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Grimmauld.
Grim old.
Grim and old.

Harry snorted softly as he brought the glass of firewhiskey to his lips. Funny; two years living in the old Pureblood house—plus a few years of being acquainted with it—and he’d never considered the name before.

It was apt; everything seemed to be coated in a thick layer of dust, which was somehow less dreary than the black painted walls and threadbare antique furniture, relics of the past century. It was beyond repair, but it remained steadfast in its stubbornness to cling to the days before it was overstaying its welcome in the modern world.

Harry could relate. There were times he wondered whether the decision about his own fate at King’s Cross had, in fact, been a defiance of nature’s will. Perhaps he was meant to die and to stay that way. Maybe his life was meant to become a legend, a cautionary folktale: grim and old.

Seeing Ron and Hermione helped. Their weekly dinners were the most human interaction Harry got outside of Auror training, and even that provided little social engagement. Taking a gap year after eighth year proved to be less healing and restorative than he’d hoped. As it turned out, eating takeaway in his boxers while rewatching old sitcoms wasn’t much of a vacation if it became his everyday routine. But when Ron and Hermione came over, he’d shower and shave, changing out of his pajamas. He’d wash the dishes that’d piled up on the coffee table next to his comfortable chair and cast air freshening charms. He’d put on jeans and a clean shirt and a brave face.

They’d laugh and eat, and he’d swallow each bite like the words he wanted to say but couldn’t under fear’s chokehold. But with them, Harry could pretend to be less lonely than he was, and that he was the bright and clean adult man he wanted to be. And they’d leave, and the dust would settle once again.

He sighed, casting a quick Sobering charm on himself before Summoning the keys to his car, a blue Rover 214 Cabriolet. He had to get out.

From the moment he pulled out of the driveway and onto the street, a song blaring from his speakers, he let the vibrations of the sound drown out the static in his mind. After about eight minutes of driving, he pulled onto the freeway, accelerating in time with the swelling music.

It was his nightly ritual with himself, these late-night drives. He could feel the clean air on his skin, rather than the musk and light scent of trash in the air at home. If he looked up at the blanket of stars he could almost pretend that the wheels were lifting off the ground and soaring through the air and into the sky.

Harry drove until his was the only car on the motorway and the street names lost their familiarity. He drove until his mind was numb, until he could pretend he had a destination other than absolutely nowhere.

Finally, Harry found an exit worth taking, one he hadn’t remembered seeing before. He ignored the prickle of anxiety at the strange streets, cloaked in the darkness, and instead followed the growl of his stomach, which he realized with a wince he’d accidentally neglected for several hours. He drove past hand-painted signs advertising old antique shops and niche, specialty food stores that’d probably defied the odds and managed to stay afloat for ten years; their windows were all darkened, the doors shut and the sidewalk empty. It was silent, save for the rumble of his car engine.

Just when Harry was about to give up and go see if he had a jar of peanut butter tucked in the back of his pantry, or a piece of fruit that hadn’t yet gone moldy, he saw the glow of a sign at the end of the street that kept him from turning around and going home. He approached the parking lot, his nerves returning but mollified enough by the three other parked vehicles. He pulled into a spot, turned off the engine, and got out of the car, slamming the door.

He hesitated a moment, his Auror-trainee instincts altering him to the possible dangers, but the wand in his pocket, the rumble of his empty stomach, and the promising words “Open 24 Hours” painted underneath the sign that read “Comet Diner” were enough to get him to open the door, the bell tinkling behind him.

Harry blinked into the bright room, his eyes adjusting to the light after driving in near pitch-black for at least half an hour. He glanced around the room, listening to the soft rock music playing from the dusty speakers mounted on the wall. He looked at the orange booths, white walls, and metal tables. He turned to his right and was startled to see a large mural of a man smiling and holding a burger. A small paragraph was painted on underneath:

When Alfred Lyman’s wife, Gail, was pregnant with their firstborn in 1967, all she wanted to eat were hamburgers. Alfred, a doting and loving husband, took it upon himself to perfect the recipe that would satisfy his wife’s cravings. After a few tries, Gail declared the hamburger the best she’d ever had and requested he make it for her throughout her pregnancy. Years later, when his job at the papermill folded, he decided to invest his savings into opening a restaurant that served both American and British dishes. Since 1982, Comet Diner has opened its doors to all who need a hot meal and a place to rest for a while.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Harry startled, turning to face a brunette woman wearing an orange and white uniform at the host’s stand, smiling at him with her eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Er, yes, table for one, please.”

She nodded, plucking a menu from a stack behind the stand. “Follow me.”

She led him to a table near the window facing the parking lot, waiting until Harry was seated to hand him a menu.

“Your server will be with you in a few minutes, but take your time.”

“Thanks,” Harry said with a polite smile, waiting until she’d walked away to glance at the menu. As he was deciding between the fish and chips and the shepherd’s pie, he was startled by a familiar voice coming from a few feet away.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Harry looked up and his heart dropped.

Nope, he thought. I’m not dealing with this.

Because surely, surely Draco Malfoy wasn’t standing in front of him in a Muggle diner wearing black jeans, an orange polo shirt and matching baseball cap with ‘Comet Diner’ stitched on both, and a laminated name tag pinned to the shirt.

Harry watched in shock as Malfoy glanced at the clock—the hands designed to look like two strips of bacon—that read 12:30 am. Malfoy looked at Harry again with wide eyes, paled, and turned on a heel, walking away and disappearing into the kitchen without a word.

Harry stared after him, straining to hear the slightly raised but still muffled voices coming from the kitchen over the background music. After a few minutes, he heard a door slam. Malfoy walked into the main room, a bag slung over his shoulder. He didn’t glance at Harry as he moved briskly toward the entrance, pushing open the front door and walking outside, letting in a gust of chilly air as the door shut behind him.

Harry knit his eyebrows as he looked around the now empty dining area. “Hello?” he said hesitantly, feeling a bit embarrassed when there was no immediate response.

A minute or so later, the woman approached his table with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry about the wait. I’m Camille, and I’ll be your server. Have you decided on something?”

Harry glanced at the menu. His appetite had fled with Malfoy, but he smiled up at Camille. “What’s your favorite thing here?”

She blinked in surprise. “Er, the chicken salad sandwich is really good.”

“Sounds great,” Harry said, handing her the menu. “I’ll have that and water when you get a chance.”

She grinned. “Coming right up!” Camille turned and walked back into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind her.

Harry rested his elbows on the table, burying his face in his palms. When the food arrived, he was surprised to find that he liked it, despite the presence of chopped celery, which he usually thought tasted as if water became stringy and was somehow past its expiration date. It was nearly two in the morning when he finally left the diner, pretending he didn’t see flashes of Malfoy’s stunned face in the back of his mind.

Harry wasn’t going to go back to the diner.

He told himself that mantra when he arrived back at the house and set his keys in the bowl by the door. He repeated it as he splashed water on his face and fell back into bed, grateful for a Sunday to sleep as long as he wanted.

He reminded himself when he woke up seven hours later, wiping dried drool from his chin and the sleep from his eyes, that he didn’t care what Malfoy was doing at a Muggle diner along the motorway. “I have a life, now,” he said sternly to his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “What Malfoy does with his life is none of my concern.”

Truly, he was pleased with himself. A less mature version of himself would’ve been back at the diner that very evening, demanding answers and practicing his interrogation skills on the bastard.

Instead, he didn’t think about Malfoy at all. He didn’t think about how unfair it was that Malfoy could make orange look stylish, or that he’d apparently understood the Muggle world enough to get himself a job—let alone the fact that he’d apparently willingly decided to spend his time there. Harry didn’t spend any time wondering whether Malfoy still had magic, if he had a flat or if he lived in Malfoy Manor, or if he walked home or had learned to drive a car.

