Archive of Our Own ^beta

june 1999

“We made it,” Hermione murmurs. 

Harry looks over, butterbeer slack in his grip. “We did.” 

Ron finishes a long sip of his drink with a rumbling belch and a sheepish grin. “Can’t believe it,” he adds. “Sometimes it didn’t seem like it’d happen, y’know?”

Hermione draws her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around her legs. Her grip is white-knuckled around the neck of her butterbeer. “What do we do now?” She asks, words muffled against her knees. 

Harry turns his gaze back to the astronomy tower window. The night is purple-blue outside, sky dotted with shimmering stars. The top of the Forbidden Forest rustles with the slight wind whistling through the air. For a moment, it looks just as it did over a year ago: deadly quiet and nearly still, dark and foreboding and full of unknown. 

Tomorrow they’ll line up, robes pressed and ties straightened, and they’ll march with McGonagall down from the Great Hall to the docks. They’ll clamber into the boats, charmed to keep steady, and they’ll drift across the Great Lake just as they did when they were first years—watching as they move further and further from Hogwarts, and onto whatever the future holds. 

Harry smiles. He lifts an arm and wraps it around Ron’s shoulders; he leans closer to Hermione and lets her rest her head against him. 

“Whatever we want,” he tells them both. “We do whatever we want.” 

Hermione goes immediately into the Ministry. 

Ron tinkers with the idea of becoming an Auror for all of two weeks before he sees George running the joke shop alone, and decides that’s where he belongs, instead. 

Harry…

Harry doesn’t know what he wants to do. 

He, of course, had planned to be an Auror. Then he thought long and hard about continuing to hunt down criminals and potential dark lords and had felt sick at the thought.

He considers taking some time to travel—while not on the run—but with no one to go with, it just seems terribly lonely. 

He goes with Hermione on a tour of the Ministry but the memories within the walls are too much; he ducks out as early as he can without being too rude, even though he knows Kingsley understands. 

He considers going back to teach at Hogwarts but McGonagall only smiles at him sadly, pats his shoulder, and tells him, “This isn’t the place for you, right now.”

Which is how Harry finds himself wandering Diagon Alley aimlessly in June. It’s a late summer evening so the cobblestone streets are relatively empty, save for a few families here and there, a stray dog or cat or bird about. Most of the storefronts have been renewed to their pre-war glory—shimmering and sparkling with magic and soft amber lights and abundant wares to sell. Harry walks with a smile on his face and faintly, he feels the flicker of wonder he remembers from when he was eleven. 

It’s not quite the same as it was all those years ago. Some shops are dark, yet to rebuild; some may never rebuild at all. Some shops are new and unfamiliar to him, and he makes note of them in his mind to check out. Most are familiar; most are places he’s visited hundreds of times over the years—ones he’ll visit a hundred times more for as long as they’re open. 

Harry rounds a corner. To his left are familiar, protruding windows and Harry catches sight of himself in the reflection. He stops and stares at the racks lined with wands of all shapes and sizes and grains. His own wand seems to burn in his pocket and his fingers twitch at his sides. He’s so entranced by the display he misses the door to Ollivander’s opening, but he doesn’t miss the quiet gasp. 

Harry looks over and swallows a gasp of his own. 

Draco Malfoy stands on the stoop of Ollivander’s, a broom clenched in two hands, looking stricken and paler than usual. There are dark bags under his eyes and his hair looks, while clean, more frazzled and unkempt than he ever appeared at school. In fact, Malfoy looks more like he did in the Manor—Harry pushes the thought away uneasily. 

“Potter,” Malfoy says in a thin tone. “Evening.”

Harry replies automatically. “Evening, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy nods again and starts to sweep up the stoop and steps. At first, Harry finds nothing truly odd with the picture—until he shoves his hands in his pockets and brushes a hand over his wand. Then, he wonders why Malfoy isn’t using magic to sweep, but knows better than to ask. Malfoy doesn’t look at Harry again, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that says he knows full well that Harry is still lingering there. 

So Harry walks again. He hurries off and walks until his legs are aching a bit and only then, when he knows he can’t see Malfoy’s shock of platinum hair, does he stop. 

A soft cooing catches his ear this time instead. The Menagerie is as dilapidated as it ever was, too crowded with animals and too understaffed to keep things running. If anything, the war only made things worse; not even a year has been able to undo the damage. 

Harry looks up at the rickety, swaying sign, and marches up the steps inside. 

“Mate, you sure about this?” Ron asks, heaving for air as he waddles with two large boxes in his arms. A few more trail behind him, hovering with help from a charm, courtesy of Hermione. Ron had tried the same charm and nearly sent the owl feed scattered across the entire store. “Not even a little bit,” Harry replies cheerfully. “That’s the appeal.”

Ron shakes his head as he lets the boxes drop unceremoniously onto the backroom floor. “You’re barmy,” Ron says, but he grins. “And you owe me.”

Harry rolls his eyes fondly. He turns to the door when Hermione walks in, all of her boxes gently landing on the floor as the charm dissipates. 

“Really though, Harry,” Hermione says, crossing her arms. “How did you even come up with this?”

“Dunno. Just sorta...happened.” 

Harry looks around the barren backroom with a sense of pride blooming in his gut. 

He had walked into the Magical Menagerie that night looking for a simple job, something to keep his hands busy while he figured out what else he could do, and ended up walking out with a deed to the property and a deadline to get the shop into the best shape possible for the coming school year. 

The thought is terrifying, because even with magic there’s so much to do. But it’s thrilling—in a way that’s different from dueling with criminals or investigating some new mystery.  This is thrilling in a way that Harry actually wants to pursue, rather than feeling like he has to. 

“Harry?” A gentle hand on his shoulder startles him slightly. Hermione peers at him, brown eyes full of concern. “Are you alright?”

Harry flashes Hermione a blinding grin as he gently shrugs off her hand. “I’m brilliant, Hermione. Just brilliant.” 

Harry wanders past Ollivander’s at the exact moment the door opens, yet again. He turns with a smile on his face, expecting Ollivander—only to be faced with Malfoy a second time. 

“Potter,” Malfoy says, sounding even more surprised than before. 

“Malfoy,” Harry replies. “Nice day out.”

Malfoy’s lips purse but rather than annoyed he looks confused. “I suppose.” There’s no broom in his hands this time. There’s nothing in his hands. 

“Where are you off to?” Harry asks. 

Malfoy’s eyes narrow. “Picking up supplies for the shop,” he says shortly. “If you’ll excuse me, Potter, I don’t have much time to waste.”

Harry nods and watches as Malfoy hurries away from the shop and down Diagon Alley, casting only one look over his shoulder at Harry before disappearing around a corner. Harry doesn’t move even long after Malfoy’s gone from his sight; he lingers. He looks at Ollivander’s shop-front and wonders, not for the first time, what exactly Malfoy is doing here. 

For a moment, he considers going inside to find Ollivander. He could strike up a conversation without it seeming off, could ask after Malfoy as a perfectly casual topic. 

He doesn’t do that. Instead, he carries on with his walk and contemplates what he’ll do the next time he runs into Malfoy. Something tells him it’s going to happen rather frequently.

“Are you following me?” A voice from behind Harry snaps. 

Harry looks over his shoulder. “Er, no?” He blinks at Malfoy. “I’m getting a cup of coffee,” he explains slowly.

Malfoy rolls his eyes and lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Clearly.” He pauses, shifts from foot to foot. He’s uncomfortable in a way Harry’s never seen before. It’s kind of funny. “Why are you smiling?”

“Nothing,” Harry says, turning back to the counter to find his coffee waiting. Steam rolls off the top and the sweet scent of sugar and cream hits his nose, warms him to his toes. “I’m not following you, Malfoy.”

Malfoy sniffs and side-eyes Harry as he steps aside. Harry watches him place his order, and pay, and while they wait, Malfoy says, “Can I help you with something?” 

“No,” Harry says. 

Malfoy glares at him but again, he doesn’t look annoyed. He looks confused, just as he did before, but also...scared. Alarmed. 

Harry could reassure him—he truly isn’t following Malfoy of course. Not this time. Harry just spends a lot of time in Diagon Alley getting the Menagerie set up, and that means running into Malfoy a couple times a week, including at the charming little cafe that’s new to the area. But something tells Harry none of that would really help the other man—he’s not sure Malfoy would even believe him.

So Harry nods, raises his drink in a salute, and leaves. He can feel Malfoy’s icy stare burning holes in his back even after the door falls shut behind him. 

Funny enough, Harry kind of forgets about Malfoy after that.

Well, that’s not quite accurate. He doesn’t forget so much as he has absolutely zero time to consider what Malfoy is up to or what it has to do with Ollivander. All of Harry’s free time quickly gets eaten up by getting the Menagerie ready for the coming September. 

He cleans the whole thing from top to bottom, but that requires moving all the animals out for a time before he can bring them back in, which he ends up needing Hagrid’s help with. He recruits Hermione and Ron and the other Weasleys to help him move things back in and get the backroom and stockroom set up. Ron takes time off from the joke shop to help with the main area of the Menagerie, where all the animals will be kept, which is the hardest part. It’s a logistical nightmare to house enough animals to be considered “well-stocked” without overcrowding the area and ending up exactly where he started. 

All told, it takes him until the middle of August to get the shop ready; by then, he’s already started seeing soon-to-be students wandering Diagon Alley and gathering their necessary supplies for the coming school year. He locks up the shop the day before he’s due to open, and his hands shake so bad it takes him ten minutes longer than it ought to. He contemplates going home to Grimmauld but the thought of the large empty house—Ron and Hermione got their own place, Ginny obviously moved out when she and Harry broke up, and it isn’t as though Harry has loads of friends looking for a place to crash—unsettles him.

He wanders Diagon Alley, just as he did after leaving Hogwarts. It soothes him; he nods at various shop-owners as they close up their own storefronts and head home for the evening. It’s not especially late but the sun is already setting. It leaves the alley chilled and shaded in blue-oranges. Harry shoves his hands deeper in his pockets as he wanders.

He looks up from his scuffed tennis shoes at the sound of door creaking; unwittingly, he’s reached Ollivander’s yet again, but instead of only seeing Draco, the namesake himself is there too.

“Hello, Harry Potter,” Ollivander greets in his soft voice. Behind him, Draco is locking up. “How are you?”

“M’alright,” Harry says as he stops walking. “Preparing myself for tomorrow. Big opening.” 

