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A small, unacknowledged part of him would admit he was mostly embarrassed, and why shouldn’t he be? He, a paragon of pureblood wizardry, had entered a muggle coffee shop to purchase a beverage. A latte, as it so happened, but he could be persuaded by a cappuccino or—in a desperate situation—a café au lait, as long as it was sugary, caffeinated, and hot. There were plenty of Wizard Cafes—not here, of course, but in general—where he could frequent. He could even have summoned a house elf to bring him coffee from the Manor, no matter where he happened to be.

 

But here he was, buying his coffee from muggles. Or Potter, as it so happened.

 

Here, in what he had previously believed to be a strictly muggle town. Now that he was (quite literally) facing the fact that he had been mistaken on that front, he had to worry about what anyone else who knew who Draco Malfoy was might think of his being here. Anyone capable of thinking things through to their logical conclusion might guess (correctly) that his being here meant he carried muggle money with him.

 

Which meant he had prepared to come here. Willingly.

 

Or, perhaps, not so willingly. Maybe they'd think he had been imperio’d for reasons unknown, by persons unknown. If anyone bothered to ask (they wouldn't), Draco would’ve told them that it would have been a waste of waste of an imperio, really, for not making him do something more shameful than buy muggle coffee. Waste of an unforgivable, too, had they managed to get the drop on Draco; more than half of wizarding Britain would happily crucio him, given the chance.

 

They might also assume he was here to start the Third War of Wizarding Purity, if only because people already assumed that about Draco whenever he walked into an establishment, muggle or otherwise. He'd wish they'd stop, really. He had been acquitted, after all. Not to mention that he had better sense than to initiate an endeavor that was, at best, derivative. And morally wrong, of course, he reminded himself. Not that he needed to be reminded. He just liked to demonstrate that he did, in fact, now know it was wrong, heedless of whether he was being grilled by the Wizengamot or just…buying a coffee.

 

He hadn't gone through that blasted muggle education course just to have people think he hadn't changed. Or worse: think that he'd sunk even lower.

 

But Draco had changed, evidenced by the fact that he was now thoroughly addicted to flavored muggle lattes and would go to any length to get one every morning. It might be a negligible change, in the grand scheme of things, but Draco rather thought it demonstrated the larger mental shift that had taken place in the six years since the war. He could get coffee anywhere in the world, and he chose to buy it from muggles. To help their economy and participate in their culture, after a fashion. To interact with them regularly; daily! A small thing, certainly, but something which would have been unthinkable to the ‘Draco Malfoy’ he used to be. It had been difficult to change, and Draco was proud of that effort.

 

He was not exactly proud of his need for the muggle beverage, however, nor was he prepared to declare his love for muggle lattes to all of Wizard Britain, let alone the Chosen One. Dependency wasn't a flattering shade on anyone. He wanted every witch and wizard in the UK to know he was better—to give him a chance to prove it to them. But he had his dignity, and he didn't fancy everyone thinking him unrefined. He’d reformed his ways and prejudices, yes, but he wasn't a yokel now, for pity's sake.

 

But while he was a decidedly changed man, one thing that hadn't changed about Draco was that he expressed his embarrassment through projection. Which was how he came to the conclusion that Potter should be the embarrassed one, not he. For Harry James Potter, Saviour of Wizard Kind, was standing at the register, for all appearances working at the Muggle Establishment.

 

He also had yet to answer Draco’s question, although it was no longer necessary; Draco had no doubt that it was the Boy Wonder who stood before him. Even though Potter's face was obscured by that lawless thatch of hair and visor (part of a uniform, presumably), Draco would know him anywhere. It rankled that Potter hadn't even looked up when Draco called his name, either willfully ignoring him or too engrossed in whatever he was working on to notice. Regardless, it was a matter of respect; when someone asked a question, the polite thing to do was acknowledge them.

 

Draco had grown accustomed to being ignored in past years; he was an unpleasant reminder of things most would rather not think about. But Potter had never ignored him, even when he’d wished for it. Now, Draco certainly did not wish for it, and he certainly wasn't going to stand for such blatant disregard.

 

Fuming, Draco stalked up to the counter and cleared his throat meaningfully. Still Potter did not lift his head, apparently lost in what Draco could now see was a crossword puzzle. He’d never attempted one himself, but he’d learned all about crosswords during his Muggle Education course. They’d emphasized the pride muggles felt at being able to complete the Saturday edition, since it was supposedly the most difficult.

 

But today was only Tuesday, and Tuesday’s crossword was the easiest to solve after Monday. Potter never struck Draco as an intellectual, but surely Tuesday's Crossword was not so difficult that it required such rapt attention as to ignore any customer, let alone Draco Malfoy.

 

It wasn’t until Draco all but leaned over the counter into Potter’s personal space and growled,"Excuse me," that the Chosen One deigned to notice him. A strange emotion flickered in Potter’s eyes, but it was gone before Draco could identify it.

 

"Oh," Potter said dully, giving Draco a long stare before blinking a few times and adopting a forced, saccharine smile that screamed 'this is my customer service face'. “Welcome to Cosmic Latte," he crooned, completing the image of a typical muggle barista. "What can I get you?” It looked like it cost him a little piece of his soul to say it. Draco almost felt a little bad for Potter.

 

Almost.

 

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, eyes narrowing.

 

“Uh...I work here?” There was no expected follow-up, such as ‘what are you doing here?’, to which Draco would have (reasonably) responded ‘Getting a coffee, Potter, what do you think?’. But Potter didn’t ask, so Draco couldn’t tell him.

 

All he could say to that was, “Surely not.”