Harry didn’t think about any of that. He had a life, as he said. A life that contained friends and work and takeout and sitcoms on the telly and not, absolutely not, Draco Malfoy. He said as much to Ron on the night after the last day of Auror training when they’d all gone to the Leaky to celebrate.

“It really showed me how much I’ve moved on from sixth year,” Harry said, shaking his head solemnly, hand curled around the frosty curve of the pint. “Merlin, I was obsessed. Thank gods that’s over, right?”

Ron took a long sip of his pint and gave Harry a dubious look. “Right, mate, whatever you say,” he chuckled, clapping Harry on the back. “Wouldn’t want to arrest you for stalking. I can do that now, y’know,” he said, turning to face the other trainee peers-turned-colleagues. “‘Cause we’re Aurors!” He raised his pint in the air triumphantly.

Harry, Ron, and the others clinked glasses and took long sips of their beer, which turned into cheering for Seamus as he chugged his own pint, and Harry forgot all about Malfoy and his orange shirt and his hat.

It was easy to fall into a routine once he finally received his badge, and officially became a Junior Auror. He and Ron were paired up, and they spent most of their time either on patrol or filling out paperwork for minor cases that sprung up from time to time. He’d go to work and come home late at night, too tired to do anything other than scarf down a piece of fruit, take a shower, and fall into bed, looking forward to resting on the weekends.

But even then, Harry was spending most of the weekend wishing he was at work. At first, it was nice to have some time to himself, but he realized it was rather a lot like it’d been during training, except this time he had no milestone to reach, no finish line to cross or final destination at which he’d have the answer to how to take care of himself when he was alone.

Before, he’d seen the end of training as the time that he’d finally figure out how to spend his free time, how to be productive and healthy. But soon he found himself back in his chair, a pile of weeks-old dishes stacked up on the coffee table next to him. He felt that sense of hopelessness, the kind of despair mixed with guilt that comes with the knowledge that he should be happy, should be doing better, but he couldn’t. And he didn’t know why.

What he did know was that after four weeks of sitting around his house waiting for something to change, he got up from his chair one Saturday, about an hour before midnight, and found himself speeding down the motorway.

He turned up the music, letting it wash over him and fill his mind until there was no space for anything else. His eyes searched until he found the moon, smiling softly to himself when he saw it unobscured by clouds.

When he saw the sign for the exit he’d taken weeks ago, he felt the rush of adventure, of risk, fill his blood. As he contemplated whether or not to give in to temptation, he felt himself veer slightly into the exit lane, driving onto the access road and through the main street toward the diner as if from muscle memory.

He braced himself for Malfoy to flee again at the sight of him when he walked inside, but he stopped short when he saw Malfoy standing with his arms crossed at the register.

“I’m sorry, sir, but there is a seventy-five pence upcharge for extra vegetables on the sandwich,” Malfoy said through a tightly clenched jaw.

The old man in front of Malfoy huffed, his spine hunched slightly as he leaned onto the counter with seemingly crossed arms. “I said I didn’t want the charge when I ordered it. Why don’t you listen?”

“And I told you when you ordered it that way, sir, that you would have to pay for the upcharge.” Malfoy’s voice was clipped, his eyebrow raised scornfully. Harry had to bite back a chuckle at seeing his barely-contained rage.

“Where’s your manager, boy?” The old man glared at Malfoy.

Malfoy let out a humorless laugh. “I’ll gladly get her for you. Lindsey!” he turned his head to call over his shoulder. “A customer would like to speak to you!” He turned back to the customer, and the smug smirk plastered across his face was actually rather funny when not directed at Harry.

A woman appeared from around the corner, her blonde ponytail swinging from the strap of the uniform hat on her head. Her polo was white, unlike Malfoy’s bright orange one, and she came to stand next to him.

“Hello, sir, how can I help you?” She gave the old man a sweet smile.

“Your worker is incompetent,” the old man grumbled, handing the receipt to Lindsey. “He’s overcharging me for my meal!”

Lindsey took the receipt and furrowed her eyebrows. “Did you have the mushroom swiss burger with extra vegetables and a lemonade?”

“I did. But I told him not to charge me for the vegetables.”

Lindsey smiled amusedly. “The prices are set by our corporate owners; we have no control over them. Did you expect my employee to pay for it?”

The old man sputtered. “I, er, I just—”

“Right,” Lindsey nodded. “Sir, as Draco correctly pointed out, your total as indicated on the receipt is accurate. Now, will you be paying in cash or card?”

The old man glared at Malfoy but reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Lindsey turned to Malfoy and raised an eyebrow jerking her head toward Harry. “Draco, would you please take care of the customer who’s been waiting at the door while I help this gentleman here?”

Malfoy nodded and turned to the door with a fresh, saccharine customer service smile. He lifted his eyes to meet Harry’s and then froze, the expression melting off his face. He leaned over and tried to whisper something in Lindsey’s ear but she batted him away. “Just go, Draco, I’m with a customer, as you can see.”

Malfoy closed his eyes and then opened them, stomping up to Harry with a glare that made Harry’s stomach flip.

“What do you want, Potter?”

Harry held up his hands placatingly. “I’m just hungry.”

Malfoy scoffed. “Yeah, right. Look, if you’re here to interrogate me, can you at least wait until I get off for the night?” He leaned in close in a conspiratorial whisper. “This is a Muggle establishment, you idiot, and whatever crimes you think I committed surely aren’t worth breaking the Statute over.”

Harry shook his head. “I’m not here as an Auror, Malfoy, you’re not in trouble. I’m actually hungry.”

“And you just had to come back here again? Haven’t you ever heard of a grocery store? Or basic food storage techniques?”

“I’m a paying customer, Malfoy. You could be a bit less of an arsehole.”

Malfoy gritted his teeth. “Fine,” he said, grabbing a menu and almost causing the stack to topple over. He turned around and marched away and Harry moved to follow him until they came to a table in the back of the restaurant. Malfoy unceremoniously dropped the menu onto the table and walked away with a “You have two minutes to decide, Potter, before I put in an order of haggis for you.”

“I want the chicken salad sandwich, Malfoy.”

Malfoy stopped, turned to look at Harry, and rolled his eyes. “Fine,” was all he said before he walked away briskly back into the kitchen.

Due to the impromptu decision to go to the diner, Harry was without entertainment other than pretending to study the menu while he watched Malfoy work. Luckily, Malfoy seemed determined not to look at Harry while he wiped down tables, swept the floors, stacked the menus, and rang up customers who met him at the counter to pay for their food. With other customers, Malfoy was personable, polite; he even smiled at a few of them. Harry felt something sharp but unnamable curl up in his chest at the sight.

After what Harry thought must’ve been almost ten minutes, Malfoy approached Harry with the sandwich, setting it on the table along with a receipt and walking away without another word.

Harry ate the sandwich quietly as he continued his Malfoy watching. Malfoy wiped down a few more recently emptied tables and disappeared into the backroom for a moment. He then returned holding a large bag and sat down at a table.

Intrigued, Harry watched as Malfoy pulled out a smaller brown paper bag, a notebook, and a Muggle pencil. Malfoy took out a sandwich and bit into it, opening the journal and writing something on one of the pages. His eyebrows were furrowed in focus as he alternated between eating and writing, and when he finished the sandwich, he brushed off his hands and curled up into the booth, resting the notebook on his legs as he wrote.

