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Chapter Text

Voldemort dies.

Harry doesn’t die with him.

After the strength it took to walk defenseless into the Forbidden Forest, survival comes unexpected to him. Only a part of him is gone, one that Harry held within his soul for sixteen years, and without Voldemort’s presence in his life, he feels unmoored in the world. Whether Harry knew it or not at the time, Voldemort has been the driving force behind his life since before he was even born. Now, Harry breathes the clean air of a world without Voldemort’s darkness and feels like he could choke on it. The freedom is both overwhelming and alluring. He can do anything he wants.

What he wants is to get to know himself again and for the first time, to find the man Harry Potter can be without the horcrux or the Boy-Who-Lived label hanging over him like a shroud. He wants to not be hounded by either dark lords or reporters, wants a lifelong relationship with someone who loves him, wants to never have to pick up a wand in violence again.

And he really, really wants some sleep. He gets the last one. Sort of. His sleep is interrupted an hour in by Rita Skeeter forcing her way into the Gryffindor boys’ dormitories and photographing him in his old bed. Ginny ends up being the one to yell at her and curse the film blank, while Harry just has the quiet, certain realization that he isn’t going to get a wink of sleep in Britain. There are crowds of people gathered in the castle’s rooms and corridors, and even more outdoors. When the shock of battle is over, when grief begins to lift, there will be questions Harry doesn’t want to answer. Questions he hasn’t even answered for himself, let alone for reporters with flashing cameras or nosy ministry officials.

“I can’t stay here,” Harry says as Ginny slams the door behind Rita, having sent her stumbling down the stairs to the common room. He’s nearly naked, but it’s nothing Ginny hasn’t seen before. More embarrassingly, she hasn’t seen him this skinny, bruised, and tired before, but they’re not dating anymore, which counts for something. Ginny’s boyfriend needs to have some better standards for taking care of himself; Harry-just-Harry can stumble around in his faded Chudley Cannons print underpants. “I’m never going to get any privacy here.”

“You’re probably right,” Ginny agrees, glaring at the door for good measure. “I can’t believe she got in. After everything Hermione and I threatened her with three years ago, she has some nerve. Do you want to go to the Burrow? It’s not quiet, but no one’ll bother you.”

“I think I might go further than that,” Harry admits.

“Grimmauld Place?” Ginny wrinkles her nose. “I mean, if you have to.”

“Further.”

“Antarctica?”

“Might not be far enough to get away from Skeeter,” Harry grumbles. He makes some room for Ginny when she sits down next to him and leans against him. He likes this, always has, the way she fits into his side. It used to inspire something more than just plain comfort in him, but a bit of comfort is all Harry can muster at the moment. He loves Ginny, but... It’s not the way he used to. Nothing feels the way it used to, when Harry wasn’t quite Harry, two souls in one body. Or maybe it’s just the grief. “What do you think?”

Ginny shrugs against his side. There’s wry amusement in her voice as she says, “I think you’re a dick for wanting to leave again. And I think you should be happy because you deserve it.”

“You could come with,” Harry offers. He knows the moment he says it that she won’t take him up on the offer. Not right now, if ever. Ginny has her family to support and she’s never been the type to run from her problems. Harry, though. He wants to run as far as his feet will take him, then get on a broom and fly the rest of the way. He’s tired of being a snake raised in captivity. Fuck everything, he’s going to Brazil.

“I can’t,” Ginny says. It’s expected, but it still hurts. Harry would’ve liked her to come, to have a friendly face with him in the great wide world. Maybe she would’ve liked to come too, because there’s a little wistfulness in her voice even as she tells him the reasons why. “There’s Mum, and Dad, and George. I can’t leave them. And I’ve got to finish school if I want to try out for the Harpies next year. Hopefully last year still counted as my sixth, even if I spent more time hiding and helping other students than actually learning the shit they tried to teach us.” She sighs. “I’m not going to wait for you.”

“I know,” Harry says. “I didn’t— I don’t expect you to.”

Thankfully, Ginny does not send a bat-boogey hex his way for dumping her again, this time more permanently. There is no Voldemort to separate them. There’s only doubt, confusion, the distance that will soon be between them. Maybe it’s the pitiful state Harry’s in that helps his case. He’ll take it.

“I don’t mean that I’m going to go out and get married next week,” Ginny clarifies. “But you got a year already and I want to be happy again one day. Waiting for you is just going to make me miserable. There’s not even a dark lord to distract me this time around.”

“I know, Gin,” Harry says, hugging her one last time. “Fred would want you laughing and happy.”

“Merlin, he would.” She holds on tightly. Harry can’t tell if there are tears in her eyes. “I love you. Always gonna, so don’t be an idiot out there, alright? You’re family. You’re a Weasley, blood or no.”

“I love you, too,” Harry tells her. Her hug is tight, warm, and words slip out before Harry can staunch their flow. “I died,” Harry whispers, quietly, like a secret. It’s the first time he’s said it, and probably the last. He doesn’t know if he can bear to ever say it again. “I died for Dumbledore and you and the whole world, but I didn’t die for me.”

Ginny hugs him so tightly it hurts. She’s thin, too, and there’s a bruise on her arm that must be hurting her, but she doesn’t flinch away. A year ago, that bruise would’ve been from something easy like quidditch or a prank gone bad. Neither of them have played quidditch in over a year and Harry hates how much of their innocence is gone, how much the war took from them. Not only the people, but concepts of safety and stability and even fucking government. He’s never been able to trust much, but now the whole world feels shaky, like another dark lord could saunter his way into power again the next time he turns his back. If one tries, Harry hopes the people of Britain become their own saviors because Harry is so, so tired.

“You’re going to be okay,” Ginny tells him. It’s an order phrased as a reassurance. “You’re alive now and you’re going to continue to live, to be as old as Dumbledore, and you’ll see the world and meet new people and send me weird souvenirs, okay?”

“Okay,” Harry says.

And he does. He sticks around long enough to say goodbye to his friends, then packs his belongings into his mokeskin pouch. A traveling cloak, some clothes, a half-eaten muffin from the great hall.

He gets a lot of sleep when he finally passes Britain’s borders. After jumping from peril to boredom to mortal peril and back again for the past seven years, Harry’s exhausted. His scar is finally quiet after three years of intermittent burning pain. Last year, he and his friends had been so terrified and cautious that they’d barely gotten any sleep at all in that little tent of theirs. The locket made them sleepless zombies. Nightmares showed up often, too. Now, Harry sleeps under an umbrella on sunny beaches, in modest hotel rooms, on a flying carpet in countries where they’re not illegal.

Months pass, then years. A few times, he meets up with Andromeda and Teddy, and they join him for short vacations of their own. Once, Ron and Hermione track him down to wish him a happy birthday in person. He donates a chunk of Sirius’ inheritance to a werewolf rights charity and hopes Walburga is spinning in her grave. The rest of the time, Harry wanders.

Harry sends them all souvenirs from his travels, though he saves the weirdest ones for Ginny. In the four years that he spends traveling, he collects all sorts of things in the bottomless traveling bag Hermione sends to him. It replaces his old one, which is fraying at the seams from the long horcrux hunt. He’s never had much of his own. Whether having a bunch of knickknacks he’ll never use is any better, he doesn’t know, but it’s nice.

By utter chance, he meets the snake he’d freed from the zoo the summer before his first year. It tells him about how it remembers slithering away and then the hard ground beneath its scales turned to dirt and leaves in a grand rainforest. Harry remembers closing his eyes and wishing hard for the snake to find its homeland in Brazil. He hadn’t realized it worked, and seven years later he’s thrilled to find out. The snake now has little snakelings of its own, cute hissy little things that each decide to call Harry by a different nickname.

He doesn’t find himself, exactly. He just finds that he’s still the person he’s been all along. Harry Potter, a lot brave, a little stupid, headstrong, stubborn, smart when he remembers to be. He’s not a whole different person with the horcrux gone from him. He’s just Harry.

Just Harry, who still has the occasional reporter trying to get all up in his business. He’s apparently considered even more interesting than ever, since the public hears so little about him. Every time a reporter asks him what he’s doing, Harry just says, “Living,” and apparates away. He doesn’t bother reading what the papers make of him. He gets his news in bits and bursts, from haggard owls that nip at his fingers when they finally find him. It’s the only news he cares about—Ron and Hermione breaking up and getting back together, Mrs. Weasley becoming a partner in the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes and discovering a long-forgotten mischievous streak, Ginny becoming a backup player for the Harpies, the many pictures of Teddy that Andromeda sends, the romance between Kingsley and Andromeda that develops when Harry reads between the lines. He doesn’t stick around long enough in any one place to find love for himself. He’s happy with temporary companionship with other travelers and locals, but nothing that catches his heart.

He swaps postcards with Dudley every few months. It’s awkward, but it’s weirdly nice to have a small connection to his life with the Dursleys that doesn’t fill him with dread. It begins because Dudley’s therapist asks him to write a journal about his childhood regrets and Dudley manages to get it to Harry, who’s visiting the Burrow at the time. Harry reads the first page and nearly throws it in the trash on impulse. His childhood was shit, and that’s that. He doesn’t want to relive it.

And then he can’t sleep, and he keeps thinking about it, so he pulls out the journal. Dudley’s handwriting is terrible, but he gets the gist of his words. It’s only halfway full. Harry doesn’t mean to do it, but over the next few weeks he fills the rest of the journal with his own stories. Sometimes they’re corrections to Dudley’s entries. He doesn’t think Dudley lied—the entries are too painfully honest and full of shame—but they’re Dudley’s truths, Dudley’s side of the story. It’s freeing to share his side and know that it won’t be discounted. First because he doesn’t intend to share the journal with anyone at all, then because he’s read the journal enough times that he realizes Dudley will believe him if he writes about the times Dudley hurt him and forgot about, or times that Vernon and Petunia did and Dudley wasn’t there. He writes about the cupboard, the frying pan, the belt. He puts it in plain words, not talking about abuse or neglect, just hunger and darkness and hurt.

The journal is battered and ravaged by coffee stains and inkblots by the time Harry sends it off to Dudley. When Dudley responds back, Harry can see the influence of his therapist in his words, but that doesn’t make them any less gratifying to read.

“Congrats, Dudders,” Harry says to the paper, still floored that Dudley’s actually managed some personal growth. “You’re not a completely terrible human being.”

In the end, Harry sticks around not for a person, but a place. A passion. Over the last year of his travels, Harry rents small apartments in the cities and countrysides he visits, and he learns to cook the recipes he’d enjoyed eating over the past couple years. The Dursleys had never had him cook anything but purely British food, which Harry long ago decided is a crying shame.

Petunia hadn’t been much of a baker, nor had she had Harry bake. Her consideration had been for her weight (fluctuating between thin and painfully thin for Harry’s entire childhood), Dudley’s weight (exponentially growing until his late teens, at which point it began a minuscule, gradual decline), and Vernon’s weight (huge, always). Harry finds he likes it even more than cooking; likes the smells, likes working with dough, likes sweet and savory pastries alike.

Harry doesn’t set out to open a bakery, but the baked goods life finds him anyway.

He buys an empty building down the street from the MACUSA wizarding entrance. It’s a great location but a horrible doxie infestation. It takes a full month to get it clean, but in the meantime Harry buys his supplies and takes some time to decide if he’s really doing this. He doesn’t know much about running a business, but how hard can it be?

Hard, is the answer.

He hires a bookkeeper since he hasn’t done math in a decade and realizes he’ll need some help in the front of the shop. It’s right around the time he sends his postcard to Dudley, who Harry knows is looking for work.

On an impulse, Harry offers the job to Dudley.

He doesn’t expect Dudley to accept it.

Harry files the work visa request through MACUSA and it’s stamped before he knows it, a copy filed with the muggle government. Dudley arrives with a duffel bag and a suitcase. He’s lost some weight, gained it back in muscle, and his hair is shaved to a quarter of an inch. His voice is deeper than Harry remembers.

It’s all fucking weird. Harry waves him inside, showing him the front of the shop, which has an empty counter area and sitting area. He’s still working on getting the tables and chairs and—well, everything.

“You sure it’s okay that I can’t do magic?” Dudley asks, eyeing the counter. “I worked at a shop in London, but this is all different.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “It’s fine. We’ll have a system, maybe some magical walkie-talkies for the orders, but you don’t need magic to take people’s money and make drinks.”

Dudley nods. “Thanks. No, really, thanks, man. For all of this. You don’t know how much you’ve helped me out.”

“You’ll have to work hard,” Harry says, trying not to sound as uncertain about all of this as he feels. “Especially when we’re starting out. Up before dawn, late nights, all that. I’ll hire a few more people so we can do shifts, but the main work is still on you.”

“I can do it. I promise. Really.”

“Then we’re good, Big D.”

Dudley grimaces, but he takes the nickname with stride. Harry shows him up to the second floor, which is set up as an apartment area with two guest rooms. There’s also an attic, though Harry’s still working on getting the ghoul out of the closet in there. It’s dusty and full of old furniture that no one’s looked at for years. Harry’s renovation efforts haven’t made their way up to the area, if they ever will.

“Don’t worry if you hear any noises,” Harry says. “It can’t get out of the closet and it can’t hurt you. It’s just loud and obnoxious and refuses to leave, even though all the doxies it used to eat are gone.”

Dudley looks a little pale. “It won’t try to eat me?”

“It won’t,” Harry promises.

Dudley takes one of Harry’s guest bedrooms, though he promises that it’s only temporary. Harry doesn’t dissuade him. They may be cousins, but they’ve never been close. It’s been a long time since Harry’s lived with someone, not counting sharing cheap hostel rooms or staying on Ron and Hermione’s couch when he visits. It’s been years since Harry’s seen Dudley regularly and he hasn’t missed him. Still, the days go by, filled with preparations for the grand opening and frantic baking.

Their bookkeeper visits often. Dudley isn’t any better at math than Harry is, which they both realize with disgruntlement.

