“hi,” says the someone. he props his feet up next to harry’s pile of books. “you look a bit distressed there, mate. thought i could help.” 

harry looks up, and his heart beats weirdly against his ribs. louis tomlinson, seventh year, slytherin. eyes that look like the frost on the great lake in the winter, a grin that looks like snow on the castle turrets. harry swallows. 

“not distressed, no,” he replies. “stuck.” 

“stuck on what?” 

“niffler hair.” 

“well,” says tomlinson, the corners of his mouth twitching downward as if to say, yeah, that’s a bit shit. “sorry to hear that.” 

harry assumes he’s taking the piss; most people like harry, and he has more friends than he knows what to do with sometimes, but they don’t really get his potions… thing. or, at least, the non-ravenclaws don’t get it. the ravenclaws understand hyper-focusing on one specific interest, but they don’t understand the fascination with helping muggles. so, basically, harry doesn’t talk about his potions issues much, and he assumes this is another one of those times he’ll politely end the conversation before it starts. 

“thank you,” he says, though, because he’s polite. he stands and starts to gather the books full of burning people to stack them back on the shelf. 

“it’s a class IV non-tradable now, isn’t it?” tomlinson says, and harry lays the books back down. “what with nifflers being endangered.” 

“yeah,” harry says, slightly agog. “yeah, that’s- that’s my issue.” 

tomlinson hums. “that is a tough one.” he scratches a hand through shiny-messy hair. “can get it for you, though. if you’d like.” 

harry sits, his legs gone to jelly. “you can?” 

tomlinson’s grin turns sharp. “sure.” then, “for something in return.” 

so they strike a deal; tomlinson bet his friend (fellow slytherin niall horan, chaser for the quidditch team, all around Everyone’s Best Friend and future hogwarts gamekeeper) that he could successfully brew liquid luck before tomlinson’s birthday in december. unfortunately… 

“potions is, sort of, well…” tomlinson trails off. “a weak spot, you could say.” 

“a weak spot,” harry repeats. 

“yeah, mate. i’m training to be a wandmaker, i’m not even in NEWT-level potions. can barely brew a sleeping draught, let alone felix felicis,” tomlinson admits. 

“but you bet that you could make one of the hardest potions possible,” harry says blankly. “even though you aren’t good at potions.” 

tomlinson grins embarrassedly. “right, well. that’s why i have you, yeah? i asked around, and everyone said you were the best.” 

harry flushes. “well. yeah, sorta.” 

tomlinson claps his hands together, and is immediately shushed by madame pince. he doesn’t seem to notice. “excellent.” 

so it’s a deal: harry will help him make his liquid luck, and louis will get him his niffler hair. they shake hands, and make plans to meet up in the potions dungeon the following night. 

“wait, tomlinson,” harry calls in a whisper before tomlinson leaves. 

“call me louis,” he grins, then nods for harry to go on. harry’s heart thumps like a hiccup got stuck in his throat, painful and sharp. 

“louis,” harry tries out. “what do you need felix felicis for?” 

louis just grins wider, nods again, and walks away. 

so they start. they spend a week gathering ingredients and setting up in the dungeon, in the corner where harry usually leaves his long-term potions brewing. they juice squill bulbs and chop up thyme, measure exact perfect portions to store away in case they have to start over and try again. they spend the first hogsmeade weekend together a few weeks after that, shopping for occamy eggs and grabbing a drink at the three broomsticks to celebrate when they find some. 

their first attempt goes horribly, terribly wrong, with far too much horseradish making the mixture curdle up and smoke. louis, who’d been the one heavy-handed with the horseradish in the first place, smiles apologetically and clears the cauldron with a flick of his wrist. 

“sorry,” he says bashfully. “like i said, rubbish at potions.” 

“right,” harry says. “well. time to start over, i suppose.” 

so they do. the second attempt goes better; harry’s hand shakes as he squeezes out just a drop of squill bulb juice, but then a drop of his sweat rolls off his nose and into the cauldron, ruining that attempt too. by then it’s october, and he and louis are no closer to a finished batch of felix. 

so they’ll try once more. 

it’s a long process, if only because they run out of occamy eggs after the second attempt and miranda at Herbs and Tinctures in hogsmeade was told they’d been backordered and it would be a few weeks before they got more. so, instead, harry goes back to work on his own potion; or, more accurately, to stare at his unfinished potion which is also very much stalled. louis thinks it’s funny to sit and watch harry gaze forlornly into his two cauldrons of unfinished potion, so he starts to bring his homework down into the dungeon to make up for all the time he and harry spend together. sometimes louis’ friend niall joins them, his exuberance filling the dungeon, and sometimes harry’s friend liam, a gryffindor prefect who is terrified harry will blow himself up with a bad potion one day, checks in from time to time as well, but mostly it’s just harry and louis left to their own devices. 

suddenly, it’s november and they haven’t worked on a potion (either one) in weeks, but it’s okay. louis asks all sorts of questions about harry’s potions and their uses – “wait, muggles can get sick from what? and you fixed it? how?” – and is in awe at harry’s latest attempt. 