Harry stared in wonder, having abandoned the pretense of studying the menu. He felt himself rise from the table, his legs moving of their own accord across the diner and sitting in the booth across from Malfoy, who looked at him with a sardonically raised eyebrow.

“Potter, you are aware that I am, at the moment, on my break for…” he trailed off, glancing at the bacon clock briefly before turning his eyes back to Harry. “Ten more minutes? Must you harass me throughout my entire shift?”

Harry rolled his eyes, exasperated. “I just want to talk, Malfoy.”

“I don’t. And seeing as a conversation takes two participants, I suggest that you save your inane, likely inappropriate questions for someone who actually wants to respond.”

“Merlin, we’re not in school anymore! Why are you still being such a dick?”

“Well, just because I was on the losing side of the war, and I no longer hold the same prejudices as my idiot father, that doesn’t mean I like you!” Malfoy hissed, glaring at Harry. “I came here to move on, and you are making that bloody impossible by inserting yourself into my life!”

Harry’s throat felt thick as he tried to swallow down the hurt that Malfoy’s words had caused. “I’m sorry, Malfoy,” he croaked. “I’ll leave you alone.” He moved to stand up from the booth, feeling weirdly like a kicked puppy, when he heard Malfoy sigh resignedly.

“Fine, Potter, you can stay. I’ve only got eight minutes left in my break, anyway.”

“Actually, you can clock out now, if you want.”

They both turned to see Lindsey smiling at Malfoy. “You worked overtime yesterday, anyway.”

Malfoy frowned. “Are you sure?”

Lindsey nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Alright,” Malfoy said with a small, grateful smile at her that made Harry’s breath catch. Malfoy frowned at Harry and shook his head with a sigh. He took off his hat to reveal a hairnet, and while Harry’s eyes widened he bit his tongue when Malfoy pulled it off and ran a hand through his hair. Malfoy unclipped the name tag from his shirt and put it, along with the hat, into the large bag he’d brought with him to the table.

He rose from his seat and Harry followed suit. Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to pay for your food?”

Harry blushed. “Yes, er, please—don’t go anywhere. I still want to talk.”

Malfoy sighed again but nodded. “Go ahead.”

Harry practically ran to the register, where Lindsey stood waiting for him with an amused smile. Harry paid quickly, made sure his keys were in his pocket, and met Malfoy at the entrance.

They stepped outside together, letting the cool night air wash over them. Harry glanced at Malfoy, who walked through the parking lot and started down the crumbling sidewalk.

Harry made quick glances between Malfoy and the parking lot over his shoulder. “You don’t drive?” he blurted.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Of course not, Potter. In the three years since the war, I have not had the time to learn how to operate a motor vehicle in between moving to the Muggle world, getting a job, and reckoning with the fact that my life wasn’t going to turn out at all as I’d thought it would. Moreover, my flat is also twenty minutes away and as you may recall I work at a Muggle establishment which has neither a fireplace nor a nearby Apparition point. Therefore I am left with the tube as my main form of transportation.”

“You have a flat?”

“Your listening comprehension skills have improved since Hogwarts,” Malfoy drawled. “Where did you think I lived?”

“I dunno,” Harry shrugged. “I guess I figured you’d still be at your Manor.”

Malfoy glared. “You apparently have the memory of a goldfish, seeing as you attended the duration of and testified at the very trial that resulted in not only my mother’s and my freedom but also the seizure of my family’s home for generations.”

Harry flushed, then furrowed his eyebrows. “Is your mother with you in your flat, then?” He tried to imagine Narcissa Malfoy living in a small Muggle flat and had to hold back a laugh.

Malfoy shook his head. “No, she’s with a distant cousin in southern France.”

“How’s your father?” Harry surprised himself with the question.

Apparently, Malfoy was just as taken aback. “Why do you care?”

Harry shrugged. “Just curious. I know he’s…I mean I remember at the—the trial that he…”

“Was taken to Azkaban for the rest of his life? Yes, Potter, you can say it. He got what he deserved.”

Harry couldn’t hide his shock. Malfoy noticed and snorted.

“I work at a Muggle diner and am walking to the tube for Merlin’s sake. If the war wasn’t enough to teach me how wrong I was about Muggles, then certainly living like one for three years has…” Malfoy cut himself off and sighed. “Potter, I assure you, while you are certainly entitled to yell or lecture me on who I used to be, there is nothing you can think or say about me that I don’t already think about myself every day.”

Harry stopped walking, his mouth agape as he stared at Malfoy, who walked a couple more steps before he, too, halted in the middle of the sidewalk.

“I’m sorry,” Harry croaked, finally. “I wasn’t trying to…rub it in or anything. I just want to—to talk to you.”

“Why?” Malfoy frowned. “I’ve stayed out of your way—out of everyone’s way. I apologized to the people I hurt, in person and in a letter. I donated my time and family money to both Muggle and Wizarding charities. I don’t know what you want from me. What do you want from me, Potter? What else do I have to do to move on?!” Malfoy was raising his voice now, something wild and hurt in his eyes.

Harry looked away, shrugging helplessly. “This, this isn’t what I—Jesus.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, honest. I really just wanted to talk to you. To get to know you better.”

“Why?” Malfoy said, his voice breathy but forceful. “Why me? Why aren’t you turning to Granger or Weasley or Longbottom or…literally anyone else?”

“I don’t know,” Harry nearly whispered. “I didn’t mean to go looking for you, the first day I went to the diner. I really was just stopping in for food. But then I saw you, working and trying and getting along with Muggles, and I just,” he swallowed around a lump in his throat. “I think that maybe if I talked to you I could see how you did it.”

“How I did what?”

Harry drew in a lungful of air and expelled it in a drawn-out breath. “Figured out the difference between who you were supposed to be, and who you really are.”

Malfoy was silent for a moment, his expression frozen in shock but slowly shifting to confusion and light suspicion, and then finally, he nodded.

“My flat’s at 13 Cornelia Street. You can come by tomorrow at 4, but my shift starts at 7, so you’ll have to bugger off by then.”

Harry felt a strange rush move through his body in a wave, making his stomach flip pleasantly. “Are you sure?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me regret it,” he said, but there was no heat to his voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turned around and started walking toward the tube station.

“Wait, I–my car’s in the parking lot. I can give you a ride?”

Malfoy turned his head briefly enough to reply, “We’re not there yet, Potter.”

Harry chuckled, letting the bright sound fill the cold air and rumble warmly in his chest. He waited until Malfoy had turned the corner to walk back to the parking lot. He took a deep breath and let it out, watching it fog the space in front of him for a moment before it dissipated with the wind.

It took four cups of tea and five outfit changes before Harry was able to find something clean and presentable enough for Malfoy’s flat. He picked the least moth-bitten and faded Weasley sweater, his favorite jeans, and the trainers that made the least amount of noise when he walked and called it a win.

Unfortunately for him, however, traffic in Muggle London was jam-packed in the late afternoon, even on a Sunday. Harry finally parked along the street with a newfound appreciation for the Floo system, stomach-churning though it may be.

He smiled amusedly when he approached the door and found a buzzer; Malfoy wasn’t lying when he said it was a Muggle building. He pressed the button, and after a moment, Malfoy’s slightly staticky voice came through the speaker.

“You’re ten minutes late, Potter.”

Harry huffed. “Sorry, traffic was insane. Can I come up?”

“Wait there for me, Potter. We’re going out.”

Harry blinked in surprise and slight disappointment. He’d really been looking forward to getting a look at Malfoy’s flat. What was it like? Was it a miniature version of the Manor, with posh antique furniture and blank walls? Then again, Malfoy had been full of surprises since their first chance encounter weeks ago; maybe it was messy and bright, like the Burrow, though Harry doubted that. He had a feeling that, no matter how much time went by, Malfoy would always be particular about things. And for once, that thought didn’t make Harry want to scowl.