“All of Aunt Petunia’s praise gone down the drain,” Harry says with a shake of his head.

“Mum would’ve believed anything if it meant she could brag about it,” Dudley replies. “Weren’t you better than me at math in school?”

“That was before I turned eleven and stopped using the math side of my brain completely. We turned teacups into mice and levitated feathers and battled dragons at Hogwarts, not, y’know, numbers.” Arithmancy is offered at Hogwarts as an elective, but even that is closer to Divination than muggle math. Harry vividly remembers Hermione complaining about it during third year.

“Dragons?” Dudley asks, like he only barely dares to believe it. “Really?”

“Our school motto is never tickle a sleeping dragon,” Harry tells him.

“Why would anyone—” Dudley stops, shakes his head. “Nah, I get it.”

“Exactly,” Harry says. “You’d have been a Gryffindor. House of the brave.” It’s the closest thing that fits. Dudley’s not the ambitious sort, nor has he ever willingly picked up a book in Harry’s memory, nor does he have a loyal streak.

“Dunno. Is there a house for people trying to be less shitty?”

“House of the brave,” Harry repeats. Gryffindor takes all types.

Dudley gives him a pleased look.

He’s better than Harry remembers him being. Maybe one day, Harry will tell him that he really has done well, but for now he stumbles into something like a friendship with his cousin. Dudley’s not the kind of friend Harry would’ve picked for himself, but you can’t really pick family. You’re just stuck with them, kind of by choice, kind of by accident, until they’re cleaning your countertops and addicted to bad wizarding telly. They have access to a brand new magical television network in the back of the shop and up in the apartment. It plays outstanding programs like “five hours of politicians on the verge of dueling each other” and “is that a muggle show with dubbed voices and edited-in magic.” Dudley adores it, but Dudley’s always been more interested in films and shows than Harry has been.

It’s through this screen that Harry starts to get a feel for the pulse of the wizarding world again. American politics are very different from British politics, not centered around reconstruction and healing. There’s still some of the same. Decades after its repeal, politicians still bring up Rapport’s Law, which is an old ban the country had against associating with muggles. Harry wouldn’t ever support something like it; it brings to mind Voldemort’s politics in different language. Besides, he employs a muggle and has spent time in and out of muggle and magical communities for the past few years. He’d never agree to having his world limited. Thankfully, it’s only the most extreme branch of politicians that brings it up, easily shut down by the moderates. And by the sharp-dressed director of the DMLE, who gives a speech about unity on the steps of the MACUSA building. Harry doesn’t appreciate Britain’s struggles being brought up in comparison to America’s comparatively less fraught situation, but at least the man doesn’t mention Harry by name. Usually the news channel just does random interviews (on slow days they head to a magical menagerie and film animals), but occasionally it features the director of the DMLE. Harry doesn’t catch his name the first few times, too busy ogling or silently congratulating him for breaking up an underground necromancy ring.

When Dudley mentions it offhandedly once, Harry says, “He has style,” but that’s not it, not really. He won’t hide the truth in his own home and workplace. “I like men,” Harry tells him, just straight up. “Women, too, but.” It’s the other half that Dudley might have a problem with.

“Okay,” Dudley says.

“Okay?” Harry repeats. He turns to Dudley while the news continues to roll in the background, trying to get a read on his cousin.

Dudley shrugs, looking awkward but not disgusted. Certainly nothing like Vernon would be if Harry said the same to him, or shocked and annoyed about the possible gossip like Petunia. “Dunno. It’s fine. You’re already weird ‘cause of your eyes. You can’t get much weirder.”

“They’re my mum’s eyes,” Harry says, affronted, but he’s laughing.

“They’re too green. It’s creepy.”

“Fuck off,” Harry says without heat. “My mum had beautiful eyes.”

“So you say. Never seen a picture of Aunt Lily.”

When Harry offers to show him, Dudley agrees without hesitation, curiously following him upstairs. Harry opens one of his most prized possessions. “Remember Hagrid? The giant man who—” rescued him from the shack on the sea, that’s the way Harry always remembers it, but he softens it “—took me school supply shopping the summer I turned eleven?”

“Yeah,” Dudley says, grimacing. “He gave me a pig’s tail. I couldn’t sit down properly for months, had to get surgery to get it removed. I missed the first two weeks of Smeltings ‘cause of it. Mum and Dad kept worrying that the doctor would tell the news about it. I still have the scar.”

Harry doesn’t remember it that way. Back then, it had just been funny. It’s probably one of the few times when Harry had been able to have fun at Dudley’s expense. But Dudley had been twelve, scared, disfigured, and Harry understands. He’s been on the other side often enough. “Sorry. He shouldn’t have done that.”

Dudley nods, but he adds, “It was a long time ago.”

“Still. He made this for me, got all the pictures from my parents’ friends.” The first photograph is of Lily and James, with Harry in Lily’s arms. In the background is the living room of the Potter house in Godric’s Hollow.

Dudley jolts a little when the people in the photograph wave at him. “Didn’t realize they could move. Is that her?”

“And James,” Harry says. He doesn’t know if Dudley even knew Harry’s dad’s name. James and Lily been a banned subject in the Dursley home, only referred to as freaks and drunkards.

“Your eyes are still greener than hers,” Dudley tells him, sticking to his story.

Harry rolls his eyes, but privately he agrees. He’s been told so many times that he has his mother’s eyes, and he does. It’s only that his own green is more vivid and with far less flecks of brown, leaving them very, very green. Behind his messy fringe and his spectacles, which Harry should probably update the prescription of, they’re less noticeable. Harry likes it that way. The last thing he wants is people comparing his eyes to the color of the killing curse.

He tells Dudley about the rest of the people in the pictures. Some he doesn’t know—he thinks one woman is Marlene McKinnon, his mum’s best friend, but he can’t say for certain—and some are so young that it takes a few moments for him to recognize them. Arthur and Molly, young and smiling, hold up one twin each, and Harry’s heart hurts. He can’t tell which one is which. As the pages go by, the people in the photographs are older. There’s a couple pictures from Harry’s first year, then the real documentation begins when Colin enters Harry’s life. Harry can’t say he appreciated the stalking, but looking back, it’s nice to have some pictures of himself. He doesn’t have any at all between his early childhood and Hogwarts. Petunia hadn’t been interested in taking photos of the unwanted child in her cupboard.

“Is she your girl?” Dudley asks. He backtracks after a second, adding uncertainly, “Or he your guy?”

“Merlin, no,” Harry says. He can’t imagine dating Ron or Hermione, never has. He barely even understands Ron and Hermione dating; they’re the closest thing he has to siblings, the both of them. “Best friends. They’re together now. My girl was—” he turns the page and fuck, there’s Ginny, peeking out from behind a bookshelf as Colin sneaks a picture of Harry studying in the library “—her.”

“Harry. Did you date your stalker?”

“She stopped stalking me at least a year before we got together,” Harry valiantly defends. Judging by Dudley’s laugh, it doesn’t go well. “She’s pretty. Very pretty.” And Dudley just continues laughing.

*

Harry drags himself out of bed at five in the morning on opening day, feeling like a hundred-year-old instead of a man in his twenties. Why had he chosen this line of business instead of any other? Why had he thought this would be a good idea?

That’s why, Harry thinks with a happy sigh as he smells a few of the shop rejects he’d made last night. Under a food stasis charm, they smell just like they did when he pulled them out of the oven. Perfect. The smell calms the rush of nervous energy, similar to how he’d sometimes feel before a big Quidditch game or the OWLs.

When Harry makes his way downstairs with a cup of coffee in his hand, Dudley is already there. He’s leaning against the counter and looking outside, where the barest morning light is beginning to break through the night. He doesn’t look nervous, but there’s still something about him that resembles him on the night he’d arrived. A little lost, unsure of his welcome.

“Do you think they’ll notice?” Dudley asks, crossing his arms. “That I’m a muggle?”

“Probably not,” Harry says. “And if they do, it doesn’t matter. You’re here to feed them, not to entertain them with a magic show. If they care more about who’s giving them the food than the actual food, tell them to fuck off. Unless they’re paying attention to you ‘cause they’re into you.”

“I can’t date a witch,” Dudley says, wide-eyed. “Mum would kill me.” It takes him a moment to take a breath, then he says, “Gina—my therapist in London—says Mum doesn’t control my life anymore. I can date witches if I want to.”

Harry pats him on the back. “Just focus on the business first.”

They’d advertised in the newspapers and on the MACUSA notice board, and their sign is bright and colorful. Not quite on the level of the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, but Harry isn’t willing to have a boring old storefront. He’d wanted something cheerful, friendly, and most of all, delicious. When their first customer enters, he and Dudley have everything set to go, and Harry greets her himself before making his way to the kitchen. Everything is in order. Showtime. Customers are few in the early morning, only picking up as the clock ticks down to a more reasonable hour. Anyone routinely waking up this early probably already has a favored coffee and breakfast shop or makes their own. In the back of his mind, Harry makes plans on how to lure those people to his shop, while his hands stay busy with making free samples for anyone dropping in. By the afternoon, there’s a crowd of people in line and at their tables, and Harry is happily exhausted.

He’d been worried about Dudley, but Dudley doesn’t revert to old habits under the stress of manning the counter. He’s a little awkward about it at first, still finding his bearings and unused to speaking with so many witches and wizards, but it’s nothing he can’t get over. Even his initial twitchiness around magic fades as he gets used to seeing robes and wands all over the place. Harry swaps places with Dudley whenever Dudley needs a break, offering drinks and pastries to everyone in line.

Not even exhaustion can dim Harry’s enthusiasm at his little bakery getting up off the ground.

Chapter Text

“It’s wonderful,” Tina says as she guides Percival out of the MACUSA building’s magical back entrance and down the busy streets. “Queenie would kill me if she knew I was cheating on Kowalski Quality Baked Goods with some other bakery, but I can’t help it. It’s close by and tasty. Maybe she’ll forgive me if I get her to try a piece of their caramel apple pie. I’m glad you’re finally giving in and trying it.”

“I’m a busy man, Tina,” Percival tries yet again. This is what happens when one’s protege gets too sure of herself; she begins deciding her mentor is in dire need of baked goods and must leave the office for lunch instead of staying to finish the small mountain of paperwork an inter-departmental botched job had left him with. He feels rather taken advantage of, being escorted by aurors on both sides to the location of this new baked goods obsession that’s overtaken his department. It’s ridiculous, the way their department’s entire floor smells of whatever the special is that day. Percival silently resolves to try one pastry, declare it edible but nothing to fawn over, and feel assured in his superiority over his overly enthusiastic colleagues. “I don’t even like bakeries.”

Tina is undeterred. “You’ll like this one. And you were at the grand opening of Jacob’s, weren’t you?” She cocks her head, sidestepping a child plowing through the crowds, his wizard’s hat flopping up and down. Two more children manage to avoid the group of aurors, though they do plow into a pickled toad seller on the street corner. Percival watches for long enough to be assured that the only thing injured is the pride of everyone involved, then turns back to hear Tina say, “No, never mind, you weren’t.”

Percival nods. She’s correct; he hadn’t attended the opening, although he’d very much wanted to on the basis of keeping his protege and her family happy. Instead, he’d been held up in what frankly Percival still considered a minor apocalypse: an entire caravan of illegally imported nifflers had been accidentally set loose on muggle New York City. Percival tasked every single auror he had with rounding them up. In a moment of kindness, he’d assigned Tina to the section of the city where Jacob’s bakery operated. “You were only able to attend ten minutes of the opening, if I remember.”

“It was a good ten minutes,” Tina says. “But you can think of this as a redo.”

“Of course.” He raises an eyebrow in Tina’s direction, asking, “Are you still corresponding with our magical creature consultant?”

“Yes,” Tina says. She waves her wand to swing open the door of the bakery they’d finally arrived at. It’s a charming place, Percival thinks, then prepares to never admit to it. “He’s very sweet, if a bit shy.”

“You were shy, too,” Percival sighs, remembering her before the mentorship program had landed her with the director of the DMLE. And before she broke her first big case as an auror—that very same niffler escape case that had introduced her to Newt. Percival would’ve liked to credit himself with getting her out of her shell, but a lot of it’s come down to time and timing, and perhaps a little to Newt, wherever he’s traveling these days. Tina seems happier now than ever before.

“I was still learning,” Tina huffs. “You sound nostalgic about it.”

“I like it when my subordinates show proper deference.”

“Sir, you would go mad with boredom in a week. Now, I have the menu nearly memorized, so let me know what flavors you like and we’ll go from there.”

Percival finds that Tina has been lured in with rhubarb tarts, another of his aurors with the range of cookies, a few others with chocolate flavors. Like many wizarding shops, it’s bigger on the inside than the outside would suggest. Clusters of tables fill the forefront of the shop, while the walls are full of comfortable nooks with plush seats to inspire comfort and a bit of privacy. Percival tries to continue thinking little of the place, but the rich red and cream color scheme is easy on the eyes, and there’s one nook he spots that he wouldn’t mind returning to do some paperwork at. It smells delicious inside, and it’s warm without being overbearingly hot. Percival prepares to accept his defeat with grace and dignity. It does seem like a perfectly good place.

The young man behind the counter announces that he needs to take a break, but within a minute he’s replaced by a slimmer, lankier man with messy dark hair and an apron on top of his muggle-style clothes.

“I’m not as good at this part of the job as Dudley, but he’ll be back when he gets his own coffee in,” the young man says, vanishing the flour from his apron and conjuring a name tag that reads Harry.

Just Harry, but Percival ponders over the name as the line shrinks and one by one everyone in front of him orders their drinks and desserts. The young man looks just familiar enough to jog his memory, but not enough for Percival to remember why. He hasn’t encountered him on auror business, otherwise he would remember him. Percival’s mind could resemble a dragon’s den for its information on the crooks and law-breakers of his country; it’s the best resource he has to protect him on the more dangerous jobs. In the end, it’s Harry’s accent that finally cements his identity for Percival. Some of his Britishness has been pared down by time away from his home country, but enough remains.