 

Potter seemed to deflate a bit, as though he couldn’t believe he worked here, either. But instead of saying as much, he confirmed that he was in fact an employee by pointing to the green apron embroidered with a black galaxy, pinned with a name tag reading' John' (inexplicably), and the matching green visor that, somehow, made Potter's already frightful hair worse. It did however hide the infamous scar effectively, which Draco wasn't sure was an improvement...

 

No, he decided. It wasn't. Harry Potter was almost ordinary without it. It was as much a part of Potter as those hideous clunky glasses, or the signature scowl he carried whenever Draco was in sight. Now the scar was hidden, the glasses replaced, and the scowl absent, superseded with affable confusion; the overall effect was chilling. It was still Potter, but somehow...not Potter.

 

Draco stared wordlessly for a moment longer before snapping out of his shock-induced stupor. “Potter, I asked you a question.”

 

“Potter?” The Wizard-Cum-Barista repeated. Understanding dawned, an acerbic smile displacing the confusion. “Oh. You’re one of those people.” Draco was about to ask what exactly Potter meant by ‘one of those people’ when Potter’s put-upon sigh interrupted him. “Look, sir, I’m not Harry Potter. I’m just a barista.”

 

"Sir?"  Draco choked out, before plunging into a stunned silence for the second time in as many minutes. When he found himself come hurtling back to reality again, he asked, “Are you having me on, Potter?”

 

Potter shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It’s been a while since any of you kooks came in, but I assure you, it’s just a case of mistaken identity.”

 

“Kooks?” Draco repeated. “Mistaken identity?”  he continued, just to try it on for size.

 

Draco took in the green eyes, the unruly black hair, the tan skin. “I think not,” he said at last, “Unless Harry James Potter has a long lost twin.” Draco shuddered, finding the very idea abhorrent. Potter was changed, but he was still undoubtedly the same sanctimonious Gryffindor underneath it all—even if he was, currently, wearing green.

 

“Sir, you’re holding up the queue, so if you aren’t going to order something, please step aside," Potter said wearily, as though this were a common but tedious experience for him.

 

“Please?” Draco blinked. “Did you say please? To me? " It was probably the most polite thing Potter had ever said to him, adding a new layer to what was turning out to be the most peculiar conversation he’d ever had with Potter. The fact that Potter was only pretending he wasn’t the Chosen One and he didn’t know exactly who Draco Malfoy was greatly soured the experience, but it was shocking nonetheless to hear Potter say it.

 

Registering—a bit belatedly—what Potter had said, Draco cast a look over his shoulder, and indeed he was holding up the queue. If two old birds chatting happily and discussing Draco with unconcealed curiosity could be considered a queue, that is.

 

Perhaps for a small town like this one, it could, but the women didn't seem to mind the wait; Potter just wanted Draco out of the way. In any case, it didn’t seem Potter intended to break character and reveal that yes, of course he knew who Draco was, and wasn't this a delightful joke between friends, feigning unfamiliarity?

 

It wasn't funny, and they weren’t friends, but that was fine: Draco knew how to be patient.

 

Draco snapped promptly and neatly into his role of ‘normal muggle customer'. If Potter was going to dissemble, so would he.

 

“Double shot vanilla latte, whole milk, in a mug,” he rattled off, pretending their strange interaction had never happened. Potter had the gaul to look annoyed about it, punching the order in to the muggle register and reading off the price. Draco paid in exact change (£2,37), in pennies no less, simply because he knew it would annoy Potter further. Serves him right, Draco thought.

 

A smirk that quickly developed into a grin of gleeful mischief spread across Potter’s face. Draco had a sense of foreboding; no one should be that happy about 237 coppers. “Did you know,” he said with a self-satisfied twinkle in his eye, “that it’s illegal to pay for more than 20p in 1p coins?”

 

Draco did not know that, and he suspected Potter knew that Draco couldn’t have been aware. Rather than say so, however, he replied, “Oh? Since when?”

 

“Since 1971.”

 

Definitely the same moralistic Potter.

 

Draco wondered why his ‘Muggle Education‘ class had spent so long on crossword puzzles when information like this would certainly have been more useful. “...it’s a silly law, honestly,” he said with a sigh, pretending to cavil instead of admitting ignorance. “Most people don’t enforce it…" or know about it, he added silently.

 

“Most people don’t attempt to pay in only coppers,” Potter countered. “Rather rude, you know. Time is money, and you’re wasting mine.” Draco was eerily reminded of a Gringotts goblin when Potter continued, "If more people valued the art of finance, we wouldn’t have little hold ups like this one.” Truly discomfiting, indeed.

 

“I wasn’t aware you were such a bastion of financial mores out here in nowheresville, Exmoor.”

 

“Gleyma,” Potter corrected.

 

“Right, being out here in Gleyma, I didn’t think you’d care about such...petty trivialities.”

 

“The Queen’s Law reaches all corners of the land, sir. Even Gleyma.”

 

Draco didn’t feel the need to point out that they both knew how patently untrue that was; magic folk weren’t exactly required to follow muggle laws, after all.

 

Scowling, Draco collected his coins, and paid with a £50 banknote instead. “Sorry, I haven’t got anything smaller, you don’t mind, do you?”

 

Potter shot him a look that said he’d gladly flay Draco alive were it not for society frowning upon such barbarism. Not to mention that the customer was always right, and it was bad for business to flay people (living or otherwise).

 

He counted out £47,63 while glancing up periodically to glare at Draco. Draco just smiled pleasantly and realized this really was the better solution all along, vis-à-vis needling Potter. And if there hadn’t been a line before, there were now three people standing behind Draco, watching his interaction with Potter like Prime Time Telly Vision.