Ollivander nods. “That’s right. The Menagerie.” He smiles faintly. “We have already gotten a number of students dropping by for their wands. Haven’t we, Draco?”

Malfoy, who was studiously not looking at Harry, stiffens. “We have.” 

Tense silence blooms in the wake of those two short words. Harry clears his throat awkwardly. “I was just heading toward the Leaky for a pint, I think.” 

“Wise choice, Harry. I’ll be heading home.” Ollivander looks at Malfoy, who doesn’t seem inclined to answer until it’s clear Ollivander has no intention of moving until he does. 

“I was going home as well,” Malfoy says quietly.

“Why don’t you join Mr. Potter for a drink?” Ollivander says. Harry expects him to deliver a soft lecture or something more to compel Malfoy, but Ollivander doesn’t. He nods at Malfoy and then at Harry, and then disapparates between one step and the next. Left alone, Harry and Malfoy stare at each other.

“I’ll buy,” Harry finds himself saying.

Malfoy sighs. “Fine.” 

The Leaky Cauldron isn’t far, and a grin at Tom has a table cleared for them in moments despite the crowd. Harry and Malfoy sit across from each other on rickety chairs and two pints float over only moments after they’re seated. 

Harry busies himself with a long sip of ale because he doesn’t know what to say—and while Malfoy doesn’t drink, he doesn’t seem inclined to talk either. He traces a finger along the dripping condensation of the mug and doesn’t look at Harry. 

“Er, so.” Harry finally speaks when his drink is half-empty and his stomach is churning. “What’re you doing with Ollivander?” 

Malfoy’s lips twist unpleasantly. For a moment, with the shadows of the Leaky’s dim lighting cast across his face, he looks unsettlingly like his father. Long hair drawn over one shoulder in a messy braid and the circles under his eyes darker than ever. His sneer is reluctant but no less cutting. “The Ministry is calling it an apprenticeship.”

Harry blinks. “Okay…” 

“It’s little more than being an errand boy and a maid.” Malfoy finally brings his pint to his lips and drinks silently and, somehow, angrily. “I’m not learning to be a wandmaker,” he says in a way that sounds both derisive of the profession and annoyed at not actually learning anything. “I’m sweeping the bloody steps and dusting shelves and making the old man’s tea.” 

Harry narrows his eyes. “Better than Azkaban,” he replies smoothly. 

Malfoy tenses in his seat. He opens his mouth as if to reply but takes a long swig instead. 

“You’d think you’d be a bit more grateful not to end up in a cell with your father,” Harry adds. The shameless disgust in Malfoy’s face has Harry’s blood boiling. Every other time before this, Malfoy has seemed almost cordial; normal, even. Not relaxed but not...well, not like he was carrying a terrible task on his shoulders. 

This Malfoy, though, the one that sits across from him now is terribly familiar. Just like the hatred and irritation bubbling in Harry’s gut, and just like the bile at the back of his throat. 

“You’d think you’d be less of an arrogant prick after saving the world has left you cleaning up owl dung,” Malfoy spits back before standing. He sticks a hand in his pocket and for a moment, Harry thinks the other man might draw his wand. Instead, Malfoy tosses a couple sickles on the table and says, “Goodnight, Potter,” before storming out. 

Harry stares at the sickles beside the barely-drank pint and scowls. He sips his own pint, and Tom refills it whenever it gets a bit too low. By the time Harry decides it’s best to call it a night, the sickles haven’t moved and Malfoy is long since gone. 

As he clumsily apparates home, Harry thinks it’s at least a little comforting that some things never change. 

may 2000

There are a lot of things Harry learns over his first eight months owning the shop: animals are far harder to take care of than Hagrid made it seem, the customer is most certainly not always right, and Harry finds himself continuously shocked that Malfoy keeps to himself so much.

It isn’t as though Harry expected them to be out on the cobblestones dueling it out every other week, but he guesses he thought they might see more of each other. Like they did in school. But Malfoy either avoids him, or maybe he just avoids everyone; Harry’s not entirely sure. It isn’t as though he goes out of his way to walk through Diagon either. Things are still too fresh. Too many people still try to shake his hand or hug him unprompted. Too many people want to thank him. It’s just exhausting. 

Harry tries not to think about Malfoy that often—there’s no reason for him to, really—but it doesn’t always work as well as he’d like. 

The two-year anniversary of the battle means the streets of Diagon Alley are silent. Empty. Harry’s been considering closing the shop up early, but finds he doesn’t really want to go back to Grimmauld, either. Not today, at least. He could go visit Ron and Hermione, or even Molly and Arthur. Hell, maybe it’d be good to visit Dudley. He hasn’t seen his cousin in a while and if nothing else, there wouldn’t be the thick tension of memories with him—of Hogwarts, at least. 

Eventually, Harry decides to close up shop and take advantage of the empty streets to walk around and clear his head. He’ll do it later in the evening sometimes, when he’s got less of a chance of being bothered. He enjoys it. It’s better than pacing the halls of Grimmauld, where sometimes the walls feel like they’re closing in on him. Diagon feels more open, less suffocating. 

Harry leaves his jacket unzipped despite the slight wet chill in the air and wanders down the streets once the shop is closed and locked up. It’d taken him a little longer to get everything in order, as the streelers always kick up a fuss when Harry leaves for the day, and now the sun is beginning to set overhead. 

He kicks a rock along as he goes. He watches the rock skip across the street every few feet, and watches the scuffed tip of his sneaker drag along the ground. When he finally looks up again, he realizes there’s someone a few paces ahead of him. They’re swathed in a black robe, hood drawn up over their head.

For a brief second, Harry’s mind screams death eater, and he nearly reaches for his wand. Then a gust of wind rolls by and knocks the hood off the person’s head, revealing a burst of blond hair. Malfoy, he thinks. 

He can hear Malfoy faintly grumbling as he scrambles to tug his hood up again and just watches. It’s a little creepy, he knows, to be following him. In my defense, he thinks, it’s a public space. Even so, he doesn’t detour though he knows he should. The last time he and Malfoy actually talked was less than pleasant, and Harry knows he bears at least some responsibility for that. He doesn’t want to start another fight—especially not now. 

Harry’s lost in his thoughts, trying to think of how to escape without Malfoy noticing him, when something other than disgruntled muttering catches his ear. It’s wet and quiet and it’s then that he realizes Malfoy’s come to a halt, and Harry is fast catching up with him.

Harry stops abruptly but accidentally kicks the rock one last time. It goes skittering forward, bouncing along the road until it hits Malfoy’s foot. It’s a small rock, but Malfoy clearly feels the impact nonetheless. He turns and looks over his shoulder with a scowl.

It’s still bright out, but the streetlamp they’re under perfectly illuminates the tear tracks on Malfoy’s cheeks. Harry’s breathing catches in his chest at the sight of red-rimmed eyes and a trembling lower lip. He flashes back to sixth year for a moment, and then the mansion, the way Malfoy had looked so scared as Harry snatched the wand from his hand. 

“Fuck off, Potter,” Malfoy spits. He twists and apparates on the spot, leaving Harry alone in Diagon once more. 

Some things never change, Harry thinks, and wonders why it rings false inside his head.

august 2001 

“You take good care of her now, alright?” Harry says to the starry-eyed, curly-haired young girl cradling a fluffy, cream-colored cat in her arms. She looks stricken—no, more like she feels blessed to be holding the fat, sweetly lethargic creature.

“I will,” the girl promises. She looks down at the cat, who blinks sleepy green eyes up at her, and lets out a giggle. “I promise.” 

Harry beams at her. “Good.” He nods approvingly at her and her mother, who smiles back. “Have a good year!” 

The mother waves politely at Harry before ushering her daughter out of the shop; as the door opens, the sounds of Diagon Alley in full swing drift into the Menagerie for a moment before the door falls shut.

Harry sighs and raises his arms over his head in a stretch, relishing the way his back pops. It’s a slower day for him, mostly full of people needing new family owls and second years wanting pets they couldn’t get the year before. Otherwise, it’s been quiet. 

Amazingly enough, the fact that Harry owns the Menagerie is not the draw he anticipated it being. It’s a blessing more than anything—because Harry had genuinely feared being swamped last year when he first opened his doors. For a week or two he was, but it died down quickly. He’s not sure if people realized that the Menagerie being run by The Harry Potter wasn’t terribly interesting, or if people just don’t need animals enough to come stare at the Boy Who Lived. 

Harry comes around the counter to stroll around his store for a few minutes while the shop is empty; he checks each cage along the wall of owls and feeds them treats and let them nip at his fingertips. He stops by the basket of kittens in the window of the shop, old enough to be curious but apathetic enough not to go running off. They peer up at him with gold and green and blue eyes before settling down and sleeping again. The toads are doing well, croaking happily in a pattern that almost sounds like a song. The lizards, spiders, puffskeins, and rats are all happy. He just checked on the fire crabs and streelers before his last customer, and knows they couldn’t have gotten into much trouble in the last twenty minutes or so.

Harry stops and looks at the doorway that leads deeper into the shop where the bigger animals are. There’s nothing but the ambient sounds of scuttling and slow pacing and slimy sliding across the floors of the cages. 

He’s about to dart into the back for a quick peek at the creatures when the front door swings open, letting more noise and chilly air spill into the shop. Immediately he turns on his heel to face the customers and says cheerily, “Welcome!” 

“Oh my!” The witch, a mother presumably, gasps. “You’re really here.” 

Harry chuckles. “I really am.” He lets the moment linger, awed and quiet, before speaking again. “What can I help you find?” 

“Oh!” The witch says, startled as if suddenly coming back to herself. “My son needs an owl for his first year.” She pats the shoulder of her son beside her, with carefully coiffed hair and wide, excited eyes. “Duncan, say hello.”

“Hi,” Duncan says. “I’ve just gotten my wand.”

Harry nods. “That’s very cool. Are you excited for Hogwarts?” He approaches slowly and Duncan stares back at him. 

“Mhm,” Duncan murmurs. “Mum says I need an owl so I can keep in touch.”

“That’s very important,” Harry agrees. “Did you have a specific kind in mind?” He asks as he gestures to the large and long wall of owl cages. 

Duncan turns his wide, blue eyes on the owls and somehow, impossible, his stare seems to grow. It is a bit overwhelming, Harry can admit. 

