As Luck Would Have It
✧.* : H.P x Reader ✎ : Liquid Luck Harry bumps into reader into what seems to have been fate all along. 𖦹 : 1.8k A/N: Liquid Luck Harry is my absolute FAV [masterlist] Much Love, Saige
The castle is unusually quiet for a Friday evening. The torchlight flickers along the stone walls, shadows dancing like they’re in on a joke you haven’t been told. You hug a book to your chest, something dry and academic that you told yourself you’d finish before bed—but your mind is anywhere but focused. The air feels thick with the kind of tension you can’t name.
You round a corner near the Trophy Room and nearly crash into someone.
“Whoa—hello there!”
Your fingers tighten on your book, startled, only to look up and meet an all-too-familiar pair of bright green eyes. Harry Potter is grinning at you like the world has just handed him a gift wrapped in gold.
He doesn’t seem alarmed at all. In fact, he seems positively thrilled.
“Y/N!” he exclaims, as if he’s been waiting for you. “This is perfect. This is exactly what was supposed to happen.”
You blink. “Uh. Are you okay?”
“Never better,” he says cheerfully. His voice is smooth and confident, far more than usual, and there’s a strange sort of gleam in his eye—mischievous, electric, almost… drunk?
“Did you hit your head or something?”
He laughs. “No, no—don’t worry. I just took something. Well, Slughorn gave it to me.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Liquid luck.”
You stare. “Felix Felicis? Are you serious?”
Harry gives a triumphant nod and leans in like he’s sharing the best secret in the world. “Everything’s just… working tonight. I had this feeling I needed to go for a walk, and then—bam! I ran into you.”
Your heart gives an embarrassing little thump. “And… why is that lucky?”
He gives you a look that borders on incredulous. “You’re Y/N,” he says simply, like that explains everything. “Of course it’s lucky.”
You feel heat rising in your cheeks, and you suddenly regret not doing something more exciting with your hair.
“I thought you were going to try to get the memory from Slughorn tonight?” you ask, trying to ground the conversation in something real. “Didn't hermione ask-”
Harry waves a hand. “That’s later. This just..felt right.”
He leans against the wall beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch. “You smell like ink and peppermint,” he says, half-dreamily. “Do you always smell like that, or is that just part of the luck?”
You’re speechless. Is this really happening?
“Harry… are you flirting with me?”
He looks mildly surprised—then delighted. “Yeah. I suppose I am.”
You stare at him for a beat too long. He doesn’t seem to mind. He’s still looking at you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the castle, and maybe he really believes that tonight.
“I—I didn’t think you noticed me much,” you admit, and the confession escapes before you can help it. You suddenly feel very small under his gaze.
Harry frowns, not in annoyance, but confusion. “Of course I notice you. How could I not? You’re always doing this thing where you chew the corner of your quill when you’re thinking, and you have this little crease between your brows when you’re reading something really hard. It’s cute.”
You blink, utterly thrown.
“Okay, you’re definitely high on Felix,” you mumble, almost to yourself.
He chuckles and takes a small step closer. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I’m lying.”
And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he reaches out and brushes his fingers lightly along yours. You feel a zing, like static or—well, maybe it is luck.
“I think we should go down to the greenhouses,” he says suddenly. “Yeah. That’s where the magic is. You want to come with me?”
You hesitate, still trying to figure out if this is a dream.
“Will you remember this tomorrow?” you ask quietly.
He grins at you again, soft and sure. “Every bit of it.”
And with that, he offers you his hand.
And somehow, you believe him.
——â‘⋆⋆⋆â‘——
You don’t know what compels you to take his hand. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you—like you’ve always been a part of the plan. Or maybe it’s the way your fingers fit into his so easily, like they were waiting to find his. Either way, you nod.
“Alright, Potter,” you murmur. “Lead the way.”
He beams and sets off with purpose, your hand still clasped in his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The corridors are quiet, the paintings sleepy and murmuring to one another as you pass. You glance at Harry a few times, half-expecting him to lose interest or forget you’re there. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he starts talking, rambling really—about the night air, how the moon looks like it’s been polished just for him, how he knew the greenhouses were important and how, somehow, running into you confirmed it.
“I think Professor Sprout’s been hiding something in Greenhouse Three,” he says with a grin. “Something odd. I just have this feeling, you know?”
You smile despite yourself. “You always have a feeling. That’s your thing.”
“Not like this,” he says, looking at you sideways. “This is… different. Like the castle is helping me along. Like it wants me to do this.”
You reach the greenhouse doors, cool metal against your palms as Harry eases one open with his wand. It creaks, but no alarms go off—no one yells. You follow him inside, brushing past hanging vines and thick, earthy air that smells like wet moss and blooming petals.
“You sure this is allowed?” you whisper.
