Archive of Our Own

The scent of freshly baked bread settled across Draco’s apartment on a Thursday afternoon.

Draco was onto his second work stint of the day. That was how he preferred to do it, you see, rather than take lots of little breaks. His apartment was chilly, but he opened the windows anyway, because his 1pm to 4pm work stint was when he got drowsiest and despite consuming a ludicrous amount of caffeine, nothing kept him awake like a gust of wind shooting through his study and punching him in the cheek with icy vengeance. That was sort of poetic, he thought, as his face went numb. He was writing a new romance for his snarky protagonist, St Clair, who was currently in the mountains of Scotland, hunting for a cursed object in a remote village, the home to a mysterious yet fascinating bartender with a heartbreaking past. Draco was so engrossed that he barely winced as another gust of air swept through the study.

Only, this time, it was mingled with something else - a warm, homely scent, something both familiar and foreign. Bread. Was one of his neighbours baking? He shook his head and focussed on the computer, trying to picture the precise amount of facial hair a rural Scottish bartender would have. Probably a lot, to cover up the scars that he received in his mysterious past. 

Elusive and stoic, exactly your type, St Clair, Draco thought. 

Are we talking my type or yours? St Clair’s amused drawl responded almost immediately.

Shut it, or there will be absolutely no outdoor sex for you. Not even a handjob. 

Fine.

Draco had long since accepted that he was probably mad.

The scent lingered across the apartment for the next three days; it was strongest when he woke up in the mornings, which was highly annoying, and he did tell Colin this, at their next appointment. Despite the appointments being strictly online - Draco was still unbearably smug about learning to use Skype, thanks to the Muggle computer course he took back when he moved here - he could still make out the dark circles that haunted his poor therapist’s face.

‘I’m hungry all the bloody time.’

‘Then you should eat.’

‘But it’s because of the smell.’

‘The smell is only making you realise that you’re hungry.’

‘I don’t like being told what to do.’

‘You need to listen to your body.’

‘But I loathe breakfast.’

‘Draco, remember how we covered self-inflicted punishment?’

‘I do.’

‘I think you’re annoyed that this smell is making it harder for you to punish yourself.’

‘Obviously.’

‘Draco, you need to engage in self care if you want to get better.’

‘Oh Colin,’ Draco smiled sweetly at him, ‘where’s the fun in that?’ Colin put his head in his hands. Draco had the niggling suspicion he might be driving his therapist to an early retirement.

It was only when Pansy and Laurence visited - as they did, every Sunday night - that Draco learned what the source of the highly distracting smell was.

‘Potter?’

‘Yes,’ Pansy grinned, cat-like and gleaming, as Draco swung a tiny, giggling Laurence around the living room in a waltz. Despite it only being the three of them, Pansy was in an emerald green jumpsuit, high heels, and red lipstick. Draco mostly lived in knitted sweaters and jeans nowadays, a fashion choice that was - though he refused to admit this to himself - inspired by his third year crush on Remus Lupin. He thought it was rather academic chic. Pansy thought it was the fashion equivalent of axe murder.

‘But,’ Draco furrowed his brow, ‘Potter is an Auror.’

‘Honestly, Draco, don’t you read?’

‘You sounded horribly like Hermione Granger just then.’

‘Never say that again. He and Ginny split up.’

‘What? Really?’

‘Apparently. A while ago, although it only just hit the headlines.’

‘Goodness gracious.’

‘The Prophet made sure to include some grainy pictures of him making out with various men in seedy bars. You’ll be pleased to know that a large proportion of them were blond.’

‘I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Pansy Parkinson.’

‘I know right? It’s like all your fifth year dreams coming true.’

‘Not all of them,’ he smirked, and Pansy snorted into her wine glass. 

‘I worry about you.’

‘Oh, as you should.’ Draco lifted Laurence up into his arms and pinched his cheeks. His godson giggled and rested his head against the curve of his neck, exhausted. ‘I’m incredibly worrisome.’

‘How’s therapy?’

‘I think Colin hates me.’

‘That’s not a good start.’

‘But I think he also feels sorry for me.’

‘You have always managed to win people over with some mixture of hate and pity.’

‘It’s the one upside of continuing to live.’

‘Darling. We said no more jokes about that.’

‘Pans, my darling, love of my life, my future wife--’

‘--you’re gay--’

‘--we agreed to get married if we were still single by 40, and I think we’re both still on that trajectory.’ Pansy punched him a bit harder than necessary, and took back Laurence. ‘Anyway, how do you expect me to ever recover, if I can’t even make jokes about my disastrous excuse for a life?’

‘Through therapy, Draco.’

‘Boring.’ Draco sighed and Laurence wiggled out of his mother’s arms back to his godfather’s, clearly angling for more play. With his dark hair and adorable upturned nose, he was the spitting image of his mother. Pansy looked unimpressed as the two of them started a tickling war.

‘You should follow Potter’s lead. Looks like he’s not boring anymore.’

‘He was never boring.’

‘Hmm.’ Pansy raised an eyebrow.

St Clair was proving almost impossible to write for. 

I do not WANT to hook up with the Scottish bartender just yet. I would prefer it if we could have some sort of near-death experience first. Think how that would spice up the plot!

You imbecile, thought Draco, that will take so many pages to cover, and we’re already up to 150 without smut. You know how insatiable your readers are.

Make them sweat. Anticipation is a great aphrodisiac. 

You are a terror.

The smell wafted in again, shocking Draco out of his far-too-realistic-for-comfort chat with his protagonist. This time, threads of garlic and rosemary mixed with the warm, homely scent of bread, and Draco was ready to punch something. Except he didn’t. He opened up Google and searched for bakeries near him. It came up almost immediately, less than one hundred metres away.

Lily & Co.

As he lay awake that night, trying to find sleep with the classic resigned tenacity of an insomniac, Draco thought about freshly baked bread and green eyes. He thought about how he had spent the vast majority of his life trying to not think about Harry Potter, and failing miserably. He thought about the letter he had sent Potter after the war, and how he’d gone home and thrown up afterwards. He thought about how he’d seen Potter after the trials, just once, walking arm in arm with Granger through Hampstead Heath, laughing and talking, and Draco had stared at them enviously and Disapparated almost instantly. He thought about how he was twenty five and wrote romance books for a living and was a demisexual virgin who was scared to leave his apartment. He thought about Potter levelling sarcastic jokes at professors and disarming Voldemort and telling the Wizengamot that Draco saved his life and how Draco had only thought he will never think about me again as Potter walked out of the courtroom. He thought about how he had nothing left to lose now.

‘Fine,’ he muttered to himself. ‘We’ll go.’

Draco was fully aware that courage was never one of strengths. However, Harry Potter had always seemed to override his instinct for self-preservation, and it was the Boy Who Lived who drew Draco out onto the streets of London to walk the hundred metres to the new bakery. Apart from his weekly grocery shop and the occasional Floo to Pansy’s, Draco didn’t leave his apartment. He definitely didn’t leave his neighbourhood. Colin said it was agoraphobia, Draco said it was self-preservation, Colin said it was definitely agoraphobia, Draco got annoyed and ended the session early.

The bakery was glowing and cheerful, painted muted tones of ocean blue and cream and grey, and the windows were filled with bread. Loaves and loaves of bread, intricately carved and patterned, and the smell made Draco’s mouth water. It was...warm, it was so distinctive, it was like being wrapped in a blanket at the end of a long day, or being held by a parent.

Taking a deep breath (oh lord, he was hungry) Draco pushed open the door and entered the shop. It was small - tiny, even - and a familiar song was playing over some speakers. Did Harry Potter listen to Fleetwood Mac?

‘Just a moment,’ came a voice, and Potter emerged. He’s grown up, was Draco’s first thought, and then of course he has grown up, it has been seven years since you last saw him, in a voice that sounded suspiciously like St Clair’s. Draco tried to shut up his thoughts so he could focus on the man in front of him - who was, as expected, experiencing some sort of catatonic shock.

‘Hello!’ Draco’s voice was too cheerful, but he’d always gotten by on being too much, and he tried to casually drum his fingers on a nearby table. ‘I would like some bread?’

‘Malfoy?’

‘Yes! Yes, that is me. Unfortunately. Or maybe not, depending on who you ask. If you ask me, it’s unfortunate.’ Shut. Up. ‘Anyway! I live up the street.’

‘You live up the street?’

‘Yes.’ Potter had always been a bit slow on the uptake. ‘Yes, it’s a nice area.’

‘It’s a Muggle area.’ Potter spoke slowly, his brows knitted together.

‘Yes, I must admit, it was one of the charms that drew me here.’

‘But,’ he glanced around desperately, ‘you’re Malfoy?’

‘Yes, we have already established that.’

‘You hate Muggles.’

‘Hated Muggles, Potter, past tense. My wizard Nazi days are behind me. Ooh, is that focaccia? Salazar, it’s been years since I had focaccia.’

‘Um, I’ll get you a bit to sample - did you just admit you were a wizard Nazi?’ Potter fumbled for some tongs and grabbed a sample for him, clearly too confused to do anything but go along with the bizarre interaction.

‘Oh yes, dreadful choice, really.’ Draco took the bread and tried to smile. ‘I thought I covered that in my letter to you?’

‘Well, erm, yes. Sorry I never replied to that.’ Potter scratched the back of his bicep, clearly sheepish.

‘Oh, not a problem. We were young. And as I said, I was a wizard Nazi. Oh, this is delicious, can I have some?’

‘Sure.’ Potter still looked confused. ‘Anything else?’

‘What’s your favourite?’

‘Erm, the sourdough - it’s kind of my signature bake.’

‘Well, I’ll have that too.’

Potter just stared at him, expression unreadable, eyes bright. ‘Malfoy - why are you here?’

‘For bread.’

‘Malfoy.’

‘Can a man not just want to consume carbohydrates?’

‘But-’ Potter inhaled ‘-you hate me.’

‘Oh, I never hated you Potter. Well, actually, I sort of did. But Colin says that it was mostly out of self-loathing.’

‘Who’s Colin?’

‘My therapist! Probably not for much longer. I’m afraid I’m quite an annoying client.’ Draco shrugged a little and Potter’s mouth fell open.

‘You see a therapist?’

‘Yes. Here, just take the tenner, I don’t like carrying change.’

‘Malfoy.’ Potter took the money and stared at him. ‘Why are you telling me all of this?’

‘Probably because I’m slightly mad. I might be back for more bread. Bye!’ Draco took the bread and practically ran back to his apartment, where he set the loaves on his counter and then fled into his study.

Draco managed to hold out on the bread for an entire two hours, instead choosing to write the near death scene for St Clair, which involved an unsteady rock on the edge of the cliff and the bartender being nearby to call for help. Eventually, though, Draco’s stomach got the better of him, and he got his bread knife to cut a thick slice of the sourdough. He set it on a small blue plate and got out the butter, covering the slice from one end to the other in a fluid, even motion. And then he took a bite.

Merlin.

It was perfect. The crust was chewy and hearty, the bread inside salty and tangy, and it seemed to fill not just Draco’s stomach, but his chest, his arms, his legs, his head. It made him feel strong in a way he hadn’t in years, not since Narcissa’s death. Draco ate half the loaf that night, with more thick slabs of butter and cups of tea, and when he woke up in the morning, he felt well-rested and satiated in a way he hadn’t for a long time.

…

Draco went back two days later.

Potter was sweeping the floors as he walked through the door, and he looked up with surprise but also, just maybe, a hint of a smile.

‘You’re back,’ he said, standing up and leaning on his broom.

