Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

PART ONE: HARRY

This was all Parvati’s fault.

Not because she was an incompetent personal assistant—far from it, actually—but because she’d left her purse at snout-height and expected restraint.

Her dog, Peanut, was a Bichon Frisé. Sometime in the night she found the emergency workday chocolates in Parvati’s purse. She did what small fluffy dogs with two brain cells and a stomach did best: committed a series of crimes.

She ate them all, redecorated the flat with vomit and shit, tracked it through every room on her tiny paws, and then padded onto Parvati’s bed as if demanding critical feedback.

Parvati had then woken Harry up with a call, apologising in a rush for calling off work—though she’d given him a consolation prize of a mostly clear schedule that day.

“Just the nine o’clock with the Senior Aurors,” she’d said. “I’ve blocked the rest of your calendar so you can finish your Christmas shopping.”

Which was a task Harry hated doing, so he’d been outsourcing it to her ever since he’d become Head Auror two years ago.

But really, if Harry was going to be pedantic about it—and Hermione had once said pedantry was “how civilisation avoids chaos”, which he’d found to be broadly true, both in investigations and in friendships—this was actually Peanut’s fault.

Stupid cloud-shaped dog.

(She was cute, though. Horribly, criminally cute. Still. Absolutely nothing going on in that tiny head of hers.)

And so, with no Parvati, here Harry was: standing inside Maison Perle, an apothecary so aggressively pristine it looked like it didn’t even believe in dust. Dust would’ve had to book an appointment. Dust would’ve been asked to leave its shoes at the door and breathe quieter. Harry, almost certainly a bit dusty himself after hours of Christmas shopping, felt that he ought to comply. But the shop was empty, so he took that as permission to ignore every unspoken rule and exhale at full volume anyway.

He knocked on the counter and called, “Hello?”

“Be right out!” someone yelled back at once.

The voice snagged at something in Harry’s memory; familiar in the way half of Wizarding London was familiar. Either he knew them personally, or they’d once tried to hand him a love letter, a baby, or a potion they swore was not Amortentia.

Harry waited a minute, then got bored and took a look around.

Maison Perle was all blond wood and white walls, saved from looking clinical only by the lighting, which had clearly been designed with the belief that illumination was a form of persuasion. Floating pendant bulbs and softly glowing arches washed everything in the sort of warm light that made you feel prettier and markedly less financially responsible.

The displays were arranged in neat, militaristic ranks: frosted glass bottles and pale ceramic jars, all evenly spaced, all perfectly aligned, all facing forward like they were posing for a catalogue.

Harry picked up the nearest bottle, one that read simply, in gold, serif lettering: CYTHÈRE.

He turned it over, and found no other information on it. No instructions. No warning. No helpful little tag about its use, like for dry skin or for sleeping better or for coping with the crushing inevitability of time.

He gave it a small jiggle, as if the viscosity might reveal its purpose through interpretive sloshing. The bottle revealed only that it disapproved of him holding it.

Put me back, peasant, the bottle seemed to say. You have the energy of a man who thinks two-in-one shampoo is acceptable.

He’s got terrible taste, too. Look at how he’s dressed, sniffed the jar beside it, which was equally mysterious and labelled IRISÉ. Couldn’t even be bothered to change out of his work uniform to put on proper robes.

Harry rolled his eyes and set Cythère back on the shelf, where it slid, almost imperceptibly, into its previous, meticulously correct angle.

I’ll have you know I have excellent taste, Harry informed it, silently. Otherwise I wouldn’t be in your stupid, posh shop.

(Admittedly, Parvati had picked this shop, but these inanimate bottles didn’t have to know.)

Cythère and Irisé stared back at him with the serene apathy of the very expensive.

And I’m not poor! Harry added, because if you were already arguing with skincare in your own head, you might as well go for a full victory. I could buy this whole bloody shop if I wanted to!

Sure, said Cythère.

Prove it, then, said Irisé.

If either of them had a face, Harry was certain it would’ve been sneering.

And the moment his mind supplied the word sneering, it did what minds always did and attached it to a face—specifically, the only man Harry knew who wore a sneer like a hereditary title: Draco Malfoy.

He hadn’t seen Malfoy since the Trials, nearly twelve years ago now. There had been a letter, a few years after, part of what seemed to be Malfoy’s campaign of written remorse. It had been stiff, careful, and unexpectedly sincere. Harry had sent back a brief note saying it was water under the bridge, and Draco had never answered. Harry had taken that as the end of the matter.

Other than that, he’d heard things in passing, mostly second-hand and never from sources he trusted: that Malfoy had moved to France, maybe Italy, somewhere with better wine, better weather, and the mercy of anonymity.

In hindsight (always a fun place to live, hindsight), maybe he should have paid more attention.

Because if he had, he might have seen this coming.

“Hello, sorry about the wa—Potter?”

Harry turned.

And there, stepping out from the back room was Draco Malfoy.

He looked… healthy.

No, that was insufficient. Offensive, even. Healthy made it sound like Malfoy had simply taken up jogging and started eating vegetables. No, Malfoy looked considerably better than healthy. He looked really fucking good, which was information Harry did not want and yet now possessed in full.

At seventeen, Malfoy had been all sharp edges and winter-pale disdain, as though he’d been carved out of marble and instructed on disdain. He still had the same fine-boned, aristocratic face, but time had done the infuriating thing and made him unfairly handsome.

His hair was still silvery blond, only looser now, all soft pieces around his face in that carefully-careless way fashionable people managed. He was still fair-skinned, though no longer with the determined indoor gloom of his teenage years. There was a faint tan, freckles over his cheeks, and a few more disappearing into the open V of his shirt.

Which wasn’t exactly robes.

The fabric draped, airy and intentional, over a frame that was still slim, but no longer delicate. It hinted at lean muscle rather than announcing it, which Harry noticed in one unhelpful, instantaneous assessment.

Gorgeous, his brain remarked wondrously.

And because his brain was still busy doing inventory on the subject of Is Malfoy fit now?, it didn’t have time to tackle and restrain Harry’s mouth before it blurted:

“Is that a kaftan?”

Malfoy blinked at him.

Harry regretted having a mouth. “Sorry,” he said, grimacing. “That was rude. Er—hi, Malfoy. It’s… been a while, yeah?”

“Over a decade,” Malfoy said, tone neutral. “And yes. It’s a kaftan.” He smoothed a hand down the front of it—light green silk that caught the warm shop lighting. The gesture looked almost self-conscious, which was… new. Harry never knew Malfoy to be self-conscious.

“It’s more comfortable than robes,” Malfoy added with a shrug.

“But kaftans are Muggle.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said. “Correct. Well done.”

Harry stared at him, still trying to reconcile Malfoy with gorgeous and sun-kissed freckles and Muggle clothing choices.

Malfoy stared back, expression unreadable.

“You’re, er—you’re a bit tan,” Harry continued, because his mouth was still operating independently of his brain—and given what it was currently doing (ogling Malfoy, conspiring with his eyes), it clearly wasn’t fit for duty.

“A week in St Lucia will do that to a person,” said Malfoy, drily. “Even me.”

“Yeah. Right.”

Silence fell, and it hung there for a beat too long.