Just as he was processing that revelation, Malfoy came into view wearing black jeans, loafers, and a baby blue sweater. Harry’s breath caught as he noticed the jumper picked up the flecks of blue in Malfoy’s steely gray eyes, and the jeans hugged his waist in all the right places, and—

“Potter? Earth to Potter?” Malfoy’s fingers snapped directly in front of Harry’s eyes. Malfoy was frowning, his expression almost concerned. “Are you quite alright?”

Harry shook himself. “I’m fine. Sorry.”

Malfoy’s eyebrow went up, but he let it slide. “C’mon, we’re going for a walk.” Malfoy brushed past him without looking back, and Harry moved to catch up to him.

“Where are we going?”

“Do you always ask this many questions?”

“I think ‘Where are we going’ is a pretty reasonable one.”

“We’re going to the supermarket.”

“Why?”

“Because you clearly live on takeaway.”

Harry nearly tripped. “How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“About my, er, eating habits?”

Malfoy looked him up and down, and Harry flushed. “Because you’ve shown up to the diner ravenous at midnight twice now, and because you look like you did at the beginning of every term,” Malfoy’s voice was softer than Harry’d ever heard it, and he felt his blush deepen.

“It’s not on purpose, I just forget, sometimes,” Harry mumbled.

“You don’t have to justify it, Potter. We all have our struggles and reasons for them. What’s important is that we take the steps we can every day to make them better.”

Harry knit his eyebrows. “Did you get hit over the head with a self-help book? When did you get so wise?”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “I don’t have to help you if you’re going to be an arse.”

“I’m not! Well, I wasn’t trying to be. I’m just curious how you know all this stuff.”

“Let’s just say that you’re not the only one who had to find themself after the end of the war,” Malfoy said, staring straight ahead.

Harry didn’t say anything, only nodded and let Malfoy’s words ring in the air between them.

They fell into a surprisingly comfortable silence for the rest of the walk until they came to the supermarket. Malfoy retrieved a basket for each of them and they walked up and down the aisles together. Harry, a little overwhelmed at all the choices, watched as Malfoy examined various produce, meats, and dry goods. Harry ended up buying tons of ingredients and food he remembered from the Dursleys and the Weasleys both, vowing to ask Molly for a few recipes the next time he saw her. He even nabbed a package of pre-made cookie dough on a whim, enjoying the thrill of buying something just because he could; because there was no one to tell him not to.

By the time they’d checked out and were on the way back to Malfoy’s flat, they were both exhausted, their arms sore despite the discreet lightening charms they’d each cast on their grocery bags. When they finally reached the outside of Malfoy’s building, Harry put his own groceries in his car and turned to Malfoy to offer to help him carry his bags up to his flat.

But Malfoy shook his head. “I’m alright, Potter.”

“D’you think you could call me Harry?” The words were out before Harry could stop them, but he clenched his fists to keep them from covering his mouth.

Malfoy blinked, stunned. “We’re not there—”

“We can be. That’s up to us to decide. We might not exactly be best friends yet, but I think we’re past the point where we only call each other by our surnames, don’t you? Let’s start over,” Harry said, extending a hand toward Mal—Draco.

Draco looked at Harry’s extended hand and raised an eyebrow in annoyance as he shifted the bags in his arms to have a free hand for Harry to shake. They unclasped their hands after a moment and exchanged awkward parting words before Draco walked into the building and Harry drove off in his car.

Harry spent the rest of the night putting together a very respectable dinner, consisting of penne with parmesan and a side of pre-cut and washed fruit; sure it wasn’t a five-star meal, and he was too tired to even use magic to do the dishes that night, but he was happy with himself nonetheless. And when he went to bed, he let the pride of a small accomplishment lift the heaviness in his chest.

Harry didn’t have time to go to the store for the next week, but he was proud of himself for only relying on takeout for three days of the workweek instead of all five, using the groceries he’d bought with Malfoy and eating leftovers for lunches.

He began to look forward to going home at the end of the day more than he had in the past. As a Junior Auror, most of his job so far had been processing paperwork and compiling case reports; he’d been surprised to find that cooking and baking were much more stimulating for his brain than reading about the petty crimes and false alarms that’d occurred over the weekend, especially knowing that there were bigger, more impactful cases being discussed behind closed doors.

In between tasks, he sat at his desk and watched longingly as the Senior Aurors sat around the long conference table in another room, leaning in intently as Robards outlined strategies and drew inscrutable symbols on a whiteboard.

Harry was snapped out of his daze when Ron threw a balled-up piece of paper at his head. He turned to see his best friend pretending to look anywhere other than Harry while biting his lip to keep a wide grin from spreading across his face.

Toward the end of the day on Friday, Harry noticed his handwriting become messier and messier, but he didn’t care. He glanced at the clock; if he could get these reports done soon he might have time to start on a bread recipe that he’d seen on the food channel on the telly earlier that week. That was something else he’d discovered; he’d been pleasantly surprised to find an entire channel on his telly dedicated to cooking. He’d watched, fascinated, as the chef explained the origin of each dish, and the techniques behind making them.

Once the clock struck five o’clock, he moved quickly from his desk and barely made it to the Floo before the rush of Ministry workers beat him to it. He happily ate the leftovers from the previous night—roast chicken and potatoes—and got out the ingredients and tools he needed for the bread.

Harry’d once heard Hermione compare baking to Potions, and he’d since been apprehensive about trying to bake himself for fear that it would end as catastrophically as his grades in Snape’s class. But Harry was relieved and excited to find himself thoroughly enjoying the process. Kneading the bread dough made his hands ache but it was strangely therapeutic, and once he finally put it in the refrigerator he had to keep himself from baking it right away after the minimum wait time of three hours. Instead, he let it sit overnight, and immediately when he woke on Saturday he all but ran to the fridge, sliding the dough carefully into the oven.

He had less patience letting it bake for twenty minutes, but he used the pent-up nerves and energy to finish the dishes he’d let build up in the sink. When the oven timer finally went off, he had the forethought to use an oven mitt to pull the bread out of the oven but accidentally grazed his bare arm on the inside of the oven door, burning his skin. He hissed but managed to carefully set the bread down on the stove before running to the sink and putting his arm under cool water for a few minutes until the burn soothed.

While the bread cooled, he let the adrenaline of progress propel him to keep going. He showered and dressed, rifling through his closet until he found a jumper and jeans he hadn’t worn in a while. When he was ready, he approached the bread hesitantly, holding his breath as he cut into it and wanting to cheer when the crust crunched under the knife. He took a bite of the slice he cut, closing his eyes as he tasted the warm, slightly chewy, and soft inside of the bread and the outer shell of the crisp but slightly tender crust.

He swallowed the bite and grinned. Without thinking, he cut the bread into two halves, wrapping the bigger portion in foil. He wanted someone else to taste this, to experience and see evidence of his creation.

When he drove away, he didn’t know where he was going until he was already exiting the motorway, his body alight with anticipation as he pulled along the street of Malfoy’s flat.

Nerves filled his chest even as he approached the buzzer. When he moved to ring it, he waited for the tug in his stomach of preemptive regret, the alert from his instincts to tell him that this was a terrible idea that could only end poorly. But, when none came, he let his finger press the button.

It was silent for a few moments, and just as Harry was about to turn around and Floo to the Burrow for Ron and Hermione’s opinion, Malfoy’s drawl sounded through the staticky speaker. “Whoever you are, you have the wrong flat. Try another.”