‘Yes! Potter, I am really dreadfully afraid to tell you this, lest you get the wrong idea about me - because, as we both know, I am a cold and unfeeling soul with no capacity for kindness - but, your bread was acceptable.’ To Draco’s astonishment, Potter threw his head back and laughed. It was a hoarse, hearty laugh, the kind that sends bubbles through your fingertips and toes, and Draco felt his cheeks flush with pleasure. He had just made Potter laugh. Oh, how his fourteen year old self would have envied him.

‘Coming from you? I’ll take that as a compliment.’ Potter walked back behind the counter. ‘What will it be today?’

‘Well, the sourdough, of course, it is your signature--’ Potter snorted and started preparing a brown paper bag ‘--and, um, perhaps I should just come daily, as that focaccia had gone dreadfully stale by this morning.’ 

‘That’s the mark of good bread, you know,’ Potter said. ‘It shouldn’t stay fresh. If it does, it’s because it’s full of preservatives.’

‘Ah, I see. Wouldn’t want that.’

Potter’s lips quirked. ‘No. Godric, I have to say, I’m still having a hard time believing you’re Draco Malfoy.’

‘There are some easy ways to prove that, you know.’ Draco raised his eyebrows and looked pointedly at his left forearm. Potter froze a bit.

‘That, erm, won’t be necessary.’

‘What a relief! I simply hate being accused of identity fraud. Even if I would rather be literally anyone except myself, ha ha!’ Potter raised his eyebrows in that slightly concerned way Pansy did when Draco made jokes about nooses or tall buildings. ‘Well, okay, bye!’ 

This time, when he got home, Draco didn’t attempt to hold out on the loaf in front of him. He ate slice after slice until he was full, satiated, and then he crashed into sleep.

…

No one expected the Boy Who Lived to bake bread for a living. Especially since he was so rich that there was really no need for him to work at all. 

But Harry loved it. He loved it perhaps more than he’d ever loved anything. He loved the feeling of his biceps flexing as he kneaded dough and the way his starter fizzled with joy each time he opened it and the look on a customer’s face when they tried what he had made, with his hands, with his time, with his sweat, and it brought them joy. 

When Malfoy had walked through the door, Harry didn’t know what he had expected. Had he come to sneer? To burn it down? To repeat the weird sentiments of his apology letter, sent the summer they turned eighteen?

Dear Harry Potter

I guess I should cut to the chase here; thank you awfully for testifying for me, despite the fact that I now realise - with an embarrassing amount of insight I should have formerly had - that I did absolutely the bare minimum and was, in fact, perhaps the worst person ever. 

Sorry I made fun of you for most all of our school years, including jokes about your parents that I now realise - having a dead parent myself - were quite tasteless. Also for the whole being-a-blood-supremacist thing. And for the fact that my father nearly killed you multiple times. He’s dead now, of course, huzzah. I am not processing my feelings well

Right, I think that broadly covers it, happy to go into more specifics, although I doubt you need reminders of how I stomped on your face or let Death Eaters into our school. I could probably handle discussing the badges or the time I pretended to be a Dementor, and I can only say that my humour has become exponentially more sophisticated since then.

Off to drown myself probably I wish you all the best,

Yours sincerely,

D. Malfoy

Harry had burnt it pretty much immediately. Not because he was still angry - he didn’t really care about Malfoy at all by that point, to be honest - but because he was eighteen and the war was behind him and he was happy. And then he hadn’t thought about his childhood nemesis until he saw Narcissa’s death artlessly plastered two years later across the front of the Daily Prophet, and he thought about sending a letter, then remembered how weird Draco’s had been, and decided not to.

And then a year ago Ginny had laid a soft, freckled hand on his cheek after sex, after Harry had gone soft yet again without finishing, and she had sighed.

‘Do you need me to tell you, Harry?’

‘Tell me what?’

‘You don’t want me.’

‘Of course I want you. I love you. I’m just tired.’

‘No, you’re not.’ Ginny had drawn in a breath as Harry started crying. ‘We’ll always be family.’

‘I want it to be with you.’

‘I know. It’s okay.’

‘I swear I didn’t know, Gin.’

‘I know, you idiot.’ She kissed his cheek.

The next day, Harry went and quit the Auror force. He moved in with Hermione and Ron and looked after Rose and spent time with Teddy. He went out and had sex with gorgeous men and realised that he was incredibly, undeniably gay, and then he felt horribly guilty at his own complete lack of self-awareness. And he talked to a therapist and he went to Pride parades, which weren’t his thing, but he surprisingly liked burlesque, and Parvati and Lavender took him to their sapphic reading group and he realised that while he was fighting a war and then trying to cling to some sort of future, everyone else had figured themselves out.

So when Malfoy walked into the bakery, pale and pointy and vulnerable and honest and slightly insane, Harry was taken aback, but strangely pleased. In fact, he thought, as he watched the very weird man run back up the street and into an apartment block not a hundred metres away, if this was fate, he was going to roll with it.

…

Harry soon figured out that Malfoy was a creature of habit. He came past every day, precisely ten minutes before closing time, he always got the same loaf, he always left quickly. He didn’t wear his hair slicked back anymore, and he wore Muggle clothes, which shocked Harry a little; it was like seeing a dog without its fur. Instead, Draco wore knitted jumpers that hung a little loose on his slight frame, and his hair kept falling over his eyes, and his boots echoed gentle thuds on the wooden floorboards. He tapped his fingers constantly, restlessly, and the way he looked at Harry was somewhere between bewilderment and...not happiness, but something similar. Like seeing Harry was a pleasure. Like he hadn’t stomped on his nose in a train or Harry hadn’t cut him up in a bathroom. It made Harry’s head spin.

Harry had so many questions, but something about Malfoy’s demeanour made him hold back; like he was an animal that would easily spook if pressed. Despite his tendency to overshare, it was never about the important things, like his mother or which friends he still saw. It was mostly self-deprecating digs that Harry suspected he was insistent on delivering to prove his self-awareness. One day, Malfoy twirled his thumbs together as he waited for Harry to grab his loaf, and cleared his throat.

‘I heard Weasley and Granger had a daughter.’

‘Yes.’ Harry blinked, more out of surprise than anything, and then handed Draco his usual loaf of sourdough. ‘Rose.’

‘That’s a lovely name. Are you the godfather?’

‘Yes.’ Harry’s heart always swelled a little at that. ‘My godson, Teddy, loves her too, so the three of us tend to hang out together.’ Draco met his gaze.

‘Teddy?’

‘Teddy Lupin.’ 

‘I...I know.’ Draco drew his eyes away and gave Harry a tight smile, drawing away. ‘I know who Teddy is.’

It was only when Draco left that Harry remembered that Andy was Draco’s aunt. Teddy was his cousin. And both Draco’s parents were dead.

‘Fuck,’ Harry groaned to himself, and turned on the radio.

...

Pansy sipped at her tea, blinking slowly at Draco. Today she was wearing a leopard print coat over a black minidress, fishnets, and platform boots. Laurence was playing with Draco’s - admittedly ridiculous - collection of Muggle radios, carefully curated by era. Laurence was winding the antennae together. Draco winced and looked back at Pansy.

‘You’re seeing Potter?’

‘I am not seeing him.’

‘Obviously. I mean, you go to his shop, buy his product, and actually talk to him? Regularly?’

‘That is how business tends to work.’

‘Draco.’

‘I like the bread.’

‘Well, I am glad you’re eating.’ Pansy glanced at the empty brown paper bags littering Draco’s counter. ‘But…’

‘It’s not a big deal, Pans.’

‘It’s Potter. He’s always a big deal.’

‘He’s a big deal for everyone.’

‘Not like he is for you.’ Pansy leant forward and clasped Draco’s hand. He focussed on the textured grain of his kitchen table and refused to meet her eyes. ‘He’s always been different for you.’

‘Stating the rather obvious there, love.’

‘Salazar.’ Pansy sank back into her chair and rolled her eyes as Laurence snapped another dial off one of the radios. ‘You know you could tell my horrid son to stop? You love your weird Muggle things.’

Draco shrugged. ‘It makes him happy. I’ll Reparo it all when you leave.’ Images of Lucius screaming at Draco for breaking a vase when he was five flashed across his mind, and Draco looked again at his godson. ‘I like that he feels comfortable here.’

‘Sometimes, I cannot bear how much I love you.’ Pansy’s voice was furious and threatening, and she glared at Draco, and Draco was once again pulled under by guilt as he remembered that awful night four months ago. 

Draco! Draco, wake up. Draco, don’t die, if you die I will never forgive you, never, Draco, oh god, please tell me he’s okay, Draco I love you, come back, please.

‘Sorry, Pans,’ Draco murmured, and she gripped fiercely onto his wrist. 

‘Genuinely, I cannot stand you,’ she said, blinking tears away. Draco kissed her knuckles.

…

Dear Harry Potter/the Boy Who Lived/gay baker boy,

Draco told me he has visited you. I know you saved the world, however, Draco is my best friend and there are a few ground rules:

• Don’t laugh at his job.

• Don’t say anything mean about Narcissa. Lucius is fair game. 

• He’s allergic to almonds and grapefruit. If you poison him, I will kill you.

Do not tell Draco I sent this. Adhere to the rules.

Yours in intimidation,

Pansy Parkinson

…

Upon receiving Pansy’s letter, a curiosity Harry hadn’t experienced since sixth year crept over him. When Malfoy came in the next evening, Harry was the first to speak.

‘Hallo. Fancy seeing you here.’ 

‘I am highly spontaneous and unpredictable, Potter.’ Harry laughed and Malfoy looked pleased.

‘Sourdough, then?’ Harry gave him a grin and Malfoy flushed. ‘So, you come into my place of work every day, but I don’t know what you do.’

‘Oh.’ Malfoy smiled wryly and Harry was, inconceivably, charmed. ‘I - I’m a writer.’

‘Really? What do you write?’

‘Erm, novels. Romance novels. Self-published. They actually fetch a decent amount of money, if you find your audience.’ Harry remembered Pansy’s letter and tried to bite back a laugh.

‘Wait - romance novels?’

‘Yes.’ Malfoy swallowed. ‘They’ve become quite popular, actually.’ There was something so earnest about Draco’s face; he was being vulnerable. He was being honest. It was so unlike the Draco that Harry knew from school, it almost left him breathless.

‘Malfoy?’

‘Yes?’

‘Meet me here tomorrow, just after closing time, okay?’

Draco was too shocked to say anything but yes.

…

Of course, it was entirely possible that Draco had been having a very detailed fever dream and Harry Potter, owner of devastatingly green eyes and an overbearing savior complex, did not actually want to hang out with him. Draco showed up at 5.05pm, heart racing, and let himself in. There was music coming from the back and someone was badly singing along.

‘Hello?’

‘Malfoy!’ Harry bounced - he had never bounced in school - out of the back room and ushered Draco into the back. It was a small kitchen, but modern, with a shiny, expensive looking oven, sacks of flour, and neatly organised boxes of herbs and spices.

‘So this is where the magic happens.’

‘I do it entirely without magic, actually.’

‘Of course you do.’ Draco’s eyes flitted to Harry’s well-defined biceps for a minute and he coughed.

‘Alright then,’ Potter smirked, and he pulled out a jar with a weird, dark dough in it. ‘I’m going to teach you how to make sourdough.’

‘Oh god.’ Draco began to panic.

‘Relax, you git.’ Harry elbowed him and grinned. ‘I just thought you’d enjoy seeing where your main food group comes from.’

‘Ha. Alright.’ Draco’s mouth was still dry. ‘I’ll probably be rubbish.’