“How about I show you my favorite?” Harry suggests, reaching out a hand to gently take Duncan by the shoulder. Duncan nods and Harry guides him closer to the wall, to a specific cage with a slightly smaller owl. “This is a snowy owl. She’s a little small, because she’s a runt. But she flies fast and is great with directions.”

Duncan peers at the owl and the owl peers back. 

Awkwardly, with a glance back at the mother, Harry continues. “I had a snowy owl all through school. Her name was Hedwig.” Harry falters for a moment and swallows thickly. “She was brilliant.” 

“I’ll name her Heida,” Duncan declares easily. He looks over his shoulder at his mother and gets a nod of confirmation and a grin. 

“Sounds great, sweetie.” 

Harry takes the cage off its hook where it swings and passes it along to Duncan, who has to stuff his wand—which till now he’s been shifting from hand to hand, Harry realizes—into the pocket of his freshly tailored robes. 

Duncan carries Heida to the counter and Harry slips behind it to the register. “I’ve got a hawthorn wand,” he says as Harry gives a total to the mother and she passes over a couple galleons and sickles. 

“Oh?” Harry replies to be polite but the words catch up with him a moment later. Suddenly, for a brief second, he can feel the weight of a ten-inch hawthorn wand in his own hand as he battled at Hogwarts, as he charmed a goblin, as he apparated. It seems so long ago now.

“The man at the shop said his wand was hawthorn, too,” Duncan continues, seemingly unaware of the way Harry has faltered. “He said he missed it.”

Harry reins in his surprise; he’d given Malfoy back his wand after the trials—after clearing it with Kingsley, of course—but he never knew what happened after that. He’s barely thought of Malfoy over the last year since the disastrous evening before the grand opening. They don’t even see each other in passing, something Harry has always suspected is purposeful. 

“Er,” the mother says, “Mr. Potter?”

“Sorry!” Harry punches a key on the rusty register and drops the galleons and sickles into their appropriate slots and digs out a few knuts for change. “Treat Heida well, alright Duncan?”

“Of course.” Duncan nods seriously and cradles the cage which is nearly the size of his torso closer. “Thank you.”

Harry smiles at him. “Thank you. Have a good year.”

“Thank you, Mr. Potter,” the mother says. 

“Please, it’s Harry.” he says, just as he always does. “Have a good day.” 

She smiles at him and then they’re gone, the shop empty once more. Harry leans on the counter, elbows digging into polished wood, and watches people hustle by outside the Menagerie. 

He really, truly hasn’t thought of Malfoy that much. Running a business is, unsurprisingly, a lot of work. It’s been a constant grind since the day he opened. But now, the mere mention of the hawthorn wand has his mind reeling. Did Malfoy’s wand get snapped as part of his punishment? Did Malfoy chuck it off a bridge? Seems a bit dramatic but Harry could see the git doing something mad like that. 

Harry is still lost in his thoughts when the door opens yet again, so for the moment he puts Malfoy and his wand and the trials out of his mind. 

“Mione?” He asks at dinner a few days later. They’re eating a hearty, hot stew courtesy of Kreacher that actually isn’t half bad. 

“Yes?” She replies, distracted. She’s pouring over files despite her insistence that she doesn’t ever bring work home—or to Grimmauld, in this case. 

“Do you know what happened to Malfoy after the trials?”

She looks up, thin-framed silver glasses slipping down her nose. “You know what happened to him. He works with Ollivander.”

“No, I mean. Well.” Harry ignores the way Ron is staring suspiciously at him. “It’s just, a customer today mentioned that Malfoy said he missed his wand. And I gave it back to him and I can’t imagine the Ministry would’ve snapped it…”

Hermione sits up a little straighter and pushes her glasses up her nose. “As far as I know, it wasn’t snapped. I remember there was an uproar in The Daily Prophet about the outcome of his trial. Many felt it wasn’t harsh enough, and I believe there was something in it about his wand. Luna even put something in The Quibbler about it, although her article was far kinder than anything in the Prophet.” She spoons some stew into her mouth as her gaze returns to her files. 

Harry sits back in his chair, idly tapping his spoon against the side of his bowl. Ron stares at him and never once pauses in his eating. “Something a kid said today, at the Menagerie,” Harry explains, except Ron still doesn’t stop looking at him. “I was just curious.”

“Sure you were, mate,” Ron says around a mouthful of beef and potatoes. 

Harry scowls into his stew. 

Snorting, Ron says, “Some things never change, do they?” 

july 2002

Harry closes up the shop early on his birthday but doesn’t head back to Grimmauld. He locks up the shop front, double-checks the back door, and then finds himself in the Leaky. It’s not overly crowded, and Tom nods politely at him from behind the bar. Harry nods back, then nods to the table he tends to pick, one in a far back corner and out of the way. He hurries through the bar, keeping his head down, and manages to make it to his table without incident. 

A pint floats over to him and Harry raises a hand in a grateful acknowledgement. He’s not planning to get absolutely pissed, but his birthday has become something of a strange day for him in the years since the war, and it’s just a little easier to handle when he doesn’t think about it quite so much.

By the time there’s a shadow looming over his table, Harry is absolutely pissed. He lost track of his drinks a good while ago, and he’s pretty sure Tom stopped serving him a while ago too. This doesn’t stop him from looking up and clumsily saying, “How about that next pint?”

“Merlin’s beard, Potter,” Malfoy says disdainfully. “I never took you for a drunkard.”

Malfoy’s blond hair stands out even in the darkness of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry blinks up at him. “What’re you doing here?”

“I wanted a drink before heading home,” Malfoy supplies, surprisingly honest. “And then I saw you moping in the corner.”

Harry scowls. 

Malfoy shakes his head. “It’s your birthday, Potter, what could you possibly have to mope about?”

Harry looks up, squints. “How did you know it’s my birthday?”

Maybe it’s the strange lighting of the Leaky, but Harry could swear Malfoy’s ears pink. “You’re the bloody chosen one, I’d have to be daft not to know your birthday. Seemed like it was going to become a national holiday, at one point.”

Harry laughs tonelessly.

Malfoy is staring at him, Harry knows. He can’t bring himself to care. He really doesn’t see Malfoy that often, despite their constant encounters when he was first opening the menagerie. It’s been easy to kind of just…forget the other man exists, to an extent. Some moms whisper to each other in the Menagerie about “that boy helping Ollivander” but Harry has gotten adept at tuning them out.

Okay, so maybe after that fiasco with Harry being curious about Malfoy’s wand, Hermione had taken him aside and given him a lecture that could have really been boiled down to, “Don’t have a repeat of your sixth year.”

“Potter? Did you up and die on me? You’ve been staring off into space for several minutes now.”

Harry blinks and realizes Malfoy has taken a hesitant seat on the chair beside him. “I did die, once,” Harry says instead of a proper reply. He’s not even sure what a proper reply would be.

Malfoy blanches. “What?”

“Did your mum not tell you that?” Harry hums. “Maybe she didn’t…didn’t realize…”

What happened in the Forbidden Forest isn’t widely publicized, for which Harry is immensely grateful. Part of it is most of the people who were present then are dead—others are like Hagrid, who swore to Harry he’d never tell, and Narcissa, who has a notable hatred of any sort of publicity now, and hasn’t spoken publicly in years. Harry had never even considered asking her not to go spilling the beans about his death and subsequent resurrection, but now that Malfoy is staring at him gobsmacked, Harry wonders if Narcissa even truly knows what happened in the forest that night.

“I died,” Harry says. “In the forest.”

Malfoy swallows audibly. “My mother said she checked on you, and you were alive. You are alive, clearly.”

“Before that.” Harry makes some odd gesture with his hand, then gets distracted staring at his hand. Pale fingers wrap around his wrist. He looks at Malfoy.

“Focus, Potter.”

Harry blinks. “I let Voldemort kill me. It was the only way to win.”

Malfoy is still staring at him, visibly shaken. “How?”

Harry’s head is swimming and starting to hurt. He pulls his wrist from Malfoy’s grasp to hold his head in his hands instead. “It’s a long story,” he settles on.

Malfoy, after a beat, sits back. For a moment, Harry thinks the other man will keep asking questions about that night. But he doesn’t. Malfoy takes pity on him, sort of, and asks, “So, you’re getting shit-faced on your birthday because you died?” instead.

“It feels weird,” Harry spits back. “It feels wrong. I died. I should’ve stayed dead. It’s not fair that everyone else is gone for good but I came back.”

Harry can’t look at Malfoy as he speaks. He’s never actually told anyone this. Not Ron, not Hermione—he can barely wrap his head around it himself. That’s why it’s easier to get drunk than think about the self-loathing that wells up inside him every July.

“Potter,” Malfoy starts quietly. “You’re right.”

Harry looks up sharply.

“It isn’t fair that you came back.” Malfoy is speaking unbearably soft and measured. Harry, even sitting still and silent, feels like an out of bounds mess next to Malfoy’s careful posture and tone. “It’s not fair that other people died and stayed that way.”

Harry expects anger to rise in his throat like acid, but nothing comes. He sinks back in his seat and sighs. He doesn’t know what to say, he barely knows what he’s even feeling…except for the trickle down his spine that feels kind of like relief. Like a burden is off his shoulders, at least for a little while.

Malfoy doesn’t appear to expect a response, either. He stands and holds out a hand for Harry. “C’mon, you need to get home before someone takes a picture of you taking a piss in an alley and sells it to The Prophet.”

Harry stares at Malfoy’s hand, all long-fingers and manicured nails, and slight blisters from working with his hands. He takes Malfoy’s hand and thinks, maybe some things do change.

december 2003

Harry leans against the frame of his largest window and peers into the snowy wonderland that is currently Diagon Alley. The snow is nothing new, certainly not in London, but he’s still not used to all the shops covered in snow and frost. Every year it reminds him of Hogsmeade, which makes his heart thud painfully—with longing, or something like it. 

Diagon Alley is nearly empty today what with the weather and approaching holidays. The past week has been a flurry of activity with people buying last-minute gifts—it will never fail to astound Harry how many people buy pets a week or two shy of the hols but at least all his animals seem to go to good homes—but it finally seems to be dying down.

Each year is different, something that Harry has easily learned in the five years that he’s been open; that’s why he keeps the Menagerie doors open right up until Christmas eve, just in case. He’s still got a week before the large, noisy dinner at the Burrow but Molly has been hinting that he could afford to close up a little early. 

