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The early morning rays slowly crept into the room, making their way through the small slit between the slightly open curtains. They rested across the edge of the bed and danced on the wooden floorboards in slanted golden lines. A gentle hush filled the space—soft inhalations, even softer exhalations, the peaceful rhythm of sleep. Silver locks of hair were carelessly scattered across the pillow, illuminated faintly by the slanting golden light.
Draco opened his eyes slowly, the warmth behind him making his muscles tighten before his mind even caught up. The moment he felt it, Draco stilled. He stopped breathing, just for a second. The arm curled loosely around his waist was familiar now — not unwelcome, but not quite comforting either.
He shifted, carefully, untangling the other’s limb from his own, letting it fall gently onto the sheets as he pulled away. The blankets folded inwards where his body had been, leaving behind only the puffs of heat and the ghost of his shape.
Draco sat up quietly, the mattress creaking softly beneath his weight. His eyes scanned the room—clothes tossed in hurried paths across the floor, a crumpled book near the bed, empty glasses on the nightstand. He found his jeans first, slipped them on with practiced ease. The shirt was next—a black button-down from yesterday that smelled faintly like cinnamon and old tea leaves. He rolled the sleeves up slowly.
“You’re up early,” a voice murmured behind him, hoarse from sleep and barely above a whisper.
“I have to go,” Draco replied without turning around, fingers slowly doing up the small black buttons.
Sheets rustled. “You could stay.” The voice was quiet—pleading, even—but still gentle.
The words lingered, fragile. Almost a plea, almost a whisper.
“You know I can’t.” He buttoned his shirt, hands moving slowly, deliberately.
“When will I see you again?” The sheets shifted — Draco could hear the bare feet hitting the floor.
“When I can,” Draco said, too carefully.
“I could wait for you here. I don’t mind.”- the man offered again.
“Don’t,” Draco said softly, barely above a breath.
“Draco—”
The name in that voice nearly undid him.
He repeated, “Don’t,” a little sharper, just to keep from trembling.
He stepped toward the door. His hand closed around the knob.
“I love you.” The words hung in the air like smoke. Tangible. Heavy.
Draco froze. His grip on the handle turned white-knuckled. His eyes closed as though against pain. “I have to go,” he whispered. He opened the door. A cold rush of morning air swept in.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Then, silence.
The café was quiet this time of morning. Just before the breakfast rush. The scent of roasted beans mixed with the faint floral notes of the cleaning spray Draco had just used on the counter. He wiped down the wood slowly, cloth moving in slow, thoughtful circles. He’d grown to like the rhythm of the place. The early morning hush. The way people came and went, leaving pieces of themselves in the half-finished coffee cups and lingering perfume. His mind, however, wasn’t on the countertop. It was still caught somewhere in the space between the weight of another’s arm and the echo of another man’s voice. A voice he hadn’t heard in nine months. His voice.
He didn’t know how he ended up here exactly.
With Theo.
With this café.
With all the quiet things he never thought he’d grow used to.
Theodore Nott had been a constant. A friend in school, a stranger after the war, and then something not quite either. Draco knew of Theo’s feelings. Always had. There were glances too soft, silences too weighted. Theo never hid it well. But Draco had never returned them. Not entirely. Not until recently. Not completely even now. He’d told Theo once, after too many whiskeys and a shared cigarette on the roof-
“I can’t love you the way you want me to."
Theo had nodded then, eyes unreadable.
“I know,” he said. “But I’ll stay anyway, if you’ll let me.”
And Draco did. Because sometimes, having someone who stayed—even imperfectly—was better than being alone.
But then he had seen him again.
That boy.
That man.
Harry.
In this very café, almost a year ago. With him. The new lover. The younger one. The boy with the sharp smile and ice-coloured eyes who looked too much like Draco for it to be an accident. And Harry sitting across from him — older now, a little more tired, but still radiant in the ways that mattered. Still with that gaze that pulled Draco’s lungs out through his ribs. They sat right there, by the window. Draco had brought their drinks, polite and impersonal. Treacle tart, too. He had smiled. Said happy anniversary. Lied through his teeth.
He remembered the way Harry’s eyes caught his, burning through every word unspoken.
That was when it broke him. Quietly. Without a word.
He still remembered every line of Harry’s face.
He still remembered how it had felt to say “I love you” for the last time — two years and change ago — in that small, silent flat with the windows half-fogged, wrapped around each other like the only thing left in the world.
Draco had walked away before he crumbled.
Draco scrubbed harder at the counter. The bell over the door rang softly, pulling him back to the present. He blinked, cloth freezing mid-motion.
There he was.
Not Harry. But close.
That boy again — Rowan, his name was. He looked so much like a memory that Draco had to remind himself it wasn’t the past walking in again. Rowan moved toward the same table, by the window. The one they’d sat at. As if the room remembered it too.