‘That’s okay.’ Harry pushed the jar towards him. ‘This is my sourdough starter, Betsy.’

‘You name your starter?’

‘All self respecting bakers do,’ Harry said solemnly, and Draco murmured in some sort of vague agreement, as if he had the slightest clue about baking. ‘Now, why do we need starter? This is what makes sourdough sourdough Malfoy, this is the key to it all.’ Harry launched into a monologue about how to make starter, which was terribly interesting, but Draco kept getting sidetracked by a number of things. 

Like how Harry’s normally startling green eyes became almost black when he got excited about something, and how he moved his arms about when he talked, and how he’d never seen him so enthusiastic about - well, anything. Harry Potter appeared to now be, against all odds, a cheerful person. It was both lovely and disconcerting.

Okay, so maybe Draco just kept getting sidetracked by Harry. That was nothing new. 

‘...and then you don’t need to use yeast.’

‘Aha! I see!’ Draco clapped his hands together, perhaps overzealously, but Harry’s grin broadened nonetheless. ‘Genius.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Harry breathed, eyeing his starter with pride.

‘So.’ Draco looked around the bakery. ‘How did all of this happen, then?’

‘All of what?’

‘You looking at fermented flour like it’s the love of your life.’

‘It is.’ Harry beamed at his jar.

‘I believe you. But how?’

‘That’s the million dollar question, Rita.’ Harry smiled but Draco’s breath hitched, remembering fourth year. God, Draco had been cruel. So, so cruel. Images of headlines flashed in front of him and he felt like he’d been gut punched. Harry inhaled sharply and stepped forward. ‘Oh god, that’s not what I meant Draco.’

‘Of course not!’ Draco steadied himself. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, I’m…’ Harry trailed off. ‘Don’t apologise. It’s a fair question. I’m surprised you haven’t asked it before now.’

‘I hate people asking me questions.’

‘Me too.’ Harry smiled a little. ‘Normally.’

‘And now?’ Draco kept his gaze on him and Harry exhaled a little, looking around the little kitchen.

‘I hated being an Auror.’

‘Alright.’

‘I was so tired, all the time. I worked every weekend. I felt like...life went very quickly and slowly, all at once.’ Draco didn’t dare speak, not wanting this to stop, not wanting Harry Potter to ever stop talking. ‘I like baking. It’s simple. It’s science. I just want to make people happy.’

‘What makes people happier than bread?’

‘Exactly.’ Harry smiled and Draco’s stomach flipped, and he remembered watching Harry across the Great Hall in sixth year, watching him eating a treacle tart with almost disgusting enthusiasm, watching him laugh with the ease of someone good and innocent, and hating him. And loving him. And hating him. 

‘Bread suits you,’ Draco said softly. It was so quiet. Harry’s skin was flushed, his messy hair flopping around his face, and he looked at Draco with a curious hunger, like he was the most fascinating person to ever exist. 

...

That was December 20th, and Christmas Eve saw Draco curled up in his armchair with a loneliness so painful that he was sure he would die.

the dishes are dirty and you can’t do them and you are pathetic and why is it so hard to do dishes and why don’t you have groceries and why can’t you feed yourself and why have you already eaten the loaf you got yesterday because the bakery isn’t open because it’s Christmas and Harry Potter has friends and family that care about him and you are bad and wrong and you should have died and no one cares about you and you can’t leave this apartment because you are embarrassing and you make people uncomfortable and remember when you called Hermione Granger a slur and then you poisoned Ron Weasley and then you tried an Unforgiveable on Harry Potter and he sliced you open and you looked at him and you felt nothing but gratitude and relief because you knew death was coming and this was less painful than that and if you died you would never have to see Voldemort again and watch him torture your parents and you would never have to look at Harry Potter and love him and hate him and you would never have to tell people that you were gay and you wouldn’t be lonely right now and oh god death was so close and you were so angry that you survived because you didn’t want to survive you wanted out you were such a coward have always been a coward have always run so run Draco run run run run run

The room was buzzing. So loud. Draco covered his ears and tried to scream but nothing came out. His mouth was dry. Aguamenti. Water splashed on the carpet, missing the glass. Throw the glass. Can’t breathe. Draco’s mind was dark and buzzing and oh god, all he wanted to do was just to get out of his head. He scrambled to the kitchen and unexpectedly saw the Lily & Co paper bag on the counter. He grabbed it and buried his face in the scent, sinking to the floor. 

Pansy found Draco there the next morning when she came to collect him for Christmas lunch, curled up on his kitchen floor, clutching an empty bread bag.

‘Jesus fucking Christ, Draco.’

‘Ungghhhh?’

‘You’re not better.’

Draco looked at the linoleum tiles and closed his eyes. ‘I know.’

‘Merry Christmas.’

‘Merry Christmas, Pans.’

…

Ron and Hermione looked at Harry with identical bemused expressions. They were at the Burrow in a post-Christmas-lunch-coma, Hermione’s hand threaded through Harry’s hair, Ron on his other side.

‘You’re friends with Draco Malfoy?’ Ron sounded appalled.

‘Maybe.’ Harry squeezed his eyes closed. ‘He’s...different.’

‘Of course he is.’ Hermione’s voice was very casual and the boys looked at her.

‘You know something we don’t,’ Ron said.

‘I do,’ Hermione sighed. ‘It’s...you could find it in public records, I suppose.’ 

‘C’mon, ‘Mione.’ Harry shot her his best grin. ‘It’s Christmas!’

‘Honestly Harry.’ Her voice was almost unbearably fond. She lifted her eyes to where Percy and Oliver were swinging Rose between them. ‘Did you wonder why he lives in an apartment?’

‘A little,’ admitted Harry.

‘He sold the Manor.’

‘Really?’ Ron’s eyebrows shot up.

‘Yes.’ Hermione inhaled. ‘I don’t know how much the Malfoys were worth before the war, but the amount that Draco has donated to war charities, I’m almost certain it’s everything...and, I mean, those are just the charities I manage.’

‘Blimey.’ Ron sat back on his hands. ‘I mean...that doesn’t make everything magically okay.’

‘No,’ said Hermione, ‘but it means that - well, I don’t think he’s a blood supremacist anymore, at the very least.’

‘He’s not,’ Harry interjected, a bit forcefully. ‘He said he knew he was a wizard Nazi? Like, those were his actual words.’

‘Wow.’ Hermione looked at him. ‘He knows what a Nazi is?’

‘He writes Muggle books now,’ Harry said, not mentioning the specific kind. He’d looked them up. Draco’s pen name was Dorian Black; he’d told Harry, almost casually, when they were kneading the sourdough together. The books, from what Harry could tell, were both gay and...for adults.

‘Well,’ Ron exchanged a look with Hermione, ‘he’s still a ferret. But perhaps a nicer ferret.’ Harry snorted out a laugh and Hermione rolled her eyes.

‘We were seventeen when we last saw him, Ron. People change over the course of eight years.’

‘They do,’ murmured Harry, and Hermione gave him a soft look, so knowing that he had to avert his gaze. 

‘Come on, you lazy fuckers. Quidditch time.’ Ginny threw a broomstick at her brother and he doubled over, gasping. Harry chuckled and grabbed the broom.

‘Fine. But I dibs Teddy.’ His godson looked up from where he was being begged for various animal faces from Victoire and smiled brightly. Ron grumbled.

‘Come on Won-Won.’ Ginny grinned at him and Ron slightly missed her with a Jelly-Legs Jinx. 

‘I can see why you left her, Haz.’

Ginny's cackles echoed through the garden.

…

Harry opened the bakery again in early January, and he spent the entire day pacing to the window and back, waiting for a flash of blond hair. Around three o clock, a small woman with a chin length bob and sharp fringe entered the shop, with a tiny boy curled into her side.

‘Pansy?’

‘Potter.’ Her tone was clipped, but she gave Harry a vague smile and set the boy down. He looked exactly like her.

‘I didn’t know you had a son.’

‘This is Laurence. Laurence, this is Harry Potter.’ Laurence peered out from behind Pansy’s leg with wide eyes.

‘Good morning.’

‘My, what lovely manners.’ Harry reached behind him for a soft white roll, and gestured to Pansy. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Oh, he’ll love that, thank you.’ Pansy took it and gave it to Laurence, who smiled and focussed his entire attention on it. She turned back to Harry, her dark eyes piercing and her mouth twisted into an unhappy purse.

‘I promise I’ve stuck to your rules.’

‘I haven’t come to hex you, Potter, relax.’ Pansy sighed and leaned against the counter. ‘Draco won’t be able to visit for a while.’

‘Why?’

‘None of your business. However, he has demanded your bread. He said you’d know the order.’

‘Of course.’ Harry turned and grabbed a loaf of the sourdough, and looked back at her. ‘Is he...okay?’ Pansy glared at him.

‘Look, you need to be careful with Draco. He’s not - he’s not anything like you think he is.’

‘You don’t know what I think of him.’

‘You don’t understand.’ Pansy handed over the money and took the loaf. Laurence was now sitting on the floor, tearing apart the roll. ‘Do you know, Draco doesn’t live in the Muggle world due to cowardice. It’s not because he wants to avoid wizards.’

‘I wouldn’t blame him if he did.’

‘Me neither. But that’s not why he left.’

‘Why did he?’

‘That’s a story for him to tell you, Potter. But...’ Pansy sighed. ‘Draco doesn’t possibly believe that anyone could care about him, that anyone would care if he was gone.’

‘What do you mean?’ The implication twisted heavily in Harry’s chest.

‘Exactly what I said.’ Pansy looked at him and as their gazes connected, Harry realised that she was terrified, terrified for Draco, and perhaps had been for a while. She turned to pick up Laurence and tucked the sourdough underneath her other arm. ‘So do you see? Do you understand? Because if you don’t understand, Potter, you can’t mess him around.’ And before Harry could begin to formulate a response, she’d left.

…

‘You didn’t tell him?’ Draco looked anxiously up at Pansy from his bed. 

‘I’m not an idiot, Draco.’ She passed him the bread and he took it gratefully, leaning back on the pillows. ‘He knows you’re weird though, so I don’t think it’d be a surprise.’

‘There’s a difference between weird and unhinged, Pans.’

‘Draco, darling, no one who meets you thinks you’re not unhinged.’

‘Brilliant,’ he huffed, and grudgingly let Pansy sit beside him. She inhaled.

‘Sweetheart.’

‘Pans, please.’

‘You need to take this seriously.’

‘You sound like Colin.’

‘You should listen to Colin.’ 

Draco made an exaggerated noise. ‘Traitor!’

‘Draco, please.’ Pansy turned to look at him, and her eyes were suspiciously red. ‘I can’t worry like this anymore. I’m going to go grey before thirty. You don’t want that on your conscience.’

‘I suppose not,’ Draco conceded, gently intertwining their fingers. ‘I’m sorry, Pans.’ He yelped as she smacked him.

‘I don’t want you to apologise, you asshole. I want you to start taking care of yourself. I want you to get better.’

‘Ugh.’ Draco tightened his grip on her hand and tugged her in. ‘Okay.’

Two weeks later, after some house visits with Colin that left Draco deeply irritated and his therapist considering a career change, as well as a new medication that seemed to vaguely work, Draco left his apartment and walked to Lily & Co.  

‘Hi!’ Harry faced him with a bright smile that was almost dizzyingly beautiful. ‘You’re back!’

‘I am!’ Draco looked at him; the inky dark hair, the strong, lean arms, the easy grin. Harry Potter. ‘Sorry, I was unwell.’

‘Pansy mentioned.’

‘I hope that bint wasn’t too insufferable.’