Harry pushes off from the frame and wanders deeper into his shop. He walks along the rows of cages, stopping to check on some fire crabs or streelers here and there. For a moment, he considers locking up shop and stopping by just to check on the creatures instead of doing business. It’s certainly feasible, and there are other creature shops people could go to…

Behind him, the front door creaks and Harry thinks, no, better stay open, just in case. He turns sharp on his heel and strides back to the front of his shop. He opens his mouth to greet whoever just walked in when a familiar voice cuts across him—

“Honestly, haven’t you ever heard of grease, or, or a spell? That noise is horrendous.” Malfoy’s back is to Harry as he glares at the hinges on the door. 

Harry stops short and stares at the shock of blonde hair wrapped in a heavy gray peacoat and a thick, lumpy scarf. “It’s the chill,” he explains. “Can I help you?” His tone turns a little sharp and it seems to startle Malfoy into standing straighter and facing him. 

There’s a frost-bitten flush to Malfoy’s nose and cheeks, the only part of him visible aside from his eyes. When he speaks, Harry realizes how muffled he sounds from the scarf wrapped around his mouth and neck. “I need a gift.” 

“Of course.” Harry leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “Do you know how many people come in for pets as last-minute gifts? It’s barmy.” 

Malfoy stares at him, but Harry thinks that under the edge of his hat, the other man is arching a brow. “It’s for my mother.”

The mention of Narcissa makes Harry’s insides twist. He’d spoken at her trial, briefly, about what she did for him in the forest. The articles after her trial were kinder than most, he remembers; she’s written him a few times, but he’s never been sure how to respond. For a moment, he considers asking Malfoy how she is, but instead he asks, “So, what are you thinking? An owl?”

Malfoy shakes his head. “Her owl is still in perfect health, and even if it weren’t, my mother would sooner visit my father than get rid of that owl.” He tucks his gloved hands into the pockets of his coat and starts to walk around the shop. Harry watches each tentative step as Malfoy eyes the wall of lizards and spiders, wrinkling his nose. 

“Cats are always good companions,” Harry supplies. 

Malfoy hums. “She’s always hated when they got on furniture, or got fur on her clothes.” Even so, Malfoy stops by a basket of kittens. He takes one hand from his pocket and after a moment’s hesitation, he plucks off his glove before offering his hand to the intrigued balls of fur. An especially energetic kitten with a brown, marbled coat climbs up above the rest and nuzzles against Malfoy’s fingertips before nipping at them.

To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy doesn’t yank his hand back with an indignant yelp. Instead, the other man laughs quietly and waggles his fingers; the kitten bites at his fingers again and brings a clawed paw up to sink into the top of Malfoy’s hand. 

Harry, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of a kitten nuzzling at Draco Malfoy’s hand, continues speaking. “A puffskein might be good for your mum, then. Sweet, friendly. Less shedding.”

“They eat bogeys,” Malfoy retorts as he starts to scratch at the kitten’s chin. “That’s...absurd.”

Harry shrugs. “S’not like your mum would know. They only do it when people are asleep.” Harry can’t help but grin. He’s always thought animals to be a good judge of character—hard not to, especially not with Hagrid’s teachings ringing in his head constantly—and despite his misgivings about Malfoy, he can’t help but trust the way the kitten reacts. Really, the fact that the whole basket didn’t recoil in a hissing fit is proof enough for Harry that maybe Malfoy isn’t quite as bad as Harry thought. “They’re good companions, too. Easy to take care of.” 

Malfoy hums again and finally pulls his hand back. When the kitten lets out a scratchy meow of protest, Malfoy blanches, eyes widening. “Oh,” he says softly, so quietly Harry almost misses it. Malfoy snaps out of it and finally looks at Harry and says, “Alright then, a puffskein.” 

Harry nods. “Any color she’d like? Got a bit of an older cream colored one.” Harry turns to the cage of puffskeins, set up like a large hamster cage that leads deeper into the shop by way of brightly colored tubes, and taps at the plexiglass. Immediately, the puffskein he mentioned comes scurrying over, albeit a bit slower than the younger ones. Harry flips up the door and the creature hops into his palm. 

When Harry turns around, Malfoy is right beside him, peering curiously at the lump of fur in his hand. The puffskein is more apprehensive of Malfoy than the kittens were, but it perks up when Malfoy offers his palm as well. It trills, an uncertain sort of sound, before hopping into Malfoy’s hand and getting comfortable. 

Malfoy laughs again, like when the kittens took an interest in him, and looks at Harry. 

Despite it all, Harry smiles back. “Take the kitten, too,” he says. “It likes you, a lot.”

Malfoy seems as shocked by the statement as Harry feels.  “I, I shouldn’t. There’s no need.”

“Free of charge,” Harry adds. “It’s fine. It’s Christmas.”

“Not yet, it’s not,” Malfoy says as he wanders back to the basket of kittens. The same one from before perks up again and presses its paws against the edge of the basket, eager. “I haven’t a clue how to take care of a pet.” 

“You had an owl.” 

Malfoy snorts and aims an unimpressed stare at Harry. “You know as well as I do that I didn’t care for the family owl.” The scarf shifts like Malfoy’s making a face, although Harry can’t tell what it would be. Uncertainty, maybe. Or regret. “You have no reason to believe I won’t kill this thing with my own stupidity,” Malfoy murmurs. 

“He doesn’t seem to think so,” Harry says with a nod to the cat. “And I trust him.”

“The savior of the wizarding world trusts a kitten more than years of proof.” There’s no bite to his tone, just a simple statement of fact. It could even be teasing. “Fine, alright. How on earth am I supposed to transport both of these creatures? C’mon, Potter, don’t just stand there.”

Harry grins. The more things change, he thinks, delighted, the more they stay the same.  

june 2004

There’s a figure waiting on the steps of the Menagerie when Harry arrives one morning. Harry almost stops a few meters back but forces himself to keep walking. Quickly, he realizes he recognizes the silvery hair and slightly hunched back. “Ollivander?” 

“Harry Potter,” Ollivander greets, as he always does. “Sorry to trouble you so early in the day.”

“No trouble at all.” Harry stops at the steps. “Er, did you want to come in for tea?” 

“No, no, that’s quite alright. I was simply wondering if you had seen Mr. Malfoy yesterday, or this morning by chance? He wasn’t at the shop this morning like he normally is, and I’m just a bit concerned.” 

Harry shakes his head slowly. “No, I haven’t seen him.” He hasn’t even really spoken to Malfoy since December last year, not even to ask how the kitten is doing. He’s seen him in passing a few times, polite nods when they see each other on the street or when they happen to be in the cafe at the same time. It’s all very civil. 

“Oh,” Ollivander says. 

“Are you sure he’s not just late? Overslept?” 

“I’m afraid not. I’ve owled his home with no answer, and he’s never been tardy in the six years he’s been working with me.” Ollivander shuffles down the steps and Harry helps him back onto the cobbled path of Diagon Alley. “I thought he might be here.”

Harry doesn’t ask why. “Sorry, haven’t seen him.”

“Quite alright,” Ollivander says with a brittle smile. “If you see him, just be sure to send him my way.”

“Of course, Ollivander.” Harry nods and watches as Ollivander begins his amble back to his shop. Harry hurries up his own steps and lets himself inside to a flurry of chirping, hissing, and meowing. “Calm down, calm down, I’m here.” 

He does his usual rounds of checking on all the creatures, giving food to the ones who need it, water to the thirsty ones, pets to the needy and affectionate ones. By the time he’s making his way to the back of his shop he’s nursing three new cuts and a lovely scrape across the top of his hand from an overzealous raven. 

He checks on the crups and streelers and his one salamander—a test drive courtesy of Hagrid, although Harry isn’t quite sure how long it’ll last—before slipping into his cluttered office. He hardly uses it, typically only at the end of the month when he desperately needs to do his books and make sure his budget isn’t entirely in the toilet. It’s got papers stacked far too high and not for the first time, he thinks Hermione would have a total breakdown if she ever saw the state of this place. 

Speaking of Hermione—Harry snags a pen from the desk and a stray, blank piece of paper before scribbling out a quick note. He folds it up small and grabs a string from a drawer before hurrying back to the front of his shop. He stops by the cage of his favorite owl, the one Hermione keeps telling him he ought to just take home but he hasn’t been able to bring himself to do it yet, and pops open the cage.

The sleek Boreal owl immediately sticks out her leg with a compliant hoot. Harry ties the message to her leg and says, “Hermione, please.” With a quick, friendly nip of his fingers, the owl takes off through the open window near the roof. 

Harry is still getting the shop ready to open when the owl returns, settling on the front counter beside Harry’s rapidly moving pen. He takes the note on her leg in exchange for some treats and she settles in comfortably on the counter. 

Hermione’s neat, precise scrawl greets him: Why on earth do you need Malfoy’s home address? What are you up to?

Harry sighs and runs a hand through his already unkempt hair. “What am I doing?” He asks. 

The owl hoots in response. 

“This is madness. I’m sure Malfoy is fine.” Harry shakes his head. “Why would I care, anyway?” 

The owl hoots again and shakes her leg. He feeds her a few more treats but she still extends her leg. 

“Fine, fine, I’ll write her back.” 

Harry scrawls out a quick response—Ollivander is worried, Malfoy didn’t come in to work today and isn’t answering his post. Just want to help Ollivander out and make sure the git is okay.

Harry nods to himself then ties the response to the owl’s leg. She stares at him with wide, unblinking eyes before taking off again. 

Harry knocks and even he can admit, it’s a sheepish, quiet knock. He doesn’t really want Malfoy to answer—he didn’t even tell Ollivander he was checking up on the other man. Initially he had told himself it was because he didn’t want to get Ollivander’s hopes up or make the older man worry more. But really, it’s because Harry doesn’t quite know what he’s doing outside Malfoy’s flat, knocking. He’s got no idea what he’s going to say or how he’s going to explain why he closed up shop for the day to turn up here instead. 

Harry looks around at the rows of identical, deep blue doors that house Malfoy’s neighbors. He knocks again, a little louder.

Malfoy’s reply makes Harry jump. “Sod off!” 

Harry mulls the response over; Malfoy doesn’t sound sick, or hurt. He doesn’t exactly sound like himself, either. Harry is plenty familiar with the snobbish bite of Malfoy’s most irritable, and this isn’t it.