“Nope,” he says cheerfully. “But I’m lucky, so it’ll be fine.”
He starts inspecting a row of large puffapods glowing faintly in the dim light. You wander a little, trailing fingers over strange leaves, occasionally watching him with something close to awe. There’s a light in him tonight that’s hard to describe. Like the boy who’s been carrying the weight of the world for six years finally got a moment to breathe.
And then, as if he’s remembered you again—like he’d ever really forgotten—he turns back and smiles.
“You know,” he says quietly, “I think I would’ve done this even without the Felix.”
You cock your head. “Done what?”
“Come find you.” He steps closer. “Tell you how I feel.”
Your breath catches. “And how do you feel?”
There’s a long pause. His green eyes are clear, wide open—no hesitation, no fear.
“Like whenever I’m near you, I don’t feel quite so cursed,” he says. “Like everything makes a little more sense.”
You freeze, not because you don’t believe him—but because you do. Completely.
“I’ve liked you for a while,” he admits. “But I thought—I don’t know—you deserved someone with fewer problems. Someone who doesn’t have to save the world every other week.”
You let out a breath that’s part laugh, part heartbreak. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, smiling a little. “I see that now.”
There’s a beat of silence, thick and humming with something unspoken.
Then Harry says, very softly, “Can I kiss you?”
Your throat goes dry. You nod.
And then he does.
It’s soft at first, tentative. A question in the form of a kiss. You answer with your hands fisting gently in his robes, pulling him just a little closer. His lips taste like fresh air and something almost honeyed—like the night is bleeding through him.
The kiss deepens, slow and warm, and you realize your heart isn’t racing in panic—it’s thrumming with something bright and full.
When you pull away, he rests his forehead lightly against yours.
“I’ll remember every second of this,” he whispers.
You smile. “Even when the luck wears off?”
He brushes a finger along your cheek.
“Especially then.”
——â‘⋆⋆⋆â‘——
You’re still standing close to Harry, your heart steady but glowing like embers in your chest, when the greenhouse door creaks again—this time not by Harry’s hand.
“Harry, my boy—there you are!” comes the unmistakable, rich voice of Professor Slughorn.
You jump back a little, and Harry doesn’t seem remotely fazed. Instead, he just grins, still holding your hand, as if this is exactly what he’d expected.
Slughorn waddles in with his usual dramatic flair, robes swishing behind him and a wicker basket clutched in one pudgy hand. He pauses mid-step when he sees you both, blinking owlishly.
“Oh! I—well, I hadn’t expected company. Am I interrupting something?”
Harry just laughs. “Not at all, sir. I figured if I was going to be in the right place at the right time, I might as well bring good company.”
Slughorn raises an eyebrow, clearly suspicious but far too charmed to argue. “Hmm. Quite the confident young man tonight, aren’t you?”
“He took Felix Felicis,” you explain, trying to sound apologetic, though your lips are still tingling from the kiss and you don’t feel sorry in the slightest.
Slughorn’s mustache twitches. “Ah! That explains it. I knew it would do wonders—but I daresay it’s gone straight to his head.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Harry says, voice smooth. “More like… everything’s just fallen into place. Like it was meant to.”
The professor snorts. “Well, let’s see if fate also meant for you to help me collect these Wiggentree leaves. They only drop when the plant feels it’s been properly appreciated—very temperamental, like old witches at a tea party.”
Harry moves to assist him, casting a quick spell that gently shakes the branches of the ancient-looking Wiggentree. A soft rain of silver-veined leaves tumbles into Slughorn’s basket like the tree had just been waiting for Harry’s arrival.
Slughorn blinks. “Well. That’s… unusually efficient.”
Harry shrugs. “Told you. Lucky night.”
You stand by the bubbling tank of puffapods, watching them twitch like dreaming jellyfish under their glass dome. You feel him approach before you hear him; his fingers brush yours again, casual and warm.
Slughorn bustles in the background, humming some tune that might’ve been fashionable when Merlin was young. Harry lowers his voice.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about earlier.”
You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Forgotten what?”
“That kiss,” he murmurs, grinning again in that maddeningly sure way. “That you let me kiss you, and you kissed me back.”
You flush, but not from embarrassment. “I was there. I remember.”
He leans just a little closer, voice quieter now. “When this wears off, I’m going to ask you again. Sober. Nervous. Probably stammering like an idiot.”
You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “Will I say yes?”
He studies your face like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the world.
“I hope so,” he says. “But I’ll earn it properly next time.”
You don’t reply—just slip your hand into his, right there in the greenhouse as Slughorn hums and the night air breathes against the glass.
You’re not sure what part of this night was fate, what part was luck, and what part was Harry himself being brave enough to try.
But something tells you this story isn’t finished yet.
And you can’t wait to see how it continues.