‘No,’ Harry said, ‘no, she was fine. Isn’t she your best friend?’

‘Yes. I love her more than anything. She’s still an insufferable bint.’ Harry laughed, and then, as if remembering something, sobered slightly.

‘Draco?’

‘Yes?’

‘What were you unwell with?’ 

‘Ah.’ Draco smiled at a croissant. ‘That old chestnut.’

‘You don’t have to tell me.’

‘It’s alright, Potter.’ Draco met his gaze. ‘Sometimes, I have...turns. It makes it rather difficult to leave my house.’

‘Turns?’

‘Feeling like if I leave something awful will happen. Or that something awful is happening and I just don’t know about it. Or that, perhaps most accurately, I’m that awful thing.’

‘You’re so honest with me,’ Harry said softly, and Draco hadn’t realised that he had moved closer.

‘I...I promised myself, after the trials, that I’d never lie again.’

‘Never?’

‘No. At least, not directly.’

Harry nodded, as if he understood. ‘After the war, I struggled with leaving Grimmauld Place. I took a year before I joined the Aurors, and I spent it...sleeping? Eating? I can’t even remember. It just felt like too much effort to go outside.’

‘It often is,’ Draco said. 

‘It was very lonely.’

‘Do you think I’m lonely, Potter?’

‘Are you?’ Harry swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed distractingly and Draco had to avert his gaze.

‘Henry Miller once wrote that an artist needs loneliness.’

‘That sounds awfully pretentious.’

‘It is,’ laughed Draco, and then again, ‘I mean it, you know. I don’t lie. Everything about me is far too honest. Far too much, I suppose. Anyway! I need to get back to work.’ He turned roughly without meeting Harry’s eyes and walked as fast as he could back home.

…

Harry was, not for the first time in his life, becoming obsessed with Draco Malfoy. He went to the Ministry and withdrew his public records; not that there was much in them. He’d disappeared from the wizarding world at eighteen, after his father died. He’d only resurfaced briefly after his mother died, when he was twenty, and Hermione was right - it looked as if he’d donated everything. Then he disappeared again. His only known contact was Pansy. 

Harry ordered three of Draco’s books and read them in less than a week. They weren’t what he expected. Of course, they were all gay - it was Draco, after all, and his preferences at school hadn’t exactly been quiet - and unbearably hot, the smut detailed and explicit. But, they were also good.

St Clair was the main character in all of them, and he was witty and sarcastic and likeable. The love interests made sense. The plots were interesting and fast paced, and St Clair was an adventurer, venturing to Cairo, Delhi, Sydney, Lima. Something about knowing Draco couldn’t leave his small neighbourhood, while his characters travelled across the globe, made Harry’s heart constrict. 

It was strange, how easy it was to like this new Draco Malfoy, when he had once hurled slurs at his best friend and tried to poison his other one. But Draco’s remorse was unlike anything Harry had ever seen. It practically dripped off him. He never took up much of Harry’s time. He answered all of his questions without fuss. His jokes bordered on uncomfortably self-deprecating. Harry remembered how painful Dumbledore had said true remorse was, and Draco navigated that pain alone. Pansy had said that Draco left the wizarding world because he thought it would be better off without him, and Harry couldn’t help feeling like that was a shame. 

…

‘I read your books.’ Draco’s eyes widened and a deep red blush seeped out from under his collar.

‘You read...my books? Mine?’

‘Yes.’ Harry tried to grin reassuringly. ‘They’re very good.’

‘Oh.’ Draco’s blush spread up his neck and he coughed a little, and Harry found it almost unbearably endearing. ‘Thank you.’

‘What made you start writing them?’

‘You mean, how did the prodigal Malfoy heir and notorious blood supremacist start writing smut for Muggles?’

‘The smut in your books drives the plot forward, Draco. It’s necessary smut.’

‘If you say so.’ Draco smiled wryly and something in Harry’s stomach flipped a little. ‘I started because, honestly, it’s one of the only sustainable ways to make it as a writer.’

‘Did you always write?’

‘Yes.’ Malfoy’s response was immediate. So honest.

‘Do you write anything else?’

‘I have...I have a couple of history books, sitting on my computer. But they’re not quite as marketable as romance.’

Harry decided to push. ‘Why didn’t you just keep some money after the war? So you could write whatever you wanted?’ Draco looked sharply at him.

‘How do you know about that?’

Honesty. If Draco did it, so would Harry. ‘My best friend is the lawyer that manages the charities you donated to. And it is technically public information.’

‘Ah, of course.’ Draco fiddled with the hem of his jumper. ‘I just didn’t want it, I suppose.’

‘The money?’

‘The money. And everything else. All of it.’ Draco coughed again, hoarse, and Harry wondered if he was getting sick. He waited for Draco to go on, but he didn’t. He just took his loaf and went to leave. Harry didn’t want him to.

‘Draco?’

Draco’s eyebrows shot up at the use of his first name. ‘Yes?’

‘What are you doing tonight?’

…

It wasn’t a date. It couldn’t be a date. Draco stared at a blank spot on his ceiling and spent two hours hyperventilating. Then he wrote a scene where St Clair and the bearded bartender fucked in a cave during a thunderstorm, then he had a shower, then he continued to hyperventilate, and then Harry was on his doorstep.

‘Do you like Thai food?’ Harry grinned and held up shopping bags full of vegetables.

‘Er, yes. Come in.’ Draco tried to still the pounding in his chest with a few deep breaths, and let Harry walk past him. Draco hated his apartment; it was small and draughty and the only nice room was the living room, and even then, Draco only liked it because Laurence liked it, liked playing with the curtains and prodding at the fireplace Draco never used. At least the apartment was clean, because Draco didn’t own anything he didn’t have to. Except for books. But even then, he locked them in his study and took them out one at a time to read. Harry looked around appraisingly.

‘It’s nice.’

‘It’s adequate.’

‘You don’t like it?’ 

Draco shrugged. ‘It’s small.’

‘London, I suppose.’ Draco nodded. Harry’s nose and cheeks were flushed from the cold, and his eyes were sparkling. He took off his beanie and a long, knitted scarf with yellow pom poms that Draco suspected he had not bought for himself. ‘Can I pop these somewhere?’

‘Just on the sofa is fine.’

‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, um.’ Draco tried to breathe. ‘You’re the first person apart from Pansy to come here.’

‘What?’ Harry looked mystified and somewhat delighted. ‘What about everyone else?’

‘Everyone else?’

‘You know.’ Harry cocked his head. ‘Blaise? Millicent? Theo? Greg?’ Draco’s chest clenched at the thought of Goyle, who had sent him exactly one letter since being released from Azkaban.

It was all your fault.

‘I haven’t really kept in touch, I suppose.’ Draco put on the kettle and redirected the conversation. ‘Black?’

‘With one sugar and milk, please,’ Harry said, and started unloading the vegetables. They didn’t talk much, but it felt oddly comfortable; Harry bustling around Draco’s woefully under-equipped kitchen and taking out knives, pots, pans and various bowls, spreading them methodically over the benchtop. Draco smiled and handed him his tea.

‘What’re you smiling at?’ Harry asked, starting to julienne a carrot.

‘You’ve certainly made yourself comfortable in my kitchen.’ Draco immediately regretted saying it; he meant it in a good way, but no one ever seemed to get his tone. Luckily, Harry just laughed.

‘I always feel comfortable in a kitchen.’

‘Why is that?’

Harry’s smile dimmed a little. ‘Er, probably overcompensating. I cooked a lot as a kid, but I had...a complicated relationship with food.’

‘How so?’

‘My aunt and uncle starved me,’ was Harry’s blunt reply, and he started hacking at a capsicum. Draco tried to find an appropriate response and failed, instead spluttering out the first thought he had.

‘Straight people, huh?’ Harry looked up, bemused, and his lips twitched upwards.

‘You think all straight people starve their kids?’

‘Possibly. I’m highly suspicious of all heterosexuals.’ If you don’t shut up, came St Clair’s voice, you will die a virgin. ‘And also I am terrible with emotions and said the first thing that came into my head and I would like you to know I am absolutely appalled at how you were treated and I wasn’t trying to make light of it and I clearly am not cut out for human interaction.’ Harry looked at him for a split second before descending into hysteria. ‘Oh shut up.’

‘You’re so weird.’ Harry was bent nearly in half over the counter, tears streaming down his face. ‘Fuck. Were you always this weird?’

‘Yes. Although I liked to think that the war trauma enhanced it.’ This sent Harry into another fit of laughter, and Draco felt a little flutter in his chest. He knew that really, Harry was laughing at him, but it didn’t feel mean. It felt...nice. It was nice to be the cause of Harry Potter laughing, looking completely at home in his tiny kitchen, making him dinner. Despite all the years of low level pining, Draco had never quite imagined this scene. He’d never even imagined Harry smiling at him. It felt too much to ask for. Most of his daydreams had involved perhaps running into Harry, annoying him so much that Harry had no choice but to draw his wand and back him into a corner, briefly giving into the inevitable sexual tension and pulling Draco in for a rough kiss and perhaps a spiteful blowjob, before disappearing forever. Draco had never, in his wildest dreams, ever considered Harry would actually like who he was now; that he could put aside years of bigotry and bullying and trauma to give Draco a second chance, and even if Harry just wanted to be his friend, that was good enough for him. More than good enough. An uncomfortable feeling jostled for room inside his chest - you don’t deserve this, you are irredeemable, you will never be better than you were - and Draco swallowed it down, focussing instead on Harry’s hands as he cooked the chicken and prepared the noodles.

…

Harry tried not to show how appalled he was at Draco’s apartment. It was tidy, and Draco had clearly gone out of his way to make it liveable, but the windows didn’t shut properly and it was cold and Harry could see watermarks and mould in the ceiling. And worst of all, Draco seemed to be completely used to it. He casually stuffed a towel against the window that didn’t shut properly, to keep the cold air out; he unselfconsciously handed Harry chipped plates for the meal; he poked at the small fire with blue fingers and put a second jumper on. The living room, at least, was alright; the couches were old and threadbare but cozy and the fire quickly warmed the room. 

They sat on the couch, plates precariously balanced on cushions, bodies facing each other. Draco wasn’t objectively good looking, really, Harry thought. He was far too thin and pointy, his face too drawn, his forehead a bit too large. But Harry found something about him almost breathtakingly attractive. He liked Draco. He liked the way he ate quickly and happily, reassuring Harry after every second bite that it was delicious; he liked the way Draco listened to him intently and soaked in every word; he liked Draco’s long, pale fingers and his smile and his eyes. Draco was definitely a bit mad, but Harry also liked that. And Harry was surprisingly okay with liking Draco. After quitting the Aurors and breaking up with Ginny and coming out, Harry really couldn’t be bothered to care about what anyone else thought anymore.

After they finished, Draco took away their plates and came back in with hot chocolate, passing a mug to Harry and sitting at the other end of the couch. Only half a metre separated them. Harry tentatively stretched a leg out, and Draco smiled at him, eyes soft.

‘Thank you for dinner.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Harry met his gaze. ‘Thank you for letting me monopolise your kitchen.’

Draco waved a hand. ‘It’s normally a site of neglect. I’m sure it was happy to be finally used properly.’ At that, Harry’s heart ached a little, thinking of how bare Draco’s cupboards and fridge had been, all instant noodles and baked beans and canned pears. And then he thought about how Draco bought a loaf of sourdough every day, and the way he’d looked when he’d tasted that sample of focaccia, and Harry recalled Pansy’s words. So do you see? Do you understand?  

‘Draco?’

