Draco looked up frantically, fearing an intruder, but relaxed again when he realised that the noise was nothing more than the noise of mandrakes in the next greenhouse. They must be having a party, he thought. He covered a rictus of stupid jealousy. Even the mandrakes are getting lucky...

He shook himself and returned to his work: it had reached a delicate stage and he needed to concentrate. Muttering an incantation of almost impossible Latin words he had studied for hours in order to commit them to memory (he couldn't afford to mispronounce one now), he cast a combination of sulfur and dragonbone over the pot thrice. Then he half stirred, half kneaded the soil with a likeness carved from rowan. That had taken him more than a few hours: carving was not his forte. Fortunately for Draco, the text had not stated a need that the likeness be exact... he hoped that near enough was good enough.

This creation was complicated, time consuming, and to say that it verged towards being dark magic was like saying that Harry Potter's refusal to notice Draco's existence rankled at him a little. Draco was amazed to find any mention of this process, even in the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. He wondered if it had been overlooked, except that he had found even stranger things whilst perusing the restricted section a fortnight ago. Not exactly what he had had in mind when he had first acquired unlimited access to the restricted section--it helped being the favourite student of a certain, very Slytherin, Potions Master--he made mental notes to study more than a few of those tomes at a later date.

Draco wondered if Snape had any idea of what he had planned, when he had approached the Professor after class. To hide his desperation, he'd carefully applied cosmetic charms beforehand, to hide the bruises under his eyes--dark from countless sleepless nights--and to add some colour to his face. Normally pale, Draco's skin was now so translucent that he feared people would think him some new, pretty ghost, trolling the halls of Hogwarts.

Draco knew that Snape would never guess what level his student had stooped to. He had probably wondered why Draco had needed the Hogwarts library, though, when his father's collection contained more dark tomes than Hogwarts could ever conceive of having. But Draco had just returned from Christmas holidays with his parents, where he had searched pertinaciously for an answer--any answer--to the angst that plagued him. But there were no love spells in the Manor.

The earlier parts of the spell had been amazingly complex; even without context the final step was almost laughably simple. A flower, a fuchsia of all the absurd plants in the world, planted in the prepared soil, then gifted to the object of desire.

***

Harry Potter re-read the strange note he had received by owl this morning, and looked up. He was at the second greenhouse.

"Hello?" he called, straining his eyes to see in the darkness. A torch flared into light, and he squinted. "Malfoy?"

"Potter." Draco thrust a pot towards Harry, who reached for it out of pure reflex. "I have a gift for you."