Harry pressed the button again. “Draco, it’s me.”

There was another pause. “Potter? What the hell are you doing here?”

“I, er,” Harry stammered. “Come down and see.”

“I’m not coming down until you tell me why.”

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I have something for you. A present.”

There was silence on the other end for long enough that Harry felt compelled to press the button again and start to say, “If now’s not a good time—”

Suddenly, the door to the building opened to reveal Draco wearing a button-down shirt and trousers, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What’s going on?”

Harry held out the foil-wrapped package. “This is for you.”

“What is it?”

“Bread! I made bread.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “And you decided to come to my flat and tell me about it because…?”

Harry felt himself blush, his skin prickling in embarrassment. “I dunno, I just. I got inspired after our trip to the store and I saw this recipe, and I made it, and it came out pretty well, and I wanted you to have some.” He shrugged. “As a thank-you, I guess.”

Draco blinked and cleared his throat, accepting the proffered bread. “Thank you, Potter.”

“It’s Harry.”

Draco sighed, but there was something almost fond in his voice when he said, “Thank you, Harry.”

“You’re welcome, Draco,” Harry said, beaming and feeling strangely proud.

“Alright, goodbye then,” Draco said with a tight-lipped smile, closing the door.

Harry smirked to himself, spending the whole drive back home allowing a wide, goofy grin to take over his face, unwilling to question why he kept replaying the memory of Draco’s soft, “Harry,” over in his mind.

“Harry this is amazing,” Hermione stared at the piece of bread in her hand in disbelief and then flicked her eyes back up to Harry. “You made this yourself?”

Harry dipped his own slice into the thick stew steaming in front of him. “Yeah, ‘Mione, I do have some skills, y’know.” He took a bite, letting his eyes flutter closed as the salty, rich flavors coated his tongue and warmed him from the inside out. “Well,” he mused after swallowing. “I made the bread. The stew is from Harper’s.”

“Still, it’s bloody impressive mate,” Ron said “Soon you’ll be giving Mum a run for her galleons.”

Harry snorted. “As if I ever could, even if I wanted to. But thanks, Ron, you’re a good friend.”

“I’m telling Molly you said that,” Hermione said with a teasing grin.

“You wouldn’t,” Ron said, his glare belied by the playful twitch of his lips.

They both giggled, and Harry rolled his eyes half-heartedly. He really was glad to see his friends be so happy and in love, even three years after their war-born romance. Still, it was a bit nauseating to watch them, especially when they were too wrapped up in each other to remember that they weren’t the only two people in the room. It was adorable, at first, but after more than a few times of having to interrupt their several-minutes-long private staring contest (which Harry refused to think of as eyefucking), it could get rather annoying.

“Is there any more bread?” Ron asked hopefully.

Harry shook his head. “Sorry, mate, I gave the rest away this morning.”

“Oh? To whom?”

“Er…A friend,” Harry focused his gaze on his empty bowl.

“You have other friends?” Ron smirked.

“Ron!” Hermione admonished, swatting her boyfriend lightly on the arm. She then turned to Harry, her gaze intense and inquisitive. “Do we know them?”

“Who knows anyone, really? Does anyone really, truly know the people in their lives?” Harry shrugged. “It’s a spectrum.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “I know you well enough to know when you’re deflecting. And I think you know me well enough to know that it’s easier for us both if you tell me now before I find out for myself.”

Ron let out an almost startled laugh, dissolving into snickers. Hermione’s lips twitched, but other than that her expression remained determined, her brown eyes still focused on Harry.

He sighed and gave in to the inevitable. “Draco Malfoy,” he mumbled, staring back at his bowl.

His friends immediately fell silent. Harry chanced a look back up at them. Ron’s jaw was clenched. Hermione’s eyes were wide as she curled her arms into herself.

Harry let the silence continue for a moment before he blurted, “Well, say something!”

“I thought you said you weren’t going back there,” Ron said, his face grim.

Harry’s blood ran cold. “And I meant it, then, I promise. I didn’t intend to go back to the diner after I saw him the first time. But, well, I went on another drive, and it was late and the diner was open and…” Harry let himself trail off, ending the sentence with a shrug.

“How long have you been…hanging out?” Ron asked with a shudder.

“Just a week or so. We’ve only actually hung out once, but he’s…different now.”

“A snake that sheds its skin is still poisonous,” Ron spat, glaring at Harry. “How can you trust him?”

“Well, as I said we’ve only been on speaking terms for a week, Ron, it’s not like he’s a groomsman at my wedding or anything. But he’s living in Muggle London now. He works at a Muggle diner. He even has Muggle friends. He’s the reason I bought fresh groceries this week because he dragged me to the supermarket. So I gave him some of the bread I made,” Harry shrugged. “Besides, if there’s one of us who has the biggest reason to have a grudge against Malfoy, it’s not you or me.”

He and Ron both turned to look at Hermione, who had been silently taking in the scene around her. Finally, she laid her forearms on the table and laced her fingers together. When she spoke, her tone was even and soft.

“The war ended three years ago. If Malfoy has managed to have a life in Muggle London for this long, he must’ve changed enough to at least be decent,” Hermione said. “And Harry, I trust you. If you think he’s worthy of another chance, then I’ll give him one, too.”

Harry felt gratitude swell inside of him, giving Hermione a relieved smile. “Thanks, ‘Mione.”

She nodded, ignoring Ron’s indignant sputter. “Just—be careful, alright? Reformed or not, Malfoy has a way of getting under your skin more than…most people.”

Harry rolled his eyes “It’s fine, really. It’s just Malfoy.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ron grumbled, scowling slightly. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

The next night, Harry couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned, replaying his friends’ words over and over. After he and Hermione had calmed Ron down, Harry had let them both pester him with questions about Draco, surprising all three of them with how much he’d been able to satisfy.

“What’s he like now?”

“Quiet, but still snarky when he wants to be. It’s not mean, though. More defensive than anything, I dunno how to explain it.”

“Is he good at his job?”

“He seems to be. He’s good at handling difficult customers; I’m not sure I could get through it without hexing someone.”

“Why is he living in Muggle London?”

That was one question Harry hadn’t known how to answer. Draco had made it seem like his exile was forced, but after a quick trip to the Ministry archives on Monday had refreshed his memory about the ruling in Draco’s trial, Harry remembered the terms of Draco’s parole. The seizure of the Manor and a portion of the Malfoy vaults had been the only punishment to affect Draco and Narcissa; they still had magic, and some access to money.

Had Draco voluntarily chosen to live in the Muggle world, restricting his magic to within his own flat? Had Draco chosen to get that job and pay for the flat himself rather than relying on Parkinson or Zabini to support him until he weaseled his way into some posh job using the last of his family connections?

Harry glanced at the clock, groaning when it only read 11:30 p.m. He was supposed to be at work in eight hours, and his mind wouldn't be quiet long enough for him to get any rest.

Harry threw off the covers and pulled on a sweatshirt. He padded into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door to heed his now grumbling stomach. He perused the collection of groceries at his disposal, smiling to himself when he found what he was looking for.

With a flick of his wand, he turned on the wireless as he arranged the pre-sliced cookie dough squares onto a baking sheet. While the cookies baked, he washed the dishes from dinner, finishing just in time to take the dessert out of the oven.

He poured himself a glass of milk and nabbed one of the cookies off the tray when it was still a bit too warm and falling apart slightly, but as he sunk his teeth into the chewy, chocolatey goodness, he didn’t care one bit.

The kitchen clock read 12:45 a.m., and Harry hadn’t gotten any closer to being able to sleep, the distraction of baking no longer enough to take his mind off of Draco. Finally, he decided that if he was going to give in to the inevitable, he might as well not show up empty-handed.