‘Yes, Harry?’ Draco said Harry’s name with a smirk, like they were playing a game, using each other’s first names. But behind the smirk was something soft and pliable, like Harry could do anything, say anything, and Draco would let him.

‘When did it all change? When did you stop...believing, in all that stuff?’ Draco nodded, like he’d been expecting the question, and was quiet for a long few moments, staring at the fire.

‘It started in sixth year.’ He was silent for a moment, then went on. ‘You know, I was horrible when I was younger, with what I would say about your parents and Muggleborns.’ Draco closed his eyes a little. ‘But you have to understand, I’d never lost anyone. It was easy to parrot my father and say I wanted Muggleborns to die when I had no idea what death meant. It was easy to be awful when I had never been scared or hurt significantly, when I had no concept of what those emotions meant. Do you get that?’ Harry nodded. ‘But when he - I’m sorry, I still can’t say his name, I know it’s silly - when he gave me that task, and told me he would kill Mother if I didn’t succeed, that’s when it hit me. And suddenly I found myself incapable of wishing that upon anyone. As you know, I’ve always been a coward.’

‘I don’t think you are now.’ 

Draco ignored him. ‘Always been a coward. So I didn’t leave, because I was scared, but I also couldn’t bring myself to hurt anyone, and then I hurt people anyway, and it was during the rehabilitation program after the war that I realised my bigotry was also a product of fear. You know, I was always told that we had to protect ourselves against Muggles, and I was fed stories of witch burnings and lynchings, and I know it’s no excuse and I should have learnt sooner, but when I realised...I don’t know, that’s when it really changed.’

‘Is that why you don’t use magic?’

Draco made a small sound. ‘I do, sometimes.’

‘But you live in the Muggle world, and you use a fire instead of warming charms, and towels instead of sticking spells.’ Draco flushed a little.

‘Yes. I don’t think...I think I’ve caused enough damage to the wizarding world. And Mother and Father are dead, and no one needs a reminder of the Malfoys. So it was just best that I paid reparations and left.’

‘But.’ Harry sighed. ‘But you have so much to offer.’

‘I write gay smut, Potter, I’m hardly changing the world either way.’

‘But you could.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Draco was quiet, and more of Pansy’s words echoed in Harry’s head, Draco doesn’t possibly believe that anyone would care if he was gone, and something about that, combined with Draco Malfoy wearing two sweaters because his apartment was draughty and awful and sitting there looking at Harry with a soft smile even though Harry was pushing questions that he had no right to be asking - something about all of that, made Harry take his hand. Draco stilled but let him, barely breathing, and Harry turned his palm over, tracing circles on the inside of his wrist. The fire crackled and when Harry looked up, Draco was watching him with wary, wide eyes and soft pink lips.

‘Harry.’ It was barely a whisper.

‘Draco.’

‘I know...I know that I probably deserve terrible things.’ Draco swallowed, and Harry’s hold on his wrist tightened. ‘I know that. But, you see, you can’t - please don’t play with me, Harry - I’m not strong enough to bear it, and I’ve loved you for too much of my life to cope - and I couldn’t, I’ve tried to leave everyone alone, and so if this is a joke, I’m begging you, please don’t--’

‘I’m not joking, Draco.’ Harry’s heart was beating so fast, he thought it might fall out his chest. I’ve loved you for too much of my life. He caught Draco’s chin and looked at him. Draco looked terrified. ‘I’m not joking.’

‘Really?’ 

Harry kissed him.

…

This was not what was supposed to happen. Harry Potter kissing Draco Malfoy was not part of the story, Draco thought. Harry was supposed to kiss lovely, respectable men, who were mentally stable and brave and good, who could get ice cream with him from Florean’s and wander hand-in-hand through Diagon Alley and not have a panic attack because they were too far from home. Harry deserved much, much better than him. Yet, despite that, and perhaps because he had always been a fundamentally selfish person, Draco kissed Harry back, threaded one hand through his disastrous hair, tasted salt and chocolate on his tongue, saw white spots and flashing lights behind his eyelids. Harry’s lips were chapped and soft, his tongue pushing insistently against Draco’s mouth, and Draco let him, his heart swelling at the feeling of being wanted, possessed, taken care of, as Harry’s body moved closer to him and covered him, warm and heavy and perfect. They somehow went from sitting to lying down, sprawled across the sofa, stomachs and hips and legs pressed together. Draco felt his own body becoming soft and pliable, mirroring whatever Harry did, whatever Harry wanted, and then Harry bracketed Draco’s head with his arms and Draco moaned a little, feeling so safe and so warm and so happy that his chest twisted.

‘It’s not a joke,’ Draco whispered, gazing into the green of Harry’s eyes and seeing something like desire. It was beyond belief, beyond anything rational.

‘Not even remotely,’ Harry responded, stroking his cheek, his nose, his lips, and Draco chased his mouth, and then they were kissing again, and Harry wrapped a strong arm around his waist and Draco bent into him, and Harry gasped. ‘Fuck, Draco.’

Draco blushed. ‘I, erm, should probably tell you--’

‘Hmm?’ Harry pressed firm kisses down his jaw and neck and chest, and Draco’s body screamed.

‘--I’ve, oh god, this is so embarrassing.’ Harry stopped and smiled at him indulgently.

‘What?’

‘I’ve never, erm, done...this.’

‘What?’ Harry’s face crinkled in amusement. ‘But you write it so well!’

Draco huffed. ‘Yes, well, I do my research, but…’ Harry had lifted off his body a bit now, and Draco ached at the loss. ‘I’m actually - well - I’m demisexual, which means that I don’t feel sexual attraction to people without an emotional connection, and it’s not like I’ve been - I never thought you’d like me back, so it’s not like I was waiting or anything - but no one’s been close enough before for me to want them, and I am so horribly embarrassed right now so you need to say something.’

Harry looked at him thoughtfully, brushing hair out of his face. ‘You know, we never have to have sex or anything, it’s - I won’t assume.’

‘I do want to!’ Draco’s voice was high and he felt himself flush red as Harry laughed. ‘Fuck, I do want to, I just never have. It’s never - I told you about my turns, right? But it’s not like I leave the apartment much on a good day. I’ve never been to a club or on a date.’ Draco was sure he was absolutely going to die of embarrassment. God fucking damn his stupid vow of honesty.

‘We don’t have to do anything tonight,’ Harry’s voice was sweet and amused and soft, and he kissed Draco’s nose and his burning cheeks and his jaw. ‘I like you. I like you a lot. We can go slow. Or not. Whatever you want. But as you know, the bakery isn’t open on Sundays, so…’ Draco did know. He always got two loaves on Saturday to get him through Sunday and Monday, when Harry took his weekends.

‘I-’ Draco’s voice was shaky. ‘I am very overwhelmed right now, and I don’t feel quite ready for - physical stuff, right now - but if you, um, wanted to, stay the night, I have a spare toothbrush, and you don’t have to, but if you wanted to, you could.’

‘Yes.’ Harry said it so simply, and Draco tugged him back down, arching towards his mouth and Harry met him there, hand behind Draco’s head, and Draco’s mind - always whirring, always chatting, always spiralling - went peacefully, perfectly quiet.

When Draco woke up on Sunday morning, he instantly panicked. Harry was gone. 

Fuck fuck fuck, his mind supplied, followed by, big fucking surprise, of course he’s left, of course he was joking, you’re such an idiot, how could you have possibly taken him seriously?

And then, a warm, cinnamon smell wafted in through the door, and Draco heard noises, and he tugged on his sweater and jeans from the night before, and he wandered out to his kitchen, where Harry was whisking something and whistling. When he saw Draco, he lit up, and the anxiety in Draco’s chest suddenly melted.

‘What are you doing?’ Draco murmured, as Harry took his hand, threading their fingers together. 

‘I am making you breakfast.’ A small chime sounded from Harry’s wand. ‘That’ll be the rolls!’

‘Rolls?’

‘Cinnamon rolls. Cinnamon, orange and cardamom rolls, actually. Thoughts?’

Draco smiled and kissed him.

… 

They spent the day sprawled across the couch, chatting softly about everything and nothing in particular. They were just finishing up an argument about whether 10 Things I Hate About You was the best Shakespeare film adaptation - Harry insisted it was, Draco was firmly on the side of Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet - and Draco sighed as Harry tugged him into another sweet, slow kiss.

‘You’re very good at this,’ Harry murmured. ‘Who taught you?’

‘Pansy.’

Harry laughed. ‘You’re kidding.’

Draco smirked. ‘She had a huge crush on Blaise in sixth year, and she would regularly panic kiss me for practice.’ Harry snorted.

‘Did you two ever date?’

‘No. I’ve known I was gay since I was ten.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’ Draco nestled into Harry’s chest. ‘Just always kind of knew.’

‘Poor Pansy.’

‘She was obsessed with Blaise, I’m sure she was fine.’

‘So who did she end up marrying?’ Draco gave him a peculiar look.

‘She never married.’

‘Oh.’ Harry blinked. ‘I just assumed...the kid...she must have been really young when she had him.’

‘Twenty,’ Draco said. ‘She had a one night stand. I was certain she’d get an abortion - after the war she was partying like you wouldn’t believe - but Pansy’s always defied expectations.’

‘Hmm.’ Harry played with a lock of silver-white hair, and Draco got that soft stillness about him, a gentle giving in to Harry’s hands, his body, his lips. When he pressed their lips together, Harry hummed and felt utterly stupid and happy and sweet. ‘When can I see you again?’

‘You say that as if I don’t come into your shop every damn day.’ 

‘I can’t snog your brains out in my place of work.’

‘I don’t know,’ murmured Draco, ‘you’re the boss.’ He meant it literally - Harry owned the store - but Harry’s eyes darkened a little bit and he kissed Draco back a little firmer. Draco laughed. ‘Incorrigible.’

‘Hmph,’ Harry huffed, arms wrapped tightly around Draco’s waist. Harry had never had affection from the Dursleys, and Ron and Hermione weren’t really touchy, but it was one of the best things about being in a relationship after the war; even though he didn’t want to have sex with Ginny, they would lie in bed and she would stroke his hair and arms, and it was one of the things he missed most when they broke up. He’d dated some men since then, of course, but there was always very little contact outside of sex, not that sweet sort of affection that doesn’t expect anything in return. Draco, however, was tactile and responsive, leaning into Harry, chasing his hands, playing with his hair and fingers and sleeping jammed up against him, like he needed to be touching Harry at all times. It felt bubbly and warm and so, so nice.

‘Harry,’ Draco murmured, their lips brushing together. ‘You can see me whenever you want.’

…

The next few weeks were a haze. Harry seemed to intuitively understand Draco’s schedule and didn’t push him to break it. He had to leave early for the bakery anyway, and then Draco could write in his normal three-hour blocks and go to the bakery and get his loaf of sourdough - which Harry now refused to let him pay for. He helped Harry close up and they walked back to Draco’s apartment hand in hand, and Harry would cook dinner and leave pastries or pies for Draco’s breakfast the next morning. The result was, after years of not being bothered to make himself proper meals, Draco was eating well and regularly. He remembered complaining to Colin about how the bakery’s smell made it harder for him to not eat, and found it was actually quite easy to eat when it was Harry preparing the food; Harry’s care and attention folded into the dough or stirred into the soup, Harry’s smile as he handed Draco a cup of tea, Harry’s eyes brightening when Draco praised him. 

Colin had once told Draco that food wasn’t his problem.

‘Pansy thinks I have an eating disorder.’

‘I think you eat in a disordered way,’ Colin had responded, ‘but I don’t think it’s driven by a desire to control food or your body.’

