The Potion Master and the Portrait

The Truth Will Out...

Harry spent the afternoon tidying his flat and finishing unpacking. As he worked, he sang to himself, albeit badly, but he was happy. Happier than he'd been in a long time. Tidying and cleaning felt purposeful because he was getting a guest...

He blatantly ignored the fact that Ron and Mione and Luna had already been over a number of times, they didn't count.

He did, in all honesty, really like this flat and had really hoped to buy it if Mr Vasilis could come down to a better price. The sticking point was the shop underneath. Harry wasn't sure about becoming a landlord and dealing with renting out the shop.

The flat itself was large and opened-planned with exposed red brick walls and with a dark oak floor throughout, converted from what had obviously once been a warehouse storage space above the shop. The main living area was double height with huge windows along one wall and open metal and wood stairs that lead up to three large bedrooms and a large family bathroom. The feel suited his furniture which tended towards minimalistic black metal and wood and beaten-up tan leather.

As Harry worked, he couldn't help thinking of the way Draco's grey eyes shone and his body convulsed as he laughed. He'd never seen Draco laugh like that, not even at school when he was with his Slytherin friends. And Harry knew he'd tell Draco every single embarrassing story about himself just to see that again and again.

At four o'clock, Harry panicked because he needed to get to the supermarket and pick up the ingredients for lasagne and a salad. He rushed out of the door without thinking twice about applying his Glamours.

At two minutes past four, he had already been asked to sign three autographs and have his photographs taken with random people whose faces he wouldn't be able to pick out in a crowd ever again, even though they'd all hugged him happily like they were long lost friends.

At four minutes past four, he received a round of applause, just for hurriedly walking along the main part of Diagon Alley with his head bowed as if to say just ignore me, I'm in a rush and not really that interesting.

At five minutes past four, he had a reporter following him out through the Leaky Cauldron and into Muggle London.

'Harry, sir, Harry Potter, sir...' wittered the voice beside him.

It reminded him of Colin Creevey and made his heart clench. Still, he smiled politely.

'Are you living in Diagon Alley now?' the man asked.

Harry looked at him, trying to assess him. He was short, with short dark hair, and wore a long beige trench coat and a dark trilby hat. He had a rolled-up newspaper under his arm. Harry wondered if there were eye holes cut in the newspaper and whether he spent his days sitting outside Fortescue's Icecream Parlour, spying on people.

'Are you a journalist?' Harry said, trying to keep his voice cheerful.

'Gosh, you've got me there straight away. Yes, sir. With The Daily Prophet. Pedro St.John-Smythe. A pleasure to meet you. Would you like to share with us your plans? Your fans are very keen to know what you're up to these days, you're very elusive and difficult to get hold of for an interview. You keep moving house, living amongst Muggles too, is there a reason why?'

'Just trying to find some peace and quiet after the war, sometimes it's hard to just nip out to the shops without being asked for a photograph,' Harry said with false cheeriness and without a hint of irony as Mr. Pedro St.John-Smythe pointed his camera at Harry.

'Ah, yes. Must be difficult. But the public are so grateful for what you've done for wizarding-kind. You've clearly decided to come back to us. What's next? You keep very private...'