It became a routine. At first, it was sporadic. Once a week. Then twice. Then, nearly every morning. Rowan would come in, always in the early morning, before the world fully woke. He ordered the same thing: cappuccino for himself, black coffee for Harry. Always two cups. Never one. Draco never asked why. He just poured the drinks, lidded them, and handed them over with a quiet “Have a nice day.”
But the questions brewed anyway.
Was Harry waiting outside?
Was he upstairs, in a flat nearby? Was he home, asleep?
Why did Rowan keep coming?
Did Harry know?
Rowan smiled more each time. Wore a different coat in the winter. Commented on the weather sometimes. Never lingered. And then one morning, as Draco handed him the cups, Rowan looked at him for a moment longer than usual.
“You know,” he said, holding the drinks carefully, “I asked Harry once if you two knew each other.”
Draco’s breath hitched, almost imperceptibly. His fingers twitched.
“Oh?” he said, keeping his voice neutral.
Rowan nodded, his blue eyes clear. “He told me you were just classmates, back in the day.”
Draco gave a small, tight smile. “We were.”
“That’s what he said, too. Said you weren’t friends or anything. Just… knew each other.”
Draco gave a small smile. “That’s right.”
Rowan studied him for a moment. “You say that the same way he did. Like it hurt to lie about it.”
Draco didn’t respond. He just handed over the drinks. Rowan didn’t push. He smiled gently, like he understood more than he let on. He gave him a smile, warm and strange, and left without another word.
January crept in like an unwanted guest — cold and persistent. The café was quieter in the deep chill. Fewer customers, fewer early risers. But Rowan still came, scarf wrapped high, cheeks pink from the chill. Draco stood behind the counter, rubbing warmth into his fingers. He watched Rowan approach and began pouring before he even spoke.
“Morning. The same?” Draco greeted him.
Rowan smiled. “Morning. Yeah, the same as always.”
As he turned to hand him the coffees, he reached behind the counter and retrieved a small paper bag, folding the top neatly before placing it beside the cups.
“What’s this?” Rowan asked.
“I thought you might like it.”
Rowan peeked into the bag and let out a soft chuckle. “Is this… lemon tart?”
“You asked a while ago if we had any left,” Draco said. “I said it was a one-time thing. But I made this one myself."
Rowan raised an eyebrow, surprised. “I thought you didn’t sell tarts anymore.”
“We don’t,” Draco said simply. “But I thought it might go well with your coffees.”
Rowan smiled, genuinely. “Thanks. That’s really kind.”
Draco nodded and turned to prepare two more cups.
“What’s that?” Rowan asked.
“Tea,” Draco said, placing them next to the bag. “Just… Earl Grey. It’s nothing, really.”
Rowan tilted his head curiously. “For us?”
“Yeah” Draco said quietly. “For whoever wants it.”
Rowan’s expression softened. He didn’t say anything, only offered a gentle nod and took the bag and drinks with both hands.
He left the café without another word.
And Draco stood behind the counter, alone once more.
He shouldn’t care. He knew that.
He shouldn’t cross lines he’d drawn in his own heart.
But it was already too late.
He’d given Harry lemon tart. And Earl Grey.
With a hint of bergamot.
He knew Harry would notice.
Back in the flat, the cups were warm against Rowan’s palms as he unlocked the door. The sky outside had started to bloom in hues of pale lilac and grey.
Harry sat by the window, barefoot, wrapped in a thick jumper, knees pulled up to his chest.
“Hey,” Rowan said. “Got your coffee. And… tea? I also brought us breakfast.”
Harry turned his head, his eyes finding Rowan’s face for only a second before flicking down to the contents. He raised an eyebrow.
“There was a tart. Lemon. Not on the menu.”-Rowan handed him the cup.
“Thanks,” Harry said. The moment he took a sip, he paused.
Brows furrowed.
His lips parted, the steam rising gently past his face. He brought the cup back again, sipped slower this time.
There it was.
That taste.
The hint of citrus. The quiet hum of floral spice.
The bergamot hit him like a name whispered through a dream.
Not the kind used in every cup of Earl Grey, but the exact blend Harry had once adored—rare, almost impossible to find now, unless you knew him well enough to remember. No one else ever made it quite that way. Not the way Draco used to — always just a little stronger, just a little warmer.
The warmth spread through his chest like sunlight on old scars.
It wasn’t just tea.
It was memory. It was presence.
It was knowing.
He stared at the cup for a long moment, then lifted his gaze to the window.
He closed his eyes and exhaled.
Rowan glanced at him. “You okay?”
Harry smiled. Barely. Imperceptibly.
But it was there.
“I’m okay,” he said, voice distant, but certain.
Rowan nodded slowly, then walked to the kitchen, humming softly.
Harry brought the cup to his lips again and took another sip.
The bergamot lingered.
So did the taste of something once lost.
Something still quietly blooming.
A small, imperceptible smile twitched once again at the corner of his mouth.
That was not the end.
Not yet.