Percival says nothing on the topic as he orders one of the croissant options and a black coffee. It’s not until Tina heads to find them a table, having ordered first, that Percival speaks. There’s no one behind him, the lunch rush having quieted down some, and Percival doesn’t speak loudly. There’s no sign of the man preferring to flaunt his fame, not even a hint that he would like to publicly connect his name to the bakery.

“Mr. Potter,” Percival says, and dips his chin when he sees surprise in the young man’s green eyes. “I wanted to thank you for your efforts in Britain. It was due to you and the Order of the Phoenix that the war didn’t spread to this country, and that is something that we can all be grateful here, even if most don’t recognize you.”

Harry smiles, a little awkward as he accepts the thanks. “You’re the first person to recognize me here. Or maybe to say something.” He doesn’t sound as though he misses his former celebrity one bit. He even adds, “It’s a bit like going undercover.”

“You’d have to pick up the accent for proper undercover work,” Percival says, nearly teasing. “To fit in with the locals.”

“Blasphemy,” Harry replies, emphasizing every last British syllable. He finishes making the coffee and places it next to the croissant, which smells damnably good already. “Enjoy, Mr. Graves.”

Percival can’t believe a few words can manage to be so charming. Maybe he’s had a head injury sometime today. It would explain the fact that he ignores Tina in favor of speaking with Harry for the rest of his lunch break. He finds that Harry is the proprietor of the bakery and the main baker in the back of the shop, though the other young man now manning the counter helps out with the baking if there’s a rush job. His name is Dudley and he is Harry’s cousin. There’s some history there if Percival isn’t mistaken, but Harry doesn’t delve into the topic and Percival doesn’t ask. Families tend to be full of drama. His own is no exception, and neither had Harry escaped all family issues through his Boy-Who-Lived title.

The next day, a case takes him out of the office the entire day, but the day after that, Percival finds his feet taking him to the bakery once again. When he arrives, Dudley is just leaving for his break, and Harry takes his order with a familiar grin. Percival inwardly sighs and gives up his chance for smug superiority over his colleagues. He doesn’t have many vices, but Harry’s bakery is turning out to be one of them. And, a too hopeful thought chimes in, perhaps Harry himself might eventually be one of them. It is Tina’s turn to be smug when Percival deposits a bag from the bakery on her desk in silent thanks for introducing him to the shop.

“Not a word,” Percival says. He almost manages to sound disgruntled.

Tina smiles. “Yes, sir.”

Percival hasn’t been a teenager in years, but he feels like one every time he enters the bakery. It’s not a crush, even if it bears all the hallmarks of one.

*

The first time Dudley ducks out just as Percival arrives at the bakery, Harry is too distracted to be suspicious. The second time, Harry shakes his head at him. The third time, the fourth time, the fifth time, it’s just too easy to give in and spend a moment or an hour with the attractive auror. Harry forgets about Dudley entirely when Percival mentions some of the United States’ own dark leanings. A surprising surge in Grindelwald sympathizers rose after the man’s death. President Picquery seems to have everything well in hand now, but it had been a rough couple years. The occasional mention of Rapport’s Law is all that’s left of those voices, and there is not enough support for the law to ever be enacted again. Harry picks Percival’s brain on American politics, curious about the differences between his old country and his new one, though he can admit to never having paid much attention to politics before. Between Voldemort and Fudge and Malfoy, it had been all black and... slightly lighter shades of black. Harry hadn’t stuck around for Kingsley’s term as minister, but he can imagine he might’ve found more to agree with there.

“I was going to be an auror,” Harry admits over hot chocolate and macaroons. “Instead I...” He waves a hand around the bakery.

“Vanished for a few years and turned up halfway across the world with a new passion?” Percival asks. He’s leaning back comfortably in the booth, his body relaxed as he holds his coffee with both hands. Harry hasn’t yet been able to tempt him with any of his sugary drinks, but he’s giving it time. They’ve occupied the booth furthest from the door, one that has quickly become theirs.

“Pretty much. I fought in the final battle and the thought of spending the rest of my life chasing after Voldemort wannabes didn’t appeal. Baking might be seen as easier, but it’s complicated in a different way. Reluctant magical ingredients and yeast instead of dark magic, the bustle of spells and ovens instead of the bustle of Order meetings. I realized I didn’t need to fight to be happy. I could just... go out and be.” Harry is happy in the bustle of his shop, and it’s weird and great and nearly perfect. “Did you always want to be an auror?”

“My father was an auror.”

“Mine, too.”

“And my father’s father.”

That one, Harry has to think for a moment. “I think mine was a potions master. He developed that hair potion my friend Hermione keeps trying to get me to try.”

“And my father’s father’s father.”

“Mine was a politician who lobbied to support British muggles during the first world war. None of the other purebloods quite forgave him for it even though he failed. I remember this stuck-up prick from school ranting about it.”

“And so on until the very founding of the Magical Congress of the United States of America.”

“Damn,” Harry says, shaking his head. “That’s a heavy legacy.”

“My parents never pushed me into it, but it was clear they preferred I be the one who carried on the tradition. I have one brother who is six years younger than me and not particularly responsible, and a sister ten years younger than me who’s always favored the arts. It seemed natural that I would be the one. I admit I stayed away from a MACUSA job for two years after Ilvermorny because I wanted to rebel against the idea of following in my family’s footsteps.”

Harry rests his elbow on the table, his chin on his hand, engrossed by a side of Percival that maybe hadn’t always been meant for the life he now led. “What made you change your mind?”

“It’s a cliche, but the same reason so many others join the auror program. I admitted to myself that I really did want to help people and learn flashy dueling techniques and do something about magical crime. An auror had been called in to arrest my neighbor for selling dark objects to underage students at Ilvermorny and I watched my neighbor get his wand handed to him in a duel, and I thought I wouldn’t mind doing something like that at all. My parents said they’d known I would give in all along, which as you can imagine, wasn’t quite as welcome to my hotheaded young self. But I stuck with it.”

“And here you are,” Harry says, taking a sip of his hot chocolate because he can’t bear to look at how fond Percival looks as he reminisces. “Director of the DMLE.”

“You knew who I was before you met me,” Percival says, a pleased smile tugging at his lips.

Smugness isn’t attractive, Harry valiantly tells himself. It’s really not. “Dudley and I watch the news. Occasionally you appear. My favorite shot was the one with you and the kneazle kits from Bettie’s Menagerie.” It’s half a joke, but also Harry had watched very avidly as those adorable, tiny kneazles crawled all over Percival. Even Dudley had put his boxing techniques manual aside to watch, laughing at Harry’s intense interest but asking if they can get one for themselves.

“It was for charity,” Percival defends, though his eyes are light at the memory. “My robes were ruined and I had pinpricks of blood on my undershirt from where they used their claws to gain purchase.” With a look that says he knows completely that he’s only giving Harry ammunition, Percival still adds, “I took one home with me that same day.”

“Was it the black-furred one with white-tipped ears?” Harry remembers it as the one who’d seemed to like Percival most.

“That’s the one. He’s a little devil.”

Harry remembers his manners and doesn’t try to angle his way into his customer’s—acquantance’s—sort-of-maybe friend’s—home just to meet that kneazle, but it takes a deep breath on his part. That television program had been one thing. Percival with a kitten of his own? Harry might spontaneously combust. He’ll need Dudley there to keep him on the straight and narrow. “Dudley’s been trying to convince me we need a kneazle, too. I keep telling him we already have a ghoul, but I’m going to give in soon.”

“The crups are equally affectionate, if you’re looking for options.”

Harry shrugs. He’s not going to go into why he has better associations with cats than dogs. Small dogs remind him of Marge’s terrors, large ones of Padfoot. Cats all just remind him of Crookshanks, who’s crazy smart and terrorizing Ron back in Britain. “I’m more of a cat person. Besides, Dudley really helped me out by coming out here.” It’s not a matter of owing, not really, because the scales will always be tipped to Harry’s side after their childhood. But he still appreciates the fact that Dudley came, that he’s helped out without a single complaint, that he helped Harry gain faith in people being able to change. He figures a kneazle is something he can do.

“Did he always want to work at a bakery?”

“Dudley’s always loved food,” Harry says. “I think he might want to be a chef someday.” It’s not really come up, so Harry adds, “He’s a muggle,” Harry says, carefully gauging Percival’s expression. He’s not protective of Dudders, it’s only that there had been one person to make a fuss about being served by a muggle, and Harry’s been more aware of the situation since. Dudley’s a dick, but Harry fought a war to keep people from caring about the color of each other’s blood and how much magic flowed from their veins.

“I noticed he doesn’t carry a wand,” Percival agrees. “But he seems like he can handle himself just fine.”

“He’s a boxer on the side.” Harry says it without an influx of childhood memories rising up from his stomach area, but he also hasn’t gone to see any of Dudley’s matches. They’ve got something good building despite the crummy foundation. Harry doesn’t want to ruin it by watching Dudley punch people, even if they signed up for it, even if they’re willing. “I don’t know how he has the energy for it. We’re working on hiring another person or two to switch out with us, but for now it’s customer after customer for as long as we’re open.”

“The bakery version of auror training. All you need is some superiors shouting orders at you and I’ll be right at home.”

“I have a feeling you’ve been one of those superiors more often than not,” Harry says with a grin. He can’t imagine Percival going through auror training; he seems as though he stepped out of the womb dressed to the nines and with an easy confidence in his abilities.

“Guilty,” Percival admits, then tells Harry about a few of the more entertaining training sessions.

Harry’s not sure he’ll ever be able to look at a few of the aurors who visit the bakery the same way again, but he can’t stop laughing. He’s still smiling when he finishes making some of tomorrow’s desserts and heads upstairs, Dudley having closed up shop a while ago. As he passes the stairs to the attic, he hears the faint sounds of Dudley talking to the ghoul in the attic cupboard and encouraging it to take a savory pastry.

Dudley’s fitting in just fine, Harry decides.

*

Within the first month of living with Harry, Dudley decides to move up to the attic.

“What about the ghoul?” Harry asks. As anticipated, he hasn’t stepped foot in the attic since before the bakery opened, having been too busy to deal with it after the customers started to arrive in droves. He hears it banging on the wall from time to time, but much less now than it used to.

“We’ve reached an agreement,” Dudley says with a shrug. “It’s not a bad sort.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. But, well, hadn’t the Weasleys lived with a ghoul too? It had even been useful in pretending to be Ron during the war. “If you say so.”

He hasn’t minded living with Dudley, although honestly he wouldn’t have noticed three new roommates with how tired he is in the evenings and how little time he spends in the flat. Dudley’s the same way, dead on his feet in the evenings and yawning heavily in the mornings. They really do need to get some extra help, Harry thinks as he levitates some stuff upstairs. Dudley carries the suitcase he’d arrived with, while Harry grabs all the miscellaneous stuff that’s made its way into Dudley’s room and the bed. The ghoul is quiet as they shuffle around the attic’s boxes to make room for Dudley’s things. It’s a far cry from Dudley’s bedroom at Privet Drive, Harry absently thinks. He wonders if Vernon and Petunia have left Dudley’s childhood bedroom as it was before Dudley moved out, a shrine to his youth. Probably. Harry’s room is either again the spillover from Dudley’s room or a second guest bedroom. As always, the only room Harry has is the one he’s made for himself, here above the bakery. There’s nowhere for him to ever go back to on Privet Drive. Harry wouldn’t want to go back anyway, but... It stings in a way Harry is used to, though he’s tired of finding new ways to hate his aunt and uncle.

“Do you think I’ll be able to get a computer to work up here?” Dudley asks. “It’s far away from the magic in the bakery.”

“Maybe,” Harry replies. “If it doesn’t, I think there’s a muggleborn association you could contact and see if they know how to make computers work in a magical home.” Harry moves aside and waves his wand. With some minimal smacking against the walls, Dudley’s mattress rises up the stairs to the attic, followed by the deconstructed bed frame.

“Wicked,” Dudley murmurs as he watches the bed assemble itself with a few words from Harry. He sits down on the bed once it’s done, looking around at the rest of the objects that have settled in with a bit of magic helping them. “I always thought magic was kinda cool, you know? Even when I was a kid. I didn’t know what you were doing was magic, but I would’ve wanted to turn Mrs. Walnut’s wig blue, too.”

“Her name wasn’t Mrs. Walnut,” Harry says, sitting down on one of the steadier boxes. Her real name escaped him, but Harry remembered her being very stern and proper. She hadn’t liked him much, believing that Harry was a hooligan, but she’d approved of his habit of quietly reading while the other boys played. She’d hoped to straighten him out before the year was through.

“That’s just what we all called her.”

Harry hadn’t, but he’d never been part of an ‘all’ in primary school. “Why?”

“We were kids,” Dudley says, shrugging. “Everyone got dumb nicknames. Piers first said that her head looked like a walnut, then it caught on. Piers was Piercer, I was Big D, Gordon was Gordo, Dennis kept trying to get us to call him Knife, and Malcolm was Tubby.” At Harry’s raised eyebrow, Dudley says, “He hated it, but he was the newest member of the gang and didn’t get much of a say. I grew up with Piers, Gordon was Piers’ cousin, Dennis was funny, Malc was the new kid.”

“And he was fat.”

“Yeah. Not much more than me, but I couldn’t let it go.” Dudley grimaces, glancing down at his hands like he can’t bear to admit it to Harry’s face. Harry can’t figure why; he’s been there for the worst of Dudley’s bullying. “Gina—my old therapist, still have to get a new one here—helped me say sorry to him. She’s big on sorries. Did I ever say one to you? ‘Cause I am.”

“In the journal,” Harry says. Half dozen times after the worst of the entries. Dudley’s handwriting still continues to be barely legible, but Harry’s getting better at reading it in Dudley’s order pages and the accounting book.