 

Finally done counting, Potter unceremoniously handed Draco his change, and pulled out a paper cup to write Draco’s order on it.

 

Draco seized yet another opportunity to vex Potter. “Excuse me, perhaps you forgot amidst the discussion of Treasury Law, but I said I wanted a mug."

 

Potter smiled sweetly. “Oh, I didn't forget. Unfortunately, we’re out of mugs. I hope a paper cup ’s alright?” he quirked an eyebrow at Draco, daring him to complain. A quick glance behind the counter revealed there were plenty of mugs.

 

If he thought it would be so easy to get rid of Draco, he was mistaken.

 

“I suppose whatever you have left will have to do, then,” Draco replied, barely biting back the habitual Potter tacked on to the end. Draco all but stomped off to await his order.

 

Before he could wander too far, however, Potter called out, “Can I get your name?”

 

Draco turned around, fixing him with a stare that asked, ‘Surely you can’t be serious? ’

 

“For the order?” he said earnestly, the liar. “To call you when it’s ready?” the corners of his lips twitched, as though fighting back a smile.

 

He definitely knows who I am, the git. “Draco Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.” 

 

“Right. Draco it is, then.” He thought he heard Potter mumble ‘of course he’s got a pompous name, they all do’, but Draco was too far away to respond, and Potter was already speaking to the next customer. It struck Draco as an odd thing to complain about after knowing someone—and their name—for over ten years, but he figured there was no use trying to understand Potter's garbled thinking patterns at this point in the game.

 

Rolling his eyes, Draco swept off to the (rather comfortable, if not worn) brown corduroy sofa in front of the fireplace to wait. He’d never admit to brooding—it was unbecoming of a Malfoy—but honestly, it was the only word to describe what he was doing, as he stared into the fire and internally groused.

 

His brief exchange with Potter had put him in a rather foul mood, but now that he had some distance from it, he had to admit there was something odd about the whole thing. Potter had insisted he wasn't Potter, that he didn't know Draco, and yet his behavior was exactly what Draco had come to expect of the Boy Wonder: sarcastic politesse that was worse than outright discourtesy.

 

There was also the strangeness of the fact that Draco had stumbled into Potter acting like a barista in a remote, muggle town. Maybe this is an undercover investigation?  It didn’t seem likely—why use a muggle barista as a cover story?

 

Something was amiss here, and Draco was going to put those would-be auror skills to use and figure it out. Just the thought of telling Potter that he'd figured the whole thing out with his wits alone was satisfying enough to make the whole experience worthwhile.

 

Course of action decided, he reviewed what he knew about the situation...which was admittedly not much.

 

The news of it had died down in recent months, but it had been on the front page of every wizarding newspaper for weeks: the curious absence of the Boy-Who-Lived. No one had seen hide nor hair of Potter for months, either in public or at work. Granger and Weasley declined to comment, and the Minister for Magic (a known friend of the Saviour) said the details were “classified” and he couldn’t discuss them.

 

Draco hadn’t thought much of it at the time. It was hardly unprecedented for Potter to disappear without a trace; he’d done as much in the months leading up to Voldemort’s defeat. Since ‘sources close to Potter’ wouldn’t comment, he had assumed that just because the world at large didn’t know where Potter had gone off to, someone knew. After all, if their Golden Boy had actually gone missing, the Ministry would've had every capable man, woman, and child out looking for him.

 

So satisfied, Draco hadn't given it a second thought and got on with his life. He had his own problems to deal with, like making yet another appeal for his rejected auror application and convincing all of Wizard Britain to give him a second chance. Even if he hadn’t, he was comfortable in the knowledge that even if Potter had truly disappeared, it didn’t—and wouldn’t—affect Draco in any way; he didn't care what Potter got up to these days.

 

Or so he’d thought. Now that he was face to face with the absentee Saviour, he discovered he was in fact very curious indeed.

 

It hadn’t made much sense to begin with, but the longer he thought about it, the less the ‘undercover investigation’ angle seemed to be a plausible explanation for Potter’s presence here. Although this town—Gleyma, was it?—was surrounded by Wizarding communities, it was not itself at all connected to the Wizarding World.

 

Unless it is, a small voice offered unhelpfully. You’re here. Potter’s here. That’s two connections, isn’t it?

 

Alright, so there were no obvious connections, he amended. After all, Draco wasn't here for any reason other than he happened upon it while conducting his research. In fact, he'd chosen the town because it wasn't too close to any major Wizarding settlements. He didn't like the kinds of interruptions that came with being Draco Malfoy in a Wizard-dense area. He'd tried to "rough it" along the coast for a few days, tried to pick somewhere isolated, but then the aforementioned coffee dependency reared its ugly head. And when Draco discovered this town—Gleyma—well. Towns had coffee, among other conveniences. So, yes, Draco hadn't exactly picked Gleyma because it was a muggle town, but Draco prided himself on knowing where the notable Wizarding places were—to better avoid them—and Gleyma wasn’t one.

 

But, he grudgingly admitted, it was possible he could be unaware of a small Wizarding Constituent in this sad, seedy town.

 

On the other hand...Potter was one of the most recognizable faces in the wizarding world! Even if  there were undercover work to be done, Potter would have been forced to use polyjuice potion or a glamour, at the very least. But this was just Potter, himself, pretending to be a muggle barista, which heavily favored Draco's previous assumption that this was a muggle town. Not a very good tactic for investigating wizards, in Draco's opinion. Most wizards would stick out like a sore thumb in this small town, anyway. It was just so endearingly muggle.