‘What is it then?’ Draco had averted his gaze from the screen.

‘You don’t feel as if you are worth it,’ Colin had said simply. ‘Preparing a proper meal for yourself would be an act of care, and you don’t feel worthy of care, so you don’t do it.’ Draco hadn’t responded to that.

So when Draco had his next appointment with Colin, two weeks after his first date with Harry, he told him - somewhat casually, he tried to convince himself - that he was seeing someone who cooked a lot. Colin smiled and Draco was annoyingly pleased to be making his terrible therapist happy rather than concerned.

‘And how are you coping with the changes to your schedule and eating patterns?’

‘Surprisingly fine.’ Draco paused. ‘He gets me, you know - he knows about the turns--’

‘--agoraphobia--’

‘--and my schedule and such--’

‘--anxiety--’

‘--but I don’t think I mind change if it’s coming from him? Not as much, anyway.’

‘Do you think you could go somewhere with him? Somewhere new?’

‘Ugh.’ Draco picked at the frayed hem of his jumper.

‘Maybe.’

‘What about his house?’

‘I’ll think about it.’

Draco lay on Harry’s chest that night, sheets tangled around them. They still hadn’t had sex; Draco wasn’t sure why. He wanted to, and he knew Harry wanted to, but something about the simplicity of kissing and cuddling and having this sweet, lovely routine was wonderful. Draco gazed up at Harry and ran a hand across his chest.

‘Harry?’

‘Mhmm?’

‘Colin thinks I should go somewhere new with you.’ Harry blinked his eyes open and smiled softly, running a finger along Draco’s jaw.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ Draco inhaled. ‘And even though the thought alone makes me feel slightly ill, I think I’d like to see where you live, and I don’t really want to spend my life in this shit apartment, so I have to start somewhere, and I think, maybe, it might be easier doing it with you.’ Harry nuzzled his cheek in that same, comforting way he often did when Draco rambled.

‘Let’s do it.’

…

Draco was more or less hyperventilating when he met Harry at the bakery the next afternoon. His face was pale and his hands were clammy and Harry wrapped him up in a firm, sweet hug.

‘You sure about this?’

‘Yeah.’ Draco’s throat was dry. ‘I just - I just need to be there and I’ll be okay.’ Harry kissed the side of his head and locked up the shop, then held out an arm. Draco clung to him, edging close enough that their shoulders and hips touched, and squeezed his eyes shut.

‘Okay.’ 

Harry Apparated them into his living room, and Draco opened his eyes. Harry liked his apartment - Grimmauld Place had been too depressing to move back into, so after he and Ginny broke up, Harry had just picked the closest place he could find to Ron and Hermione. It was near Hampstead Heath, perhaps still too metropolitan for Harry’s liking, but the apartment was spacious and warm and comfortable. He guided Draco to the couch and knelt in front of him. 

‘Are you okay?’

Draco nodded, slowly looking around. ‘This is nice.’

‘What can I do to make you comfortable?’

‘Can you show me around? I just need to know it a bit.’ Harry kissed his knuckles and took him through both bedrooms - white walls, grey quilt sets, boring but clean - and then showed him where the bathroom was, the kitchen, the view from the balcony. They ended up back on the couch, Harry kissing every crease in Draco’s brow until it smoothed out, Draco relaxing beneath him and steadying his breath.

‘Thank you,’ whispered Draco.

‘For what?’

‘You know, putting up with me.’ Harry pulled back a bit.

‘I don’t mind it, you know.’

‘Yes but--’ You’re Harry Potter. You are courage incarnate. You deserve the best. ‘--it feels silly.’

‘It’s not silly.’

‘It’s a bit silly.’

Harry kissed the corner of Draco’s mouth, and ran a single, soothing finger across the bridge of his nose until his eyes fluttered shut, and Harry whispered softly into his ear.

‘If this is putting up with you, it’s pretty easy.’

…

Harry asked him to dinner with Ron and Hermione a week after that.

‘You don’t have to, but they would really like to.’

‘They know about us?’ Draco’s throat felt raspy.

‘Of course. Doesn’t Pansy?’

‘Yes, but Weasley and Granger…’

‘Would love to see you.’

‘Would love to see me?’ 

Harry shrugged. ‘They know you make me happy and they like seeing me happy.’

‘Even…’ Draco swallowed, guilt bubbling up in his throat. ‘Granger?’

‘Hermione manages the charities you donated to. She knows you’ve changed.’

‘There are some things that shouldn’t be forgiven.’ Draco coughed a little and focussed intently on the sleeve of his jumper, and tried to breathe normally.

‘Look, Draco,’ Harry cupped his face. ‘You don’t have to. I’d understand. But the things that happened, happened a long time ago, and a lot of them weren’t your fault.’

‘Does she still have Bella’s scar?’ Draco looked at the floor, and Harry kept his hands on his cheeks.

‘Do you still have my scar?’ Draco’s eyes shot up to Harry’s, and he stuttered. 

‘That’s - that’s different, I deserved it, you know I did, I was--’

‘No,’ Harry said, firm and gentle. ‘You didn’t. And you’ve forgiven me.’

‘Of course I did,’ Draco said, bewildered.

‘And Hermione forgave you a long time ago.’

‘She shouldn’t have.’

‘I will be honest,’ Harry smirked. ‘The thirty odd million Galleons probably helped.’ Draco laughed a little at that. ‘It’s at my place, so you’ll know it, and I’ll cook, so it won’t be anything new.’

‘Okay.’

…

Pansy found the idea of Draco having dinner with the Golden Trio rather hilarious, and kept making jokes about Ron Weasley hexing him as she helped him pick out an outfit.

‘He’s an Auror too, so he could probably decimate you.’

‘Shut up, you absolute hag.’

‘You won’t win them over with that language.’ 

‘Ugh. This shirt is terrible.’ Draco grimaced at his reflection. He hadn’t been shopping in about four years.

‘It is. Pale colours wash you out,’ Pansy said, tossing him a simple white button down instead. ‘Wear this, and those tight jeans that make your ass look good, and a cardigan.’

‘I’ll look like a swot.’

‘You are a swot.’

‘Point taken.’

‘Draco,’ Pansy took his hands. ‘You look nice. Relax.’

‘I really like Harry,’ Draco blurted, and then cringed. ‘I mean obviously, I’ve been half in love with him for years, but…’

‘I think you were half in love with the idea of him, before,’ Pansy said, with an unusual show of thoughtfulness. ‘I mean, I think you two have circled each other forever, and this makes sense in some ways. But you never really got the chance to know him before.’

‘No, not really.’

‘So it was like, this idea. But now you’re actually getting to know him, and he’s even better than you’ve built up in your head, and that’s terrifying.’ Pansy adjusted his collar, tweaking it over the wool of his cardigan and brushing invisible lint away. Draco felt a rush of love for her.

‘When did you get so wise?’

Pansy snorted. ‘Motherhood changes a girl.’

‘That’s bullshit. You have not been wise for five whole years.’ Pansy poked his ribs and Draco yelped. Then her eyes softened, and she sighed, leaning her head on his chest.

‘I like you being happy.’

‘Funny,’ Draco grinned, ‘me too.’

...

Ron and Hermione walked through the Floo a few minutes early, and Draco startled from the kitchen.

‘Relax,’ Harry told him. Hermione came through first, her long, frizzy curls tamed to topple down her shoulders, and her smile was broad and easy.

‘Hello, Draco,’ she said immediately, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Draco felt his chest unclench a little.

‘Hi, Hermione.’ He’d never called her by her first name before, and it felt foreign and lovely. She smiled at him and went over to give Harry a hug as Ron bounced into the room and went straight for Draco, who froze. Ron cleared his throat.

‘Ferret.’ But it was said with a smile and an outstretched hand. Draco took it and bit back a grin.

‘Weasel.’ Ron beamed, and Draco realised something ridiculously disturbing, and it must have been the nerves - or the glass of wine he’d hurriedly sculled before they arrived - but he couldn’t keep it in. ‘Hang on.’ Hermione and Harry turned to them. ‘Weasel, are you... hot?’ Hermione and Harry burst out laughing as Ron blushed furiously.

‘Isn’t he?’ Hermione said, wrapping her arms around Ron’s waist and kissing his cheek, and he scowled. ‘It’s the Auror training, they have to stay fit.’

‘This is desperately confusing.’ Draco looked at Harry, who was laughing, but then - to Draco’s complete and utter delight - walked to where Draco was sitting and wrapped a possessive arm around his waist.

‘I was more buff than he was when I was doing that training every day too,’ Harry grumbled, smiling.

‘You’re plenty buff.’ Draco said, kissing his cheek, and then turning back to Hermione and Ron. ‘I, on the other hand, only see physical activity as useful if it involves an orgasm.’

‘You--’ Hermione pointed a finger at him ‘--and I are going to get on just fine.’

And they did, much to Draco’s astonishment. Ron and Hermione were, in many ways, much the same as they’d been in school. Hermione talked passionately to Draco about the charities she was overseeing and the legal consequences of recent legislation about half-breed land rights that passed through the Wizengamot, and Ron and Harry bantered back and forth. And then, as the four of them sat round the table in a moment of silence, Draco broke.

‘I’m sorry,’ he blurted. They all looked at him. ‘I’ve never told you before.’

‘Draco,’ Hermione said softly, ‘you did. You sent us letters.’

‘I was too cowardly to do anything else,’ he said, heart hammering. ‘And you need to know - I really am sorry.’

Ron awkwardly ran a hand through his hair. ‘Mate, Harry’s a dumb git a lot of the time--’ Harry tried to swat at him and missed ‘--but we trust his judgment, alright?’

‘We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t think you’d changed, Draco,’ Hermione said earnestly, and he nodded and his cheeks burned. He didn’t deserve how nice they were being, he didn’t deserve their forgiveness. But they were offering it anyway, and it was a bit too much for him. 

Graciousness and kindness were never Malfoy family traits, and Draco didn’t know how to cope with them. But then he looked at Harry, who was looking at him so softly and sweetly and with such care, and he felt okay. Draco thought about the years of therapy he’d been through, the years of being told time and time again that he had to move on, he had to believe he was worth something, and yet he’d never believed it. He still didn’t, not quite, but for Harry, he wanted to try. And that was more than he’d had in a long time.

Two hours later, and Hermione and Draco were drunkenly ogling Harry and Ron as a game of Twister descended into a wrestling match.

‘Seriously, Granger,’ Draco said very gravely, ‘it is fucked that he’s hot now.’

‘I know,’ agreed Hermione, topping up her wine glass. ‘He has a V cut thingy. I didn’t even know those were possible.’

‘I’m so glad Harry isn’t an Auror anymore. My arms don’t need to be any more twiggy by comparison.’ Hermione snorted.

‘After a baby, I have to admit, sometimes I feel a bit insecure.’ Hermione was a few sizes larger than she’d been in school, all soft curves and smooth, dark skin, and he patted her hand, like he would with Pansy.

‘You shouldn’t,’ he declared. ‘You’re still too good for him.’ Hermione laughed, bright and ringing, and Ron and Harry looked over. Ron had Harry in a headlock.

‘What are you two giggling at?’ he demanded.

‘Nothing!’ Draco and Hermione’s voices rang out in unison.

…

‘He’s mental, isn’t he?’ Ron ruffled Harry’s hair and was pushed off with a grunt.

‘Yeah.’ Harry grinned. ‘A bit mental.’

‘But in a good way.’

‘Yeah, thanks Ron.’ Harry rolled his eyes and threw a beer to Ron, who caught it as Hermione started laughing again.