“I was really fucking scared, apologizing for the first time. Mum and Dad never made me. Dad said it was for other people, since Dursleys are always right.”

“That,” Harry says, not bothering to be polite, “is a load of crap.”

“I know,” Dudley replies, nodding. “I know now. I don’t know what’s wrong with me that I never thought about this shit when I was a kid. I was just mean, and Mum and Dad said it was all okay because everyone else was mean first, but they weren’t. You weren’t. Mum and Dad were wrong about a lot of things, especially magic. It’s convenient. And fun. And tasty. I dunno why they have to hate it.”

In that one instant, Harry would rather be anywhere but here. “They were jealous and scared,” Harry forces himself to say. It’s all he’s got, after years and years of wondering. Jealous that Harry could do things they couldn’t, go places they couldn’t, and scared for those exact same reasons. It doesn’t make the way they treated him any better. It’s just an explanation. Harry doesn’t expect to ever get an apology from them. “And they couldn’t find it in their hearts to be kind to a kid who hadn’t even done anything to them.”

“I couldn’t, either.”

“You had shitty role models,” Harry admits, throwing him a lifeline.

Dudley doesn’t take it. “Should’ve still been better. Nicer. I still have to work at it. I dunno how people can be kind all the time. Gina says it’s just like any other muscle, that I’ll be better at it the more I work at it, but it’s hard.”

And that’s the most surprising thing of all, the fact that Dudley is still trying. Harry sometimes can’t believe Dudley wants to be better. Dudley had been happier as a shithead. He’d been self-absorbed, nasty, and delusional, but he’d been happier. Now he’s adrift in some of the same ways Harry is, figuring out who he is and who he wants to be, and what will really make him happy in this world. Harry tilts forward from the box and stands, makes his way across the room to sit down beside Dudley, bumping their shoulders together companionably. “You’re doing alright.”

“You think so?”

“I promise.”

Dudley nods. “Thanks, Harry.”

Don’t mention it, Harry thinks to say, but he’s alright with Dudley mentioning it again, with him working through it with Harry instead of all alone. “What’s family for, right?” Harry says instead, the words a little weird to say, even if he means them. Family is the Weasleys, red-headed and wonderful, and family is Hermione in all her bravery and strength. Family isn’t for Dursleys, who Harry’s always talked about in the same tone that he reserves for slugs and blast-ended skrewts. The Dursleys are relatives, relations, or just plain them said in an undertone. But he hasn’t thought of Dudley in the same way he thinks of Vernon and Petunia for weeks. Months, counting the journal. Years, counting Dudley’s words when Harry left Privet Drive for the last time. “Do you still talk to them?” Trying not to sound accusing, since they’re still Dudley’s parents and all, Harry adds, “You could, if you wanted to. We could see about getting a telephone network installed. It’ll be mostly magic, but it could connect to Privet Drive.”

“I’d talk to Mum once a month after I moved out, Dad too if he wasn’t at work, but I haven’t called them ever since I told them I was going to work for you. Neither of them were very happy about it. Mum cried, said I should move back in instead, that I didn’t have to work for one of your lot.”

“I can’t say I expected any different,” Harry replies. He can imagine the exact scene, with Petunia making a huge fuss about her Diddykins and Vernon in the background being gruff and unhappy with his orders not being followed. “Why did you leave home, anyway?” As far as he remembers, Dudley had still been living with his parents when Harry left for good, and hadn’t had any intention of moving out.

“I felt like if I stayed any longer, I might actually become my dad,” Dudley says, frowning even as he says, “I love them and shit, but the older I got, the more it felt like they cared more about their reputation or their legacy more than me. Dad’s always had this picture in mind of the two of us working for Grunnings together and me taking over his office when he retired. I would have a son named after him who would he would dote on, a normal son, proper English, no freakishness, and the son would also be in the business. And Mum, she’s just as bad, except everything is about what the neighbors would think. Getting a job at Dad’s company or going to uni would be perfectly acceptable, but her son working as a shop clerk? All I wanted was to make some money and she just about fainted. I don’t care about drills and I don’t want to sit in an office all day. It was also about the time I started asking questions about everything that happened when I was young enough to not get it, and seeing Gina because neither Mum or Dad wanted to talk about it. I guess I just didn’t look around and suddenly be forty years old and unhappy with the world and mean to anyone who makes me feel insecure.”

“You’re already better than them.” And with a shake of his head, Harry just adds, “Dammit, Dudley, when did you get so smart?”

“I’ve always been smart. Mum said so,” Dudley says with a rueful grin.

Harry shoves his shoulder lightly and stands up, holding his hand out for Dudley to hoist himself up. “Come on. Let’s get a drink.”

“At the bar next to my boxing gym?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Sweet.”

Harry never does go boxing with Dudley, but he ends up meeting Dudley’s boxing buddies, who tell him more about fitness and weight-lifting than Harry ever wants to know. He and Dudley take up running together instead. Harry has better stamina from years of avoiding the same person he’s now running alongside of and running back and forth in the huge castle of Hogwarts, but Dudley gets better quickly as the weeks pass. He’s always been the more physical of the two of them. Harry runs because he has to or because he wants to keep healthy when surrounded by all these sugary and bready goodness of his bakery.

He floo-calls Ron and Hermione as often as he can, trying to fit in time with his oldest friends in between baking, shop hours, and pre-baking idea gathering. It’s how he finds that Ron’s trying to get Ginny to visit him in his humble bakery. The Harpies are having some kind of dispute with the league and Ginny has a few weeks off. She’s crashing with Ron and Hermione, who are both apparently sick of her moping about how she should be on the field instead of stuck on the couch.

“You could try getting her hooked on wizard soap operas,” Harry offers. “Dudley watches them all the time. She’ll like making fun of them.”

“Harry, please,” Ron begs, already on his knees for the floo but he sticks his arms through to do a proper begging pose. “She’s driving me crazy. The dispute was supposed to last a week tops, but now the Harpies management team is in shambles and the owner is a soggy ballsack according to Ginny. Besides, none of us have seen your new place. Someone needs to check it out, make sure you’re not still living out of your school trunk.”

“Of course I’m not,” Harry says, making a mental note to hide his trunk before Ginny arrives. It’s not that he’s living out of it. He has a wardrobe and a dresser and a bookshelf in his room. It’s just... easy to keep some things in that trunk. That trunk has seen a lot. Harry’s pretty fond of it. “Want me to arrange the portkey license?”

“Thanks,” Ron breathes, dropping his hands. “Hermione and I would come too, but you know how it is. We’d need more than a weekend to escape the portkey lag and we both just about live in the ministry. Becoming an auror was such a mistake.”

“Do you regret it?” Harry asks, amused.

“Every day and also not at all. I’ll tell Ginny the good news.”

It’s times like these that Harry wishes Ron could just step through the fire and stumble through to Harry’s apartment. But the floo system is too risky to use across the entire Atlantic Ocean. There’s a better chance of Ron getting splinched or arriving through someone else’s floo in Bristol than actually safely getting through to Harry. He loves Ginny, but Ron and Hermione were there first. They’d stuck around through thick and thin, or at least come back exactly when Harry needed them. The thing is, he doesn’t need them now. He misses them, wants them over to see the bakery, but if it takes a few more months, then that’s alright. He has company in Dudley and in his regular customers, most memorably Percival, and he’s too busy to need much more than that. Whatever else, the three of them will always be friends. Distance and time are such tiny problems compared to everything else they’ve overcome.

Besides, it won’t be bad to see Ginny again. For his peace of mind and head continuing to be attached to his neck, he’ll have to get Dudley to stop calling her Harry’s stalker, but they’ve still got some time for Dudley to unlearn old habits. Maybe less time than they need, considering Dudley tells Harry that he can’t wait to meet Harry’s stalker when Harry tells him that Ginny might be coming by.

Chapter Text

“I need a break!” Dudley calls out later as he strides into the kitchen, loosening the strings of his apron and rubbing the back of his neck. “I can take over the baking if you need me to.”

Harry glances at the clock above the door, which points to half past eleven. It’s a little early for Dudley’s usual break. “Tell me you’re not leaving because you saw Percival through the window.”

“I’m leaving because my hands are tired and I haven’t eaten in hours.” Dudley stresses the last word and heads straight for the cooling cupboard, from which he takes out a sandwich. “Knew I still had one of these left.”

“There’s no Percival out there,” Harry double-checks, giving Dudley the suspicious eye.

“None. Nada.”

Harry leaves the kitchen with that suspicious expression firmly in place because there’s something about Dudley’s attitude that’s just too happy. He clears his expression to something more neutral as he swaps in for Dudley behind the counter, where he greets the first of the customers in line. And, of course, the fourth person in line is none other than Percival Graves. Harry can’t help the way his expression slips from neutral to quietly pleased as Percival nears. Dudley’s strategy is effective, Harry has to give him that. If Dudley had simply said Percival was there, Harry would’ve driven himself mad trying to decide on an excuse to say hello. And trying to talk himself out of it. He has no idea what he’s doing. He’s never been good at this kind of thing. Feelings, friendship, connection. He and Ron and Hermione had stumbled across each other and saved each other and that was that. Ginny had driven him mad with her bravery and quidditch skills and red hair until he’d finally just kissed her. Harry has no idea what to do other than keep plying Percival with desserts and search for a sign that Percival is even interested in anything more than an hour here and there discussing politics or baking.

Tina orders first, though she mentions that she won’t be able to stay long. “Auror business.”

Harry rather thinks he knows way too many aurors. First all the aurors in the Order, then Ron, now Percival and Tina and all the other American aurors who drop by his bakery. Harry doesn’t want a single one of them to leave his life, but he wouldn’t mind his bakery also becoming a hot spot for quidditch players. Maybe Ginny can advertise for him. “I can’t believe anything can be more important than a good pastry.”

“You’d get along like a phoenix on fire with my brother-in-law,” Tina huffs. “He also has a bakery, just on the muggle side. He does his pastries to the theme of magical animals, though he takes a lot of creative liberties. It’s cute.”

“Brilliant,” Harry says. “Can I meet him?”

“Just don’t take over the world together,” Tina says as she promises to bring Jacob around soon. “I don’t think we’d be able to stop you.”

“I wouldn’t even try,” Percival says from behind her.

Harry’s attention flits to Percival like a compass, something he’d been trying to prevent until he’d finished serving everyone in line. He hopes the fluttering in his chest isn’t outwardly noticeable. It’s not his fault that Percival is gorgeous. Deeply, deeply gorgeous. Harry once spent an hour trying to decide which of his pastries or ingredients best matches Percival’s eyes before he’d realized what he was doing and forced himself to stop. He tends to get obsessive about people he likes. First everything with Draco in what in retrospect could be called years of unresolved sexual tension (just sexual, not emotional, because dammit is Draco still a git), then him mooning over Cho and Cedric and only stopping alternating between them when there was only one left, then Ginny and his chest monster. In the years since, there have been a few people, but those had been short-lived encounters. Harry hadn’t lingered on anyone, not like this, not in a very long while. And unfortunately, the object of his gaze is an auror, who probably knows all about Harry’s feelings and hasn’t mentioned them out of politeness and disinterest. Harry’s never tried to master of hiding his emotions.

By the time he finishes with Tina’s order and properly gets to Percival, Harry has almost convinced himself that Percival could be bad at reading people and thus hopefully doesn’t know of Harry’s embarrassingly large crush that he hasn’t been able to lock up in the cupboard beside the ghoul. There are a few logical fallacies in Harry’s hopes, namely Percival’s profession, but reason has no room in his emotional landscape.

“Do you have any baking experiments that I can try?” Percival asks, leaning against the counter.

“Do I,” Harry says with a grin. He won’t say it, but he’s been working on this latest one with Percival in mind. “Sit down, I’ll be back in a moment.” He slips back into the kitchen and gets Dudley’s attention by calling out, “Back to the job, liar.”

“Is he gone already?” Dudley asks through a mouthful of jelly doughnut.

“No, but I’ll finish with the next few customers and then you’re back on duty while Percival tries my mandrake leaf sponge cake.”

“You could always try asking him to see a movie,” Dudley offers helpfully. “That’s how I got my last girlfriend.”

“Wizards don’t have movies and he’s probably straight.” Harry peers behind himself just to make sure the door is properly closed. This is one way he’d rather Percival not find out about his feelings. “And not interested. I bet he likes well-dressed women who... go to the opera and can curse you from a kilometer away. Not men who keep losing their aprons despite wearing them for most of the day.”

“He could be ambidextrous. Use a wand with both hands.”

“Ten minutes,” Harry groans. He locates the cake from where he’d stashed it to avoid accidentally putting it out with the other desserts. And maybe also to avoid Dudley’s teasing, because it’s decorated with a very intricate basilisk circled atop the cake. The design had taken the better part of an hour, during which there may have been some sighing and one ear tuned to the news in case Percival appeared on the screen. Harry will admit to none of this, but Dudley is getting all too good at knowing it anyway.

Ten minutes, and Harry is off to the section of the bakery that has begun to feel like his and Percival’s little corner. The cake and plates and cups levitate after him, settling down on the table in front of the both of them.

“This isn’t coffee,” Percival remarks as he looks down at the cup in front of him. He looks dismayed, like Harry has personally betrayed him for the first time.

“This,” Harry says, showing off the cake before he slices it, “is mandrake leaf sponge cake. One slice has as much caffeine as two cups of coffee. We have a wide variety of other drinks.”

“I’m a traditionalist,” Percival persists. His expression isn’t favorable as he glares down at the tea, but his glare vanishes as he takes in the details of the cake. “This is a basilisk, isn’t it? The markings are suspiciously realistic.”

“Salazar Slytherin’s,” Harry agrees, cutting two slices of the cake, one of which he makes just under the basilisk’s head. Not as satisfying as actually stabbing it, but Harry’s still pretty content. “The scale pattern might be wrong. I made it from memory and it was dark in the chamber underneath. Wait, what do you mean, suspiciously? You’ve seen a basilisk?”