 

So then, perhaps Potter was, for some reason, investigating a muggle crime, but that didn’t make sense either; muggles had their 'Police' (Draco knew this from his studies), and even if they hadn’t, there was no reason why the Ministry would send Saint Potter to this isolated town to track down a criminal element. Potter was too important for that—certainly too self -important, Draco was sure.

 

Feeling comforted by his ability to logically out-reason the answers most wizards and witches would’ve accepted, Draco moved on to more concrete details he could suss out from the bizarre situation he now found himself confronted with.

 

He noted that Potter did seem to know what he was doing, and so comfortable was he in the procedure of take-order-write-it-down-accept-money-next-customer, that he didn’t need to pay close attention to the task of running a coffee shop single handedly. And as no one else was working currently, it was Potter himself who set to making the drinks when the “queue” dwindled, and he was just as comfortable in that facet of working at a coffee shop. It spoke of a known habit, of a tempo so familiar Potter could do it without putting much thought into it.

 

Almost like he’d been doing it for months.

 

Draco stared brazenly, looking for any sign of... something. Anything. Recognition; nerves; repairing a blown cover. But there was nothing of the sort. There was almost a sense of...tranquility to Potter as he went about his routine, a calm that Draco had never associated with the boy—man, now—who personified a firestorm. And yet here he was, a zen master in his garden, skillfully coaxing the best out of each facet of coffee-making. The hiss of the milk steamer was more like a song, the screech of the espresso grinder more like a purr, the buzzing of high pressure scorching through the portafilter more like a hive of bees on the move. Were these really the same cacophonous sounds Draco associated with coffee shops? The usual nerve-grinding racket transformed into the likes a grateful beast tamed by a master?

 

Draco was quickly disabused from waxing-poetic about the ambience of coffee shops by a bored voice calling out, “Draco,” with a weary sigh.

 

Gathering all the poise a Lord of Malfoy Manor should possess, Draco coolly glided up to counter to fetch his order. Potter had already returned to fixing other drinks, and missed Draco’s offended scoff.

 

He was briefly torn between leaving in a strop and making his grievances known, but the thought that Potter had forced a paper cup on Draco presumably just to annoy him pushed Drao's favour toward giving voice to his dissatisfaction. Besides, he reasoned, what was the point of storming out if the one who caused it wasn't aware you were doing so?

 

So decided, he cleared his throat. “You spelled my name wrong.”

 

Potter paused, then half-turned to fix Draco with an amused smirk. “I know,” he said, then returned to his work. Smugly, it should be noted.

 

And that was how Draco got to both make his grievances known and storm out in a strop, the mystery of Potter's presence here momentarily forgotten in favor of being simultaneously annoyed and impressed. He sipped the double-shot whole milk vanilla latte and cursed internally. It was sweet, creamy, delicious, perfectly made exactly as Draco liked it, and he hated it.

 

Well, he wanted to.

 

For scrawled on the side in offensively untidy letters, if you could call them that, was a gross butchery of his name: DREY-KOH .

 

Saviour, my foot, he grumbled as the bells above the door to Cosmic Latte jangled cheerfully. They were mocking him, he was sure of it.

 

Draco felt like he’d lost that battle of wills, but this was far from over—whatever this was. Now that he’d discovered Potter, he was not only going to make him admit defeat by the time Draco went on his merry way, but reveal the full story behind Potter's being here.

 

One way or another, Draco was sure he'd find his trip to middle-of-nowhere—Gleyma—much more flavorful than anticipated.

 

What was his name? Draco. That was it. John was almost annoyed he’d remembered, but it was a very distinctive name, he reasoned, and like it or not the arrogant prat made quite the impression.

 

Although he couldn’t possibly know the twit, there was something almost familiar about him. The moment John had laid eyes on him yesterday, he was struck with a sense of what is he doing here?. It wasn't quite familiarity, but something adjacent to it. There was also the inexplicable need to push the buttons of this stranger, which was rather out of character for John. Perhaps it was just 'Draco's' arrogant attitude that made John react that way, but somehow it felt different. Like something more. Something deeper...

 

John had tried to brush it off; he didn’t even know who he himself  was, let alone this handsome stranger (and he was quite fit, even if he was a prat), but the fact that this ‘Draco’ seemed to recognize John as well made it harder to ignore the tingle of recognition.

 

He sighed internally, something he'd been doing quite a lot of since Draco had appeared in his life. The things that were sure in John’s world were few and far between, but upon reflection, he was forced to conclude with uncomfortable certainty that it couldn’t just be Draco's snobbish attitude that drove John to get a rise out of him. Arrogance and coffee went hand in hand, so it was hardly the first time John had dealt with an annoying customer. Usually he just brushed it off and satisfied himself with making their coffee perfect in spite of their obvious misgivings about his ability. He didn’t know much, but he did know how to make a personalized drink for every soul who wandered in to Cosmic Latte.

 

Normally, he didn’t misspell names, and never intentionally; it was below him. Sometimes he even asked for proper spelling if he wasn’t sure. But with ‘Draco’, he couldn’t help himself. Something pushed him to put the wanker in his place. It was childish and petty, he knew, to disfigure his name so thoroughly. But he’d done it anyway, thinking he’d never see the silly git again and could put the incident behind him.

 

But now Draco was back, bringing the discomfort he caused John with him.

 

John had been in the small town of Gleyma for some months now, almost seven that he could remember, and possibly more; he was the only one counting. Gleyma was an inconsequential coastal town in Exmoor National Park, more of a ‘drive-through’ town than a place you settled down—or stopped in at all, if you could help it. It was the kind of place that marked the passage of time in two seasons: Off Season and High Season.