Harry shook his head like he could rattle his brain back into submission. He tried to remember why he was here: buying presents. Because Christmas was tomorrow. And Parvati couldn’t do the rest of his shopping because of bloody Peanut.

So he should just buy his presents and go.

Or he could disregard Parvati’s helpful suggestion, leave now, and buy presents somewhere else. No one had ever died of receiving woolly socks for Christmas. Probably.

Or, because he apparently lacked the basic self-preservation instincts of a normal man, he could stay and talk to Malfoy some more.

In the end, it wasn’t a hard decision. He stayed.

He then made the mistake of standing there for slightly too long just looking at him.

Malfoy’s expression, which had until then been merely cool, tightened into a scowl. “What can I help you with, Potter?” he demanded. “Are you here on Auror business? Am I in trouble? Because I’m not sure why I would be—my permits are current, my taxes are paid, my licensing is filed with the Ministry, and—”

“No! No, no,” Harry cut in quickly, hands up. “I’m not here for anything like that.”

Malfoy’s brows lifted. “You’re not?”

“Believe it or not,” Harry said, “I’m here for Christmas presents.”

Malfoy paused, like his brain had to switch tracks. “Are you?”

“Yeah. Uniform probably didn’t help. Sorry. I left it on because if I look official and walk fast, people assume I’m busy and they don’t try to chat.” Harry gave a small laugh. “Which is funny, because I haven’t arrested anyone myself in ages. Being Head Auror has meant more paperwork and meetings and telling people who to arrest and who’s doing the arresting and—” He stopped, coughing. “Sorry. I’m rambling. You don’t want to hear me go on about this, do you?”

Malfoy’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, if you were generous. “Not particularly, no.”

He still looked like he was bracing for impact, and Harry found that he didn’t want to be the thing that hit him.

“Anyway,” Harry said, offering a smile. “I’m not here to arrest you. Promise.”

Malfoy didn’t return it, but something in his shoulders eased. “Yes. You’ve said.”

Silence again, the moment stretching until Harry felt oddly exposed under Malfoy’s stare.

Harry cleared his throat, glancing around the shop. “So—er. Do you own this place, or are you just… manning it?”

“Yes,” Malfoy replied. “I do own it.”

“Right,” Harry said, nodding too hard. “‘Course you do. Sorry. Dumb question.”

Malfoy, at least, moved on without making him suffer for it. “Who are you buying for? Or do you already have an idea of what you’re after?”

“Oh. Er—” Harry patted his pockets, then realised the list was still crumpled in his hand. “Parvati wrote—” he squinted. “Ask D.” He looked up. “That’s you, I’m guessing.”

“A brilliant deduction,” Malfoy said. “You really are an Auror.”

Harry snorted. “So Parvati comes in here a lot?”

“She’s one of my regulars. She usually buys Ourania and Pandémos.”

“Those are…?”

“My night cream and my face wash.”

“Are those your best sellers?” Harry asked. “Should I just grab those, then? It’s for Molly, Andromeda, and all the Weasley wives.”

Malfoy grinned at him, customer-service polite, and Harry had the deeply inconvenient realisation that he quite liked that smile. It made the corner of Malfoy’s eyes crease, and—Merlin help him—there were dimples.

“No,” Malfoy said. “My best seller is Nacre, a rejuvenation potion. Mrs Weasley and Aunt Andromeda should have it.” He paused, humming under his breath, then added, “And George Weasley’s wife, Angelina, as well. She’s a Chaser for the Harpies, yes? Nacre works nicely when applied topically to joints and any old impact injuries.”

“How do you know—” Harry started, then stopped before it turned into an entire conversation about why Malfoy knew who George had married. This was probably less about Malfoy keeping tabs and more the simple reality that Wizarding Britain was a small, cosy puddle, where information didn’t so much travel as seep.

He pivoted: “So the potion’s multi-use?”

Malfoy nodded. “When ingested, it’s a full-spectrum rejuvenation for fatigue, stamina, and recovery. There are cosmetic effects as well. My older clientele prefer that method. Youthful glow, softened fine lines, more even skin tone.”

He moved past Harry to the shelf and plucked a bottle of Nacre. As he did, Harry caught his scent in layers: green and herbal first, then something warm and sweet, like figs and toast.

Harry’s hand twitched with the impulse to grab Malfoy’s wrist and reel him back in for a second, clarifying sniff.

That wouldn’t be illegal, but certainly wasn’t how normal adults conducted themselves in a shop at midday. Especially not around someone he’d spent his adolescence loathing with impressive dedication.

“Or,” Malfoy continued, blissfully unaware of how he was turning Harry’s brain into soup, “you can apply it directly to a problem area for targeted relief. It reduces inflammation and soreness without the full systemic effect.”

“Think I’ll buy four of that, then,” Harry said. “Getting one for me, too. My shoulder’s been a nightmare. Always hunched at a desk, these days.”

Something in Malfoy perked—subtle, but immediate, like a trapdoor opening. “Well, if you’re shopping for yourself,” he said, voice turning cheery with interest, “I have several suggestions.”

And suggest, he did.

Not just for Harry, either. Malfoy caught sight of the list and promptly took it. He marched Harry from shelf to shelf, matching names to products, talking him through each choice as he plucked bottles from the displays and sent them floating to the till with a flick of his wand.

Harry felt a bit like he’d been Confunded as he trailed along. He made far too many agreeable noises and kept saying, “Yeah, sounds brilliant, Malfoy—I’ll take that, too,” until the pile on the counter suggested he’d come to purchase Maison Perle itself, not shop in it.

Eventually, they completed their lap and made their way to the till. Harry paid and managed not to flinch at the total. While he could afford it (hundreds of times over, in fact), no amount of wealth prepared you for seeing that many digits attached to moisturiser.

“I’ll wrap these for you, Potter,” Malfoy said, which seemed to be the least he could do after Harry had just personally boosted Maison Perle’s quarterly figures.

“Thank you,” Harry said, smiling.

For a fraction of a second, Malfoy smiled back. Then he looked down and got busy with the parcels.

Curiously, Malfoy wrapped everything by hand.

No spellwork, just precise creases and deft fingers, folding paper like he would rather die than send Harry home with wrinkled wrapping. He worked fast, which was fortunate given the frankly ridiculous quantity he had somehow persuaded Harry to buy. Unfortunately, fast still left Harry with enough time to stand there watching him, and some long-neglected Auror part of Harry’s brain took that as an invitation to begin cataloguing Malfoy in unnecessary detail.

Malfoy, mercifully, didn’t seem to notice. He filled the silence by talking. Possibly about Christmas. Possibly about packaging. Possibly about Harry’s alarming susceptibility to sales tactics and what that suggested about his qualifications as a vanquisher of dark wizards.

Harry couldn’t have said. He wasn’t listening. But every so often he managed a “wow” or an “oh, really?”, which seemed to keep things moving nicely while Harry’s eyes behaved appallingly.

He started with Malfoy’s hands. Long, elegant fingers that looked overqualified for gift wrapping. Then there were the lashes, darker than the hair on his head, absurdly long, and stupidly wispy.

From the lashes came the freckles again. Harry’s gaze tracked them down to Malfoy’s mouth, to the bottom lip he worried lightly between his teeth as he worked. Concentration habit, Harry realised, and then immediately made it worse by wondering if Malfoy also did that when doing… other, more personal things.