“Newt Scamander—Tina’s magizoologist friend—rescued a pair from a dark wizard in Bolivia. I was able to observe them in his suitcase. They’re very young. Their petrifying gaze haven’t developed yet, though I could’ve sworn I got a headache from them.” Percival’s reminiscence ends as he seems to realize that Harry’s experience hadn’t been quite as pleasant. “Salazar Slytherin lived a thousand years ago. How large was it?”

“Around sixty feet in length,” Harry says. “It reached its full adult length while hidden in the chamber of secrets—or more than, considering it was alive for centuries longer than it’s believed to be possible. I owe a lot to Newt’s book. It’s where Hermione realized that it might be a basilisk, the first edition of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. We’re all big fans.”

“Newt doesn’t seem to know what to do with his fans, but he’ll like you, I think.”

“I don’t know if he would. He seems to take the conservation of rare magical creatures seriously and I had to kill it the basilisk before it killed me. It was insane by the end. I don’t feel bad about the fact that it’s not alive anymore and can’t hurt anyone.” Legendary, rare, historical creature or not, Harry’s gotten more use out of the basilisk once it was dead than while it was alive. He can’t say the basilisk would have appreciated its venom and fangs being used to kill pieces of the last of Slytherin’s descendants. Or perhaps it wouldn’t have cared; it may have been too mad and bloodthirsty to mind that the line would go extinct. The descendants were just as terrible and sad as the basilisk itself, except with no primal, animalistic urges on which to blame their violence. Almost as an aside, Harry adds, “I’m a parselmouth.”

Percival’s eyebrows rise slightly, but there’s no censure in his voice. “That must have been handy when dealing with a basilisk.”

“Not so much. It still tried to eat me. I think it was offended that I dared to talk to it.”

“Of course,” Percival says, shaking his head. “Dare I ask how old you were, since you say you were still in school?”

“Too young,” Harry says in lieu of really freaking Percival out. With a wave of his hand, he explains it as, “It’s Hogwarts.” That’s all the explanation anyone needs, really.

“That doesn’t explain anything, you realize.”

“You don’t leave Hogwarts without at least a few near death experiences. It’s part of the charm. At first I thought that it was just me—and I admit a lot of it was me—but in my sixth year my yearmates all talked about it while the professors had to put out a sudden charmed fire in the east wing, and everyone had experienced at least two near-death experiences. Most of them completely unrelated to Voldemort. That’s just how Hogwarts is. No one has actually died at Hogwarts in fifty years—and that was a death by this same basilisk, funnily enough—but we all get a taste of almost death.” Harry realizes that actually, that’s a lie. “Of the students only. About a dozen professors died in the past fifty years, but those were all due to Voldemort.”

“You don’t sound too traumatized.” Percival pauses for a moment, then reaches for the knife and the rest of the cake. “This is delicious, by the way.”

“Thanks. And I think all my Voldemort trauma trumped the rest of my trauma,” Harry huffs. It’s easy to say it lightly on a day like today, when he sits in a crowded bakery—Harry’s very own crowded bakery—across from a man who has so few preconceived notions of him, and whom Harry adores. The sun illuminates them through the wide storefront windows and in the background Harry can hear Dudley’s voice as he asks for five knuts from someone. He is safe, he is happy, he is content.

It’s different some nights or on particularly gloomy days, when Harry’s feet are cold and he hears the rain outside and he’s transported to that tent in the Forest of Dean, when he is alone save for Hermione, and he is lost and confused and so very scared. That was the worst part of war, Harry thinks. Not the pain of spells or splinching, not the way Ron broke their hearts by leaving, not even the cold. It was the fear. Harry Potter, savior of no one, hiding scared in a tent. He’d been ashamed of his fear and his uselessness, as though any barely seventeen year old boy could have done any better. But that’s an old pain, easily forgotten in favor of smiling at the single crumb that rests on Percival’s lower lip.

Harry tries to convince himself that he’s the type to flirt, to reach for Percival’s pink lips and brush it away, but he’s not. “You have a crumb right there.” Harry mimes the spot on his own face. He barely hears Percival’s thanks, too focused on the way Percival brings the edge of his napkin to his face. He blurts out, “Are you ambidextrous?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Something Dudley said, never mind,” Harry mutters, trying to get Dudley’s words out of his head. “Tell me about Ilvermorny? It must be so boring to attend school without any lurking basilisks or poltergeists.”

“My ancestors were brilliant people to set up a school away from all that madness,” Percival tells him, though he sounds amused by Harry’s school loyalty.

The emotion doesn’t last for long, because Harry finds that Percival has a love of his own for his alma mater. Perhaps it wasn’t forged in fire and blood as Harry’s own love of Hogwarts, and Ilvermorny wasn’t a first real home to a man who hadn’t shared Harry’s childhood abuse, but it is love all the same. Percival begins his description of Ilvermorny with the beautiful sunrises that the majority of the student body tries its best to never see, and goes from there. Harry rests his chin on his hand and adds Ilvermorny to the list of things he knows Percival Graves loves. It’s somewhere between justice, battle, and family, intertwined in the tapestry of Percival’s life. With a pang, Harry realizes just how much he wishes to be a part of that tapestry, more than just two people who enjoy each other’s presence over cake.

*

“Sir.”

Sound pierces Percival’s dreams, sending his dreams fleeing from his mind like a flock of thestrals flying through the sky. In his half-asleep state, his mind makes strange associations and his memories swirl. Himself at age eleven, being the only child able to see thestrals, by way of watching his great grandmother die earlier that summer. It hadn’t been traumatizing, no matter how much his parents had been concerned. Light piercing his eyelids like sunlight through water. He hasn’t gone swimming in months. Grindylows, yellow-eyed, aggressive, their skin a sickly green. Seraphina’s newest broach reminds him of them; she hadn’t been flattered at the comparison and has worn that broach almost daily since.

The voice again. “Sir?”

His eyelids feel stuck together, but Percival forces them open, blinking away the last of his sleep. Something about Seraphina. He hopes it’s not prophetic. He’s too exhausted to report to the president. He looks up, and there is Tina, standing inside his office. The door is closed behind her, the glass still opaque. He’d wanted some privacy to do his reports, but according to the clock, he’d slept for an hour instead. “Good news?”

“Auror squad one is back,” she tells him, relief plain in her voice. “They’ve apprehended all three prison escapees.”

“No casualties?”

“David is in the hospital, but it’s nothing life-threatening. He should be out within a few hours.”

Fuck, that’s a relief. Percival wipes at the corner of his eye, which has gathered a crust during his nap. It’s too late to have dignity around his mentee. She’s seen him in worse states. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all week.” His job hadn’t been advertised as damage control, but that’s what it is, even more so than when he’d been head auror. Except now, his duties extend to all of the government, rather than only the auror department. He doesn’t regret the promotion, but hell, he’s barely been home in the past week. “When did you get back?”

“A few minutes ago. I thought I’d check on you before heading out again. I have the next two days off.” She yawns through her last few words. “Excuse me.”

“You’re excused,” Percival says, picking up the envelope she’d dropped on his desk. “I’m sure your sister will be happy to see you again.”

“I have a letter from Newt to answer, too.” She smiles, just a little, just enough.

In a decade or two, Tina will make a fine head auror if Percival has anything to say about it. Smart as a whip, headstrong, unyielding even to authority when she sees injustice occur. If he pushes her on the job, it’s because he believes in her. But for now, there’s no need to push, no emergency to stomp out the fires of. “Go home, Tina.”

She lingers by the door, turning back without a word.

Percival huffs, motioning her out. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Yes, sir,” she replies, and there’s enough approval in her voice to cause his lips to quirk a moment of mirth.

Mentees. Can’t live with them, will drive you crazy if you attempt to live without them. Percival takes another half hour to make up for lost time, this time with a clearer head. The initial reports from squad one appear on his desk one by one, along with a missive from the head auror. One page formal missive plus one sticky note attached with some personal thoughts about the fiasco. It turns to a pile of ash in the form of a frowning face once Percival reads it. Robes straightened with a charm and some water splashed on his face, Percival visits the hospital. David’s been part of the auror department in various capacities for twenty years. He and Percival have worked well together. The fact that he could’ve lost one of his men had the prisoner’s spellwork been more precise doesn’t sit well with Percival.

When he steps out of the hospital, he finds night has properly fallen, the moon invisible and the streetlights illuminating the path. Despite his tiredness, it’s still early enough. Percival hasn’t slept much at all this week. What he should do is go home and get a full night’s sleep. He has a session with the press bright and early tomorrow, and the questions will be brutal. No one is happy about the prison fiasco, not that Percival bears any blame for bribed guards and ignored protocol. He hadn’t even personally hired anyone involved. Or their superiors.

For the rest of the evening, Percival doesn’t want to be Director Graves. And so the streetlights guide his way to a place where no one expects him to be anyone but himself. He spares a moment’s thought for the dark circles under his eyes, but they don’t matter as much as the scent of coffee greets him even standing outside the bakery. The closed sign has a soft glow. Percival ignores it in favor of trying the door, which is unlocked. Inside, Dudley and Harry are talking quietly. They couldn’t look any more different—blond and dark-haired, heavyset and wiry, glasses and clear blue eyes—but their aprons are identical, even though Harry’s is smudged with baking ingredients. They both turn to the source of the noise.

Percival gestures back. “I noticed the sign, but—”

“You’re always welcome,” Harry says, disregarding Percival’s words before he can finish voicing them. “Especially when you’ve been gone this long.”

“Yeah, you’re one of our favorite customers,” Dudley agrees. “Maybe the most favorite.”

“Ms. Scott is your favorite,” Harry disagrees, gesturing for Percival to come closer. “If only for her puppy.”

“That’s true. But I wasn’t saying—” Harry elbows him in what Percival assumes is a long-standing minor squabble, because Dudley laughs and announces that he needs to finish up in the kitchen before the interviews start.

Percival gets settled in with a cup of decaffeinated tea and a bowl of soup that Harry brings down from his upstairs apartment. Percival has never found an excuse to see it for himself, though he’s curious about Harry and Dudley’s lives outside the bakery. He tries to claim that Harry doesn’t have to feed him anything special, but Harry doesn’t listen to that, either. It’s a welcome relief after a week of sending orders throughout the building and a mess of politics and blame springing up every time he looks away.

“You look like you need some real food,” Harry says. “Besides, I’m hungry too. I’m sticking around for a while to be on hand for the interviews. I put Dudley in charge of the process since he’s the one who’s usually up in the front of the bakery, but I’ll be working with the new hire occasionally, too.”

“I see you up front a lot,” Percival remarks.

Harry coughs. “Yeah, when Dudley wants to take a break. Are you alright? I’ve been keeping up with the case on the news.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard some choice words about the auror department’s capabilities,” Percival says. He can’t wait until the news cycle ends and the whole thing is history.

“Everyone is incompetent except for the dedicated reporters covering the case, yes,” Harry replies. “It makes me glad to be a simple bakery owner.”

“I’ve been fantasizing about abandoning ship and retiring to a sunny island all week.”

“Take me with you if you do.”

“I’ll need someone who knows how to make a drink.”

“I hope you mean coffee because otherwise you’ll only have my butterbeer bottle-opening skills.”

“I always mean coffee,” Percival says as he sips his tea.

Harry’s eyes are bright and green behind his glasses, and Percival decides he’s more tired than he’d realized, because those eyes inspire too many thoughts in him. Overly romantic, overly dramatic, overly everything. He’s not a man prone to drama or flights of fancy. Tina worked to chip away at his armor for a year until he fully accepted her on as his mentee. But Harry does it as easily as breathing, without even trying. It’s been over a month now. At some point, Percival will have a decision to make, but for now he and Harry quietly comment on the baristas and clerks Dudley is interviewing. They’re all nervous, though some are better at hiding it than others. Percival can’t remember ever having been so young. Dudley himself hides his nervousness behind fast talk and a bit of bluster, the ghost of another man’s tone behind his voice. Percival tries to subdue his honed auror questioning skills, but Harry gets a kick out of his comments on the lies and half-truths most interviewees give. It’s not as though he blames them, anyway. Putting one’s best foot forward often involves coating it with some shoe polish and glamour charms.

As their conversation moves from topic to topic, bosses to a study on the wand types of criminals to magical creatures, Percival relaxes into the soft cushions of the booth. Harry doesn’t shoo him out and Percival doesn’t get up to leave, content to wait until Harry gets sick of him. No matter how tired he was a few hours ago, his cold, empty bed has nothing on the warmth of Harry’s bakery.

The evening passes and Dudley grows more confident in his questioning. He sounds more like himself than whoever he’d imitated. Percival would put his money on his father. He seems to take a liking to a dark-haired young man with an unfortunate haircut who looks to be freshly out of Ilvermorny. After a quiet word with Harry, Dudley shows the young man around the bakery and kitchen area, while Percival and Harry look on with some bemused interest.

“Dudley’s opinion is that we’re keeping him,” Harry says, shaking his head with a smile. “I hope he has some experience or it’ll be up to Dudley to train him in everything. I’m just here to bake.”

When the interview is over, Dudley escorts Credence from the bakery, sending him off with a bag of baked goods and a cup of coffee. Afterward, he grabs a leftover cookie from the counter and joins Harry and Percival on Harry's side of their booth, filling them in on the details of the interview. It's primarily for Harry, who will also be working with the new hire, but Percival isn't excluded from the conversation, even if it isn't particularly any of his business. He's only a frequent customer—if one of their favorites, if Dudley is to be believed. Percival provides his opinion about him when asked. He hadn't noticed any tells of long-term dark magic use, neither had Credence's previous employer been involved in anything illegal as far as Percival knows.