Harry knocks again, and Malfoy’s response this time is instantaneous. “Fucking bugger off!” 

Harry swallows thickly; he knows what this sounds like, now. What it reminds him of. The wet lilt of Malfoy’s voice, dulled as it is from the distance and walls or doors between them. It’s not a tone that’s easy to forget.

Sixth year.

The bathroom.

Harry hits the door hard enough that it rattles on its hinges and Harry shouts, “It’s me, Malfoy! Open up!” 

There’s a thud, like something hitting a thinly carpeted floor, then silence. Harry is about to knock again when rapid footsteps approach the door. There’s a pause before the door opens a mere four inches, just enough for Malfoy’s sharp, pale face to peak out. Along with it is the familiar tapered tip of the ten-inch, hawthorn wand. Harry thinks back to three years ago, when he wondered if Malfoy still had his wand. Guess that answers that question. 

“What do you want?” Malfoy snaps. 

“Ollivander was worried.” Harry is immediately stricken by the red rimming Malfoy’s eyes. “He said you weren’t answering your post and that you didn’t show up.” 

“I owled him an hour ago. He’s giving me the rest of the week off.” Malfoy arches a disbelieving eyebrow. 

“Oh,” is Harry’s eloquent reply.

“Did he not tell you?”

“I didn’t exactly tell him I was coming,” Harry admits. “I guess his worry got to me a bit.”

Malfoy opens his mouth to reply but an indignant meow cuts him off. He disappears from the door with a fond mutter of “Oh, you bastard.” The door doesn’t shut, though, and Harry listens as the cat meows again, Malfoy mutters something else, before finally his face reappears. There’s a tail flapping against his arm, muddled brown in color and pointed at the tip in a way Harry always found endearingly strange of the cat. 

“Potter,” Malfoy says, grabbing his attention again. “I’m fine, clearly. So, no need to worry.” 

Before Harry can reply, Malfoy disappears again with a loud swear, and then there’s a fuzzy ball of brown fur slipping out of the crack between the door and frame. Immediately, the cat starts to curl in loops around Harry’s ankles. 

“Traitor,” Malfoy hisses just before he shuts the door. It reopens a moment later, this time fully to expose Malfoy in baggy joggers and a soft-looking tee. “Of course he still remembers you.” 

Harry bends and scoops the cat into his arms. He’s bigger now than when Malfoy first took him home; Harry can tell from cradling the cat that he’s a healthy weight, fur feels soft and well-groomed. “He’s looking good.”

“His name is Scorpius.” Malfoy doesn’t reach for the cat but watches Harry scritch the back of the feline’s neck. “He’s an absolute menace.”

Harry snorts. “I take it you two get along perfect, then.” 

“Of course we do.” Malfoy leans against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. “I really am fine, Potter. Just needed a break.”

“From Ollivander?” 

Malfoy purses his lips and seems to shrink in on himself. “Just...From the wizarding world. So yes, from Ollivander. But it’s not like he did anything wrong,” Malfoy says with an edge of defensiveness.

“I can understand that,” Harry says. “Sometimes it’s a bit much.” 

Malfoy nods along. “I hate my birthday,” he says quietly. 

Harry blinks at him. “Er.”

“My birthday is today,” Malfoy says. “And I hate it. And it’s a reminder of all the shit in the wizarding world that I hate.” 

Scorpius starts to squirm in Harry’s arms so he lets the cat drop and immediately, the feline trots back into Malfoy’s flat. 

“Sorry,” Malfoy says, softer. “You didn’t need to hear that.” 

“No, no. It’s okay.” Harry takes a stilted step forward. “I get it.” 

Malfoy stares at him. His silvery-gray eyes are unblinking but not unkind or sharp. There’s a sadness there that Harry is all too familiar with. 

The silence isn’t awkward but Harry itches to fill it anyway. “I uh, I mean. There are certain times of the year that I just need to get away, too.” 

“Your shop is open literally almost every single day of the year, save for the hols, and even then, I think that’s only because of the Weasleys.”

Harry laughs, uncertain. “I guess...running the shop is kind of like its own getaway.” 

Malfoy sniffs like he doesn’t quite believe Harry, but he says, “Would you like a cup of tea?” 

Harry knows his mouth drops open in an unsightly manner, and Malfoy gives him a half-grin. “Sure,” Harry says. “Tea would be great.” 

They end up on Malfoy’s tiny little balcony, sandwiched between two large potted ferns. 

“I never took you for the gardening type, Malfoy.”

“They’re plastic,” is his easy reply, followed by a smirk. “I can’t garden to save my life.”

Harry grins back. “Me neither. Not as bad as Hermione, though.”

Malfoy lets out a quiet laugh. His lifts his tea at the same moment Scorpius decides to leap into his lap and settle in. Malfoy rests a hand along the cat’s back and strokes gently.

“Drives her batty,” Harry continues. “She tries again every couple months and it sends Ron into a fit, cuz he usually ends up being the one to take care of them all. Can’t tell you how many plants Ron has relocated to his mum’s just so he and ‘Mione don’t run out of room in their own place.”

“My mother tried buying me actual plants when I first moved in, but they all died, of course. Her next Christmas gift to me was these.” Malfoy shakes his head and takes a sip of his tea. 

“How’s your mom liking the puffskein?” 

Malfoy ‘ah’s suddenly and sits up a little straighter. “She loves it, absolutely adores it. I don’t think she’s realized yet what it eats.” 

Harry and Malfoy share what can only be described as a conspiratorial smile, and Harry finds himself laughing along. “That’s good, I’m glad.” 

“So Potter,” Malfoy says after a few minutes of companionable silence. “Tell me how running the shop is the same as getting away from your troubles?” 

Harry stares down at his milky tea. “I dunno…” He shifts in his seat. If someone had told him this morning that he’d be sitting on Malfoy’s balcony sharing tea and secrets, he probably wouldn’t have thought it that crazy. But now, in the moment, it feels absurd. Even so, he continues. “It’s not what anyone expected me to do, so I guess that’s part of it. I said for years that I was going to be an auror, and now I’m about as far from that as a person can get.” 

“Still, wouldn’t you rather have some days where you don’t have to fret over how your creatures are doing?” Malfoy asks. He doesn’t give Harry a chance to respond. “Not from a business standpoint, because I’m sure that’s hardly a concern for you. But just from a caretaking standpoint, it’s got to be fairly exhausting.” 

Harry shrugs and fills the time by finishing off his cup of tea. “It is, but it’s rewarding.” 

“It might be more rewarding if you had a day off once in a while.” Malfoy looks out past the balcony and keeps stroking along Scorpius’ back. 

“Maybe,” Harry agrees quietly. 

Malfoy picks up the dwindling thread of conversation smoothly. “Every year, my father would throw elaborate, extravagant parties for my birthdays. A long-running, pureblood tradition, of course. I loved them, when I was little. Until I realized they weren’t about me, but about the family. And later…”

“About Voldemort,” Harry supplies.

“Right.” Malfoy swallows. “So now, every year on my birthday I just think of those stupid gatherings. Of how stupid I was. How naive.” Malfoy tilts his head back and his eyes close. “I like working with Ollivander but you don’t get any stronger a reminder of the wizarding world than working with wands.” 

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, but Malfoy is looking mostly relaxed in his chair and breathing evenly, so Harry thinks it’s alright if he doesn’t say anything at all. 

november 2005

“Hey Andrea?” Harry calls out as he steps into the backroom. 

Andrea looks up from where she’s crouched beside a streeler’s cage. She’s smeared in soot from the firecrabs she was tending earlier and her gloves are thick with streeler’s slime. “Yeah?”

“Can you watch the shop for a bit, I’ve got to run out.”

“S’what you hired me for, innit?” Andrea says with a grin. “Go on, I’ll be fine.” 

Harry beams at her and takes off out the front of the shop, spilling out into the street with the crowds of shoppers. He hastily excuses himself while darting between people, apologizing when he bumps into people but never looking back as he hurries through the crowd. It takes him no time at all—although it feels like ages—before he’s skidding to a stop in front of Ollivander’s.

Or, more accurately, skidding straight into Draco Malfoy. 

“Merlin’s beard, Potter, what’s gotten into you?” Malfoy half-shouts as he takes Harry by the elbows to steady him. 

“Hermione is pregnant!” Harry exclaims. “She just owled to tell me!” 

Malfoy blinks back at him. “Oh, oh! Well, that’s,” he lets go of Harry as he stammers. “That’s incredible!” His cheeks and ears are pink from the late fall chill. “Did…did you run all the way here just to tell me?”

“I knew you’d be heading to lunch, figured I’d catch you on the way.” Harry’s hands are shaking and he lets out a laugh. “Sorry for, er, nearly bowling you over.”

“It’s fine,” Malfoy says, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m far more stuck on the fact that you heard your best mates are expecting a child and you ran here to tell me about it, instead of apparating to go see them.”

“Well, they’re at Mungo’s anyway, so it’s not far, but I wasn’t sure if they’d even let me in—?”

“How many times do we have to go over this? You’re the chosen one, you can go anywhere you bloody choose!”

“—besides,” Harry continues, ignoring Malfoy’s interruption, “This what friends do, isn’t it?”

Malfoy blinks back at him. “Tell each other about friends’ pregnancies?” He asks dryly. “I wouldn’t know, seeing as I’m pretty sure you’re my only friend beside Ollivander.”

“And Scorpius,” Harry adds.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Yes, add my cat to the list, sounds so much less pathetic that way, doesn’t it?”

Harry swats at Malfoy’s arm and isn’t even annoyed by Malfoy’s dramatic reaction: clutching at his arm, hissing in pain.

Things changed after Harry went to check on Malfoy at his flat. They’ve changed. Something about that day shifted things—although Harry is pretty sure the shifts were already in motion before that. Now he and Malfoy have lunch together more often than not, and Malfoy was the one to finally talk Harry into hiring an assistant for the Menagerie. Sometimes they even get together after work, either at the Leaky or occasionally at Malfoy’s flat.

So yes, they’re friends, the type who tell each other big news.

“Did you want to come to Mungo’s with me real quick?” Harry finds himself asking. “We can grab lunch, after. I still haven’t eaten today.”

“Might as well take you to Mungo’s anyway seeing as you’ll likely drop dead if we apparate there on an empty stomach.”

“Piss off,” Harry replies brightly.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Malfoy replies to his earlier question, tone turning sharply from playful to one more serious. “But please tell Hermione and Ron I say congratulations.”