 

Even High Season wasn’t really busy, as such. But there were more people in the park during the summer when the weather was agreeable, and consequently more people happened upon Gleyma, much to their dismay. It had no harbour, wasn’t close to the motorway, and didn’t intersect with the best walking trails, either. There wasn’t even a petrol station in town. If you came to Gleyma, it was almost certainly an accident.

 

The wise took one look at Gleyma and thought better of stopping, unless driven to desperation for toilets, coffee, or directions.

 

The polite way to describe Gleyma was quaint; the diplomatic word for it was quiet; but the honest word for it was gloomy. Apparently, it’d started as a single homestead, nothing more than a deer blind according to some. There were legends of pagans or vikings living there “in the Age of King Arthur”, with dubious evidence to support said myths. John figured if they’d ever been there to begin with, they’d made the right decision in leaving.

 

Over time Gleyma had grown—marginally—but no one from Gleyma felt any need to compete with the other towns around Exmoor or the natural beauty of the park itself. “Being just average is just fine,” seemed to be the Gleyma motto.

 

John knew it wasn’t the kind of place he would've chosen to spend his life, but Gleyma was where he’d ended up nonetheless. No one seemed capable of telling him when he'd arrived there exactly, only that it was sometime in January. He didn’t remember, of course; he’d woken up in the Gleyma medical clinic, head aching, with no memory of who he was, much to everyone's disappointment. Most of all, his own.

 

He later learned the "clinic" was a building seldom used except for tourists suffering from heat stroke, and wasn’t even properly staffed. His nurse—someone brought in from the closest hospital in Ilfracombe—had explained that John had been in a coma for several weeks. He'd informed John that the local kids had found him washed up on shores of Gleyma. Then he told John everything they knew about him, the clinic's one and only ward, which was precisely: nothing.

 

He had no ID, no address book, not even a set of house keys. In short, nothing to define his identity. So they'd called him John Doe, a moniker that stuck from the weeks he’d been unconscious. They figured he'd remember his name when he woke up, and when he didn't, there didn't seem to be any sense in giving him a new one. So John Doe it was.

 

Some had taken to calling him ‘John Stag’, due to his tattoo and solitary nature. It was a little more personal than John Doe, at least.

 

Only one of Gleyma residents called him John-Doe-Sometimes-Stag: Mrs.Frond. A widow and as alone as John, everyone said she was mad. John liked her. She felt like the nan he'd forgotten, or perhaps never had.

 

Queenie had called him John-Doe-Sometimes-Stag once or twice, but John had the distinct feeling it was to mock Mrs.Frond or attempt to endear herself to him. That he didn't appreciate.

 

His only possessions were: a strange, polished, wooden stick he felt deeply attached to and a leather pouch full of what had collectively been identified as "money". No one could ascertain the purpose of the “fancy twig" nor the origin of the “mangled coins", but everyone had a pet theory, from aliens to government conspiracies.

 

Everyone but John, that is. He didn't feel like an alien. He understood and spoke English in a perfect south east London accent, and couldn’t recall any other language (not for lack of trying), so it didn’t seem likely he was from another country, even if his tan skin indicated the possibility. “Just an oddity,” the nurse had said, then quickly tried to defend himself as "not a racist" and that he "had nothing against desis".

 

John rather thought if you had to defend yourself as such, it was a bad sign; better to just say 'sorry'. The nurse hadn't; instead, he'd gone off on birthmarks, which John had as well. Or something like it, at least: a white, jagged scar on his forehead. The nurse had insisted it was "old" and "barely detracted from his appearance" and "not to fret". He had atrocious bedside manner, that one. The only useful thing he'd been able to tell John was that the cause of his amnesia had been determined to not be head trauma; John's amnesia had nothing to do with his scar and the true cause of both was, like everything else, a mystery.

 

But at least he didn't have brain damage, right?

 

In the end, the search for John Doe’s true identity turned out to be nothing but dead ends, not that there had been many ends to follow at all after no national or international missing persons matched his description. There was no Police Station within Gleyma, but John sent weekly requests for new missing person reports to the police station in Lynmouth through Gleyma's library. He'd sent so many requests that the Police had taken to sending new reports proactively.

 

In seven months, none of the reports were ever for John.

 

With no memory of where he came from or where he’d been headed, John decided to stay in Gleyma. The town was small, but no one minded accepting a new member into their fold. He’d even found a place to live until he either a) scraped together enough money to leave or b) his memory came back. The local coffee shop, Cosmic Latte, had been in need of morning help, so they hired him, and he’d been there ever since.

 

His plan had always been to stay in Gleyma “just for a little while”, until a better plan became available.

 

Now it was mid-September, six and a half months since he’d awoken, and John still hadn’t saved much money, and still didn’t remember his former life. Somehow, ‘just for now’ had become ‘until further notice’, and John had gotten used to being…well, John Doe, Sometimes Stag. Cosmic Latte barista, record holder for longest stretch of Employee of the Month. Gleyma's most eligible bachelor—in fact, the only bachelor. Save for Cyril, to which John said a heartfelt "No Thanks".

 

Everyone knew John, and John knew everyone, in name if not personally. All one-hundred-and-thirty-five-or-so residents, hurrah. Being John Doe felt like wearing someone else’s clothes, but it was better than having no clothes—or rather, no identity—at all. John didn’t love his mundane existence, but he had nowhere else to go, and no one else to be.

 

Even if he did on occasion think 'anywhere would be better than here', every time he thought about leaving, something held him back. It was something he didn't care to name, but could name if he dared to: fear.