And then Harry looked lower, to the freckles dusting Malfoy’s chest—and, at the same moment, Malfoy leaned forward to check the tape. The neckline of his kaftan shifted, and Harry caught a flash of bare skin.

Harry saw very little, objectively speaking. Just enough to register pink nipples and a lean, lightly defined chest that Harry very much did not need to be registering.

Heat rushed into Harry’s face. Which was stupid, because it wasn’t like he’d just seen Malfoy naked. It was just a fraction of a torso. And he’d seen torsos. He’d seen loads of torsos, actually, and in situations considerably more sexy than this: the beach, clubs, gym showers. None of them had quite triggered this level of internal malfunction.

So why—

“Potter?”

Malfoy was looking at him now, forehead creased. The stack of perfectly wrapped parcels sat in front of him, which meant Harry had been standing there in silent crisis long enough for Malfoy to finish wrapping everything.

“Are you alright?” Malfoy asked.

Harry huffed out a short, awkward laugh. “Yeah. Fine. Just—er. Hot.” He tugged at his collar for effect. “Too many layers in these bloody winter Auror uniforms. Occupational hazard, I suppose. I haven't got a kaftan on like you.”

“You know,” Malfoy said, arching a brow, “you could’ve just said something instead of standing there and suffering.”

He flicked his wand, and the shop cooled instantly, like stepping into shade. It helped. Marginally. Harry was still extremely aware of Malfoy existing.

“I didn’t want to impose,” Harry said, sheepish.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but there was a smile there now—small, but there. He nodded toward the parcels. “Do you want these owled to your house?”

“Nah, I can just shrink them and take them. You’ve basically taken care of everyone on my list, so, er, I’m just going to head home.”

“Alright,” Malfoy said.

They made quick work of shrinking the parcels together, one by one, until Malfoy tucked the lot neatly into a bag.

“Here,” Malfoy said, holding it out.

Their fingers brushed when Harry took it. It was barely any contact at all and should have been nothing—and yet, Harry’s body reacted as though it had been struck by lightning anyway, fingertips buzzing, goosebumps racing up his forearm.

They stood there together another moment; too long to be polite, too short to be anything else.

Harry found he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay and ask Malfoy things. Normal things. Sensible things. Like: where had he been? How long had he been back? Why open an apothecary like this? Why wasn’t he being an arse to Harry? And why, exactly, did he look like this now?

Fuck it, Harry thought.

He opened his mouth. “Malfoy, do you want to—”

The bell above the door chimed.

An elderly witch stepped inside, beaming. “Draco, darling!”

Malfoy peered around Harry’s shoulders to grin back at her. It was the crinkling sort of smile that Harry wished he’d been given at the door.

“Afternoon, Mrs Whitcombe,” Malfoy said, affably.

The lady noticed Harry then. She did the tiniest double-take, but she had the good sense to only offer a curt nod before turning to peruse the displays.

And just like that, whatever courage Harry had been trying to assemble fell apart on contact with an audience.

“Well,” he said, “I should probably…” He waved a hand in the general direction of the door. “Go.”

“Sure,” Malfoy said. “It was nice seeing you, Potter. Happy Christmas.”

He smiled at Harry then, and it was soft and genuine; nothing like the sneers from their childhood, or the brisk customer-service one from earlier.

Harry smiled back. He held it for a moment too long.

Then he remembered himself.

“Happy Christmas, Malfoy,” he managed, and went home.

Harry’s presents were a hit at Christmas. It wasn’t a surprise. They’d been a hit for every holiday and celebration for the past two years, thanks largely to Harry’s decision to hand Parvati a budget, a list of names, and his Vault Mark. Parvati, whose taste was so good it was almost unnerving, and whose involvement in Harry’s life had introduced a brand-new phenomenon: Harry Potter, Adult Man, Seen As Thoughtful.

Ron, who’d known Harry in the BPT era (Before Parvati Time), did not understand what he was seeing that first year Parvati took over. So Harry fessed up.

“I thought gay men all had excellent taste,” Ron had said, watching Molly cradle a hand-bound recipe book that wrote down any dish cooked within range. “Like… in fashion. Or interior design. Or scented candles. Or whatever.”

“I do,” Harry had replied, smirking. “I have excellent taste in people who have excellent taste.” Then, just because he could: “But that is a stereotype, Ron. Can’t just go around saying things like that. Makes me wonder about you, mate…”

Ron froze.

“Oh—fuck—no, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly. “I’m an ally! I swear. Harry, I am. Ask Hermione. I read so many books! And articles! I even watched—”

Harry laughed so hard he slid halfway off his chair.

“Dickhead,” Ron grumbled, shoving his shoulder in a way that was supposed to be restrained but very much wasn’t, sending Harry fully off his seat and into a second, more committed round of laughter.

This attracted Molly’s attention, who looked over and immediately told Ron off for behaving in a way that was “entirely un-Christmas-like” and “frankly disappointing.”

Ron mouthed you’re dead at Harry, and Harry mouthed should I take your present back?, and Ron mouthed no, and that was more-or-less a reconciliation, Weasley-style. And thus, Ron kept Harry’s secret, which was that Parvati now picked out presents for basically everyone in Harry’s life.

So anyway, yes—Parvati’s gifts going over well this year was expected. Like gravity, honestly. Or Hermione correcting someone’s pronunciation.

What Harry had not expected was that everyone loved the gifts Malfoy had picked out too.

George endorsed the burn cream at pub night.

“I’ve used it every day in the WWW lab,” he said, grinning. “Angelina hates that I’m now even more reckless with fire. But that’s what the cream’s for!”

Angelina, meanwhile, called her bottle of Nacre “a bloody miracle” on her bum knee. The rest of The Weasley Wives (they were a conglomerate, in Harry’s mind) followed with owls in the days after Christmas, thanking him profusely and demanding the shop name so they could stock up.

Molly’s owl arrived on Boxing Day, explaining that she’d taken a tablespoon of Nacre and immediately felt renewed, and that Arthur had called her gorgeous, and that they’d snogged on the sofa like teenagers—which was information Harry did not need and would now carry forever, but which was, he supposed, technically heartwarming.

Hermione’s review arrived two weeks later, over lunch, when Harry saw that her skin looked quite clear and dewy, like she’d been lightly polished by angels. He even told her so.

Hermione’s cheeks went faintly pink. “Harry, please,” she said. “It’s just the cream and serum you got me. They’re really good. Where did you get them?”

“Maison Perle. On Horizont Alley.”

“Oh! Draco’s shop. I’ll have to tell him I love them. I actually haven’t been in myself…”

Harry paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “You know about Malfoy’s shop?”

“Yes, Harry. Everyone does.” Hermione took a sip of her drink. “It’s the best luxury apothecary in London. Has been since it opened last year. Where have you been?”

Harry shrugged. “Catching the bad guys.”

Hermione snorted, shaking her head.

“What would I even be doing in a luxury apothecary anyway?” Harry said. “Regular soap’s good enough.”

Hermione pulled a face. “Even I know that’s terrible.”

