HP440- Fighty and Difficult

Harry worked quickly, wand tip scribbling across the air like ink. “No delay triggers. No moral judgment. Just the scent, trace charm layeri

Harry worked quickly, wand tip scribbling across the air like ink. “No delay triggers. No moral judgment. Just the scent, trace charm layering, and visual confirmation.” He paused, rotated the sketch, then added two stabilising links between rings. “And embed the reaction trigger into the metal’s memory.”

The parchment burned itself into the goblet with a quiet hiss.

He held it up, tapping once. The rim flared green for a half-second—just the ambient magic in the room, testing the boundaries. Good. Nothing false flagged.

Opening his eyes, Harry spotted Tracey still hunched over the cauldron. She glanced over her shoulder, hair tied back, smudge of ash near her temple. “You got it?”

He hummed, stretching a bit. “Yeah. Rune too.”

Tracey blinked, then let out a short breath of disbelief. “One of these days, you should actually tell me how you do that.”

Harry gave a lopsided grin, reaching for the two spare sheets. “Trade secret,” he said, laying the papers flat and starting to sketch. “We can carve the rune into parchment or wood—whatever’s quicker to mass-produce. Get ‘em out before Valentine’s. Anyone tries to slip something into drinks or food, it’ll light up.”

She leaned closer as he drew, watching the rune take shape. “You know the professors should be doing this.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, well. They’re not.”

Tracey pursed her lips, gave the bubbling potion a slow stir. “We’ll need more than a few dozen if we’re giving them to all students. Susan will want some for the younger ones too.”

“I’ll rope in Neville,” Harry said, tapping the tip of his wand to the parchment. “He’s got steady hands. And Luna can probably enchant the carving tools. Makes it go faster.”

Harry leaned on the edge of the table, checking the potion again. The mixture had settled into a steady violet swirl, faint shimmer across the surface. That was promising.

“You think it’ll work?” she asked, still watching the cauldron.

He gave a small nod. “Yeah. If anyone so much as sprinkles something shady, this stuff’ll burn it out before it hits the bloodstream. Or at least ruin the effect.”

They filled a few vials, corked them tightly, then set them aside to cool. The scent coming off the brew was sharper now, like mint and rain and burnt sugar—not unpleasant, just odd. Tracey passed him the labels, and Harry started marking them off with a fine-tipped quill.

“You reckon we’ll find out who’s behind it?” she asked, sitting on the table edge, legs swinging.

His smile turned sharp. “Oh, I will.”

--

Within the next few days, Harry sent a letter addressed to Rita Skeeter. He didn’t need to sign it. The beetle knew. Ever since she’d been caught scuttling around in that jar, Rita had responded to Harry’s requests like a trained kneazle. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t poke for extra. She knew better.

The article went out next day. Title read: Two Simple crafts to Detect Love Potions- Shared Freely by Long Green Pot. It listed the potion’s ingredients, gave basic brewing instructions, even included the rune diagram for detection charms, watered down enough for public safety, but accurate. The shop’s name was printed in green at the bottom: Long Green Pot

Long Green Pot didn’t charge for this one. Not a Knut. It was the sort of thing meant to be passed around, scribbled on parchment, etched onto snack wrappers, carved onto the underside of goblets in the common rooms. Two simple tools, one rune to check for tampering, one potion to block love-inducing effects. It wasn’t subtle. But it worked.

And that mattered more than gold.

By Thursday, the diagrams had found their way to Beauxbatons. By Sunday, Durmstrang had three separate batches brewing. Somewhere in Rome, a private apothecary put up a sign, distributing without charging. They didn’t even bother changing the name.

Long Green Pot had long gone continental. Two basic but effective crafts, one potion, one rune, had spread faster than sweets on the Hogwarts Express. Word of mouth carried it, and within days of Skeeter’s article, students were sketching the rune onto goblets, breakfast plates, even the occasional Quaffle.

He was halfway through scribbling measurements onto a parchment in the Room of Requirement when the door opened and Hermione charged in.

“Harry!” she called, before wrapping her arms round him. “Thank you. Thank you!”

“Right,” he said. “Bit early for flattery. What’ve I done?”

Hermione pulled back, flushed, but grinning. “You fixed it. The potions, the rune—do you realise how many schools are using it already? Professor Flitwick showed the diagram to a colleague from Mahoutokoro and they’re adapting it for charms class.”