 

There was little variation, but occasionally John did encounter strangers of a most unusual nature. Strangers who tried to offer John a different, borrowed cloak to wear, just as ill-fitting as John Doe but far from mundane: that of Harry Potter.

 

As it so happened, Draco wasn’t the first person to wander into Cosmic Latte, see John, and exclaim some variation of “Harry Potter!”, “Harry…Potter ?”, or “Blimey, is that Harry Potter?”

 

John had no idea who this ‘Harry Potter’ character was, other than he seemed to be a celebrity in a very niche group of people. Library searches had turned up nothing. He'd tried asking people, but questions about Harry Potter were met with two responses.

 

The most common reaction was a sad shake of the head, a claim they knew nothing about any 'Harry Potter', and a look of concern in John's direction, often accompanied by the suggestion he spend less time with Mrs.Frond.

 

Or they laughed and told him he had a very good sense of humour. This response came only from those who thought he was Harry Potter, on the rare occasion he asked them about their vaunted celebrity.

 

John himself had decided that the whole thing was either some elaborate practical joke or one of those rare cases of finding your doppelganger.

 

The number of such cases of mistaken identity had dwindled with the end of the High Season, but never once had anyone returned to “make sure” he really wasn’t the illustrious Harry Potter. Their eyes always strayed to his forehead, often with a frown, but whatever they saw there seemed to convince them they’d made a mistake. They left with an apologetic smile, often mumbling something about ‘muggles’ and 'unlikely coincidences'. John didn't know what a muggle was, but he wasn't sure he wanted to find out at this point.

 

But even though John didn’t know who he’d been before he was John-Doe-Sometimes-Stag, he was fairly sure ‘Harry Potter’ wasn’t it.

 

The main reason he didn’t think he was this ‘Harry Potter’ was that Harry Potter seemed to be a person of import. Surely if Harry Potter had gone missing, people would notice? Surely they would say ‘There you are, Harry! We’ve been looking for you!’ or 'Harry, where've you been?' or 'Thank God you're alright, Harry!'

 

But no one said anything of the sort. In fact, no one called him Harry after the initial bout of mistaken recognition; they called him Mr.Potter. They asked what Mr.Potter was doing in a “Muggle Coffee Shop” in West Somerset? How long had Mr.Potter been here? When would Mr.Potter leave? Was Mr.Potter planning on joining a team out here? Sometimes they said even stranger things, like 'so wonderful what you're doing here, Mr.Potter ', or 'A man's man you are, Mr.Potter, working with your hands', or 'Merlin's Beard, coffee made by Harry Potter? Brilliant!'.

 

But when John explained they got it wrong, that he wasn’t Harry Potter, it was like a spell had been broken. All and sundry were easily dissuaded that he didn’t know what they were talking about, sorry, no don’t fret, no harm done. It was odd, sure, and sometimes it irritated John, but it had only happened maybe three or four times, no more than six. Not nearly enough times to ever really make him worry that maybe there was something more to this Harry Potter conundrum. Potter's acolytes went about their business and John went about his. He tended to forget about it except in the dead of night when he couldn't sleep and had nothing better to think about. Which was rather more often than was probably healthy, but who could blame him?

 

He'd thought about Draco, too. Wondered about his story, what brought him to Gleyma. He wondered about his relation to the elusive Harry Potter and for the first time, felt a little envious of his mysterious look-alike. Draco was a disagreeable sort of fellow, but John couldn't deny there was something compelling about him as well.

 

Unfortunately, wonder was all he would ever do; no one who had the option to leave Gleyma spent longer than they had to here and Draco was no exception.

 

But then Draco had come back. Unlike everyone else who had called John 'Harry Potter', Draco had come back, and now John had something he'd never had before: the chance to find out more.

 

The fact that Draco had returned wasn’t the only way he was different, of course. While others insisted on the full 'Harry Potter' moniker, Draco had merely said Potter. Where others had called the name with reverence and joy, Draco said the name with incredulity and contempt. The others had easily accepted that they'd been mistaken—with apologies! But the more John tried to convince Draco, the more certain he’d seemed that John was undeniably Harry Potter.

 

Not to mention how offended he seemed that John could believe Draco would think otherwise.

 

It was curious, certainly. Refreshing, really.

 

But now, hidden below the curiosity, there was a small part of John that was worried. His well-reasoned dismissal of anything to do with Harry Potter was faltering, and the reason was Draco. Draco was an enigma amongst enigmas. Draco clearly did not like Harry Potter—he’d been quite vexed when he saw John yesterday—and yet Draco had returned .

 

The obvious question was why, but the more important question was 'will he make my life difficult? '.

 

The look in his eye indicated that yes, he would make John's life more difficult. It was clear he hadn’t given up on “getting to the bottom of things”; he saw John—or perhaps, Harry Potter—being in Gleyma as a mystery, a problem to be solved.

 

He would be sorely disappointed when he realized the truth, and John almost felt guilty that he had to be the arbiter of that disappointment.

 

But a small part of John rebelled a more loudly than ever before. What if he’s right? It asked. What if he knows you?  He wanted desperately to ignore it when it pressed, Don’t you want to go home?. It had asked him that before, but now that he might have a way of doing just that… 

 

John wasn’t sure. He couldn't say he loved Gleyma—no one did—but people treated him like he’d always lived there. Allowed him his eccentricities. Gave him a job, a place to stay, a name or two. If not a fondness for the town itself, he felt grateful for the people here who'd accepted him as he was. Incomplete, but doing his best. Meanwhile, wherever he'd gone missing from hadn't even put out a missing person's announcement. They weren't trying to find him. So either they didn't care, or hadn't noticed he was gone.