“Well, I don’t use that anymore,” Harry said. “Malfoy made sure of it. He got me to buy a load of his stuff for myself.” He dipped his head, gesturing at his hair. “It’s never been this soft. Touch it.”

Hermione did. “Wow. I should get a bottle for myself.”

“Ask for Lumière and Grâce—Lumière is the shampoo, and Grâce is the conditioner.”

Hermione nodded, taking a bite of her sandwich. Harry took a bite of his. They ate in companionable silence for a moment before Harry spoke again.

“So,” he said casually, “since when did you start calling him Draco?”

“Since I went into his shop last week to tell him the presents you got me were wonderful,” Hermione said. “He apologised again, said he’s been working on himself, and I told him we’d already dealt with all that and ought to get on with our lives. Then I changed the subject by asking about the shop, and somehow we ended up discussing the intricacies of diluting salamander scales. He’s experimenting with a new draught, and I asked whether he’d come in as a subject matter expert for some of my cases at L.A.M.P.”

“I still hate that your division’s called L.A.M.P. What kind of name is that, even?”

“It’s for the Liability and Accountability for—”

“—Magical Practices. I know,” Harry said. “They couldn’t come up with a name that didn’t acronym into a lamp?”

Hermione laughed, as she always did when Harry started in on the Ministry names. The sound of it, bright and familiar, set Harry off as well.

“Anyway,” Hermione said, once they’d recovered, “if you see Draco again, you should call him Draco too.”

“Hmm,” Harry said. “Maybe.”

Hermione gave him a look—the same one she used in court hearings to make men twice her size and four times her ego shrink into their seats. “I’m serious, Harry. We’re not teenagers anymore. You’d do well to be mature too.”

Harry hummed, chewing on it.

She was right. He knew she was right. But that wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that Draco felt strange in his mouth. With their history, it felt too… familiar. Personal. Like he was presuming intimacy he hadn’t earned. He couldn’t just start calling Malfoy Draco without warning—that felt like something you needed to ask permission for. Or at the very least, provide a heads-up.

So he compromised: he thought of Malfoy as Draco privately, in his own head, where no one could hear him be ridiculous about it.

And he really had been ridiculous about Draco. (Again.)

Because once he learned that Draco had somehow won Hermione over—which, in Harry’s experience, was harder than getting Ron on side—his curiosity only intensified. He started taking the long way back from lunch when he could, wandering past Horizont Alley and pretending it was coincidence that he paused outside Draco’s shop window, just to catch a glimpse of that gleaming blond head.

He didn’t have a reason to go in. So he didn’t. Just stared outside like a creep.

Draco caught his eye once, and he gave him a tight smile and a wave. Harry’s heart nearly made a break for freedom at the sight. This would’ve been inconvenient, as Harry required it for basic operations.

He wanted to pop in, say hello, ask if it was alright if he called him Draco now, and perhaps suggest catching up over a pint, as two adults might do. But that didn’t feel like the thing to do, so he wanted a reason. Or, failing that, the next best thing: a very good excuse.

Thankfully, a reason presented itself a few days later.

“It’s Luna’s birthday next week,” Parvati said, placing Harry’s morning coffee on his desk. “I’ll pick up her present today or tomorrow. I was thinking either a pair of earrings, or—”

“I’ll get it,” Harry said.

Parvati blinked. “Her present?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, not meeting her eyes. “I know exactly what to get her.”

Parvati studied him for a beat, said, “Okay,” then flipped open his agenda and started reading off his day.

Obviously, Harry didn’t know what to get Luna.

But he knew who would.

He went straight to Maison Perle after lunch—if you could call it lunch, considering he grabbed something from the Ministry cafeteria and ate it while power-walking to the Apparition point for Horizont Alley, as if urgency would make his motives less obvious.

Draco was out front when Harry came in, wearing another kaftan; plum-coloured this time, embroidered with gold leaves and belted at the waist. He plucked bottles from a box bobbing in the air next to him as he stocked a shelf.

This was, perhaps unfortunately, a very flattering angle. It gave Harry a clear view of Draco’s profile, and in that profile Harry couldn’t help but observing (thanks to investigative instincts that apparently had no off switch) that while the kaftan hung loose over Draco’s lithe frame, the belt had cinched it just enough to emphasise the existence of a very round arse.

Harry attempted not to notice.

Harry noticed anyway.

He did not say anything about the arse (a relief). Instead, just as Draco turned towards the jingling door, Harry said the first thing that came into his head, which was always a risky move and had, historically, led to some unfortunate headlines (or so he’d been told).

“If you wear kaftans in the winter, what do you wear in the summer? Turtlenecks and velvet trousers?”

He winced immediately after, realising it might have come off as too familiar, considering he and Draco were not, to his knowledge, on that sort of footing.

But then Draco snorted. “Hello to you too, Potter.”

“Hi,” Harry said, grinning.

“If you must know,” Draco said, turning fully, “I wear shorter-sleeved kaftans in the summer. I’m not a complete lunatic.”

“So you only wear kaftans. Like, you’ve got seasonal kaftans.”

Draco lifted a shoulder. “I run hot.”

There was something hot about Draco, alright—but Harry obviously couldn’t say that, so he went with, “Have you got something against trousers?”

Draco laughed again, and it made Harry grin wider. “I only wear trousers for special occasions,” he said.

Harry’s brain immediately produced a vivid catalogue of hypothetical occasions, hypothetical trousers, and what all of this implied about Draco’s arse, and then, recognising where this line of thought would surely go, sensibly snapped the whole thing shut.

Draco placed the bottle on the shelf, flicked the floating crate towards the counter, and tilted his head at Harry. “Alright, Potter. Are you here to interrogate me about my wardrobe, or do you actually need something?”

“Oh. Right—yeah,” said Harry. “I need a present for Luna’s birthday.”

“Lovegood?”

“That’s the one.”

Draco hummed, one hand on his hip and a finger tapping his bottom lip, frowning faintly in concentration.

Then his face lit up; he clapped once, decisively. “Thalassa!”

He turned on his heel toward a different shelf.

Unfortunately, this meant Draco walking away, and Draco walking away meant Harry receiving another entirely unrequested (but lovely) view of Draco’s arse in motion. It was, Harry thought in a momentary daze, something like poetry—and then he straightened and hurried after him, fixing his eyes with great determination on the small pearlescent jar Draco was now holding out to him.

“This is Thalassa,” he said. “It’s a salve made from moonflower oil and powdered selkie pearl. It’s soothing, it regenerates skin, and it’s excellent for people who spend a lot of time handling unfamiliar creatures. Cuts, stings, mild venom exposure—all sorted.”

Harry turned the jar over in his hands. “She’ll love this. This is perfect.”

Draco smirked. “I know it is.” Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he added, “She’s going on an expedition to Socotra next month, isn’t she?”

“Socotra?” Harry repeated.

“It’s an island near Yemen.”

“Okay. How do you know this?”

“Where Socotra is?”

“No, why Luna’s going there.”

“It was in the latest Quibbler,” Draco said, like this should have been obvious.

Harry’s brows climbed. “You read the Quibbler?”

Draco raised a brow right back. “Yes.”

Harry's face must have looked even more surprised, because Draco explained, patiently, “Lovegood publishes her research in it, Potter. She talks about rare plants and creature by-products in detail—things that turn out to be useful if you make potions for a living.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Right. Cool.”