“Tell them yourself,” Harry says. He reaches out and hooks an arm with Malfoy’s but doesn’t apparate on the spot. The way Malfoy tenses tells Harry that’s what he expected; Malfoy cracks open an eye to stare at Harry expectantly.

Eventually, Malfoy sighs and nods. “Fine, very well.”

Hermione and Ron meet them in the lobby since their appointment is over. Hermione, bless her, doesn’t even bat an eye at Malfoy being with Harry. Ron’s not quite as subtle, a sneer firmly affixed in place even as he drags Harry in for a long hug.

“Malfoy,” Hermione greets politely. Malfoy looks petrified—like Hermione might pull him into a hug too, or like maybe she’ll punch him in the face like she did all those years ago. She doesn’t. She holds her hand out and Malfoy shakes it, clearly dazed. “It’s been awhile.”

Malfoy seems to remember his manners in a jolt. “Potter told me the news. Congratulations.” He says it all with a smile but there’s a glint in his eyes that Harry can read: Happy now?

“We were just heading to lunch,” Ron says, gruff. He’s still eyeing Malfoy warily.

“So were we,” Harry says.

“I should probably get back to the shop,” Malfoy chimes in.

“Nonsense,” Hermione says. “Surely you haven’t taken lunch yet? It’s barely half noon.” Hermione rattles off some café they were heading to and Harry assures her they’ll be right behind her and Ron.

Harry flashes a toothy grin Malfoy’s way. He figures he deserves the way Malfoy flips him two fingers before apparating to the café without him.

Harry stumbles into the café a few minutes later to find the other three already seated and amazingly enough, Malfoy and Ron talking. Well, it’s more like mostly good-natured arguing. Harry approaches the table cautiously, but Hermione’s amused if perplexed face reassures him. As he gets closer, he can finally hear what the other two are talking about:

“Honestly, I knew your taste in things was hideous, Weasley, but really?”

“What’s happening here?” Harry asks as he slides into the chair beside Malfoy, across from Hermione. 

“Your friend wants to decorate his child’s nursery in Chudley Cannons colors.”

Harry snorts. “That sounds about right.”

Malfoy whips around to stare at Harry, aghast. “It’s absolutely awful, is what it is.”

“They’re a good team,” Ron chimes in, voice hard but not mean. “They’ll win this year, just you watch!” 

“If they win a single bloody match, I’ll help you paint the damn nursery,” Malfoy counters before his face goes slack—he looks surprised at himself. Harry feels kind of the same. Ron looks amused by the offer and Hermione’s got this small grin on her face, mostly hidden as she sips at her tea. “Sorry, I—?”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Malfoy,” Ron says. He sets his glass of juice down and sticks his hand out across the table. “Shake on it.” 

Malfoy stares at Ron’s calloused hand for a moment, then looks to Harry, then back to Ron.

“A deal’s a deal,” Harry says diplomatically. 

Malfoy raises a hand and grasps Ron’s. “I suppose it is,” he says, sounding dazed. They shake on it and Ron pulls back first with a holler. “God, they really will win this year, won’t they?”

Ron laughs, loud and bright. “You’ve jinxed yourself, Malfoy. Can’t wait to reap the rewards.”

Malfoy groans miserably. “This is why we were never friends in school,” he mutters.

Harry chortles. “Right, that’s the reason.”

Malfoy aims a sideways smile his way, one that’s a bit rueful and guilty. Ron’s guffawing now, and Hermione’s scolding him for being so loud, and Malfoy finally looks away to join in on the scolding. 

Funny how things change, Harry thinks. 

august 2006

“How did it go?” Malfoy asks as he pulls open the apartment door.

Harry staggers in. “The most stressful thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life, and it’s not even my child.” Harry shudders and gratefully accepts the glass of firewhiskey from Malfoy.

Malfoy snickers into his own long-stemmed glass of wine. “I’m amazed you’re out of there before midnight, frankly.”

“Hermione was ready to hex any of us who insisted on staying. Namely Molly, but I wasn’t taking any chances.”

Malfoy smiles. “And how are mother and baby? And Rose, for that matter.”

Harry lets out an abrupt laugh and the firewhiskey burns as it tries to go out his nose. “You tosser,” he says with a light shove at Malfoy’s arm. “’Mione and Ron are fine. Ron’s more frazzled than Hermione, honestly. And Rose is great. Healthy and happy, full head of dark curls.”

“Like her mother, then. I had wondered if those Weasley genes would win out.”

Harry smothers another snort in his drink. “I’m knackered,” he says.

“You’re the one standing around like you aren’t over here constantly.” With that, Malfoy turns and heads toward his living room, a route Harry has become very familiar with over the years. He follows at a sedate pace, stopping to scritch at Scorpius’ ears when the cat comes trotting up to him.

Malfoy falls onto his couch with a soft oof and follows it with a leisurely sip of wine. Harry follows suit despite Scorpius’ pitiful meows of protest; the cat jumps into Harry’s lap when he sits down anyway, so Harry isn’t sure what the cat is whinging about.

“It’s weird,” Harry says after a long, comfortable silence.

Malfoy raises an eyebrow.

“To not be starting a family.”

“You’re young, Potter. There’s no rush.”

Harry sighs. As has become increasingly common over the years, Malfoy is able to see right through him. “It’s not even the age,” he says. “I mean, that’s part of it.”

Malfoy hums encouragingly around a large mouthful of wine.

“My parents had me young. I mean, I’m already older than they were, but I haven’t even dated since Ginny, really, so it’s not like I’m going to miraculously sprout a family any time soon.”

“Oh, god, Potter. Will you ever stop being so dramatic?” Malfoy doesn’t wait for an answer to the question which Harry knows was entirely hypothetical anyway. “You’ve got Teddy, for one. That boy looks up to you like a son to a father. And you’ve got an entire clan, one which is steadily growing every single year. You’ve got a family.”

Harry knows all this; he’s told himself this a dozen or more times, trying to rationalize away the longing he feels sitting deep in his chest.

“Just because they aren’t biologically your children sprung from your loin doesn’t mean they aren’t your family, Harry.”

“I know,” Harry replies. He’s staring at the amber liquid in his crystalline glass. “Just feels strange, you know? I always wanted this large family, and I’ve got it, but it’s not…”

“Not what you envisioned?”

Harry shakes his head.

“Is any part of your life what you envisioned when you were, what, eleven years old? Fifteen? Hell, even eighteen? You’re best mates with your mortal enemy, you own a glorified kennel, and you came out as bisexual in the bloody Quibbler. In what world was any of that what your past self had planned?”

“None of it,” Harry replies shortly. “But—?”

“But nothing. You’re happy, aren’t you? With what you have so far?”

Harry pauses. He nods.

“Then the rest will follow.” Malfoy raises his wine in a half-arsed toast before knocking the rest of it back. “Now c’mon, I know you took pictures of Rose, and I demand to see them, or else I refuse to deal with your moping.”

“It’s not moping,” Harry insists even as he pulls out his phone.

“Do you…Do you want a family?” Harry asks.

They’re on Malfoy’s balcony again, surrounded by plastic plants as always, and Harry knows he’s buzzed and he’s pretty sure Malfoy is further gone than him. He’s added a few ferns, Harry notes.

“I don’t know,” Malfoy says. He speaks up to the sky, empty wine glass dangling in one hand. “I don’t think so, but I can’t say for sure.”

Harry waits.

Malfoy sighs. “It’s expected of purebloods, isn’t it? Breed a family, big and large and take over the planet and whatnot.” He shrugs. “I don’t want that. I don’t think I ever did. But part of me feels like I should.”

Harry nods along. “You wouldn’t make the same mistakes your father did.”

Malfoy snorts. “Sometimes, I’m not so sure about that.” He sighs again. “I should get to bed. You crashing on the couch again?”

Harry stands too. “It’s alright, I can just take the tube. Don’t think apparating would be smart.”

“Just stay,” Malfoy says as he pulls the sliding glass door open, shoo’ing Scorpius away from the door with his foot. “It’ll give the little bastard a chance to terrorize someone other than me.”

“You know,” Harry says. “You say that every time I stay over, but he’s only ever a delight when I sleep here.”

Malfoy scoffs. “He’s got terrible taste,” he says simply. “That’s just proof.”

Harry reaches out and hooks an arm across Malfoy’s shoulders, keeping him from walking toward his bedroom. “He gets it from you,” he says with a laugh.

Malfoy shoves at him. “God, you’re a barbarian.” Malfoy ducks out from his hold. “Just for that, I’m not helping you set up the bed. You can sleep on the floor for all I care.” Even so, Malfoy watches Scorpius curl around Harry’s ankles affectionately. “Both of you,” he adds, but Harry can hear the fondness in his voice. He’s tilting his head just slightly, and there’s the gentlest grin on his lips that speaks to how pleased he is.

And, okay, how tipsy he is, since he didn’t exactly take it easy on the wine. But more than anything, he looks pleased. His hair is falling into his face—it’s getting long now, longer than it’s been in years, dusting the tips of his ears and bangs falling onto his forehead—and his cheeks are pleasantly flushed. Even though his arms are crossed over his chest, Harry thinks he’s never looked more open.

“Harry?” 

Harry blinks and realizes Malfoy’s expression has shifted to one of concern. “Uh.” 

“You know I meant what I said earlier, right?” Malfoy continues, taking a cautious half-step closer. “That the rest will follow? I know it sounds...maybe a bit daft, but I do believe it. If nothing else, you deserve that. If anyone deserves to get what they want, even if it comes maybe ten years later than you wanted, it’s you.” 

Harry’s mouth is dry. “Right,” he says faintly. “Thanks, Draco.” They still don’t often call each other by their first names, but it feels right on Harry’s tongue. Feels less acidic than it did in school, or even just a few years ago. “I believe you,” he adds softly. 

Malfoy’s grin returns, spreading across his pink lips. Harry’s heart thuds heavily in his chest, loud enough he worries Malfoy might hear. For a second, it seems like Malfoy might say something else, or as if he’s waiting for Harry to say something, do something, anything. 

Then the moment’s gone, and Malfoy is taking a step back. “Goodnight, Harry,” he says.

“Night.”

Harry watches Malfoy head toward his bedroom. Once the door shuts with a soft click, Harry moves into action, albeit dazedly. 