He carefully packed the cookies into tupperware. Then he tugged on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, grabbing his keys, the first Muggle book he could find, and the container of cookies before he was out the door.

This time, Harry didn’t pretend to have an alternate destination. He drove with a single-minded purpose until he reached the diner.

When he walked inside, the container of cookies tucked under his arm, he tried to catch Draco’s eye to alert him to his presence; the blond was scrambling, one of two servers visible on the main floor.

Harry tried not to let his disappointment show when he was taken to a table far from where Draco was almost frantically running between tables, refilling drinks, delivering food, and taking orders. One of Draco’s co-workers, a young woman who introduced herself as Natasha, smiled pleasantly enough when Harry only ordered a soda and a side salad. She walked away, and Harry promised himself he’d leave her a big tip before he cracked open the book, determined not to spend the rest of Draco’s shift staring at the blond.

When the food came, Harry lifted his head from his book to thank Natasha; as she moved to serve other customers, Harry scanned the dining area once more, this time successful in latching onto intent gray eyes.

Harry held his breath as he watched Draco’s face shift from surprise to half-hearted exasperation. Draco rolled his eyes and mouthed, ‘Later,’ to which Harry smiled and nodded, returning to his book with a grin and a quiet sigh of relief.

Harry was still reading when Draco approached his table about half an hour later with a raised eyebrow.

“A side salad and a soda? At one in the morning? You do have a day job, don’t you?”

Harry flushed. “I can’t sleep, you know that. And I didn’t come here to eat.”

“Then why did you?”

“I wanted to talk.”

“Didn’t we do that a couple of days ago?”

“Don’t you talk to your friends more than once every few days, Draco?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Is that what we are, now?”

“I thought so. I mean, I made you bread, didn’t I?”

Draco’s lips twitched. “Ah, yes, the ceremonial bread exchange which must begin any fledgling friendship.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “Git. C’mon, Draco, I made cookies,” he said, gesturing to the tupperware. “When was the last time you ate?”

“What are you, my mother?”

“How long?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I didn’t eat lunch, alright?” Draco huffed.

“Why not?”

“They had too many people working and not enough customers at the time I arrived, so they made me take my break early. I wasn’t hungry.”

“So you’ve been working for, what, almost ten hours straight without eating?”

Draco shrugged. “I don’t know, Harry, but I think if I stay here for much longer than strictly necessary today I might lose my mind.”

“Is your shift over? I have an idea of something that might take your mind off things,” Harry smiled in a way that he hoped was inviting and not weirdly intense.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have work in the morning?”

“Yeah, but I’m fine. I can call in sick for a day if I have to. Besides, you don’t start your work until the evening, right?”

“Correct, though I do have afternoon plans.”

“Doing what?”

“I’ll tell you, but could I possibly do it in a place where I don’t have to stand up any longer?” Draco bent his knees slightly. “My feet are going to fall off.”

Harry chuckled. “Alright, just let me pay—”

Draco waved a dismissive hand. “I took care of it, let’s just go.”

“What?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “It would’ve taken longer if you’d paid for it. Besides, you made me bread.”

Harry bit back a far-too pleased grin. “And cookies!”

Draco peered curiously at the tupperware. “Yes, it seems those aren’t a figment of my hunger and exhaustion-induced hallucinations.”

Harry laughed again, standing up from the booth. “C’mon, Draco. Let’s get you some fresh air, yeah?”

Harry tried not to look too much at Draco in the passenger seat next to him. He’d expected the blond to be a nervous passenger, demanding that Harry slow down and flinching at every turn. But it seemed that a few years of taking the tube had introduced Draco to the world of non-magical transportation enough that he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the car ride.

Harry turned up the music to drown out the thoughts swirling in his mind about how the moonlight shone on Draco’s skin and the wind blew against his hair. Draco’s eyes were closed, his lips curved into a soft smile as the car sped down the nearly-empty motorway.

Eventually, Harry noticed an exit sign for a rest stop and took the offramp, following the street signs until he came to a place to park the car.

Draco’s eyes were open, but the smile stayed intact as he tilted up his head to look at the stars. Harry busied himself with opening the container of cookies and offering one to Draco, who accepted the proffered dessert and took a greedy bite with a satisfied groan that made Harry flush.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, just looking up at the twinkling stars and each taking cookies at their leisure. Draco rested his feet on the dash and leaned back in his seat with a contented sigh.

“Why don’t you work at the diner in the morning?” Harry asked, breaking the silence that had blanketed them.

“I’m busy, then.”

“Doing what?”

Draco sighed. “If you must know, I attend Muggle university.”

Harry immediately perked up. “Really?”

“You don’t have to sound quite so surprised, you know,” Draco glared.

“Sorry,” Harry gave him a small, sheepish look. “It’s a good thing, a good shock. So what are you studying?”

“Poetry and writing.”

“That’s…” Harry trailed off as a memory slotted into place. “Is that what you were doing in your notebook, the first night? Writing?”

Draco flushed. “I write during my breaks, in the morning when I wake up, between classes, before I go to bed—any time I can.”

“How’d you get into writing?”

“It was the one subject they didn’t offer at Hogwarts, so naturally my parents got me a private tutor,” Draco explained, picking up another cookie and taking a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “I immediately latched onto it, but when I said I wanted to write for a living, my father insisted that it could be no more than a secret hobby and fired the tutor.”

“Why?”

“A Malfoy couldn’t stoop so low as to pursue a career in anything so…turbulent,” Draco scoffed. “If only he could see me now.”

“Well, life in Azkaban has a lot more stability than a writing career,” Harry snorted, then froze, glancing at Draco to gauge his reaction.

Draco just sighed. “Yes, well. Anyway, I kept writing in secret. There were a lot of days spent in my bedroom while the Dar—he was living in the Manor. I wrote a lot, then. And then after the war, I knew my life wouldn’t ever be the same, or look like anything that my parents or I had envisioned for myself. But I thought I might as well make room in my life for something I loved. So, I converted and used the rest of the Malfoy vaults to pay rent on a Muggle flat and I put my salary at the diner toward my tuition.”

Harry was stunned, unable to say anything other than, “Holy shit Draco that’s amazing. You’re amazing.”

Draco blushed furiously. “It’s survival,” he mumbled. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Yes you did, of course you did. No one would have blamed you if you’d followed your mother out of the country and never returned. But you stayed, and you worked hard, and you just—” Harry took a fortifying breath. “You did the best you could,” he said softly.

Draco visibly swallowed, and Harry watched his Adam's apple bob up and down with the movement. “Thank you, Harry.”

Harry smiled. “You’re welcome.”

Draco didn’t meet his eyes for a minute or so, and Harry didn’t try to force it, letting the conversation lull until Draco started it again.

“So, Harry, what do you do in your free time other than bribing me with baked goods in exchange for friendship?”

Harry snorted. “I drive around looking for diners that have hired my old arch-enemies, obviously.”

“How dare you,” Draco held a hand to his own chest in mock offense. “I thought I was your only nemesis. Have you been cheating on me all this time?”

“Oh yeah, this other bloke made t-shirts that said ‘Potter’s An Idiot.’ Really outshone your badges.”

“Well, the joke’s on you, because I had a side enemy, too.”

“When he pranked you, did you at least think of me?”

“I admit it, Potter, he meant nothing. It was hate at first sight, with you,” Draco batted his eyelashes, and Harry burst out laughing. Draco’s face split into a wide grin before he started giggling, too.