“’m pureblood, meself,” he says. “can’t imagine getting sick and healers – no, wait, what do muggles call them? doc-something. doctors! – saying that there might be no way for them to help.” 

“that’s what i want to fix!” harry says, and louis lets him rant about the state of muggle healthcare for hours, until his stomach growls loudly and he asks harry to accompany him to dinner, where he snags a seat next to harry at the ravenclaw table, takes a bite of pasty, and gestures for harry to continue. 

louis gets his chance to do the same, though; harry asks him about wandmaking once and it’s like opening the floodgates – louis’ eyes are always a bit unnaturally sparkly, but when he describes the different phoenix breeds and the strengths each of their tail feathers adds to wands, it’s like seeing a new star in the sky for the first time. harry’s heart does that hiccup again, the one that feels like an impedimenta straight to the sternum. 

the occamy eggs arrive in november, less than a month before louis has to have the potion done, and they arrive at exactly the same time as – 

“you niffler hair!” louis announces grandly, bounding up to harry in the entrance hall and handing him a small vial of coarse black animal hair. 

“where did you get it?” harry gasps, clutching the vial to his chest. 

“got a mate named stan,” louis grins. “he can get anything, for anyone.” 

harry’s torn; he itches to go try his potion with the new ingredient, but he also has to uphold his end of the bargain, and finish louis’ felix felicis potion. louis, like he can read harry’s thoughts, shakes his head good-naturedly. 

“go on,” he laughs. “we can make felix any old time. i have a good feeling about our next attempt. c’mon, i want to see how your potion reacts.” 

so they escape to the dungeon, and harry painstakingly adds three tiny hairs to his mixture, then holds his breath and waits. then, just like he’d hypothesized, the potion turns from clear green to cloudy, pearlescent blue. 

“it’s done,” harry breathes, and louis claps him on the back as he takes it in, his newest creation. 

“you did it,” louis says, and harry suddenly wonders how he was able to ever create a potion before he had louis with him to celebrate at the end. 

so all that’s left is the felix felicis, but harry finds himself putting it off when louis suggests they give it a try. he knows it’s because the moment the liquid luck is done, he’ll have no excuse to see louis anymore, but he also hates disappointing louis by telling him “can’t right now, have a defense essay. next week?” 

so he finally says yes, and they start the process. ashwinder egg and horseradish, squill bib juice and murtlap algae. louis watches with bated breath over harry’s shoulder and hands over each ingredient at the perfect time, until all that’s left is the powdered rue and to do a bit of stirring. 

“you should do it,” harry says when all the ingredients are in the cauldron, bubbling away. 

louis takes out his want, waves it once, and says a shaky, “felixempra!” 

the potion, which had been clear and smelling profusely of cedar needles, goes thick and molten immediately, shiny gold and filling the room with bright light. 

“we did it!” louis whispers, then, yelling, jumps into harry’s arms. “WE DID IT!” 

they spin around for a bit, lit by the golden glow from the tiny cauldron full of luck, then harry lets louis back down to gather up his supply. it’s only a small pot, so when louis carefully fills one vial, there’s only about another two portions left. louis doesn’t stopper it, instead holding it up to eye level. 

“are you going to tell me what it’s for, now?” harry murmurs, watching louis watch the gold swirling behind the glass. 

“nah,” louis says, then lifts the vial to his lips. “i’ll show you instead.” 

louis’ throat glows as he swallows, the potion disappearing. louis suddenly looks elated, eyes blue-gold and alight, and he drops the vial perfectly on the edge of the table instead of letting it drop and bust on the floor. he approaches harry slowly, like his limbs aren’t his own. 

“what are you doing,” harry mumbles, awestruck. 

“i needed all the luck in the world,” louis answers, putting a small, warm hand on the back of harry’s neck, “just for this.” 

when he kisses harry, he tastes like apples and honey and smells like rowan trees and cotton; it’s perfect, utterly perfect, mind-blowingly perfect. harry’s mind goes white, overwhelmed as his heart tries to thump its way out of his chest. 

when they pull apart, louis’ eyes are dancing. “so it works,” he whispers. “you kissed me back, i must be the luckiest guy in the world.” 

“you didn’t need a potion to kiss me,” harry says breathlessly. 

“well, drat,” louis says, sounding giddy. “suppose we didn’t need to go to all this trouble after all.” 

harry’s mind is still fuzzy from the taste of honey, but it clicks, and he laughs. “there was no bet.” 

“oh, there was a bet,” louis says, leaning in again. “niall bet me i’d chicken out before i kissed you.” 

“why would you bet that?” harry murmurs against louis’ lips. 

“because i’ve loved you for ages, and we’d never even spoken.” 

later, niall arrives back at the slytherin seventh years’ dorm and finds a tiny, glowing bottle of golden potion resting in the middle of his pillow. it’s got a ribbon tied around it, a note dangling from the end. 

thanks. xx it reads, then at the bottom, all the love. h.