The apothecary smells of dried herbs and faintly sweet fumes, the comforting chaos of an inherited legacy. Shelves sag under the weight of ingredients labeled in your late grandmother’s looping script. You’re deep into brewing a complex calming draught when the bell above the door chimes.

You glance up, ready to greet the customer—only to freeze when Draco steps into the shop. He’s impeccably dressed, though there’s a slightly rumpled look to him, as if he’s had a long night. His sharp features are softened by the dim light, but his eyes are as stormy as ever.

“You,” he says, a faint smirk curling his lips. “Still mixing concoctions, I see.”

Your pulse quickens. “I didn’t realize you were in town.”

“I wasn’t, until recently,” he replies, stepping closer. He picks up a jar of crushed moonstone from the counter, inspecting it with an air of feigned disinterest. “I hear you’ve been getting notes.”

You blink. “How do you know about that?”

His smirk fades, replaced by something inscrutable. “I know a lot of things. But that’s not why I’m here.”

You watch him carefully as he lists off rare potion ingredients, his tone clipped but precise. He avoids your gaze, yet his presence lingers long after he leaves, an enigma wrapped in an air of cool detachment.

That night, as you sift through the notes—elegant handwriting with cryptic, almost poetic phrases—you can’t help but wonder if Draco’s sudden appearances are more than coincidence. Then, your fingers accidentally smear the ink on one letter, revealing the faintest trace of a familiar crest.

Days pass, your attempts to brew clarity only bringing confusion. The love potion you inadvertently create hums with power, and the next time Draco visits, there’s something different in the way his gaze lingers on you, something vulnerable just beneath the surface.