A few moments later, once they were wrapped in comfortable silence, Draco took another cookie. “Merlin, I was an idiot back then.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, his stomach flipping at Draco’s vulnerable admission. “Well, I think we all were, to some extent.”

Draco chuckled humorlessly. “I think I win in that department. I’ve got the tattoo to prove it,” he said bitterly, determinedly not meeting Harry’s gaze.

“But you’re different now, right? You made it through, and you’ve earned another chance.”

Draco didn’t reply for a moment, and then he sighed. “I don’t know why you’re doing this.”

“What?”

“This,” Draco said, gesturing between them. “Calling me ‘Draco,’ visiting me at work, making me cookies. Trying to be my friend.”

“Because…” Harry thought about it, trying to choose his words as carefully as possible. He looked around the car, as if it would give him the answers, until his eyes fell on the book he’d brought. “Do you know what a crucible is?”

Draco shook his head, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Well,” Harry continued. “First of all, it’s the title of a play by this Muggle playwright. The plot is fairly irrelevant to this topic, though you should read the play if you get a chance, or watch the movie. It’s actually about witches—well, Muggle ones. Sort of. You see—”

“Harry,” Draco stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm, and Harry’s heart sped up in his chest. “I’m confused. What are you talking about?”

“Right. So. The plot of the play is irrelevant, but the title refers to this tool in Muggle science where metal is heated at extreme temperatures and, when it’s done, it’s become something new,” Harry took a deep breath, forcing himself to meet Draco’s gaze. “That’s what happened to you—to both of us. The war was our crucible, and when we came out of it we were different people than we were at the beginning.”

“Really? Your point is that the war changed us?” Draco scoffed. “Truly astounding news, Potter.”

“Well, yes, but my point is that maybe we weren’t who we each needed to be, yet, in order to become friends. Maybe we had to be in a crucible, and now that we’re out of it, we’ve become who we really are.”

Draco gave him a slightly shaky smile. “Instead of who we thought we were supposed to be.”

Harry’s heart clenched. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Something like that.”

In retrospect, Harry supposed, staying out until three in the morning, in the middle of nowhere, when he had to be at work four hours later wasn’t his best decision.

And yet, even as he yawned into his third cup of coffee of the morning, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

He looked at the paperwork in front of him, clenching his eyes shut and blinking them open them in an effort to wake himself up. But as he stared longer and longer at the piece of paper, the more frustrated he grew.

He reached for his mug, which he’d accidentally set down without taking a sip, and brought it to his lips, swallowing a sip and cringing in disgust. While he loved iced coffee—preferred it, even, to hot coffee drinks—he didn’t fancy coffee that had once been hot turning into cold, brown water.

He sighed, rising from his chair and grabbing his mug. On his way to the sink in the break room he passed by the Head Auror’s office, the door slightly ajar.

“...Not ready for the field yet,” he heard Robards grunt.

Harry dumped the coffee into the sink and went about making himself a new cup, voices from the office floating into the hallway.

“I thought he’d be more of an asset, but he’s just tired all the time.”

“He’s probably entitled. The kid saved the world, sure, but when everyone kisses your arse you feel like you don’t have to prove yourself.”

Harry froze as his stomach turned with dread and anger. He gripped the mug of coffee tight in his fist.

“He can’t even do the paperwork right. His handwriting is unreadable. But I can’t fire him, the press would go crazy.”

A chuckle. “Maybe if you keep him around long enough without any action he’ll quit.”

“I hope so, mate.”

Harry let the mug slip from his fingers and shatter on the ground.

Various people stuck their heads out of their cubicles at the disturbance. Most of them looked at him in surprise, but a few scowled in annoyance and returned to their work.

Harry flicked his fingers and calmly cleaned up the mess with a wordless spell. Then he straightened his shoulders and walked into the open office.

Robards, who was sitting behind his desk, looked up in surprise, while the man in the guests' chair, who Harry recognized as one of the Senior Aurors, raised his eyebrows at Harry’s intrusion.

“What’s going on, Potter?” Robards asked gruffly.

Harry took off his badge and outer robe uniform and set it on the desk. “I quit.”

Both mens’ jaws dropped. Robards blinked. “What?”

“I quit. I hate this job. You’re right—I’m tired all the time because instead of sleeping I take the time to make up for the miserable hours I spend working here.” Harry laughed humorlessly. “I thought this was what I was supposed to do, but this job isn’t for me…” he trailed off, glancing at the days-old scar on his arm, remembering the burn as he’d taken the bread out of the oven. “I need to do something that makes me happy enough that even the unenjoyable parts are worth it.”

Robards didn’t speak for a moment, his eyes narrowed, assessing. Harry stood his ground with a neutral expression, making sure to neither cower nor glare under the scrutiny.

Finally, Robards nodded. “Very well. I’ll consider this your two weeks’ notice.”

“Actually, since I’ve not taken any vacation time, I’d like to use that up so I don’t have to spend a second longer in this place than I have to.”

Robards huffed. “Fine. You can submit the paperwork with HR.”

“Great,” Harry said, moving toward the door. “And don’t worry, I’ll be sure to make the handwriting legible this time,” he said with a wink, grinning at the two mens’ shocked faces before striding out of the office and right to his desk. He sent a Patronus to Ron, internally praying he’d understand. He filled out the paperwork and sent it off, gathered his things, and strode confidently to the Floo, closing his eyes as he let himself be swallowed by the green flames.

Grimmauld Place seemed brighter, somehow, though the adrenaline coursing through Harry’s body might have had something to do with that. He dumped his belongings on the coffee table and glanced at the time. Draco was in class but he’d be done in half an hour, and if Harry hurried and got there before Draco left to get ready for his shift at the diner then maybe they could—

He stopped. What would they do, exactly? Why did he have a sudden need to run right to Draco? He could call Andromeda and offer to pick up Teddy from school. He could Floo the Burrow and see if Arthur had any fatherly advice on what to do with his life now that his dream job turned out to be a nightmare.

But despite having parted ways only a few hours ago, Harry felt strangely compelled to get in his car and speed down the motorway to catch Draco, to occupy his time for even a few minutes before he went about living the life he’d built for himself, by himself.

He didn’t think; he just grabbed his keys and ran to the car so fast he felt he could’ve Apparated.

The drive was going well enough until he was a few minutes down the motorway and noticed bumper-to-bumper traffic looming in the distance. He pulled up behind another car and let his leg bounce anxiously, sitting up as high as he could to see if he could spot any movement in the huge crowd. With no end to the traffic in sight, he let his head tilt forward and bump against the steering wheel.

It took about ten minutes, but the traffic eventually cleared up and Harry was moving quickly, trying to go the speed limit and then cursing and slowing down when he noticed himself moving too fast. Finally, his GPS instructed him to exit the motorway toward the university, and in a few turns, he pulled into the visitor’s parking lot.

He got out of the car and walked briskly until he reached what seemed to be a common area. He stopped, looking around before he realized that Draco could be anywhere on the campus. He could be in class, sitting in one of the rooms of the ancient-looking gothic buildings. He could be in a coffee shop, chatting up some other student who didn’t have emotional baggage or moldy fruit in their fridge. He could be in the library, pouring over his books, his tongue peeking between his lips like he did when he concentrated, the way he had in the diner with his notebook against his legs, the pencil in his hand as steady as when he held a wand.

Harry sagged, defeated, and plopped down onto a nearby bench, burying his head in his hands. What had he been thinking, showing up to a campus he’d never been to after quitting the job that, while boring, provided a steady income? Granted, he didn’t really need the money; his parents had left him more than enough to live on, especially since he was living in a home that had been gifted to him. Still, it was a strange, anxious feeling to no longer be anchored by familiar burdens, waiting for the shoe to drop and crush you back down to earth.