Draco picked up another jar and placed it in Harry’s hands. “Anyway. You should get her a couple. She’ll go through it.”

Harry grabbed two more without hesitation. “Let’s do four. To be safe.”

Draco looked pleased by that. He drew his wand from his belt and saved Harry’s untenable handful by levitating the jars onto the counter. Then he smiled at him. “Anything else you need?”

Frankly, what Harry needed was a reason to stay that didn’t make him look deranged.

“No,” he said, trying not to sound too put out about it. Then, mercifully, his mind produced something; less a thought than a lifeline. “Actually, could you wrap these as well? I’m absolutely pants at wrapping.”

“Of course.” Draco headed behind the till to reach for some paper and ribbon.

Harry watched him wrap, and saw that he wasn’t moving quite as fast as he had been when he’d wrapped the hill of Christmas gifts for Harry a few weeks ago, which could mean nothing.

“So, er—everyone loved what you picked for them, by the way,” Harry said.

Draco paused, halfway through folding a corner, and looked up. “That explains the influx of orders,” he said, mouth quirking. “What a lovely Christmas present you gave me, Potter. More business. Thank you.”

Harry grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Draco’s smile lingered as he went back to wrapping, moving on to another corner. “And the products I made you buy for yourself?”

“Love them,” Harry said, patting his face. “I’ve been using the skincare stuff every day. Even when I’ve had about three hours’ sleep, I don’t wake up looking wrecked. Unbelievable.”

Draco’s expression brightened, and Harry had never seen tape applied so happily in his life.

“And,” Harry continued, because he couldn’t stop now, not with Draco looking like that, “your Nacre—I rub a bit on my shoulder after a long day, and the knot I usually get just doesn’t show up in the morning.”

Draco’s smile widened. He tilted his chin towards the top of Harry’s head. “And your hair?”

“I use it every day, too,” Harry said. “It’s the best-behaved it’s ever been. My barber even said yesterday his comb didn’t have to argue with it, which I didn’t realise was a service I’d been paying for.”

Draco chuckled, and then—clearly on impulse, because both of them froze the instant it happened—he reached out and ran a hand through Harry’s hair.

Harry’s eyes went wide. Draco’s eyes went wider.

Heat crawled up Harry’s neck. Pink bloomed on Draco’s cheeks, and he snatched his hand back like he’d brushed against a hot stove.

“Sorry,” Draco blurted. “I didn’t mean to—it was just, er…” He cleared his throat, face still pink. “Sorry. It was—calling to me, apparently. Your hair. Ridiculous. Sorry, that was improper of me. Erm. Yes—your hair is… very soft. Indeed.”

“Yeah,” Harry managed, voice cracking on the word like he was thirteen again. He cleared his throat, too, because apparently that was what they were doing now. “Yeah, you—er. You're really good at it. Making potions. You might be the best Potion Master in England.”

“That seems like a stretch,” Draco said, voice still tight.

“I don't think so.”

“Well… thank you.”

“I’ll only be buying from you from now on, actually,” Harry added, because if he was going to be mortified, he might as well be thorough.

“Thank you,” Draco said again, then immediately became intensely interested in finishing the wrapping. He did it fast—too fast—though the result was still neat enough to belong in an advert.

Then he shoved the box forward. “That’ll be twenty-five galleons.”

Harry handed over his Vault Mark. Draco took it and processed the payment so quickly it was as if he’d briefly sped up time.

“Thanks, Potter,” Draco said, handing it back. His smile had become polite again, neat and tight-lipped and didn’t reach his eyes.

Harry stood there for a few more seconds, trying to think of a way back to the easy chat they’d been having before everything went strange.

Draco held Harry’s gaze, expression blank enough to be painted on—but his hands were gripping the counter so hard it drained the colour from his fingertips.

Harry frowned at them. “Hey, can we—”

“Have a good day, Potter,” Draco said, tucking his hands behind his back.

“But I—” Harry stopped. He knew that tone. He’d used it himself when his Aurors were still arguing and he’d already moved on, which usually meant everyone else was about to be moved on as well.

“You too, Malfoy,” he said, nodding and giving Draco a small, careful smile.

He made it all the way to the door before he looked back, just once, because he couldn’t help himself. He lifted his hand in a little wave.

Draco merely blinked back.

That entire exchange took over Harry’s life for the next week.

He thought about it at work, between meetings and reports and the part of his day where he yelled at his Aurors for solving crimes badly and then asked Parvati for tea and biscuits to cope with employing Aurors who solved crimes badly. He thought about it at the gym—ill-advised, as he very nearly introduced his toes to a fifty-kilo kettlebell.

He thought about it at pub night, when Ron said, “Alright, mate?” and Harry said, “Yeah, fine,” which in this case meant, I would very much like to talk about Draco Malfoy. He thought about it at brunch at the Burrow and over dinner at Ron and Hermione’s, both of which were meant to be comforting and domestic and normal—except Harry was sitting there while his mind worried it was calling to me, apparently; your hair like a loose tooth.

He thought about it, too, during his now-habitual post-lunch stroll through Horizont Alley on his way back to the Ministry, lingering just long enough outside of Maison Perle to “happen” to see Draco—though he only saw Draco once, and when he waved, Draco didn’t wave back.

Which only made the thinking worse, with the whole thing peaking at Luna’s birthday dinner, when Harry handed over the neatly wrapped four jars of Thalassa and the memory sucker-punched him again.

When he got home that night, he entertained the idea of putting the memory in a Pensieve and analysing it from every angle, which was probably deranged. It was barely a twenty-minute exchange in a shop, not a murder investigation. And yet, Harry still didn’t understand it.

They’d been having a fine conversation. Draco was almost painfully professional, yes, but Harry had made him laugh, which was slightly addictive, and also felt like he was on track to suggest they switch to first names—maybe even become friends. Because if Draco could be friends with Hermione now (and Parvati, probably, and Merlin knew who else), then Harry ought to be, too.

Then why had that one second, when Draco ran those long fingers through Harry’s hair, ended with Draco recoiling as though he’d done something wrong?

So, instead of doing the sensible thing (forgetting about it), Harry did the other thing, which was go into Draco’s shop again. This time for Ron’s birthday.

Ron had looked interested when Luna opened Thalassa, and Harry accepted this as sufficient justification.

When Harry stepped into Maison Perle, Draco was on a stool behind the counter, bent over a notebook, and scribbling in it. His eyes flicked up at the bell over the door—and at the sight of Harry, his whole posture went rigid, then carefully neutral. He shut the notebook and gave Harry a curt nod.

“Hello,” said Draco.

“Hi,” Harry said. He nodded at the pen. “You don’t use quills?”

“Having to keep dipping into ink is annoying,” Draco said.

“They’ve got those pot-less quills now.”

“Writing with them doesn’t feel satisfying. Muggle pens are better.”

“First the kaftans,” Harry said, “now a pen.” Draco was, indeed, in another kaftan—emerald and forest green in geometric patterning, the colours turning his eyes even more silvery, almost otherworldly. “Next you’ll tell me you watch telly.”

For a moment Draco looked as though he were fighting a laugh, but his face remained cool. “I do,” he said.

“You do?”