‘Blimey, he’s funny too.’

‘He’s a lot of things.’ Harry averted his gaze as Ron raised his eyebrows at him. 

‘You really like him, don’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ breathed Harry, ‘I really think I do. Do you...do you like him? Or could you, one day?’ Harry didn’t want to care what his friends thought, but he did. And it wasn’t just because it was Draco; it was Harry’s first gay relationship, the first time in his life that he’d properly liked and wanted someone in all the ways you’re meant to. Ron’s face softened and he weakly punched Harry’s shoulder.

‘Haz, he’s great. And...I dunno, I almost like him more in a weird way, knowing what he used to be like. He’s clearly done a lot of work to change. It’s heartening.’

‘Woah, big word Ronald.’ That earned Harry another punch, harder this time.

‘Git.’

When Ron and Harry came back to the lounge, Hermione and Draco were properly drunk and giggling over something Hermione was holding. Harry went closer and flushed.

‘Hermione, no!’

‘But you look so,’ Hermione was giggling uncontrollably, ‘you look so pretty!’ In the picture, a very resigned looking Harry was wearing heavy makeup and adorning a feather boa, tiara and tutu, while little Rose sat delightedly in his arms in an identical outfit and cooed at the camera. She waved her arms while camera Harry looked despairingly between her and the photographer.

‘He’s so grumpy,’ Draco wheezed, reaching for the photo as Harry dove in to steal it. ‘No!’

‘Yes. You two are pissed.’

‘Ugh. You’re no fun,’ whined Hermione. ‘First time we’ve had without Rose in months, I am allowed to get drunk.’

‘Precisely,’ slurred Draco. ‘Although, I do not have a child, and I actually have very few responsibilities due to my self-imposed hermit lifestyle.’

‘Still a valid excuse to drink,’ reasoned Hermione, and they clinked glasses.

‘Bloody hell.’ Ron looked at Harry. ‘What is going on?’

‘I think they’re...bonding.’

‘Oh god.’ Ron looked back, and Draco whispered something to Hermione, who let out a shrill laugh.

‘Yes! And remember when I punched you?’

‘Granger, how could I forget.’

‘Don’t fucking call me that, you prat.’

‘Fine, Hermione,’ Draco exaggeratedly drew out the last syllable. ‘Of course I remember you punching me. I know I deserved it but Salazar, it hurt.’

‘Excellent,’ Hermione said solemnly.

‘Where did you learn to punch like that?’

‘My mum made me take self defence classes as a kid.’

‘How fascinating,’ murmured Draco, seeming genuinely fascinated. ‘Can you teach me?’

Hermione sprang to her feet. ‘Yes!’

‘No!’ Ron and Harry said at the same time, and Ron wrapped an arm around his wife, who pouted before putting a hand to his stomach and giggling, winking at Draco, who started laughing.

‘What now?’ Ron asked.

‘I told him about your V...thingy. You know, this thing,’ slurred Hermione, tugging his shirt up a little. Harry snorted as Ron sighed dramatically and Draco feigned a swoon.

‘Right, I’m taking her home.’ Ron shook his head and hugged Harry, then turned to Draco, who was holding out a hand, and tugged him in.

‘You have my approval, but hurt him, and I’ll kill you, Ferret,’ Ron whispered.

‘Fair enough. Do not plan to. He’s far too good for me.’

Ron pulled back and looked at Draco appraisingly. ‘Correct response.’

‘Wait,’ Harry said, ‘what?’

‘See ya!’ Ron said, before taking Hermione and Disapparating them out. 

…

Draco looked at Harry, and held his breath.

‘So?’

‘So,’ Harry said, taking one of Draco’s hands and laughing as he stumbled towards him.

‘So, did I pass?’

‘Pass?’

‘Yes, was I…’ Draco spread his hands a little, ‘acceptable?’

‘Oh, sweetheart.’ Harry had never called him that before. He took out his wand. ‘Can I do a Sobering Spell?’

‘Probably a good idea,’ Draco said, before a tingling sensation spread through him and the alcohol burnt out of his system. ‘I haven’t drunk in a while.’

‘I could tell,’ Harry smiled.

‘So?’ Draco looked at Harry, expectant and sweet, so earnest it was heartbreaking.

‘Draco,’ breathed Harry, ‘you’re perfect.’

Draco froze and a red flush started creeping up his neck. ‘No, I’m really not.’

‘No,’ conceded Harry, ‘and that’s what makes you perfect. For me, at least.’

‘I…’ Draco’s words failed him. Harry tugged him in by the back of his neck, soft yet demanding, and there was a question in his eyes. Draco answered it with his lips, and Harry groaned. 

He swept Draco off the ground so his legs were around Harry’s waist, walked them into his bedroom, slammed the door shut and pushed Draco against it. Draco’s body, as always, chased Harry’s, bent to it, moved in time with him; Harry took Draco’s arms and pinned them above him, to his sides, around his own waist, and Draco whimpered and let him. He arched up against Harry, pushed their bodies together, nibbled on his ear, took his bottom lip between his teeth. Harry wrestled them onto the bed, where he bracketed Draco’s head with his arms and they stilled for a moment, just a moment, where Draco’s eyes met his and something heady and unyielding and possessive passed between them. Then Draco yanked Harry downwards, their lips crashing, bodies writhing, and it was utterly perfect.

‘That’s good, Draco, stay there--’

‘Harry, I adore you, you smell so good, I love your hair--’

‘Move that, please, I need you, closer--’

‘If you move away even one inch I will hex you--’

‘Oh god, oh god, you are fucking perfect, fuck--’

‘You’re not real, you can’t be real, you’re so gorgeous--’

‘Draco, let me take care of you, sweetheart, let me--’

‘Please god, I need you, I need you, I need you--’

Happiness had never felt like this.

In the morning, Harry fussed over Draco, delightfully attentive and thoughtful, bringing him tea and croissants and ibuprofen even though Draco repeatedly told him he was fine. 

‘I just - my first time really hurt - I don’t want you to -’

‘Sweetheart.’ Draco decided to roll with the pet name, as Harry had started it. ‘It was perfect. I am fine. Better than fine.’

Harry smiled, and traced his face gently. ‘So am I.’

The weeks went on much like that, a whirlwind of Harry’s cooking, nights with Ron and Hermione and Rose, and sweet, sincere sex that made Draco feel like his heart was bursting out of his chest. One night, as he was lying next to a gently snoring Harry, he realised that he couldn’t remember ever being this happy.

That’s because you never have been this happy, St Clair’s voice supplied.

Draco sighed. You can never leave well enough alone, can you?

Never. And you’ve been far nicer to me, you old sap. The latest book is so saccharine it will practically give readers cavities.

Oh shut up.

How devastating.

Draco curled up around Harry’s sleeping body, and drifted off.

...

Of course, it was entirely too good to last, and the tendrils of anxiety that Draco had been pushing down came back in full force when Harry told him that he, Ron, Hermione and Rose were visiting Charlie in Romania.

‘I’d invite you, but…’ Harry winced. ‘Sorry, that was tactless.’

Draco forced a smile. ‘No, it’s fine. I couldn’t go that far.’

‘Obviously, it’s not that I don’t want you there. But I don’t want to put you in an uncomfortable situation. We’ll only be gone for two weeks.’

‘Harry, it’s fine.’ Draco tried to breathe. ‘It’s fine.’

It was not fine.

Draco pulled up the duvet to his chin, and tried to breathe. It was the first night, and he desperately missed Harry. But it wasn’t just Harry. It was also that he was back in his own apartment, in the same routine he’d had before he was with Harry, and it felt like that alone had upended his entire world. When five o'clock came, he no longer went to the bakery, which meant that he instead stood aimlessly in his kitchen and stared at the ceiling. Without Harry to cook for him, he barely had the energy to do beans on toast, and while he ate it, remembered that he hadn’t eaten beans on toast since being with Harry, which was enough to put him off it. He put his head in his hands and tried not to hyperventilate.

And now he was pathetic and lonely, just as he knew he would always be, had always been, and even though he had deluded himself for a while, of course this thing with Harry would never work out. Harry was brave, and adventurous, and wasn’t Charlie gay? Draco’s blood ran cold at the thought of Harry sitting around a fire with Ron and Hermione and Charlie, who wrangled dragons and definitely wasn’t afraid of crowds or travel or noise, and by the morning he had convinced himself that Harry was actually secretly in love with Charlie Weasley and Draco was just a stand in and oh god, it was probably a pity thing too, since Draco was so downtrodden and terrible. He wasn’t at all what Harry deserved. Harry, with his strong arms and green eyes and clean, modern apartment. 

By midday, Draco still hadn’t eaten. The twisting anxiety in his chest seemed to have spread to his stomach, head, shoulders, everywhere, and was only getting worse as images of Harry and Charlie Weasley falling in love and raising fifty dragon babies invaded his consciousness.

Not so long ago, Draco had felt exactly like this, and had made entirely the wrong choice. A choice that still haunted his best friend and put him in hospital for nearly a month. A part of him still wanted to make that choice; the thrum of you’re no good you’re not worth anything you’re alone and pathetic no one would miss you no one cares run Draco run run run go and run still coursed through his veins. But even though he was pretty entirely convinced that Harry hated him and Ron and Hermione hated him and Pansy barely tolerated him, there was the tiniest shred of doubt floating in his chest, like a tiny, sweet voice saying please don’t do this, and it was enough to pull Draco back to himself. Enough for him to pick up his phone and dial Colin’s number.

‘Slow down,’ Colin said, as he watched Draco from across the table. He hadn’t been to Draco’s house since the bout of anxiety in January that had kept him inside for two weeks. Now, spring was beginning to unfurl outside, water droplets dripping off blooming flowers and trees shaking as they grew new emerald leaves. Draco was pacing and staring out the window and occasionally stopping to catch his breath, as he explained his logic to Colin.

‘...and then I realised that, you know, he’s the Saviour and all that - and he’s so brave and good and I quite desperately love him - and then it seemed obvious, that of course I don’t deserve him, and perhaps it’s the selfish thing to stay with him, because as long as he’s with me he’ll be shackled in some way, and I’m only bringing him down, and he’s just opened this bakery and turned over this new chapter and I am so fundamentally fucked up and it’s actually an awful thing that I’m doing, an awful thing, keeping him with me, when he could be free, and I just--’ Colin warily approached Draco, putting his hands on his shoulders and firmly holding him still.

‘Draco. Breathe.’ Colin inhaled and Draco tried to mirror him, but his chest felt too shallow and he could only gulp a lungful. Colin steered him to the table and they repeated the breathing until Draco was matching him breath for breath, and eventually rested his head between his elbows on the table, hands clasped behind his head. He felt lightheaded and exhausted, but less panicked.

‘Draco,’ Colin said, kindly. ‘Can you look at me?’ Draco brought his gaze up slightly. ‘I’m very proud of what you’ve accomplished today.’

Shit. Out of all the things he’d expected his stern therapist to say, it hadn’t been that.

‘What?’

‘You should be very proud of yourself.’

‘Colin.’ Draco looked at him, dumbfounded. ‘My boyfriend has been away for one night and I’ve completely gone to pieces.’

‘No, you haven’t. Draco,’ Colin sighed in a way Draco had always thought was exasperation, but was perhaps just empathy, ‘you need to give yourself credit for how far you’ve come.’

‘Managing to not kill myself isn’t that high of a bar.’

‘Keeping yourself safe, and knowing when to call for help, and where to go for help - that’s huge.’ Draco stared at him. Colin went on. ‘You have explained what’s going on to me, and you’ve allowed me to come into your home and help you. You haven’t done anything impulsive. And I’m assuming you haven’t spoken to Harry about this yet?’ 