“Harry?”

Harry’s head jerked up with a soft gasp. Draco looked at him in complete confusion. “What are you doing here? Why aren't you at work?”

“I—” Harry started, “I hated being an Auror.”

Draco blinked, his face pinched in confusion. “Okay. Wait—hated? As in, past tense?” He raised an eyebrow, “What did you do?”

“I quit,” Harry said in a rush of breath. It was getting easier to comprehend, now that he’d said it aloud. “I quit,” he said more firmly, surprised at the excited goosebumps that rose on his skin.

Draco looked at Harry with wide eyes as he sat down next to him on the bench. “Alright, and how do you feel?”

Harry turned to face him, his heart pounding at the earnest, open expression on Draco’s face. He looked into his eyes and saw no judgment, no anger or snark. Just understanding. “I feel good,” Harry said. “I don’t know what I want, though.”

Draco nodded. “That’s okay. You don’t have to, right now. Because you know what you don’t want, right?”

“Right.”

“Then all you have to do is think about what makes you happy, and then do as much of that as you can,” Draco said with an encouraging smile. He reached into his bag and pulled out his notebook, flipping to a blank page and starting a numbered list. “So, what makes you happy, Harry?”

Harry just stared, bewildered. “I…I don’t…”

“Okay, let’s try this; I learned this from Pansy,” Draco turned so he and Harry were facing one another head-on. “Close your eyes,” and Harry surprised himself with how quickly he obeyed. “Don’t think, just say the first thing that comes to mind when I ask you a question, okay?”

Harry knit his eyebrows but nodded. “Alright.”

“What’s your name?”

“You know my name.”

“Just—it’s an exercise, Potter. Quick, what’s your name?”

“Harry Potter.”

“What’s your favorite food?”

“Treacle tart.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“July 31, 1980.”

“What makes you happiest?”

“Being with you.”

Harry froze, feeling his cheeks heat. He kept his eyes closed for a moment more, not quite ready to face the look of shock that Draco must be wearing.

He forced himself to open his eyes, and his breath caught.

Draco was shocked, yes, but there was no anger or disgust or anxiety in his eyes. He looked at Harry with awe, like he couldn’t believe Harry, or the moment, could be real.

Harry felt the adrenaline return to his mind as his hands moved almost of their own accord and took Draco’s, squeezing them gently. “Don’t think just answer,” Harry said softly. “What do you want?”

Draco’s mouth quirked up in the corners for an instant before he leaned in suddenly, pressing their lips together. Harry let his eyes fall shut again and melted into the kiss.

They pulled away to breathe, and Harry pressed their foreheads together gently. “I want to be who I am,” he said, his voice low, “with the person I’m supposed to be with. And I know we’ve just barely got to be friends, and there are days I can barely remember to eat dinner, but being around you these past couple weeks has made me happier than I’ve been in…” Harry swallowed. “A long time. And I want to see where this takes us. That’s what I want, what do you want?”

Draco smiled. “I think we’re there, now,” he said, leaning in for another kiss. Harry met him halfway and closed his eyes, feeling buoyant and light as if he could soar through the air and into the sunny sky.

Epilogue (One Year Later)

“I’m just saying, it’s a momentous occasion, Potter.”

“For the last time, it’s Harry.”

“I’ll call you Harry when you take this seriously.”

Harry scoffed as he started to pour cupcake batter into the lined tins. “It’s my boyfriend’s graduation party; you think I’m not taking this seriously?”

Pansy examined her nails. “Either that, or you’re being lazy.”

“It’s not laziness to refuse to make a lifesize statue of Draco made entirely of cake, Pansy,” Harry huffed, scraping the bowl. “I’m a baker, not a miracle worker.”

She pouted. “That’s not the Gryffindor can-do spirit.”

“Even Gryffindors have limits." He bent over, putting the pan in the oven.

“Do you, now?”

“I do, which is why I’m telling you to leave me in charge of the dessert for the party. I do this for a living,” Harry said, rolling his eyes and wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “The party is being hosted in my bakery, for Merlin’s sake.”

After quitting the Aurors, Harry spent a month or so thinking of different jobs he might enjoy. He tried, or at least considered, everything from writing for Luna at the Quibbler, to working with Neville at his plant shop.

And during that time, he felt himself more and more drawn toward the kitchen when he was stressed, letting off steam by kneading dough or icing cupcakes.

It was when Draco had taken a bite of one of Harry’s creations and moaned, saying, “Merlin this is phenomenal. It reminds me of a patisserie in Paris from when I was a kid,” that it clicked.

Within a few weeks, Harry had signed the paperwork to become the proud owner of Marauders and Sons' Bakery. Draco, Hermione, and Ron had been kind enough to help him with the repairs, especially when bribed with cupcakes, and soon after Harry became the most popular baker in Diagon Alley.

Pansy huffed but waved her hand dismissively. “Whatever. I suppose it’s fine as long as it tastes good.”

Harry grit his teeth. “It will.”

She smirked. “Someone’s tetchy. I suppose I’ll leave you to your business, then.”

“Oh, no, please don’t go,” Harry deadpanned.

To his surprise, Pansy let out a short laugh. “My, my, Potter, maybe there is a little Slytherin sense of humor in you, after all.”

“Harry’s had plenty of Slytherin in him,” Draco said from the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the frame with a smirk. Harry and Pansy both turned to look at him as he sauntered over to them, pecking Pansy on the cheek and then moving easily to drape himself over Harry.

Pansy tsked. “Don't be crude, darling, it’s unbecoming.”

“Sorry, he’s picked it up from me. Because, you know, Draco’s gotten some Gryffindor in him, too,” Harry said with a wink. Draco turned to muffle his snickers into Harry’s shoulder.

Pansy grimaced and shook her head. “How uncouth. Draco, I’ll be going before I endure any more of what I can only assume is your strange form of foreplay. I’ll come by your flat tomorrow for more graduation party planning, shall I?”

“Sounds great, Pans,” Draco said, elbowing Harry in the gut just as Harry was about to object. Harry frowned and rubbed his side, but he didn’t protest.

“Marvelous,” Pansy’s grin was sharklike. “I’ll see you both tomorrow!” She turned and walked out of the kitchen through the back door, her stilettos clicking against the tile floor.

Harry sagged in relief when the door shut behind her. “I thought she’d never leave.”

Draco swatted his arm lightly. “She’s my best friend, Potter.”

“Oh, please, as if you don’t say the same thing about Ron when we have dinner with him and Hermione. At least you two can bond over wizard’s chess; Pansy and I have nothing in common.”

“Yes you do, you both love me,” Draco smirked, pressing a quick kiss to Harry’s lips.

Harry sighed heavily. “Yes I do, Merlin help me, I think I’m stuck with you.”

“You are, especially since I'm going to be a college graduate soon.”

“That you are. What are you going to do with all the spare time you’ve got, now that you’ve left the diner?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Draco said, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck. “I thought I might look for a nice, quiet bakery and coffee shop in which to write my poetry book.”

“Ah, yes,” Harry said, nodding solemnly. “If only you had a boyfriend who’d let you sit there and eat his pastries and drink his tea and coffee for free.”

Draco smiled at Harry through his eyelashes. “A poet needs a muse, you know. Working here will mean that mine is right behind the counter when I need him.”

Harry hummed, running his hands along Draco’s waist. “I can’t argue with the poet.”

“See? And it only took you a year to learn not to argue with me,” Draco smirked. “Who knows where we’ll be in a year from now.”

Harry chuckled, pecking him on the lips. “I can’t wait to find out.”