It's been a while since Percival personally interviewed anyone himself. There are people more suited to the job than the head of the DMLE. Despite having a say in the hiring process, Percival usually leaves it to his subordinates. He has no time to personally get to know each new hire. A few times, Seraphina has had him vet potential candidates for some of the nation's higher positions, knowing that it's worth it to hire someone who works smoothly with Percival rather than someone who would obstruct justice and cause him to visit her often to complain. He'd also personally vetted her cabinet and her assistants. 

"He seems eager to learn, but he doesn't have much experience," Percival offers, thinking of the other candidates. At least one had worked in a muggle coffee shop before. Credence is also very young, at least six years younger than Harry and Dudley, and just barely of age. Youth is hardly a black mark, but it only highlights Credence's lack of experience. "What made you choose him?"

Dudley shrugs, suddenly looking sheepish. "He reminded me of Harry, weirdly enough. Y'know. All dark-haired and twitchy. So I thought what the hell, he seems like a good guy. A bit quiet, but he won't be quiet for long if he's working here."

"I'm not twitchy," Harry immediately says, crossing his arms over-exaggeratedly. "You got spooked by a puffskein today. If anything, you're twitchy."

"Those little beasts come straight from hell and they know it," Dudley replies with a glower. "Besides, that's not what I meant."

They share a look and Harry rolls his eyes, bumps his shoulder against Dudley's. "Yeah, I know what you meant, Big D. You're alright. You've decided, then?"

"Unless you want someone else?"

Harry shakes his head. "Credence it is. Is he any good at making drinks?"

"He'll learn," Dudley says, shaking his head. "I'm starving. All these interviews and I barely got a snack in between. I'm going upstairs. Goodnight, Harry, Percy."

"No one calls me Percy," Percival says, but Dudley is already halfway to the back door and pretends to not hear him. When he turns to Harry, Percival amends his statement for honesty's sake. "No one but Seraphina, and she gets away with it because she knew me when I was an auror trainee and hasn't stopped hazing me for going on two decades."

"I like your name," Harry assures him. "Percy's the name of my best friend's older brother. And he's a git. He works for the ministry too by the way, just the British ministry."

Percival raises an eyebrow. "Are you trying to tell me something?"

"It's a cursed name," Harry replies, grinning. "The curse of responsibility and governmental positions. And ambition, I think."

Percival feels a smile of his own tugging at his lips. It's been a long day and a longer week, yet here he is, worries forgotten and hot tea in his cup. It must be the company and the spirit of the bakery that he finds so comforting and warm, because admittedly Percival still isn't fond of tea. It tastes terrible, but he isn't going to admit just yet that Harry's efforts to interest him in tea are going to waste. If it hasn't worked in forty years, it won't work now. "I've heard ambition is a dirty word in Britain."

"Not if you ask a Slytherin." Harry sips his own tea with a lot more enthusiasm than Percival. Maybe a few cubes of sugar would help... "Or is the directorship all you're interested in?"

"I wouldn't mind a chance at Seraphina's seat once she's done with it," Percival admits. "It's been a few generations since a Graves has been president. High time for me to step up." Sometimes, it's hard to balance expectation with actual desire. His parents, both retired and with too much time on their hands, expect him to go far in government, as do the many people he works with at the DMLE. But it's taken a few years for Percival to begin to develop a true desire to try his hands at changing some of the things he only puts up with now, and after a certain point, he needs to have a higher position than he already does in order to enact real change.

Harry, probably noticing that Percival's been eyeing the sugar bowl, pushes it closer to Percival's cup. "You won't miss working directly with law enforcement?"

"In a few more years, I'm sure they'll have had enough of me and my rules. I've heard I'm a hardass and a workaholic, although no one has managed to say anything to my face."

"Maybe they're too distracted by your—" Harry stops, flushes, and says, "—workload. Their workload."

"Maybe." Percival will admit to being strict, but he's fair. And anyone signing up for the auror program is aware of the stress and long hours. "I've been director of the DMLE for five years now, and barring any scandals outside of my control, I'll continue to be so until I consider another position, elected or otherwise. I like a challenge and I've never considered this job to be the end of my career." At the end of the day, he wants to be challenged at work, and if in some years the directorship no longer proves challenging—or becomes more frustrating than rewarding—he'll move on. Perhaps he might even move to the private sector, although he doubts it. Spending too much time in Harry's bakery is the closest he'll get. "What about you?"

"I'm happy here," Harry says, looking down for a moment as though he's almost embarrassed to admit to it. "After everything, I didn't know if I ever would be, but I am. Owning this place and spending the day baking is fulfilling in ways I never would have expected. But if there's ever a time when I want to do something else or travel again, I'll take it."

"You should be happy," Percival tells him. "Whatever you do, wherever you are. You should be happy."

His own words pull at him even as the conversation continues, as Harry decides to close up and head to bed, as Percival apparates home from a few steps away from the bakery's door, Harry leaning on the doorstep and wishing him goodnight. He wants Harry's happiness. To ensure it and to inspire it, to be there whenever Harry smiles, or at least as often as he can. He even wants the rest of it, the bad as well as the good. Some of it has only been hinted in the things Harry doesn't say or turns away from, while the rest of it Percival only heard secondhand from British acquaintances and news sources. He wants inside, Percival realizes, inside the mess and the details, inside Harry's past and future. Even the parts that Harry is ashamed of or the parts he's not ready to share; Percival wants to be here when Harry finds himself ready.

It's been a while since he allowed himself to be carried away by feelings. Certainly, he hadn't intended this from the very beginning. Or perhaps that's a pretty lie his heart is telling him. Sure, Harry is politically important and his perspective on the war in Britain fascinating, but that's not why Percival kept coming here. Harry is easy to talk to, kind, perceptive, sometimes sad at the very edges that he hides behind cupcakes and pumpkin pies. Whatever else Harry is, whatever else he's accomplished in his life, Percival cares most about the man he is now, who evaluates Percival's enjoyment of his pastries and keeps asking him to join him and Dudley for a run.

For a man who has long been content with solitude, it's mildly terrifying to know that he doesn't want to return home alone for the rest of his life, not while there's a chance for something more.

Chapter Text

Credence starts the very next day, arriving bright and early only minutes after Harry heads downstairs. The bakery won't be open for another hour, but there are pastries to bake and training to do. He yawns as he turns on all the lights and opens the door for Credence.

"Welcome, come in," Harry says, yawning. "I'm sure Dudley mentioned it, but in case he forgot, my name is Harry."

"It's nice to meet you," Credence replies. "Thank you for agreeing to hire me."

Harry wonders if Dudley mentioned Harry's last name. Probably not. People have a different look to them when they know they're talking to Harry Potter. It's fifty-fifty as to whether Dudley simply forgot or if he thought Credence might need to be eased into the knowledge. Credence already looks spooked and is overly polite, although he listens carefully when Harry tells him about the magical aspects of the shop that Dudley wouldn't have bothered mentioning. It'll be good to have another wizard around for the spellwork. Not everything can be done by hand, though Dudley's a huge help with everything that doesn't require a wand. That is if Credence sticks through the first week.

After a quarter of an hour, Dudley appears to do the rest of Credence’s morning training.

"Now, for the most important bit," Dudley says, "If you see the man from yesterday coming toward the shop, you have to take a break and let Harry handle his order."

"Really?" Credence asks, glancing between them.

Harry groans and rests his face in his hands. "I knew you were doing it on purpose."

"We have a solemn duty to save Harry from himself."

"I hate you," Harry tells him quite seriously.

It's a testament to how far they've come that Harry doesn't mean it, and neither does Dudley believe it.

Credence is put to the test when their morning regulars start trickling in. Harry eavesdrops on Credence's first day a few times while adding to the display table of desserts. No doubt about it, Credence is quiet, although he's making an effort to seem less so than he is. Dudley is easygoing with him. Kind whenever Credence makes a mistake, inquisitive about Credence's circumstances at home, encouraging with the parts of the job that Credence has already grasped. Harry has a strange moment of realization that Dudley's not going to be a bad father, if that's the route his life takes. The world may have its issues, but there won't be another Vernon Dursley.

Credence finishes his first day of work without quitting and helps Harry and Dudley close up the shop. The rest of the week and on, or until he and Dudley settle on different hours, he'll be coming in for the afternoon shift.

"Do you live nearby?" Harry asks. Sometimes it feels like just about everyone who enters the shop also lives in the city's magical sector. Rapport’s Law may not be on the books, but the States' magical communities are still more tightly knit than Britain's.

"On Fleming Road. I moved in with my best friend right after graduation," Credence admits. "It's been tough, finding work."

"Your parents aren't helping out?" Dudley asks.

Credence shakes his head. "I grew up in foster care before receiving my Ilvermorny letter. My foster mom, her foster care license was revoked, and I spent my breaks living in the North Building at Ilvermorny."

And that sounds familiar enough, although for all that Harry wished he could, he'd never been allowed to stay at Hogwarts. Credence's friend drops by at as they're finishing up. She's around Credence's age, perhaps a year or two older, and a magical tattoo of a snake moves across her skin, occasionally making itself known on her fingers or her neck. Credence introduces her as Nagini and they leave together, walking home in the evening light. Idly, Harry considers getting a tattoo of his own, and he wonders if Percival has any. He's always so bundled up. What would it take to strip away a few of those layers? It must be a question for someone much proactive than Harry, since the next day, Harry asks no questions regarding Percival's tattoos or the lack thereof. Or voices any recurring thoughts about Percival's handsomeness and how he wears too many layers.

Those thoughts are largely scattered from his mind as Ginny arrives the next evening, bringing memories of Britain along with her as she crosses the threshold of Harry's door. Harry hears the knock on the side door clear as day despite being one floor and a few rooms away. It's partly the magic as magicals mimic but refuse to copy the exact concept of a doorbell, partly the Weasley method of pounding on the door. It's late now, but much earlier than he'd thought he would see her.

Harry opens the door and grins at the sight. He's missed the Weasleys, all of them, even the ones he never thought he'd miss, but Ginny and Ron are at the top of the list. Ginny must feel the same because she drops her bag and her broomstick on the ground and hugs him.

"Gin," Harry murmurs, delighted. "I thought you were coming in tomorrow."

"I managed to get an earlier portkey—the last they were offering today. Someone must've backed out of their trip." She squeezes him once, then lets go. "Hiya, Harry. Did you get taller on me?"

"Late growth spurt," Harry says, feeling smug.

Ginny pouts at him. "You're still shorter than most of my brothers."

"I'm catching up," Harry replies. He turns back, hearing Dudley's footsteps on the stairs. When Dudley's close enough, Harry waves a hand between them and says, "Dudley, Ginny. Ginny, Dudley. I don't think you two have ever met but I've certainly talked enough about the both of you."

"Dursley," Ginny says, eyes narrowed. It's said like an insult.

Dudley raises an eyebrow. "Stalker."

"Children, upstairs," Harry says with a sigh.

Ginny huffs. "You really have been telling tales. I bet you left out all the good ones."

Their momentary enmity doesn't last long. Dudley carries Ginny's bag and broom upstairs while Ginny expounds on how many times Harry would've been killed had it not been for her friendship. Not, Ginny stresses, stalking. Harry decides to be content with the fact that Ginny and Dudley have found some common ground instead of sighing too hard about his reputation going to mud. Despite it all, he can't help but be happy about her presence in his bakery, even if it's only temporary. He loves it here and hasn't seriously considered moving his bakery to Britain—he'd go insane from the crowds and reporters within a day—but that doesn't mean he doesn't miss his friends.

It's not late enough for bed yet and Ginny is barreling through her portkey lag through willpower and spite. Harry proposes watching some soaps. He still thinks Ginny would get a kick out of them (and he's seen her secret stash of vampire romance novels, though he's been sworn to secrecy) and by now Dudley's an expert. Harry grabs the booze and some cookies, Dudley leaves for the muggle part of the city to grab the pizza. By the time they get back, Ginny's lost her robes in favor of a Harpies tank top and shorts, and Dudley spends the entire night trying desperately trying to keep his eyes on her face.

"Harry, why didn't you tell me your stalker had so many muscles," Dudley whispers when Ginny leaves to get another drink.

"Are you worried you can't take her?" Harry laughs, and then properly evaluates Dudley's behavior. "Wait, no. No. We never had this conversation."

"You were right. She's so pretty."

"No," Harry says, holding his hand up when it looks like Dudley's about to speak. "No."

His fervent denials do nothing about Dudley's burgeoning crush, nor anything about Harry's realization that Dudley is Ginny's type. She's always had a thing for big quidditch players of any gender, and while Dudley isn't a quidditch player, he works out, boxes, and certainly looks like he could be a Beater had he possessed any magic.

In the middle of the night, Harry wakes up to the television having discreetly turned itself off. Dudley fell asleep with his head thrown back against the back of the couch, while Ginny's sleeping against Dudley's shoulder, her soft snores loud in the silence of the flat. Harry gently extracts her feet from his lap and makes some tea before heading back to his own bed. His dreams are vague and half-remembered, but he remembers enough to wish that Ginny's presence sparked only good recollections. And she does, for the most part. It's only that in the dead of night, Harry remembers her tears and her fear, her bravery in the face of danger, the way he'd tried so hard to end the war for her and everyone else. The guilt he'd spent years working though, telling himself that there's no way he could have ended the war early enough to save Fred. He knows that in the morning, the sun will shine and Ginny and Dudley will complain about their backs, and it will be fine. In the meantime, he'll get through the night.

*

Ginny looks at them like they are inhuman for waking up so early in the morning.

"Don't you get up early for practice?" Harry asks, stumbling downstairs and only barely avoiding falling thanks to Dudley, who snags him by the collar and keeps him upright. He'd taken a Dreamless Sleep halfway through the night and now he feels groggy, unfocused. It's a good thing Harry isn't the main face of the bakery; today, he's perfectly content hiding in the back of the shop.

"Yeah, but that's quidditch," Ginny replies like any proper addict.

