d like to get a drink with you.”
Draco sniffs, “I don’t know what gave you the impression that I’d like to-”
Harry strides the three steps it takes to be standing in front of Draco and leans in, pressing his lips firmly against Draco’s.
For a very long second Harry receives no response. A prick of worry settles in his stomach, and he questions whether he’d read the situation entirely wrong. He’s about to lean back and make up an excuse to make a hasty retreat, but then, hesitantly, Draco’s lips are pressing back against his own. Harry softens the kiss, and reaches up his hand to rest against the small of Draco’s back. He feels Draco’s hand run softly up his back to tangle in his hair.
When they break apart, Harry leans forward to rest his head in the crook of Draco’s neck. He inhales and smells the pleasant scent of the potions in the shop, the smell of leather bound books, and underneath that, a familiar minty scent.
Draco stiffens against him.
“Did you just smell me?” He sounds as if he’s trying not to laugh.
Harry leans back a little so he can look at him.
“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “So will you come for a drink with me?”
“Now?” Draco asks.
“Now.”
Draco pretends to consider.
“Are you carrying an antidote?”
“Three.”
Draco smiles. “Then we’d better get going, Potter.”