Chapter 7
~Four Months Later~
The shop was especially quiet that day. Draco thought it might be the late July sun that clung to clothing and painted beads of sweat on unlucky victims. It made everything move that much slower, and each of Draco’s customers moved almost sluggish as he rang up their items.
The business at Malfoy’s Potions and Other Magical Remedies had boomed ever since Draco had made his “mysterious reappearance” back in wizard society. Pansy had been marvelous with all the PR business– Draco never could have guessed how helpful being best friends with the Editor for The Daily Prophet would be. She swiftly took care of all the rumours that Draco had suddenly found himself nearly drowning in–“I heard he was vacationing in Switzerland with the Swiss Prime Minister!” “Well, I heard he was at an awful Pureblood-supremacy convention in Estonia!” “Yeah? Well I heard he was in some kind of gay art porno–in France.”
Draco had tried, for the most part, to stay out of the public eye ever since the war, and he was dismayed to see all the customers in his shop who were there purely to ask him questions or spit insults.
He was stooped over behind the counter, tending to some new boxes of Volubilis that had finally stopped bubbling, when he heard the door open. He could see through a gap in the counter those same furiously red Auror robes that had frequented his shop (and his dreams) often, accompanied by beat-up work boots that Draco knew all too well. He straightened up quickly, slamming his head painfully against the metal bar stretching over the doorway to the back of the place.
“Potter–ow!”
With a cry, Harry lept behind the counter and anxiously grabbed Draco’s head.
“No lump, at least. Y’okay?”
Once he realized he was still gripping the sides of Draco’s skull, he shoved his hands back into his pockets.
“Sorry–automatic reaction.”
He held out a large, calloused hand and helped Draco up.
“Guess that comes with the burden of being tall,” Harry said, grinning up at him.
Draco didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Harry had waltzed into his shop for the first time since Draco’s mindblowing discovery and, after watching Draco make a complete arse of himself, made fun of his height. After he brushed himself off (and sneakily made sure his hair wasn’t a mess in the mirror on the opposite wall), Draco said, as pleasantly as he could, “what can I do for you, Auror Potter?”
Harry looked like he wanted to laugh, but his mouth didn’t so much as twitch.
“I got a small cut yesterday at work–you don’t sell Dittany, do you?”
Draco tried not to stick his nose up at the other man.
“It depends on the degree of the cut and the location–Malfoy’s Potions and Other Magical Remedies sells more targeted, specific antidotes.”
This time Harry’s mouth did twitch, but he was silent as he pulled aside the sleeve of his robe and undershirt to reveal an ugly red line that had been carved into his shoulder and disappeared into the fabric.
“It goes from here–”at this, he ran his finger from the wounded shoulder across his broad chest and stopped at the center of his ribcage–“to here.”
Small cut!?” Draco nearly squawked. “All due respect, Potter–”
“--Y’can call me Harry–”
“Potter, that needs to be urgently checked out by a Healer at St. Mungo’s!”
Harry Potter shrugged.
“Luna said I should just apply some Dittany on it and I’d be fine.”
“Forgive me, but Luna isn’t a healer–”
“--actually, she is! She passed her healer training last month!”
“Well then,” said Draco stiffly, “I suppose Healer Lovegood must be right. How did you even get that thing, anyway?”
Potter grinned again ruefully. “It was a bit of my own fault. There’s a group of Wiazards that are still running around spewing Death Eater nonsense–in fact, we think they’re the same Wizards who–well, er, naturally the Mininstry is keeping tabs on them and trying to put them away. I, er, accidentally stumbled upon one of their main hideouts. One of ‘em gave this to me, an early birthday present, I guess.”
Draco vaguely remembered that today was Potter’s birthday. He raised an eyebrow.
“Accidentally?”
“Well, no…I did know they were in there, but…”
Potter tugged on the soft black curles that gathered at the back of his neck. Draco rolled his eyes so he could pretend he wasn’t staring at Potter’s shoulder, which was still bare. He muttered a quick “stay there” to Potter, and stepped out back to grab the medicine he was looking for.
It was only after the shop closed, when Draco was sweeping behind his desk, did he notice some kind of odd contraption that must have been dropped by one of his patrons. It looked like a glass spinning top, with a fine metal strip covering the top and the sides painted a vibrant magenta. Only when Draco looked closer did it have the initials HJP etched neatly into the bottom. Draco couldn’t help but groan. Potter must have dropped it when Draco hit his head. He sighed. This required emergency assistance. He grabbed some Floo Powder from a drawer in his desk and shouted, “Pansy Parkinson!” as loudly as he could into the fireplace near the front of the shop. Draco got on his knees and stuck his head in the dying fire, feeling the soft warmth of the magical fire. Seconds later, the glossy black edge of Pansy’s fireplace came rushing into view.
“This better be good, Malfoy.”
“Oh thank Merlin, Pans. I was worried you were too busy to come to the aid of your dear, longtime best friend.” Pansy scoffed.
“Just tell me what’s wrong, dear.”
“...so what the fuck am I supposed to do? Do I wait until he comes into the store again and just casually mention that I’ve been fucking hoarding something of his? Do I throw it away? It’s valuable enough for him to carve his fucking initials into it, though. Pansy, I need fucking ideas!”
Draco was officially freaking out. It didn’t help that all he could see of Pansy were her long, fishnet-clad stockings and Jimmy Choo pumps. He had to crane his neck awkwardly into the fire to properly hear her.
“Stop swearing, darling, it’s unseemly.”
Pansy, however wonderful a friend, had the tendency to sound remarkably like Draco’s mother.
“First of all, what are you wearing?”
Draco sighed.
“Good point. My soft Gucci trousers in grey, that lavender Alexander McQueen jumper you were so fond of, and my Burberry loafers.”
“Gucci, really?”
“I know, that’s what I thought, but they compliment the top so well–but that’s besides the point. I need a plan here, Pans, not fashion advice.”
Pansy groaned, as if something was staring Draco right in the face and he was too dumb to see it.
“Did you think of just taking it to his flat? I know he lives here in London, you could just Apparate.”
“What, oh, and then I show up at his flat and say ‘hey, Potter, here’s your weird spinning contraption, oh and by the way, I’m in love with you, and it was me that you spent two months fucking caressing and talking to and now I can’t get you out of my goddamn mind, happy birthday by the way!’”
He couldn’t see what Pansy was doing, but it sounded like she was gently massaging her temples with her long, pointed nails.
“Yes, Malfoy, you cottonhead, that’s exactly what you do. Sans the last bit. Just say he dropped it in your shop, and you’re here to return it. He might invite you in for tea, he might not, but either way you’ll come ranting back to me so it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
Draco was flabbergasted at how incredibly unhelpful Pansy was proving.
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
Draco didn’t have an answer for that, so he pretended to acquiesce.
“Well, thanks, Pans, darling, you were extraordinarily helpful.”
“That’s what I’m here for, darling,” said Pansy drily, but Draco was already pulling his head out of the fire and dusting the soot off his pants.