Dudley makes a halfway inquisitive sound and Ginny is off to explain the game to him. Somehow, the topic hadn't come up much in Harry's educating of Dudley on the magical world. They play something called quodpot in the States anyway. Harry's been ignoring all mention of quodpot as it is blasphemy to his love of quidditch, never mind that it does look somewhat interesting when he catches a glimpse of a match on the television.

Once downstairs, Harry's first stop is the coffee maker. There's one upstairs too but it's not as good as the one for the bakery. Harry hadn't spent nearly as much time fiddling with all the settings and adding spells. He ignores the rest of humanity for the rest of the morning. Ginny decides to take a nap before walking around the city's magical district—Dudley's already promised to show her around the muggle side after his shift ends, never mind that he hasn't lived here long, either. Harry doesn't want to know.

In the afternoon, once Harry's had a great deal of coffee, he feels lively enough to swap in for Dudley. Credence's shift hasn't begun yet, but Harry's too keyed up to bake. He serves Percival about ten minutes in, but stays at the counter. The lunch rush hasn't faded yet and Dudley isn't back. Ginny on the other hand does come back, and she grabs a spare apron and stands next to him, cheerfully greeting the customers.

"You don't even know how to make coffee," Harry says, laughing as she ties her apron string in a huge bow that must stay upright with a touch of magic.

"I don't even drink coffee," Ginny corrects. She glances around the bakery. Her eyes zero in on a particular spot, where Percival now sits. As though feeling their stares, Percival looks up at them, and Harry hopes he sees a plea for a savior in Harry's expression. "Is that him?"

"I never told you about him."

"No, but you told Ron, and that's almost the same thing."

"Ron doesn't gossip."

"Not outside the family, no." Ginny's grin is great and terrible. "But don't worry. I approve." She takes another look, abandoning any subtlety and leaning closer to Harry to get a better angle of sight at Percival. "You did good."

"Ginny, stop," Harry groans. "I didn't do anything. He's not mine." Yet, a traitorous part of him disagrees. The part of him that's just waiting for him to slip up and see once and for all if Percival is interested in him. "He's not interested."

"Are you sure he's not interested? He's looked this way at least four times and I don't think it's me he's looking at."

"I'm sure," Harry says.

"Is this like the time when you were so sure I wasn't interested in you?"

"You weren't," Harry insists. "You got over your crush on me and started dating other people and..." He trails off as he takes in Ginny's pitying expression. "I'm an idiot."

"Have some cake," Ginny offers instead of driving the knife in by agreeing with him. "It's good cake."

"Thanks, I made it." Harry accepts the piece Ginny lifts to his mouth. She's right; it really is good. Harry never took much pride in his academic achievements—mainly his Os in Defense, as otherwise his grades were average—and while flying brought him joy, he shared his quidditch achievements with the six other players on his team. This, though. This he's good at, and he loves, and it's more than he'd ever thought he'd have. Harry shakes his thoughts from his head; he must still be feeling maudlin from last night. "What does your mum think of the lack of romance in your life, anyway?"

"This isn't about me," Ginny huffs.

Harry points to his cake. He's completely willing to rescind his desserts.

Ginny rolls her eyes and takes another bite. "I don't care what Mum thinks, it's too early for me to settle down. I want to spend my twenties playing quidditch and winning international trophies, not taking care of children. Maybe someday, I'll meet someone who I want to settle down with. But until then." She shrugs. "I'm not going to sweat it."

"I'm sorry that I couldn't be that person for you," Harry says. "I always kind of thought..." He doesn't finish the thought aloud. It's silly, now that he really thinks about it. While traveling, the idea of coming back to Britain and settling down with Ginny had stayed in the back of his mind. But it's been months since he's thought of his future through that lens. Now, when he thinks of the future, he thinks of this bakery, maybe opening another branch, cutting the ribbon with Percival at his side.

Ginny's smile is gentle, understanding. "Me, too. But you're happy here with your bakery and your auror, and I'm happy on the field." She shakes her head, sounding fond even as she says, "Eleven year old Ginny would be so disappointed in me. Turning down the Boy-Who-Lived."

"If it makes you feel better, we can say I turned you down instead."

Ginny laughs. "How dare you. I'll be heartbroken."

"You'll be fine," Harry says. And he knows she will be, just like he will.

There was a time when Harry looked at her like she'd raised the stars into the sky herself. She'd been his first love, his first everything, and Harry wouldn't have wanted anyone else to have taken her spot. They'd been two sixteen year olds on their way to figuring out the world and each other. It's been years. Ginny's no longer the too-thin teenager hugging Harry on his bed in Gryffindor tower. She's filled out, and her face has changed a little going into adulthood. She'd certainly never had such short hair when they were teens. Harry's different, too. He barely looks in the mirror except to shave, but he's noticed the way his hair has gotten less uncontrollable as they years passed. He has a life here, has a cafe and employees and friends, and he's not returning to Britain. He's comfortable here. He's happy. He would be happier if he just asked his auror out already.

“Besides, I’ve already told Mum I’ve passed my childbearing duties down to you.”

Harry snorts hot chocolate from his nose. “What?”

Ginny shrugs casually, her smile overly wide. "Well, who else is there? Bill and Fleur are off adventuring with goblins instead of settling down. Charlie is more likely to bring a dragon hatchling home. Percy is too uptight to talk about sex let alone have it. George gets a pass. Ron is in love with Hermione but for her it's a three-way between herself, Ron, and her intentions for getting in minister's chair, and babies don't factor in. I don't want to have kids until after I retire and that's not happening anytime soon. I might adopt later on or something. Mum's grandbaby dreams are being temporarily relieved by Teddy, but Teddy isn't going to be young forever. Chop chop."

"Ginny, why are you like this?" Harry groans.

Ginny checks the points off with her fingers. "You want to have kids, you think Mum's quidditch team idea is a good one instead of horrifying, you have a big heart and a big vault."

"Just one problem with that: I'm single."

"Unsingle yourself," Ginny commands. "There's Dudley now. Off you go."

Harry rests his head against the counter with an unidentifiable mumble. Ginny pats his head before handing a cookie and sending him off. Harry double checks to make sure that Dudley has indeed arrived before leaving Dudley to the customers' and Ginny's mercies. By the appraising look Ginny gives Dudley, she does indeed have some mercy for him.

"Put me out of my misery, please," Harry says as he sits down across from Percival. He makes a strangled sound as he realizes just how well Percival's new tie brings out his eyes and rests his forehead in his hand. The entire world seems to be against him. "I like your tie."

"Thank you," Percival replies. He pushes his coffee closer to Harry, and Harry may not love coffee like Percival does, but he appreciates it. There's a smudge of coffee on the rim from Percival's lips. Harry pays too much attention to it as he takes a sip. "It's new."

I know, Harry means to say. He's accidentally memorized all of Percival's ties and knows which ones are his favorites. "You look very—directorly." He takes another sip of Percival's coffee before he realizes it's probably bad form to steal all of it, even if Harry was the one to make the coffee. When Harry looks up from the cup and tries to pretend to be a competent adult again, he finds Percival just staring at him with amusement. "Professional, that's the word I meant."

With the crowd by the counter having cleared off, Harry can see Ginny too clearly. She's staring at them and mouthing something. When Percival joins him in looking over, Ginny just smiles and waves. Harry makes a face and looks away.

"Is that where your misery stems from?" Percival asks, sounding like he's both joking and not. "She seems very friendly."

"She's the devil," Harry replies, firmly.

Percival must have been able to sense Ginny's core of evil because he continues in an oddly forced, even sort of tone. "A girlfriend, then?"

Harry shakes his head. "You must have a very low opinion of my taste."

"I don't know anything about your taste," Percival says. He reaches forward, and Harry thinks he means to steal back his coffee, but there's no time for him to move his hand from the cup. Percival doesn't seem to mind. He simply rests his hand against Harry's, his thumb moving gently against Harry's skin. "In partners, that is. I know about your taste in tea and coffee, your penchant for anything chocolate-flavored, your strange love of mandrake leaves, but you've never mentioned your taste in men."

And Harry may not be an expert at recognizing signs of interest, but he doesn't think Percival would be looking at him like that had his interest been platonic. Percival's touch is warm, and it feels all-encompassing, and Harry has wanted to kiss him for far too long. "I assumed it was written all over my face every time I looked at you."

"I can see it now," Percival replies, a smile tugging at his lips. "Do you have plans for tonight?"

"I'm free. And single."

"Have dinner with me?"

"Yes." Harry wants to kiss that smile from Percival's lips, knows his own face is a perfect match. He refrains. There will be time later on. And even later, if Harry has anything to say about it. He wonders if this is how Percival looks when he solves a case—satisfied, happy, and perhaps a little smug. Harry rather likes it on him.

Percival can't stay long if he intends to finish work before dinnertime; neither can Harry leave the kitchen to their own devices. Magic only goes too far, and even cooking magic has a tendency of going awry unless someone is there to make sure dough properly rises and cookies don't burn. Harry knows he looks like an idiot for the rest of the day, a little dreamy and a lot stuck in his head as he thinks about his date tonight, but it doesn't matter. Ginny and Dudley don't even tease him much about it. Both are happy that Harry and Percival finally made their moves. Otherwise, they're planning multiple trips around the city, starting with tonight after the bakery closes.

After a while, Ginny joins Harry in the kitchen and clicks the door shut behind her. There's an inscrutable look on her face as she says, "You and Dudley are getting on well."

Harry wipes the dough from his hands and nods carefully. Ginny is leading somewhere he isn't sure he wants to follow. "We are. He's a good guy, deep down."

"I've noticed," Ginny agrees. She scratches her cheek and finally shrugs, shedding her sudden awkwardness. "Is it weird if he and I hook up?"

"Weird," Harry decidedly says.

“Too weird?”

Harry makes a face, but he thinks it through with great reluctance. He no longer has any feelings for Ginny and he's not one to get in the way of two people being happy together. As long as they don't break each other's hearts and force Harry to hear about their drama, it's all good. “Not too weird as long as neither of you mentions it to me ever again.”

“You’re the best,” Ginny says, kissing his cheek.

"Don't mention it. Please, don't."

She immediately vanishes back out the door. Dudley's shift is ending soon, so they'll both be gone quickly. Harry hopes Ginny understands just how much he doesn't want to hear about their touristy date later. It's his cousin. His cousin and his ex-girlfriend. This was not something he'd expected from getting back in touch with Dudley. It's horrifying, really. (It's also a little sweet, because the both of them nearly glow when they're happy, and Harry enjoys seeing them happy. But Harry isn't going to say that aloud.)

As Harry gets out the flour again, he considers all the restaurants in the city's magical district and wonders which of them he and Percival will settle on for dinner. When he loses track of time and overworks the dough, he resolves to put all thoughts of Percival from his mind until evening.

Some still slip through. And maybe a smile or two. There's no one around except Credence, who congratulates him and probably thinks both of his bosses have gone insane.

*

"You're smiling," Tina says when she drops by Percival's office unannounced. She does a double take, then looks up at the clock. "And you're leaving. At the end of the workday.

"I hadn't noticed," Percival mildly replies, glancing at the clock himself. He pulls his robes on without bothering to adjust his tie or fix his hair, which has gotten slightly out of place over the course of the day. It's only a short walk to the apparition station, after which he will return home before meeting Harry. At home, he can make sure he is properly outfitted for a date, and he can waste a moment or two or three thinking about just how long it has been since he's dated anyone. How long it has been since he genuinely cared about impressing someone for himself, not for his position. Percival is impressive professionally, and he knows it, and his family's history may be intimidating. But Harry is going out with Percival, not Mr. and Director Graves. His titles fell away from him each time he stepped into Harry's bakery. At Tina's insistently curious expression, Percival adds, "I have plans tonight."

"Big plans?"

He raises an eyebrow. "I will neither confirm nor deny."

"I'm not a gossip," Tina immediately says.

Percival gives a shake of his head. "Tina, you live next door to a legilimens."

"You know that she's taken a vow not to reveal information about the department. Besides, Queenie doesn't gossip when it's important." She pauses. "Well, when it's important and when it's you, because I asked her not to and also Seraphina might skewer her."

Knowing full well that he's only narrowing her guesses, Percival still says, "It's not auror business. Don't fuss, please." With a wave of his wand, he locks up his drawers and cabinets. A few rolls of paperwork settle into various pockets in his robe. He'll have to find a moment to finish them before or after the date. As he is all done, Percival knows that he should leave, but he taps his wand against the desk to perform a security charm he usually doesn't bother casting. He's stalling, waiting, for what, he doesn't know.

Tina clears her throat. "I'm sorry if I'm out of line, but... I was nervous before my first date with Newt," Tina offers, leaning against the side of one of the guest chairs. "I thought he wouldn't be interested in me. He's so smart and sweet. I didn't think I could measure up."

Percival is of the opinion that Tina has no one she is unable to measure up to, let alone Newt Scamander, who is a brilliant pain in the ass when it comes to creature rights. Still, he appreciates her words for what they are—comfort. "What happened?"

"He was half an hour late for our first date. I was angry. I'm not— I like it when people are punctual. I get irritated easily when they're not. You'd think growing up with Queenie would have made me inured to lateness, but it hasn't. I decided to leave the restaurant and found him standing in an alleyway outside it and looked absolutely miserable. The manager wouldn't allow him inside covered in stinksap, so he was trying to siphon it off himself. We ended up having dinner at my apartment after he took a long shower."

"That sounds like Newt."

Tina huffs, whether at Percival or at Newt's habits. "He has been late to the majority of our dates. If I didn't love him, I would hate him."

"So you're saying I should prepare to accept Harry's eccentricities," Percival says. It's been months, long enough to learn some of Harry's less positive qualities, but Percival can't imagine being put off by anything he might learn. It would involve more strength of will than he currently has to unwrap Harry from his mind and his heart, the good and the bad alike.

Tina smiles slightly. "No—I'm saying he already accepts yours. Go on your date, sir."