He doesn’t need help setting up a place to sleep; he’s stayed over often enough to know where things are. Before long, he’s curled up under a blanket, on the couch, with Scorpius purring insistently on his chest. It’s a position Harry finds himself in more often than he thought possible.

If someone had told him, years ago, that he’d be staying the night on Draco Malfoy’s couch almost weekly, he would’ve hexed them. Hell, if someone had told him he’d been seriously mulling over Malfoy’s advice like it was gospel, he would’ve sicced Ginny on them. 

He thinks back to what Malfoy said: In what world was any of that what your past self had planned? And it’s true, none of Harry’s life is really what he foresaw for himself. But he does love it. He loves the creatures he cares for and loves watching them go to happy homes; he loves having fixed up Grimmauld and likes having the large space to himself ever since Ron and Hermione moved out. He likes seeing Malfoy often, and considering him a friend rather than an enemy. 

Mortal enemy, Harry thinks with a laugh. It’s strange, sometimes, to think that’s what he and Malfoy were to each other at one point. Hardly the case these days, Harry thinks as he pets along Scorpius’ back. Quite the opposite, honestly. In fact, some of Harry’s best days are ones when he gets to see Malfoy smile, or laugh, or anything that’s worlds gentler than Harry ever thought he’d see on that pale, aristocratic face. 

The thought hits Harry suddenly, rather like a bludger to the face: 

He might, just maybe, possibly, fancy Malfoy.

He lets out a soft groan. Damn Malfoy and all the way he’s changed. And damn Harry himself, too, he thinks, for all the ways he’s changed.

january 2007

“Honestly, Harry, you’re being ridiculous,” Hermione tells him, cradling Rose on one hip. “It’s just Draco.”

“Exactly, it’s Draco.” Harry is beginning to thoroughly regret telling Hermione about his feelings—now six months old and showing no signs of dissipating—for Malfoy. It didn’t help that her first words were, “oh, finally!” “I can’t fancy him.”

“Harry,” Hermione says in that voice that says her patience is wearing thin. “You two have been doing some strange dance around each other for the better part of our entire lives. I already told you this isn’t surprising, or even a bad thing. Frankly, I’m more surprised that you’re so distraught over it.”

Harry buries his face in his arms, aware of how childish he’s being. It’s been nearly six months since Rose was born and therefore, six months since Harry realized his feelings for Draco. He’s been agonizing over them ever since, while doing his best to maintain an air of normality so that Draco doesn’t wind up suspecting anything. The last thing Harry needs right now it to ruin their friendship, one that still feels fragile enough to fracture at times. 

“You said it yourself, Hermione...we’ve been doing this weird thing for years. There’s no way he could feel the same.” Harry lifts his head from his arms to stare at Hermione, who’s since given up looking at him and is digging out a small spoon to feed Rose with. 

“You’d be surprised,” she says cryptically. “Now come over here and help me with Rose, she’s been fussy about food lately.”

Harry rises to help immediately. He ends up with creamed peaches splattered down the front of his shirt and Hermione ends up with split peas in her hair. They don’t talk as they feed Rose, partly because it’s a task that requires too much concentration, and because Harry is lost in his thoughts. 

You’d be surprised echoes inside his head. 

“Go,” Hermione says once Rose has eaten at least one jar, despite wearing most of the other jaw down her onesie. “Stop pining in my house.”

Harry ducks his head in embarrassment. “Sorry, ‘Mione.” 

Hermione shakes her head. “Everything will be fine, Harry.” 

Harry finds himself wandering Diagon Alley, jacket zipped up to hide the stain down his shirt. He could’ve gone home to change, he knows, but something compelled him to come to Diagon. It’s his day off, so he resists the urge to stop by the Menagerie. Andrea and Jack, their latest hire, have everything under control, he’s sure. He shoves his hands in his pockets and wanders Diagon, nodding as people wave at him. 

Inexplicably, and yet unsurprisingly, he ends up at Ollivander’s. He stops at the steps and peers into the windows; it seems mostly devoid of people; he can’t even see Draco. He’s up the steps and slipping inside the shop before he can think better of it.

“Honestly, Potter,” Draco drawls from the front counter. “Don’t you have anything better to do with your time? Can’t you go one day without stopping by Diagon Alley, or will you die otherwise?” 

Harry rolls his eyes as he approaches the front counter. “Does Ollivander know you’re so rude to your customers?”

“Please, you haven’t been a customer in decades.” Draco leans on the counter, elbow on the wood and chin in his palm. “Ollivander couldn’t care less.”

“Is he in today? We’ll see about that,” Harry taunts playfully. 

Draco stands up, stretching as he goes, back popping and cracking. “No, he’s taking the week off. Feeling his age, he said.” Draco smiles and shakes his head.

“Do you think he’ll retire soon?” Harry asks. He watches as Draco slips out from behind the counter, grabbing a feather duster along the way. There’s already a few fluttering throughout the store, dusting upper shelves, but Draco drags the one in his hand along the shelves nearest him. He gets like this, sometimes, Harry knows. Anxious at the thought of running the shop on his own. 

“I don’t know,” Draco says honestly. “I hope not?” He sighs. “I don’t think I’m ready to do this by myself.”

“You could always hire an apprentice of your own,” Harry says. “Could have a day off once in a while.”

“Using my own logic against me,” Draco retorts. “No, besides, this is a fair bit more complex than your creatures.”

It’s not a dig, Harry knows, but a flicker of guilt flashes across Draco’s face all the same. 

“Still,” Harry says, unaffected. “I’m sure you could teach someone.”

Draco hums but he’s saved from answering by the door swinging open and a mother’s voice saying, “Honestly, Benjamin, you had that wand for less than a year!”

Draco smiles at Harry and Harry slips away from the counter, aiming to be as unobtrusive as possible. He lingers toward the back room, partially hidden by shadows, as he watches Draco step toward the mother and her son, Benjamin. Draco’s kind and soft spoken as he talks with the mother, examining the three pieces of Benjamin’s broken wand, nodding along as the mother frantically explains what happened.

He reminds Harry of Ollivander in this moment, albeit far younger than when Harry first met the man. He’s not slightly hunched over and he dresses sharper than Ollivander ever really did. But he speaks the same gentle way, and his lips twist with the same kind of curious concentration Harry remembers from his first trip here. He doesn’t often get to see Malfoy work; it’s something of a treat to watch him now.

“Where did you get this wand?” Draco asks, voice a touch louder, catching Harry’s attention and drawing him from his thoughts.

“A shop stateside,” the mother says, which explains the odd twist in her accent that isn’t quite British but not quite American, either. “A family friend recommended it.”

Draco ‘ah’s quietly. “Well let’s see if we can find something that maybe holds up to Benjamin’s antics, hm?” He smiles at the mother, then at Benjamin who finally looks a little more at ease. “Wait here, I think I’ve got just the one.” 

He turns away and struts down an aisle, out of sight from Harry. There’s silence, save for the dusters still diligently combing their way through the store, and then the quiet footfalls of Draco’s shoes on the wooden floor. 

“Eleven inches, dogwood, with a dragon scales core.” Draco plucks the lid off the box and presents it to Benjamin, who takes the wand from its case with an unsure hand. “Rather rigid, a touch longer for a big personality,” Draco says with a nod to Benjamin. “Well suited to flamboyant spells. Give it a swish.”

Benjamin, face pink and dotted with brown freckles, looks up at his mother who motions for him to do it. Benjamin screws up his face in concentration and gently flicks his wand at the nearby table, stacked with flyers for something or other. One flier lifts off the top of the stack, hovers for a few moments, before gently floating back down. 

“A simple start,” Draco says approvingly. “I’m sure you two will have no trouble.”

Benjamin beams, and Harry’s heart skips a beat when Draco looks over his shoulder to smile at him, too. 

“Get dinner with me tonight,” Harry says as Draco finishes his routine for closing up shop. It mostly consists of balancing the till with a simple spell, and then letting the charm on the dusters drop for the evening. 

“I assumed that was happening anyway, given that you’ve been here for several hours with no signs of leaving. Either we’d eat together or you’d simply follow me home and trail behind me like Scorpius does when he wants some extra wet food.”

Harry’s ears burn. “I don’t do that.”

“You kind of do, Harry.” Draco steps into the back and reemerges tugging his gray peacoat on, buttoning it up so it cinches at the waist attractively. “But that’s alright. Somehow, I think I rather like it.”

Harry steps outside first and waits on the steps as Draco locks up the shop. “I meant it as a date,” he blurts out when Draco turns to face him.

Draco’s mouth drops open slightly. His cheeks are already turning pink from the evening chill. “What?”

“I fancy you,” Harry says. “I have for, er, a while now. And I think you might fancy me too. So get dinner with me. In a date way.”

“In a date way,” Draco repeats. “Harry, are you serious?”

Harry gulps and nods. “Yes.” 

“What took you so bloody long?” Draco says before hauling Harry in by the strings of his jacket for a kiss. 

It’s awkward: Draco’s already a bit taller than Harry normally, and now he’s two steps higher so he has to hunch over a bit to reach Harry, and Harry has to lean up on his toes. The angle is terrible but Harry doesn’t care. He kisses back, hard and eager, and Draco whines with surprise against his mouth. For a moment, the kiss deepens, until a wolf-whistle reaches them as a passerby snickers. 

They wrench back, and Harry wonders if his own face is as flushed as Draco’s. He wonders if his own lips are as kiss-bitten.

“So,” Harry says, surprised at the way his voice cracks. “Dinner?” 

Draco’s grin is blinding. “Dinner,” he agrees. He slips his hand into Harry’s and their fingers twine together seamlessly. Harry leads him down the steps and they set off down Diagon Alley together. There’s a light snowfall around them, dusting their shoulders and hair with white; Draco keeps casting sidelong glances at Harry—Harry only sees them because he’s doing the same to Draco.

They keep walking until it’s clear neither of them have a destination in mind. Harry’s rumbling stomach has them both stopped, and Draco’s bright laughter bounces in the air around them.

“We’ve been dating for precisely five minutes and it’s exactly as I expected,” he says. 

Harry can’t help the grin that splits across his face. “You’ve thought about this?”

“Prat,” Draco says fondly. “You haven’t?” 

“Oh, I definitely have.” Harry leans in for another kiss. “Haven’t stopped thinking about it, really.” 

Draco laughs again. “Funny how things change, isn’t it? Used to be that all we ever thought of was hexing each other, or besting one another.” 