 

He didn't want to stay here forever, but Gleyma would notice if he left, of that he was sure. So why couldn’t this be home?

 

Because it isn’t your home, the little voice protested. Each and every time his mind wandered down that path, it persisted that no, you can't stay here. This time was no exception. Gleyma wasn't home, and never would be.

 

It shouldn't be possible to long for a place you couldn't remember, but John knew from personal experience that it was. He felt it with all his heart (even if he wouldn't admit it) that all he wanted was a place he belonged. A place he'd chosen. A place where he wasn't "John Doe" by default or "Harry Potter" by mistake. He'd convinced himself that wherever he'd come from couldn't be that place, because they hadn't come looking for him.

 

And yet here he was, questioning what he’d believed since the first time someone had mistakenly called him "Harry Potter", that maybe there could be something to it, after all.

 

All because of a blonde prat who didn’t like him—or at least, who didn’t like Harry Potter. A prat who was approaching John's register with predatory grace.

 

John was torn between being pleased to see him again and wishing he'd left Gleyma like every other Potter-Adjacent Stranger. Because while he wanted to know, he also didn't. The idea that Draco was mistaken was a comfortable one, but it frightened him more than thought that Draco was right.

 

He didn't want to be stuck in limbo between being 'John' and 'Harry' for the rest of his life, but he didn't want to confront that reality right now, either. Half-seven on a Wednesday morning was no time for that kind of life-changing realization.

 

“Hello, again,” Draco drawled, eyes alight with what was undoubtedly some dastardly plot.

 

“Hello,” John sighed, mentally willing Draco to go away.

 

It didn’t work, of course.

 

“Is that how you treat all your customers? With a resigned sigh of exasperation?” Draco shook his head solemnly and clicked his tongue.

 

“It’s how I treat strangers who act like they know me,” John countered. “If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to go to the other coffee shop in town. Oh wait, there isn’t one. Blast. Guess you’ll have to make your peace with it, or go without.”

 

Draco’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

 

“So? What’ll it be? Double-shot whole milk vanilla latte? Or nothing?”

 

A note of surprise lit up Draco’s face. It was a good look for him, unfortunately for John. “You remember my order.”

 

“It’s my job,” said John blithely. Other than not knowing anything about himself, he had an excellent memory. Perhaps forgetting his identity had vacated thinking power for remembering the inane.

 

Draco tapped his fingers on the counter, a expression calculating. Looking around, as though to make sure no one was listening, he asked in hushed tones,“You really don’t remember me?”

 

“Course I do,” John replied. “You came in here yesterday, called me Potter, and left in a huff. And your name is Draco Something Pompous Malfoy.” John surprised himself even as the words left his mouth. He'd forgotten the ‘Malfoy’ part of Draco’s name until the name was past his lips. Somehow, it felt more natural to call the blonde git that than Draco.

 

Draco’s perfect eyebrow twitched, and then he patted his pocket and mumbled something John couldn’t quite hear. Inexplicably, the sounds of the coffee shop dwindled into a low hum, as though John and Draco were in a separate bubble of space. “Alright, Potter, I put up a privacy charm, so you can speak freely. What are you doing here, really? I can’t take it anymore, I must know.”

 

Privacy charm? John didn’t think those words made sense, but something tingled  in the back of his mind. Unfortunately, the tingling soon gave way to a throbbing headache. “I didn’t understand half of that, Malfoy, but like I said yesterday, I. work. here.”

 

“But why? ” Draco demanded, throwing his hands up in the air. "Why here, in the bleeding middle of nowhere?”

 

“It’s not nowhere. It’s Gleyma.”

 

“Middle of Nowhere,” Draco insisted. “Do Granger and Weasley know you’re here?”

 

John sighed again. “I’m assuming those are cohorts of the notorious Harry Potter?” The names didn't sound familiar, and he found he was disappointed by that realization.

 

“Cohorts?” Draco snorted. “Now there’s a word I didn’t think you knew. I imagine they’d be hurt to hear you use that word to describe them.”

 

“What are they, then?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know, friends? ” Draco sneered, like it was something he’d rather not discuss. “Or, at the very least, ‘sources close to Harry Potter’.”

 

“Look, Draco,” John started, matching Draco’s sneer, “I don’t know why you’re so fixated on me being this ‘Potter’, but I assure you I’m not merely pretending I don’t know who you are. I really, truly don’t. This…harassment is getting a bit old. Now, do you or don’t you want coffee?”

 

Draco stared in John’s eyes, as though hoping the answers would be written there, and John felt a strange pressure on his mind. He had the impression that someone was leafing through his thoughts, politely but thoroughly, but that didn’t make sense of course. John's headache intensified and he was starting to think it should be named after its cause: Draco Something Pompous Malfoy.

 

He thought perhaps he should avert his gaze, but he didn't. Couldn't. He felt....captivated. Captured. It was as invigorating as it was frightening, familiar in a visceral way John didn't want to define at the moment, thanks very much.

 

But as quickly as it began, it was over, and Draco seemed almost cowed. “You really don’t know,” he said at last, looking strangely bereft. Seemingly making up his mind about something, Draco continued, “I’ll have a pumpkin spice latte, in a mug .”

 

“We don’t have pumpkin spice,” John responded automatically, equal parts relieved and disappointed that his dealings with Draco had shifted towards the typical problems he had with customers. “It’s not in season.”

 

“Yes, you do, I just saw—what do you mean it’s ‘not in season’? Pumpkin Spice is always in season. And besides, it’s autumn.”