“Sure,” Draco replied, and he looked like he expected to be mocked for it.

Harry, of course, wasn’t going to. He wanted to learn more. “What do you watch?”

Draco hesitated. Then he said, cautiously, “Anything fantasy.” The caution slipped a little as he kept going, like it was easier once he’d already admitted it. “It’s fascinating—half of what Muggles call ‘fantasy’ is simply our reality with worse rules and better special effects. They’re quite creative, aren’t they?” He tapped his notebook, the corner of his mouth curving lightly. “And sometimes it gives me ideas for the shop.”

“Are you really Draco Malfoy?” Harry pushed his glasses up and leaned in, making a show of studying him, slow and exaggerated, like he did whenever his Aurors asked for help analysing evidence. Then he jerked his chin toward the back door. “Is the real one back there? Have you been Polyjuicing as him?”

A short bark of laughter escaped Draco before he could stop it. He looked mildly irritated by his own amusement, but the tension in his shoulders loosened.

“No,” he said, regaining control. “Unfortunately I am definitely still Draco Malfoy.”

Harry didn’t let up, squinting at Draco again. “Teddy? If that’s you impersonating Malfoy for fun, I’d like you to know you’ve nailed the eyes.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched. “No, Potter. I’m not Edward, or any Metamorphmagus. It’s just me, Ferret Face, as your Weasley so charmingly liked to call me. Sorry to disappoint.”

Harry’s immediate thought was, Ferrets are cute, followed rapidly by the far less defensible, and so are you.

That didn’t feel like the right thing to say, so, with a teasing smirk, he went with: “Alright, then. I suppose I won’t open an investigation.”

Draco snorted, then wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. “Thank Merlin. I didn’t want my shop swarmed with Aurors,” he said, and then he smiled at Harry properly: at ease, finally, his dimples on display like they’d been released from captivity.

The sight of it made Harry absurdly triumphant; his brain fist-pumped so hard he could’ve sprained a metaphorical wrist. Externally, he managed to simply grin—probably too wide, too pleased, too incriminating—but Draco’s smile didn’t waver, and Harry decided that was all that mattered.

“What can I help you with today, Potter?” Draco asked.

Oh, right. Harry had forgotten he was in here for something. “Need a present for Ron’s birthday, actually.”

“Does he know you’re coming to me for his present?”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Harry winked.

Draco’s cheeks went faintly pink, which delighted Harry right up until he noticed, with a small stab of disappointment, that the sun-freckles Draco had been sporting at Christmas had faded to almost nothing. Not that it made him any less good-looking.

“Right,” Draco said, standing and clasping his hands together. “What does Weasley like? Or need?”

Harry opened his mouth to say, Just a jar of Thalassa, and instead heard himself produce a half-baked plan to prolong his visit.

“You know,” he said, with a defeated sigh that deserved an award for commitment, “I’m not sure.” He met Draco’s eyes and added, “Maybe you should show me what you’ve got again.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly, assessing, like he’d spotted what Harry was doing. Harry held his gaze, his poker face perfected from years of suspect interrogation.

“We can start with skincare, I suppose,” Draco said at last, leading Harry over to that shelf.

Draco took him through the shop with painstaking thoroughness, as if Harry hadn’t been in there twice before and memorised the shelves already. Harry followed along, relieved that he was being humoured at all. He lobbed jokes at every suggestion—some at Ron’s expense (“Will this dissolve his skin? He’s sensitive. You should know this about gingers”), some at Harry’s (“Ron’s going to ask me when I started exfoliating and whether he should be concerned”), but never at Draco’s.

He kept Draco laughing—once, he laughed hard enough that he had to reach out and brace himself, fingers catching Harry’s forearm for a second to keep from tipping sideways.

Harry almost closed his hand around Draco’s to keep it there, but stopped himself at the last moment. He didn’t want that to be the reason for Draco to close himself off again, like last time.

Eventually, they reached the shelf with Thalassa.

“This,” Draco said, picking up the pearlescent jar, “is what you got Luna for her birthday.” He glanced at Harry. “If you can even remember that. Repeated head injuries in the line of duty might’ve compromised your recall, since you remember nothing from the last time I walked you through my shop.”

Harry snorted. “Head injuries aren’t that common in Auror work. My memory’s just shit because I’m old.”

“Old,” Draco said. “Thirty is old?”

“Yeah. I’m practically ancient.”

“If you’re ancient,” Draco said, “what does that make me? I’m two months older than you.”

“You don’t count.”

“And why’s that?”

“You don’t look a day over twenty,” Harry said. “Bet you’re taking something you don’t sell here. Some sort of illicit youth-preserving elixir. Look at me, compared to you—I look about fifty already. I’ve got war lines. I’ve got paperwork lines. I’ve got godfather lines.”

Draco laughed. “I don’t see any godfather lines. Edward’s not even a difficult child,” he said. “I hear he’s an angel.”

“And how do you think he got that way?” Harry shot back. “Had to sacrifice my unwrinkled forehead, didn’t I?”

Draco shook his head, still laughing. “Fine. Then I suppose you do look like a good-looking middle-aged man.”

Harry went warm, fast. That was absolutely a line. Snarky, maybe, but still a line. Draco seemed to realise it too—his blush was back—but he didn’t retreat or shut down like he had the other day, which Harry took as progress.

“You’ve clearly got low standards,” Harry said.

“Please. If I have low standards, so does the rest of Wizarding Britain. They keep naming you Most Eligible Bachelor every year, as if there aren’t any other eligible bachelors in existence.”

“Yeah, they’re really missing out on crowning—ah, what’s his name—Zacharias Smith.”

Draco pulled a face. “Merlin, no. Bachelor, yes, technically.” He sniffed. “Better off giving it to Filch at that point.”

“I think Filch is dating someone.”

Draco gasped. “You’re having me on.”

Harry grinned. “Yeah, I am. Sorry. Don’t know anyone who’d touch Filch with a ten-foot pole.”

Draco made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gag. “Can you imagine?”

They laughed, and then they were both grinning like idiots for a beat too long, caught in that bright, humming pause where the joke had expired but neither of them seemed inclined to bury it. (Harry, in particular, made absolutely no move toward disengaging.)

Eventually, Draco straightened, clearing his throat—professionalism hastily reassembled, though the smile stayed put. “You should probably get another bottle of Nacre while you’re here. Drink some. It’ll sort out your… forehead situation.”

“Good idea,” Harry said.

He reached out and Summoned the bottle wandlessly—and then was rewarded with the brief, unmistakable flicker of interest in Draco’s eyes as it sailed neatly into his hand. He pretended not to notice, of course, while preening internally and barely containing his glee.

Harry wasn’t a stranger to people finding his occasional wandless magic attractive. But Draco finding it attractive felt like a promising data point, and Harry intended to extrapolate wildly from it later.

Draco looked away quickly, but not quickly enough to hide the flush creeping back into his cheeks. Harry grinned.

“Alright, Potter,” Draco said, putting the jar back a bit too carefully and still not looking at Harry. “Do you know what you want for Weasley?”

Harry took the Thalassa back off the shelf. “Probably this. Ron seemed interested in it when Luna opened her present last week.”