Harry scratched the back of his neck. “Bit overkill for a side project, isn't it?”

“Not when it stops someone slipping you a mind-altering potion,” Hermione said sharply. “Do you know how long witches had been trying to get the Board to take that seriously? And now, suddenly, everyone’s talking.”

He gave her a pat on the back, casual as anything. “You brought the problem, the lot came up with the ideas. I just brewed what was needed.”

Hermione let out a small breath, still half-smiling, half-shaking her head. “You always make it sound like you’re just the messenger.”

Harry shrugged. “I’m not the one writing speeches.”

They sat down near the table, where the old notes and empty vials were scattered from the last batch. The cauldron had gone quiet, the faint blue shimmer faded, and the room’s warmth made it all feel more like a tucked-away den than a war table.

She nudged his arm, then picked up one of the old rune sketches, turning it over thoughtfully. “You reckon this will actually hold up through Valentine’s?”

“It’ll hold,” Harry said, leaning back in the chair. “Unless someone finds a way to hex the runes straight off the goblets.”

“Wouldn’t put it past them,” Hermione muttered, then gave a little smile. “Still. Feels better knowing we’ve done something. Actual protection, not just hoping the rules work.”

“Rules don’t,” Harry said. “People do.”

She scooted a little closer, fiddling with a stray piece of parchment like it was a perfectly normal reason to shift. Harry didn’t comment. He just slid the ink pot out of her reach so she wouldn’t knock it over like last time.

“I always thought,” Hermione said quietly, picking up one of the extra rune drafts, “that you’d end up with someone louder.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, still scribbling out notes with his left hand. “Louder than you?”

She huffed. “You know what I mean.”

He tapped the parchment, then glanced over. “Not really.”

“You’ve got... options,” she said. “Girls like Tracey or Susan... they are... I don’t know. Less fighty.”

He didn’t answer straightaway. Just set his quill down and turned to her properly. “Did you just call yourself difficult?”

“I am prickly,” Hermione muttered. “You know I am.”

Harry tilted his head slightly. “I’ve known you five years. You are bossy, smug when you are right, and a nightmare when you’ve gone without sleep.”

“Charming,” she said, smiling despite herself.

“But,” he went on, voice steady, “you also don’t let anyone off easy. Least of all me. And I like that.”

Hermione blinked. “You like being challenged?”

“No,” he said, smirking. “I like winning. And you make that interesting.”

She rolled her eyes, but her shoulders relaxed. “That’s not romantic, Harry.”

“Wasn’t trying to be,” he said. “Just honest.”

They lapsed into a silence that wasn’t awkward, just filled with the soft crackle of the fire. Then Hermione set the rune down and looked at him.

“This doesn’t feel like a one-time thing, does it?”

Harry gave her a look. “Do I look like someone who does one-time things?”

She bit her lip, hesitating for the first time that night. “No,” she said. “But I thought maybe... after Daphne, Tracey... I wasn’t sure if there was space for me in that.”

“There’s space,” he said, leaning forward a touch. “You lot made the space. I’m just making sure I don’t muck it up.”

Hermione let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. “You’re not mucking it up.”

Harry leaned in just a little more. “Then stop looking like you’re bracing for impact.”

“I’m not—” she started, then paused, mouth twitching. “Alright, maybe a bit.”

He gave a half-laugh. “You are allowed to like something, you know.”

“I do like it,” she said. “I like you.”

That made him smile, “Good.”

Hermione glanced down, then back up, like she was checking her own courage. “Do I get to kiss you now, or are we still pretending this is all academic?”

Harry’s answer was to shift the last inch between them and close the gap.

She then laughed, “Sorry, actually it’s not my turn now.”

Harry groaned. “Of course it isn’t. Why would it be? That’d be far too reasonable.”

He sighed, not out of annoyance, but more a resigned exhale. He didn’t like the whole passive angle, but he wasn’t daft either. If the lot of them were bending things just to fit together, then it wasn’t on him to go stomping about like he was owed more. They were compromising, each of them choosing to stay, to make room. He had to match them, restraint and all. Respect didn’t mean a grand gesture. Sometimes, it meant stepping back and keeping his mouth shut.