Harry kisses Draco again, unable to help himself. Against Draco’s lips, he says, “Yeah, funny.”

may 2008

They’re both silent as they walk into Grimmauld. Scorpius greets them at the door, curling around their ankles eagerly. Draco bends and scoops the cat into his arms, scratching under his ear. Harry watches the display, familiar and sweet as it is, but can’t find it in himself to smile. He’s too drained. It’s been too long a day. 

“Let’s go to bed,” Draco says, letting Scorpius leap from his arms and back to the ground. Draco steps closer and places a hand at the small of Harry’s back, urging him toward the stairs. “Harry?”

“Bed, right. Yeah.” Harry nods and drags his feet but Draco doesn’t complain. They take the stairs achingly slow; they could just apparate, right into the bedroom, falling right on top of the covers. But the trek up the two flights of stairs wakes Harry up a bit. The ache in his legs feels better than the one in his head or his heart. By the time they’re both at their bedroom door, Draco’s hand still pressed to Harry’s back, Harry’s thoughts feel a little clearer. 

They slip into the bedroom and part: Harry heading for the dresser to dig out pajamas, and Draco heading toward the en suite to brush his teeth. It’s their usual nightly ritual, has been for a while now, ever since they stopped pretending Draco wasn’t practically living at Grimmauld anyway. Harry leaves his dress robes in a heap on the floor and changes into flannel pajamas and a ratty old t-shirt. Draco exits the bathroom already disrobing and as he and Harry pass each other, a waft of minty air hits Harry. It’s sharp and soothing.

Harry brushes his teeth on autopilot and when he’s done, Draco’s already crawling under the covers. Harry follows suit and immediately, Draco’s arms open wide. Harry fits himself in the embrace and tucks his face against Draco’s neck. 

Fingers comb through his hair, ratty and tangled despite his best efforts this morning. Part of it could be blamed on the wind that had ripped through the ceremony, ruffling Harry’s rat’s nest of hair. Draco’s diligent in untangling what he can with long, slender fingers. 

“The Prophet is going to have a field day,” Draco says softly. “Had you held my hand any harder, you might’ve cut off circulation.” 

Harry lets out a startled, wet laugh. “Thank you, for being there.” Harry’s not sure how he would’ve fared, otherwise. 

Minerva had asked him to attend the ceremony, although Harry would’ve gone regardless. A commemorative ceremony, remembering the ten-year anniversary of the battle. It was long, and full of tears; Harry’s throat hurts from speaking and crying and speaking some more. He’d given a total of three speeches—all of which Hermione had helped him write. None of it felt cathartic. Most of it reminded Harry how much he hates public speaking. 

Remembering all those that had died in the battle was bittersweet, like looking at Teddy’s ten-year-old face in the crowd. 

“Sorry about your hand,” Harry says. 

Draco shakes his head and presses a kiss to Harry’s temple. “You know I don’t care.”

“Still.” Harry sighs. “You’re right. The Prophet is going to have a field day.”

“At least I looked nice,” Draco replies, and Harry can feel the tentative grin against his skin. 

“What, I didn’t look nice?”

“You were alright,” Draco says teasingly, laughing when Harry looks up at him with an exaggerated frown. “You were great,” Draco adds softer.

Harry ducks his head again and lets out a shuddering breath against Draco’s neck. “I hated it.” 

“I know.” The hand in his hair gentles, then stills. “But you did good, Harry.”

There are a million thoughts bubbling up inside Harry’s head, but he can’t bring himself to say any of them. They all feel useless to say—because they’re either things he said in his speeches today, or things he’s said before. Guilt. Memories. The bodies in the Great Hall. Seeing Remus’ ghost in the forest. All these things that seem to pile on and weigh down on Harry suddenly. 

“I know,” Draco says, so quiet Harry can barely hear him. “I know.”

Harry clings to him a little tighter. Draco’s arms wrap around him, comforting and warm, and Harry thinks that for all the things he wishes he could change, there’s at least some he’d keep exactly the same. 

june 2009

“Honestly, Harry, you didn’t have to come,” Andromeda tells him with a bright smile. Teddy has one hand wrapped in hers, and the other is wrapped in Harry’s. He bounces between them as they walk and every few paces, they lift him into the air as he shrieks with delight. 

“I wanted to,” Harry says honestly.

Andromeda gives him a smirk. “Of course you did,” she teases. 

Harry feels a blush steal across his cheeks and looks away. “We’re almost there,” he says instead, as Ollivander’s comes into view. Draco had decided not to change the name, even when Ollivander did decide to retire the year before. It’s fitting, Harry thinks. He really can’t imagine any other name on the sign above the storefront. He remembers Draco saying, “Besides, who would want to buy a wand from someplace named Malfoy’s?” 

Harry shakes off the thought as Teddy tears from his grip to run up the steps. Andromeda hurries after him and Harry brings up the rear, the last to enter the shop as the bells above chime. 

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite cousin,” Draco’s saying as he bends to smile at Teddy. 

“Hello, Draco!” 

“You’re about a month late by my count,” Draco says, even though he knows full well Andromeda and Teddy have been in the states for the last month, celebrating Teddy’s eleventh birthday. “Are you sure you didn’t already get a wand while you were in the states?” 

Teddy shakes his head, hair turning from golden brown to bright teal as he does. “Nope!” He promises, popping the ‘p’ brightly. “I swear.” 

Draco’s smile widens. “Well, if you’re certain.”

“Positive,” Teddy says seriously. 

Draco hums. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot, you know,” he says as he stands. He taps at his chin as he looks around the shop, the mile-high shelves and endless aisles. 

Andromeda, beside Harry, hides her smile behind her palm. “I wish Nymphadora could see this. And Remus, of course.”

Harry’s throat constricts for a moment. “Yeah,” he agrees hoarsely. From the corner of his eye, he watches Andromeda dab at her eyes with the sleeve of her billowing shirt. He leans against her, shoulders bumping, and she gives him a smile this time. 

“I’ve got a few in mind,” Draco says, dragging Harry’s attention back to the matter at hand. He brings four boxes to the counter and lines them up in front of Teddy. “I’m not going to open them yet,” Draco explains, “But do any of them seem especially interesting?” 

Teddy reaches out his hand and picks up the box at the far left. He opens it, grasping the wand inside without hesitation, and immediately giving it a swish. Draco doesn’t even have time to say what it is before the mug on the countertop is shattering, and he’s saying, “Nope, nope, not that one, come on now, put it away.”

Teddy hastily sticks the wand back in the box and Draco takes it, tucks it behind the counter. “Sorry, Draco.” 

“It’s alright.” Draco’s smile is patient. “I’m confident one of these is the one, why don’t you try again?” 

Teddy nods. Harry can see the serious way his face is scrunched up. He surveys the remaining three boxes, hand poised and shaking just slightly, and the moment is still and silent. Draco doesn’t do anything else to urge him on, so Harry and Andromeda stay quiet as well.

Teddy eventually reaches for what is now the middle box. Instead of picking it up and plucking out the wand, he simply taps it with his finger. Draco takes off the lid and presents it to Teddy, who takes the wand with a firm grasp. 

“Go on,” Draco says, nodding. 

Teddy hesitates for a moment, his hair flickering gray before turning to his usual golden brown. Then he gives a large sweep of his wand, sending a line of dazzling sparks into the air as he goes. They light up like tiny fireworks, popping and cracking into a dozen other colors before fading as they sink into the air. 

Draco nods, pleased. “Ten and a quarter inches, unicorn hair core. Peach wood,” he speaks as he draws a finger along the grain of the wand. Draco grins. “It kind of matches your hair, for the moment at least.” 

Teddy laughs and brandishes the wand toward Andromeda and Harry, and sure enough the wood is a fine golden brown, just like his sandy hair. “Look!” He says as another burst of sparks erupts from the tip of his wand in the same majestic display as before. 

“Wonderful,” Andromeda says, voice trembling. She hurries over to Teddy and tugs him into a hug, holding him close and dropping kisses to the top of his head. Harry ruffles the young boy’s hair as he passes and joins Draco by the counter, sliding an arm around his waist. 

“He’s going to do remarkable things with that wand,” Draco murmurs. “He’s a good kid.”

Harry hums agreeably and presses a kiss to Draco’s cheek. 

“Gross!” Teddy shouts with a laugh. “Andy, they’re being gross!” 

Andromeda chuckles. “So they are,” she says with a wink. “C’mon, we ought to be getting to lunch soon.” She reaches for her purse but Harry clears his throat. “Harry, we talked about this.”

“C’mon, let me get this for him. You won’t let me give him a pet.” 

“I’m not letting you give him a crup when he’s a first year,” Andromeda counters with an affectionate roll of her eyes. 

“The point stands,” Harry says. 

Andromeda shakes her head. “Very well. Pay the man, Harry. Or should I say, pay your man, and then it’s off to lunch.” 

“You guys go ahead, I’ll catch up,” Harry says as he grabs his wallet from his jacket pocket.

Andromeda purses her lips, more in amusement than anything else, and says again, “Very well. C’mon then, Teddy, why don’t you pick where we’re having lunch.”

“Let’s have ice cream!” 

Andromeda arches an eyebrow at Harry. 

“Ice cream it is,” he agrees. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” 

Teddy runs up to steal a hug from Draco and then one from Harry too, before he and Andromeda slip from the shop.

“You’re good at this,” Harry tells Draco, not for the first time. He steals a kiss when Draco turns to look at him, one that’s gentle and tame since another customer could walk in at any moment. 

“So you’ve said,” Draco says, but he’s definitely preening a little bit. “You really should catch up with him, or else mother will get an earful from Andy when they have tea this weekend.”

“She’ll get an earful regardless.” 

“The less we contribute to that earful, the better,” Draco says. He leans into Harry’s embrace anyway, and this time he’s the one to steal a kiss. “Go,” Draco says against Harry’s lips. “I’ll see you at home tonight.”

Home.

Harry smiles. “Yeah, alright,” he murmurs. “No staying late, alright?”

“I swear on Scorpius’ and Prongs’ furry little arses, I will be home right on time.” 

Harry kisses Draco one more time before stepping away and heading for the door. “Love you,” he says as he reaches for the doorknob.

“Love you too, prat. Now go.” 

Harry laughs as he slips back into Diagon Alley, thinking all the while, oh, how things have changed.