They headed for the counter. Harry fished his Vault Mark from his pocket and slid it over. Draco processed it, then glanced up, mildly accusing but amused. “You already knew Thalassa was the obvious choice, didn’t you?”

“You caught me,” Harry said cheerfully.

“Then why did you make me walk you through every single product in here again?”

Harry shrugged. “Memory lapse.”

Draco raised a brow.

“From my millions of head injuries,” Harry clarified. “Sustained while reading investigation reports.”

Draco snorted as he handed Harry’s Mark back. “Because you Aurors are illiterate.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Exactly.”

“How you keep us all safe is beyond me.”

“I ask myself that every day.”

Draco shook his head, chuckling. “I’m going to assume you’ll need me to wrap Weasley’s present as well?”

“That’s a good assumption, yeah.”

Draco wrapped Ron’s present quickly, then handed it over to Harry, along with a bag containing Harry’s bottle of Nacre. “I hope Weasley enjoys his present.”

“I think he will. Bye, Malfoy,” Harry said, fingers brushing against Draco’s when he grabbed his items. A tingle shot up his fingertips, just like the first time.

“See you later, Potter.”

Draco didn’t need to tell him twice; Harry heard See you later, Potter and treated it like a standing invitation.

He returned once a week at first, which was reasonable. His friends did need gifts. His friends were always having birthdays, or promotions, or minor emotional crises that could be solved with expensive facial creams.

Then it became twice a week, which was frequent but still easy to justify. He had Aurors in his employ, and Draco’s salves were excellent for patching up hex burns and minor heroics. Also the admin staff deserved nice things for keeping the department functioning, despite the Ministry’s ongoing commitment to weaponising bureaucracy.

Then he started turning up every other day, which was less defensible. At that point he couldn’t even pretend it was errands. It was simply something he did now.

And in all honesty, it wasn’t the shop he kept coming back for. It was Draco.

By the time it was nearly June and the air had turned warm, Harry’s guest room was filled with Maison Perle bags. Bags of products he might use, might gift, might simply hoard like a niffler with a skincare addiction.

Because every time Harry walked in, Draco would look up, and Harry’s brain would go pleasantly blank except for one central directive:

Get him to smile.

Unfortunately, obeying that directive meant inventing fictional people who needed presents. It also meant buying unnecessary things for those fictional people.

Also unfortunately, it meant ignoring his conscience, which sounded a lot like Hermione and kept tapping insistently at the inside of his skull:

Ask to be friends. Ask to call him by his name. Ask to see him outside the shop, you absolute coward.

But even without doing any of that, he could feel progress. With every visit Draco became less guarded, less braced. Draco started smiling at him properly when he came in, not the polite customer-service version, but the real one with dimples and the faint creases at the corners of his eyes.

Harry wanted to kiss that smile. He wanted to touch it with his thumbs. He wanted a mural of it in his bedroom so he could see it first thing in the morning. These were not normal thoughts to have about an ex-rival’s face, but then again, not everyone’s ex-rival looked like Draco Malfoy.

When Harry wasn’t thinking about work, or what to eat, or whether he needed a poo, he was thinking about Draco: replaying every smile, every laugh, every look, every conversation like he was reviewing case files.

Maybe he was going barmy from desk work and administrative meetings. Maybe he should take up meditation. Maybe he should ask Ginny to punch him, just once, as a wake-me-up.

But he knew the truth: he was obsessed with Draco Malfoy again. Or maybe he’d never stopped. Maybe his obsession had just gone dormant and was now back in season.

He thought he was doing a better job of keeping it under wraps this time around.

He wasn’t.

Hermione noticed, of course. Hermione always noticed. She had the kind of observational skills that made Harry second-guess his own Auror skills, and wonder why she hadn’t become an Auror herself. Merlin knew she’d be terrifying.

“Are you dating someone?” she asked one afternoon at lunch, mercifully while Ron was in the loo, sparing Harry from a coordinated interrogation. She squinted at him, fork suspended mid-air. “No—wait. No. This is you becoming obsessed with someone, isn’t it? Who’ve you got your eye on?”

“No one,” Harry lied, while his mind supplied a vivid memory of Draco from yesterday—leaning against the counter and grinning widely when Harry had walked in for the second time that week.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “There is someone.”

“There really isn’t,” Harry said, shovelling pasta into his mouth like it might shield him.

“That wasn’t convincing.”

“Because I’m eating.”

“Harry.”

He swallowed. “‘M not lying.”

Ron returned at that exact moment, dropping back into his seat with a grin that could only mean trouble. “He’s not lying. He’s just leaving out the part where he practically lives at Malfoy’s shop these days.”

Harry stared at him in appalled betrayal. “I—what? How do you even—”

Ron smirked. He turned to Hermione. “See how he didn’t deny it? You’ve got to be more specific, love.”

“I don’t practically live in Malfoy’s shop,” said Harry, even though he practically did.

“Sure,” said Ron. “So how do you explain you spoiling your Aurors with fancy gifts?”

“Handing out soothing salves to my Aurors counts as ‘spoiling’ now?”

“It’s not the standard Ministry shite, though, is it?” Ron pointed out. “It’s the ones from Malfoy’s shop.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Harry, those are, what, five Galleons a jar? How has the budget office not had your bollocks?”

“Because I pay for it all myself,” said Harry. “And anyway, Pax has been really useful on the field—quick patch-ups, takes the edge off hex burns. Or so I’ve been told.”

“Pax?” asked Hermione, an eyebrow raised.

“That’s what Malfoy calls it. The salve,” said Harry. “You should know this. He names all his products like they’re people. Don’t you shop there?”

Hermione levelled him with a look. “Clearly not as often as you.”

Harry chose to ignore that. Instead, he kicked Ron lightly under the table. “And you—how do you even know about that? About me handing out Pax to my Aurors?”

Ron rocked back in his chair, grinning. “Davies came by WWW with his son. We got to talking. He said it’s been about a month of this. A whole month of Malfoy’s stuff turning up at the DMLE. Crates of them!”

“It’s not crates,” Harry said defensively. “It’s just, er—y’know, just a couple bags’ worth every other week.”

“You seem to be gifting yourself fairly often as well,” Hermione said.

Harry kept his face carefully blank and said, innocently, “What?”

“Your entire house is littered with Maison Perle,” she went on. “I recognise the bottles anywhere. Draco’s very particular with his packaging.”

Right. Those damn pearlescent bottles.

Truthfully, they were all over his house. He’d replaced everything at home. The cheap soap was gone, the drugstore shampoo was gone, the random potions in his medicine cabinet that had been there since 2003 and probably no longer legal were gone. In their place: Draco’s soaps. Draco’s shampoos. Draco’s sleek little bottles.

He focused very intently on his pasta and avoided her gaze.

“Well,” he said, “they’ve been working for me. My skin’s, er… sensitive. His stuff’s hypoallergenic.”

“Harry,” Hermione said calmly, which was never a good sign. “I know your skin isn’t sensitive. You don’t need to use his stuff.”

“Yeah, mate. Why are you always at Malfoy’s shop?” Ron tilted his head. “Are you investigating him? Thought you were off fieldwork now that you’re Head Auror.”

“I’m not investigating him. Nothing’s going on,” Harry said. “Malfoy and his shop are fine. I’m just there for gifts, like I said.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Hermione said, and Ron gave an unhelpful nod.