 

“Not until next week,” John corrected, clicking his pen twice to punctuate the sentiment. Draco’s eyebrow twitched as he zeroed in on the pen. "But we'll start serving Pumpkin Spice on Saturday."

 

“That’s only three days from now,” he advised, eyes never leaving the pen.

 

John shrugged, clicking the pen again. "Sure is."

 

"You aren't even waiting until the actual autumnal equinox anyway," Draco pressed. "Why not start today?"

 

“Sorry, my hands are tied." Privately, John also thought it was silly to wait, but he'd been instructed in no uncertain terms to wait until Saturday. Most people didn't even know they had Pumpkin Spice, so it wasn't difficult to wait. People couldn't ask for what they don't know about, but Draco knew. He must be from London, if he knew about it already. It wasn't as though he could read minds or any such nonsense. "You'll have to come back Saturday if you want pumpkin juice.”

 

“Pumpkin Juice?" Draco repeated. "You mean Pumpkin spice, surely?”

 

John had been too distracted by the mental meltdown he was having over the fact that he'd invited Draco to come back Saturday to notice his slip-up. He sounded so pathetic…though, he was a bit pathetic, wasn't he? Amnesiac barista, stuck in a sad little town.

 

He bit back a sigh.

 

Even so...did he say Pumpkin Juice? Surely not. It sounded unpleasant. Thoroughly nettled, he clicked the pen again. Then once more for good measure. “Yeah, Pumpkin Spice. That’s what I said.”

 

“Would you stop that, ” Draco said at last, grabbing the pen with lightning quick reflexes.

 

John was too surprised to feel annoyed. If anything, he felt triumphant at eliciting a reaction. “I think you’ll find I’ll be needing that back,” he smirked.

 

Draco eyed it curiously. “This is a...writing utensil?” he asked, like he’d never seen one before. He pressed the button experimentally, letting out a fascinated 'hmm ' when the pen retracted. John was reminded that anyone who mentioned Harry Potter always behaved like they operated on a different plane of reality.

 

“Why does it click?” Draco clicked the pen again with delight, punctuating the question. It didn’t seem he was joking, but then again, John had no precedent for what a ‘joking’ Draco Malfoy might be like. Draco pressed his lips into a firm line, concentrating on the click pen. He was unscrewing the barrel now, investigating how it functioned.

 

John decided he was serious. “It’s so you don’t have to worry about losing the cap. You lose the cap, the pen dries out...terribly annoying, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

“Terribly,” Draco agreed, mind clearly elsewhere. He'd already extracted the spring and put it back together again with surprising speed.

 

John ought to be annoyed, but it was oddly charming. Maybe he wasn't from London after all, considering he didn't know what retractable pens were.

 

Draco clicked it a few more times and nodded, seemingly pleased at solving that mystery.  John thought Draco, having satisfied his curiosity, would hand over the pen now. But instead, Draco simultaneous proved he was indeed a Class A wanker and dissolved any and all feelings of charm John had towards him, by tossing the pen like a child, instead of handing it over like a sane person, the prat. John, fortunately, had excellent reflexes and caught it deftly.

 

"Gee, thanks, " he grumbled, checking to make sure the pen still functioned after all Draco's fussing by scribbling on a napkin.

 

Draco’s smiled slyly, unbothered by John's renewed prickliness. “I think there’s hope for you yet... John .”

 

John tensed. “How do you know my name?”

 

Draco rolled his eyes and pointed at the name on John’s chest. “It’s written on your apron. I’m not a mind reader, John.”

 

“Of course not, that’s impossible.” John felt a bit foolish, and wondered not for the first time what it was about Draco that put him so off-balance. His self-deprecating thoughts were interrupted, however, by a soft popping sound, and the subsequent return of the coffee shop's hum.

 

A line of three had formed behind Draco, and John wondered how long they'd been talking. It was unlike him to get so caught up chatting at work that he neglected other customers, and he felt a bit guilty and…something else. Embarrassed? Reluctant? Caught-in-the-act?

 

Shaking his head to clear any daft thoughts, he renewed his efforts and forced himself to focus.

 

Alright, so there were only three of them lined up—Mrs. Wilkins, Mz. Atcheson, and Mr. Oda—and they seemed happy enough talking amongst themselves about Draco—they were shameless, really—but the way John saw it, it was a matter of principle. And pride.

 

In seven months, he'd never let a queue form because he was socializing. Clearly, this was Draco's fault. “You’re holding up the queue. Again. ”

 

Draco sighed, almost disappointed it seemed. “Yes, yes, dear John hasn’t got time for little old me, I understand. Since you are bound to the iron-clad rule of no pumpkin spice ‘til Saturday...I’ll have my usual.”

 

“You don’t get to call it your usual if you’ve only ordered it once,” John objected, feeling petulant.

 

“And yet you still remember it,” Draco said with a knowing smile and a twinkle in his eye. Without another word, he placed the payment for his drink on the counter. Exact change in an annoying array of small coins—again with the coppers!—and floated away to sit in front of the fire like he owned the place, so John couldn't even scowl at him.

 

Shaking his head, John took the next customer’s order, smiling internally.

 

Just because Draco wasn't present didn't mean John couldn't get petty revenge, which he achieved by writing DO-REY-CO on the pompous git's paper cup.

 

It was a double insult for being a paper cup with a misspelled name, and John was satisfied to hear an enraged huff when Draco picked up his order.

 

The sphere of strangeness that surrounded John during his conversation with Draco had shattered, but John was unable to get back into the rote orbit of Cosmic Latte for the rest of the day, mind elsewhere.

 

Somehow, though, he couldn't find it in himself to be upset about it.