Mentees, honestly.

Percival does as she suggests. He flicks off the lights in his office and heads home, where he doesn't waste any time in freshening up and finishing the last few work-related items on his schedule. There are many things on his mind; they do not hold a candle to his plans for the evening. Apparition means that there are no travel times to concern himself with. A twist and soft crack of air, and he stands in front of Harry's bakery like he has many times before. It's closed now, but there's a light coming from the kitchen. Percival steps inside and drifts closer.

Harry must be preparing his bakes for the next day. He glances toward Percival, and his green eyes are light with happiness when he glances Percival's way. Harry watches Percival as he finishes speaking the long incantation and the kitchen aligns itself, instruments flying back to their proper places and the countertops scrubbing themselves down. Harry is already dressed for the date, with none of the flour that Percival noticed in his hair this morning. That had been charming; now, cleaned up with no apron in sight, Harry is rather devastating.

When he finishes speaking, Harry breathes in a long gust of air, and says, "I just realized, I've never seen you in person outside of my bakery. It's always on the television."

"I look better in person," Percival assures him, smiling.

"You do," Harry agrees.

When Percival offers Harry his arm, Harry takes it without hesitation. Percival quickly realizes that he shouldn't have worried about the date. It has always been easy to be with Harry, and it's easier now that he no longer has to keep his attraction hidden. Dinner is followed by a walk through the magical district's own version of Central Park. Even under the cover of darkness, Harry's eyes are a bright and brilliant green, and Percival finds that he can't look away. Doesn't want to, doesn't plan to, not for years if he has anything to say of it.

By the second time Harry yawns, Percival turns them back around to head toward the bakery, and asks, "Are you alright?"

"I didn't get much sleep last night," Harry admits, shaking his head as if to clear the need to sleep.

Percival tilts his head, smiles. "Should I be jealous?"

"You already are," Harry says, delighted. "But you don't have to be. Ginny and Dudley and I watched terrible soaps until late, then I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking of—" He stops, pausing for a moment, and says, "The war, before and after. Seeing Ginny brought a lot of it back."

"Would you like to tell me about it?"

"It's not a very first date kind of story."

"From a certain perspective, you could consider all our previous meetings dates. We met at a bakery, ate together, came to know each other. What else is a date about?"

"I wouldn't mind some kissing," Harry says, and tilts his head toward Percival.

Percival, always a gentleman, does as is requested. Harry's lips are chilled from the evening's temperature, but they warm under Percival's touch, under the pressure of their kiss. It's dark enough, and empty enough, and perhaps also, Percival doesn't care who sees. He plans for there to be many more moments such as this. When they break apart, they don't immediately pull apart, and Harry leans against him. His glasses are fogged up, slowly clearing with a gust of wind.

"I died," Harry says, quietly.

Something clenches in the vicinity of Percival's chest. "During the war?"

Harry nods. The gesture brings his forehead gently against Percival's and he stays like that, breathing in and out. "For my family and my friends and my late mentor, who gave me the tools to do it and drove me to it. I'm grateful to him and I won't ever forgive him for it. I walked into the woods with shades of my parents and godfather urging me on, and I died without raising my wand against Voldemort. I can't believe it's been five years. It took me years to find myself again, to feel like I'm alive instead of a corpse in the Forbidden Forest, my eyes closed and Hagrid sobbing. It still doesn't feel real sometimes, but I'm getting there." Harry stops for a moment, kisses Percival gently. "This feels real."

"It is real." Percival runs his fingers along Harry's cheek. "I promise you that."

They continue on after that, still walking closely, hand in hand. Percival's heart feels too big for his chest, too full of everything he will one day say to Harry. Not today, not on their first date, but one day. The path transports them back to the main streets. From there it is only a short distance to the bakery, where they find they're not alone. Dudley and Ginny see them first, yelling out their names like it's not the middle of the night. But Percival isn't an auror right now; their noise levels are none of his business. Not even if the neighbors complain.

Dudley heads up first, while Ginny lingers, smiling widely, her cheeks flushed. She's lovely, now that Percival isn't desperately jealous of her lifting a piece of cake to Harry's mouth or leaning into his side like she belongs there.

"I," Ginny announces dramatically, "Am going to have a nightcap upstairs in the attic." She ignores Harry's pained groan. "Don't worry, I'll drink quietly."

"Horrible people," Harry says as Ginny follows Dudley upstairs. "The worst. I'm not going to get any sleep tonight. I knew I should have learned some soundproofing charms."

"She did say she would drink quietly," Percival teases. But it's late, and he forces himself to say goodbye. "Thank you for joining me tonight."

"You're welcome," Harry replies. "No, actually. I'm welcome, aren't I?" He grins and leans in. "I'm very welcome." Percival huffs, but he only leans closer when Harry does the same, allowing his lips to be properly caught. "I'm so welcome," Harry murmurs in between kisses.

And Percival pulls away just enough to look at Harry and decide that whether it's a first date or not, "I live nearby."

"What a coincidence," Harry says, smiling too hard to look coy. "I could use a bed to sleep in without any sounds coming from the attic."

And Percival is—doomed, so utterly doomed, because he's never seen anything more attractive. "Would you like some company?"

"Of course. And this means I can finally meet your kneazle," Harry says, and this time, Percival doesn't linger for the span of a walk, and apparates them both.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Harry wakes to a warm, furry lump sprawled over his chest. He pats it lazily, not opening his eyes and just enjoying the sensation of soft fur beneath his fingers, the reddish glow of morning light behind his closed eyes, the luxurious comfort of Percival's bed. One of the first things Harry did after deciding to settle down in New York had been buying a proper bed for himself. After years of sleeping just about anywhere, he wanted something soft as sin to return to after long days on his feet. Percival's bed is even larger than his own and has the benefit of a kneazle kitten purring and nuzzling at his bare neck.

Opening his eyes, Harry fumbles for the bedside table, where his glasses ended up last night. The kneazle kitten gives him a warning look, but allows him some movement.

"Look at you," Harry murmurs, returning to petting the kitten now that he can properly see. "I bet you rule the house, don't you? Does Percival give into your wiles?"

The kitten gives him a self-satisfied look. It's male, as Harry recalls Percival mentioning, and a very attractive kneazle. He's at least a few months old, but is still young little thing. Terribly adorable. He has black fur, white stockings, long white ears, and a devious, intelligent dark gaze that reminds Harry of Crookshanks. Not that he'll ever speak of it to Hermione, but Percival's kitten is much, much cuter.

Aside from the two of them, the bedroom is empty. Although Harry can't hear any sounds from inside, the door of the walk-in closet is open. The angle is all wrong for Harry to get a good look inside, but he assumes the closet to be endless. There's a scattering of furniture, and the bedroom is bare of portraits or other paintings, but the wallpaper is a woodsy, weaving forest with the occasional bird peeking out. 

Harry yawns, making some effort to dislodge the kitten from his chest. He's hungry. And he wants some time with Percival while he can get it. In a few hours, he'll need to go down to the bakery for his shift. He'd scheduled today's shift for later in the day, feeling hopeful, and his optimism had paid off. This is exactly where he's wanted to be for ages, ever since meeting Percival, and the only thing that would make it better is it if Percival were here with him now.

Almost as though summoned by Harry's thoughts, the door opens to reveal Percival. A breakfast tray follows him into the room, floating steadily without disturbing the fruit, eggs, and coffee on the tray.

"You could have woken me," Harry says, but he knows he doesn't sound anything less than delighted.

"It's my turn to cook for you." Percival motions for the tray to settle on the bed. "Besides, I didn't want to disturb your sleep. Or Lux's."

"Is that his name?"

"Lux Graves," Percival confirms like the proud kneazle owner he is. It's overwhelmingly adorable. Harry could coo. Percival leans over to kiss Harry lightly and to free him from Lux's demands.

Once the kitten has been deposited on the floor, Harry is able to sit up. He snags Percival in for another kiss, tasting coffee on his tongue. It's Harry's new favorite way to take coffee. The whole combination of Percival, of the warmth of Percival's bed, of the depth of Percival's affection, leaves him breathless. Even of the claws lightly digging into his bare skin as Lux makes his way back onto the bed don't ruin his mood. He's filled with immeasurable happiness. "Thank you."

"It might not be any good," Percival says in reply, sitting back against the headboard and placing the tray between them. "I'll warn you now—I'm not a professional and usually only cook for myself."

Harry raises an eyebrow and reaches for a fork with one hand. With the other, he redirects Lux's interest to the other end of the bed. Despite Percival's words, the omelette is light and tasty. "Perfectly edible."

"You're not worried about food poisoning?" Percival teases.

Harry smiles. "I'll chance it."

He'll chance just about anything to be here. Although if this does actually give him food poisoning, he's never letting Percival near a kitchen again. It would be a shame, since Harry's really enjoying this omelet. "Do you have work today?"

"No, although I have some paperwork to finish before the weekend is through." Percival takes a bite of his own omelet. "Do you?"

"I think I can let Dudley suffer through his hangover for a while," Harry says, recalling Dudley and Ginny's level of drunkenness last night. "Credence will be there to make sure nothing burns down, anyway." He sends a seductive look in Percival's direction, almost choking on his omelet in the process. "Whatever could we do in the meantime?"

"I'm sure you already have a few ideas." Percival looks so good in the morning light, relaxed, only dressed in a loose shirt and soft sleeping pants. By contrast, Harry is nude, only the positioning of the blanket preserving any modesty he might feel.

Which he doesn't. Modestly flew out the window weeks ago when he found himself developing feelings for Percival.

"I do," Harry says, placing his empty plate on the tray and popping a grape in his mouth. He reaches out, gaze heavy on Percival's, and grasps Lux's wiggly body in both hands. "I bet Lux doesn't get enough playtime when you're away at work. Do you have any fake mice toys?"

Percival laughs deeply and reaches over to help Harry out of the bed.

Harry ends up spending the rest of the morning wearing one of Percival's light, loose houserobes. He gets a tour of Percival's home, of which Harry is most interested in Percival's kitchen, which is as bare as he expects from a man who spends so much time at work, and the reading room, which has been partially converted to a cat playroom, with various places for Lux to claw, jump, and climb.

After, Harry finds himself upstairs again, nude and in good company. Percival doesn't have any tattoos, like Harry once wondered, but he has some fascinating scars. Last night, Harry had been more focused on the ecstasy of finally getting Percival into bed, but today he can take his time, running his hands across every freckle, mole, and mark. In the afterglow, Percival tells him some of the stories behind them, and asks Harry about his own. Harry's favorites are the ones he's gotten since after the war: mishaps in the kitchen that healed with faint lines remaining, misadventures in snake dens and triggering a snake's instinctive bite by accident, marks picked up from all around the world. All these years after the war, and he feels right in his skin. It's his own, not the horcrux's, not Voldemort's, but Harry's to live in, to mark, to feel Percival's touch.

"You really are ambidextrous," Harry murmurs appreciatively.

"I still don't understand why that's a big deal."

Harry ducks his head, grinning. "Something Dudley and I were talking about. If you used a wand with either hand, or just preferred one."

"I can show you, if you'd like," Percival offers, heat and amusement all mixed together in his tone, and he does.

When they finally make it out of bed, Harry stretches languidly and explores Percival's shower, where Percival joins him. It's a very grip-able, sturdy kind of shower. By the time they make it out of the house, Harry's hair is wilder than usual in rebellion from Percival's attempts at drying and styling, while Percival looks as good as ever. Harry's still getting used to the fact that he can appreciate Percival's looks now, that he doesn't need to pretend that Percival isn't his favorite thing since buying a wand at age eleven.

Percival offers to walk Harry back to the bakery.

As they walk, Harry comments, "You look suspiciously well-dressed for someone who doesn't have work today." He gives Percival a once-over. "Not that I'm complaining."

"I thought I would pop by the office," Percival replies, shameless. "I did leave early yesterday. I have a duty to keep my subordinates on their toes."

Harry laughs, tangling his fingers with Percival's. "Those poor souls. Come by the bakery tonight?"

"I wouldn't be able to resist," Percival promises.

When they arrive, they share a final kiss, and Harry watches Percival walk toward the MACUSA building with appreciation for the way American wizard-wear is more form-fitting than their British counterparts'. He's going to be teased as soon as he steps through the doors of the bakery, but Harry can't help it. He's nearly giddy at the fact that he and Percival have finally found their way to each other. Tonight, tomorrow, the next day, it's all ahead of him, bright as any Lumos. Maybe it's just the high of the new relationship and the afterglow, but Harry's imagination runs wild for a moment. A long moment, but just a moment, because the door of the bakery opens and Dudley walks through.

"I saw you from behind the glass," Dudley says, stopping next to Harry and catching a glimpse of Percival before he's lost to the crowd. He grins at Harry, wide and happy, and adds, "I guess your date went well."

"It did," Harry replies. And because he remembers exactly what it looks like when Ginny's gotten her way, he adds, "Yours did too? Good on you." Hastily, he adds, "I don't want any details."

Dudley scratches his chin, making a show of thinking about it. "I don't think I can make that promise. You can’t, either. I bet you couldn’t spend a day without talking about him.”

Harry considers it, but, yeah, "It’s impossible. Go ahead. Did Ginny try to climb the Statue of Liberty like she threatened?"

"You should have been there," Dudley says, laughing, and holds open the door for Harry.

His little bakery is bustling, filled with conversation and bustle and enticing smells, and Dudley is already joining Credence behind the counter. Ginny has pushed her table as close to the counter as she can get it and is gesturing them toward her quidditch magazine. The color scheme of the bakery may have been inspired by the Gryffindor common room, but over the time that the bakery has been open, Harry no longer associates it with Hogwarts. It's a place of its own, built spell by spell if not brick by brick, with love and kindness and maybe a bit of knocking their heads against the wall as they learned to run a business. The past feels like a lifetime ago; the present is more than enough.

Harry steps through the doorway. It's good to be home.