Knowing neither one of them were going to let this go once they had an inkling about something (the three of them were very similar in that respect), Harry caved.

“Malfoy’s… alright now,” he admitted. “And he seems to have something for everyone in my life, so it’s easy to just pop in and grab gifts from him.”

“That can’t be all,” Hermione said. “Convenience alone doesn’t turn you into a regular shopper at Draco’s apothecary.”

Harry took a forkful of pasta, chewed slowly, then washed it down with a long sip of his drink, a painfully obvious delaying manoeuvre.

Hermione kicked him under the table, sharp and impatient.

He took another forkful and chewed even slower, purely out of spite.

Ron tapped his fork against his plate. “Is it because he’s fit?”

Harry nearly inhaled a fusilli. “Mate, what the fuck?”

“What?” Ron said. “I have eyes.”

Hermione hummed in agreement.

Harry stared between them, incredulous. “You both think Malfoy’s fit?”

“Objectively,” Ron and Hermione said.

Harry dropped his face into his hands like there was a portal in his palms and, with enough pressure, he could fall through it into a universe where his best friends didn’t treat his crush on Draco like some bloody panto.

“Yeah,” he said, muffled. Then louder, because he knew they wouldn’t let him die in peace. “Yeah, he’s bloody gorgeous. Happy? I walk in and my brain immediately forgets every social skill I’ve ever learned. His hair’s all shiny now, and his smile’s perfect, and—”

Ron laughed harder. Hermione had joined him, shoulders shaking.

“—and his arse! Have you seen it? It’s always hidden under those fucking kaftans, but sometimes he puts on a belt and you get this hint of arse, and it makes me want to just—just grab it, and I bet he’s got nice legs too, honestly, underneath all that fabric, and would you two please stop laughing, this has been taking over my entire life!”

It only made them laugh more.

He glared at them until they finally got hold of themselves. Hermione was wiping at her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said, still grinning. “It’s just remarkable how easily you revert to being utterly obsessed with Draco Malfoy. Are we fifteen again?”

“It’s just a stupid crush,” Harry muttered, sulking into his pasta.

“Crush?” said Ron. “We really are fifteen again.”

“You should do something about it,” said Hermione.

“‘Mione!” Harry yelped, feeling hysterical. “I can’t just do something! What am I supposed to do? Walk in and go, hello, Malfoy, I can’t stop thinking about your arse, fancy a drink?”

“Yeah,” Ron said immediately. “Easy. Done.”

“But don’t say arse,” Hermione said. “Or any other body part, actually. Just ask him to spend time with you outside his shop.”

“He’ll probably hex me,” Harry said, a bit miserably.

“He won’t,” Hermione said, confidently.

“What have you got to lose?” Ron added.

“Right,” Harry said, and mulled it over for the rest of lunch, then kept mulling it over through the rest of the afternoon. By the time he stepped into the Ministry lifts, he’d decided they were right.

So he went to Maison Perle straight after work, because patience had never been his strongest virtue and extensive deliberation made his skin itch. Better to walk in, say the thing, and deal with the consequences later.

The bell chimed as he stepped inside.

Draco emerged from the back, summoned by the sound, and his expression brightened when he saw Harry.

“Potter,” Draco said. “Back already? You can’t possibly know this many people. This is your third visit this week.”

Harry took a breath. He could feel the words hovering behind his teeth. Can I call you Draco? Do you want to get tea? Do you want to be friends? Do you want to be… something? With me?

“Everything alright?” Draco asked, expression turning wary.

Harry clenched his hands, heart punching at his ribs, and forced the words out before Draco could derail him with his hair, or his dimples, or his devastatingly sweet, herbal scent.

“Malfoy, are you free this weekend? D’you want to grab a drink? With me, obviously.”

Draco’s eyes widened. His mouth fell open. He stared at Harry for a long, unblinking moment. Long enough for Harry to regret not only language, but the entire concept of being corporeal.

Then Draco finally spoke. “I don’t drink.”

This did not help Harry’s desire for nonexistence, but the tone also didn’t sound like a no, so Harry persisted.

“Coffee, then,” Harry said.

“I don’t drink coffee either.”

Harry blinked. “Really? How do you function in the mornings?”

“I sleep nine hours every night,” Draco said. “And I drink tea. It’s healthier.”

“Oh,” Harry said, recalibrating. “Okay. Tea, then. In the afternoon—Saturday?”

“I’ve got work in the afternoon. Sorry.” Draco actually looked faintly contrite, which Harry took as evidence that Draco wasn’t refusing—just negotiating.

“So dinner,” Harry said. “Saturday night.”

“That doesn’t sound like a question,” Draco said, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“Then let me rephrase,” Harry said, grinning despite the fact his heart was still trying to escape his ribcage. “Do you want to get dinner with me on Saturday? Say, seven o’clock?”

“I…” Draco hesitated, and for a second he looked like he was hosting a private debate on each shoulder: an angel warning him off, and a devil whispering that he might actually want this.

Listen to the devil, Harry thought desperately. Be a little reckless, Draco. As a treat.

“What for?” Draco asked.

“To get to know each other better,” Harry said.

Draco stared at him for a long moment. And then, finally, he exhaled, shifted his weight, and gave a small, resigned shrug. “Fine,” he said, colour rising in his cheeks. “Okay. Why not. But make it six.”

Harry wanted to kiss the imaginary menace that had won Draco’s internal argument. He felt instantly, violently triumphant, like he could backflip for a mile straight, or wrestle a dragon, or survive a full day of back-to-back meetings without fantasising about arson.

His grin threatened to split his face. Draco smiled back—still a touch wary, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with Harry’s enthusiasm—so Harry attempted, not especially successfully, to look normal.

“Brilliant,” he said. “It’s a date.”

“It’s just dinner, Potter,” Draco said, though it didn’t quite sound like the dismissal he probably intended. The smile still lingering on his mouth didn’t help, either—if anything, it actively undermined the argument.

“A dinner date,” Harry amended cheerfully.

Draco didn’t correct him that time, which Harry interpreted (reasonably, he thought) as official confirmation.

“And if we’re going on a date,” Harry said, pressing his luck like it was a button he couldn’t stop pushing, “you should probably call me Harry now.”

“I suppose,” Draco said slowly, “that if we’re having a friendly dinner, first names are… reasonable.” He paused, then said, “Harry.”

Harry beamed. “Draco,” he returned, delighted. He liked the sound of his name from Draco’s posh lilt.

“Feels weird,” Draco said. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, was that all you needed? Have you run out of your hand salve again? Or whose birthday is it this time?”

“Nah,” Harry said, still grinning like an idiot. “I was just here to ask you on a date.”

“Dinner,” Draco said.

Harry ignored him. “And now that I did, I’ve got to go. Meeting Ron at the gym.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “So you’re really not here to buy anything?”

“Nope,” Harry said, backing toward the door. “Saturday, yeah? I’ll owl the details.”

Draco nodded, a smile sneaking through. “Yes. Saturday.” He waved his hand at Harry in a shooing motion. “Go get sweaty with your Weasley. Bye, Harry.”

Harry grinned like an idiot and let the door swing shut behind him.

It was definitely a date.