‘No, of course not.’

‘See?’ Colin spread his hands. ‘Despite your anxiety trying to tell you otherwise, you are actually being very reasonable. You haven’t contacted Harry because you don’t want him to worry about you - I think you should let him know, at some point, but we’ll get to that - and you knew you had to see someone who could help you get out of this spiral.’

‘But…’ Draco slumped a little, bewildered. ‘I’m mad.’

‘You’re not mad,’ Colin smiled reassuringly. ‘You just have an anxiety disorder and trauma that makes it difficult for you to value yourself or trust others. But the truth is, that trauma doesn’t define you, and it doesn't determine what you’re worth.’

‘But what about...I feel like it’s selfish of me.’

‘What’s selfish?’

‘Being in a relationship,’ Draco said, mortified tears springing to his eyes. ‘Fuck. It’s so unbearably selfish of me. Aren’t you supposed to love yourself before loving someone else? Colin, I can barely feed myself. What do I have to offer to someone like Harry?’

‘That’s bullshit.’ Colin never swore. Draco’s eyes widened. ‘You value yourself enough to try, and that’s all that matters. And you would never tell someone you loved that they didn’t deserve love when they were hurting.’

‘Of course not, but I’m--’

‘No exceptions with you, Draco.’ 

Draco didn’t know what to say. ‘I used to think you didn’t like me.’

‘Of course you did. You think everyone dislikes you until they prove otherwise.’

‘Oh.’ Draco looked at his hands, his fingers anxiously knitting and re-knitting together. ‘I guess...yeah.’

‘You’re getting better, Draco. I promise you, one day you will be able to go to Romania with Harry, or to Diagon Alley, or to any other place you want. You just need to take it one step at a time. Because I promise you, you deserve a healthy, loving relationship.’

And Draco decided to listen to his therapist.

…

Pansy’s eyes widened when she saw Draco come through the Floo.

‘What the fuck? Is everything okay?’

‘Yeah, Pans.’ Draco smiled at her and breathed in familiar, slow patterns. He looked around his best friend’s living room and remembered how she’d told him she was pregnant across that coffee table, and how he’d held Laurence for the first time on that sofa, and he felt okay. ‘I need your help.’

Pansy feigned taking his temperature with the back of her hand on his forehead and he swatted her away.

‘Shut up.’

‘Didn’t say anything,’ she replied.

‘I know I haven’t visited your place for a while.’

‘Eight months.’

‘Has it been that long? Shit, I’m sorry Pans.’

‘You should be. It’s much nicer than your dump.’ She wrinkled her nose and Draco laughed.

‘Fair enough.’ He settled on an armchair and felt okay. A little anxious, which was pretty normal, he figured.

‘What do you need my help with?’

‘I want to bake bread.’ He looked imploringly at her and she huffed out a breath.

‘He’s been gone, what? Three days?’

‘Yes. And I want to bake bread for myself.’

‘Why?’

Draco paused. He didn’t quite know why. He knew Harry would happily supply him with perfect, chewy, tangy sourdough forever, if he wanted it. He didn’t need to know how to make it. But he wanted to. He wanted to do more than just survive. He wanted to have fun again. He wanted to be able to help Harry cook. He wanted to be the sort of person who did nice things for himself, like make sourdough even when there was no one else around to eat it, simply because he believed he was worth that much. And Draco didn’t quite believe he was worth that much, yet, but he wanted to. For Pansy. For Harry. For himself.

‘So, why do you need me?’

‘I need your oven. Mine is crap.’

‘Ah.’ She grinned. ‘It may as well get some use. I made Laurence and I microwaveable chicken nuggets for dinner last night.’

‘That sounds disgusting,’ Draco agreed. ‘Where is the maniac?’

‘Mother has taken him out for the day.’ Pansy yawned. ‘I was planning on watching reality TV in silk pyjamas and ordering overpriced sushi.’

‘Don’t let me stop you.’ Draco kissed her cheek. ‘I’ll just be in the kitchen.’

Harry had left his starter with Draco - Betsy needs to be fed every day, Draco, be kind to her - and in a sudden, vivid moment of clarity, realised that Harry would never have left his most precious asset in the hands of someone he was iffy about. He likes you, idiot, supplied St Clair. Alright. Draco was going to remember that.

He tied Pansy’s MILF Life apron (he had given it to her ironically three Christmases ago, and she unironically loved it) around his waist and got out everything he’d seen Harry use in the bakery - scales, mixing bowl, a loaf tin shoved in the back cupboard and covered in spiderwebs. He scrubbed it out and then balanced the scales, weighing out 150 grams of starter, and adding water, olive oil and flour. He thought about the gentle way Harry brought together his dough, and he slowly combined and kneaded it until he could flip it onto the floured countertop, where he covered it for the first prove. He washed his hands, watched half an hour of Supernanny with Pansy, then went back to the kitchen. He kneaded the dough again and transferred back into a clean bowl for the second prove. Back into the living room, where Pansy had sashimi and - inexplicably - margaritas, and they moved onto reruns of Gilmore Girls. 

‘Logan,’ Draco said firmly.

‘Jess!’ Pansy was horrified. 

‘Mark my words, Rory will stay with Logan. Jess was a dick to her.’

‘Jess was misunderstood.’

‘People used to say that about me.’ He gave her a wry look.

‘No, you said that about you. We all knew you were just a dick. Which probably is why you like Logan.’

‘Insufferable bint.’

‘You love me.’

‘Barely.’ A raw piece of salmon got flung at his cheek for that.

A few hours later, the dough had doubled in size, and with absolutely no finesse or grace, Draco shaped it into the loaf tin and left it for another hour. Then he went back and put it in the oven. Pansy sighed from the couch.

‘It’s a lot of work, just for a loaf of bread.’

Draco shrugged. ‘I think that’s the appeal of it, in some ways.’

‘I am far too lazy. But I’m glad you’re doing it.’ She leant her head on his shoulder, as the smell that had wafted into Draco’s apartment all those months ago - the homely, salty, strong scent of bread - enveloped them. 

A couple of hours later - one hour for baking, one for resting - Draco and Pansy perched themselves on her island bench and slathered butter and salt on thick slices of bread.

‘It’s good, Draco,’ Pansy garbled through a mouthful.

‘It is,’ he smirked. ‘Not quite as good as Harry’s, but…’

Pansy tilted her head. ‘Yeah, but this is your first ever attempt. How does it feel?’

Draco considered his loaf. It was a little too dark, the slightest bit gummy, but it was good. He had made it, just because he wanted to. Just because it was nice and he wanted a nice thing. He smiled at his ridiculous, silk-clad best friend. 

‘It feels like a start.’

That night, an exhausted-looking owl tapped at his window.

Dear Draco,

I don’t know how I managed to forget this after fourth year, but dragons are actually bloody terrifying. Not that Rosie seems to mind; I have had to rescue her MULTIPLE times from wandering into a field of nesting Hungarian Horntails. That child is a menace.

Luckily, Hermione and I found a nearby distillery and will be bringing back copious amounts of alcohol. She sends her love, Ron just said ‘hi Ferret’, so, well - basically the same thing. Charlie and his boyfriend should be visiting for Christmas, which Molly will be over the moon about. Although they only seem to talk about dragons. Which is cool and all - you know, dragons - but it does get a little old. Also, Romania has so many mountains. Turns out, leaving the Aurors to bake delicious carbohydrates has caught up with me (shocker). I started wheezing about half an hour into the last activity requiring physical activity and dragged Hermione to the nearest bar. Ron has to participate because it’s his brother and also he’s still Auror-level fit. Sucker.

Okay, I’m just going to say it: I miss you. Yes, I am aware I am a sap, and yes, I am constantly thinking about how much better it would be if you were here, but if you recall correctly you were the one who admitted to being in love with me before we even started dating, so there, you can’t make fun of me!

I adore you. I miss you. Please write back soon so I feel less awfully pathetic.

Yours,

Harry

Draco slept well that night.

…

Harry loathed Portkeys. When they finally landed back in Ron and Hermione’s house after five transit stops and two security checks from both British and Romanian Aurors, Rose was screaming, Hermione was developing a migraine, and Ron looked haggard. 

‘I love you both,’ Harry said, ‘but I am going to get the fuck out of here.’

‘Please,’ agreed Hermione. Harry summoned the last of his energy to grab some Floo Powder, and drag his suitcase into the fireplace. He was starving, and it was 11pm, so his normal Indian wouldn’t be open, but maybe the chicken shop down the road would be. Driven by the thought of something fried and artery-clogging, Harry threw down the Floo Powder and walked into his living room. His warm, well lit living room, with music playing from the kitchen and mouth-watering smells wafting through the house.

‘What the…’ Harry stopped as Draco appeared in the archway, with his hair tousled and his cheeks pink.

‘I know you said not to bother coming over tonight, because you’d be so late,’ Draco began, hovering awkwardly, ‘but I figured you’d be hungry after that trip, so I decided to make you pasta, because I’ve started taking cooking classes, and I learnt how to make authentic carbonara, like with fresh eggs and parmesan, and I can leave if you want, I just wanted to make sure you had a decent meal--’ Harry shut him up with a kiss. Draco sighed into his mouth and wrapped his long, graceful arms around him. When Harry pulled back and looked at his boyfriend’s face, he was fairly certain that he had never seen anything more beautiful.

‘I missed you so much,’ Harry whispered, in complete awe.

‘I missed you,’ Draco replied.

It wasn’t quite I love you, but Harry decided that could wait; and anyway, love was wrapped up in Draco’s unexpectedly delicious pasta, and the way he had put fresh sheets on Harry’s bed, and bought him some art prints for his walls - they’re a bit bare, which you might like, but in case you just hadn’t gotten around to putting stuff up, I thought these were nice - and Harry had assured him that they were perfect and the food was perfect and that everything, absolutely everything about him, was perfect.

...

One Year Later

Just outside of Godric’s Hollow, nestled between a creek and an apple orchard, is a small cottage. It’s old, brick, with a thatched roof and climbing ivy sprawled across the walls. The garden surrounding it is colourful and bright, with a dizzying array of flowers and vegetable patches and trees. Inside live two men, very much in love.

Harry still has his own bakery, now relocated to the village, and sometimes Draco helps him prepare the loaves for overnight proving or serve customers during busy periods. Or, you might find Draco working on the history books he now makes time for, as well as St Clair - you’re never getting rid of me, you git.

Or, you might find Draco teaching part time at the wizarding primary school at the heart of the township, because somewhere between falling in love and going to therapy and deciding to live a better life, Draco rediscovered magic. Gentle, healing, powerful magic, worlds away from wizard Nazis and blood supremacy. And he decided that perhaps, being a good person means living in the world you harmed, and trying your damned best to make it better.

Draco still panics in crowded places, and they haven’t gone to Romania together yet. But he’s also discovered that Harry still has nightmares and often wakes up in chilled sweats, and on those nights Draco holds him until dawn breaks and Harry remembers that the danger has passed. As Colin predicted, Draco doesn’t love him any less for it. In fact, it only makes him love Harry more.

It’s not perfect, but it’s theirs, and that makes it perfect. You can find them taking long, meandering walks through rolling fields, dotted with cows and daisies. Or making the most of sunny days on their picnic blanket in the backyard, each pretending they are paying attention to their books, before Harry gets fed up and pins Draco down, pressing warm kisses down his throat and chest. Or sitting around their dining table with the people they love most, serving them lovingly crafted carbohydrates and freshly grown vegetables.

It’s a start.