It had taken six months to brew and if he'd done it wrong,  it would be a disaster.  Blaise didn't care.  Life since the war had been one casual slur after another, and he hadn't even been Marked as a Death Eater.  He'd been determinedly neutral.  Potter was a fool and Voldemort vulgar and he'd stayed clear of them both and it hadn't mattered.  He was still lumped in with people like the idiot Goyle, who sat across from him eyeing the tiny vial of golden potion with fear and lust in his eyes.  Pansy, another one of the worst losers of the war, had put on eye makeup and red lipstick like it would shield her from the contempt in the streets.  All it did was make her look brittle.  Draco had already crossed his arms and shaken his head.  "More for the rest of us, then," Blaise said.  He poured three glasses and raised his in a toast.  "To us, may we all get lucky."